Dear Lyzako,

I passed yesterday's Happy Hour pleasantly at BW3 with a pair of the establishment's employees who were already in the process of getting 'happy' when I arrived. Both of the off-duty table servers - one a young man and the other an extremely cute young woman who reminds me very much of a former flame from college - were laughing and drinking like there would be no tomorrow, ably holding down one end of the bar.

I joined in, and in short order found myself buying a round, relishing the bar experience once more, and for a brief moment feeling as though I were back in Hamtramck sitting on my favorite stool at Lili's. Ahh... those were the days, eh?

Anyway, at some point during our drunken conversation, I told your 'This woman goes to her doctor for labia-reduction surgery' joke. Bear in mind, these two are in their mid-twenties, and were more than a little loaded at the time I told it, but their reaction was completely unexpected.

You see, I've practiced that joke, polished it like the gem that it is. I have it 'down', as they say, and I expected the same hoots and hollers that followed every other time I've told the joke since you related it to me (except for the time I told Louis - but that's another story). Anyway, upon delivering the punchline I was met with a pair of blank stares and a chorus of “I don't get it”.

“Listen,” I told them. “You guys must be drunk because that's a funny joke. You know what labia are, don't you?”

The guy looked at the girl and said, pointing towards her crotch: “Isn't it that stuff you have down there?”

“Yeah, it's what I got down here,” said the girl, laughing. They still didn't get it.

“Well,” I said, “they do plastic surgery down there if that stuff is too big. I know. I've seen the pictures.” Another pair of blank stares. I made a flap-like motion with both my hands. “And the doctors removed the extra... and made ears for the guy who had his burned off.” I then transferred the flap-hands to either side of my head to demonstrate.

“Eeeewwwww!” from both in unison as they just then understood.

I guess the point is this: BW3 isn't Lili's, but I sure as shit wish that it were.

Cheers and Warm Regards,
'Tipsy' Sherman

PS: Just prior to Happy Hour I had been doing my laundry at the old Wash 'N' Dry in Ferndalia, which continues to decline as each day passes. Every other machine in the place was broken, and even though the weather was ninety degrees and humid, I found it much more comfortable to sit outside on the bench as I read my book of Quentin Tarantino interviews, the feeble and overworked air conditioners inside dripping fat plops of condensation into a series of buckets strategically positioned below each unit. I believe it was Jean-Paul Sartre who said: “Hell is other people.” I'll go him one further and say: "Hell is other people, and they're all doing their laundry. And they brought their kids."

Choking back the urge to panic, I rushed to Jackie's body and felt for a pulse along either side of her throat. No sign of a heartbeat, but the flesh was still warm. I turned her face towards me and tried mouth-to-mouth, even though I really didn’t know what I was doing. It didn’t work.

Poor Jackie. What was she doing here? How had she managed to find me? Suddenly overcome with nausea, I pressed a hand to my mouth, felt a slickness on my lips. I held the hand before my face, fingers spread apart, saw smears of purple lipstick mixed with saliva. Purple? When did she start wearing that color?

My mind raced to try and remember what had happened, but I simply had no recollection. Even so, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that I must have been the one who killed her. The likelihood of a third person doing it seemed pretty slim, even though I had visible signs of fending off an attacker. No, the killer had to be me. As horrifying as that thought was, nothing else made sense. And that would logically mean Jackie would have been my attacker. But why?

I looked around the room and it was only slightly more out of order than normal. I had always kept a pretty sloppy house, and even the sight of an overturned chair wasn't all that uncommon. But this was different. More than a few things had been knocked around and there were books on the floor - some open and face down, others face up with torn pages. I was always careful with my books, even when I was drinking. Shards of broken glass were strewn across the floor, and the floor lamp lay on its side, the bulb shattered.

I sat down heavily on the chair across from the sofa, held my head in my hands and tried to make sense of it all. “What was the last thing you remember doing, Marty?” The sound startled me for a second before I realized that it had been my own voice I'd heard. “Oh my God,” I added. “What have I done?”

I thought back, closed my eyes and tried desperately to recall what I'd been doing before going to bed. As I sat there searching my mind for some memory of what had happened, I spied the blue plastic casing of my hand-held tape recorder on the floor below the coffee table, half hidden under a book that had been tossed there.

That was what it was, I thought. I had been taking verbal notes, brainstorming as I often did late at night, hoping one of these days to come up with an idea that would land me on easy street once and for all. An invention... a novel... that one script idea that was so fresh and good that I could option it to Hollywood and become a household name overnight. Anything that would get me out of Detroit.

