Oh, what a morning

Good Moaning babies,


Don't cry for me Pasadena...

It seemed too good to be true. And it was. It looks like we are going to lose the majority in the Senate due to South Dakota Sen. Tim Johnson's sudden and inexplicable stroke-like illness. Yes babies, the dude just dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes and was taken to George Washington University hospital for an emergency surgery.

You know what I think, babies? He was poisoned. Yes. I truly do believe that. There is nothing that these Republicans would not do to retain power. I bet George W. is doing his Church-lady dance right now at the Oval Office while whistling Yankee-doodle-dandy at the same time. If Sen. Johnson doesn't recover, a new senator will be appointed by the Republican, the evil evil Republican, governor of South Dakota. And he ain't about to appoint a liberal, I tell you.

Oh well, at least we still have the House... unless there's a sudden outbreak of salmonella that sends all the freshmen congresspersons to the same slaughterhouse that is currently butchering Sen. Johnson.



Oh, yeah, there is an article in the Chicago Sun Times that explains how circumcision reduces the chances of getting HIV. Call me crazy, but wouldn't it be better (and safer) to simply put a condom on? I remember Lowell telling me that he hated my foreskin and he would prefer it if I would get a circumcision. Yeah, sure, I will gladly hack off a nerve-packed chunk of my penis just so that some butthole will think my dick is pretty. My policy has always been: you love me, you love my dick... foreskin and all. If you want some other dick, then go find another boyfriend. As to the HIV epidemic, I have one thing to say: wear a condom, keep the foreskin.

Yes babies, the reason why parents want to mutilate their baby sons' tiny little penises is so that they won't have to deal with the uncomfortable task of showing them how to properly use a condom. And they don't want the schools to do it neither. No sir, no sex ed classes in this country. Instead we will remove our babies' foreskins and be done with the whole ugly thing. Hey daddy and mommy, I got a better idea. Why not simply cut off the penis altogether and sew-shut the asshole? No HIV virus will get in now.



Dear God, please don't let that singing whale be nominated...

Yes babies, today is it... Today the nominations for the Golden Globes are announced and I am sweating it here. Chances are that the hateful Cetacean Beyonce will be nominated for her role as the fat singer who gets the glory in Dreamgirls. I have been told by many that she will be nominated: Oscarwatch.com, my neighbor Epistola who claims to be psychic, Stevie Wonder who has a thing for fat women who can't sing, and basic common sense as Beyonce is being groomed to be the next Diana Ross (Really? What's next? Mariah Carey as the next Twiggy?).

So here I am, eating my heart out this morning with the news that we may lose the majority in the Senate, penile mutilation in young babies is about to be legitimated, and fat bovine blimp Beyonce will win an undeserved nomination.

I am glad the weekend is coming, babies...

Peace and Love,
Cesarin.

His Garish Holiness, the Pope

Good Moaning babies,

It has been a very rough three weeks for your humble servant as we are experiencing plenty of problems here at my work site regarding the software I maintain.

So, in order to lighten up a bit, I have put together a little photo show which showcases the varied and garishly impudent sartorial style of His Holiness, and my own personal favorite homophobic malefactor, Pope Benedict.

Enjoy the garish show. Peace and Love, Cesarin.

The Holy Bling Bling:



Finding this bundle of joy under your Xmas tree will send you screaming for the Inquisition:



What's with this bizarre fascination with the letter 'T'? Why not wear a 'U' around your neck instead?:



I swear, this former-Nazi holy man is just one hat choice away from being a KKK Grand Dragon:



The devil does wear Prada shoes after all (I think that Dorothy is walking barefoot in Oz nowadays):



Now babies, what straight man in the West would wear this headgear?:



No no no no, this is too much! A golden bong? I bet Benny smokes the good Chronic shit too:

TOA and the Election

"Senator Santorum? This is Satan calling... Guess who no longer has God on his side..."

Good Moaning babies,

For those of you who don't know this, Democrats took the house (232 to 203), the governorships (28 to 22), and are about to take the Senate (49 to 49, with too-close-to-call Montana's democratic candidate ahead by three thousand votes and Virginia's democratic challenger ahead by eight thousand votes). This is great news indeed for us radical bleeding-heart secular-neo-pagan liberals who have been sick of the new order theocracy that this country has become since the village idiot was elected president.

This is a bittersweet turn of events for your humble servant, however. As ebullient as I am at the left's victory in this election, I find myself with egg on my face in my personal life. You see babies, I decided to ask Thomas of Aquinas out on a date yesterday, only to be cruelly spurned. Actually, I wasn't technically rejected as much as I was informed that TOA is no longer on the market. It turns out that this hottie is already dating some pimple-faced kid from his church. How come nobody told me this? Dang, I hate this shit. But I do realize that I have to make a concerted effort to date more, and I see this failed attempt as a dress rehearsal if you will. Now I know I can confidently ask someone out and, in the event that I am rejected, I am thick-skinned enough to take my licking and keep on ticking.


Don't you fret none, Mr. Santorum. Jesus loves you even if the voters in Pennsylvania think you're an asshole.

But coming back to this election, there were a couple of thingies that completely surprised me. The first being the voters in Arizona defeating a homophobic anti-gay amendment to their constitution that would have banned same-sex marriage. This is the first time that a state has rejected such an initiative, which is very significant (and telling). It means that the GOP's infallible scapegoat, the homosexual, is losing its efficacy. Also, South Dakota defeated an initiative to make abortion illegal. Yes babies, you heard that right. The Christian right's efforts to revisit Roe vs. Wade in the Supreme Court is not to be thanks to the voters in South Dakota.

Did I mention that I asked TOA out on a date and he said no? What the hell is wrong with kids nowadays? He can't juggle two men at the same time? Geez... When I was twenty-five I was dating five men at a time. Sure, it was unnerving sometimes, but you just need to figure out a schedule that works for everyone. I would see one boy on Monday night, another one on Wednesday, the third boy on Friday, and the weekends would be done on a first-call first-serve basis. They need to teach time-management classes in public schools. That and sex-ed. Or both combined.

Secretly, Mr. Santorum was hoping for the right to bestiality, that pig-fucker.

But back to the election. There will probably be recounts in Montana and Virginia, which means we will not know the real outcome until the end of the year. What a bunch of weenies. And Miss Nancy Pelosi is poised to become the first female Speaker of the House, goodie-good-good. Let's just hope that the Democrats don't fuck this up, which they tend to do sometimes. Sure, let's give Bush hell. Let's investigate some of these buttholes and send a few of them to jail, just to rattle the GOP a bit. But let's fix things as well, especially this Iraq thingy-thing-thing.

