As I’ve gloated before, I’m going to BlogHer by harpoon, stabbed through and tethered to the 12 or so hours it takes to get to Chicago via one of the nabobs, Grace, not Ishmael. She may snag her white whale/elephant/weasel but we all know who gets it in the end. When Mamacita writes about finally meeting Grace and me, she’ll mention Grace’s spinning pupils and uncontrollable shaking while my big teeth, grin, and the fact that I blow air and water out of a hole in the top of my head will certainly get talked about a lot. No mention of sleeping with a Samoan, I'm sure (mostly because it would be like, get on with it, PLEASE)
(MA MA SEE TAH, EYE KEED, EYE KEED, EES JUAN POOR CHOKE, JESS?).
This is fair warning to Grace: fill your ashtray full of Xanex and keep a .38 revolver underneath your seat for the sake of occasionally pointing that puppy at me and screaming, “Shut up your inane chatter, NOW!” Maybe twin tanks of oxygen and nitrous, too, I can suck the spirit out of a room. I’d suggest a sock in my mouth and duct tape but I’ll inevitably choke to death which would lead to the inevitable explaining of the body and why it was kicked out the side door at 70 miles an hour.
Don’t tell but the best plan is to hit me up with a hefty shot of Demerol and hand me a bottle of brandy. Let me smoke in the car (yes!) and then wait until I slide into a drooling heap onto the floormats. Pry me off like a wad of gum and then plant my comatose carcass on a bench in the St. Louis bus terminal. Same concept there, just different sides of the bench. SSSssshhhh, Since Grace don't read this blog nevah nohow, titah nevah know; she's just pickin' me up like a three-headed cow fetus in a jar full of formaldehyde.
And since no one reads me in general, my secret’s secure. Grace will be flying into Chicago with the bats, you can rest assured that Mamacita’s reports will be accurate (except her sin of omission on the Samoan) and I’ll be rubbing Carmex around the rim of my blowhole while I type dispatches from the bitch bitching thing. Much like I am now, except I’m using ChapStick on the hole in the top of my head and I’m not in Chicago and I haven’t had a gun pointed at me recently. Certainly no bitches, dawg.
Not true. I have some loyal readers, people of good character (for the most part, from what I can tell) but questionable taste. A cool community nonetheless - I’d love to have coffee with one and all, get bank and routing information from them, credit card numbers, grab their grandmother’s jewelry, if you know what I mean. I’m not quite sure I do.
The media certainly doesn’t either; a call for the beheading, shooting, stabbing, and raping the corpse of President George Bush would (bring in the NSA and then the FBI, boost my traffic!) attract a million times the attention my last post got. My few loyal readers would be likewise investigated, probed (light some candles! Open some wine!), shipped off to Gitmo for a state-sponsored blogger party. And – there goes my loyal following; buh-bye.
My plans for Blogher 07 involves fire hoses, German Shepards, stun batons, mace, rubber bullets, tear gas, and several cases of Stroh’s. Not in any particular order. If the government is going to confuse the Cartoon Network’s blinking advertisements for terrorist bombs, then surely a convention of female bloggers entails some lezbo blitz on everything that makes us all what we are – paranoid and bigoted. Only a bad (or poor) American wouldn’t feel like rioting in Chicago. In the summer. With a nice breeze coming across the lake.
After I set everything on fire, a local friend plans to have a dinner party for all us fire-setting bloggers. We're supposed to bring every bit of charred flesh we've managed to achieve with our rubber-band and balsa wood airplanes, rhetoric, and ta deum. Sheesh, she’s lived there six months and apparently she still hasn’t found good BBQ. Well, she'll by god get around this summer. My goal is to get everyone arrested, for one reason or another. Cuz' sister, you're not American until you've been arrested.