The youngest singers on American Idol last night were born in 1991-1992. They were tasked with singing tunes from the '60s, which would be the same as someone my age singing songs from the '40s.
Just in case you didn't have anything that depressed the SHIT out of you today.
Motherfucker, you old.
In college, cleanliness is a relative term. Physically, I mean.
Say, in a totally hypothetical example, that someone were to
toss you a slice of pizza from across the room on a Sunday morning, because
your body is physically incapable of generating foodstuffs on its own and is
also incapable of moving the two and a half feet to the pizza box.
And say, again hypothetically, that the aforementioned pizza
were to overshoot your location and land on the floor nearby. Then say, for example, that within the last
24 hours someone else’s balls had been very near the exact spot on the floor
where the pizza has landed (for reasons that I will not hypothetically go into
here). Or, if you’re making your own
example at home, they could hypothetically have been your own balls.
Point is, in college, the mind does an excellent job of
blocking out the hypothetical facts of nearly any given hypothetical real situation.
And so, you slowly reach for the balls-adjacent slice and
lightly brush it off before shoving it whole into your mouth. Then the orgasming can begin. Such is the importance of a higher
education.
The concept of clean and unclean is rarely even considered
during those formative years. Take
showering, for instance. The idea that,
at any point, one would need to clean one’s washcloth and towel seemed
preposterous. Washcloth even has the
word “wash” right there in it, if you look closely. Your washcloth and towel are constantly getting wet and are often
in the same room as soap particles. A
bathroom is basically a washing machine at a macro level, right? Sure it is.
The fact that I even used a washcloth should represent how
advanced I was compared to the rest of the unwashed masses. An alumni once saw me pick up my washcloth
and let out a disgusted UUUUuurrgggghhh sound. The washcloth tended to dry out and hold the form of whatever it had
landed on when I was done with it.
“How can you use that to wash yourself? That’s disgusting!” he’d naively yelped.
“It’s just really dry in this house,” I remember justifying,
“and besides, have you seen the shower downstairs? This washcloth is the least of my worries.”
It was true. One wall of the shower I used throughout most of my collegiate career was made of stacked stone that had been painted with some kind of mold-compliant whitewash. The perfect storm of filth and damp worked their magic in time and spots of black fungus began to form. Cute little furry Tribbles of fungus at first, there to watch the naked parade. Over time, however, the mold got mixed up in some nasty business with the local toughs and soon the entire wall was a black hole of yeast. It was downright awkward to shower in there, the wall looking at you, trying to sell you crank. It wasn’t so bad that anyone who showered there felt any sort of compulsion to actually clean the wall, but it was quite unsettling nonetheless.
Interesting side effect to the tolerance of the muck,
however. With the questionably edible
food and the black fungus shower and drinking whatever anyone put in a glass in
front of you and putting your penis into whatever vagina someone put in front
of you, one begins to feel relatively invincible against the common germ.
Colds and flus and pneumonias would routinely walk up and
slap me hard in the face with a white glove. I would simply laugh and point to the shower wall, which would then
whisper, “Yo, influennnnzaaahhh, I’m holding, baby. You want jus' a little taste, maybe?”
I continue to harbor residual smugness in the battle with germs. But germs, they have a way of getting back at you. Ways that make you pray for death. Which is the exact situation I found myself at 3:30 in the morning in the Heavenly Bed of my hotel room.
Next: Part Two – This Flounder Is Delicious!
(I was out of town on business last week. Though I had every intention of writing, that intention was co-opted by sleep.)
When I was young and adorable and all parts of me were wrapped tightly in virginity, I was asked by a friend to attend a sleepover "lock-in" party at his church. My parents approved, obviously, as God would be monitoring the situation. Though my friend wasn't Catholic, as I was, he was of a brand of religion known to be even more restrictive and devout, which had the tempered orgasmic blessing of my parents.
By restrictive, I mean that my friend wasn't allowed to get sexual education instruction at our school with the rest of the class. He was made to sit quietly in the library while the rest of us sat stunned in front of a series of movies that made our pants tighten and our stomachs knot. When he'd walk back in the room every day after our sex ed was complete, we'd all give him knowing glances even though we had no idea what the hell we just witnessed. All we knew was that we sure as hell weren't getting within ten feet of a vagina. Turns out, those things bleed, dude. I'll stick to my Star Wars action figures, thankyouverymuch.
