Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough VIII: I Am The Lizard King

Cookie dough, as you may have gleaned, dear attentive reader, is my ambrosia and nectar, my soma and my score. Raw, uncut cookie is the stuff that pumps through the chambers of my dreamer’s heart.

Specifically Sam’s EZ Riser Chunk o’ Chips Cookie Dough in the Slap n’ Serve Tube.

The crack of a new tube splitting open on the dark mahogany-colored arm of the barcalounger (Is it wood? A polymer of Midwestern origins? Pressed offal? Will ask Mother. Do not expect a coherent answer, as she is Mother.) is enough to send me deep into À la recherche du temps perdu-type revelry (note: I have not read that particular book, though I sat through a dreary documentary on it hosted by the bald man from Star Trek on my public television station, waiting for an Are You Being Served marathon. By the way, the marathon was a satisfying omnibus, though it’s flow would have been greatly enhanced if that moist-eyed public television man didn’t plead for cash in such an excruciating inauthentic manner) crystallizing that exact moment I last cracked a tube, usually twenty minutes prior to opening the new one.

There were at one point entire DYNASTIES of spent tubes scatter’d throughout the room, a veritable core sample of my ever more fine-tuned taste. From my perch, I could observe in sharp relief my progress of a connoisseur of this glorious stuff. That is until mother, operating under the influence of stars not of our galaxy, “cleaned” (destroyed, pillaged, etc.) my room. But that holocaust I cover elsewhere.

Now, from time to time, I am forced to shift out of my domain, if only to attend to needs best left unspoken (Note: regarding toilet use). On the days I might have to LEAVE THE HOUSE (sending correspondence to world leaders, visiting the hobby shop that I might educate the feeble Corey on the dazzling range of Dragon Lance collectible fantasy figures. Like explaining a Faberge egg to a chicken) I pack a few dozen tubes in my shoulder sack.

If I plan to dart about inside the house (for a man of girth I am surprisingly catlike. As a self-trained dancer and exhibitor of Sensual Though Not Dirty Beauty I have developed an uncanny grace and economy in movement), I have cached dough in clever hidey holes throughout -- sometimes too clever, as will soon be clear.

On the day in question, I was making my way through the hall to the den, a wraith in a white sheet (sheets are required in areas shared with Mother, due to a cosmically inane series of misunderstandings). I was making my way to the den to see if I could muster up some old Sear’s catalogs that I might study the girdle pages more closely, when I felt the Plunge. The fading was pronounced and I felt the spectacular dread of being caught out. No dough, no dough, no dough. Blackness. Detuned violins.

I clawed at the telephone table in the hall. I must have.... hid… YES! YES! I DID! But, hullo, what is this? It wasn’t Sam’s EZ Riser Chunk o’ Chips Cookie Dough, this was… MRS. TAFFETY’S COOKIE FUN PASTE?

This tube was Jurassic. This was the stuff I cut my teeth on, my first score. And this tube would have to do.

I gobbled it. And then the bats.

Some sort of diabolical chemical process had twisted this tube into a paisley broth of hippy bathwater, lysergic to a degree that would crumble the skulls of lesser souls.

I was soon swatting at a panoply of shrieking Mother-headed bats with wings of cat fur. They plunged at me like Stukas, shrieking “CLEAN YOUR ROOM! CLEAN YOUR ROOM! CLEAN YOUR ROOM!”.

I roared, I pleaded, I cajoled, I laughed like goddamn fiend. They raised up then formed into one giant monolith of cookie dough, bible black and as strange and new as the morning of creation. It was Me, I was It. It was God. It was Wife. It blurbled in an atavistic tongue only we shared…. EAT ME! EAT ME! JOIN ME AS ONE! FAAAAT MAAAAAN!

And I could feel my mouth unhinge like a great primordial snake and I devoured it, there in the hall by the telephone table. I was It. We were enjoined.

And into that murk, Reason made its advance.

A small voice, my voice, made a plea. “The show…. The show is starting…. The show.”