I couldn't remember what I'd been working on, but I did have a vague recollection of using the recorder as I sat on the sofa. I dropped to the floor and crawled through the debris towards Jackie.

My hand was trembling as I picked up the recorder. The tape had run to the end and was stopped. The ‘record’ button was still pushed in.

I thumbed re-wind and held my breath.

1...

Dear Lyzako,

Even though I am descended from a long line of warm-blooded hillbillies, I must confess that each year about this time I begin to look forward to winter.

As the daylight grows shorter and the afternoon shadows swing further north each day, I long for the cool night air that autumn brings, the chill that slows foot traffic down the sidewalk and keeps that annoying, constantly-barking bitch-hound-from-Hell next door inside the house more often than not.

The indrawn breath of air that quenches my spirit's thirst like the first taste of cold beer after a long day of difficult work under the punishing smile of the sun. The exhale a cartoon balloon of hovering frost that dissipates in the wind.

Then, winter.

Yes, we have to shovel the walks and driveways. Yes, it's difficult to drive. But the magnificent silence that results from six inches of freshly-fallen snow and a forecast for lows in the teens... well, it seems as if God himself has granted my dearest wish and sent all the loudest fools in this world to Hell.

I may already have told you this, but I used to have a recurring dream in which I played baseball as a child under a high sun in the middle of what I knew to be night. In this dream, I would vociferously point out the fact that it was nearly midnight and we still had enough light to play ball. The other kids seemed to not understand my point.

I believe some sort of cellular memory survives within us. Perhaps the strength of it ebbs and flows with age or some other circumstance, but that dream of midnight baseball (repeated over time) caused me to believe that I lived a much happier life in the past somewhere significantly north of Michigan.

We barely survived those winters and played throughout the brief summers in that life, but the survival was a precious memory of itself. That heat we had to work so hard to provide when the sun went away created a space where we lived beyond the harsh rules of Mother Earth, a space where we collectively survived.

So when winter rolls around these days, that precious feeling of having made a space for myself in this cold, cruel world causes a puddle of strength to appear in my heart. I feel like a happy survivor. The morning coffee changes from a necessary daily dose into a palm-warming ritual that fuels what little love is left within me.

I can't wait until the first frost.

Ever the Optimist,
Marty Sherman

PS: The challenge of aging gracefully is a difficult thing to balance, balance being part of what makes the graceful side of aging so difficult. Two nights ago I forcefully stubbed my toe into the base of the living room sofa as I reached for the remote to silence the stereo. I don't need a doctor to tell me that it's broken. I just need time for it to heal. Did I mention I was drunk? Luckily, it hasn't caused me any kind of real pain beyond the first twenty-four hours, during which it throbbed in time to the beat of my warmly generous heart. Now it just feels like I have a very numb and sweaty Slim Jim stuck between my little toe and the one two toes to the other side. On my fucking left foot.

Two weeks ago John McCain's top economic advisor and campaign co-chairman Phil Gramm called America a “nation of whiners”. Sick and tired of our constant complaints over the skyrocketing cost of living and the steady loss of jobs here in the good ol' U.S. of A., Gramm (a one-time Presidential hopeful himself) went on to profess that our economic woes were all in our heads, going so far as to claim that the current economic downturn is merely a “mental recession” and that our economy continues to grow despite hard evidence to the contrary.

Last week, after refusing to retract his comments from the week before, Gramm resigned from his position in McCain's camp, saying that he didn't want to be a “distraction”.

This week the former Texas Senator and current vice-president of a Swiss investment bank has been named... You guessed it! Ass of the Week! And we're proud to have him on board.

In Gramm's defense, I'm sure someone who's as well-connected as he is probably doesn't feel the economic pinch at all, so it's not really surprising that he would consider we lowly middle-class folks “whiners” when we suddenly have to choose between heat and food and beg the government for help after we get laid off and can't find a job. After all, most of his money (a fair share of it earned as a publicly-funded salary during the twenty-something years he spent in office in Texas) is probably invested in that bank in Switzerland where it's nice and safe (and probably grows tax-free).

What you should be asking yourself, though, is this: How in the fuck could a guy like Gramm become one of McCain's top aides? Of course! They're all members of the Loyal Order of Republicans! Let's just suppose for a second that Gramm had kept his mouth shut and McCain gets elected come November. Where do you think that would put Gramm? How about Chairman of the Federal Reserve? And I have to believe he'd be the worst one ever.

I don't know if this has been under-reported or I've just been so sick of the news that I can't watch anymore, but Gramm's resignation seemed to be just a tiny blip on the election coverage radar. In fact, most of the stuff coming out now from both sides seems minor compared to the glare the media put on the Democratic race when Hillary was still part of it.