By devout, I mean that it was the goal of the flock of my friend's particular religion (and, I suppose, most religions) to spread their word like manure across the countryside. That's not a knock against his religion, it's just that I'm from Iowa and we like to use manure in most of our analogies.
Anyway, there I was, sitting in a chair in front of two adult members of his congregation in the basement of a school or possibly a church or an abandoned mental institution or slaughterhouse (my memory is fuzzy on this point), and they were discussing the finer points of their God (who, I believe it was implied, could totally kick the ass of my God). There seemed to be a distinct emphasis on this being the "locked-in" part of the evening. We'd already been bowling and they'd fed us and given us plenty of sugary drinks. But now, as payment for the bowling and food and drinks, I was going to by-god hear about some salvationing. They read from the Bible and gave me my own copy of the entire Book of John (door prize!) and asked what I thought about the whole wacky God thing. At some point during the conversation, I think I bought a timeshare in the Keys and agreed to finance an Ark of some kind (no money down!).
Point is, they had done a decent job at brainwashing me. I literally drank the Kool-Aid. I began to hang out with my friend more and when I went over to his house one day, we began to talk about music. I knew that there were certain things to which he was not allowed to listen, but I didn't really understand why.
"So what can you listen to? What do you have here in your collection?"
"I have some kind of country and western stuff, I guess you'd call it. Cowboy stuff that my dad used to listen to. Gene Autry. It's good. He sings about life and I can understand what he's saying."
"Yeah, but...like, what about more recent stuff? Do you listen to the radio?"
"Not much. Just a lot of wailing to me."
"But like, there's this new Prince record that's really cool. From his movie? Pretty much every song on it is a hit! You should listen to it. I can bring it over."
This is where the friendship took a decidedly negative turn. Based upon how red his face got and how he began to stammer, you would've thought I just asked him to fellate me during recess the next day.
"Prince is..he's Satan in disguise. His music...it has hidden backward lyrics and it turns people into children of Satan. You shouldn't listen to it. You'll go to...you'll...You're going to Hell."
And there it was. Lost cause.
"Yeah. But uh...I mean. Have you listened to it? Because it's really pretty good. I don't think I'm into Satan now or whatever. I mean, it's got a good beat, ya know? When Dove's Cry? It's good. It's on the radio, so I don't think Satan is on it or whatever."
"Satan is very tricky. Maybe you should go."
I could tell that he needed a very hot shower. Or a bath in holy water. Cleansing needed to be performed, that much was clear.
I was pretty confused, so I did what any decent young Christian person would do in order to get back on the path to righteousness. I sprinted home on my bike and played Purple Rain backward on my parent's record player. I couldn't really make out much, but it turns out that at the end of Darling Nikki, there are backmasked lyrics wherein he says, "Hello, how are you? I'm fine because I know that the lord is coming soon, coming, coming soon. Ha ha ha ha ha." It's definitely freaky and undoubtedly the work of Satan. Also the work of Satan? That stuff that Nikki does with the magazine. Satan is evil, but also extremely sexy.
The reason that this story has jumped to the top of mind recently is that it seems that my musical heroes have to die, reinvent/"sell out" or fade away. I mean, come on, if you would've said that Prince would be playing halftime at the Super Bowl twenty years ago, there would've been rioting in the streets. And the Red Hot Chili Peppers closing the Grammy awards? Twenty years ago, they never would've gotten past security. I can't fault them for shape-shifting to speak to a new generation (because Satan loves the shape-shifting), but it's all-of-the-sudden very bizarre to me. Put more succinctly, I'm fucking old and I'm not happy about it. Fat lot of good it did to devote my life to Satan when I listened to Purple Rain backwards. I never even got my autographed "I (Heart) Satan" t-shirt. Total gyp.
Humanity is so easily cowed, at what point do you suppose that there will be a groundswell for just giving up and turning the whole planet into a goddamn non-stop New Year's orgy of sex and booze and karaoke? Tell me that just this second when you read that, you didn't get a little jolt of Fuck Yes. You did. You did and you liked the way it made you feel. Pervert.
Never in the history of mankind have we been more aware of one another, the world around us, the future and the possibilities for death and destruction. It's awesome in so many ways, and scary in just a few. Eventually people will run from their churches and say, "If there is a God, he better show his face soon and he sure as HELL better be in High Def."
