WE ALL GET WHAT WE WANT final

The finale...
_________________

As Maddox's eternity continued to hum along he became more and more confused. He kept lifting weights and screwing whatever memories he could conjure and kept cleaning the couch, the equipment and the floor.

Later they started to vanish and fade and he felt a madness come over him as he embraced the couch. As each of them started to fall silent he would beg for them to come back. He wondered, for the first time in his life, about love.

But without their words and groans and cries and images he could no longer bring them back.

Each time one of them died in his memory (after the first few) Maddox would cry out their names. He would beg that they would come back.

They never did. Not a one.

They never again acknowledged him or had pity.

He lost his intimate memory of Denise, Roxanne, then Rachel and Diana, then Ramona and Erin, Julie, Patty, Brenda, another Roxanne, Linda, Sue, Susan, Susanna and Samantha and Cindy, Candy, Connie and Carol.

There were many others not listed here for the sake of brevity.

They died one by one inside Robert Maddox's soul and mind until he had no more visitors, just his karate studio, weights, and his fading imagination.

Last we saw he was undressing his couch, then caressing it, mouthing and tonguing it before taking it hard and fast as the clock on the far wall hummed into eternity.

______________________

Alright you lurkers...comment or I'll write a story about you.

WE ALL GET WHAT WE WANT Part Six

As Robert lifted his head to apologize or make an excuse he saw it was empty.

She was gone.

This became Robert Maddox's existence for all time. He would pace, look at the clock in anger, lift more weights and screw more women, or the same few women in a series of related imaginary incidents. But they would always disappear and he would be left to clean the couch again.

As the days, minutes, hours, years, and centuries past by or simply were Robert Maddox began to slowly realize that this was going to be his life ...FOREVER. Life on his terms, his life...his mind...forever.

Lifting weights, pulling, swelling, stretching, lusting, thrusting, pressing, meeting the imagined, undressing, pumping away, and coming.

Always alone, Robert always needed to clean the couch afterward.

Time lost currency after a long while. It just ran together like and endless recurrence. The lines blurred between all activities. Undressing and lifting began to be the same. Curling and coming became one.

Having grown bored with screwing Rachel on her parent's living room floor (the inside of the karate studio would morph into a perfect replica of her place replete with a whimpering basset hound in the corner, a 27" Magnavox television set pounding out Rod Stewart videos and occasionally Rachel's father would burst into the room near climax and tell "what the hell?!"

Which only made Robert thrust harder and deeper.

At other times Maddox would imagine her coming to the studio...and she would always be there. Dark haired falling around her full breasts as she went down on him. But she started to phase in and out.

He persisted. She would give him a mouth job while he lifted and did curls... But she was fading.

When it was over he had to clean the leg press, or he curled up in a ball on the floor because she had left early and was gone.

______________________

Part seven..the end...to come.

WE ALL GET WHAT WE WANT Part Five

Part Five.

__________________

"Are there any women here?" Maddox asked.

"Yes, of course, but the real ones bring the fire," said the stranger. "And to be fair, so do you. Therefore I suggest to make the best use of your imagination. You can choose from anything you can remember or can imagine. Memory seems best," He said standing up and walking a bit away.

"That is all I need to tell you except that my time (smile) is up and we will not ever meet again."

Then he turned toward Maddox and walked slowly toward him and extended his hand. "have a nice time," he said as he shook Robert's hand and disappeared like the Cheshire Cat, the smile leaving last.

"This is a fucking nightmare!" Maddox yelled at the empty studio.

He slumped to the couch and thought of Jennifer and the first time he had met her...and suddenly there she was. Robert brushed her red hair back over her shoulder and touched her cheek. He said nothing, but gently pushed her down on the couch with a long kiss he reached down and pulled her legs under and around him.

He began to unbutton her blouse seeing each undone button like singular snapshots. White soft breasts, pink bra, red blouse pulling away a bit at a time. Slowly. No words, just a slight moaning.

He was burning with desire. She never said a word as he pulled her skirt and panties off roughly and mounted her aggressively. He wrapped his arms around her torso so he could feel her breasts on either side. Later as he thrusted in rapid fashion he pulled her hair back so she could cry out.

"Grab my ass" he commanded. And she did fiercely. Three short thrusts then the bang. Three playful moves then Bang Bang.

She responded to his every whim. Whatever he thought for her to do she immediately knew to do. His intensity grew until he exploded inside of her in an insane rush. The couch nearly broke.

Robert was done then he thought about her and how he had not pleased her. But she was gone. The clock hummed quietly on the wall.

There was only Maddox, the couch and the empty studio.

The couch needed to be cleaned.

____________________

Final chapter is coming sports fans.

WE ALL GET WHAT WE WANT Part Four

"Is there anyone else here or am I alone?" Maddox blurted out.

"They are all around you," the stranger said. "Closer than a brother. Hmnnn. And more and more everyday. Always the same questions...simple ones really," said the stranger as he paced. "It is all quite boring really, but I provide a necessary service."

The stranger paused pondering some unknown issue. Then he looked up, his eyes flashing and he said to Maddox "If you can hear one thing and understand it you will have a piece of knowledge that most never get. I want you to listen very carefully and believe what I say."

Maddox leaned forward and looked directly into the disks, seeing a clear but distorted reflection of his own curiosity.

"I will listen" he said.

"Good, your the first today (the smile again) who seems to have the slightest clue," said the stranger. "Here everyone has absolute autonomy and power," the stranger said. "There are no subordinates, no authorities. Most importantly, God does not frequent these parts for you are your own God here and so are your neighbors. Each of you has his or her own Kingdom and Universe, which is yourself."

With this the stranger sat back down in the chair and seemed to relax a bit.

"You will learn what this means when you meet your neighbors..." he said. "That is, if you meet your neighbors."

Then he paused and seemed to once again consider.

"The only explanation I can give you for the results of those meetings is that the fire comes from yourselves."

"Do you need anything else?" The stranger asked.

"uh, oh...are there any women here?"

With that Maddox distinctly thought he saw the stranger's mirror-eyes roll.

_____________________

Part Five on the way. This the the sexy part for you hump hounds.

