Monthly Archives: December 2023

December 31, 2023

JG:  ….mmmhello?

Mgmt: Good morning!  And happy New Year’s Eve!

JG:  Shit…is it?

Mgmt:  Yes, it is New Year’s Eve, and we’re still waiting for your end-of-the-year message.  Have you even started it yet.

JG: Yes, of course…I started that weeks ago.

Mgmt: When will it be done?

JG: It’s ready to go…but no one’s going to want to read it.

Mgmt: What do you mean?

JG: It will drive people crazy.  Literally make people insane.

Mgmt: And why is that?

JG: It’s way too dark for the American snowflakes to handle.

Mgmt: You’re always dark.

JG: No…not like this.  This shit is absolutely apocalyptic.  It will drive people mad.  And I don’t want to do that.  I just want to make people laugh.  How about I just tell some jokes?

Mgmt: Because your jokes are bad and usually completely offensive.

JG: Oh shut up.  You wouldn’t know a good joke if it fell out of the sky, landed on your face, and started to wiggle.

Mgmt: We focused group your last set of jokes, and…

JG: Fuck your focus group.

Mgmt: …several members quit, and one reported suicidal ideation and wanted “trauma compensation” by the time the group was done.

JG: Because they’ve been brainswashed by you woke fuckers, and when they find themselves laughing at something they’ve been indoctrinated not to laugh at, they fall apart.

Mgmt: What’s the general gyst of your New Years message…can you at least tell us that?

JG: I didn’t know what to wear to my Premature Ejaculation Society meeting.

Mgmt: Huh?

JG: So I just came in my pants.

Mgmt: Jesus.

JG: Sometimes I have sex with my uncle in an elevator.

Mgmt: For the love of God.

JG: And it’s wrong on so many levels.

Mgmt: Okay, that’s what we’re talking about…that’s not funny.

JG: My girlfriend dumped me, so I stole her wheelchair.

Mgmt: You are the worst client we’ve ever had.

JG: Guess who came crawling back.

Mgmt: ….

JG: Today I saw a midget climbing down a prison wall.

Mgmt: I personally hate you.

JG: And I thought to myself, “That’s a little con-descending.”

Mgmt: Just send us the new year’s thing.

JG: What do you call a hippie’s wife?

Mgmt: ….

JG: Mrs. Hippie.  Mississippi.  Get it?

Mgmt: So, New Years message…what’s it going to be?  Just give us a hint.

JG: Well, there’s a bunch of categorical bitching about this year and the several prior to it, which bitching goes on for quite a number of pages.

Mgmt: Maybe you could trim down the page count and send those to us.

JG: I could, and I will, but that will have to be in the new year…no way I can do that today.

Mgmt: Okay.  What comes after the bitching?

JG: A litany of truly dire predictions for the coming year.  Dire!  They’re all bad.

Mgmt: It can’t be all bad.  Surely there must be at least one positive thing, one glimmer of hope.  That’s what people need right now…some kind of optimism or hope.

JG: There’s not a lot of sunshine and puppy dogs from where I’m sitting.  Hey, why is it called PMS?

Mgmt: We really need one positive thing from you for New Years.

JG: Cuz Mad Cow Disease was taken.

Mgmt: Please, for the love of God, focus.  What is one hope you have for the new year?  And please, no more jokes.

JG: Okay, fine.  The only hope I have for the coming year is that…hello?  Hello?  Shit…phone died.  Maybe they’ll call back.

N.P.: “It’s Coming It’s Real” – Swans

Review: hangovers


Reviewed by Jayson Gallaway on 30 December 2023 .

2 out of 5

Hello, intemperate reader. Welcome back to my sleazy, trash-filled corner of the internet, where we tackle life’s most profound questions, like “Why is pizza round?” and “Who the fuck still thinks Daylight Saving Time is in any way a good idea?” Today, however, we’re diving headfirst into a topic that’s as old as time itself: hangovers. Or as I like to call it, “Nature’s way of saying ‘fuck you’ for thinking that whiskey shots after midnight are ever a good idea.”

