Proverbs 23, Verses 1, 2, & 3
"When dining with a rich man, be on your guard and don't stuff yourself,
though it all tastes so good; for he is trying to bribe you,
and no good is going to come of his invitation."
---
CHIPPED WISDOM:
I have decided that, if my twins are going to have progress in a somewhat linear trajectory towards the American Dream (viz. have teen orthodontia/angst, first cars with side curtain airbags, middle school wardrobes that don't entirely come from thrift shops, and at least a mediocre college experience) I am going to have to do the following, in no necessary chronological order:
* sell my organs/throat/antique typewriter collection/semen/soul
* film myself having sex with a prominent politician (preferably a female, but I can't afford to be picky) in the lavatory of a highway rest-stop and option it to Gawker
* kill myself
* take out approximately eight mortgages on my home
* turn my Volvo wagon into a mobile, high-end brothel crammed with Swedish prostitutes
* get a higher-paying job
* renounce my Israeli citizenship (that won't help me financially, but I've always wanted to renounce something, and I'm not currently using my Israeli citizenship for anything other than impressing people and, really, nobody's impressed, so what's the point?)
* learn enough banjo chords to busk properly
* pray to God that the doctor who gives me my first rectal exam finds gold hiding behind my pancreas and is honest enough not to just put it in his pocket while I'm not looking because, believe me, I won't be looking
* try following my dreams as opposed to giving up on them, and, failing that, try giving up on them again
* skin myself and sell it to an anti-Semitic lamp-shade maker
(Whoa. Too soon?)
* invade a foreign country, you know-- not just me, with some of my friends
* steal the Pink Panther diamond, preferably by detonating a bermb
* kick unprecedented ASS at "Dancing with the Stars" with G. Gordon Liddy as my tango partner
* get a sugar daddy
And that, I think, is really my best option. And it doesn't have to be a sex thing (but, like I said, I'm open to it all, you lucky, freaky world, you) it can be like in days of yore when talented young musicians in perriwig ponytails and stocking tights and broached jackets were paid large quantities of gold coins to compose airs and marches and operas and masses and fugues. And they named their pieces "Herr Schmatzfieldzenkrakendorf's March" or "Die Danse Muzik auf zer Beegkunt Judenstompfer."
And everything was going fine.
Because they had these people, patrons, they were called (Patronzdeinzuuntsfumpf, unt zer mater-tongue) and the patrons looked after these tender, fragile young talents and saw to it that they had what they needed to basically work like slaves on their compositions. And that's kind of what I want. Not that I'm Hayden or Mozart or even some other penisbreath that nobody remembers. Like Diertrich Buxtehude-- anyone erudite enough to remember him?
If you're reading this, chances are, no.
Well, apparently, Bach once walked 250 miles (from Arnstadt to Lubeck) to hear Buxtehude play. I hear there was some hot piece of ass in Lubeck at the time, too. And I also hear that Bach took a fucking cab back to Arnstadt, and that he made Buxtehude pay for it. But that's hearsay.
If I had a sugar daddy-- sorry-- patron, I'm not exactly sure I know what he'd pay me to do.
Blog, I guess.
That would have to be a really seriously fucked up patron. Someone with a dent in his skull and a song in his heart, no doubt. Someone with a few too many drinks and few too few chromosomes. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure these people exist, but I'm not sure that they have enough money to finance my family's lavish lifestyle. And that's kind of the lynch-pin right there, if you think of it.
Well. I hope Liddy's practicing his fucking dance steps. I've got the rose clenched in between my teeth and I probably should have de-thorned it first. But maybe it's better with the thorns. Life's always better with the thorns.
I hear Buxtehude said that, too.
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