And remember this: Phil Gramm is the one who put together McCain's economic policy from the very beginning of his Presidential campaign. You know, the policy that steers us towards four more years of George W. Bush's policies. Anybody out there really want that? Look at Gramm closely and remember that face. He's evil and you should never vote for him again. For ANY office. Even in Texas.

One last thing... If John McCain picked Gramm for such an important position in his own circle of advisors, how good do you think he'd be at picking Supreme Court Justices?

Your Honor, I rest my case.

Hailing originally from Biloxi, Mississippi, today's Craig's List Girl Mimi, now shakes her ass at local strip clubs in the Baltimore area, moonlighting as a private dancer and escort. Check the Baltimore page for rates and availability, and Mimi's willing to travel if the 'price is right'.

Welcome to 'Ye Olde Mail Bag'!

Yes, we get mail, and in an effort to share some of our readers' concerns and answer some of their questions (both the stupid and the not-so-stupid kind) our version of the Letters To The Editor column will be appearing regularly.

So feel free to pipe up and let us know what you think!

Our first letter is from darryld34, who asks: “What kind of site is this anyway? I don't get it. I was looking for some porn and got directed here but all I find is links? Is this a porn site or what?”

Well, darryld34, it seems obvious to me, but I'll try to explain anyway. Almost Okay is a blog, which is short for 'web log'. When this blogging thing got started the initial concept was to use it as an on-line journal of sorts where one could post pictures and share thoughts with friends and family all over the world. However, blogging quickly evolved into all sorts of things - from daily news and commentary to (yes, it's true) porn. Since porn has been as much a part of my life as anything I learned in five useless years at art school, I include some links and references to my favorites. Is Almost Okay a porn site? Technically, no. It is more of a journal, with entries (including a few porn-related ones) aimed to entertain. If you're looking for a true porn site, try some of the links on the right over there. I'm sure you won't be disappointed. And tell 'em Sherman sent you.

The next one is from Percival Von Pluttbugger. Percy writes: “Whatever happened to the poetry? It was my absolute favorite part of the whole entire thing!”

First off, I hope that's not your real name, Percy, but I'm happy you appreciated the poetry. At present, however, the verse has been put on hold due to the second death of Prof. Dirk Beat and the disappearance of our other regular contributor, Ye Olde Blowharde (who actually came up with the name for this column before vanishing into thin air). I'm hoping for ol' Dirk to start writing from the grave again any minute, but I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.

Lastly, from The Batster: “How come you review old bad movies on tape and never review new movie releases like 'The Dark Knight'?”

You must be a relatively new reader, Batster, because I actually did review 'Death Proof' when it came out in theaters during the spring of 2007. Aside from that one, though, there hasn't been a single film released domestically which I found to be worthy of my attention, let alone the time it takes me to write a thoughtful review. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure 'Dark Knight' is going to break every record ever set and will get Oscar nods and all that crap. It's just that between the endless promotion and product tie-ins, I feel it has been covered more than sufficiently by the mainstream media. So go eat your goddamned 'Gotham City Pizza' and leave me alone.

I guess that's it for now, folks.

If you have any comments, questions or jokes to share, please feel free to write me at: coolhandmarty@gmail.com.

I'm looking forward to hearing from each and every one of you sonso'bitches!

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G'nide...

The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul.
-John Calvin

He who eats alone chokes alone.
-Proverb

* * * * * * * * * * *

Oakland County Jail, Pontiac, Michigan, July 2006

The concrete floor felt like ice. How can it be so cold in here when it's ninety degrees outside? I thought. Then aloud: “Are they trying to keep us from spoiling?”

“Sherman? Is that you?” A familiar voice, but I couldn't place it. “It's me... Andy.”

“Andy? How long has it been? Five years?”

“Closer to ten. How's tricks?”

* * * * * * * * * * *

I had blacked out from drinking before, but never like this.

I woke up in a cold sweat, fully clothed and lying in bed. The room was pitch black except for the red LED on my clock radio which told me flatly that it was 3:19. Since it was still dark, that meant a.m. I tried to remember how I came to be in bed still dressed, but I couldn’t. There was no memory of coming to bed, and the time before that was a fuzzy black emptiness inside my besotted brain.

The room was eerily silent, even though my window was open wide to the night air. No barking dogs, no traffic. Not a single sound.

