How am I supposed to get anything done around here? Without Claudio, my manservant, things have gone into a ridiculous tizzy. I can’t communicate with the captain of the Monitor, as he speaks only Portuguese, and besides that, he’s frankly beneath my social strata, right? Right. The result? We’ve been circling Kilimanjaro for hours on end. It’s fucking vexing is what it is. DAMN YOU GABE SAPORTA!!!! DAMN YOUR THEIVING SIREN SONG!
Sorry. I got carried away. It’s just…you know what it’s like? It’s like suddenly having a one and a half year old running around for sixteen fucking hours every day, but now, it’s too cold to go outside, so you just run around the house chasing this fucking guy who’s trying about as hard as he can to just fuck up everything. He’s like a divining rod for the closest thing to him that will injure or kill him and he knows exactly what to do when he shows up and grabs it. Butcher knife? Put it in your mouth. Light socket? Put it in your mouth. Pot of boiling water? Pull it off the stove. And on and on and on like this. Imagine if you will, that you’re (for example) a rock and roll personality who’s just been living it up in the fecund deltas of southern California and then at a wedding for about fourteen days where you, in the entire span of the two week period, slept less than 48 hours due to important late night business meetings. Now, imagine that you come home to a sick and dangerously active, but grumpy child, weather too cold to take him outside in and a wife who is forced to work (likely story) until midnight every night, forcing you to chase this sick, grumpy child around the house like a lunatic while he wails and screams and tries to pull bookshelves down onto himself. Oh, and then you catch his cold. THAT’S what this is like stuck up in this godforsaken Zeppelin circling this dreadfully boring mountain without Claudio. Almost exactly. Did you know the on-board sushi bar is out of salmon? We might as well be living in a fucking tent city by the sewers of Calcutta up here. It’s depressing. We’re down to our last ten bottles of vodka and we’re dangerously low on mixers. I’m living in a nightmare, if I’m being honest. The prostitutes are getting surly and settling for routine and the furnace men are starting to ask questions about their paychecks. Hey Shovel Man! How am I supposed to collect my fucking ad revenue from above the Serengeti plains? Tell me that! Or is that why I’m the trillionaire and you’re the fucking furnace guy? Mmmmmmhmmmmm. Yeah. Keep shovelin’ pal. You’ll get your check as soon as I can get back to civilization, restock the bar, get a suitable replacement for Claudio and find some decent sushi chefs that aren’t Germans. What a fucking joke. At least lie to me with some Mexicans in headbands, am I right?
Okay, sorry. I’m off topic here. Or rather, I haven’t even introduced the topic yet, have I? Forgive me. It’s the constant circling. It’s making me dizzier than a pregnant lady on a sybian. Okay. Topic at hand: the terrorist freedom fighters in the splinter cel ‘Sock Drawer’ (not to be confused with the benevolently ruled principality beneath each blog post, also called the sock drawer) have openly declared war on both the Monitor and myself, and have announced a planned coup of Bad Sandwich Enterprises LLC, (trademark pending). Gotta say, I’m pretty excited about that. See, there are leaders like Barack Obama, Gordon Brown, Angela Merkel and to a lesser extent Nicolas Sarkozy (who’s dealt with some pretty heavy shit this past term, let’s be honest) who never, ever have to deal with the idea of credible threats of coups. They’re what I call the ‘total pussies’ of world leadership. I’m more like a warlord in some sort of compound surrounded by dust and bones and my most trusted men (damn you Claudio!), just waiting, stroking my gun, eating my monkey brains right out of a human skull and wearing a fez, saying shit like “let them come” while I pet a tiger and watch two women have some sort of cramming contest involving phallic vegetables. In my kingdom, there can be only one ruler, but without a resistance, what will I use to galvanize the hordes? I need a terrorist threat. Without it, I’m no better than Dick Cheney, relying on sound governmental practices and actual leadership, rather than fear mongering, xenophobia, preying on the stupid and shooting everyone in the face that disagrees. And man, I hate Dick Cheney. I don’t want to be anything like him at all. So terrorists, bring it on! And to all the rest of you: these fanatics hate you and your freedom and the free and open forum that is Bad Sandwich. That’s their endgame. To make you sad, repress you and take away your televisions and football. Never mind that there’s no running water in the other sock drawer. Never mind the pestilence. Have you seen them? Savages, to the last. Women baring their breasts! Men, drunk! Uh…um…uh…you get the idea, right?
Nah, I dunno. I like those guys, actually. Met a bunch of ‘em on the tour or at our Chicago show . They’re all cool. I don’t want a war, or even an airborne zeppelin battle (though the Monitor IS strapped to the tits) I just need a new manservant. This solitude is going to my head. Sorry. Forgive me, terrorists. I guess you guys win.
Anyway, how do you say “Get me to Belarus immediately you swine” in Portuguese? Does anyone know?
Edit: That article that someone posted a link to in yesterday's sock drawer about the fear of clowns is indeed interesting as shit. Recommended.