The Lost Season! They’d been advertising that in the Arts and Entertainment Section for months! The lost season of “Are You Being Served?”

I marshaled every quark of my superiorly trained soul and chipped at the dark forces grip on my will. Steely iron determination and the unabashed power of PURE NUDITY conquered and banished the demons. I was free, standing in the hall, sweating, nude and ALIVE! ALIVE DAMN YOU!

Psychotropics be damned. I had a damn show to catch.

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough VII: My uneasy relationship with the local demimonde.

Truth and Beauty. Beauty and Truth. Truth, Beauty, Beauty, Truth in endless variation. Beauty.

Truth.

These are my various milieus.

My pillowy length is a delight of colors and textures of supreme luxury and delicacy (though I have been assured by the jackbooted bluenose bumpkins that run this bowel of a fetid pig wallow of a septic tank that is this rotten specimen of town that distributing TASTEFUL images of my Beauty (NOTE: WITHOUT SEEKING COMPENSATION) to the suffering cohabitants of my street will be met with the full force of their “laws”.

I don’t recognize their “laws” of course.

Vicious, risk adverse, unimaginative gray patches of civil code AUTHORED BY TROG BURGERMEISTERS is a term better suited to describe ‘em.

My laws are transcendent. But you knew that, because your sensitivity, while crude, holds a flicker of understanding.

(Through my tutelage you can open your aperture to let in the Light a bit more, if you get my meaning. I do offer instructional tapes for a reasonable cost. Contact me through the FACEBOOK to discuss if you are interested.)

But while the various Burgermeisters cannot share in the transcendent laws of Truth and Beauty, they DO have the truncheons on their side, and the berserker that is Officer Penske. His WILLFUL ABILITY TO NOT LISTEN TO REASON was rendered starkly on the day that my sheet slipped as I was enjoying walking bare foot through the grass on the parking strip last April.

Owning a taser is not license to use it indiscriminately against citizens, Officer Penske, if you are reading this (assuming you have that capacity), especially ones that are clad only in sky.

Anyhoo, communication is distribution, and it turns out that the mailboxes of feebs and ninnies aren’t the ideal medium to share (FREE, WITH ALL COSTS AND BURDENS SHOULDERED BY ME, A MONK WITHOUT DENOMINATION) Beauty.

My charity for humanity never fails to stun me. My munificence may in fact be my downfall. The fact that my mother still freely walks abroad in the land despite being demonstrably insane (evidence: she switched the Glade Air Dazzler to a horrible cloying Jasmine Breeze from the pleasant and sensuality-positive Coconut Accents), and if that isn’t evidence with goddamn pretty bow on it that I have the patience and charity of Nature Herself, I’m at a loss.

I also have a problem with the tiny holes of the rotary dial of the phone, but that’s neither here nor there for our purposes here.

Anyway, I realized that the Art For the Undeserving Community distribution strategy was a dead-end. So, despite resisting the call of the High Art Establishment my entire career, and I decided to submit. Moloch honey, Nude Fat Man is a-comin’ home.

In this sad affair, the gatekeeper to the Teat of the Demimonde was none other than Maggie Oxford, culture affairs editor for the Valley Penny Shopper. I have been following her work for years, and I particularly enjoyed her ENVISICERATION of the Lamplighters’ staging of Driving Miss Daisy. Ms. Oxford is “blessed” with what I thought was a Dark Mirror of Truth that she held up to the wreckage of San Guano’s cultural collapse. It turns out all that vituperative ink was spilled in service to a mere subcortial amphibian rage against Truth and Newness. Everything will be clear soon.

(The fact that she is a friend with Mother I took as a McGuffin. I was wrong.)

So, charity bites again. Operating under a bunch of romantic moonshine, I assumed that Ms. Oxford and I were as one in our sensitivity to phoniness. So I picked out a few choice snaps, shot with the Polaroid. They were innocence itself, mere indications and shadows, tone poems on Biological Texture and Beauty. The was even one that for the life of me looked EXACTLY like a satellite photo of the Nile Delta I had seen in a textbook during my school days.