I sat up with some difficulty and realized that my rib cage on the left side was very tender. I fumbled for the switch to the reading lamp on my night stand and winced at the brightness of the bulb when it came on. Once my eyes had adjusted to the light I could see my reflection in the mirrored closet doors to one side of the bed, and what I saw wasn’t pretty.

I had expected to be hung over, but this was ridiculous. I’d never looked worse in my life...pale, bloated, with a three-day growth of beard, and there were heavy bags under my eyes, the whites of them shot through with swollen and ruptured blood vessels. My road map of woe leftover from several days of binging.

What day was it? I couldn’t recall. In order to get to my feet I needed to steady myself with one hand on the wall. I limped out of my tiny bedroom avoiding piles of dirty clothes, books, stacks of porno magazines and the occasional shoe lying in the middle of the floor. When I got to the bathroom I could see light coming from the living room.

Strange, I thought. It wasn’t like me to leave a lamp on, no matter how drunk I got, but I needed to check out my ribs before I did anything else. I was just then beginning to realize how difficult it was to breathe, sharp pain knifing through me with each inhale. It suddenly dawned on me that the pain was what had awakened me in the first place.

I splashed some cold water on my face in an effort to make myself feel better or normal or something, but it didn’t help. I spent some time staring straight into my own eyes and trying to recall what had happened, but I just couldn’t. Then I lifted my soiled and sweat-soaked shirt to reveal a nasty bruise that had already turned three shades of blue about half-way down my left side. There was also a wide bruise on my upper left arm near the shoulder and both of my hands were sore along the knuckles.

After checking my face more carefully and probing for loose or broken teeth with my tongue, I came to the conclusion that I was basically okay. I must have been in some sort of fight, I reasoned, but didn’t remember leaving the house. Assuming that a fight had caused my injuries, I wondered vaguely if I had won the bout. If this is the face of victory, I thought, no telling what the other guy looks like.

My balance seemed to be returning so I decided to head to the living room and see if there were any clues as to what might have happened in there. I walked gingerly down the hallway, my stockinged feet sliding along the hardwood and my hands touching the walls to guard against falling as I moved.

The realization that my ribs might be cracked and not just bruised was weighing heavily on my mind until I saw what was in the living room. Suddenly, the pain all but melted away, only to be replaced by a sense of overwhelming horror when I spotted the lifeless form sprawled awkwardly across my sofa. I closed my eyes and opened them again, hoping that in my drunken state of mind I had been seeing things, but I hadn't. The body was still there, and there was no mistaking who it was.

It was Jackie, my ex-wife.

Dear Lyzako,

In a sincere attempt to keep myself informed, I tried to watch the news last night, only to find my brain so burdened with anxiety and fear afterwards that I could not sleep. Thank the gods for beer and fatigue, although I don't know how much longer I'll be able to afford the beer.

It seems as though each new day brings another crisis in the world, and the big news yesterday was the failure of one of the nation's largest banks. The report showed people literally camped outside in line awaiting an opportunity to withdraw their cash from said bank, most of them having less than the $100,000 FDIC maximum in their accounts, which means their money is fully insured by the good old United States government.

As a result, there is now serious speculation as to whether or not more banks will be in trouble, thanks in large part to the ongoing problems in the mortgage industry and the skyrocketing number of foreclosures caused by our faltering economy. When I heard my own bank of twenty-something years mentioned at the top of the list of other possible failures, my heart sank. I reached for another Blue, thumbed the remote to Letterman and waited for the Top Ten List as I tried to turn my mind to kinder thoughts.

After the commercial break I was treated to the 'Top Ten Ways You Can Tell Your Bank Is In Trouble', and even though most of the ways were very funny, I couldn't even manage a chuckle.

Of course, the majority of what I've been able to save over a lifetime of sweat and toil doesn't even fall under that magic FDIC umbrella, my IRA heavily invested in mutual funds that continue to decline in value each quarter. The pittance I keep on hand to pay the bills (and buy my Blue) will be covered entirely, however, but in the event of a complete economic collapse, I can't help but wonder: Who's insuring the FDIC? China?

Last Saturday I spent the afternoon at a matinee, a time-warp double feature of 'Creature From the Black Lagoon' and 'It Came From Outer Space', both shown in the primitive 3-D process that requires the viewer to wear those flimsy cardboard glasses with the red and blue lenses. The glasses they handed out with admission, though, had the red and blue opposite of what was needed for the dimensional effect to be properly seen, so we were instructed to reverse the lenses by wearing the glasses inside out. It worked.

For three hours I was able to live within a simpler world, a black-and-white one where creatures - whether they be from outer space or from beneath the surface of a remote Amazonian lagoon, were the people's biggest worries. No corrupt politicians (although I found the sheriff in the second movie to be more than a little suspect), no global warming and not a word about failing banks.