WE ALL GET WHAT WE WANT Part Three

Part Three.

By the way, these is actually just one short story in a whole series. A book called In These Last Days in which every day is the last day of a person's life but they do not know it. Some stories are humorous, others, like this one, or decidedly not. You should probably be at least 21 to read the next installement or two.

__________________________

"I'll just keep working out until someone comes," he thought. But after what seemed like 45 minutes to him he sat down and just looked at the door. Hours went by and still no one came. The television in his loft did not work and the phone was dead.

"The clock on the wall must be broken," he thought, thinking that it had stopped. This was not altogether true as Maddox would discover a century or so later. It was actually moving so fast that its gyrations could only be detected by a mild hum which came from the center of the clock.

He continued to sit in the room. Then he paced some, did some weights and time went by again and again. No one came.

He tried the doors but they would not budge. If he tried pulling on them hard and long enough they became heated to the point where they hurt his hands. "How many days have I been here?" he wondered. "Where is everyone?"

"They are in themselves," came a voice.

Maddox wheeled around and saw an elderly gentleman sitting in a director's chair about twenty feet away. The man was dressed in an attractive, if not extravagant, white linen suit which was adorned with pair of white duo-tone leather slip-ons and a wide-brimmed straw hat which had a peach-colored scarf tied around the base. As for the gentleman himself, Robert could see that he had a rich dark tan which was accentuated by what must have been (under the hat) a thick crop of greyish white hair.

"Who are you?" Maddox shouted, "...and what is going on here and what do you mean they are in themselves"? he asked more steadily as he approached the man. The strength and directness of his questions gave him added confidence until the man, looking up from under his hat stopped Maddox in his tracks.

The face was normal, but the eyes, those "windows of the soul" as his own spiritual master had taught him, reflected his own image for they were like two round mirrors set into the stranger's handsome and well-tanned face.

"I am not without my mercies," said the stranger, "although I do tire of hearing the same questions. Therefore let's get this over."

"Get what Ove..."

"I shall do the talking," interrupted the stranger, "and you shall do the listening." As he said this his eyes slashed back and forth temporarily blinding Maddox whose shoulders simply dropped at that point.

"You will find that you have absolutely everything you ever said you really wanted here. In this place your own will is supreme and your imagination can run wild and provide you with the reality of whatever you want."

The stranger stood and paced a bit looking around, then turned sharply. "You are free of all constraints here and have all the time in the world, so to speak." When the stranger said this Maddox thought he detected a slight flash of a smile. "In fact," the stranger continued, "you will find that time has less and less meaning for you, and in time (the same smile appeared) you will forget what it use to mean."

"In short Mr. Maddox, you are your own God, Subect, Object and Universe."

________________________

Part Four in short order. Please comment at the end.

WE ALL GET WHAT WE WANT Part Two

Part Two.

______________________

Then suddenly Rob was conscious again, but could not be sure if he was alive or dead. "This isn't happening to me!" he yelled out.

Then a voice, one that came so quickly and with such power and immediacy that it was more vivid and real than he had ever experienced spoke to him.

"Thy Will Be Done," was all the voice said.

And Robert Maddox was suddenly on fire.

"I cannot believe in this!" he yelled, then "This is NOT what my life is about!"

Suddenly all was calm and cold.

He was back in his karate studio which looked exactly as it had just minutes ago when eh had locked up. He walked around the room.

"What is this?" was the question that kept buzzing around the edges of his mind.

Different but the same. He felt slightly drugged but also like his perception was sharpened.

"I must make the best of this," he said aloud, "...Whatever this is."

"What is this? Is it Heaven?" Then he thought about the momentary fire. "Is it Hell?"

"No I don't believe in heaven or Hell dammit! And if so I have seen no God, no lighted tunnels...what the fuck!?"

Robert walked around the studio and stripped down, loaded up the bench press and ripped off a set at 220 lbs then stretched and decided to go through his normal workout.

Maddox had worked hard for 7 years with a sole goal: to own and operate a successful and lucrative karate studio.

It was his obsession which was only interrupted temporarily by two other activities that gave him pleasure: developing personal prowess physically through weightlifting and karate and seducing and making love to as many beautiful women as possible.

In this way he was an extremely simple and uncomplicated man.

Whenever Maddox would go through his workout he would lift until he could feel his muscles gorge with blood. Like Gov. Arnold had said in Pumping Iron "getting 'the Pump' is better than coming". He relished this feeling after a series of laddered burn-outs even more (but only slightly) than the feeling of gliding his body in and out of the flesh of soft and warm prey.

"Getting the Pump" and "coming" was all he ever had really.

No friends, no wife or children. And at age 36 his life was now over.

This left him somewhat unprepared for what happened next

__________

Part three in a bit.

WE ALL GET WHAT WE WANT

We All get What We Really Want. The following is a piece of fiction in response to Sex and Greg's (sounds like a series) ruminations on Hell and Evil...EEEEEV---EEEL as in the Fruits of the Devil )name that movie)

(A story about Evil and Hell)

____________________

Robert Maddox landed a quick blow to the forehead of his assailant and planned to grab and twist the young man's arm and send him through the plate glass window to his left when he heard a loud sudden "POP" and dropped down hard, shot.

"This isn't happening" he told himself. "I'll just get up, walk in the house and continue to watch American Idol." But he could see the blood running down the sidewalk...his blood escaping, running away from him like his life.

Next he felt someone going through his pockets. He coughed up some blood and spat it out. "I'll fuck you up," he said quietly.

He died 20 minutes later in a screaming ambulance.

In those few minutes he slowed down...down... down. He heard his own body give out a piece at a time. Down... down...Choking...but like another man choking and dying. "So this is what death is like?"

Yeah Rob. It comes to us all.

Next installment in a few hours.

I Got Jacko Off (No Boutros)

It's true.

I sat in the safe confines of Mac's Citadel today and watched the verdicts come across.

I never had a doubt.

Mac was twitching and nervous.

"I told you you should have watched the whole trial you wuss," I said then sailed a cardboard pizza box off his head and got up to pour myself another gin and tonic.

"Hey fuck!" he yelled. "I'm bleeding"

I do not know why I hang with this loser. I guess it's because he laughs at me, let's me do what I wish and I get to hit on whatever woman he is with when he is not looking (I'm much prettier than him).