As to TOA, next time I should think before I act. I had been thinking about going to his Church (see picture above) on Sundays, not to receive the Lord into my heart (fuck that) but rather to meet good gay men who think they are blessed, vis-a-vis their open-door policy in their dating department (is it stereotyping when you reckon that gay Christians don't care too much about looks? Hey, don't judge me too harshly, you would've come to the same conclusion had you gone to that kennel club of a mixer on Friday night... they were serving Purina Puppy Chow treats for God's sake...); but now that I have created a potentially embarrassing situation with TOA (who happens to be the head queer in charge of new recruits --haven't you heard? Homosexuals can't reproduce so we recruit), I can't show my face at this congregation.

I don't think I could ever face him again. How does one do it? How does one handle rejection? Nighty, how do you do it?

BTW, I think I know who TOA is dating. I went to the church's website and I have seen several pictures of TOA with the same spindly dark-haired boy in tow. I think I could beat the crap out of him. With one hand. And blindfolded. While I eat crackers and whistle Yankee-doodle-dandy.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Redemption through cunnilingus

In God we trust, everyone else pays cash.

Good Moaning babies,

It has been a tough week, hasn't it? I seems that nowadays you can't toss a used condom in a crowded church (or Republican fundraiser) without hitting a dick-sucking fag in the face. This Reverend Ted Haggard sexual thingy-thing-thing is the latest in a month-long series of sexual bombshells the conservatives in America are dropping on us poor unsuspecting voters. For all their homophobic rhetoric, these moralizing conservative Republican tightwads do get their little willies worked out quite a bit, no?

I have been reading all these testimonials from Mr. Haggard's followers at his congregation, the Church of the Perpetual Sucker, and they all tend to agree that all these hardships endured by the good reverend have been the work of Satan and Mike Jones, the male whore in HIS employ. Pleeeeez. Satan has been kept quite busy with these evangelicals throughout the years: Jim Baker getting it on with his cheap skanky secretary; Jimmy Swaggart picking up cheap skanky streetwalkers in Baton Rouge; and Jerry Falwell going down that waterslide in his cheap skanky suit. It would seem that Satan has no time for anyone else anymore.


Mike Jones, "Have you babies seen the dude? He looks like brick shithouse."

But one thing that Ted Haggard's followers are most definitely NOT buying are his claims of only getting a massage from the male whore and not using the drugs he bought. These worshippers may be caught up in a faith-induced frenzy, but they are not stupid. If you want a massage you hire a masseur. You don't hire a male escort who's been ingesting steroids through a garden hose (have you babies seen the dude? He looks like a brick shithouse...). And the elders at his church didn't buy the I-didn't-take-it-up-the-ass story either. Ted Haggard is gone. Fired. Kaput.


Let us pray... that no more assholes will lead us.

Which is kind of bad, really. Of all the religious assholes out there, Reverend Haggard was the less homophobic. Sure, he was working towards the passing of an amendment in Colorado that would've defined marriage as a heterosexual thingy, but he also praised the Supreme Court's decision to decriminalize sodomy. Reverend Haggard also had no qualms about instituting civil unions in Colorado, as long as they were not called "marriage." And in one telling anecdote of tolerance, Reverend Haggard invited a gay church to sing at his congregation's Christmas pageant even as other congregations were boycotting the event because of the gay invite.

So, even though Haggard was no gay sympathizer, he was not an inquisitor either. And that's the shitstorm I see coming. In order to make up for Reverend Haggard's sexual transgressions, I imagine that whoever takes his place at his church (and on the other end of the White House conference calls) will be some hardline far-to-the-right I-eat-fags-for-breakfast homophobe.

Reverend Haggard was the topic of conversation at this gay Church mixer that I attended on Friday night with the Nightcrawler. I know what you babies are thinking: what was an avowed secular humanist with pagan tendencies doing at a gay Church event? Well, it was organized by The Christians, a group of young men in their twenties who belong to this Anglican church and who don't see their homosexuality and their faith as a mutually exclusive thingy. Nighty has been a friend of The Christians for a while, and he takes me to these events sometimes. As a matter of fact, I have been to Thomas of Aquinas' house several times (TOA is a twenty-five year old boy who wants to become an Anglican minister one day; he is roomies with Thomas of Torquemada, TOT, and is friends with Saint Thomas, St.T, two other charming homo Christian boys) and I have thoroughly enjoyed their company. We just don't talk about religion and thus keep things on a cordial plane. Well, we made an exception with this Haggard thing on Friday night's mixer.

"This Haggard dude is a big-time fag," I said to St.T while sipping on sacramental wine.
"I think he is bisexual," St.T said.
"Come on, sheeez, bisexuals don't exist," I said, obviously shnookered-up already (and they serve this wine during communion? I gotta join up).
"Yes they do exist too, I know several bisexuals," St.T said.
"No you don't," I responded, "You know a bunch of fags who feel guilty for sucking dick, so they go off and eat pussy just to keep things on an even keel."
"That's ridiculous," St.T said.
"You know what's ridiculous? Seeking redemption through cunnilingus, that's ridiculous," I said.
"How can you make such a blanket statement?" St.T said.
"Oh, I know all about it. These so-called bisexual men are nothing but self-hating homos, that's what they are," I said (and I feel really bad now that I am recalling this conversation), "Why can't they deal with their self-loathing in the the way that any normal fag with the affliction would? Go to the Eagle (leather bar) and lick somebody's boots, or dress up in a French maid uniform and clean somebody's house. But eating pussy? That's way too radical and unnecessarily cruel."

I immediately stopped talking shit when TOA showed up with a tray of goodies. I have to admit that I have a thing for the boy. And why shouldn't I? He would be the perfect man to bring home to my mother: he is young and respectable (he wants to be a reverend for Christ's sake), and if he gets anointed or consecrated or whatever witchcraft it is that they do at the Anglican church, he will have a steady job and never be laid off. But I was not about to make any passes at anyone at this hootenanny. It was a Church thing, so hands off I thought. However... St.T was telling Nighty and myself that this particular church had a make-out room next to the confessional. I certainly hope that St.T was kidding. I don't care how reformed your congregation is, I doubt that any such make-out chamber would be sanctioned by any Reverend.

Except for Reverend Haggard perhaps.