I decided to pre-emotively ring in the new year last night, get my end-of-the-year drinking in a couple of days before everybody else does…while I could still get a seat at the bar.  Which was a great idea…I’d do it again if I had the choice.  But now, here we are…waking up sticky, broke, and confused on a sickly Saturday morning, celebrating Hangover.

Saturday mornings (and for the last couple decades, afternoons as well) have been the time my friend and family traditionally celebrate Hangover.  Hangover, dear reader, is perhaps the longest standing (actually laying down) tradition of my people: the Irish invented Hangover, and have been celebrating it regularly for millennia.  While celebrating Hangover is appropriate any (or all) days of the week, most typically observe Hangover on Saturdays.  Hangovers sneak up on you like a ninja in fluffy slippers, striking just when you thought you’d escaped unscathed from the previous  night’s debauchery. One moment, you’re sleeping like a baby with fetal alcohol syndrome; the next, you’re grappling with a headache that feels like Thor’s hammer doing the Macarena in your skull.

But let’s start from the beginning. The first stage of a hangover is denial. You wake up, sunshine streaming through the window, birds chirping merrily outside. Everything’s fine, right? Wrong. Then you sit up, and it hits you: a wave of nausea so potent it could knock out a sumo wrestler.
Next comes bargaining. You promise the universe—or anyone listening—that you’ll never drink again if only this torment would end. Your bathroom floor becomes your best friend. Your stomach, your worst enemy. You start to question your life choices, like why you thought mixing beer, wine, and that neon green cocktail was a good idea.

Then there’s the ‘I’m never drinking again’ phase, which lasts until your buddy calls you up and says, “Pub tonight?” Suddenly, your conviction disappears faster than cookies at a weight loss meeting.
So, how do I rate hangovers, you ask? On a scale of one to ‘I wish I could rip out my throbbing brain’, I’d give them a solid ‘Why do I do this to myself?’. They’re like that terrible movie you can’t stop watching, or that annoying song you can’t get out of your head. You know it’s bad for you, but you can’t help yourself.

My most recent hangovers have been defined by waking up with an acute sense of desiccation.  Did you see the movie Underworld?  When the elder vampires go into a centuries-long slumber, they are drained of blood.  They spend hundreds of years as veritable prunes, hanging upside down like dead leaves hanging on a late fall tree.  When it’s time to wake them up, blood is transfused into their veins, and they come back to life.  That’s how I feel these days whilst hungover, and that’s how I felt this morning when I woke up: all organs shut down, put into a state of suspended stasis until pure water is returned to my system.  In those horrible moments, I can down a six-pack of LaCroix inside of 10 minutes.  Even then, I’ll need at least two more hours of bedrest, and then, a greasy lunch, preferably consisting of fried foods.  And then, only then, can I seriously consider climbing out of bed.  That used to be the end of it.  But now, at this age, the residual effects of hangovers can be felt two, maybe three days after whatever debauchery caused it.  There is nothing pleasant about it, but it does serve as a reminder that you are still alive and subject to the same rules of mortality as everyone else.  Which is something I need to be reminded of from time to time.

In conclusion, hangovers are the universe’s way of keeping us humble. They remind us that for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction—usually involving a toilet bowl and a regrettable text to your ex. So, here’s to hangovers, the Saturday morning tradition none of us asked for but all of us have experienced. Until next time, drink water, take aspirin, and remember: cheap tequila is never your friend.  Cheers, or better yet, bottoms up!

