February 23, 2005

Contrary to all appearances, I have not fully abandoned my endeavor here, though I know my actions often suggest otherwise. Blame the bright, shiny objects which constantly draw my attentions elsewhere. I cannot resist their allure. But enough chit chat. Time to fill a few column inches while sobriety still maintains its shaky hold on my being.

First, a few random thoughts.

Is that fucking Hootie? It is, isn't it. Good sweet Lord. I imagine some sort of pseudo 90s-homage ironic casting is the idea at work here, accentuated by a hefty payment for a half day's work, but all due meta-awareness aside, there is but a stone's throw from Hootie shilling Burger King to Suzanne Somer's legendary Thigh Master work. Fucking Hootie needs another hit, or I fear Tijuana-based gay porn is the next and final stop on his semi-melodic, easy-listening downward spiral. Poor fucking Hootie.

The overly hyped Super Bowl commercials blew. Hard. Except for the one you had some connection to, of course. That one was ok. But the rest blew. Damn, they blew.

You mean time sheets aren't always entirely accurate? I, for one, am shocked. Shocked, I say. Shocked.

I have lost interest altogether in the so-called, self-perpetuating Beer Wars. Though with every broadside, I am sure there is a brand manager high-fiving a sycophantic toady, with assurances that their latest effort "really put those bastards in their fucking place." Right.

Whatever happened to Nike's ad budget? Do they still do TV, or are monies now focused on various internet/viral efforts which fly so far below the radar they clip low standing buildings? I'm curious.

Second, a warning.

Recently, it has come to my attention certain individuals are attempting to take credit for my several years of rumor-mongering and public self-flagellation. A pox on their houses, I say. Goddamned publicity-whoring leaches. Pay no heed to whatever they say, for they do not speak for I. And fear not, as I will not let their loose lipped ways endanger this dialogue which serves to quiet my soul. My cadre of blood-thirsty, flesh-craving chimpanzees will soon make short work of them and their kind, of this you can be sure. Fie! The more of I think of their treachery, the more I feel the need to retreat to the bar for a well earned Old Fashioned and a block of Turkish hashish the size of my fist. Yes, that time has come and my attentions have been pulled elsewhere once again. I bid you adieu.