Adverse Conditions

the Refugee, in some angry and jealous spat (as always), accused me of taking too much care when writing my blogs. So, just to prove that my superior writings are not a product of over-attention, I have set up some pretty major obstacles in composing this entry. First of all, I am sitting in the belly of the beast, that most foul of places, the public library. I am trying to keep a clear head while contending with the stench of homeless people, hippies, and socialism. This is everything I hate. It's true, it's hard to perform outside of my usual environment of plush leather chairs, soft music and fine brandy, but I think I'm doing pretty well considering that my good looks, alone, probably indicates to everyone around that I don't belong here. Additionally, being on a publically rationed service, internet time is limited and I must write without the benefit of planning or editing. So take your complaints elsewhere, people, if anything is misspelled or grammar off. Is off a preposition? No time to think about it. Just keep typing. I think my time is just about up, and I didn't even have a chance to report anew on the awfulness of the Refugee. Two seats over to my right sits a girl with pink dredlocks and a nosering. What do I have to say about this? Well, first, she probably grew up on Mercer Island and maybe still lives there. Second, white people can get away with aping black style and culture in this city because there are no black people. You're soooo fucking radical, asshole, go back to software programming and snowboarding on the weekends.

I was watching the Anthony Bourdain show on TV the other night, and, posing as tough-guy-cum-gourmet-star-chef, he was showing off in front of Canadian culinary students. One awestruck lassie asked him about a legendary incident in which he ate the beating heart of a cobra in Vietnam, and with the swagger of a rock star, he spouted some self-aggrandizing bullshit about being a chef and trying everything. Well, that ain't shit, Anthony, I'm a bougie asshole and eat poor Irish babies for sport and pleasure. That's some tender meat, though, perhaps, culturally sensitive. Have a problem with it? I'm just trying everything, so take it up with my adventurous, worldly spirit. Speaking of which, did anybody else read that article about those weird dudes who operate an S/M dungeon in North Carolina, who found a volunteer to castrate and subsequently eat his testicles. For some people, this is both sexually gratifying and perhaps delicious. How would you prepare human testicles, Anthony, come on, you're a chef, it's your job to serve food that people eat without judgment. OK. My time is up. If you want to meet me, I'll be at Town Hall for the Harvey Pekar reading tonight. I'll be the best dressed motherfucker in the joint.