"The fix was in" I said.

"What fix?"

"Oh your are an idiot. Celebrity is the nation's fix you moron," I said.

It got silent for awhile.

Anyway, what the MacMan does not understand it I put the real fix in weeks ago.

I travelled to SoCal (which, by the way I detest except for the women and that all-night Jewish Deli with the retro look..oh it's not retro because they just let it come back around. I never remember the name...I just say, "take me there"..okay yeah Kantor's).

I personally coached Jackson and his team of head-shaved body-guards on just what to do. Did you notice how many of them there were? Notice they ALL look alike?

They were actually cloned at Neverland in 1990.

The "Pajama Incident" and the physical problems, and other clear signs of complete internal melt-down (I assure you he is quite fine...we played pool that weekend) were all part of my diabolical plan.

So today, as I watched the Black SUV Bees fly toward a verdict I had already laid money on at 15 to 1. Fuckwit Fundamentalist Chickien-Take-O'Bob Magnate Idiots in Colorado greedily took the bet without batting an eye.

They will pay off now and be humilated. They were just asking for a good beating.

No, the above shot is Jacko giving me the private signal in court one day that my plan was in place. He gave me that look shortly before I was tossed from court for smuggling in a bottle of Vodka, a small jar of olives, ice and a shaker.

But we cannot be seen together in public anymore because I am too pretty, slightly whiter, and I'm taller and my hair is longer.

He has his pride, but forgets that I cannot sing a lick, have only sold records when I was broke and my "neverland" is pretty literal.

So anyway, I was happy for him today. For weeks we secretly conferred on the "impotence" defense. The last night in a hospital ploy was sheer genius thank-you. I sent pizza to the jurors with a note "It's his back!".

I did all of this for free. I did it because you can still do almost anything in California if you are smart and evil.

They came back with the 10 counts of not guilty today, which I knew they would.

The only shadow in all of this is "the Boutros", who has either cloned his sexually abusive self or there is more than one "Boutros" out their (No Boutros) .

Boutros Boutros-Ghali does not count, because, as we all know one "Boutros" cancels everything out. So, in fact a more literal translation of the UN Secretary's name would, in fact now be "Boutros-(No) Boutros-Ghali". This leaves him a non-Boutros.

Or just Ghali. Bono. Sting. Ghandi. Ghali.

Unlike "The Boutros" or his smarmy offspring.

So today, lovely Lindsey sent me this link on a Boutros sighting at the Jacko trial.

http://music.yahoo.com/read/news/12174904

The Boutros at work yet again...and in a Child Molestation case...imagine that.

And he wants more "access".

No Boutros.

The Robin Williams Interview

We figure, over the years, Mr. Williams has been raking in millions of dollars immitating people and putting words in their mouths without any consent. Comedy works that way.

Payback's a bitch.
________________

Mr. Williams, it is an honor to meet you, and I believe you just met somebody else.

YEA-HUS! I met Jeeee-sus! True, it was just the Baby Jesus, but Jeeee-sssuuuuss all the saaaamahhh!

Hmmm ... just the Baby Jesus, well, tell us how that happened.

Well, I was on Holiday in Jerusalem. I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and putting honey on my toast and some zealots mistook me for John the Baptist. I woke up three days later in a large cave and some strange woman was dancing in front of the mullah and pointing at my head.

I see, well weren't you terrified?

Of course. I was as scared as a hot meat sandwich in a piranha pool. But that night I had a vision from God ... it's true ... and I saw the Baby Jesus in the manger. Place was a mess. You don't normally have sense of smell in dreams, but this was a vision ... a sort of smell-a-vision.

Smell-a-vision?

Yes, I know it's strange, but so is Isaiah's healing Hezekiah with a fig cake ... you can never tell with the Almighty.

Anyway, my goodness can those animals drop a FULL LOAD!

And you think of the Baby Jesus all meek and mild, in Downey soft clothes cooing ... not so! Baby Jesus is screaming his head off ... probably his own vision of all the insanely stupid and cruel things people will do in his name and he's just screaming "NOOOO ... NOOOO!" But I digress.

Then in the vision, I see him growing up and ditching his parents. GenX Jesus is cool. Then we get to the good part and, aw... CRAP! Just then Bin Laden starts snoring three caves over. Guy's a terrorist even when he sleeps.

Bin Laden was three caves over?

Well that's what it said on the zealot literature. Personally, I think he just has time-share there.

So that was the end of the vision?

I tried to get it back ... but all I could get was ESPN and The Best Damned Sports Show Period. So now I'm stuck with only the baby Jesus really.

Baby Jesus loves me this I know
For a vision told me so
Comic minds to him belong
They are strange but he is strong


So how did you escape?

Well, it was easy. When they weren't looking I snuck into the harem and stole a bunch of clothes then posed as a woman. A lot of their women are incredibly hairy and buff. Very Mrs. Doubtfire ... just with M-16s.

That's what started me on my journey of faith ... well that and the bowl of hashish.

So what writers and thinkers have influenced you?

I tell you, I've started to read some serious theological works. I went down to the Christian bookstore and got some Chick tracts, a Jesus Frisbee and a book on the Trinity by a cucumber named LarryBoy.

Uh ... Robin there ARE better reading materials.

Oh yes, your right, I got the companion volume on the Incarnation by Bob the tomato.

But serious Maugham, I'm not so naive. I know all about the Fundie world. I've been making money imitating Jerry Falwell for years.

Well like who have you read?

Well Francis Schaeffer for one!

Which book did you read?

Well, several. I read He is There And He is Not Silent. Ironically I found that book at a silent retreat, and I heard God hiccup. Then there is the famous How Then Shall We Now Living, er, How Living Now Shall We Then, oh, Living How Now Brown Cow Then Shall We change the subject?

And did you like that?

Well I would have, but with those knickers I kept seeing Schaeffer as the old Amish man in Witness. You know, "Booooooooook! I wrote another Booooooooooook!"

Have you read any C.S. Lewis?

C.S. Lewis ... boy do we need him to come back.

The Second Coming of Jack.