It felt good.

As things go, I realize that I've had it pretty easy most of my life, even if I lose every dime during the course of this Republican plot to change our middle-class status to that of indentured servants. I have ample space in which to hide from the world and accumulate the things (records, books, etc.) that make me feel comfortable, and I still have a house note that I can afford (although I don't know how much longer that will be, either). I am in relatively good health and want for little but happiness.

Still, recent economic events point to more losses and greater downward shifts in our standard of living, and I can't help but be a little concerned that I have to be concerned with which bank my tiny pile of money is in. I don't think I'd be very good at figuring out when to pull all my cash out of the bank in a panic.

You see, at times like that, I usually do panic. And panic causes confusion, which is the exact opposite of the clarity of mind one needs to feel alive and safe and secure. As I write this, I can feel the blood rushing past my ears and my heart thumping heavy rhythm in my chest... all from simply contemplating the scenario. I'm afraid actually living through it would be my undoing.

I keep thinking back to that double-feature, though, and the 'cutting edge' technology that made the whole 3-D process possible. The world was a far less complex place in the fifties, my friend, as you are well aware, and I have no doubt that there were times when many folks felt some anxiety even back then. But has the march of technology helped us out at all? Has it driven much change aside from more greed and greater misery?

I think not.

I just wish that the problems of our world today were as simple to remedy as those wrong-sided glasses they gave us at the movie. It sure would be nice to restore some of that rose-colored view of the future I once innocently held, long before cell phones and laptops and digital media ruined our lives.

Regards and Well Wishes,
Marty Sherman

During the fifties and sixties, exotica pioneer Les Baxter spent fifteen years working in the music department at American International Pictures, scoring dozens of low-budget flicks and making a name for himself as the go-to guy when it came to delivering soundtrack music ahead of schedule. As Roger Corman was to the direction of the B-movies, Baxter was to the music, grinding out themes and cues faster than anybody else could, sometimes composing and recording entire film scores in just a matter of days.

Today's LP, 'Barbarian' did double duty as both a Les Baxter album and as the soundtrack to the film 'Goliath and the Barbarians', which starred famous muscle-man Steve Reeves. By 1959 - the year this movie was released, Baxter had already landed a handful of pop hits on the charts, while developing a solid following for his brand of exotic, bachelor-pad type music through a series of successful LPs on the Capitol label.

Among his other early achievements are the 'Music Out of the Moon' LP (a 1947 recording that featured compositions by Harry Revel with the theremin as principal instrument), session work for Nat King Cole and musical direction for Yma Sumac's most commercially successful LP 'Voice of the Xtabay' (1950). Baxter also wrote the familiar opening whistle theme for the 'Lassie' television show and worked as musical director of Abbott and Costello's radio program.

Highlights from his other soundtrack assignments at AIP include 'Master of the World' (1961), 'The Pit and the Pendulum' (1961), 'Dr. Goldfoot and the Girl Bombs' (1966), 'Cry of the Banshee' (1970), and one of my all-time drive-in favorites - 'The Dunwich Horror' (1971), which starred sexy Sandra Dee.

Baxter's first film score was for 'Tanga Tika' in 1953, and his sound track for the low-budget western 'The Yellow Tomahawk' from 1954 was rumored to have been composed, arranged and recorded in only three hours.

Baxter's blue-collar work ethic emphasized perspiration over inspiration, and his willingness to accept any assignment kept him busy throughout his career, eventually landing him jobs writing music for Sea World and other theme parks long after rock and roll had killed his brand of pop music and the film score work began to dry up.

The credits on 'Barbarian' list the London Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Muir Mathieson, and according to a 1981 interview with Baxter it was because of strict union rules in England (where the feature was shot) that he didn't conduct the session himself.

I'm not going to lie to you, though... The music you'll find on this LP isn't as good as some of Baxter's other stuff, and I would never have bought this if I'd had to pay the catalog price of thirty bucks. But I happened to find this copy at one of my favorite local stores just a week ago for only $4.50, and in spite of side two being scarred (the clerk used the term 'bruised' in describing it) with several visible scuffs that run throughout, I decided I had to have it, mostly for the extremely cool cover. As a bonus, it happens to play perfectly fine with nary a pop or hiss.

I've never seen this flick but from what I've been able to ascertain through the few reviews I've read, it wasn't exactly Oscar-worthy. Reeves, a bodybuilder and former Mr. Universe, got a lot of mileage out of his limited acting ability, cashing in on his physique to become an international star in the Italian production of 'Hercules' in 1958. That appearance led to a string of similar roles including a sequel called 'Hercules Unchained' the following year, and being cast as Goliath in this stinker.