N.P.: “Party Train” – The Gap Band

Word of the Day: guttersnipe

Happy Friday, dear reader.  Let’s get to it!  Grab a pint of your favorite libation, because it’s time for our Word of the Day!  I’ve been reading a lot of Dickens recently (’tis the season, ’tisn’t it?), so today’s linguistic gem that we’re about to mercilessly dissect is  “guttersnipe.”
So, what in the name of God’s Balls is a guttersnipe? It sounds like something you’d find lurking in the bowels of your antiquated plumbing system, right? Well, not quite, but close.  A guttersnipe, dear readers, is a term used to describe a street urchin or a child of the streets.
Originally, this delightful word comes from the good ol’ 19th century England, where words were as colorful as Queen Victoria’s royal panties (pure conjecture, dear reader, don’t quote me on that). The term combines “gutter” (a street’s drainage system) and “snipe” (a slender-billed bird known for its elusive nature), painting a vivid picture of scrappy kids dodging in and out of London’s grimy alleyways.
Now, let’s imagine a scenario, shall we? Picture this: You’re strolling through a modern city, and suddenly, a blur of motion catches your eye. It’s a kid, no older than ten, darting between the bustling crowd, his nimble fingers swiping wallets with the grace of a seasoned ballet dancer. He’s not just any pickpocket; he’s the Guttersnipe.
The Guttersnipe, with his artfully smudged face and twinkling eyes, rules the proverbial concrete jungle. He’s got the agility of a cat, the cunning of a fox, and the audacity of a peacock on bath salts. He’s a regular Robin Hood, if Robin Hood traded his forest for skyscrapers and his merry men for a gang of equally nimble-fingered miscreants.
One day, the Guttersnipe spots a new target: a man so engrossed in his jumbo hot dog that he doesn’t notice the wallet slipping out from his pocket. The Guttersnipe swoops in, snatches the wallet, and vanishes into the crowd faster than you can say “extra mustard.”
But when he opens the wallet, what does he find? Not cash, not credit cards, but a mountain of coupons for free hot dogs. The Guttersnipe can’t help but laugh. He may be a street urchin, but even he knows there’s such a thing as too many hot dogs.
And so, our little guttersnipe learns a valuable lesson: not all wallets are created equal. And some, it seems, are full of nothing but processed meat dreams.
So there you have it, folks. From the grimy streets of 19th century England to the hot dog stands of modern cities, the guttersnipe endures, a testament to the enduring power of language and the universal appeal of free food.

N.P.: “My Way” – Sid Vicious

December 24, 2023

Merry Christmas, dear reader!  I love Christmas as much as the next blackguard, but I don’t feel the need to decorate the outside of the house every Christmas.  It, quite simply, seems like a huge pain in the ass.  And for what?  The neighbors’ and other weirdos amusement?  I don’t particularly care for either weirdos or neighbors, so I don’t see the point.  Apparently, many of my neighbors feel differently.  This year, in particular, many of them have gone absolutely apeshit with their outdoor Christmas décor and lights.  When I say “apeshit,” I mean unironically using Clark Griswold as their inspiration and mentor.  Most of these projects have actual budgets…serious money is being spent on this garishness. My issues with this seasonal silliness are myriad, but I’ll just give you the top three:

