I’m really not sure why it is that the Ouija people keep asking me if this Bashar al-Assad guy has shown up here — first, because if you follow the papers at all, you’d know that he didn’t get capped by a bodyguard; and second, because — not to be all judgmental and shit, because that’s not me — but the dude sounds like a total cock bag who was never into like, peace, or love, or harmony, or sexual experimentation, or the egalitarian anti-authoritarianism of Crystal Meth-and-Seagram’s-Coolers parties, which allow those free spirits with the courage to unfetter their minds to strip down to their very essence as beings and throw off the chains of social convention that keep us from really feeling all it is that we as humans can feel.

While we’re alive, I mean.  Now, everything just feels kind of like, gummy.

— Which then begs the question, what makes anyone think such a tight-assed brute would even be allowed into Heaven to party with me and Whitney and Dana Plato to begin with?  Or if he were, that we’d have anything to do with him?

Unless, you know, he’s freakin’ loaded.    Because it turns out, recessions are as metaphysical as they are local and material.  And a boy needs his Hot Pockets.  And his Tuaca.

I know.  Who knew, right?