Status Updates From Awesome

If the garbage man doesn't come for a couple weeks, we all die of cholera. And yet if Stephen Sondheim had never been born, there would have been a dearth of angular melody and complicated internal rhyme schemes in the history of the Broadway theater. I am not suggesting that Mr. Sondheim should be allowed to shank garbage men in the alleyway, but it is a theory that has been advanced on respectable litblogs.

You're blowing my mind with your intellectualism, said Maisie. You're turning me on so bad. I'm so hot. I'm going to do a wrong thing. I can't hold it in. I'm going to pee all over the collected works of Harold Pinter. And I was like, It's a free country, baby.

... Certainly it would be preferable to the pathos before me. I want to see all of you tonguing your pets, nothing too rough, and forget all this dressing them up in costumes business, which robs them of their dignity.

What are you people doing to your pets may I ask. Something obscene. My downstairs neighbor... was often seen to make out with her cat, the whimsically monickered General Stonewall Pussy. I'm not implying anything too grotesque, just some delicate tongue kissing, the very tips of the tongues and nothing more, a mere show of affection, nothing to be alarmed about, you all should try it...

My capacity for love is unbounded. My exuberance requires placation twelve times every day. Ejaculatory release, like sleeping or dining, falls under the rubric of necessity, and subtracts significantly from the total hours I am able to devote to the four key areas of my daily routine.

Here is a normal day for me. Wake up. Look at my handsome nakedness in my big mirror. My robot ward, Jimmy, is already up and making coffee. I could turn Jimmy into a wife robot if I wanted to. I could stretch him out...add some female-looking parts and a sluice of some kind where I could deposit my ejaculate. I could give him a different voice and name and put some eyelashes on him. But it wouldn't seem right.