As of this morning we still don't know if there's going to be a Presidential debate tonight thanks to John McCain's last minute stall tactics. He claims that he's suddenly more interested in this country than in running for President. Does that even make sense? Because I thought being interested in this country was WHY he was running for President.

The real reason is that neither he, nor his brilliantly-educated running mate Sarah Palin (nor any of the fucking Republicans for that matter) have a clue as to what to do about the economic mess we're in, and as usual, their answer is to do absolutely nothing. No, check that. McCain wanted to fire the Chairman of the SEC until he found out that he couldn't do that.

After spending the past umpteen months campaigning for the highest office in the land, suddenly Big John wants to work as a Senator again. Since he freely admits to knowing very little about how the economy works, how the hell does he think he's going to help at this point? Is he going to be the cheerleader? I think his buddy George W. has that end covered.

A long-time champion of deregulation (as are all of the Republicans) McCain has a lengthy voting record to prove that he's had an enormous hand in getting us to this point in the first place. Do you know why the Republicans don't want to regulate big business? Because that would mean they would have to feel guilty about taking all that money from corporate lobbyists who have been paying them to vote for deregulation all these years.

The crux of the problem is that greed is what fuels capitalism and if you start telling people that they can't be greedy anymore, then they get upset. “You mean I can't have a seventh vacation home? Fuck that! I'm the C.E. Motherfucking O.!” they say.

Greed needs oversight, which means that businesses need oversight, especially businesses that loan money to people. It's been generally acknowledged that loaning money at exorbitantly high interest rates and unreasonable terms backed by a threat of blackmail is wrong. It's called 'loan sharking' or 'predatory lending' and it's been illegal in the U.S. for a long time. That is, until the sub-prime lending crisis.

Oddly enough, when those same institutions that didn't want our government to interfere while they raped and pillaged the middle class start to have trouble and face the prospect of going belly up, guess who they want to 'bail them out'? That's right, the GOVERNMENT.

So it's time to make some decisions, people, and my guess is that instead of McCain and Bush and Obama and the rest hunkering down behind close doors while they try to hammer out a solution to keep the entire house of cards from falling down, maybe it would be a good idea if the two guys who want to be President just sit down together in front of the American people and try to answer a few questions. I know it would put my mind at ease. How about you?

So on with the fucking debate already!

By the way, I'm getting pretty tired of 'McCain/Palin' this and 'McCain/Palin' that... It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, does it? How about just 'McPain'... I think that says it all right there, and if they get elected you can expect at least four more years of the same old shit. If we don't all die out in the cold this winter after being evicted from our foreclosed homes.

Jenna is this week's Craig's List girl and in addition to working as an escort in the Richmond, VA area, Jenna is a lifelong, card-carrying Democrat who attended this year's Nominating Convention in Denver as a Super Delegate. After proudly casting her vote for Obama, word is she made a small fortune working the parking lot with her 'Blo and Go' special at only fifty buck a 'pop'!

My Dear Lyzako,

As much as I'd like to pretend that things are different, these days I find myself completely tapped out emotionally, my senses cruelly drained and my soul suddenly a black hole of absolute horrible nothingness.

Each day I witness the absurdity of life in modern-day America that is presently magnified by the glaring spotlight of a Presidential election which promises to be even more disappointing than when I stood in line for nearly an hour to vote for John Kerry four long years ago. I remember at the time being so sure that all of America was just as sick to death of that evil idiot George W. Bush as I was and that any clear-thinking individual would make the right decision to help us all move forward towards a brighter future, that I was foolish enough to have had real hope.

You see, despite my ongoing cynicism, I would truly like to feel good about being an American, feel proud of our American ideals and believe in our claim that we are on an ongoing mission to bring freedom and peace to the entire world. Most of all (and with considerable selfish concern, I'm afraid) I'd like to be able to earn a decent living, be left alone and feel positive about the direction in which Old Mother Earth is heading.

But I cannot.

I am no fortune teller, but I don't really need to be one in order to know that our next President will be John McCain. (Ironically, yours truly actually predicted that result two years ago.) In the likely event that the stupid old geezer doesn't survive his first term, that would make the 45th President of these United States none other than Sarah 'The Barracuda' Palin.

It's a difficult pill to swallow, but I've now resigned myself to the fact. And here is the reason why: If Barack Obama were Hillary Clinton, if he were John Edwards or even if he were Al Franken, he'd stand a better chance of being our next President than he does now. But Barack Obama is black. Yes, I know, African-American is the preferred term, but all over the south and in far too much of the north, east AND west, he is simply 'black', which to the vast majority of white America makes him unqualified.

And, to at least one Republican Congressman from Georgia - Rep. Lynn Westmoreland, it also makes him “uppity”. We all know what term follows that word, and it's not "Senator from Illinois".

So I've given up hope. There simply are not enough blue states to get the job done, and here in Michigan, where Kerry and Gore both resoundingly thumped George W., Obama is currently running neck-and-neck with John McCain.

If Barack Obama were white, preaching the same message of change as he is now, if his wife were blond and blue-eyed, his children freckled and rosy-cheeked, I dare say he'd be up fifteen points right now and the Republicans wouldn't even be close enough come November to have a snowball's chance in Hell of stealing this election like they have the past two.

But he's not.

And no matter what he says, no matter how sincere he is, no matter how good his ideas are, how inspirational a leader he may very well be... at the end of the day, he is simply 'black'.

I'm more than a little sad to report that in 2008, in America - in 'The Land of the Fucking FREE' for CRYIN' OUT LOUD!, the color of Barack Obama's skin STILL prevents him from being thought of as being 'qualified' to run for President by most white Americans while at the same time branding him as being 'uppity' for thinking that he is.

Morosely Yours,
Marty Sherman

As I made my way towards home numbly striding over cracked and crumbling sidewalks, I replayed over and over in my mind what I could remember of our fight the night before, and each time it seemed to me that Jackie was just as much to blame as I was for how things had turned out.

Jackie and I had no kids - not together, not from previous relationships. Both of her parents had died in a boating accident while vacationing in Hawaii years ago, and she and her sister weren’t particularly close. Except for one or two cousins like Andy, she rarely spoke to the rest of her family, and Jackie had few close friends. All-in-all she wasn’t very well liked. I wasn't just rationalizing, I told myself; it was simply the way things were. She wouldn’t really be missed all that much.