Reeves also appeared in Ed Wood's 'Jail Bait' (1954) and, in probably one of the worst moves of his career, infamously declined the Clint Eastwood role in Sergio Leone's 'Fistful of Dollars' (1964).

Reeves died in 2000 at the age of 74 after retiring to southern California in the eighties.

Les Baxter, who's best-known composition continues to be 'Quiet Village' (ironically, a bigger hit for exotica music rival Martin Denny than it was for Baxter himself), died in 1996. He was 73.

Sadly, with the advent of digital technology and the invention of the compact disc, the vinyl LP continues to die a slow and lingering death in 2008.

Stay tuned for the next chapter in the ongoing eulogy...

The Open Mike Boner of the Year Award for 2008 has to go to Jesse Jackson for his crude aside to a fellow program guest while appearing on Fox News last Sunday. Thinking his microphone was turned off, Jackson expressed his frustration with Senator Obama, claiming that the presumptive Democratic nominee for President was “talking down to black people”. Jackson's remedy for Obama's pompous condescension? “I want to cut his nuts off.”

Of course! Why didn't the Ku Klux Klan think of that? Oh, you say they did? A long time ago? Hmmm...

When in God's name are we going to get over this Black vs. White thing? In the case of Jackson and Obama it becomes even sillier: Too-Black vs. Not-Black-Enough. Isn't it about fucking time that we started just believing in the best candidate and electing him to do the job?

After realizing that he'd committed a huge faux pas, Jackson attempted to make things right by apologizing even before the network had a chance to air the conversation, mostly because he believed that the public airing of his private comments would “violate the context” of them. I'm not quite sure under what circumstances Rev. Jackson thinks it's acceptable to recommend castration (other than for a family pet), but it sounds to me as if he thinks wanting Obama's testicles in a jar is just fine as long as nobody hears him say so.

What bothers me most about this incident isn't that the remark itself was crude, but that it involved fantasizing about extremely violent behavior as punishment for the use of words. It's a typical, thug-like macho mentality that would prevail in this world if it weren't for the rule of law and order, and it's not all that different from the rationale that a Klansman from the forties might have used to lynch a black man who had dared to speak to a white woman.

No, Jackson's remark hinges on the very fact that we still (in 2008 for Christ's sake!) do not see people without looking at the color of their skin, and that we expect certain behavior from those people based solely on that color.

It's just not fucking right.

To complicate matters further and embarrass Rev. Jackson even more, his own son, Jesse Jackson, Jr. - a Congressman from Illinois who is co-chairing Obama's Presidential campaign - was forced to publicly denounce his dad's statements. Obama has strategically chosen not to speak about it and has accepted Jackson's apology through a spokesperson.

I have to believe that a large part of Jackson's emotional reaction to Obama's current success is based on jealousy. In 1984, Rev. Jackson made his own run at the Democratic nomination for President, surprising his fellow candidates and political pundits alike with wins in South Carolina, Louisiana, D.C., Mississippi and Virginia. Unfortunately, he fell way short on the delegate count that year (by a couple bazillion), but he tried again in '88, doubling the number of his primary wins but still falling well short of the votes he'd need to garner the nomination. (Remember Michael Dukakis? The first American of Greek descent to ever run for President? In case you don't, Dukakis won the Democratic nomination that year, and was then soundly drubbed by George W.'s daddy in November.)

Anyway, those two historic campaigns made Rev. Jackson the most successful African American Presidential candidate ever, and now he's looking at the Number Two slot, which, I assume, sticks in his craw.

So in closing, please allow me to offer congratulations to Rev. Jackson on being named 'Ass of the Week', along with a little bit of advice: The next time you have some “very private” personal thoughts on cutting somebody's “nuts” off, maybe you should keep them to yourself, Rev., microphone or no microphone.

In honor of the recent Independence Day celebration, today's Craig's List girl has pulled out her most patriotic bikini and volunteered to strip it right off for only 150 Kisses. Cherry works out of the greater D.C. area and offers true GFE for the discerning upscale gentleman. Role playing and domination are her specialties. Now that's one flag I'll gladly salute.

When I slept I would dream of the girls.

In my favorite recurring dream Beyonce would be sitting on my face and Jessica would be sitting on my crotch, the two of them facing each other and making out while I ate and humped away. The girls were perfect in my dreams... perfect lips, perfect hips and perfect boobs. When Beyonce farted, it smelled like vanilla and her pussy tasted just like butterscotch. Jessica pissed lemonade. The girls had multiple orgasms in every one of those sweet dreams as they cooed and moaned my name, and I nearly always had one lengthy, extremely messy earthquake of a climax myself.