Nothing explicit. True, it skated on the Erotic, but we are adults (Ms. Oxford is more than that. She is very, very old).

I included a note, a bit of pith, something to the effect “What ya think, doll?” with contact information. I also THOUGHT I had included an artist’s statement, but I later found it woven into one of the cats’ pelts. (I think art should explain itself, but remember I was trying fake the role of rule-player)

Ms. Oxford took it the wrong way. The SWAT team frightened Mother a bit. I had hid in the junipers as is my habit on hearing sirens (the State is fragile myth, my Pollyannas. They will come for the Beautiful first). I now itch in the nethers.

Mother, in a prolonged fit of lucidity, seemed to manage to piece a coherent story together from the snatches of evidence the detective put to her attention. After fifteen hours, she was back home. I was famished, too. The kitchen is a low and chthonic place, not suited for a conduit to the Bright and Divine, such as myself. I also caused an INSIGNIFICENT fire when I put some bologna in the toaster in order to fry it. Heat is heat.

Mother is angry. Ms. Oxford has told her that their friendship was over, and I guess Mother treasures her vulgar dealings (MAH JONG) with that sentient piece of leather.

Mother walks in spiritual blindness. How else can her mourning over this loss of a deficit be explained?

That’s it for now. Be well.

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough: Astride Destiny!!!!

Please, please, please don’t tell my mother, but....I think I have found a way to finally FLOURISH and INFLUENCE.

Explanation, thusly: I was in a muddle. The cats had been gassy and off their vat harvested meat product, and the cookie dough took on a taint due, I think, to the ambient moisture emanating from the barca-lounger. What a day, what a day, all day.

When I am blue, I resist “Are You Being Served?” as I feel I owe it to the ensemble players to be sharp and receptive. The tulle fog of funk that hung low near the shag clouded my joy receptors. Whoa.

The constant Stuka-like wail of Mater’s vacuuming could only further tinge the afternoon. If only I could look at a map at that moment, and retrace my steps to find were I had strayed from the sure path of glory.

So, I flicked and surfed the TV, desperate for respite from existence. And then, my god, my god, god, god...I found the solution. A documentary on the public television about something called the MACARTHUR FELLOWSHIP. They give millions of dollars to geniuses. Like me!

Internet...blah, blah....application, to whit, filled out, as it were:

**
Information regarding who will carry out the work:
Me

Name of your organization (and acronym if commonly used):
Foundation for the Realization of the Perfection of Hominids by Way of A Dome-ed City (FFTROTROHBWOADC)

Name of parent organization, if any:
Am affliated with Olympic Video Rentals (member #4445)

Name of chief executive officer or person holding similar position :
Mr. Alex Trebek (Pending acceptance)

Organization’s address (and courier address if different)
PO Box 323
San Guano, CA

Organization’s phone number, fax number, and e-mail address, if any
Can be contact via nudefatman@crackpotpress.com

Web address, if any:
nudefatman.blogspot.com

Name or topic of the proposed project or work to be done:
The Dome-ed City: Hominid Evolutionary Acceleration P.R.O.J.E.C.T.

A brief statement (two or three sentences) of the purpose and nature of the proposed work
To create and maintain a protected citadel where geniuses can spend their days reflecting and strategizing for a better tomorrow. Free sodas!

The significance of the issue addressed by the project and how it relates to a stated MacArthur program strategy:
Geniuses are held back by stupid idiots. This preserve would allow geniuses to be able to sit down and think for once, and also enjoy refering to maps and globes with their peer in a suitable stately environment. This is right up MacArthur’s alley!!!!

How the work will address the issue:
It is a large DOME-ED citadel. I can’t imagine you’d need more explanation than that. Perhaps one of your Fellows, possible one with a background in Science, maybe able to explain it to you.

How the issue relates to your organization, and why your organization is qualified to undertake the project:
The issue relates because I am genius and I am constantly held back by certain people that aren’t really all that bright. I am qualified because I am a genius. I’m confounded by the idiocy of the question, frankly.