Sure, I felt bad for her. Who wouldn’t? But I couldn’t see how confessing and going to jail was going to do either of us any good. Odds are I’d never come out alive, and if I did I’d be a broken man. So, by the two-wrongs-don’t-make-a-right rationale, I decided to get rid of her body. No body, no murder. End of story.

Once inside the house, I carried Jackie into the bathroom, took off her clothes and carefully laid her in the tub with her head near the drain and her feet propped up. A quarter turn of the hot water tap produced a slow, steady stream of water. I went to the kitchen, put on a fresh set of gloves, started a pot of coffee and grabbed my chef’s knife. It was already pushing nine o’clock.

Once back in the bathroom, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and made a slow, sure stroke across Jackie’s throat with the knife, being careful to keep the cut side away from my body in case any blood squirted out. I was surprised at how easily it sliced the flesh. All my knives had stayed much sharper since I started storing them on that magnetic strip I had installed on the back splash by the stove. Thirty bucks at Crate & Barrel sounded like a lot when I bought it, but it seemed like a pretty wise investment under the present circumstances.

Again, to my surprise, the blood didn’t squirt, but oozed towards the drain, mixing with the water. Before long I realized that hot water wasn’t such a good idea. The odor of the draining blood was intensified by the steam that began to rise from the tub after several minutes and I choked and gagged as I hovered over Jackie, struggling to turn off the hot tap and replace the stream with cold water. But once that was done, it was just a matter of waiting.

While Jackie drained, I poured a cup of coffee and headed to the garage for tools.

I found a pair of large bolt cutters, some channel locks, two or three types of hand saws and an old food dehydrator that I had bought at a garage sale just two weeks prior for two bucks. The chef’s knife and a boning knife that I rarely used would round out the implements I’d need to finish the job. By the time I got back inside, she was pretty much dry and I spent a few minutes trying to figure out the best way to cut her up before diving in.

Jackie was in good shape for her age...about five-five, one-thirty or so. And a lot leaner than two years ago, thanks to all of that liposuction I paid for prior to the divorce. It really didn’t seem like it would be all that much work once I got started.

I stripped naked to keep from getting blood on any of my clothes, straddled Jackie’s body and began cutting strips of flesh away from the bone. When joints were exposed, I sawed carefully through them and slowly began assembling two piles of remains on either side of the tub...one, a stack of naked, grisly bones and the other, a limp, wet heap of flesh.

It was sweaty work and it took some time, but by mid-afternoon I pretty much had the arms, legs and head removed and, along with the torso, stripped of flesh. I carefully cut into the stomach, trying not to puncture any of the internal organs, but a nick of the colon produced horrific odors to the point I thought I would have to stop.

After wiping the sweat from my eyes, I steeled myself and went back to work, eventually getting used to the stench. It occurred to me that I hadn’t had to be so careful anyway, since I was planning on chopping the organs into pieces that were small enough to flush down the toilet. It took another hour or so, but eventually liver, lungs, heart and kidneys had all been cut into flushable chunks.

I grabbed a pan from the kitchen, piled in some of the organ bits and dumped them into the toilet, bumping the handle down with my elbow. The water swirled crimson clouds and the level rose in the bowl. My heart nearly stopped when I realized that the chunks had clogged on the way out and an overflow was imminent. I quickly put the pan back in the tub, stripped off the plastic gloves as the water neared the top of the bowl. Just in time I managed to remove the lid from the tank and lift the mechanism to kill the flow of the water. When the tank had refilled, I reached into the bowl, scooping back through the pile of Jackie's guts and let the water drain. Then I flushed again.

From then on I carefully measured tiny portions into the bowl making sure that they would flush easier. It took longer than I had hoped, but an hour later the organ chunks had all been sent straight to the Detroit River.

I checked the time. It was half-past five and I had never been more in need of a drink in my life.


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Remember when we used to celebrate Christmas between Thanksgiving and the ACTUAL HOLIDAY ITSELF?

Yesterday while I was eating my lunch I switched on Channel 7's Noon News, mostly just to see what Carolyn Clifford was wearing. Well, she was looking pretty fantastic in a powder blue pant suit, as you can see for yourself, and I got lucky enough to catch her doing a quick interview promotion with the Radio City Rockettes, who were in town to plug - ta DAAAAAHHH!!... their Christmas show at the Joe Louis Arena! Yesterday was September the frigging 11th! NINE-ELEVEN!

Shit, they haven't even really started pushing the plastic Chinese Halloween crap yet!

And once they do get going, the Halloween promos will get shoved down our throats for a good five weeks before October 31st, so that by the time it actually gets here I'll be so sick of the idea that I'll hide in the basement again with all the freaking lights off just counting the minutes until it's over!They don't even put the good monster movies on broadcast television anymore. You have to have CABLE or a SATELLITE DISH. Whatever happened to Karloff's 'Frankenstein' and Lugosi's 'Dracula'? Two of the creepiest movies of all time! Oh, and the 'Wolf Man'! Lon Chaney, Jr.! MOTHERFUCKING GREAT! Maria Ouspenskaya as the gypsy! Now THAT'S what I call ACTING!

It seems as though each year the holiday seasons grow longer and longer in an effort to get us to spend more and more money on useless garbage and gifts nobody really wants. Halloween has become the second biggest retail event next to Christmas in the United States and they expect us to start decorating and planning for it NOW. RIGHT NOW!

Christ, when I was a kid we improvised a costume on Halloween afternoon, grabbed a pillowcase and made the rounds. That's it. The next day, sick with a sugar-buzz hangover, we took our skinny asses back to school and forgot about the whole thing. We didn't even BEGIN to think about Christmas until two weeks after Thanksgiving.

Now? The Rockettes are in town right after Labor Day to make sure we all get our tickets to the freaking Christmas show!I'm not really complaining. Carolyn stepped up like a trouper and high-kicked with the girls for a couple of minutes while I finished my lunch, mouth agape, my shorts getting tighter with each turn and kick. By the time Carolyn's dancing lesson was over, my pants were around my ankles and I was spent.

Don't forget: There's just ONE-HUNDRED-AND-FIVE SHOPPING DAYS left until Christmas!

A Pet Rock is at the top of my list and if I get it, I'm gonna throw it right through the motherfucking window at Nieman Marcus!

This year's Detroit Jazz Festival was amazing. We had exceptionally good weather for Labor Day weekend and a long list of talented players, young and old, the acts themed around the idea of a 'Philly/Detroit Summit'.

