Huzzah! Pics from the Southern Decadence festivities! (Such a speedy and efficient boyfriend have I….)

Four Haikus for the Weekend

Southern Decadence:
My mouth tastes of cigarettes and absinthe
and sweat.

Houston Queens:
Leaving something to the imagination
is sexy.

Atlanta is pretty,
but apparently the men there
don’t wear shirts.

Every year
friends come to town
wondering why they ever left this place.

Special Advertising Section

Do you remember your first game of tic-tac-toe? Or hangman? Or Candyland?

You felt a special little frisson, didn’t you? A tiny electric charge, a huge synapse that washed over your nubile, pre-teen body. Like a hip, downtown junkie, you were hooked before you knew it, and there was no turning back.

As you now know, games are more American than apple pie, more mind-boggling than Shonen Knife, more important to the fabric of our nation than the WWF or Tommy Hilfiger. They are the best and most consuming way to distract yourself from the meaninglessness of your pitiful little life until you accidentally step out in front of that cross-town bus and shuffle off the proverbial mortal coil.

Of course, some people need more distraction than others. Some people, weighed down by ruts and habits, throw themselves into games and other pastimes with a vengeance. We prey on them.

We’re Maxis.

We recently introduced our friend Richard to the wonderful world of The Sims. At first he was reticent, having recently overcome quasi-addiction to another game and completed an unusually large number of writing projects. He had hoped to revive his lagging journal and do some writing for himself, and perhaps entertain/irritate some passers-by in the process.

We caught him just in time.

The Sims, you see, is the ultimate experience for obsessive/compulsive personalities like Richard. Our insidious programmers have provided you, the gaming public, so many means of customizing the gaming environment–with houses, furniture, artwork, and hot leather daddies deployed at your discretion–folks like Richard can spend hours just futzing with the color of the carpet. Anyone who organizes their stationery collection on a regular basis is in for the ride of his life.

On behalf of everyone who worked on the creation of The Sims, we hope you’ll give The Sims a try. For breakfast, lunch, or an afternoon snack, there’s nothing like The Sims to get you through your day and render you oblivious to the dreadful state of the modern world. Stock up now–just in case a certain daddy’s-boy finds himself in the White House come fall. You’ll be glad you did…

Oh. There’s the sandman. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….

My sleeping pattern cannot be broken. Case in point: last night we went to the Crack Whore Ball (a little Decadence warm-up party thrown by the kinky Krewe de Qui Tu Connais) and kikied and carried on ’till almost 1am and finally came home and watched a little boob-tube and I should be exhausted, but now, less than six hours later, I’m bright eyed and bushy tailed (though I’m always kinda bushy, you know). Basically, I wanna sleep, but I can’t. My father insists it’s a sign of getting older. Hmph.

In case you didn’t know, John Lennon is a trademark owned by Yoko Ono Lennon. Greedy tuneless bitch. At least she had the good taste to let the vastly underrated Zbignew Rybchinski direct a video for one of her songs. I bet someone else gave her the idea, though….

In case anyone’s wondering, my life’s been pretty dull this week. I could bore you with the details, but I figure if you’re bored enough to be stopping by, I don’t need to make it any worse. Until you hear otherwise, it’s safe to assume I’m:

(a) waking,
(b) typing,
(c) futzing,
(d) eating,
(e) griping,
(f) freewheeling,
(g) scapegoating,
(h) mollycoddling,
(i) toying,
(j) dozing,
(k) drooling,
(l) stumbling,
(m) gossiping,
(n) bemoaning,
(o) paying,
(p) flopping,
(q) digesting,
(r) smiling,
(s) leering,
(t) sneering,
(u) dancing,
(v) swilling,
swishing,
(x) sauteeing,
(y) reading, and
(z) sleeping–not necessarily in that order.

I’ll try to mix it up a bit in the next few days.

Oh, one other thing: Caleb is neither for sale nor rent. Well, not so far as I know. If you’re really interested, though, I can always ask.

Yipee! My thoughful shutterbug of a boyfriend has posted the party pics!

(Just between you and me, I was hoping they might trigger some lucid memories of that night, but, well, no dice. Pity.)

(cough cough sniffle) being sick sux (sniffle cough). not an auspicious way to start my new year.

blech. i’m going back to bed.

too bad no one’s figured out how to email matzo ball soup yet. maybe my boyfriend will make me some when he gets home (sigh).

Something That Might Piss-Off a Former Sports Hero:

Hey! Hey! Aren’t you Archie Manning? Wow! I thought that was you. You’re looking good to be as old as you are. Still trim, I see. And damn you’re tall! What are you, like seven feet or something? You looked a lot shorter on TV. You must have one hell of a dick down there (poking his crotch)! I mean, I’m sure you’ve watched enough guys in the shower to know that tall + skinny = hung. You know what I’m sayin’, right?

Oh, listen, is that Payton guy your son? Really! I thought so. He is one fine motherfucker! Much cuter than you were at his age. Do you think you could give me his email address? Next time he’s in town I’d like to ask him over so I can fuck the shit out of that sweet ass he’s sporting. He looks like he’d enjoy it, too. He’s got “bottom” written all over him. I guess it runs in the family.

Say, I’m kinda drunk, and you’re lookin’ good to me, so what say we trot on over to the Superdome and get busy on the 50 yard line? You can just drop those Sansabelts and let me go to work. Deal?