Of course if he did all the gospel "betterment folk" would grab old Jack, put him on weight watchers, bitch-slap the patch on him, and enroll him in a good 12-Step program.

Can you imagine that 12-Step program with Lewis? After six weeks, and vigorous debate they'd have a new draft of the 12 Steps:

Step One: "We admitted we were powerless over alcohol -- and that Tolkien has to pick up the next round."

Step Two: "Came to believe in the Holy Trinity, the Incarnation and the Resurrection. Anything less is insane."

Step Three: "Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as Lewis alone understands him."

Yes, fat Jack would go into recovery and come out looking like Ben Stein.

So you've obviously know Jack.

Yes, I read the trilogy, Out of the Silent Planet (no copies of Schaeffer's book allowed there) ... that would potentially be How Then Shall We Then Live on a Silent Planet Where He Shall be Not Silent?

Have you noticed that Schaeffer talks and looks a little like Yoda?

Tell us Robin, how do you think your conversion will affect you, I mean you are already an incredibly diverse and complicated individual?

Well that's true, back in my single days, one woman complained that going out with me was like batch dating.

But since then I have gone deeper and found my true inner self.

Tell us what that means to you.

Well, I discovered that at the core of my being I am an enigma wrapped in a paradox, shrouded in a Turin, breaded, and dipped in a honey marsala sauce! Criss-cut fries are extra.

What was the largest obstacle to faith for you?

Well, at first, as a child, it was this immense woman who use to sit in front of our entire family on Sunday mornings. But then came the hippie movement and my parents gave up going to church because it wasn't intellectual enough. Instead they wore saffron and spent 90 minutes a day sipping the guru's bathwater.

And for you?

Well, the major thing is all the money grubbing and the televangelist stuff. I just don't get it. I mean I'm going trust this guy to heal my colon cancer and he can't even heal his own HAIR!

And just once I want to see, on TV, the preacher ask the question and have the person say "I have colon cancer! Please HEAL me by the laying on of hands!!!"

This "Kodak Moment" brought to you by Preparation H.

Nice try! But in this case they should call it "Preparation A-H" don't you think?

But seriously, they all have bad hair, it's like a requirement! The one guy looks like he has an opossum nailed to his head.

Boom! Jesus comes back!

When he leaves it's the Apostle Paul in a tiny jail in Rome; when he comes back it the Opossum Benny in the Georgia Dome!

Just the other day I saw an internet ad for a Christian Love Boat cruise. You sail on an immense cruise ship, enjoy the exotic sands and waters, dine with your sweetheart and are indoctrinated on the evils of the "Muslim Threat".

Well you have to admit the world has changed a bit.

Yes, but shuffleboard and Shiites!? I don't think so, although admittedly, the head honcho looked very much like Captain Stubing.

Come Baby Jesus COME! Come before they name a theme park after you!!

So you believe in Jesus' return?

Well, I think so. Although I hope he's grown up because really only Gandhi could get away with wearing a diaper in Parliament.

Yo Lurkers...scurry away ya fairies!

You Lurkers have had you day...or as Sean Connery might say, (from The Untouchables...which you are)..."That's enough of the Lurking shit!"

Click HERE for cheap T-shirts that shame Lurkers.

"Bury the cat in Sweden"...sheeesh

Grab a cup o'joe and fasten your seatbelts.
________________________

This morning's column in intended to be a Leary-like experiment in high-stakes caffeination. My self-imposed assignment is to visit Sacramento, review as many of the new cafes there as is physically possible in one day, and see what sort of literary hell I can produce. I discussed this with the Blue Marble editor (who pooped on the idea from a great height) and put in a call to my insurance agent who was, unfortunately for me, in Maui (he seems to spend a great deal of time there). So, I'm on my own.

* * * * * * * *

Terra Roxa (address) - 7 a.m.

I have a cafe mocha. On my usual 1 to 5 scale this mocha is barely a 1.5: one point because it exists (don't we all?), .5 because it isn't just hot water. The espresso is weak, the chocolate is inferior, and it was slopped together. Theses people obviously aren't aware of the religious nature of the espresso quest. Come here only if you want tea or solitude.

* * * * * * * *

Gelati Robi - 2317 J St. - 8 a.m.

The proprietors of this stylistic hole-in-the-wall get high marks for their Cafe Mocha. Made with the right amount of chocolate, an adequate strain of espresso, and served in a tall glass with a careening tower of fresh shipped cream - this is a masterpiece. For an extra nickel you can slide a "glace" cookie into the white mountain of cream. Nothing less than a 4.5 for this mocha. The price is a little steep for Sacto ($3.70 with the cookie), but probably worth it, unless you have your heart set on having three.

I have two. It is now 8:30 a.m., and I am reading the script of Ingmar Bergman's' The Seventh Seal. Funny stuff. A lot of Bergman's humor shows up (slightly altered) in recent films.

In one scene, the Knight's servant Jons begins to sing to him as they ride:

JONS: (singing)
One moment you're bright and lively,
The next you're crawling with worms.
Fate is a terrible villain
And you, my friend, it's poor victim.

KNIGHT: Must you sing?

JONS: No.


Monty Python revamped (stole) this same dialogue years later in the now infamous Monty Python and the Holy Grail, where it is placed in the moths of "brave, brave Sir Robin," and his highly imaginative and graphic minstrels who sing of their knight's grisly demise ("He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways!"

* * * * * * * *

Java City - 18th & Capitol - 9:45 a.m.

Java City is Sacramento's only authentic coffee house, now that Weatherstone Coffees and teas (the original coffee house) has been revamped. It has the atmosphere, the decor and the right stuff. The right ingredients orchestrate their Cafe Mocha - and for $2.45 it would be the best buy in town, except that you really needed a double Cafe Mochas as the single does not sufficiently express itself. The double will cost you $1.70, and gets a 4.1. the single receives 3.2 - it's just a glorified hot chocolate.

The patrons here are interesting, as are the young men and women who work here. They are generally good-humored and romantic with a no-bullshit toughness which gives them real substance. The patrons will generally leave you alone if you want solitude, but will engage you in conversation if you seem open and they are so inclined.