Tucked away on the Waterfront Stage on a beautiful Sunday afternoon was a lineup of young trumpet stars playing a tribute to Lee Morgan, a Philadelphia native and one of the best jazz artists to ever pick up the instrument this side of Miles Davis. Dominick Farinacci, Jeremy Pelt and Brandon Lee dazzled the crowd trading fiery solos on Morgan originals causing heads to bob, hands to clap and feet to tap. I sat in the shade and drank a six-dollar Bud, marveling at how fresh and alive Lee's music still seemed after forty years of technology and progress.

For some reason Lee Morgan's story is little known. Born in Philadelphia in 1938, the young Morgan first picked up a trumpet as a teenager, and by the time he had reached the ripe old age of eighteen found himself touring with Dizzy Gillespie's big band. From there he went on to work with some of the best names in the business, his brashly inventive solo work on Coltrane's epic 1957 Blue Note LP 'Blue Train' scorching the grooves unlike anything before (and he was only nineteen at the time!).

An off-and-on member of Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers, Lee also recorded a number of LPs for Blue Note as a leader, including his best-selling 'Sidewinder' album, the title track of which was used as theme music for a Chrysler television commercial during the 1963 World Series. Unfortunately, the success of 'Sidewinder' forced a pattern onto Morgan's later sessions, including 'Cornbread', which was recorded in 1965.

Despite the fact that 'Cornbread' (along with many of Morgan's subsequent recordings) is somewhat formulaic in its approach, there's plenty of strong blowing from a stellar lineup that features not only Lee, but Jackie McLean, Hank Mobley and Herbie Hancock. I had forgotten how catchy the title tune was until I heard it played again that recent Sunday in the park overlooking the riverfront, each of the young trumpeters trying to top the others in a memorable finish to an incredible set.

Most critics agree that Morgan didn't recapture his early fire and creativity until shortly before his tragic death, his 'Live at the Lighthouse' LP from 1970 featuring some superb extended solos that could have signaled better things to come. Unfortunately, Morgan's life was cut short by a bullet while playing a gig at (ironically) Slug's in NYC, the gun in the hands of his common-law wife, who had reportedly brought it to him at his request so that he could settle an argument with his coke dealer.

In just a span of sixteen years, the former prodigy had stamped his indelible mark on the history of jazz and helped lay the framework for the Hard Bop movement, which survives to this day thanks to youngsters like Farinacci, Pelt and Lee.

My copy is a reissue from 1988 and is in stone mint condition. According to the price guides, an original mint copy might set you back upwards of thirty bucks, and reissues are trading for $15 - $20 on Ebay. I only saw one original copy up for auction and it had a beat-to-death cover and a so-so disc. They wanted ten bucks, which didn't seem like such a bad deal considering what you might shell out for the CD.

And while 'Cornbread' may not get a five-star rating from most critics, it definitely gets the A-Okay in the design department with another incredibly tight cover by the great Reid Miles featuring a photo by Francis Wolf. Plus, the whole shebang was recorded by Rudy Van Gelder. Natch.

Oh, and by the way, speaking of prodigies... Saturday afternoon's spotlight set at this year's festival was performed by the incredibly talented and beautiful songstress/bassist Esperanza Spalding. She didn't 'play' the bass so much as she made love to it, danced with it, tickled it. Crushed my foolish heart with it.

Dear Lyzako,

As you well know, Labor Day in Michigan signals the end of summertime, the festivities ranging from outdoor music festivals to baseball games to the State Fair, the aroma of charcoal filling the air nearly everywhere you go as the curtain falls on another growing season. The weekend following the holiday is just as rich in tradition locally with our annual Dally in the Alley, this year's event marking thirty-one years since its inception. Can that be right? Thirty-one years?

Indeed it is, and I did my part to support the Dally by imbibing in local brew and generously contributing 'tips' to the coffee cans marked for proceeds to benefit the North Cass Community Union.

It was a beautiful day with highs in the mid-seventies and a fresh breath of cool air after the sun dropped. We watched some DJ who's name I don't recall spin deep house grooves on the stage at the corner of Hancock and Second, the Fisher Building framed perfectly in the background while several folks in the crowd danced awkwardly to the rhythm. One older woman herky jerked in circles with her eyes closed, slow stepping and placing alternating feet into an invisible bucket while balancing on one leg and making swimming motions with her hands.

I ran into Carl, Walt and Jerry, who casually handed me a printed card calling for entries to the next Dirty Show while mugging for Walt's camera phone, the resulting wave of his hand placed perfectly in the shot as though he were Tom Cruise avoiding the paparazzi. Walt gave out with his usual quackquackquack of a laugh when he saw it, his eyes closing to slits behind his glasses as his cheeks swelled with smile.

At some point during the evening, a friend and regular attendee herself told me that she had seen a photo of yours truly on the Dally website. “What was I doing?” I asked her. “You were standing right over there, with a beer in your hand, just like you are right now.”

Yesterday morning, remembering what she had said (in actuality I had scrawled a barely-legible note on a post-it the night before to remind me), I logged onto the Dally home page and searched through the pictures myself. It took a while, but I finally located the shot she had described in the photo album from 2003 and have included it here so you can see for yourself just how damned handsome, young and slim I looked a mere five years ago.

Of course, the fact that I was surrounded by Raging Grannies may have had something to do with that.

As Always, Looking Forward to the Fall,
Marty Sherman

Okay, folks, let me sum it up for you: The Republicans think that we are all so dumb (especially you women out there) that we will accept John McCain's surprise pick for Vice President, Alaska Governor Sarah Palin, as a thoughtful choice that takes into consideration her many skills as a leader and her vast (two years) experience as a governor. Since Hillary didn't get the nod from Barack, they think a certain percentage of us (again, you women out there) will vote the Republican ticket just because Palin is a woman and it's about goddamned time someone without a penis made it to the White House.

I ask you... Is that a good enough reason?

This pathetic ploy to make the Republican Party look more 'progressive' than the Democrats is just that. Selecting Palin to be next-in-line to run the world's largest democracy in the somewhat likely event that John McCain dies during his first term is an example of the kind of shallow political tactic that should immediately tell all of you who are on the fence as to which way to vote in November to run like hell for the other side!

By the way, I hope I don't piss anybody off, but if you are still undecided between McCain and Obama at this point, you are either a BIGOT or an IDIOT, and you shouldn't even be ALLOWED to vote!

Imagine...

