I Have More Fun Than You

Throughout my extensive travels exploring the depths of humanity and its mysterious origins, I happily reunited with avant-guard musician Ray Argyle, who constantly confides that he has more fun than me.

“I have more fun than you,” he always tells me as matter of fact. I should come to accept it.

Apart from tours to remote island locations for video shoots, Ray recently went to some art show Bash in downtown with hipsters and music till dawn with Serena.

They both enjoyed the spontaneous art demonstrations.

The work done over time was impressive. Motivated artists were around just about every corner, concentrating on their original creations while lost from society at large.

People were tripping out on Aphex Twin, so he saw some weird things that night.

He was bored with a high powered camera, so he started making his own spontaneous art digitally.

His photography skills brought much rejoice from revelers like Serena. Even though she’s a good friend, he told her that if they ever did anything, like mess around, he wouldn’t be against it, although maybe it was the scenery and the booze talking.

Ray frequents high end clubs in Hollywood, the kind that stock talentless acts for the sake of the lowest common denominator. Unlike many Los Angeles musicians, he supports many local singers, like this particular floozy.

At least he never has to buy his own $10 drink. Even Harper O’Hara is guilty of buying him Jager bombs over games of pool at Del’s Saloon.

She once said that the only reason to have a boyfriend is to secure consistent sexual favors. Rumor has it she moved to Vancouver. She’ll certainly miss Ray's five dogs, all of whom can sit outside his local pizzeria without moving from their territorial spot.

The pack, which consists of Leo, Ginger, Bob, Barney, and Buster from left to right, brings excitement to his every waking day, especially the way they take care of each other in his absence. Whenever Ray leaves town with the band, his neighbor Ambrosia takes care of the mangy mongrels. She often comes over for four in the morning Guitar Hero.

The simple fact is he thrusts himself onto the scene fearless, sort of like how The Hat likes jumping off diving boards dry and hatless.

Considering Ray's many interests, like writing poetry, he enjoys long walks on the beach, often with the loveliest of the lovelies looking right back.

I think he laughs at all of us.

Scorched Earth Theory

Sadly, I lost my bid for President of the United States. Also, my beloved Oakland Raiders are failing miserably as a team and an organization.

Thankfully, I remain in good spirits with a sharpened shank, ready to bury it in dimwits who cross the line with naively crafted insults. Above all, I still manage to throw around the occasional joke, yet at this point all the laughter seems merciful. Roxie tells me I need to relax.

But how can I relax, knowing that our country is on an unpredictable path that leads to... what exactly? To cheer me up, Roxie recently trimmed my mop of hair, and she definitely would’ve made me look great when meeting foreign dignitaries. Still stuck in the groove of campaigning, I met with Ronda, who would’ve been my nominee for Secretary of the Treasury. A graduate of Northwestern, she has studied the intricacies of our fragile economy, recently telling soon to retire Tom Florence of Jasper, Indiana, “If you’re going to cash in your 401K, I suggest investing in cigarettes and alcohol.”

Of course, she probably wouldn’t have made it through the confirmation process, especially since this particular photo leaked to the mass media three weeks ago:

Most people could never excuse such an action, clinging to a belief system outdated by modern standards. Some people are just batty. During the final stretch of my campaign, I horrifically faced a brush with death I wish on no one. While campaigning in Holmby Hills, an irate banshee began hurling barbs with bitterness, a reaction worthy of an extended stay at the local rubber room. I escaped with my life, as did Scarlett O’Connell, and my trail of fire left from exhaust led to heavenly results. My First Lady recovered well from the ensuing drama.

Sebastian Santiago, who would’ve been my nominee for Secretary of the Interior, suggested that all voters should be required to write in the name of who they want for president. If a person can’t write legibly or at all, then how can you say they have "keen faculties or sound mind?"

A scraggly monkey can fill in a circle. I was noticeably brokenhearted by the outcome of the election, so he supportively reminded me of all the meaningful endorsements I received during the tough campaign. Nobody will ever forget when I gained the endorsement of the National Gothic Movement.

They are a joyous people, and they were very optimistic about their future under my administration. With all these swirling thoughts racing, I was forced to have a few from Lucca at Del’s Saloon.

Her good humor was encouraging. To wind down from the heavy campaigning, I met who would’ve been my Chief of Staff, the ultimate pop-off Ridge Thorneway. He maintains that never straying from objectivity is part of being a Basher. I told Ridge that the tanking economy makes it hard to remain objective. He empathized with that observation, then stated bluntly, “These hard times lead to heavy drinking.”