Unfortunately, reality was nothing like my dreams.

Even though the instructions and proportions for mixing the silicone I'd used to make Beyonce's face were very simple, I must have done something wrong because the concoction didn't set fully. Of course, I didn't figure that out until long after I'd mounted her...

Once I had waited the prescribed time for the silicone to set up, I rushed to my work room to check on the results. Even without the paint, eyeballs and teeth, my handiwork on the Beyonce face impressed me, and as I touched her soft cheek for the first time my hand trembled with excitement. So did Li'l Marty.

Before I could stop myself, I'd fetched the Beyonce doll, positioned the face so that the mouth lined up with the hole in the doll's head and duct-taped it into place. Then, overcome with animal lust, I laid her down on the sofa and dropped on top of her in a male superior sixty-nine position, tonguing away at her as I eased Li'l Marty between her soft, full lips. Who cared whether she had eyes? Not me. And no teeth? The way I figured it, that was probably an advantage in the long run. No, all I was really interested in were those magnificent lips.

After three minutes of frantic thrusting I pulled my face away, arched my back and braced for the oncoming gusher. With my eyes closed I imagined a real life Beyonce covered in sweat, working me with gusto, her lips painted with bright red lipstick. That's the ticket, I thought. Why bother with the paint and teeth? All I'd need to do was put a little lipstick on her and... and...UNNNNGGGHH!!!!

It was the best orgasm I'd had in almost an hour, and it left me completely spent. I collapsed alongside my favorite girl and fell soundly asleep. Upon waking, I was vaguely aware of something sticky and soft clinging to my groin and when I looked down, was horrified to see that during our passionate love-making session, Beyonce's half-finished face had peeled away from the head of the love doll and was now practically melted to my body, Li'l Marty poking pathetically through right in the middle of the gooey mess.

I grabbed a can of mineral spirits and a rag and worked desperately to remove it, but the solvent wouldn't touch the silicone. After fifteen minutes of futile rubbing, I had to face the fact that I would need something a tad stronger. I had some lacquer thinner in the garage and just the thought of dousing my manhood in it made me wince, but I didn't know what else to do. I sure as fuck wasn't going to go to the emergency room. This would be worse than that time I showed up at Beaumont with a melon baller up my ass.

I went into the kitchen, pulled out a trash bag and wrapped it around my waist, covering the still-sticky area to the best of my ability. Then I threw on my robe, made the dreaded trip to the garage and grimly got to work. Four hours later, what was left of my beautiful Beyonce's face had been reduced to hundreds of snot-like balls of silicone stuck haphazardly to the cement floor of the garage, and I'd gone through four rolls of paper towels, a half-dozen cotton rags, an entire gallon of lacquer thinner and two layers of skin.

I was weak, raw and high from the fumes and skin exposure, and every hair - pubic or otherwise - that had been stuck to the goo was gone, either pulled out by the root or melted by the solvent. I hobbled into the bathroom, jumped into the shower and turned on the tap.

My skin in the affected area was already red and hot. I was looking forward to a nice cool shower, but as soon as the lukewarm water made contact it was like a million white hot needles had been shot into my groin. Fuck! Li'l Marty practically screamed, and my testicles ran for cover, climbing so high I could almost feel them in my throat.

After the shower, I slathered on an entire bottle of skin care lotion, put a couple old towels on the bed and gingerly lay down to try and get some rest. Sleep didn't come easy, though, with Li'l Marty still throbbing in pain and my skin feeling like it was on fire, even with the generous layer of lotion.

It took eleven beers and a pint of tequila before I was able to nod off.

As the days turned into weeks I gradually got better. I couldn't bear to look at either of the girls and the last thing on my mind was sex, so I read a lot. I drank a lot, too, in order to sleep. And sleep I did. A lot.

One morning, as I was just starting to feel like my old self again, I sat in front of the computer and read the day's headlines. What was this? Beyonce got married? And Jessica Alba was pregnant?! When did all of this happen? Shit! If Beyonce got married, it was just a matter of time before that Jay-Z bastard had her knocked up and she started turning into her mother!

That's when it all fell apart for me, my scheme to have them all to myself, to create the perfect woman. Over the past few weeks I had vaguely thought about getting back at it, this time with the Jessica face, perfecting the mix and then making my beautiful Beyonce once again. After all I still had the mold. It wasn't really all that much more work.