A seventy-two-year-old John McCain becomes President and develops terminal brain cancer three years into his first term. Then recently-divorced, forty-five-year-old Sarah Palin, mother of six and three months pregnant with her seventh 'gift from God' (courtesy of John Edwards this time) takes over. Does that sound alright to you?

I know, I know... I'm exaggerating. I admit it. It's what I do. They told me in AA that we alcoholics all tend to play out the 'worst case scenario' in our heads. It helps us rationalize our drinking. But believe me there won't be enough beer in the world if anything close to what I've described above takes place. And even if you're a teetotaler, you'll need a drink. Trust me.

And trust is exactly what John McCain expects us to do, only this time we're supposed to trust his judgment. You decide. Here's a short list of Sarah Palin's 'accomplishments'...

-They had to go all they way back to high school basketball to prove that she's a go-getter. Palin was nicknamed 'Sarah Barracuda' because of not only her fiery on-court play, but because of her rabid enthusiasm in leading the team prayer prior to the games. She's a 'Barracuda of Prayer' as it turns out. Whatever happened to the separation between church and state?

-The former 'Miss Congeniality' and 'Miss Wasilla' was runner-up in the 1984 'Miss Alaska' beauty pageant, where she won a scholarship that allowed her to study at the prestigious institutions of Hawaii Pacific College and North Idaho College before earning her B.S. in Communications/Journalism from the University of Idaho in 1987. Sure, her creds are a little stronger than my B.F.A. from Western Michigan via Jackson Community College, but not all that much. At least I got my scholarship by passing a test that proved I was smart.

-She began her 'career' as a sports reporter in Anchorage before becoming mayor of Wasilla, garnering a whopping 909 votes.

-A former member of the Alaskan Independence Party (whose platform calls for Alaska to secede from the rest of the U.S.), Palin supported blowhard Pat Buchanan for president in 1996.

-Palin is against: legalizing marijuana, same-sex marriages, explicit sex education in public schools and abortion.

-Palin is for: Alaska oil drilling, the right to bear arms and capital punishment.

-Palin doesn't believe that global warming is caused by man.

-Palin is also under investigation for improper behavior in her firing of the Alaska Public Safety Commissioner for refusing under her orders to fire an Alaska state trooper (who also just happened to be Palin's former brother-in-law) after he tasered his ten-year-old stepson during the course of a messy divorce from Palin's sister Molly.

-The latest news is that Palin's seventeen-year-old daughter is pregnant out of wedlock, but plans to marry the child's eighteen-year-old father. How long do you give that marriage, folks? A year? Maybe two?

The whole thing sounds like it would make a good David Lynch movie, doesn't it?

And what really ground my ass was seeing former Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich (who doggedly pursued Bill Clinton's impeachment for purely political reasons while himself being found guilty of a number of House ethics violations) discuss Palin's relative experience on television this past weekend. That moron claimed she had more experience with the military than either Obama or Biden because she had run the National Guard in Alaska for the past two years! Gingrich also claimed she would be good because as governor of Alaska, Palin had to balance a state budget, unlike Senators Obama and Biden. Did the dumb bastard forget that George W. Bush has had a little trouble with the accounting during his eight years in office?

To end his little Q&A session, Gingrich opined with a smile that Palin's journalism background was interesting because it was the first time a former sports reporter had ever been on the ticket for the White House. There's a reason for that, Newt. Sports reporters AREN'T QUALIFIED TO BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!

I don't want to sound bigoted myself, but if the 'Geezer and the Bimbo' triumph in November over Obama's promise of hope and progressive change... well, I just might move my dumb ass to Canada. I hear the beer is stronger over there.

This week's Craig's List Girl, Dannie claims no political affiliation, although she always thought former President Clinton was 'hot'. Working the Anchorage page, Dannie does top-notch GFE, MIA, DOA but no CIM or BBBJ. Check her ad for rates.

Without help from a forensic pathologist, I couldn’t really be sure how Jackie had died. Other than some faint bruises on either side of her throat she didn't have a mark on her and there was no blood anywhere. I guessed that she had either hit her head during our struggle or that I had choked her...maybe a combination of both. As I saw it, it didn’t really matter at that point. She was dead and my goose would be cooked either way.

Even though the tape demonstrated evidence that I had acted in self-defense, they'd be able to pin a manslaughter charge on me at the very least, and probably more like murder-two. I would be found guilty and I'd do some serious time. What good would that do? I kept asking myself. Would it bring Jackie back? No. And I was no killer, in spite of the fact that my ex-wife was lying dead on my sofa.

I looked at the clock again: 7:05. I needed to get moving.

I went to the kitchen and put on some disposable vinyl gloves that I use when I’m cooking, then I went back to the living room and did a quick visual survey.

Jackie's hand bag was on the floor near her body and I popped open the clasp hoping to find a rental car key. If she had come by cab, I was sunk. The key was right on top and I let out a sigh of relief.

I dumped the entire contents of her purse on the dining room table: sunglasses, a wallet with over $300 cash and a hefty stack of credit cards in it, lipsticks, eye makeup, house keys, gum, mints, a couple of ink pens, a pair of wrinkled boarding passes and her cell phone. I picked up the phone, unlocked the keypad and checked her call log. It looked like the last call she had made was to her sister in L.A. around 11:30 the night before. A quick check of the boarding passes indicated that would have been around the time of her scheduled arrival at Detroit Metro. Probably just to let Sis know that her flight arrived okay, I thought. The call log also showed no received or missed calls since she landed, and none of the rest of the dialed numbers had local area codes. More good news. Unless she had spoken to somebody in person between the airport and my place, nobody should have known she made it this far.

First, I had to get rid of the car before she was reported missing and the police got involved. After that, I’d worry about the body. I figured that if I dumped the car somewhere, it would be at least a day before the cops started nosing around and a couple more days before they actually figured anything out. Plenty of time, I thought.

I looked out the kitchen window and saw a white Mustang parked across the street in front of the house next door. The car key in her purse was from a Ford so the Mustang had to be Jackie's rental. My luck was holding. She hadn't pulled into the driveway, so the car wouldn't be immediately associated with me unless somebody saw her park it then walk up to my door. Since I lived right across from a water treatment plant and the house next door was vacant, I was pretty sure that nobody would have seen anything. It had been late. A forty-minute drive from the airport put her here well past midnight on a weeknight. I crossed my fingers and rolled the dice.

After making sure the place was locked up, I went out the side door, slid into the rental car and started it up. Nice car, that Mustang. Jackie always did have good taste in cars.