Don't forget to vote tomorrow. And vote Democrat, if only to piss off the idiot at the Oval Office.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Halloween

A good old-fashioned Jack-o-lantern.

Good Moaning babies,

I hope y'all had a happy Halloween. Mine was fucked up.

The day began with people picketing the Wiccan center at Takoma Park, a liberal-leaning municipality just around the corner from where I live. I normally get up at five in the a.m. to get ready for work. By the time I get going, it's around six in the morning and there is no traffic on the streets. Well, yesterday morning it was a parking lot on East-West Highway, the main thoroughfare in Chevy Chase. This was unheard of so early in the morning. The reason for the bottleneck was a group of fundamentalist Christians who had staged a day-long protest, calling for the burning of all Wiccans in Takoma Park, and who had decided that the best way to call attention to themselves was by laying down on the middle of the road and disrupting traffic.

The pentagram, symbol of the Wiccan faith.

That pissed me off. I kept thinking, why not just simply run them over? But then I realized that it would not be good P.R. for the Wiccans. Plus it could throw my front-end alignment out of whack (those Christian fundamentalist didn't look like they had skipped any meals lately).

I remember when I was seventeen and was attending the University of New Orleans. I used to have a good friend in my Biology class, Lonnie Matherne. We studied together all the time, mostly at my house, but sometimes we would study at his house (he lived with his parents). One particular day we were studying the mitotic phase of the cell type when I heard some major hammering coming from the garage.

"What's that?" I asked my friend.
"That's my dad," he said.
"What is he doing?" I asked.
"He's building stuff," he said.
"What kind of stuff?" I asked.
"Tiny little coffins," my friend said with a sigh.
"For what?" I asked, alarmed.
"For a demonstration at an abortion clinic," he said.

Tiny little coffins babies. I was thinking about my friend's dad and his macabre little endeavor while I was waiting for the police to arrest them bible freaks and let the traffic go through.

When I got back home after work (and the gym), my neighbor came to my door and asked me if I would mind taking a few kids trick-or-treating. She was supposed to be the chaperon this year but something had come up and she needed a replacement. I looked at the kids all dressed up in spooky costumes and said sure, why the hell not.

Trick-or-treating in a liberal-leaning town.

That was a mistake.

I had about ten kids with me, but the kids were too young and easily scared, and the homeowners around Chevy Chase/Takoma Park had gotten too involved in the festivities. It turned out that almost in every house where we could go trick-or-treating we found scary decorations and people dressed up in scary costumes handing out candy. All my kids refused to go anywhere near them houses, but they wanted the fucking candy, so they would cry and beg me to go fetch them their fucking candy. Imagine opening your door on Halloween night and finding a forty-three year old man in his business attire holding a bag saying "trick-or-treat" and expecting candy. Yes, imagine THAT babies. I had a lot of explaining to do in order to get them to throw some sweets my way. And, in the end, I realized that I was a lousy trick-or-treater. I was only able to get about a tenth of the loot the kids expected. They were clearly disappointed (and scared shitless), so I had to go to the Walgreens by my house and buy fifty dollars' worth of candy and put that in their tiny little bags.


Satan sends his regrets.

After that Halloween debacle, my Wiccan friends showed up at my house around nine in the evening. They brought dinner and movies on DVD (the original "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" with Gene Wilder, and the Narnia movie) and kept me up until midnight, at which time they dragged me out of my house to go have a hootenanny shindig in Rock Creek Park across from my house. Apparently, midnight is prime-time for a witches-and-warlocks shuffle. We did a little dance, and little song, some minor incantations, and sent out invitations for characters to appear. Lucifer didn't show up (the louse), and by two in the morning I was adamant that I returned home. Conjuring up the devil can get tiresome, if you know what I mean. I didn't care how long them Wiccans had been waiting for this holy night, but I had to get up at the crack of dawn to go to work. The Devil would have to wait another fucking year if he was to show up at all. I figured all his time was nowadays occupied talking to George W. Bush and couldn't waste any time taking a detour through Rock Creek Park.

Anyway babies, Happy Halloween.....


Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Killer Quips

"It will be long and hard, and there will be no withdrawal." -- Winston Churchill addressing Andrew Sullivan's sex life.

Good Moaning babies,

Here you have a few good quips provided by Moaner Josh:

"He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire." -- Winston Churchill

"A modest little person, with much to be modest about." -- Winston Churchill

"I have never killed a man, but I have read many obituaries with great pleasure." -- Clarence Darrow

"He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary." -- William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway)

"Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?" -- Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)

"Thank you for sending me a copy of your book; I'll waste no time reading it." -- Moses Hadas

"He can compress the most words into the smallest idea of any man I know." -- Abraham Lincoln

"I've had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn't it." -- Groucho Marx

"I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it." -- Mark Twain

"He has no enemies, but is intensely disliked by his friends." -- Oscar Wilde

"I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play. Bring a friend...if you have one." -- George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill

"Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second... if there is one." -- Winston Churchill, in response

"I feel so miserable without you; it's almost like having you here." -- Stephen Bishop

"He is a self-made man and worships his creator." -- John Bright

"I've just learned about his illness. Let's hope it's nothing trivial." -- Irvin S. Cobb

"He is not only dull himself; he is the cause of dullness in others." -- Samuel Johnson

"He is simply a shiver looking for a spine to run up." -- Paul Keating

"He had delusions of adequacy." -- Walter Kerr

"There's nothing wrong with you that reincarnation won't cure." -- Jack E. Leonard

"He has the attention span of a lightning bolt." -- Robert Redford

"They never open their mouths without subtracting from the sum of human knowledge." -- Thomas Brackett Reed

"He inherited some good instincts from his Quaker forebears, but by diligent hard work, he overcame them." - James Reston (about Richard Nixon)

"In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily." -- Charles, Count Talleyrand

"He loves nature in spite of what it did to him." -- Forrest Tucker

"Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?" -- MarkTwain

"His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork." -- Mae West

"Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go." -- Oscar Wilde

"He uses statistics as a drunken man uses lamp-posts... for support rather than illumination." - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)

"He has Van Gogh's ear for music." -- Billy Wilder

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Comments by Moaners

A typical Southern-style seersucker suit.

Good Moaning babies,

Here's a few comments I have received about yesterday's moaning:

"You're making fun of Woody's coat and you were wearing a seersucker suit?"
Hey, Gregory Peck looked like a million bucks in a seersucker. Watch "To kill a mockingbird" and you'll see.

