Baked Alaska
As I sit in front of my typewriter, an IBM Selectric that I use because I love to watch the round ball roll in front of me, I think about what kind of virtual reality I should create for you in this blog. Many thoughts roll around my brain at this moment.
I can either write about the various retards running for President, not to help people but to seek power. Or I could write about the various pussies I have licked and launched into supreme ejaculation.
I know my average reader is a pathetic creature who is isolated from friends and family and other than masturbation; your genitals are rusting away. You are a lonely hunk of flesh whose life is over and only the flickering words on your computer screen give you some sense of the larger world you once lived in.
I would much rather write about eating pussy and the 7000 women I have been with but to be frank, there are times when social responsibility insists that I comment on who should win for president. We have the fish- like smell of Hillary Clinton or the nappy-headed-nature of Barack Obama. We also have a cadre of various republicans who are all puppets of their well-heeled backers. Come to think of it, none of these candidates are worth any more brain power.
The problem with modern life today is that we are no longer connected to each other. In the village of yore there was a context to which we lived. We knew our neighbors and our merchants. Today everyone is anonymous and a stranger because of the Internet.
Last night I had a meal with my best friend and his girlfriend and I realized pleasure is Baked Alaska, wonderful pasta and being around other people. The maitre d remembered me even though I haven’t been there in five years. That made me feel good. He told me to not regret anything but sometimes it’s hard. Eating at such a fine upscale restaurant like Bice in Manhattan reminded me of the good life and how much I miss it. I used to eat there once a week with a large group of friends and sycophants. I almost wish I never lived so high on the hog because now I have so much more to mourn and miss. It’s almost a shame I used to have so much money and pussy.
I can either write about the various retards running for President, not to help people but to seek power. Or I could write about the various pussies I have licked and launched into supreme ejaculation.
I know my average reader is a pathetic creature who is isolated from friends and family and other than masturbation; your genitals are rusting away. You are a lonely hunk of flesh whose life is over and only the flickering words on your computer screen give you some sense of the larger world you once lived in.
I would much rather write about eating pussy and the 7000 women I have been with but to be frank, there are times when social responsibility insists that I comment on who should win for president. We have the fish- like smell of Hillary Clinton or the nappy-headed-nature of Barack Obama. We also have a cadre of various republicans who are all puppets of their well-heeled backers. Come to think of it, none of these candidates are worth any more brain power.
The problem with modern life today is that we are no longer connected to each other. In the village of yore there was a context to which we lived. We knew our neighbors and our merchants. Today everyone is anonymous and a stranger because of the Internet.
Last night I had a meal with my best friend and his girlfriend and I realized pleasure is Baked Alaska, wonderful pasta and being around other people. The maitre d remembered me even though I haven’t been there in five years. That made me feel good. He told me to not regret anything but sometimes it’s hard. Eating at such a fine upscale restaurant like Bice in Manhattan reminded me of the good life and how much I miss it. I used to eat there once a week with a large group of friends and sycophants. I almost wish I never lived so high on the hog because now I have so much more to mourn and miss. It’s almost a shame I used to have so much money and pussy.
posted by Al Goldstein @ 12:42 PM
11 comments