Geographic area or country where the work will take place:
Am seeking a suitable extinct volcanic caldera.

Time period for which funding is requested:
Now until at least 2075, or until the current Monetary System is replaced, which ever come last.

Information about those who will be helped by and interested in the work and how you will communicate with them:
Geniuses will be helped by this project as well as any women we deem essential. I will communicate to them by decree.

Amount of funding requested from MacArthur and total cost (estimates are acceptable):
$700,000,000? $800,000,000?
I will leave the procurement issues to one of the accepted denizens of the Dome-ed, one with good money sense. Can credit be arranged? Do successful applicants get satin jackets?

**
So, easy-peasy. I should be out from under my mother’s petticoats by Labor Day! Today I mark that start of YEAR ZERO. I have to find some stamps.

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough: My Enemies

Scott McNeely (CEO, Sun Microsystems)

I wrote several times to McNeely, faxes, letters, emails, asking for advice on attracting computer geniuses to my DOME-ED CITY project. Obviously, MASSIVE SUPERCOMPUTERS would be needed to run the CRITICAL FUNCTIONS of the Dome-ed city.

He never responded. So he is my enemy.

If, in the future, Sun Microsystems announces plans for a DOME-ED city, you know where the idea come from. FROM ME.


Jonathan Swartz (Lead Scientist, Sun Microsystems)

Interestingly, I wrote to Jonathan Swartz as well, visionary to visionary. He did send along a JAVA mouse pad, which is more than the bucktoothed vole McNeely had ever done.

However, in my thank-you note, I pointed out to Professor Schwartz that McNeely is an enemy of progress and perhaps that he, Schwartz, should break off any professional association with the fraud McNeely and join me. (I also tasked him with finding me a suitable office suite, which I don’t think I was out of line in expecting my #2 to procure.)

Imagine my rage when on a web feed, I saw Schwartz standing next to that shit-eating chimp MCNEELY.

I can no longer take Schwartz’s mind seriously. He is clearly an idiot. He is dead to me.


“Di-Di” (“Customer Service Person” Wendy’s)

There is a newish Wendy’s up the way and the Park’N’Shop. As I had some angry business to attend to with the dim Corey at the Hobby Shop, I thought I could stop before hand at the Wendy’s and load up on protein (to power-up my wits for the verbal duel).

To save time, I called up ahead of time and this Di-Di answered. In a decent businesslike manner I asked for her to describe each menu item to me, so I might have an idea of what I wanted upon arriving. She was marble-mouthed and extreme perfunctory in her descriptions. When I tried to coax more data out of her, she turned on me and called me a “dumbass” and hung up!

Come the rise of the DOME-ED City, Di-Di, when you are brought before my DREAD JUDGMENT SEAT, you will weep and I will laugh. And you will be a junior trooper on the cat urea detail until the end of your days.


COREY (The boob behind the counter at the Hobby Shop)

Oh, Corey. Oh, special precious Corey. With your scaly little hands and grim little mouth. Your “knowledge” of D&D lead figures is so incorrect as it is actually SATANIC. It is an unholy inversion of the truth. It is RONNIE JAMES DIO made flesh. Again, and again, and again until all times for ever more, Corey...Fantasy Orc Systems DID have a limited edition Wererat Knight!!!!! How do I know? I own it! Quod to the erat to the demonstrandum, Corey.

Pasha The Cat

Enemy is not the right word here. But between the poles of my affection, Pasha is trending South at a clip that is troubling.

Naughty Pasha has kicked up his hairball production into Wah-Wah pedal-like effiency.
Hhhhherrrr. Hhhhhheerrrrrr. Hhhhherrrrrr. That of course, is not a crime. But this accompanying this audio component is a rhythmic jet of effluvia emanating from where his nethers would be if they were still available (mother insisted. Although revolted by her lackadaisical attitude toward the poor chaps danglies, I chose not to press my authority over the cats at this juncture, as mother had hid my “Are You Being Served?” Christmas Pageant Spectacle VHS Tape. While not conventionally intelligent, Mother possesses an almost bovine cunning.)