"It's not the 'Bee' Bar, it's the 'Be' Bar!"
That just doesn't make any sense.

"Homosexuals voting Republican is like the chickens voting for Colonel Sanders."
You got a point there.

"I also thought that Bjork was from Finland. Your moanings are so educational."
Happy to oblige.


Jeffy-Boo leaves the Capitol after getting his ass grilled by the Ethics Committee.

"Did you see Jeff Trandahl or Kirk Fordham at the BeeBar?"
No, I didn't. The cadre of gay GOP'ers at the BeeBar was definitely D-list. However, Jeff Trandahl does work out at Results, the gym. I had seen him many times but never even gave him a second look (or a first for that matter). But after seeing his mug on TV and the internet all this time, I realized who he was the next time I ran into him. Invariably, he is way shorter than he appears on TV and lacking in gravitas, but he is a cutie-patootie. Too bad he's got this despicable asshole for a boyfriend (I hate the fucker, he seldom wipes the machinery after he uses it). On the plus side, Trandahl's boyfriend is not a page-type-ish young boy but rather a real man of forty or so. That goes to show you that not all gay Republicans are Mark Foley clones.

"Vodka Stingers? I thought Stingers were made with Cognac or Brandy."
True, but that's expensive. Substitute the pricey booze with cheap vodka and you get shnookered for less.

"I saw that spikey haired boy that you talk about. You said no to him?"
I said maybe later, but then we had to leave. If that boy is cruising people like your humble servant, then he's got to have a screw loose. He'll be there next week. Next week qualifies as "later," no?

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

The Bees and the Seersucker Suits

Good Moaning babies,

This past Saturday evening the Nightcrawler and your humble servant went to the new gay bar in DC, the BeeBar.

Now, this must be said. There are no bees at the BeeBar. If you come to this bar thinking that there will be a bee motif waiting for you, you will be disappointed. No vodka stingers. No honey flavored martinis. No bartenders with beehive coiffures. No fat gay dude on a fainting sofa pretending he's the queen bee. Just no bees. Nothing. Zilch.

Since we were going out to celebrate the Nightcrawler's 29th birthday, I decided to wear my big-boy clothes. I almost never wear them, but I felt that someone has to be a surrogate father figure to the 'Crawler. The poor boy is turning into a cheap floozy living without any parental supervision. I felt I needed to set an example to the next generation of homos coming after me. So, with much aplomb, I wore my AX caramel colored pants, my AX black stretchy collared shirt, and my seersucker striped broad-shouldered suit-coat that made me look like a 50's dandy daddy-o. I thought this was the appropriate ensemble for Nighty's 29th birthday dinner party, a watermark event as homosexuals depreciate at an accelerated rate after they turn 30.

First we went to the PS restaurant for dinner. Their Pear Martini's were heaven-sent, but their Lamb Dish sucked dogshit. Fortunately they serve you very small portions of it, so I didn't suffer too much. I did like their Monkeyfish appetizer. One bite and the fucker was gone too. Pity. I must try their Breaded Bull's Testicles in Raspberry sauce over Angel Pasta next time I dine there. Them testicles were huge. They reminded me of my last boyfriend Jake. Unlike the Lamb dish, the Bull's Testicles looked tasty and filling. Just like Jake.

At PS we were joined by Cutie-Pie and Woody Allen, who brought a very charming Finnish lady with him. The only Finnish I know is not suitable for dinner table conversation as I learned it by watching 70's porn movies from Scandinavia. To my surprise, the Finnish lady spoke English beautifully. I congratulated her on Bjork, but, alas, she informed me that Bjork was from Iceland. I asked her what the difference was. That brought an uncomfortable silence between us, but I was able to save the evening by telling her my cunt joke: What is the difference between a whore and a cunt? A whore is someone who sleeps with everyone. A cunt is someone who sleeps with everyone but you. Hilarity ensued.

As a matter of fact, I had been laughing my ass off from the moment I saw Woody Allen's new coat. It looked as if Woody had been thrown headfirst into a throng of libidinous barebackers from Atlanta during Southern Decadence in the French Quarter. The coat was ragged and torn everywhere, but it seemed that I was witnessing a sneak preview of the Winter fashion line, or so Woody informed us. It's a bleak future for this country, I tell you. But as long as Woody was happy with his sartorial choice I was happy also. He could've been lying to us, however. Heck it's happened before. When I was seven years old, my cousin Cecilia told me that boys were wearing clogs that year, so I sneaked into my mother's closet and wore her Swedish wooden clogs to school. I got beat up with my own shoes. But I digress. The point is, we will have to wait and see until the Winter line is unveiled at D&G if Woody was telling the truth or not. In the meantime, the only people sporting Woody's look were the winos and bagladies who were sleeping in the parking lot outside PS.

After dinner, we all walked to the BeeBar. Woody Allen and the Finnish Lady detoured and went to a homosexual party taking place around the corner from the BeeBar. Nighty, Cutie-Pie and your humble servant contemplated going there, but we opted for the Bee. As I said before, I was disappointed at the lack of flying hymenopteras in the house. The closest thing to a bee that I could see was this skinny young boy with spiky hair (who I called Spike) who was very interested in my seersucker suit. He looked like a warrior bee. It was the hair.

The BeeBar reminded me a little bit of Halo, another gay waterhole in the NW section of the District. The Bee didn't have the antiseptic ambiance that Halo does, but it is similar to its NW sister in that it's a cadre of gay Republicans plotting to take over the world, after brunch but before tea-dance. I am serious. Who would've thought that there were so many gay Republicans in this world? The main topic of conversation in every clique at the Bee was the ignominy of Mark Foley's predicament and the insidious nature of the Democrats. I knew I was outnumbered so I said nothing, as every person at the Bee outweighed me by at least seventy pounds (it is whaling season in the District, apparently) and could easily beat the shit out of me if I came to the defense of the Democratic party. I went to the bathroom and was followed by Spike. "Nice coat dude," he said. "Thank you," I responded. "Where did you get it?" he asked. "Dillard's," I said. "What's that?" he asked. "A department store in New Orleans," I said. "Cool, wanna make out?" he asked. "Maybe later," I said and left the bathroom.

After a while, we decided to leave the Bee and go to Cobalt. Now that's a bar that lives up to its name. As a matter of fact, most of the bars on 17th street NW make good on their monikers. Cobalt has a blue motif happening inside. Chaos is pure pandemonium (mainly due to the Latin boys there). Widows, just down the block from Chaos, is full of old people. And JR's, well I hear that in the early 80's it used to show that old TV program Dallas and had people come to the bar dressed like the characters in the show (SueEllen was a favorite of many, second only to JR, hence the name, I think).