I'm not in the mood for talk this morning as I am beginning to experience some slight nervousness and paranoia as a result of the equivalent of four shot of espresso (one-half at Terra Roxa, two at Gelati Robi and a double at Java City.) but it's nothing which can't be overcome.

* * * * * * * *

I am having a hard time concentrating on Bergman's script, so I am switching to Walker Percy's Lost in the Cosmos, which is funny and poignant book.

Mr. Percy looks at things from a sociologist's point of view, but because he is a novelist, he insists on interjecting alien space-beings, and the like, to serve as inquisitors in to the human condition. Personally, I would assume that if an alien space-being could frame the right questions (as we have been enable to do), he might already know the answers, but you never can tell with space beings, particularly not with one's invented by Mr. Percy.

* * * * * * * *

Next on my itinerary is La Boulangerie on Howe Ave.

La Boulangerie - How and - 10:30 a.m.

I'm beginning to wish I had never thought of this experiment. It was a stupid idea. My thought processes are becoming garbled, even by my standard. There is a high-pitched whine which seems to begin in the back of my head, my vision is blurred and I'm getting signals from Scotty in the engine room that all is not well in my lower intestinal tract.

Although I report these facts, I am determined to stick to my original quest.

La Boulangerie is great because they not only serve a great mocha (4.0 rating) but they have food as well. Many cafes do not, serving desserts, but nothing of substance. But I don't' give a shit about other cafes right now because my current bio-chemical needs can only be satisfied by a turkey and cheese croissant.

I manage to negotiate the turkey and cheese croissant, which is devoured in seconds, to the utter horror and disgust of the two middle-aged women to my right. "Such manners," says one to the other. "Happy Halloween Ladies!" I say mimicking the Kergan in Highlander.

As I start on the mocha, my vision begins to clear and I notice that the three bond-haired girls behind the La Boulangerie counter look exactly like Marsha, Jan and Cindy Brady. I'm relieved to see that some sort of order is being restored, although I still cannot remember my name, not even for cash.

* * * * * * * *

After having a cappuccino at Java Junction (2.8), I hammer down to the La Boulangerie across the street from the Proctor and Gamble plant, near Power Inn and Fruitridge, for another Cafe Mocha (3.8 - too much chocolate) and some toxins (no rating).

Amazing how upset people get about the Proctor & Gamble "moon and stars" symbol! Proctor and Gamble could sink millions of gallons of hazardous waste into our air, surf and turf and no one would raise so much as an eyebrow - while the trite symbol on the back of their box calls for a boycott? Are we divorced from reality or what? Lesson: If Proctor and Gamble has sold its soul to the devil it won't be found in it's symbolism - it will be found in the way it treats people and the environment.

Next on the agenda is Double Rainbow on Watt Ave (a Cafe Latte, 3.5) and from there to my present location at the Garden Court in Old Sacramento (cappuccino 2.4). From here my plan is to make my way to The Monterey Baking Co.

* * * * * * * *

Monterey Baking Co. - Howe and Alta Arden - 3 p.m.

I am in deep ka-ka. I am bombarded with feelings about life and the universe, most of them bad, and am suffering a great moral dilemma. I can't decide whether I should stick to my original plan or detour to Tom La Brie's Waterbed Warehouse for complementary cold duck. Too many choices!!

The Monterey Baking Co. is next to Cost Plus. The most beautiful women in the world shop here - no shit. After a Cafe Latte, which I can no longer rate (it is hard to do a taste-test when you cannot locate your tongue), I remember that the beautiful, but dangerous, Brenda Walters probably still works there.

Brenda is even more beautiful than the women who shop at Cost Plus (amazing). I first met her at a party in S.F. down in the Haight. Her large round eyes, beautiful skin and statuesque figure were destructive to my world-view, so I introduced myself and quickly suggested that the party was a dive and that we should go elsewhere.

But, at just that moment in time, a friend of mine ushered Brenda's boyfriend Max over to where we were standing and introduced me as the host. We live in an imperfect universe.

Does she still work there?

* * * * * * * *

I begin moving in the direction of Cost Plus.

As I enter, I notice I am sweating a lot, like I do after a four mile run in Golden Gate Park. I veer away from the wicker baskets because I am suddenly seized with the idea that hundreds of little Gremlins and my two ex-wives inhabit them. I start my way over toward the poster section, noting that everything looks darker and more grey than usual. After I remove my sunglasses, things improve a little.

I look through the posters. Many are reprints from the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist periods. What's that? I could swear that Van Gogh's self-portrait just winked. That's eerie, it reminds me of a video game that I once developed with my computer-genius friend Tony, called Painting Paranoids.

There are several levels to this game, but my personal favorite is level four where you control a Paul Gauguin video figure through the darkly-lit and labyrinth-like streets of Arles. The more wrong turns you take, the more crazed Van Goghs pop out from behind building, slashing and lunging at you with their tremendous knives.

It's great fun, and for every successful maneuver through the town of Arles you are awarded a maximum of ten thousand points, and bonus ears.

* * * * * * * *

I make my way back to the coffee counter to see if Brenda is working. The long row of coffee filled canisters looks menacing and the display of assorted coffeemakers looks like something out of J. Edgar Hoover, or Edgar Allen Poe or J. Edgar Winter - who can remember these things after eleven straight or double shots of espresso!!? Anyway, they look LARGER than life, or at least, larger than MY life.

I hear voices talking to me from faraway, but I am too overcome by these machines of death and madness, particularly the espresso-makers, with their twisting pipes, nozzles and plungers.

"Angels of Light!!, Angels of Light!!!" I scream out, before feeling a hand on my shoulder. I turn slowly (it seems to me, but it must have been fast since she looks startled) and I see that it is Brenda.

Brenda looks worried - even more worried than she did the time I suggested she (touch tongue - ref.)

She looks me in the eyes and says" You lok sakpor Zbignew Brezenski, would you like to come away/ bury the cat with me in Sweden?" I begin to sob like a small child, because she is all I have ever wanted in this world - that and to be Simon Templar and drive a white Volvo 1800 SE.