Again, I can only have sympathy with the vagaries of the body. Despite my commitment to the sensual, after long periods of rest I occasionally enter a disassociate state with my buttocks and nethers. (An Ironic cruelty: the lifestyle of a man whose creed is Beauty Truth and the Body produces numbness in the loins.)

No, effluvia I can deal with. It’s all part of the game I call Truth, Beauty and The Body.

The wedge between Pasha and myself is the PURRING. The cuss purrs like a fiend after his breakdowns, because he knows....he knows that is the one thing that buckles me (me, as steadfast and monolithic and stately as they come.) It is the MANIPULATION I cannot abide. And Pasha knows that. He knows. I see it is his eyes.

NEXT: Astride Destiny!!!

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough: The Fat Man Shrugs

ANGER! DESPAIR!

My stupid mother, my philistine she-ape, soul purging snake of a mother, has DONE. IT.

A pox on her need to fiddle about, to dust, to POLISH.

A POX on her denial of the rhythms of growth and decay. A pox on her so-called CLEANING.

Her vain crusade to hold back the BLACK FERTILE LOAM OF CREATION with HER RIDICULOUS SWIFTER and HANDY-VAC has lead to an atrocity that human language can only meagerly convey.

When will the tender mercy of orphanhood grace me?

For she has, dear Zeus, dear Buddha, dear L. Ron...she has...THROWN...OUT...MY....DOME-ED....CITY.

I think, perhaps, an explanation maybe in order. Reading over my past entries, from the relative simplicity of the life I lead only a week ago, I think you may have had a false view of me.

There was a lot about me sitting in my chair, futzing around, tending to my cats and the pleasures of the body. “Oh,” you thought,” Oh, this man is so jolly, so simple and carefree in his leisure.” I suspect you also saw how my mother is a fucking albatross, too, as any sensitive person might.

But what you didn’t know, what you couldn’t know, was the reason for what appeared to be mere sloth on my part. Cleverly, I tricked everyone.

For that wasn’t SLOTH. That was RECUPERATION. For at night, sometimes until 10:30, I wrestled with the angel of expression. My project: nothing less than utopia.

For, since the fateful day I dropped out the drama program of Loma Linda Jr. College, I have been working steadily on a DOME-ED CITY, reams of butcher paper and pounds of felt-tips spent, designing a city especially fitted to accelerate our race’s evolutionary processes.

Every night, bent over my TV tray for upward of two hours, I would sketch, dream, run the simulations in the old bean. True, I usually ended up fantasizing about having Markie Post as a companion/lover/body guard, and directing her to destroy my enemies after which she would show me her bare buttocks. But I saw that as a mental dessert after the excruciating chore of civilization building.

The plan was simple: I, as philosopher king, would select the most intelligent, most perfect specimens from the vast genetic pool of our human family. Doctors, NASCAR drivers, mighty chiefs of savage lands (I am not a racialist), French chefs, Industrialists, gymnasts, science experts, submarine captain, fancy men, world class entertainers, etc.

There would also be women, too. They would uniformly be very pretty, with good makeup and carefully brushed hair. I have (or HAD. Curse the past tense!) designed a collection of suitably attractive outfits for these brave dome women on graph paper.

The DOME-ED CITY would allow sub-normals in to attend to removing feces from the Exotic Cat Habitrail, bleaching and sanitizing the Imperial Erotic Grotto, etc. They would prepared a late afternoon snack for EN MASSE for CIVILIZATIONS’ SAVIORS, then leave to their compound, were simple-minded and enriching entertainment would be provided to keep them happy.

I have experience a certain degree of cruelty and humiliation in my life. I can only extend charity to imbeciles.