With the disposable gloves still on, I drove the car several blocks away to a particularly desolate area just off Van Dyke. It looked more like a war zone than a neighborhood, with burned out homes and empty lots filled with rubbish and piles of tires as high as your head. I parked the car in a driveway next to one of the shabbier abandoned houses on the block, pulled it as far off the street as possible and left it, keys still in the ignition. Candy to a baby.

It wouldn’t be hard to imagine a woman from out of town getting lost in this area and being car-jacked, robbed and killed. Happened all the time in Detroit, I told myself. All the time.

I took half of the money from her wallet, then dropped her purse near a rusted out 55 gallon drum around which a group of crack-heads could often be seen socializing. My hope was that somebody would find the money and credit cards, try to use them, get caught and be arrested. With any luck, they’d get a quick conviction on something even if the cops couldn’t turn up a body. Case closed and I’m home free.

I pocketed the gloves then strolled back to my house as nonchalantly as possible while my gut churned and I worried about being seen. A dog yelped in the distance. I could feel the humidity already in the morning air, sweat soaking through my shirt at the arm pits. Except for the dog and the chatter of birds, there were no other signs of life on my way back. I still hadn't seen a soul by the time the house came into view.

This thing is far from over, though, I thought. Now what in the hell am I going to do with Jackie’s body?


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Most of you out there probably don't even know who our 'Ass' is this week, even after looking at her photo. Well, allow me to enlighten you. She's Monica Conyers, wife of Congressman John Conyers and a member of the hilariously dysfunctional Detroit City Council. Believe me though, had you been staying at the Magnolia Hotel in Denver during the Democratic National Convention this past week, you'd damn well know who she is because she would have damn well made sure you knew.

According to police reports, Mrs. Conyers was upset with her accommodations and threw a very public fit in the hotel lobby. Expecting a suite instead of a room for four with two beds (so that she and her husband could sleep in one room while their teenage sons masturbated in another), Conyers actually called the cops herself, protesting to them that the lone Denver police officer assigned to the hotel for security during the Convention was 'rude'.

Eventually the staff was able to make Queen Conyers comfortable, but the funny part of the whole incident is this: she has denied that any of it ever even happened, claiming to be asleep in her room at the time of the disturbance, despite the fact that police records show a call to them from her very own cell phone.

I'm not sure what kind of coverage this story got on a national level, but it was all over the radio and television for the past three days here in Motown. And, along with the ongoing scandal surrounding Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick, it was absolutely the last thing beleaguered Detroiters needed to hear. We thought we'd managed to avoid the national spotlight when that judge ordered Kwame to stay in town and remain electronically tethered because of his recent probation violations.

Did I mention that Conyers is also under investigation by the FBI for allegedly taking bribes in exchange for voting to award city contracts, and that an indictment is almost certainly forthcoming? To make matters worse, she's also in line to become City Council President if current President Ken Cockrel Jr. has to take over the Mayor's office once Kilpatrick is forced off the throne.

Is it any wonder that Barack Obama is a little worried about coming to Michigan, a state which he desperately needs if he has any hope (audacious or otherwise) of beating John McCain in November? How's this for a photo op?... the first African-American presidential nominee from a major political party standing between Mayor Kwame and Councilwoman Conyers on the stage at Hart Plaza for this weekend's Jazz Festival!

The Republican election machine would have a freaking field day with that one.

Speaking of the Jazz Festival, there's another great lineup this year. I'm planning on attending a couple of days, Saturday's highlights being an afternoon performance by bassist/vocalist Esperanza Spalding, a set by legendary sax player Sonny Fortune and Lalah Hathaway on the Main Stage to close the evening.

Let's see, that's five hours at two 12 oz. beers per hour... ten beers at $7.50 each... of course you have to buy tickets so I'll probably go home with a few but I'll figure $75.00 just to make the math easy. Add in another $15 for snacks and miscellaneous and for just under a hundred bucks, the whole show is free!

One last thing about Conyers... Don't look directly in her eyes for too long or you risk turning into stone.

Today's Craig's List girl is a hometown favorite here in Detroit. Rose is available for early meetings, lunch quickies and full evenings on the town. Her services are for 'companionship' only and any other arrangements that may be agreed upon will be between consenting adults. And get this, she accepts all major credit cards and has a few girlfriends she can call if you're up for more than one at a time. By the way, that's not a tan line; she's wearing a pale flesh-colored bikini.

It was brought to my attention recently that this column never actually 'raves' about anything. “It's supposed to be rants AND raves,” one reader wrote. “Don't you like anything?” The simple answer to that would be 'not really'.

After checking the definition of 'rave' at Mirriam-Webster's Online Dictionary, I understood her point, though. In the context of 'ranting and raving' it is implied that the 'rants' are lengthy tirades from a negative point of view, and conversely the 'raves' are usually boisterously enthusiastic positive opinions about something, as in 'I rave about the beauty of Pam Grier'.

However, depending on the usage of the word, 'rave' can also mean 'to talk irrationally in or as if in delirium', which isn't altogether wrong as it pertains to the content of this column. You've read a few. I do rave.

Anyway, long story short, I've decided to rename the column in the spirit of keeping things simple. I think you'll agree that BITCH BITCH BITCH is more in line with my personality, but I reserve the right to occasionally spew forth enthusiastic praise whenever I deem it appropriate.

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Now that the Olympics are drawing to a close I have a few things to get off my chest...

I'm sick and tired of nicknames for the USA basketball team. You know what I'm talking about: 'The Real Dream Team'...'The Redeem Team'... Who cares? The Olympic basketball finals have turned into the American NBA All Stars versus the Spanish NBA All Stars. And if we send our best starting five, we will win EVERY SINGLE TIME!

Nation against nation? Christ! Pau Gasol and Kobe Bryant are frigging teammates during the rest of the year and one of the best guys on the Russian team is J.R. Holden! He's from Pittsburgh, people! Pittsburgh, PA, USA!

And even though the USA women's basketball team has run the table for four straight Olympics, they should stop comparing themselves to the men. A good high school men's team could beat the best women's team in the world! It's not even the same sport! That being said, I have to say that Candace Parker is a hottie and I'd root for her even if I was watching her compete in a potato chip eating contest.

Talk about fun to watch, when did beach volleyball become an Olympic sport? I'm not gonna lie, I like the bouncing up and down and the near nakedness of the women, but come on! Beach volleyball is about as much of a sport as mud wrestling is! Say, that's not a bad idea. Olympic mud wrestling... it has a nice ring to it.