That night it did. Ridge later warned that you should never make fun of a drunken bar patron, the even one whose earlier judgment wavered on recklessness crossed with self-destructive blather. Now, as a has-been presidential candidate, I’m stuck making fun of passed out bar patrons at Del’s.

Holy Matrimony

Rita agreed to Tony’s advances, so to the alter they went to seal the deal and finalize all outstanding contracts. I was invited to their wedding to witness a marriage, on the condition, of course, that I maintained good behavior and relented from Detonator style mischief. Nothing prepared me for what I experienced.

A bride this stunning makes men weep.

The location was incomparable, so after much serious contemplation, I was the one yelling “Fore” on random back swings from the bushes.

A major highlight was my ticket to the pre-game festivities, where champagne and females were abundant. I got there extra early for obvious reasons.

When it comes to make-up application, nobody does it better than Holly Valentine. She went to work on everyone, including Rita’s sister Roxie.

I had never before witnessed the preparation involved behind the scenes. Envy in the eyes of other males was surely apparent, especially when empty bottles of Veuve Clicquot led to multiple walks through the field to retrieve another three bottles. Everyone was taking care of each other.

The best part was the encircling, everyone wanting to get a piece of last second make-up primping for the bride, a tradition well respected among most female clans. The final touches reached a frenzy many will reminisce about for years. Everyone was going to look their best.

The ceremony was planned to perfection, no detail overlooked. It also helps to have endless champagne and Chivas to loosen up the bride and Maid of Honor.

I've read that marriage is done for the purpose procreation and requires consummation. There are other obligations to consider, like in some wacky cultures women are required to bear many children. Roxie simply believes in the power of love.

The sheer energy and introspective words of the preacher brought shivers down my spine. The look in Rita’s eyes gazing into that of her love boldly moved the spectators.

That soon led to the rampage of congratulations for the bride, here seen with her business partner Alice.

Bernadette Bender was there too, willing to cause stirs with her unrequited desire to Bash.

It had been forever since I challenged her wits, one of the many things I treasure from such a close friend.

One of my favorite bartenders Danny was there, which was no surprise to anyone with half a pulse.

He later fell into some type of drunken wormhole of self-realization. He claimed that the only way to terminate a marriage is by death.

Roxie gave a very well-received speech during the beautiful reception, certainly one of the many high points.

No matter what type of wedding traditions a family may follow, you have to love the dances with the father.

I was stoked to see Uncle Bob there, who Bashed me into submission with perfectly targeted insults, the kind that are the truth.

He pointed out that the age of consent in Spain is 13, 14 in a bunch of other European countries. As we had an in depth discussion on the many virtues of marriage, the beats from DJ Preston Moronie brought out Holly Valentine and her microphone. The Bash needed some Hyper Crush.

Virtually on cue, they began doing a daring mash up of the Hyper Crush catalog, moving the crowd from verse to verse with purpose. To do it up right, I hit the dance floor to liven things, a typical reaction since I know how to shake it with the crew.

The absurd amount of stiff pours from behind the bar only made the situation more manic. Roxie and Holly made sure to elevate the excitement of the proceedings.

No matter where I went, from front to back, I was viciously attacked by females fueled by thoughts that maybe, just maybe one day, they'll have their day.

Before leaving, I made sure to have a permanent impact by passing along five volumes of “The Art of Bashing” to a promising young college student, one with potential to dominate.

Spreading subversive propaganda around suffices when a positive mood accommodates my passion for the greater good. I gladly pulled ripcord before things could get too out of hand. The fortune showered forth was enough inspiration to attack Del’s Saloon. I was immediately greeted with a handshake from the peerless Amaury Guerrero.

One female was particularly perturbed by our brash behavior, which surely bordered on amazing. Some hussies are easily scared and get inexplicably caught in the headlights. This one was caught off guard, but then became very friendly.

When they figure out the method and understand the threat, calmness closes them and happiness shines supreme. She also suggested that all marriages include a dowry. Her annoying friend was not impressed. Neither was I.

Amaury immediately led her away with the heavy lure of darts. That also led to Amaury belting out an unsolicited karaoke duet with an extra amorous female who had a head full of impromptu drunkenness.

All in all, I survived Rita's wedding and Del’s, so I guess my political career remains intact. It was around this time I realized people were getting rather stupid from the excessive liquid abuse. Very few knew I recklessly stole the bouquet, figuring it would shower me with unprecedented luck.