Anyway, I felt overdressed at Cobalt. Seersucker suits just don't have the impact in the north as they do in the south. But it could've been worse. I could've been wearing Woody Allen's coat. After a little while at Cobalt, we decided to end the evening.


Peace and Love,
Cesarin.

Video of the day: Oliver's "Good morning starshine"


Yes babies, it's hippie time for the flower children...

Week Recap

Good Moaning babies,

Here's a few things that have happened this week to your humble servant:

1) On Wednesday night at the gym, Number 32 (one of my favorite obsessions since January) jumped me from behind, wrapped his towel around my neck, and patted my ass while discussing Chi-Cha (a Peruvian drink that requires the bartender to spit in the concoction to make it ferment).

"Do you think that Number 32 was flirting with me?" I asked Scoobie-Doobie-Drew.
"I think he was trying to kill you," Scoobie replied.


"His trademark coiffure is not very becoming to a man of his age..."

2) I saw former CNN political editor and current HotlineTV commentator John Mercurio barefoot at the gym on Thursday.

He had come out of the locker room and was purchasing gym socks at the front desk. He was wearing his tanktop and his shorts with no socks or shoes, and I was quick to notice that he's got big feet. As a matter of fact, everything about him is big: his all-around web identity, his pronouncements on Republican hegemony, even his hair is big. His trademark coiffure is not very becoming to a man of his age. I mean, sure, it creates a distinct persona from the rest of the cookie-cutter commentators on news TV nowadays; it says, "I am edgy, I am punkish, and I am giving you the news like you've never had them before..." But that kind of delivery works best when you are in your twenties.

Like my twentysomething Polish co-worker at Pentagon City, Ort... I think that Ort may be gay because everytime I go to the bathroom he follows me. When I am standing at the urinal, Ort is always trying to see what I've got. Sometimes I let him see it, but most of the time I zip it up and go wash my hands. Ort then follows me outside (I think that in his hurry he doesn't wash his hands) and trails me to my office. But I digress, the punk hairdo would work on Ort if he was giving us the news in the morning, but it doesn't work very well on John Mercurio. But in any case, I am very happy to have a HUGE celebrity in our gym... and I got to see his feet!!


The owners of BeBar, the newest homo bar in the Shaw area of DC...

3) I got into a fight with the owner of the new homo bar in DC, the BeBar. He is an aerobics instructor at my gym who teaches body sculpting with weights and short bars. I made the mistake of informing some of his students that according to the 2006 August Chiropractic Newsletter (which thanks to my last job I still receive), such reckless activity with the weights could result in a condition akin to scoliosis, a condition that involves complex lateral and rotational curvature and deformity of the spine (it is typically classified as congenital, caused by vertebral anomalies present at birth, idiopathic, sub-classified as infantile, juvenile, adolescent, or adult according to when onset occurred, or as having developed as a secondary symptom of another condition, such as cerebral palsy or spinal muscular atrophy... or bad form during body sculpting classes.)

The disclosure of the hazards with this kind of exercise wouldn't have gotten me in trouble per se, but I sort-of kinda treated a few of them students (I learned how to adjust people's spines by watching Marc Behar, my good friend and chiropractor, perform the procedure on a few clients of his). That pissed the owner of BeBar (and body sculpting class instructor) off. He called me a charlatan and a quack. I called him an effeminate asshole. Things just went downhill from there. I wonder if I am banned from the BeBar for life...


Douchebag Jeff Trandahl ready to spill the beans about his procurement of children for lecherous pederasts in Capitol Hill.

4) I have been riveted by this Mark Foley thingy-thing-thing. Yesterday, Jeff Trandahl testified about what he didn't know about pimping underage teenage boys in Capitol Hill to sex-mad congressmen and when he didn't know it.


Our favorite future congressman all dolled up for his date with a priest...

And soon after his testimony, sixty-nine year-old retired catholic priest Anthony Mercieca confessed fucking Mark Foley in the ass forty years ago when the disgraced former congressman was twelve (I have to say this, poor Mark Foley; he was betrayed by someone he trusted).

"Let bygones be bygones," the sick neo-septuagenarian queen is quoted in the papers as saying.

Well babies, justice delayed is justice denied, I always say. I think that the whole lot of Republican deviant (and sodomite priests) assholes should be thrown in jail for a few years so that they will come to know what it was like for all those young boys to have to suffer buggery at the hands of disgusting old queens. Although I suspect that Trandahl and Fordham already have an idea of what it's like to give up the brownie for a pack of cigarettes.

Peace and love,
Cesarin

Put on your raincoats babies, there's a shitstorm approaching...

A pimple-faced, 15-year old future Congressman Jim Kolbe during his days as a Congressional Page...

Oh, my precious babies,

You better wear your raincoats today because it's raining buckets of shit out there... Yes, it's true. There are new allegations, surfacing during these Congressional Ethics Committee hearings, that Rep. Jim Kolbe (R-AZ) buttfucked underage male pages during a camping trip to a nudist colony back in 1996.

Well, maybe the graphic nature of what took place during this camping trip hasn't been revealed yet, but pleeeeez... You got a homosexual congressman taking a couple of underage male pages out into the woods, now that's a recipe for disaster. What the fuck was this retard homo thinking?

Now, I am flummoxed here. I live in the district and I could pick up the Washington Blade homo newspaper any day of the week and I would see in the back section of the classifieds a plethora of escort ads by male-whores. Some of them whores have their gimmick up and running: "21 year-old page type, looks 16. Full service. 9 inches thick uncut, hungry bubblebutt. Republican." Now babies, I beseech you. You got these working boys trying very hard to look like underage pages, offering their services to closeted lawmakers at the Hill. Why would the Mark Foley's and Jim Kolbe's of the world go after the real underage deal when taking a 21-but-looks-16 9 inch dick up your ass is scandal-proof?

That's what we need here in our nation's capital, babies. More common sense from our GOP leaders. That and more barely-legal-but-looks-like-jail-bait male whores with 9 inch dicks and hungry buttholes.


Peace and Love,
Cesarin

The Providers of Engorgement in Capitol Hill

"... it's virtually impossible to maintain a soft dick [in Capitol Hill]..."