I think I'm fixated on this lately because according to all signs from reality television, people are getting infinitely more delusional. And delusional is the optimistic option. Dumber than a box of knit ties is the pessimistic view. Tomaytoe, tomahtoe.
Ahhhh, I dunno. I just really want to watch the shit fall apart for some reason. I think many of us are coming out of the other side of fear. You live in fear, or the constant bombardment of disaster, and you become fatalistic. It's what happened in the Middle East and Africa long ago. They're the early adopters in the market on fatalism.
Wow, this is a peppy post all of the sudden. Anyway: booze, sex and maybe some drugs and nude teenage cheerleader pyramids. Let's pencil it in for two weeks from this Saturday. BYONTCP.
When I was 8, I was alone at home on New Year's Eve. My parents were celebrating at a neighbor's house and I had the rare privilege of staying up until midnight to watch strangers in a far away place rejoice in saying goodbye and hello simultaneously.
I shut off all the lights, letting the blue glow of the television encircle me as I sat cross-legged, praying to its altar. I counted down quietly along with the announcer, but I didn't really know what to do at midnight. Everyone was so excited. I felt hollow.
It was 1980, my first new decade. As I sat there, I thought about what the next ten years of life would bring. Ten years. Literally a lifetime for me. Waves of sadness slammed against me as I slowly calculated that everyone in my life would be dead or gone in the next ten years. My brother and sister are both more than 5 years older than me. They would be gone away to school or jobs or maybe Mars. Surely my parents wouldn't live past the age of fifty. Even if they did live to be that old, they'd be hooked up to heart-pumping machines and electronic voice boxes by that time, right? Maybe I'd only be able to hug their brain in a fishbowl. I couldn't handle that. Do you have to feed the brain in a bowl? Like with a shaker or something? God, it's too much. I started to cry. It was as close to goth as I ever got, thank Jesus.
Two and a half decades later and nothing is as I imagined. My family is still around and healthy. None of us ever made it to Mars. Disco is dead.
But now I'm at a new age of reflection. Maybe at 35 years old, it's a mid-life crisis. Maybe it's just the constant reminders that this moment is the last that any of us are guaranteed. Or maybe it's this:
My dad turns 70 years old today.
I know you don't know him and you probably don't know me, but trust me, this is weird. My dad is stuck in my mind in a perpetual loop at age 44. Old people are 70, right? My dad's not old. I'm not old. Neither of us are ever going to age.
If you do the math - oh hell, who are we kidding, you don't have enough fingers and toes - I am half the age of my father today. This age, my age, is the age at which he had me. His last child, happy accident and ruiner of dreams.
We're a lot alike my dad and me, but so different too. I wouldn't have my sense of humor without him and I learned his loyalty and work ethic firsthand. At nineteen, he had some crazy, wild times with his buddies in a house they shared in his hometown. At nineteen, I had some wild, crazy times with my buddies in a house we shared in my hometown.
But from there, he went to fight overseas, doing things that he's still not sure if he's allowed to tell us to this day. When he came back, he stayed in that hometown and started a family . He's been there ever since, a rock to which the rest of his family anchors. He is the laughter and the stories and the hope and the encouragement for everyone he meets, every day. Simply, he is the dad that everyone wants.
I know I'm lucky to have him in my life still. Not everyone gets the time they need with their own dad. The moment gets taken away from them too soon or the connection is broken through stubbornness and anger. But dad and I have said the things you are supposed to say to each other as father and son. We say it every time we're together. Even so, it never seems like enough.
So here's what I've learned: We all live for one another, fathers and sons and mothers and daughters and friends and lovers. We live for one another to make moments and share secrets and tell stories, true and false. It's so much easier than we make it.
I love you, dad. Happy Birthday.
I suppose I could resolve to do something.
Time is moving fast. So fast. Faster than the cliche can fly. All I can think is that I don't know what happens now that my arrested development is gaining momentum. Nobody ever says what comes after.
I can't beat time, but I can spend it doing what I want to do. And I want to do this.
The world is a funny place. I'll show you how.
I just got back from voting at Target and the new computerized voting booth was very confusing. I made it through the first three levels of the ballot, but then I got my ass kicked by the ice dragon and my knight got carried to Valhalla on a bare breasted half unicorn/half Eva Longoria and it said I voted to make abortion illegal. I tried tapping down, down, left, right, select to reset my ballot, but it didn't work. So get out there and get your abortions while you can, people.