"Yes, yes, I too wish to bury the cat and move to Sweden," I say, at which point Brenda recoils and looks at me like a referee does at a wrestler when he has been caught with a foreign object. Her beautiful eyes open wide and speak (I swear she did not move her lips - it was the eyes) "Please sit down, you have been drinking." She is offering me something, a small thimble-sample of Ethiopian Harrar. It touches my lips, but it tasted like morphine. The room gets darker and greyer. I reach up to take my sunglasses off, but they are already off.

Everything fades to black.

THREEPEAT Part 3

The conclusion to our tale and the possibility of avoiding Threepeat!
________________________

I once had a freelance job in this little office downtown. I arrived on the first day. The only one there that day was the secretary: dark-haired, tall, lithe with near perfect skin, and she had the most amazing body. The immediate and excruciatingly palpable pheremonic attraction between us was unlike anything I had ever experienced, before or since. Working alongside each other on some meaningless word processing problem was nearly orgasmic.

It flooded over us in waves, and at lunchtime I had to decide what to do. I staggered outside for a long walk. I was a married man. I knew where such lust could take you.

Even though I needed the work, I simply went home and never came back.

How do I know it was not just me? Over a year later I was working in a dive print shop and she walked in the door. She took a step back and said "It's you."

"Yeah, It's me. Hi". She never came back in, though she worked three blocks away.

So I owned it and guarded against it. I stopped any attempts to blame Judith for my own actions. It did not matter what she had done. But Judith did not own her own contributions. So now she sleeps alone and blames her husband for all her unhappiness, just as she did me all those years ago.

Which brings me to Denise.

She has such a tightly-knit alibi, expert rationale, and formidable internal reverb, that she is doomed to repeat.

She'll marry a boyfriend, who will finally get a healthy does of sex with her, for a few weeks. Then one morning he will wake up and touch her and she will turn on him quickly and spit acid into his eyes and as the camera pans back we will only hear the screams coming as intolerable and sustained emotional and psychic violence takes place.

She won't kill him outright...just play with him like a cat does a doomed mouse. It will not end until she has eaten his heart out with a dull spoon over several years time. After all the heart is gone, will come the rationale and plan for getting rid of the empty shell he has become.

I know. I was such a shell.

Denise is as doomed to repeat as Judith was.

But I am too, if I am not very, very careful and am not rescued from myself.

That is key number two: hope in grace and rescue from our own self-made traps.

It is not enough to know that I AM the essential problem. That helps, but it is not enough to repeal threepeat. Not for me at least.

Only hope in the irrational love and mercy of God can save me from myself. As Bono says "Grace travels outside of Karma". That Grace came come from some pretty unusual places, so keep your eyes open.


*******


Well I drove off to meet Robert. I love Robert. He is honest and always has something to share. That and he buys.

We got coffee and sat down.

At the same time Denise was driving toward school with Cameron. She had just dropped off Matisse and she was still fuming quietly about my living two doors down and my audacity in questioning her the night before. It offends her that I might show up at any time of the morning in the neighborhood and hug our children.

"He's a Loser," she was thinking as she pulled into the grocery store parking lot.

"Hey look Mom!! Dad's here!"

"No he isn't" she said.

"Look a green truck with a shark on the back! That's Dad!"

"Shit" thought Denise.

Whither can she go to escape my presence? When she arises to take the kids to school, I am there. When she goes for coffee, lo I am there. If she wishes to have her boyfriend over, yea, I am there just 100 feet away on the rare occasion that they are quietly humping.

Cameron came through the door with a huge smile and gave me a big hug. Denise passed by with that fake smile that says "I have to smile but I hate that you exist." She did not come over to be introduced to Robert.

"Bye Den" I said as she exited.

Robert looked at me. I looked at Robert.

He grinned. "Seemed kinda uptight," he said.

"Yeah, you could say that. I think she has some "anger issues". Remember that scene in Jurassic Park with the fat guy...Newman?"

"Oh yeah, sure, kinda."

"It's kinda like that."

"What do you mean?"

"Aw nothin."

"What about the new guy?"

"He has no idea. He won't until it's too late," I said. "Doomed to repeat."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, if you blame the other person and make them the sole issue, you are doomed to repeat your own huge mistakes."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm a major two-time offender on the verge of a threepeat. Three strikes you're out in this state," I said.

We talked about it for a while. I explained that if I blame Denise and her anger solely, that I will not see my own huge culpability in the demise of our marriage. If I don't see it all, and work on it all, I will first choose a person with the same issues (because it is what I know), then repeat all my same mistakes until it ends badly.

"Then I'll do it again," I said. "And again, and again, and end up alone with seven sets of children instead of only two."

"Hey, that's pretty good stuff Maugham," Robert says. "You should write a book."

"Yeah. No one I know knows more about failure with women than I do. Maybe they will make it into a movie, like High Fidelity."

"That'd be good, especially the scene with "the Dinosaur" and the new boyfriend. How big was it?" he asks.

"Um, it was like five feet tall, five feet deep and maybe 25 feet long."

He leaned back and laughed aloud. "That's a big fucking dinosaur."

"It was damned hot too," I say shaking my head. "But then, nobody gets away with anything."

_________________

Please post comments!

THREEPEAT Part 2

Part Two

As I drove to the coffeehouse, I thought again about my Ex's terse attack the night before and thanked God that I don't have to sleep with such anger and judgment.

[By the way I think in most cases the term "Ex" should just be "X" as in X-rated...only suited for those who view others as "meat" as either a means of financial gain or immediate, but distant gratification. But, that's just me. Personally I care about my "Ex"s. If they were ever in trouble I'd be right there. But, my guess is, they'd have to be in a helluva lot of trouble since they went to great lengths to make sure I would never be "right there".]

My mistake was to choose to drink to dull the pain...which of course only lasts for a short while. You wake up the next day in the same pain and you feel even worse. In the end you are just inviting more, and also helping them store up venom to spray you with.

When I finally started to deal with my own stuff, the self-loathing, shame, drinking and all the rest, my counselor said that I was "paying for other people's sins." A euphemism for sure, but interesting.

Personally, I have to take responsibility over my own body and actions regardless of others. Anyway, after Denise's blistering remarks the night before, I made the mistake of staying up too late and imbibing too much. It's stupid. Let them pay for their own sins and let Jesus pay for mine.