Hello my precious babies,

If you babies wanna know why our lawmakers in Congress are running this country with their peckers in their hands, go here and you will see that it's virtually impossible to mantain a soft dick with so much hotness around... After all, it's not enough to have a sharp mind and the best interests of the country at heart in order to work in Capitol Hill. You also need to have a bitching body.

Peace and love,
Cesarin

An Interview with Mark Foley

Ex-Congressman Mark Foley

Good Moaning babies,

Here at the Moaning Club we have scored the interview of the year. Realizing that it would benefit the public at large to hear the other side of this Mark Foley polemic, we contacted the Palm Beach Rehab Clinic where Mr. Foley has spent the last couple of weeks in seclusion, and we were able to convince the ex-congressman to fly up to DC for a vis-à-vis chat with the Moaning Club.

Moaning Club: We are sitting here with the former Congressman from Florida Mark Foley, who resigned on September 29 after what many call lurid and inappropriate emails Mr. Foley had sent to teenage Congressional male pages surfaced. Thank you for taking the time to talk with us. It must have been very difficult for you these past couple of weeks with all the unwanted attention your forays into internet chatrooms and your communication with pages have brought you.

Mark Foley: Oh yes, very difficult indeed. If it wasn’t for the wonderful support that I’ve received from my family and friends I don’t think that I would’ve made it this far.

MC: We understand that you have sequestered yourself by checking into a rehab facility, what is all this about?

MF: Oh, alcohol is the devil I tell you. I wouldn’t be gay if I didn’t drink so much.

MC: Now, this is a bombshell. You are saying that your homosexuality stems from a drinking problem, is that correct?

MF: Yes, the drinking. I was also molested by a priest when I was thirteen years-old, so that must also factor into this homosexuality thingy-thing-thing.

MC: Oh my, so you are saying that the sexual assault you endured in your early teenage years coupled with the drinking led you to become a homosexual, is this correct?

MF: Oh yes, also when I was twenty-three years old I was abducted by aliens and rectally probed for days. I think that had something to do with this gay thing as well.

MC: This is shocking. Alien abductions, child molestation, alcohol abuse, all these things contributed to your sexual orientation, am I correct?

MF: Oh yes, very much so. I was also breast-fed until I was ten, which put me off tits, I tell you. You can suck on something only for so long before you get sick of it and never want to do it again.

MC: I see, is this your way of saying that you are giving up on fellatio?

MF: What is that?

MC: Fellatio? You don’t know? That’s when one performs oral sex on a male. You said that you can only suck on something for so long before you get sick of it and never want to do it again, so are you giving up on fellatio then?

MF: Dear boy, no, of course not. The prospect of sucking dick is the only thing that keeps me getting up in the morning and checking out the teenage chatrooms in AOL. I was talking about tits. I don’t want to suck on tits anymore. Unless you’re talking about young tender boy-nipples, I wouldn’t mind sucking on those.

MC: I don’t know what to say to that….

MF: Say, you have a pretty big chest there. How old are you?

MC: Forty-three.

MF: Oh, sorry, I don’t mess around with old folk.

MC: Ok, then let’s move on. Many people call you a one-man Republican wrecking crew because of the precarious situation into which your behavior has placed the GOP. Do you have any response to this accusation?

MF: As if! You think I am the only one getting it on with the pages? Pleeeez… Besides, this page thingy-thing-thing is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve fucked them all: U.S. Marshalls, House clerks, janitors, tourists, my entire staff, even that fattie Kirk Fordham had to bite the bullet on a couple of occasions. That is what the GOP does, my friend. We fuck people in the ass. The fact that I am a homosexual makes my job easier, but we all do it.

MC: I had no idea…

MF: Listen here boy, we are the Republican party. We are winning the war on terror, we are making this country strong and safe, we are upholding traditional Christian values and writing them into law. This country has never been safer or more prosperous. The least you could do is grab your ankles for us.

MC: But, but… isn’t sexual restraint a stalwart Christian value?

MF: That may be, but you pick up your bible and you will encounter some pretty hot stuff. Sometimes I get so horny reading the old testament that I have to jump on the internet and find myself a sweet young thing.

MC: I see. Do you feel that now that you are no longer a congressman you have more freedom to engage in, er, cybersex?

MF: Oh, I’ve never done that cyberthingy. Sometimes I jerk off into the keyboard while I am IM’ing some hot chicken-boy, but I never done the cybersex thingy.

MC: Well, that is what cyber… never mind.

MF: Say, who’s that in the picture?

MC: Which picture? This one? That’s my nephew.

MF: He’s a hottie. How old is he?

MC: Eleven.

MF: Does he have an AOL screenname?

MC: I think this will be all for now. Thank you for sitting with us and sharing some of your thoughts on this GOP polemic.

MF: Oh the pleasure was all mine. Don’t forget to give me your nephew’s email before I go.

MC: Yeah, right.

Peace and Love,

Cesarin

The culture wars

Good Moaning babies,

Here's today's quote, quite illuminating for those on the right:

"The culture war is supposed to be about morality, but really it's a crusade to compel Americans to follow certain norms of private behavior that some social and religious conservatives believe are mandated by sociology, nature or God. Republican officeholders have paid lip service to this crusade, all the while knowing that the human family is diverse and fallible. They know that the gravest threat to marriage is the heterosexual divorce rate. They know that Republicans drink, swear, carouse and have affairs, just like Democrats. They know that homosexuals aren't devils."

-- Eugene Robinson, The Decatur Daily

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Soccer rules!!!

Hunk of the day: Craig Gallivan, from the BBCAmerica show "Footballers' wives"

Mark Foley, Kirk Fordham, Jeff Trandahl, and other GOP deviants

"Kirk Fordham, the former chief of staff for the disgraced Mark Foley."

Good Moaning babies,

I had been meaning to write for a while now about this Mark Foley thingy that has taken over DC these past few days. I had been reticent to say anything until I had all the facts sorted out. The most important thing here to remember is that the age of consent in the district is 16.

Yes babies, that's right. I know it's hard to believe, but High-School sophomores are fair game in our nation's capital. No wonder Mr. Foley went bonkers. Imagine yourself surrounded by a bevy of young chicken boys so willing to obediently follow orders and serve their country that they will blindly do whatever you tell them. What would you do? I know what I would do, I'd get the hell out of there pronto. One must know oneself; one must be able to look in the mirror and see the person reflected back without the rosy spectacles of affectation. If you're a nasty sick queen with pederasty tendencies who can't keep his pecker zipped up, then for God's sake stay away from kids.