The center of the DOME-ED CITY would be a complex housing the LIBRARY OF UNIVERSIAL FANTASTIC WISDOM AND POWER, THE ZIGGURAT OF FOOD STUFFS, and THE PEAK OF THE ALL BENIGN THOUGHT MASTER, which would be compound consisting of my house, and a series of bungalows for the STARS of “Are You Being Served” if they so wish to join me in PARADISE.

(And to be sure, my gargantuan physical urges will have an outlet for release. Heh! The climate stabilized vault with carefully control PH levels will hold underwear catalogs and glossies of Markie Post. Grrrrrr! Am I right, boys?)

Under the house is a warren of offices and dens, each outfitted with a globe, a large comfy chair, hundreds of books and a free assortment of sodas. The Internet would be made available to the more technically saavy of us. The Native Chiefs would be taught etiquette and be given tuxedos, combs, etc.

Each CIVILIZATION MASTER would be expected to spend no less than 3 hours a day thinking on solutions for the major problems of we humans, such as:

-- creating advanced food stuffs
-- teasing
-- cat training
-- selfish parenting
-- the rudeness rampant throughout the hobby shop industry
-- avenging wrongs perpetrated against people. As a pilot program, I have crafted a list of liars, phonies and jerks that I personally know of that could use a taste of righteous vengeance.

But the dream is over. It is in the trash, outside, countless linear feet of wasted hope. And as I have a friction rash on my thighs, I’m not going anywhere right now. For by the time I get around to applying the Gold Bond, the trashmen will have comethed.(Also, Entertainment Tonight comes on in forty-five minutes, and that might be the only thing that will take me on through to see the dawn again. So forgive me if I HOLD OFF ON SAVING THE WORLD FOR ONE MORE DAMN DAY.)

So, today, as you wrestle with the weight of the UNFAIRNESS and BLINDNESS that is the LEADEN ANUS of this world, remember this: I held the key to save us all. And, through the faults of stupid and thoughtless Hun, it was lost.

Sorry, Earth. Your savior got suckered punched...by his MOM.

NEXT: My Enemies.

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough III: Mother cleans up

Mother has never been terribly sympathetic toward my programme of self realization.

When she looks at me, I’m sure all she sees is an extremely slothful, extremely overweight 41 year-old unemployed man wearing only a cotton sheet and generous patches of Gold Bond powder, stretched out in a Barca-Lounger in a room that reeks of cat urine and flatus, surrounded by the spent wrappers of pre-packaged raw cookie dough.

All technically TRUE. Mom seems unwilling to move past these “FACTS” to see the sublime reality of my ego. You tight fisted little scribblers out there, with your insistence on the CONCRETE and OBVIOUS are probably the same. Your cold Western empiricism is ultimately your poverty. For those WITH THE EYES TO SEE would see A TRUE UBERMENSH RADIATING BEAUTY.

I love the woman, but sadly, her soul is bubble gum.

Sloth? I say a TRANQUIL and STATELY DEMEANOR.

Obesity? I call it A COMMITMENT TO MY OWN HUMANITY.

Low sanitary standards? Merely a refusal TO SURRENDER MY SPIRITUAL MAIDENHEAD (OR HYMEN) TO THE HAIRY AND ROUGH HANDS OF VULGAR CONVENTIONAL MORES.

Last Tuesday, Mother’s bourgeois glands went into overdrive, fairly spraying the house with her old mother hubbard hormones.

She shouted at me (at ME! The very REASON PROVIDENCE GRACED HER WITH A WOMB!!) through the door to put on my sheet because SHE WAS GOING TO CLEAN THE BARCA-LOUNGER.

Insane fishwife! Does an eagle leave his nest so some jerk ranger can steam-vac it? Would you chain a unicorn to a parking meter? Would you force a Sperm Whale to evacuate its precious ambergris into a plastic cup? Put a condom on a Chimpanzee?

She kept pounding, pounding. CACKLE-CACKLE! RUMBLE RUMBLE!