I often ask myself, "How did I end up right back here?"

I thought that as destroyed as I was back in the earky 90s (and I was) that I had at least escaped living with an angry woman with a flair for persecution. So I married Denise who soon added violence to the equation and was even smarter and meaner.

Nobody ever gets away with anything.

Then I thought I had broke out of all of that last year with sweet Linda, until she turned on a dime, spat acid in my face, and watched me broil in the hot sun with her new boyfriend in the shade.

I preferred it when she jumped into the car and ate me.

*******


But back to my first failure.

Back then I could see clearly that my first spouse was doomed to repeat.

Now, years later, they rarely speak. It appears they are clawing to escape one another and yet are caught in a giant Chinese finger trap. Since both of them are "not at fault" in their previous divorces, they need the other to be the fall guy.

It just gets tighter and tighter and quieter and quieter.

It's a damned shame. They are both good and fine people, they just take themselves too seriously and grace not seriously enough.

*******

After I betrayed my first wife, I made the obvious next move of marrying an adulteress and then had the complete audacity to look surprised when she betrayed me and often loved other men.

Nobody gets away with anything.

But what about me? Was I not an adulterer also doomed to repeat?

Yes to the first part, but no to the second because I owned it. That is the first key to possible escape from Karmic retribution, or what Nietzsche called "eternal recurrence".

I was horrified by my ability to betray, a lot like the Daniel Stern character in City Slickers whom as they are all introducing themselves for the first time says something like, "I'm Phil Berquist and I committed adultery."

So you have to fully own it and guard against a repeat by simply owning exactly where you fucked up and guarding against that very thing.

More tomorrow.

THREEPEAT Part 1

Ever make the same mistakes with women over and over, or with guys (No Homo)? This is a three part answer to that conundrum and how to escape it. Enjoy!
____________________

Nobody ever gets away with anything...eventually.

Sometimes it's Instant Karma, sometimes it may take decades. For others, who knows, maybe justice awaits them in some other form on the other side.

One thing is certain. No matter how much people think they have escaped, they haven't. All that we are stays with us, because it is us.

So it goes with all failed loves. Each person secretly comes to think, or hope, that they have escaped in some way from the other. The illusion is that now they can find the "right" partner and be free, happy and loved. They are generally quite surprised when they end up in new and equally futureless relationship.

But then, it is always the other person's fault!

In reality, chances are they both walked away with ticking bombs taped to their chests, each doomed to repeat.

How do I know this?

By experience. In fact I am in serious danger of threepeating.

*******

I was roughly awakened at 6:45 this morning by the phone. I was having a nice dream and coming out of it was rough and bleary. Too much alcohol still rumming around my system sucking and destroying every nutrient or chance at a normal morning.

"Fuck off Robert," I quietly groaned, and then replaced the phone in the cradle. I slumped back into bed, part of me wishing I was dead, the other thankful that I have a friend who will buy me coffee on a hot Thursday morning.

I started thinking about the night before and Denise's terse and pointed little attack. I had the audacity to question her about something concerning the kids. She quickly bit my head off then hung up on me.

I guess the monologue was over.

Behind her sweet and cute veneer she is kind of like that little dinosaur in Jurassic Park that looks cute until it suddenly sprays acid in the fat guy's face, jumps violently into the Jeep and eats him.

Same basic principle.

Why do people have to be so mean? I understand that behind anger is hurt. But what is behind mean?

I thought about one of my last relationships which was so sweet until within one week suddenly she turned downright mean on a dime (I consider one week to be a dime relationally. A quarter would be a month of problems; a dollar is a six month decline; a penny is a one-day relational car crash with no survivors).

In the one in question, we had lived together for quite awhile and a few days after the breakup she called and emailed me simultaneously demanding I "come get this fucking Dinosaur out of my yard!"

Dinosaur?

Oh, there was an attached photo. Quite impressive. She and her new boyfriend (it was quite a mourning period for her) had stacked all of my belongings in boxes etc...in the yard on pallets. It was this long massive thing, mostly boxes and boxes of books.

The Dinosaur was a definite Maughamodon.

Then the phone rang again.

I answered in an altered voice,"I think I speak for everyone when I say that this run should be postponed until this platoon is better rested...name that movie", I droned sleepily.

"uh-uh...oh...its ahhhhhh, the Bill Murray one!" says Robert.

"Yeah. Stripes, okay where are we gonna meet?"

"Uh, the usual in ten minutes. Hey, I was watching High Fidelity last night"

"I love that movie. Cusack rocks. You know that guy? I can't remember his name...well, he's written other books, like About a Boy.

"Okay (groan). Hey like that scene with Catherine Zeta Jones when he's just miserable in the rain and she is upstairs with the other guy?"

"Yeah, SOOO COLD," Robert said cheerfully into the phone. "Hey, that was just like that time you had to deal with "the Dinosaur" in your girlfriend's yard."

"Yea, ...We won't be there" she said. Then there she was with Mr. Meathelmet sitting in the shade the entire time...Ha! Okay. I'll be there in 10 minutes or so."

I hung up. I looked and felt like shit. I showered and let the cold water pound me for a good while. Things did not improve in any discernible way.

I went to the window to see if Denise had left with the kids. She hadn't. It's weird being neighbors, but I love being near my kids and they love having me near. They seem to have the best of both of us. They don't spray acid and they don't drink, yet.

I threw pants and an old shirt on and grabbed my shoes just in time. As I walked toward the car, Denise looked over with quick disdain. Cameron jumped out of the van "Dad!" and ran over for a hug. Then I comforted sister who was having a rough go. Denise pretended I did not exist. I can tell that she wished I were dead. She probably fantasizes about it.

I remember once, all those years ago when we were having our tumultuous affair, that she fantasized out loud about my first wife dying. Then, she reasoned, she and I, and my two young kids, could live in joy as a family. I thought at the time that it was a bit harsh, but I was too busy unclasping her bra to take full note of my own future undoing.

Lust is like that.

Final result? Now she fantasizes with her new boyfriend about my demise so they and our two young kids can live in joy as a family.

Nobody ever gets away with anything, but to make sure I kept my ears open as I walked away in case she might try running me over with my former car.