You know I watched a lot of the swimming and I must say that the so-called 'expert' commentators completely ruined each and every race I saw, especially the relay race where the US passed the French in that miraculous finish. The dumb bastard that was supposed to be the 'expert' opined non-stop about how the French were unbeatable and he just couldn't see the United States winning. Right up until they won, that is. I almost turned the channel just from listening to his constant negativity.

And the commercials... Shit! During one heat of the women's 800 meter freestyle they went to an ad break right in the middle of the race! Damn! The race itself was barely eight minutes long! You mean to tell me they can't go eight minutes without showing a goddamn car commercial?

No more synchronized diving! Diving one at a time is plenty! Who came up with this? A bunch of gay guys who wanted to see two young lithe male bodies twisting in unison during endless slow motion replays of each and every dive, that's who. And it has to stop.

Speaking of stopping... Stop counting the medals! The Chinese have declared themselves 'winners' because as of this writing they have an insurmountable lead in gold medals. Who gives a shit? They have the most populated country in the world, which means they should have a pretty good crop of athletes to select from, especially since they've started growing them to genetic perfection from the time they were unfertilized eggs! Plus, everybody knows that the total medal count is the true measure of which country 'wins' this thing, and it looks like the good ol' US of A has that pretty much sewn up. Again.

Finally, in a world faced with global warming and constantly shrinking resources, why in the hell do we have to move this thing around every four years and erect billions of dollars worth of fancy arenas that will ultimately end up being underutilized and eventually torn down? Let's do the Summer games in Athens every single time. They can move the Winter Olympics around to wherever they have snow.

And I don't mean in Dubai, where those idiots have built an indoor ski resort right in the middle of the Arabian Desert!

* * * * * * * * * * *

Oh, and I almost forgot... Kudos to MSNBC for selecting the hotter than hot Tamron Hall to host their Olympic updates from New York. Since I don't have cable myself I've been forced to watch her at my local sports bar on the big screen with the sound off. Last night she was wearing this low-cut red dress and her smiling cleavage kept Li'l Marty at attention even after four tall Blue!

Check out Tamron crossing her beautiful legs on YouTube and you'll see exactly what I mean!

Dear Lyzako,

Looking at the calendar I realize that not even a week has passed since my previous letter, but I feel the need to update you on my status as a soon-to-be ex-husband (finally!).

The soon-to-be ex-Mrs. stopped by last night with a form for me to sign acknowledging the divorce complaint. After carefully checking to be sure that it was as simple as she had described and that the box next to 'No property to be divided' was clearly marked, I signed. Now we wait six weeks and voila!... my marriage is no more!

She came by on short notice and I wasn't in the best of moods. I'd been out in the garage for an hour, just getting into the swing of forgetting about another bad work day, toiling away at one of my personal projects and humming along to the new Erykah Badu CD when she arrived and marched straight into the house without knocking, despite my calls to her that I wasn't even in there.

We eventually made our way into the kitchen together where I cleared some space on one end of the table and sat down to read the thing over, doing my best to imitate Ed Norton's armflap show prior to putting my signature down in ballpoint.

“Where do I sign?” She flipped the double-sided document over and pointed towards the bottom.

“Here.”

As I read the line just above the space where I was supposed to make my mark, I saw another blank line with the word 'Attachments' next to it. “What's this?” I asked.

“Oh, I don't know. Dat's nothing,” she decided. I read a little more.

“Oh, I see,” I said. “I'm just acknowledging that I've received a copy of these papers and instead of you suing me and the court sending someone over, you're doing that part.”

“Yes,” she said, drawing out the 's' at the end like the hiss of a snake. “I'm just servicing you with papers.” I'd forgotten how cute I once thought her Portuguese accent was and how funny some of her grammatical mistakes were when she spoke English.

“Just for the record,” I said, “You're not 'servicing' me. You're 'serving' me with papers.”

“Oh, yah,” she said with a smile and a hint of shy giggle once she'd realized the implication of what 'servicing' me actually meant.

She looked good, better than when we were together. Since running afoul of the credit card company she'd lost the resources for her weekly manicures so her fingernails were natural and short, just as they had been when I met her and just as I'd always preferred. And her hair, though still adorned with unnatural extensions tied in, was short and easier to believe than the lengthy braids which she wore at the time of our parting.

I had pulled what was left of the pan of chicken wings I'd smoked on Sunday from the fridge and was planning on having a few for dinner. There were four left so I asked her if she wanted to try them. She shook her head. “Are you sure? They're really good, but I've been eating them all week. Help me out and take a couple with you.”

“Well,” she said as she eyed them. “I guess I'll take one.”

“Once you eat one you're going to be mad at yourself for not taking two.”

“Den I'll take the two big ones.”

And that, my friend, in a nutshell, was how the whole shebang went sour in the first place.

To Life!
Marty Sherman

My Dear Lyzako,

Life. It sure is a funny thing. And by funny, I do mean strange. It can be downright hilarious, too, of course, but sometimes in order to laugh at life, one must cultivate a particularly twisted sense of humor as pertains to it. As luck would have it, this past weekend provided me with several contrasting experiences that illustrated life's strangeness, both laughable and otherwise, which have left me wondering if I have enough of a sense of humor to make it through to the end.

It also gave me something to write about.

First off, we had a glorious summer day here in Michigan on Saturday. My morning walk took me towards the city offices and through the park, where several groups were planning picnics for later in the afternoon. Even though it was before nine o'clock, the early birds had already begun staking their claims to shady areas by covering the picnic tables with colorful paper tablecloths and posting signs to identify the groups. One inventive person had even used some of that yellow 'CAUTION' tape, wrapping it around the trunks of a stand of trees that surrounded a handful of tables on the far west side of the park.

As the cicadas trilled high in the oaks, smooth jazz played on portable stereos and charcoal was being lit in preparation for a low and slow fire for the ribs that would be served for lunch. Upon passing a pair of fifty-five gallon drum smokers trucked in for one church group's picnic, I encountered an older gentleman power-walking towards me and perspiring profusely. “I think I'll just go over there and sit down until that stuff is ready,” he said after catching a whiff of the charcoal.

I chuckled and said: “You'll probably be waiting a while, but it's a perfect day for it.” And it was.

Saturday evening I attended the Tigers/Orioles game at Comerica Park with an old buddy from high school. Our perfect summer day had slowly evolved into a perfect night for baseball - eighty degrees and sunny at game time with a cool breeze blowing in out of the west.