I tried turning up the volume on my TV, hoping “ARE YOU BEING SERVED?” would drowned out the insistent tattoo. But Mother is a cunning woman...selfishly, she has not updated my TV set, despite my endless less-than-subtle hints. I’ve explained to her again and again that I can only open the portal to the Higher Realities after several hours of pristine veiwing of “ARE YOU BEING SERVED?”, and the crappiness of my present TV a constant barrier to this. To say she was less than sympathetic would be an understatement. So I could not ignore her screaming.

She claimed the smell had attracted a tribe of raccoons, who had been trying to chew through the stucco of the outside wall to get inside. I can’t imagine a scenario more fantastic, frankly.

So I wrapped up and stormed out of the room, not speaking a goddam’d word.

Inside I was molten with fear. The noises coming out of that room. It was like the wailing of a Mastodon being brought down by monkeys.

Finally she opened and stomped off. The room smelled of Pine Sol. And on my gleaming throne was a cardboard box.

Inside were things that had slipped Under:

-- several green plastic army men
-- a wrestling magazine
-- the infected toe nail that fallen off
-- bacon?
-- a small jar of Vaseline
-- an empty Gold Bond bottle (Throw it away! Wasteful, lazy woman.)
-- a ball of hair the size of a softball
-- a photo of Terry Garr torn out of a magazine (that was a hell of weekend!)

I have to say, the Pine scent was sort of pleasant and the cats’ sores have begun drying out.

But, jesus, I wish she would just respect my Godhood.

Next:The Fat Man Shrugs.

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough II: Limo Trouble

I am nudist. I believe in the Beauty all peoples; however tinged they may be on the outside, carry inside them, among their various spleens, bladders and puckered recesses. My gift to the Human Struggle is the inspiration of my abundant form, coral flesh trimmed with a fine downy hair (my body hair is limited due to an undescended dangly.)

As any person who has witnessed my Living Tableaux routine celebrating Beauty and Hygiene (every Arbor Day in backyard) might tell you, I am a passionate EXPRESSER of TRUTH, particularly when I have suitable props available, such as the gross of paisley scarves I use in my routine.

Beauty is my creed.

And that solemn belief in Universal Beauty is why I hate the With Style Limousine Service so very goddamn much.

An explanation: I am a habitué of a very racy morning radio show, Ducky and Pete’s Morning Aquarium, on 560 Golden Starz AM. Yes, THOSE two! Their surreal car horn! Their outrageous discourteous behavior on the phone! Naughty, much like that dear slim homosexual Mr. Humphries on “Are You Being Served?”

And who doesn’t love their preternaturally nuanced depiction of those two squabbling Hindoo convenience shop keepers, Okey and Dokey? Ducky and Pete confirm for me the best of our shared natures, that we human love to laugh and share and ponder and tweak the noses of of Fusty old BUGABEARS like that Hilary Clinton, who I gather from their show is a cuckolded lesbian (I am above politics, so forgive my ignorance).

Anyway, I am taking a long way around to talk about those craphounds at With Style Limousine DIS-Service (and that my friends, comes with an all caps SIC). The whole SATANIC NIGHTMARE began when I was the tenth caller to correctly identify the singer behind the wonderful “Ghostbusters’s Theme” as Ray Parker Jr. (Am a fan!!)

The “prize” (read: STD-LIKE CURSE) was an hour’s ride in one of With Style’s so-called “Limousines”.

Normally, I like to stick to the home base, near my little feline love squad. But after I saw a profile of Markie Post on the “ET” programme in which she rode in an elegant limousine to a nail appointment, I was intrigued. So I jumped at the chance to taste more fully of life, as I am a fool for the SYBARITIC!!!

Unfortunately, the dream became occulted with misery right quick, namely that very weekend. For even after chatting with seemingly charming Gary for twenty minutes or so, it was NEVER DISCLOSED THAT NUDISTS WERE NOT CONSIDER “WITH-STYLE MATERIAL.” No dogs, no Irish, NO NUDISTS.

