2002-07-25 - 3:48 p.m.
I think Uncle Bob’s got a fantastic idea here. Except that I’d let Gimpy win--by biting, by doing the patented ball-snatch-grab-and-half-twist, or simply by taunting his opponent with such unrestrained cruelty that he sinks into a suicidal depression and blows his head off right there in the ring.
Plus, Gimpy is too weak a name. I’d call him "Graf Helmut von Krueppelschlagen."
And I’d schedule his championship match right opposite the Jerry Lewis Telethon.
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Speaking of which, I’m going to be visiting friends in Portland over Labor Day weekend this year. Meaning that I’m going to be so busy carousing, debauching and book-shopping that there’s very little chance that I might be channel-surfing one afternoon, accidentally stumble across the Jerry Lewis Telethon,and be driven into such a rage by all the mawkish pity-mongering and degradation of innocent poster children that I go shoot up a Denny’s or drive my van through the middle of the telethon with a nuclear warhead strapped to my waist. Meaning that those friends of mine who dread the approach of Labor Day each year for this very reason can rest easy.
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So I got together for drinks with Dlove Tuesday night and at one point we tossed around the idea of a Diaryland convention.
The more I think about it, the more I like it. We could even have it here. Our convention center was recently expanded, and it annually plays host to a gathering of a couple of hundred thousand comics geeks--I can’t imagine the personal hygiene of Diarylanders is anywhere near as bad as theirs. Just think--we can start things off the first morning with ComfortFood’s Lesbian Pancake Breakfast, then break into small groups for one of Badsnake’s flogging seminars (intermediate to advanced). Later on, Uncle Bob’s coke-sniffing brother-in-law could present his latest performance-art piece for us all, Gawain and I could deliver a joint keynote speech on our various plans to take over/destroy the world, JerseyGrrl could give fingerprinting lessons, and a grand prize of $1,000,000 could be given away to whoever answers the eternal question, "WHERE THE FUCK IS TURTLEGUY???"
We would have to decide how to deal with all the emo kids who’d show up, though. I’m thinking boiling oil, myself.
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I would have updated yesterday but it was way too hot to write. Really. It doesn’t often get mindnumbingly hot in this part of town but there are always at least a few days in July or August when the temperature goes up, the offshore breeze stops, and my brain turns to lukewarm pinkish-gray snot. I could hardly put two words together to form a sentence yesterday.
On the other hand, the nights are hot too, and that’s great. I loooove hot summer nights. Now that I’m on an upper floor I can throw open the windows without fear of crackheads or pedophiliac ex-priests climbing through them. It’s too hot to sleep but I find I need less sleep anyway. It’s balmy. Sultry. Sexy. If I were William Hurt in Body Heat I’d have been fucking Kathleen Turner in the ass last night.
Um. That was an image no one really needed, huh?
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