There are very few things more important to our democracy than the election process. That's why they made it rhyme with "erection". It's THAT important. In fact, there is only one thing that is more important today.
Because today, you see, along with the right to vote, you also have the right...
to rock:
Several thousand of my loyal readers (what? it could happen) have inquired about why I have been so intermittent with posting over the last, let's say, dozen months. There's no one specific reason, but I do have reasons and I maintain that they are valid, no matter what your bitch-ass says.
Basement. Much of my free time as been consumed by working on finishing our basement. Not having access to the basement means I haven't had access to my home office and wired internet. I usually do my writing from my desktop PC, which has been sitting on my kitchen table for several months now. There are many stories contained within the joys of home remodeling, but I'll save them for another time. For now, let's just say that I hope the fine people of Kraftmaid Cabinetry get splinters stuck in a very painful place. The ass. I'm saying in the ass.
Photography. Believe it or not, I fancy myself a bit of a decent photographer. I enjoy photography nearly as much as writing, but it's a time consuming hobby. Toward the end of this year and the start of next, I'll be adding a link to my photography website and make a serious effort to post photographs more consistently.
Video games. God help me, as pathetic as I know it makes me, I am a video game junkie. Ha ha, that's funny right? Guy my age, playing games now and then? No. It's an addiction people. I have spent 206 hours on a game called Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. Take a moment to put that math brain of yours to work and consider how long 206 hours is, please. It took over my life. And sadly, I wasn't content to hold my addiction to myself. I got my wife involved. And she may be worse than I am. This is the reason that I never even tried World of Warcraft. I know that if I do, I will seriously consider quitting my job and showering in the sink, if at all.
Work. Oh yeah, work. I do have a job and stuff that I kind of have to do. Daddy can't feed his basement/photography/video game lifestyle on good looks alone.
I didn't leave a light on for trick or treaters this year. Mostly because I don't like children, but also because I don't need to be buying a forty pound bag of Snickers minis and then only hand out two candy bars to the one child who actually does knock at our door. Nobody comes around anymore, probably because I slipped a few Viagra into the candy last year and the FBI jumped all over my ass. Not much for a quality prank, the Feds. Say what you will, an eight year old in an Incredible Hulk costume with an erection is just funny. Especially if you can get him to say, "Don't make me angry - you wouldn't like me when I'm angry."
ANYway, I left the light off this year and I didn't get so much as a knock or a ring. However, I did have to take the dogs outside to sniff grass and just as I got to the front door, I looked out and saw a mom and dad and a little princess standing on our steps. In the dark.
"PUSH THE DOORBELL," the father was stage whispering.
"NooooooooooOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH," the princess whined.
"JUST PRESS IT," he whisper-shouted with disappointment.
"uuuuuuHHHHHHNNNNGGGGG," she replied, convincingly.
I can relate. I've always hated going up to a strange house. Lord only knows what sorts of naked scratching is going on within.
So I opened the door quickly as the dogs signaled the impending END OF LIFE ON EARTH AS WE KNOW IT and I shouted, "Sorry, the dogs are out, I've got to take them out. Please just give me ten minutes. I'm really sorry."
The dad okayed me and said no problem, he understands, they have dogs too. The little girl was in the midst of a whine that only the dogs could hear and they walked away as I shut the door and waited for them to get far enough away to ease the dogs outside.
Truth is, I have no candy. We really didn't buy any. But now, like, I've committed. Why did I say "give me ten minutes"? Was I going to whip up a batch of Butterfinger? Why can't I just say GO AWAY, WE DON'T LIKE CHILDREN HERE while I'm hanging brain in a wife beater? I'm gutless, is why.
So I took the dogs for a walk and the whole time I'm trying to run through what I have in the house that I can give the Princess, like extra bibles or maybe a banana; anything to get her to not come back next year.
I settled on a pack of my Orbitz gum, which I chew as if it were rubberized crank, so I always have plenty on hand. What kid doesn't like sugar free, bubble-free gum?!