  1.  These are the lowlands of California, which is to say there is no such thing as a white Christmas.  It doesn’t snow here.  I’m old enough to remember the last time it did “snow” in this valley, and that was in 1976.  Since then, not a flake.  Because our governor is an incompetent ass who doesn’t understand even the most basic concepts of deforestation or successfully managing water resources, California is in a state of perpetual drought, regardless of how much rain falls in a given year, most people’s front yards look like the Arizona desert during Christmastime:
    dead lawn and patches of dirt.  Which makes oversized inflatable snowmen look absurdly out of place.  Traditional “winter” Christmas décor where there is no snow comes off as desperate and rather pathetic.
  2. These overdecorated and hyperlit houses draw all manner of bridge and tunnel trash into the neighborhood.  There are, of course, no bridges or tunnels here, but you know what I mean: other desert-dwellers in desperate attempts to have something like a white Christmas but don’t have a budget set aside for a professionally designed lightshow drive around looking for other people’s ostentatious displays, which leads a lot of them to my street.  And they don’t do quick drive-bys… no, they drive slower than a parade and oftentimes completely stop and just park it in front of their favorite festooned houses.  This causes actual traffic at inordinate times on an otherwise quiet street.  This, in turn, causes dark states of piss off and anger amongst the various UPS, Amazon, and DoorDash drivers trying to make their way to my door.  “Fuck it, bro…you’re on your own…I’m 750 feet from your house and I haven’t moved for 20 minutes…you’re going to need to pick this shit up yourself,” is a common theme of messages sent to me from delivery drivers these past two weeks.  Then when I do leave the house after dark, I end up ruining multiple Christmases and possibly causing psychological trauma to scores of children who, wide-eyed and gaped-mouthed are enjoying staring at the millions of Christmas lights and various animated inflatable displays when their fragile little yuletide minds are suddenly forced to cope with some crazed and likely drunk writer yelling about traffic and calling their parents pig-fuckers and all sorts of bad and profane noise.  Nobody wants that.  So do us all a favor and stay home.
  3. As glorious as many of these displays may be in the dark of night, in the morning light, they’re absolutely ghastly.  The only experience I can liken it to is stumbling out of a San Francisco rave at dawn, just as the drugs are wearing off, and you’re forced to go from sexy darkness that’s illuminated only by sexy lasers making even the most drug-addled revelers look good out into the brutal and excruciating dawn, where all your fellow partiers looks like hammered shit and the gorgeous girl you’ve been following around all night now looks like an animated corpse trying to find a ride home.  These yards that only hours before were cutting edge holiday light shows now look dead.  The lights are off, and the owners have turned off the air pumps that keep the inflatable displays inflated, and now they’re just flaccid, lifeless flaps of plastic laying across lawns and roofs like spent condoms tossed on the pavement in the high school parking lot the morning after prom.  It’s gross and depressing.  Which I believe are the exact sorts of feelings Christmas is meant to avoid.

I’m quite dubious about whether or not next Christmas will be in any way “normal,” but whatever’s going on, at least please consider toning down the outside lights and displays next year.  They vex me deeply and make the baby Jesus cry.

N.P.: “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” – Gary Hoey

Word of the Day – bumfuzzle

Damn right the word of the day is bumfuzzle.  Because why the hell not.

Despite my dirtiest hopes, bumfuzzle is not something you’ll find on the menu of one of those horrible quasi-brothels in downtown London with the dead-eyed Slavic chicks (though the next time I’m in one of those wretched places, I might order a bumfuzzle and just see what happens.
Anyway, bumfuzzle is indeed a real word and not some gibberish I scrawled in my journal when I woke from this afternoon’s Ny-Quil-influenced fever dream.  It’s an olden goldie from the deep South, dating back to the mid-19th century. And no,  it doesn’t mean your bum’s gotten into a fight with a puzzle.  It’s a verb that means to confuse, perplex, or fluster.

Enrique found himself unexpectantly bumfuzzled before the day had even really started when, upon picking up his usual venti mocha with whip, the heavily bearded yet totally bald, six-foot-four baristo suddenly began bellowing angrily about being misgendered. 

“…the fuck you talking about?” Enrique asked, annoyed to have to turn around in the midst of his hurried exit.

“You called me ‘sir.'”

Enrique had uttered an unusually polite “thank you, sir,” when he was handed his coffee.  That was maybe two seconds ago, and already Enrique regretted trying to be polite today. 

“Yes, I called you ‘sir.’  What’s the problem?”

“It’s ‘ma’am…I identify as female,” the baristo yelled deeply. 

Enrique took a few steps closer to read the nametag: Stanya.  Enrique noticed for the first time Stanya’s clothing, which, rather than a dress or assless chaps or anything at all that would have indicated that this idiot was pretending to be a woman, consisted of men’s jeans and a Motorhead t-shirt. 

“…The fuck outta here.  You’ve got more beard than ZZ Top.  You wanna pretend to be a women, first thing you need to do is fuckin’ shave.”

