Just because I don’t get the point of this stupid post doesn’t mean I believe there isn’t one — or that it isn’t somehow aimed at me. In fact, I can almost hear you laughing right now. Dick.

Looks good from where I’m sitting — on a friend’s patio, clutching some fruity libation brimming with tequila and orange slices, and shaded by its own garish paper umbrella. — Which, I must say, is better than the party last Labor Day weekend, when I drank a bottle of Añejo without the frills and woke up in the clutches of some garish fruit who kept himself shaded with a pastel

Wanna know the best thing about finding Jesus? The wine. And them fine crackers. — To think, all this time I’ve been eating caviar and goose liver off the crusts of Pop-Tarts like some black Jethro Clampett. No more. Jesus has shown this brother the way…!

Did I mention I found Jesus? Because I did — lounging in the back of my stretch Hummer, sipping Cristal out of a Nike hightop cleat. — Which, it turns out, happened just in the nick of time, because word on the street is, St Francis of Assisi was so pissed off he was looking to corner me in a shower stall and whip my Black ass with one of

Really. I am. Like, right now.

God, how I hate me. — Though on the plus side, these Zanella linen trousers make my fabulous ass look even more fabulous! — if such a thing is possible…*

Realism. Which is like nuance, only without the defeatism, and all the wine socials.

How can I be sure / that the head on the door / is a Jew monkey pig’s?