Some of you have noticed I've been comotose (noticably, the glimmering, glorious Vicki who has miraculously impregnated me with a baby that I will carry to term and then donate to our Jupeterian masters who intend to, you know, slice and dice the tyke), especially those of you who lost the bet. Those of you who didn't notice were busy rooting for holes to put Anna Nicole's body into and weren't reading me. Bahamas. US. Go USA. Believe me, I haven't been rah-rahing. Retching maybe but not because I'd also fed on the corpse of The Rose of America (she wasn't on ice! YUM!!!) but because another bug hit me.
Defeating the odds (four out five doctors say, four out of five doctors say), a week later after swimming in snot, I found myself shivering under blankets in pools of sweat.
So there you have it. That and I was on a secret mission in Central America buying cocaine to trade for guns and nuclear technology and whores who look like my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Martinez. The whole trip would have been worth it for finding her and telling her, hey, I finally read "When Worlds Collide" all the way through and I still think it sucks. Boning a faux her, better still.
But here I am and in a shameless ploy to trap the unintended, the beheaded and the been too dark, deep, dumb to know it. In the spirit of the 'Mystery Mixmania!' (and the action figures that have been produced since), I'm going to post twice everyday for the next week.
I know, you're like "Jim - are you huffing gasoline?" And in fact I am - hell, why else would I make this promise? SHeee-YOU, let's have a cigarette and think about this.
Don't get you woodies all a-slather and slivered. Twice a day I'm going to post something of mine and something from someone else and then you can decide if it's mine or someone else's (hint: the other post is the one not typed by the chimp that, statistically, missed Shakespeare completely).
The person who guesses why I did this by next Monday gets my special secret second side of my Mystery mix, the one where, if you play it in the dark with your eyes closed and your fingers in your ears, yelling "DA DA DA, I'M NOT HEARING YOU" really loud, is a different CD than the one I sent to my match. Either that or endless postcards telling you your prize is on it's way but previous versions have been recalled for their tendency to fly across the room as if they're badgers ripping out of a cage. And you have tuna smeared on your face and your wrists are duct-taped to your ankles. That kind of recall; like the exploding Pintos, the gray goo, the decapitating Australian booroo outback blades rimmed with puffer fish poison.
Not only guess why I did this but guess what it all means. It all means, man, this, that, and everything else. So make you guesses now. The scores will be tabulated and made available to the AnImAliZed YuNG TeEn In pEril people.
Considering my taste for seeing yung-ian cheerleaders animalized, you have no one but yourselves to blame.