I got back in the house as I saw them making their way back up the street. Again, TECHNICALLY, they wouldn't have come back and I would've been fine. But I can't let shit go. So I grab the pack of gum and stand in my hallway for a minute thinking how lame it is. I decide to check the pantry quick on the off chance that there's like a can of chocolate soup or a case of gum balls or something and what do I see on a low shelf toward the back? A full size Snickers.
I grab it and run outside and up the block until I catch the family.
"Princess!" I shout.
Her dad, the King, was cleverly dressed in his outfit as a bekhakied desk jockey.
"Honey, wait, I think this man has something for you..."
The Princess curled around to the backside of her mommy as I approached.
Since she was already scared, I punched her dad and stole his wallet and then gave her mom my business card and told her to call me when she wanted a real man.
Okay, that part didn't happen, but only because I didn't think of it at the time.
I gave the candy bar to her dad because there was no way she was going to come within a half-block of me.
"You came to my door, so you deserve a treat, Princess," I said and walked away.
I think it's a sweet story, so shut up. It's even sweeter if I leave off the part about how the candy bar is four years old and the Princess will probably get the runs because of it.
I gave away a valuable lesson for Halloween this year: Don't take candy from strangers.
The dusty confines of my underground lair contain nearly all of the components required for today’s Modern Evil Genius. I have the customary large screen device, on which I can make demands of world leaders and/or watch nude women on trampolines in high definition. The lair also houses the Destroyer of WorldsTM, a data network that consists of no less than eight non-working and four working personal computers and laptops running at full capacity, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week to provide me with tools necessary to topple governments as well as view pornography from around the world.
As you might have gathered, there’s a great deal of masturbation involved in taking over the world. All of my seed is saved in Ziplock baggies, of course, so that it can be used to repopulate the planet with a race of super sexy egotists. But I’ve said too much.
There is one key piece of equipment needed assist me in the plot to dominate humanity that I currently do not have within the lair, however, and that’s a place for me to dispose of my poo-poo and pee-pee.
And so the adventure begins….
An evil lair is a tricky thing. It’s not like you can go to a real estate agent and ask to see the lair listings. So one makes due with what one can afford on an Evil Genius salary. In my case the lair is, let’s be honest, a basement. It’s covered in concrete and pink foam insulation, which is clearly un-evil. Unless you bash someone’s head into the concrete and then rub the insulation on his genitals. Which I have done.
The lair/basement in my current evil manor does not have the evil pipes in place to install an evil toilet. The members of the Construction League tell me that this means it isn’t “stubbed” for a toilet, which always makes me laugh my maniacal laugh.
The best (read: cheapest) option open to me was to invest in a special toilet that I could obtain through my local black market/internet. This toilet is capable of all sorts of evilness, in that it grinds the toilet contents through a motor on the back before shooting the debris off into oblivion. The toilet description actually uses the word “macerate”, which is frankly just the kind of terminology that makes an Evil Genius wet in his nether regions.
Shortly after the macerating device arrived at the lair, it become quite clear that I would need to acquire the services of a licensed and bonded henchman to install it. Obviously I could have done it myself, given my massive IQ, but there was an off chance that I would be dealing with poopy in some way and that kind of thing is more in the realm of Mad Scientist than Evil Genius.
After a very rudimentary phone search for a qualified henchman, I scheduled an appointment with a member of Good Ol’ Boy Plumbing, LLC. A very reputable henching organization, to be sure. Following an estimating and negotiation process, I welcomed him into my lair and explained the penalties for disloyalty and double-crossery. He was clear on my demands and we sealed the deal over a cool glass of baby seal blood followed by mutual maniacal laughter.
Days later, Henchman Jimmy, as he will be known here, arrived wide-eyed and eager to install the macerating device. Though he hadn’t seen such a magnificent machine before, he proclaimed, “A turlet’s a turlet”, to which I had no argumentative reply.
I left Jimmy to his work, as I knew him to be a Master Plumber from his notifying me of the fact nearly a dozen times. I had evilness to undertake, in any case, and hadn’t the time to spend looking over the shoulder of Master James. His arrival at 8:00 am had allowed him to confidently state that he would be out of my hair by noon. This pleased me.
At roughly 11:30, my hand had cramped and forced me to disengage from my evil activities. I decided that I would go check on my henchman, possibly giving him some evil words of encouragement. As I was about to round the corner to the waste removal room, I heard a sudden and alarming, “GOT! Dangit!”
“Problems?” I asked, poking in from around the corner.