We sat twelve rows up behind the Tigers' on-deck circle surrounded by families with annoying children. Still they were the best seats I'd ever had and I enjoyed the game immensely, despite the fact that several of the fidgety young ones behind me kicked at the seat backs and one very cute but evil six-year-old girl sitting in front of me held up a tiny 'Go Tigers!' sign made from a sheet of typing paper being sure to completely block my view of the batter as she did so. I know it was intentional because prior to holding the sign up she looked right at me with that glint in her eye that let me know if I were a turtle, she'd turn me on my back and see how long it took me to die.

Four beers helped me forget the evil little girl and the Tigers won 5-3. As we crossed Woodward heading back to the car, fireworks shot up over the stadium against the night sky, a full moon hanging like a silver disk in the background. Suddenly I remembered a scene on the way in as we approached the ball park, one that had made me wince upon seeing it.

We were trailing a group of jersey- and ball-cap-clad couples up the crowded sidewalk before the game, one woman with astonishingly flawless legs, her bronzed flesh on display from instep to crotch thanks to a pair of heeled sandals and some extremely short shorts. Back in the day we called them 'hot pants', and hers truly were. I couldn't take my eyes off of her until I heard one obnoxious member of their group drunkenly yell: “Take my picture with the bum!”

The next thing I knew my buddy and I had overtaken the group as they all stopped to pose, their arms draped over the shoulders of a toothless, unshaven black man who laughed and smiled right along with the white suburbanites, hoping to panhandle a couple of bucks out of them in exchange for his humiliation. I heard the photographer say something like, “You're bad” to the guy who had originally suggested the photo-op, but other than that they all just laughed as though bums were put on this earth for their personal amusement.

Sunday was a good day, too. Prior to coming home and grilling some chicken wings and sausages, I had stopped at BW3 for my usual. They had the front open to the street and passersby were soaking up the final hours of the Dream Cruise which had taken place the day before. The room was comfortably uncrowded and I took some pleasure in watching the end of the Tigers' afternoon game on the big screen in between glimpses outside.

I had just become pleasantly fuzzy when a handful of loud folks crossed Nine Mile and caught my attention. There were three adults, two men and a pear-shaped woman, along with a chubby pre-teen girl with straight red hair. The woman was pushing a modified stroller containing one of the adults, his body twisted and robbed of control by what appeared to be cerebral palsy.

The pear-shaped woman had got the stroller stuck on the curb and was yelling at the other man to help her with it as the handicapped guy wriggled and waved soundlessly in front of her. Her companion (I assumed it was her husband) seemed perturbed at having to deal with the situation, and instead of just helping her push, he reached in and casually lifted the guy with palsy up until the woman was able to get the stroller off the curb, then callously dumped the guy with a bounce back into the stroller, complaining the entire time as they passed out of sight.

From beginning to end the event took no more than two seconds, but witnessing that man casually treat another human being like he was a sack of groceries made me think of the bum and the suburbanites from the previous night and it was all I could do to get my thoughts back to the positive side. I suppose I could have found some humor in both scenes had I allowed it, but I just couldn't. It took three more tall Blues plus quite a few more here at home to forget about the cold, cruel world and how truly funny life can be.

By the way, the Tigers lost the afternoon game 16-8. At least we picked the right one to attend.

All My Best to You and Yours,
Marty Sherman

By the time the tape had rewound half-way, the reels started moving slower until they eventually whispered to a halt. Damn. The batteries were dead.

After rushing to the kitchen and finding no fresh ones in the junk drawer, I grabbed the remote for the stereo, snapped off the cover on the back and tapped the two AAs inside it onto the coffee table. Fumbling with thick and trembling fingers, I eventually managed to transfer them to the tape recorder and fast-forwarded to the point where I could hear Jackie knocking at the door.

As I listened to the sounds of what had happened, it felt as though my heart would burst, systole and diastole audibly pumping heat and pain and sorrow throughout every inch of my body. Flashes of memory caused me to close my eyes tight as blurred snapshots from the previous evening began to flood my alcohol-addled brain. It was all there...the argument, the fight, her screams and finally, the sounds of my heavy breathing as I shuffled out of the living room, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor as I made my way to bed. Then silence.

It had been only a matter of ten minutes or so, but they were ten minutes of absolute horror that had changed my life forever. I remembered...

She had knocked on the door while I was working - both on that first million-dollar idea and on my second pitcher of martinis. It was obvious when listening to the playback that I was more than a little drunk. Our divorce wasn’t yet final and Jackie was after more money, even though she had bled me dry before I moved here from L.A. She took the beach house and the majority of our savings, while I was left with just enough in my bank account to rent a broken down bungalow in one of the seedier neighborhoods on Detroit’s east side. I remember her attorney at the time calling it ‘fair’.

During my relocation to Motown the previous winter I had been very careful to cover my tracks. No land line telephone. No forwarding address. I was hoping for a fresh start and, most importantly, to never see Jackie again. She shouldn’t have been able to find me so quickly.

As the tape continued to play, amid her shouts and my slurred exclamations I heard Jackie mention the name 'Andy' more than once. The same Andy I had run into in lockup that weekend I spent in Oakland County for DUI. The very same Andy who was Jackie's cousin. And even though I couldn't remember telling him where I lived, it must have been Andy who ratted me out.

At some point during the argument Jackie had turned up the heat, like she was so good at doing. She always knew just which buttons to push to send me over the edge and she had pushed like there was no tomorrow that night...calling me names, spitting at me and eventually brandishing the aluminum softball bat that I kept in the umbrella stand near the door.

She was feisty, I had to hand it to her. It was one of the things I used to like about her, but with a bat in her hand and Jackie pissed at me, her feisty nature was a definite negative. She had a swing like Barry Bonds going for Aaron's record and the first one had hit me high on my left arm. When I pulled the injured arm away Jackie had swung again, lower this time, the bat striking me hard in the ribs. I winced as I remembered the pain shooting through me from that blow, the resulting uncontrollable rage that followed as I saw red and the real violence commenced.

That was the last I remembered, really. Even on the tape, what happened after that was kind of hard to decipher. There was the sound of glass breaking, some grunts and groans, a scream or two and that was pretty much it.

I turned off the recorder and looked out the window. It was just starting to get light outside and the clock on the living room wall said it was a quarter to seven. Birds were chirping, a new day was dawning and Jackie was still dead.