This caused Stanya to plunge into instant and deep conniption and apoplexy.  He lunged at Enrique, who deftly dodged the charging Stanya in exactly the same way a matador would dodge a freight train.  Stanya’s own massive motion sent him through the front window of the coffee shop, where he came to rest as a cut-up mess several feet outside of the coffee shop.  Enrique passed gracefully through the remnants of the front door to find himself standing over Stanya’s prone adiposity. 

“You are whatever I say you are, cupcake,” said Enrique.  “I rescind my ‘thank you,’ and replace it with an enthusiastic ‘go fuck yourself.’ 
Back in his car, Enrique, who had been in the United States illegally for several months now and deeply regretted spending so much money to get to this absurd and unserious country, decided he’d had enough and began to make plans to get back to Mexico as soon as possible. 

N.P.: “I’m a Man” – Black Strobe

December 5, 2023 – Season’s Beatings: Das ist Krampusnacht!

Even when I still believed that Santa Claus was an actual dude with an actual mailing address inside the Arctic Circle, with an actual toy shop at the same address staffed mostly by elves, blah blah blah, I felt, deep down in that dark and vacant space where my soul should have been, that Things Weren’t Right.
Even as toddlers, children understand that there are scary monsters [see The Uses of Enchantment by Bruno Bettelheim and that study where children were given rewritten versions of fairy tales with the scary monsters taken out, and the kids got all pissed off and attacked their teachers’ kneecaps].  Rugrats know that evil lurks, and they resent the hell out of patronizing adults who tell them otherwise.  I certainly did.  Which is why the unipolar morality of the Santa story never really sat well with me: goodness is ostensibly rewarded, but evil goes completely unpunished.  All year long, the promise of every materialistic dream a child may have coming true on Christmas morning is dangled in front of the child’s beady eyes on the condition of “good” behavior during the rest of the year.
I always assumed there was some kind of sliding scale of goodness vs. toys spectrum: if your behavior was superlative and Christ-like all year long, then you get absolutely everything on your list, and perhaps even a few bonus toys.  If you were a minimally decent person for, say, 8 months out of the year, but a bit of a prick the rest of the time, then you might only get a third of the things on your list.  But what of little Adolf and Osama?  What about the little kid who is an absolute bastard every goddamn day of the year?  What of him?  According to the Santa story, nothing.  Not a damn thing. Hell, Santa will even still come by your house: he’ll just leave a piece of coal.  So what?  Who cares? This means that some little fucker can run around terrorizing the neighborhood, lowering property values and ruining everybody’s lives all year long, and the only thing he has to worry about is maybe not getting as many toys as the Goody Two-Shoes next door?  Alll little Adolf has to do is stroll over to Goody’s on the 26th, when the little angel is playing with all of his benevolently hard-earned toys, whack him over the head with a board, take whatever toys he wants, and swagger back home.
No.  That’s just ludicrous.  It is unjust. And it is existentially unsound. There can be no light without darkness.  And there can be no goodness without evil.  That knowledge is innate in human children.  But in the Disneyfied, politically correct culture that is modern day America, apparently parents are afraid of damaging their little snowflakes’ eggshell psyches, We ask our teachers not to use red pen when grading papers, because red is the color of blood and there is an implied threat there.  We’re not going to keep score in little league games because the idea of someone winning necessitates that some lost, and the concept of losing at anything, even a baseball game, is far more than a human being should have to endure.  And oh God, the results are tragic.  Entire generations who cannot conjugate the verbs “to lose” or “to fail.”
I say Enough.  Ya basta!  I say that people in general, but children especially, are far heartier and more resilient than they are ever given credit for.  And it is with that in mind that I suggest that we hit reset and start celebrating Christmas properly.  Let us look back toward Europe, to where the Santa Claus story originated, to get the full story: the story of the Santa’s dark counterpart, Krampus.
If Santa Claus is a right jolly old elf, then Krampus is a bad-ass Christmas demon.  If old Saint Nick is benevolent generosity and reward, Krampus is divine retribution and vengeance.  Krampus is a very satanic-looking demon (I suppose all demons worth their horns are rather satanic-looking): a satyr (in the Roman tradition (as opposed to the Greek)), with massive horns and a bifurcated tail, who is draped in noisy chains and cow bells, and wields a collection of pointy sticks with which (get this) he beats all hell out of children who have been assholes during the previous year.  If children have committed more than the typically venial offenses associated with childhood, Krampus will not simply beat them with his sticks and chains, but will either dismember them, or simply drag them to hell, never to be seen again.  Sometimes Krampus just eats the goddamn kids right there in front of God and everybody.  And don’t think you can go running to Santa to save you from Krampus…no.  Krampus and Santa are good buddies.  Existential friends who enjoy happy hour at der biergarten together.
Krampus does not just molest and abuse vagrant children.  No.  When not dispensing yuletide justice to miscreants, Krampus enjoys goosing attractive women and licking their faces, a la Rick James on a good, crackful night.  Oh yes…Krampus is a straight up poon hound.  Unlike that grandfatherly twat Santa Claus, ever the family man, the Christmas demon crushes mad ass on the reg.  There is no Mrs. Krampus.  No need.  Krampus has game and he wants to fist your mother.  After he eats your soul.
Speaking of eating, don’t bother trying to placate Krampus with cookies and milk.  He cannot be plied with baked goods, and Krampus is notoriously lactose-intolerant.  You would be better off leaving whiskey and steak, but those will not likely work either.  To avoid the wrath of Krampus this night, there is only one path: The path of righteousness, and the avoidance of assholishness throughout the rest of the year.

