Lay down in the deep grass and weeds.
I hate when bottles grow too rapidly from being beautifully cold to sickeningly warm as a result of slow drinking, but I’m just not always into drinking so fast. Often, if I have enough cash on me, I’ll just set the half-empty warm bottle on the bar in front of me, scoot down a few seats and then hail down a different bartender to order another.
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1. The Star is a trash rag.
2. I couldn’t be fazed less by it, and yet you could.
At tea this morning, while reading from a particularly delightful passage out of the novel I am writing for Harper Prism to be released next Fall, I was interrupted without warning by my secretary Belinda. Belinda is a tall, shapely woman, quite robust; demanding, powerful, seductive, prominent, efficient and above all, she shows more promise than the Book of Revelations. I shouldn’t be moved to care less of what a person such as yourself, Yorba, would think of a girl like Belinda, but as it is her sturdy make as a self-sufficient woman of the 1990s, she has a backbone in this story the likes of which could never be found running down your spine.
When you tell me things, Yorba, quite simply put, I yawn. It’s the grease at the bottom of a pan I have over nineteen beautiful but underpaid half-dead Mexican college co-eds to clean up so that I may never even have to know about it. You, my ill friend, are the bags of trash a fast food restaurant leaves sitting for much too long under the DRIVE-THRU CLOSED sign, waiting-oh-yeah-waiting for the garbage man to come pick it up.
Have I made myself clear? You mean nothing to me.
Now Belinda, on the other hand, is my guardian angel. She is the archetype of the trumpeter angel…the ghostly gallant knights upon midnight black steeds raging through fields of fire…the gates of Heaven with rusty keys left in the padlock overnight, unknowing of my plans to infiltrate the golden walkways of His Majesty the Lord Tyrant God the Father.
Belinda, in “layman Brad” terms, is a role model. A fucking role model, you son of a bitch.
So no matter how much I would seethingly balk at hearing that “Mr. Louis Yorba” made the front page of any magazine, even one so trashy as The Star, let me tell you that I still dropped at once my smirks and disbelief once the breaker of the bad waves of news became none other than my fair secretary, sweet Belinda.
But yet how sickened I was. Almost immediately I had a chariot sent to fetch me a copy of that morning’s The Star. And yes, just as Belinda had foretold, there you were, Yorba. Ugly, depraved, disgraceful and without the marrow in your bones to have the guts to be dead. Yes, right there on the front page, a picture of YOU:
Needless to say, Yorba, I was disgusted. I have nothing to do with The Star, nor would I if given the chance to sink to the depths you scaled to get where you are today. Give it up and blame your sick stuff on God, not me. Take my advice and shut up.
Jeers,
Neil Garriscond.
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