My head throbbed. I began to formulate a plan.


1... 2...

Can you believe the NFL has started playing already? Where the fuck has the summer gone?

Oh well, what are you gonna do? Ask four rhetorical questions in a row? I guess Steve Miller was right: “Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'... into the future...” Man, that guy was a visionary.

But Brett Favre... well, he's another story.

I remember watching this boob break down like a little girl when he announced his retirement at the end of last season. There's been speculation all summer that he was going to try to come back and he even got in some hot water for illegally contacting the Minnesota Vikings to discuss it.

It took months to come up with a solution that everybody could live with, and now finally the Packers have announced that Favre will be traded to the Jets for some sort of future draft pick. I can't for the life of me figure out what took so long, but thank the gods it's over.

Now I can get back to worrying about whether those poor Olympic athletes will get asthma from breathing Beijing's polluted air.

Speaking of sports in general, though, there's just waaaaayyyy too much of it these days, professional or otherwise. The television coverage is non-stop, too, and of course, NFL quarterbacks and Olympians top the list in terms of prestige. But you also have thousands of other people trying to eke out a living playing things like professional lacrosse (really, there is a league!) and soccer (indoors and out), not to mention bowling, cycling and mixed martial arts fighting.

Hmmm... that gives me an idea: maybe they should combine those last three and we can watch heavily tattooed guys on bicycles trying to kill each other with bowling balls.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Brett Favre. You know, when the guy was just playing and keeping his mouth shut I didn't really have a problem with him. But now that this on-again-off-again retirement fiasco has put him in the news more often than the Iraq War, I'm just sick to fucking death of him.

In my opinion, if you hold a fucking press conference and announce to the world that you are going to retire from your sport of choice, you should have to sit out for a year. Any contractual obligations you had to the team or they had to you are null and void, including future salary. So go watch the games on TV for a season. That's retirement. If you still feel like coming back after that, then you can sign as a free agent with whatever team is interested in you.

Try telling your boss at the end of the day today that you've had enough and it's time to move on. I'll bet he has somebody new sitting at your fucking desk trying to look busy by lunchtime tomorrow.

I'm just glad Favre went to the AFC, because if he'd gone to Tampa Bay like they speculated he might, we weary Lions fans would have had to deal with him on a regular basis, and that would have been cruel. It would have meant that for a couple of games each season Favre's antics might distract us from our serious routine of watching the home town boys discover a new way to lose each week.

Speaking of which, notice he didn't get in trouble for illegally talking to Lions' management.

He may be an ass but he's not completely stupid.

Trish 'The Dish' is a Florida girl born and raised, and you'll find her plying her trade on the Miami page. Not only does she claim to have the 'phattest booty' on Craig's List, Trish also promises to be the 'perfect stress reliever' after your long day of work. Upscale gentlemen preferred. Check out her 'blow-and-go' special on Sundays during football season for a mere 'forty roses'.

Well, finally! A precious minute to myself.

First off: How the hell are you all? Good, good. Glad to hear it. Me? Oh, I'll get by. Between long days of meaningless work and the inevitable Happy Hours that follow, I've been pretty busy lately. So you have to forgive me for not writing much.

I haven't even had the time to get all the 'Spooge' out of my system.

But seriously... I know most of you don't even bother to read this drivel that I type out here. Since my Tracksy account went into limbo I've been using good old Google Analytics to track my visitors and the overwhelming majority of you are still hunting for porn links. Good luck with that. You'll find a few good ones on the right over there, including one of my favorites, The Vintage Erotica Forum.

And I never realized until recently how obsessed some of you are with news anchorwomen. We have some hot ones in the Detroit area (as I'm sure you must have in other parts of the country) and there seems to be an endless fascination with their marital status. Wake up, guys. Even if Fanchon Stinger is getting a divorce, I doubt she'd rebound by jumping right into the arms of a middle-aged man who's been essentially stalking her via the Internet.

I thought you might find them funny, though, so here are a few recent news anchor-related keyword searches:

ama daetz reporter... ama daetz youtube... ama daetz/nude... carmen harlan divorce... carmen harlan free nude pics... "carolyn clifford" news anchor fight... "fanchon stinger" "carolyn clifford" fight... "fanchon stinger" "married to"... "fanchon stinger" "trainer"... "fanchon stinger"+divorced,... fanchon stinger i choose ama daetz glenda lewis carolyn clifford... fanchon stinger in trouble... fanchon stinger nude... and my favorite... how tall is ama daetz.

Does it really fucking matter how tall Ama is? Are you trying to figure out if the lingerie you bought for your inflatable love doll will fit her? And, listen, Carmen Harlan is an attractive woman. No doubt about that. Why, on one memorable broadcast I saw, she was wearing a low-cut black leather top and I have to admit to getting a little swollen in the lap department myself. But come on, people. She's got to be pushing sixty. Do you really want to see her 'nude'?

The naked celebrity and porn searches are funny, too:

"brown boobs"... k.d. aubert buttcrack... lela rochon buttcrack... unfastened zipper down lesbian (What?)... arcieri leila sexy feet and toes... and the piece de resistance... "mr. president" "oval office" "hard cock"!

Oh, sure, I still get a few folks looking for legitimate information on people like Gil Scott-Heron, Yma Sumac and Dianna Rigg, but it seems the vast majority of readers are looking to see them either naked or dressed in latex.

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Yesterday I was watching the big screen at Happy Hour - sports news on ESPN25 or some shit like that. During the commercial breaks they repeatedly showed a 30-second spot for Quizno's that featured an old Chinese woman eating a five dollar bill. She's working at a laundromat and the bill is taped to the wall like maybe it's the first money she ever made when she opened the joint up. Suddenly, she just peels Old Abe off the wall and stuffs him into her mouth while a disclaimer appears across the bottom of the screen: “Dramatization. Do not attempt.”

What? Is it gonna kill you to eat some fucking paper? And isn't the fact that she's Chinese and working the counter at a laundromat somewhat racially stereotypical? What's next? A black guy who's a pimp eating five dollars' worth of extra large condoms?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Say, I was just reading through this again before I post it; you know... checking for spelling glitches and grammatical errors. Well, when I reread the part about Carmen Harlan wearing that black leather top... I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but I chubbed up again. So if you do happen to stumble across some 'free nude pics' of Carmen (even just nip slips or buttcrack), please send me a link at: coolhandmarty@gmail.com. Please.

I guess it turns out I wouldn't mind taking a gander at her naked body after all.