N.P.: “What We Do” – Devo

December 4, 2023

Season’s greetings, dear readers!  Apologies for not having time for a proper post today, but I’m busy preparing for Krampus Nacht.
For those of you uncultured heathens who are blissfully unaware, Krampus is a horned, anthropomorphic figure from Central European folklore who shows up every December 5th to scare the living shit out of rotten kids (and their shitty parents).  He’s like Santa Claus’ evil twin brother, if that twin brother had a goat’s head and carried a bundle of birch branches chains for whipping purposes. Festive, right?  Hell yes.
For me, this means procuring sufficient liquor in case Krampus happens to stop by for a break from thrashing recalcitrant children.  Like those little shits across the street.  They’re doomed, and their parents know it.  Over the weekend, they hit me up for tips on Krampus-proofing their house.  Fools.  The righteous vengeance of Krampus is unstoppable, inescapable.  But I felt obligated to tell them something, so I made some shit up.
First, there’s the traditional garlic on the windowsills – because everyone knows that Krampus hates garlic. Or is that vampires? Ah well, better safe than sorry. Next, there’s the strategic placement of fluffy pillows around the house. You know, to cushion the blow in case Krampus gets in and starts swinging those birch branches around.
Then there’s the all-important task of stocking up on comfort food. Because if you’re going to spend the night cowering in fear, you might as well do it with a tub of ice cream and a family-sized bag of chips.
And let’s not forget the most important part of Krampus-proofing: crafting the perfect ‘I’ve been a good boy/girl’ sign to hang on the front door. Because nothing says ‘please don’t whip me, Mr. Krampus’ quite like a brightly colored sign made with glitter glue and desperation.
Anyway, brave reader, so much for them.  Brace yourself: Krampus Nacht is tomorrow!

N.P.: “Till the Day I Die” – Halford

December 1, 2023

This morning’s email from Mgmt included a couple of options for blog entries today.  I hate both of them.  To wit:
Lexicology post: “Word of the Day: Lollygag.  Because isn’t that what we all secretly do on Fridays?”

Lucubrations post: “The sweet agony of Fridays: A nocturnal reflection.” “Why don’t you like either of these?”

Lollygag isn’t a cool enough word, and I don’t even know what this horseshit about the sweet agony of Fridays is even about.

“So what do you want to do?”

I dunno…not this.  How about some jokes?

“Because your jokes are, far more often than not, completely unacceptable and inappropriate.”