There's no shame in admitting the truth. Mark Foley should've known better.

But I digress. The point I wanted to make is that there is a number of people emerging out of this affair with a certain aura of celebrity, or should I say notoriety, who are making the most of this whole mess. One of them is Kirk Fordham, the former (openly homosexual) chief of staff for the disgraced Mark Foley.

The other day I was invited to go to a gay party called "The Blowoff" at the 9:30 Club in DC. My friend Lester the Molester called me up to get me out of my apartment as I had been kinda reclusive lately. I have been enjoying my solitude of late, coming home tired from waking up with the roosters, working all day, then working out at the gym, and finally making it home to pass out on the sofa in front of the TV. But spending so much time alone is not good for the soul, so I said yes to the Molester's invite to the Blowoff party. I had been to the 9:30 Club in the past to see concerts, the most recent being UB40's "Reggae, Shmeggae" tour of North America, so I figured that a gay party at that venue would be a fab affair.

So off we went to JR's on 17th street for some drinks before the Blowoff party. I met a young boy named Mario while we were sipping Appletini's and watching Justin Timberlake bring sexy back on the video monitors (what a weenie, I can't believe Cameron Diaz is letting that skinny wimpy boy take her brownie). We had all noticed Mario earlier, but each of us had different reasons for checking him out. My friend Rooney, who was downing 7&7's like they were going to outlaw them in the morning, was certain to have seen Mario before. The Molester also had a vague recollection of this Mario boy. I finally decided to end the debate and simply walk up to him and get the 411. As it turned out, Mario had been a dancer at the now-defunct Ziegfield's dick bar. No wonder everyone recognized him but couldn't remember where from. It's a common occurrence for a dancer, I take it.

While I was chatting Mario up, Jorge appeared. Jorge is a tiny little Latin boy with a body built for punishment and a disposition for sin. Jorge and I had had a couple of moments at Chaos, the faux-Latin bar of choice for 17th street queens, but it never went anywhere since I always chickened out at the last moment. I suppose that it's expected for the older man to call the shots in a situation like this (Jorge is considerably younger than me, but then again, who isn't?), but sometimes I just wish I could meet a go-getter kind of man who is not waiting for me to do all the work.

So there we all were at JR's, with Mario on the right, Jorge on the left, and your humble servant stuck in the middle not knowing which way to turn. Then the Molester came over and announced that it was time to go to the Blowoff. So I got Mario's number, said goodbye to Jorge, and walked out the door thankful that I didn't have to juggle those two Latin boys much longer. That's just way too many balls in the air for your humble servant.


"And then, the subject of this moaning showed up."

Once we made it to the 9:30 club, I noticed that this was an unusual gay party. Instead of the customary shirtless steroid-queens tripping on ecstasy that you see at every circuit party that there is, I saw an eclectic crowd of mismatched demographics. There were bears (not the wild savage beasts, but rather them fat hairy gay people with a penchant for denim and leather and an abhorrence to cologne and deodorant) mixing it up with upwardly-mobile skinny lawyer types; gym bunnies dancing with drag queens; A&F wannabe's making out with gay hippies. All of this with a pulsating hardcore beat and a shirtless fat Dee Jay spinning records in the center of the room (I tossed an empty cup of gin and tonic at his fat ass during a particularly wretched song interlude, and I had to bolt to the bathroom when security began searching for the culprit).

And then, the subject of this moaning showed up. I ran into Kirk Fordham later in the evening during the Blowoff crescendo (they wait until the X kicks in to play the really monotonous songs, apparently a constant tempo is the key for a good trip to X-land). Kirk Fordham is a lot shorter than you would think by looking at him on TV. He is also balding pretty badly. And fat. He was wearing a baseball cap at the party, but he took it off a few times to reveal a shiny translucent dome. It was like a beacon in the middle of a sultry night, and it was a very successful one for queens of all walks of life were drawn to it. It was eminently apparent that this whole Foley affair had made him extremely horny. He was chatting up all the pretty young things and following them to the bathroom. What is this? A learned trait? Emergent behavior? Who knows...

I was being badgered by one of his cronies, a dark-haired man in his late twenties or early thirties who obviously thought that being so close to notoriety would open doors (back doors perhaps?) in the predatory world of gay disco's. But it only showcases the man's poor judgment that instead of abusing his power (and covering it up afterwards, which is so GOPish I daresay) to get young dick, he was chasing after your humble servant. This episode buttresses the GOP's colossal lack of common-sense. It's almost like a biblical parable. No wonder things are so royally fucked up in this administration.


"'Do you know Jeff Trandahl?' I asked him."

"I live only a block away," the lecherous gay Republican said to me as I was moving his hand away from my crotch (note to self: do NOT wear a size 28 pair of stretchy jeans again; you are not 19 anymore).
"I can't go," I said.
"We can be back in no time," the GOP dick-head said.
"No," I repeated.
"You'll have a good time," he said.
"Better than right now?" I said drolly.
"Much better," he said.
"Can Fordham join us?" I knew I was taking a tactical risk here, but I figured that Mr. Fordham's erect penis would not be pointing at me.
"Um, I don't think..." he began.
"I am more than happy to open my legs for you as long as Fordham goes in first," I said.
"Forget him, it's just you and me," he began to regain his composure.
"I want Fordham in this. I want to lick his bald head. Can you make this happen?" I said.

You babies may think that I am perhaps embellishing the tale, but this is all true.

After a long back and forth with the GOP degenerate, it became apparent to him that your humble servant would not be surrendering his peachy ass to anyone unless Kirk Fordham was there to be the first one to raise the flag up the pole, sort of speak. With some trepidation, this GOP'er went up to Mr. Fordham and said something to him. Mr. Fordham looked up to where I was and then made some reply. The GOP'er then came back looking a little worse for wear.

"It's not gonna happen with Fordham," he said.
"Pity," I said.
"But you and I can have a really good time," he said.
"You're like the consolation prize?" I asked him.
"If you want to think of it that way," he said.
"Do you know Jeff Trandahl?" I asked him.

Eventually the GOP man went away. I too decided to leave the Blowoff when someone turned me in to security. I saw them coming straight at me, so I ran for the door. Better to leave than be thrown out, that's what I always say. I made my way back to JR's. I was hoping Mario was still sitting there at the bar. Or Jorge. I bet they are Democrats.


Peace and Love,
Cesarin.

Frida nudges Agnetha

Hello babies,

Here we have a video of a "live" performance by that super group ABBA. They are my favorite group of all time, and I am not ashamed to admit it.