When the car itself was beautiful, well appointed, sleek. I was ever so eager to ride it to Park N Shop so I could show up those vicious insensitive creeps at the Hobby Village. I suspect that pasty faced little ferret CORY would come sniffing around, his pustules gleaming in the sun, asking to enter my ride. And I would merely say: “Drive on, driver. Our business is else where.” Ha-ha Cory. Ha de harridy ha ha, you vulgar cur.

Imagine my humiliation when I took my sheet off in the back seat, and the driver slammed on the brakes. We had barely made it to the end of Shady Oak Drive!

He gawped at me in my fullness. Briefly, my mind clouded with worries that he was a pervert who wanted to plumb me, for our vulgar culture immediately reads nudity as an invitation to ROGER. He merely turned the car around without a word, and stopped in front of ma maison.

“Out!” without so much a smirk. “I’m not going drive you around in that state.” I was going to scream obscenities, but my mouth was full of cookie dough. Fortunately Sensuality ruled the day, keeping her cousin Propriety high and unsullied on her pedestal. I would not spill a crumb of cookie dough for this lout.

Now I sit heartbroken, unable to listen to the radio, unable to bathe, unable to pet my cats. Heartbroken, and haunted by the ghost of the almost unbearably glorious sensation of my danglies dipping into that cool tuck and roll leather, air vent aimed and blasting true across my nethers.

I understand the pain of the Angel of Light after his banishment from paradise.

NEXT: Mother Cleans Up.

Confessions of a Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough

At the heart of every blogger, is a nude fat man eating cookie dough.

Greetings to thee, faithful blog friend. It is I, a Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough, filling you in on the latest gossip from the Barca-Lounger.

Mother has just left for the Hospice Shoppe, so I am now unencumbered by my sheet. Propriety reign in this home. I am a nudist, but I am a nudist who gives thought to those close to him, my Mother especially. She finds my lifestyle appalling, but we have reached a détente. If I am to help around the home, per our agreement, she MUST respect my needs as a committed sensualist and free spirit. My danglies are my pride, along with my cats.

My dangly nethers are resting comfortably on the cool of the leatherette cushion, and I am as comfortable as a dauphin posing for some dank Flemish ponce. With my cyclinders of cookie dough at the ready, “Are You Being Served” in the VHS player, the cats behaving like little gentlemen, I can say that today is a bellwether day for me. All is well in my little kingdom.

Unlike yesterday.

Yesterday the cats were DIABOLICAL. While their brains are the size of walnuts, I suspect they share some sort of symbiotic intelligence. I was have a devil enough of a time with the VHS, as it nearly ate a particular fine volume of my extensive “Are You Being Served” collection. Mother brought the player home from the Hospice Shoppe many years ago and I have been relentless in demanding a DVD player be provided if I am going to CONTINUE TO PROVIDE SUCCOR TO MY MOTHER WITH MY PRESENCE. I adore the woman who suckle me until her bosoms withered to leathery paps, but sometimes the blackness of her selfishness is so oppressive that I can feel actual physical pressure on my abdomen. (When I alerted her to this, she had the temerity to suggest that I “lug one of those damn cats off yourself”. Snarky bitch.)

Anyway, the VHS. I waved out the window (wrapped in my sheet) to Mr. Vlasoff, the neighbor, a huge silent hulking Slavic troglodyte to whom Providence had the charity to possess a certain dexterity with mechanical objects. He came in and removed the tape. He did not linger, either. (The sheet slipped)

So, disaster avoided, the cats began their campaign to ruin my day. As if tripped by some mechanism, the five began emitting full and violent stream of urine at various points around the room. It was if they were the fonts of some dreadful water novelty and I was the stately Poseidon presiding their center. Only I was no jolly sea monarch. I was an angry NUDE FAT MAN, and I stretched to my full height and left the chair roaring like a bull.

The cats scattered, leaving their reeking puddles, the odor of which almost put me off my cookie dough. Mother had a hell of time scrubbing the urea out of the carpet. Her suffering moved me.

I may write a poem later.

Write, would you fair chum?

NEXT: Limo Trouble.