“I been a master plumber for 35 years and I ain’t seen nothing like this before,” he stated, sweat darkening the back of his gray t-shirt.
“What do you mean? Is there a problem with the macerating device? Will it still macerate? SPEAK TO ME!” I yelled, vexed.
At this point, Jimmy stated with a snarl, “I think this thing is a piece of crap, is what I think. Junk.”
Well, Jimmy, we are not paying you to think. We are paying you to engage in plumbing and, potentially, some light henching. Thinking is for Evil Geniuses. It’s implicit in the name.
“What exactly is the problem,” I asked, in a menacingly calm fashion.
“Well, is this here some kind of foreign turlet? Cuz none of the clamps that came with it and none of the clamps I got fit it. I can’t tighten them,” he sighed.
“I’m not sure,” I lied, “it may be European.” I can’t trust him with my black market sources.
“And I’m trying real hard not to swear, so I’m sorry about the yelling,” he apologized.
“You swear all you want around this lair, my friend. This is a swear-friendly zone,” I told him with a pat on the air near his back.
I walked upstairs to the Manor House as I heard him sigh and slap the device.
~~~~~
Two hours later, SUCCESS!
Not only had Henchman Jimmy successfully installed the macerating unit, he had finished installing the water spouting apparatus as well.
“Looks like we’re all set,” he exclaimed. “Boy, that clamp was a bear. My boss just told me he had to install one of these once and it took him three days. Kinda wish I’d known that before I started.”
“If wishes were fishes, we’d have an ocean full of dreams, Jimmy.” Totally made that up on the spot. I rakishly adjusted my cape.
“Uh. Yeah. Oh, hey, I forgot about the lid. Let me put that on quick before I leave,” Jimmy gestured to the seat of the macerator.
Picking it up and turning it over in his hands, Jimmy’s eyes began to glaze and then harden.
Something evil was about to transpire.
~~~~~
“You ain’t gonna believe this, but I can’t put this lid on without completely taking the turlet off of the wall again. This is the dumbest design I’ve ever seen in my 35 years as a master plumber,” Jimmy said, incensed.
Is it dumb, Jimmy? Or is it genius? So few can tell the difference.
“Got DANG!”
I decided to leave Jimmy to his work and his thoughts and his rage. In my years of evilness, I’ve found that nothing helps to incubate anger quite like long periods of personal reflection. I would allow his wrath to grow and fester, as that is the best thing for wrath: the festering. And soon, his immortal soul would be mine.
And after two more hours, as I was making myself a lunch feast, it came.
“JEEEEZUS CHRIST!!” came the exasperated, broken scream from the lair below.
Yes. Yeeeeeeees. BETRAY your God. BETRAY HIM!
I rubbed my hands together slowly, face slack, except for a slight upturn at the edges of my mouth. I had practiced the move in the mirror many times, but it felt good to put it to real-world use.
Slowly, slowly, I turned and glided toward the staircase. As I descended the stairs, with a creak and a creak, I wanted to continue rubbing my hands together in a sinister fashion, but decided that I’d better use the railing, as tripping and falling at this moment would really spoil the mood.
I reached the bottom and peered carefully around the corner.
There was Jimmy. Shattered. Possibly dead. Facing away from me, kneeling, slumped in front of the device. He had sacrificed himself at the altar of the macerator.
I cackled in my mind.
I believe I heard whimpering and then a nearly inaudible, “doesn’t make any fucking sense”.
Yes. Let the darkness flow over you Jimmy. EMBRACE IT!
“35 years…” he trailed off.
All for nothing, Jimmy. FEED ON THE HATE!
Then, with a lunge, Jimmy attacked the toilet. Pulling and twisting it.
I walked back up the staircase, assured in my evilness.
~~~~~
An hour later, Jimmy had finished. A shell of a henchman.
“I missed five jobs because of this thing today,” he sighed.
“Yes,” I replied.
“If I ever run across one of these things again, I’m charging three times as much, I’ll tell you that,” he stated.
“Yes,” I laughed.
“I’m serious!” he said, as forcefully as he could.
“Yes, Jimmy. But for today, it is over. A piece of you has died today and for that, we have all benefited. The cause of evil thrives. Hail Satan,” I said, kissing him full on the lips.
“Mail Satum,” Jimmy mumbled, as his sweaty lips pulled away from mine.