However, it wasn't always a bed of roses for the members of the group. In the end, the two couples divorced and eventually disbanded, putting an end to an amazing run of hits... Here you will see something quite interesting, as the older and brunette Frida puts the younger and blonde Agnetha in her place for trying to fool around with Frida's husband's piano keys (is that a euphemism?)...

Enjoy....

Video of the Day, part trois

Take That - Do what you want (Uncensored)



Yes babies, this is the gayest video made by a straight boy band.... from 1992, it's Robbie Williams and company... enjoy

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Video of the Day, part deux

Abba - Mamma Mia (1975)



Well babies, here's another video... I was watching this new PBS documentary on the career of Swedish popstars, "Abba-dabba-doo, I see you," and I got inspired and motivated and went to iTunes to download 300 Abba songs. Yes babies, I got them all: from the obscure "Pick a bale of cotton" medley to the never-before-heard "Just like that" from their Opus 10 unreleased 1984 album... My my, how can I resist them?

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

Video of the Day

Justin Timberlake's Sexyback Video



Yes babies, this is the number one song in the whole country... I like it just fine. It is better than Fergie's fucked-up song "London Bridge (is falling down)" and Beyonce's blubber-fantasy "Deja vu," but don't take my word for it... play the fucker and you tell me what you think.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin

My Neighbor, the Trailer Park Artist

"An Andy Warhol-ish nightmare of prosaic and mundane objects reimagined for the common man..."

Good Moaning babies,

I have decided to take a week off from the gym. Yes babies, I said it. I need to rest. Just the thought of me having to go down to DC and workout at that gym full of fags makes me wanna puke. But this is only a temporary thing. I have felt this way before, and a good vacation from the workout is a fine remedy that always manages to jump-start my gym-bunny-ness. We all need to take a little time off, no?


"I will not hold a person's upbringing against them..."

Which explains why I have been home every day this week by five PM instead of my usual arrival time of nine PM. Funny the things you miss when you are in the gym instead of home. On Monday, when I got home, I noticed that my trailer-trash neighbor was shoveling sand on his front lawn in order to make a sandbox for his daughter. When I got home on Tuesday, I saw that he had placed an old refrigerator on his front lawn. Now, I will not hold a person's upbringing against them, for I run the risk of the same being done to me. But when you put your old fridge on your front lawn and think of it as fine decor, then I will feel compelled to start judging, especially if my house directly faces yours.

When I lived in New Orleans, I had a very eccentric neighbor who was also a very eccentric artist. His art would've been considered modern back in the day, that is back in the pre-post-modern days when he was making a name for himself. But now, elderly and established and living in an antebellum house across the street from me, he had taken his method of modern art to such an extreme that it left no doubt in an observer's mind that the poor dude had gone bonkers. Let me elaborate. In 2002 I saw him on his porch, directly across the street from my house, joining together a bunch of Clorox bottles with a string. He then took one end of the string and tied it to the left column on his porch, extended the string so that the Clorox bottles would be straddling the entire width of the porch, and then tied the other end of the string to the right column. So, when you walked to his front door, you had to pass under ten bottles of Clorox hanging by a string. That was his fucked-up way to express "cleansing oneself" before entering his abode.

That, my precious babies, was the nature of his art. An Andy Warhol-ish nightmare of prosaic and mundane objects reimagined for the common man.


"... his wife was younger than your humble servant..."

How do I know the meaning of this art form? Well, I spoke with his young wife (the man must've been like 90 years old, but his wife was younger than your humble servant), and I shared my dismay at the kind of shit the geezer was hanging in his porch. She tried to be sympathetic and explained his reasoning for the bottles, but she was not to be manipulated either. Her husband was an artist, albeit a weird-o artist from another fucking planet, and his artistic fancy would be tickled. Period. And I had the choice of either closing my eye-lids if I didn't like his art or moving to another house, but the old fucker was not gonna be stopped. Shortly after that, the old man hung an oversized gold stuffed swordfish on his porch. The fish was so big, he had to move the Clorox bottles to the front lawn where he hung them on an oak tree. His next project was to pile kitty litter trays one on top of another in the left corner of his front patio. I am not exactly sure what emotions he was trying to convey with the cat-crappers, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he was trying to say something about your humble servant.

Last I heard, Katrina blew into town and sent the old man and his art flying back to the planet where he came from.

So, here I am, now living in Chevy Chase and being subjected to something similar. My trailer-park neighbor is not the artistic kind. He would not think that he is expressing anything in his endeavors. He is building a sandbox for his young daughter, which is an admirable thing in itself, but the sandbox does not represent anything. The man has also appropriated property that does not belong to him by extending his fence (using cheap-o pre-fab fence-posts he bought at the 7-Eleven no doubt) outwards beyond the perimeter of his house, and enclosing within it his daughter's huge-ass toys (a life-size Barbie doll? What the fuck?) and the above-mentioned sandbox.


"My trailer-park neighbor is not the artistic kind..."

It just looks nasty. The discarded fridge is outside this enclosure of his (not the best plaything for a young kid, I daresay), but it is still prominently featured among the tacky toys and the sandbox. Then Ernesto dumps a bucketful of rain on Chevy Chase and the fucking sandbox becomes a fucking mudbox. The little girl loves playing in the mud (a portent of things to come? Mud-wrestling? Jello-wrestling? Stripping?), but more than that, the little girl loves running all over the place after playing in the mud. She particularly loves knocking on doors. I found muddy handprints on my front door and my glass-door.

At least my old neighbor from New Orleans was too arthritic to come to each house in the neighborhood and share his art with us.

Oh well, what is one to do? Right? On the one hand, trailer-parks and their dwellers represent and untapped source of Americana and we must embrace their cultural contribution to our American psyche. On the other hand, why can't they just stay in their fucking trailer-parks contributing from afar? How would my bald-headed trailer-park-raised neighbor like it if I started decorating my patio with giant-sized black dildoes and renderings of stretched-out buttholes? Would that be art if I am expressing something? I rather think so. But I don't do that because I am a sensitive guy who always thinks of others, no? I just can't help myself. Everytime I see that trailer-park asshole I smile at the pigfucker. I am sweet that way.

As to my vacation from the gym, I think that I will cut my vacation short and start working out again tomorrow. By the time I get home it will be dark and I will not have to see the new and wondrous lawn decor my neighbor has come up with.

Peace and Love,
Cesarin