Enjoy Your Sunday
For as far back as I can remember, Sundays are damn fun. That is, unless you can drink a fifth of vodka on Saturday.
Point is, I'd rather nurse myself out of a hangover than sit in a church and get lectured. I do the lecturing around my apartment. And there will be no pop quiz.
If only religions were based on incentives rather than restrictions. For example, Jews could be able to fart in public without being looked down upon. Or Muslims could all get free blue jeans for life. It seems like that would make their religions much more popular. Catholics - condomless sex! See? Much more productive.
Instead, you have a bunch of arbitrary rules like the pork thing. Maybe pork fucked up everybody's Christmas one year in a past life of a Buddhist and now we're all stuck hating on our pink friend with squiggly of a tail.
It's as if religions explain more about dietary regimens than on what happens when you die of alcohol abuse and too loud punk rock. Oh, you know Jeremy, the Hindu turkey burger eating machine. How pious, how wise.
I don't have a religion, but if I did, it would be based upon faith in lazy Sundays and plenty of green tea to nourish the mushy brain from Saturday night.
Sex with Rock Stars
OK, I'm not gay, but that's most of my stories start off.
Seriously though, if I could fuck any dead rock star it'd probably be Janis Joplin because the drinks would be free. Sure, the smell would bother me but I do live in Baltimore - the Greatest City in the Universe.
I met Jim Morrison on Saturday. After we woke up I announced to everyone that the sex had been great. He was definitely a minor and obviously dressed up by his aunt. The real Jim didn't sag.
It was a strange evening. This guy who looked exactly like Nosferatu passed out and then decided to piss himself AND the whole damn couch. I had challenged him to a drink-off but he seemed to be concentrating all of his energy on staying upright.
And like every good party - it ended with bacon and eggs. I'm actually not that bad when it comes to scrambling embryos. That reminds me, time for a physical.
Marines go to hell - it says so on the bumper sticker
As they say in Mexico, it's the Day of the Dead. What if all the dead soldiers rose from the grave and demanded a better afterlife?
This year's Day of the Dead, I'm gonna reflect on the irresponsibility of late night television. How many millions have died as the result of Jay Leno's stale monologues?
Let us pledge never to wage wars of aggression or watch David Letterman to see that celebrity with the perfectly fuckable ass.
Seared animal flesh is on the march.
Love,
Davey
davey@sex.gov
For as far back as I can remember, Sundays are damn fun. That is, unless you can drink a fifth of vodka on Saturday.
Point is, I'd rather nurse myself out of a hangover than sit in a church and get lectured. I do the lecturing around my apartment. And there will be no pop quiz.
If only religions were based on incentives rather than restrictions. For example, Jews could be able to fart in public without being looked down upon. Or Muslims could all get free blue jeans for life. It seems like that would make their religions much more popular. Catholics - condomless sex! See? Much more productive.
Instead, you have a bunch of arbitrary rules like the pork thing. Maybe pork fucked up everybody's Christmas one year in a past life of a Buddhist and now we're all stuck hating on our pink friend with squiggly of a tail.
It's as if religions explain more about dietary regimens than on what happens when you die of alcohol abuse and too loud punk rock. Oh, you know Jeremy, the Hindu turkey burger eating machine. How pious, how wise.
I don't have a religion, but if I did, it would be based upon faith in lazy Sundays and plenty of green tea to nourish the mushy brain from Saturday night.
Sex with Rock Stars
OK, I'm not gay, but that's most of my stories start off.
Seriously though, if I could fuck any dead rock star it'd probably be Janis Joplin because the drinks would be free. Sure, the smell would bother me but I do live in Baltimore - the Greatest City in the Universe.
I met Jim Morrison on Saturday. After we woke up I announced to everyone that the sex had been great. He was definitely a minor and obviously dressed up by his aunt. The real Jim didn't sag.
It was a strange evening. This guy who looked exactly like Nosferatu passed out and then decided to piss himself AND the whole damn couch. I had challenged him to a drink-off but he seemed to be concentrating all of his energy on staying upright.
And like every good party - it ended with bacon and eggs. I'm actually not that bad when it comes to scrambling embryos. That reminds me, time for a physical.
Marines go to hell - it says so on the bumper sticker
As they say in Mexico, it's the Day of the Dead. What if all the dead soldiers rose from the grave and demanded a better afterlife?
This year's Day of the Dead, I'm gonna reflect on the irresponsibility of late night television. How many millions have died as the result of Jay Leno's stale monologues?
Let us pledge never to wage wars of aggression or watch David Letterman to see that celebrity with the perfectly fuckable ass.
Seared animal flesh is on the march.
Love,
Davey
davey@sex.gov
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
ja