Exactly.  That’s what people need now, even if they don’t know it.  Even if they’ve been so beaten into submission that they’ve forgotten how to laugh at things that are legitimately funny, even though they are likely offensive.

“But your jokes are way over the line.”

What line?  I don’t subscribe to any line.  And I feel exactly zero obligation to acknowledge, let alone adhere, to someone else’s bullshitty line.

“Fine.  What jokes would you tell?”

I went to a paraplegic strip club.

“Oh no.”

The place was literally crawling with pussy.

“Absolutely not.  Do you realize how many levels that’s offensive on?”

That’s what makes it funny.  What is with you people and being offended?  As if that actually matters.  How about this one: What’s the best part of a hooker dying on you?

“You understand that even the set-ups for these jokes are offensive.”

I truly don’t.  And I’m a fucking writer…it’s my job to be offensive!

“Your job is to sell books.”

No, my job is to write books.  It’s your job to sell them.  Now: what’s the best part of a hooker dying on you?


The second hour is free.

“That’s not funny.”

It sure as hell is.

“It’s in bad taste.”

That’s kind of my whole deal.  In bad taste but…always accurate.

“What about answering some of your reader mail…we have one digital metric ton of emails we’ve received for you, and you haven’t even read, let alone responded to, any of them.”

Because the people that write in are generally BSC.

“They’re what?”

It’s a clinical term: Bat Shit Crazy.  But go ahead…send me a letter, I’ll respond.

“Okay.  Thank you.  Here you go:”

Dear Diary of a Viagra Fiend,
I must confess, I’ve been an ardent fan of your work for quite some time now.  But it’s not just the belly laughs or the guffaws that have me hooked.  Oh no, dear friend.  It’s how your words have magically transformed my morning ritual from a mundane chore into a caffeinated comedy club.
Every morning, as the sun peeks over the horizon, I trudge into my kitchen, half-asleep and fully grumpy.  The coffee pot is my first stop, my oasis in the desert of dawn.  As the dark, aromatic liquid fills my cup, I reach for your book, and suddenly, my kitchen morphs into a stage for your shenanigans.
Now, here’s the funny part (pun totally intended).  I swear on my grandmother’s poodle that your words somehow make my coffee taste better.  No, I haven’t lost my marbles.  Stick with me here.
As I read your tales, I can’t help but chuckle, snort, or even downright laugh out loud.  And let me tell you, there’s nothing like a good belly laugh to kickstart the ol’ taste buds.  Suddenly, my coffee tastes richer, bolder, more…alive.
It’s like your humor has a secret ingredient that, when mixed with caffeine, creates a superpower of sensory delight.  Is it in the sarcasm?  The irony?  Maybe it’s the rhetorical questions that make me feel like I’m part of your coffee-loving audience.  Or perhaps it’s the exaggerated stories that make even my most dreary mornings feel like a sitcom.
Whatever it is, your writing has turned my daily dose of caffeine into a full-blown comedy roast (get it?  Roast?  I’ve been learning from the best!).  So thank you, dear Diary of a Viagra Fiend.  Your words do more than just entertain.  They awaken my senses, tickly my funny bone, and yes, make my coffee taste better.
You need to publish another book.  Please!  Keep the laughs coming.
Yours in caffeine and comedy,

Jesus.  What am I supposed to do with this?  My book makes her coffee taste better?  She’s clearly disturbed.  And the letter seems to be to my book, not to me.

“I doubt that she’s actually disturbed.  Do you think your readers are disturbed?”

You have no idea.  Someone sent me a finger a couple of years ago.


Jesus indeed.

“She wants you to put something else out.  That seems to be a recurring theme with these letters.  Maybe you could talk about the 20th Anniversary Edition of ‘Diary.’

I haven’t signed off on that yet.  And that wouldn’t be until 2025.  I’m far more interested in 2024.

“So talk about 2024.”

I don’t want to.  2024’s going to happen whether I talk about it or not.

“You are, far and away, the most difficult client we have.”

Thank you.  That means a great deal to me.

N.P.: “Dragon” – Galaxie