But when I began to picture Jessica pregnant, her belly swollen with some dumb actor's demon child growing inside, and her delicious navel, once adorned by a sexy silver ring now pushed out like an end of ring bologna... well, I just couldn't get Li'l Marty excited no matter how hard I tried. And he was just as uninterested in Mrs. Jay-Z.

So the dolls stay in the closet most of the time now. Every once in a while, I get Beyonce out, push her face down into the bed and drive one high and hard, but it has to be a special, extra-horny occasion. Jessica is pretty much just collecting dust, but the dreams haven't gone away...

“What's that, dear?” I say.

“When you're ready, I want you to pull out and squirt all over me,” Beyonce says.

“Yeah,” says Jessica. “Just splash it all over her and I'll lick it off.”

“Ooh, yeah,” says Beyonce. “That will be hot. Right here on my breasts.” The girls kiss.

“Are you ready, girls?”

“Mmm, yessss!” they both say, still touching tongues.

“Here you go... I'm...cum... CUMM... CUMMINGGG!... UUNNGGGHH!!!...”

“Mmmm, oooh... yesss!” they say. Then in unison, as they drool over my juices: “You are the sexiest man alive, Marty Sherman! THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE!”

My Dear Motherfucking Lyzako,

Just a few quick thoughts before I hit the sack tonight...

First of all, I must apologize for being somewhat half-in-the-bag at the moment due to three tall at B-Dub's coupled with a full day's worth of work, most of which, by the way, will need to be re-done tomorrow thanks to an error on the part of upper management. Ah, well. Never enough time to do things right, but always enough time to do them twice.

Anyway, the beer has me much more sloppy than I should be at this point, so please forgive whatever grammatical mistakes, errors in syntax; and: superfluous, Punctuation, you, might, run! across! as, you, READ, this!!!

All sport-fucking aside, mon frere, my lack of writing lately is a direct result of my recent increased workload. The more 'spooged' that you see here when you check in, the more likely you can bet that I'm toiling away, developing carpal tunnel in exchange for a barely-living wage.

So I'm taking a few days off, if you don't mind, in honor of our glorious country's 232nd birthday - a long holiday weekend that will include yet another cherished visit to my past, some fantastic summertime weather in the forecast, a sixty-two-dollar tank of gas to burn and a longing to forget all about today's troubles in my heart.

Before I can get to this much-needed mini-vacation, however, I need to do just one more long day tomorrow, which requires a 7:00 a.m. start time and, therefore, me hauling my lazy ass out of bed at 5:30. The birds won't even be up yet! How can anyone expect me to be?! The smart money says I'll be running late.

Upon my return home tonight and my subsequent beery noshing, I noticed that I had just a single can of Blue left in the fridge, the lonely, leftover product of my most recent, sausage-grilling, beer-swilling binge, one that emptied the better part of a twelve-pack.

I figure having totally forgotten that I only had one beer here at home was God's way of telling me to go to bed early for a change. I'm getting very thirsty, though, so we'll see.

In Local News news... Detroit City Council is now under F.B.I. investigation for taking bribes in exchange for awarding a multi-million-dollar sludge-hauling contract. You'd expect that, right? But the topper is this: Somehow, FOX2 Morning News hostess Fanchon Stinger (who, coincidentally happens to look just like my second wife... “How many wives have you had, Marty?” you ask. Just one.) has somehow gotten herself implicated in this whole mess. Late last year, Fanchon, along with the local sleazy contractor in question, was named in a related lawsuit, and in light of developments over the past few days, the brass at FOX2 has temporarily suspended the milk chocolate delight from the air until further notice in order to avoid any chance of a possible conflict of interest while she crosses her slender legs and reads the headlines in the morning.

I only tell you this because the numbers have spiked here and I'm seeing twice - yes TWICE, the amount of traffic. All because people are worried about how Fanchon's doing, and the search engines are driving them right to me. The most visits in a single day here ever! No shit!

And that includes the infamous 'banning- Marty- from- the- bars- because- he- mentioned- the- bartender's- cleavage- and- expressed- an- urge- to- eat- the- ass- of- another- bartender- at- a- nearby- bar' episode!

So that's it, I guess. The numbers are up, even though my production is down. It truly is odd how things work, eh?

By the way, I have less than half of that last can of beer left and it's barely ten-thirty. I'm thinking that a saunter up to the corner for a forty might just be in order.

Cheers, Warm Regards and GOD BLESS GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING AMERICA!
Marty Motherfucking Sherman

PS: At least we still have that scrumptious Ama Daetz on the air!