Monday, December 13, 2004


We need to have a talk about this… thing… at the top of the page.

Look, I don’t like it any more than you do. (Okay, maybe a little more than you do, as the entire concept rests upon you giving me money.) But things are becoming squeaky here at the Blonde Bachelorette Pad, Benjamin-wise. No, that’s not even… Things are becoming squeaky, Washington-wise. Recently the Millennium Bellemobile, clearly in the process of auditioning for the part of the car in The Blues Brothers, basically disintegrated into the concrete the last time I slammed the door. Also my COBRA payments have shot right up (“COBRA! When losing your job just isn’t screwage enough.”)

A sudden lack of temp assignments has proven simultaneously hideous and awesome. Awesome, obviously, in (1) the sense that it has provided me with a major opportunity to continue slamming together my first manuscript, allowing my artistic vision for the universe to shine through, and because (2) I didn’t have to work any stupid temp assignments.

Of course, this also means that the last time I was in the grocery I was forced to choose between the ’97 and the ’98 Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon. The sheer poverty of the moment crushed my soul.

So please, ease my suffering. In exchange, I will admit that I am a dirty, dirty hack who works for you.

send check or money order to:

No comments:

Previous Tastings