There were no incidents.

____________________

Tommorow Part Two! Please leave comments.

Lindsey Scores with Se7en

Editor's note: Lindsey is a STAR at Immoderation Girls. Her alcohol enduced insights into popular culture will one day earn her an honorary doctorate. She is also damned sexy!

Er...anyway, (I am back from my cold shower). She did this masterful piece over at Immoderation Girls on a new version of Seven. And she challenged The Faithful to give their own responses. Here is what I posted there today.

Oh..and you have to read her article FIRST!

*********

Of course the beautiful and insightful Miss Lindsey has once again created a thing of pure genius while allowing it to have its own revolting ramifications…such as…

Paris has gotta have it, but because she is as smart as a bag of hammers will either be crushed by Shaq as he takes it to the, er…this is the term, Hole (No Boutros) OR by Michael Moore who will also be eating a five course meal as they hump away (ew…No Homo).

Either way, Paris is out first.

Federline is next. Due to his sloth we only see him occasionally in the show, always sitting in the same chair. We notice, in episode five (“The Fungi Strikes Back”) that a large mutant fungus has been slowly overtaking him.

Because Federline has been licking the backs of hallucinogenic frogs he thinks it’s Brittany. He is finally choked off trying to tongue the immense fungus (the title of Episode Five is an error as there is no second fungus…just the one, Later the fungus will use this as an alibi).

For the rest of the show, we see the fungus simply devour his body until only the fungus is left to sit and watch television.

By episode twelve (“The Kittens Get Spanked”), the fungus has taught itself how to use the remote.

In that episode, Ashley and Shannon get into a vicious cat-fight over one of them using the other’s hairbrush. Caught in a dual stranglehold they smash out of the top story window and are immediately co-impaled on a satellite antenna and the show loses its feed for 5 minutes while Fox employees (it has to be Fox) use a chainsaw to quickly remove them and restore the feed.

The two dead Posers are fed to the fungus.

That leaves the three men.

Moore is probably the smartest, so he attempts to bait Trump and Shaq into a heated argument. But it loses steam when Trump keeps saying “You’re Fired” because everyone knows Shaq has an ironclad contract.

Next, Moore tries dramatic irony and tries to viciously SHAME both men for their greed and narcissism into self-imploding suicide. He threatens to do a movie on each of them.

Stupid White Fat Ass Pricks 2 and Celsiuspride/32.

Surprisingly, this actually works on Shaq who has never had anyone talk to him like he had a “moral center”. In fact, Moore is so effective in his use of the ironic phrase “Moral Center” that Shaq realizes he is not the “Center” and his life-long position actually disintegrates and he falls dead to the floor just missing Trump whose hair simply gets mussed.

So it’s down to the big boys.

Trump isn’t gonna fall for any moral argument. But he cannot fire Moore because he’s an “Independent filmmaker”.

The show drags on with no sex appeal at all (the women are long since dead and both of these guys have serious style problems).

The fungus considers offers for a spin-off series, but the William Morris Agency balks in final negotiations and drops his contract. Unbeknownst to them, the fungus is one of the largest living organisms on earth.

http://www.abc.net.au/science/news/enviro/EnviroRepublish_828525.htm

As such, even though the show is being shot in Los Angeles, the fungus also resides in many places all at once.

The fungus has a beach house in San Diego, a Condo in Tahoe, and a timeshare in Seattle.

In a stunning move the fungus devours the 34^th floor of the William Morris Agency in Nashville in retaliation. But no one can prove it because the fungus uses the Rocky Mountains for cover.

Never Bet Against Trump

As ratings dwindle week after week we see Trump’s shrewd plan. He starts what he calls the “Trump Culinary Institute” and begins to create masterpieces loaded with fat, heavy sauces and cream.

By episode 37 (“As the Stomach Turns”), Moore is on the ropes as he balloons up to 600 pounds.

Then Trump, at his most evil, sells the “Trump Culinary Institute” and reinvests in the “Trump Pastry Outlet”.

Moore is deluged with rich pastries and finally dies choking on the world largest chocolate éclair.

They haul his body over near the fungus, who is repulsed and leaves the show to do celebrity appearances in Seattle, LA, San Diego, Lake Tahoe (in a lounge) but refuses to take any job East of the Rockies for reasons that stymie others.

Trump has once again, triumphed. But in a cruel twist of fate, he has lost his entire empire in a hostile takeover during the show. Fox News has stifled the ongoing reports to keep Trump in the dark.

All he has left is the Trump Pastry Outlet.

But the good news is, they have to wear hats.

For More MAUGHAM, go to

http://coffeehousediariesbook.blogspot.com/

Diary 3: Sweetened or SHOT?

As I whipped through the glass door of Java City, I almost crashed into a guy with no legs. He looked up patiently at me from his wheelchair with no small hint of grace. I apologized and walked to the counter where I was stunned by a raven-haired Siren.

I recovered enough to order and slowly walked to get a table. As I watched her, and it was difficult not to, I realized how deadly self-conscious she was of her own appearance. I wondered if she was ever able to move freely beyond that category of her natural beauty?

I got my double extra large dark French roast, shook it off, hit the coffee caddy for some blue packets and milk and settled down with my diary to write this.

I want to rant today about "branding" and maybe one brand in particular as a glaring example. But before I do, I think it relevant to talk about the handicapped, which in some small to large way, is all of us.

Think of most everyone you know. Aren't most of them a mixed bag that includes some great things but then some glaring handicap? Maybe they've got most of their life together, but isn't another part through the floorboards?

A millionaire businesswoman who is fighting breast cancer; a family man with a drinking problem; a brilliant artist who is too shy to try and sell her work; a popular comedian who cannot make a relationship work and lives alone.

Don't believe the airs most put on. In fact, the more certain people appear "perfect" the more likely they are covering up some huge handicap that scares the shit out of them.

*******

One of my specific handicaps is that I am hypoglycemic, which basically means my pancreas has an itchy trigger finger. This is not my major handicap, but it less painful to point to than other obvious flaws.

Hypoglycemia is kind of the opposite of diabetes. Basically, any time a mild dose of sugar is introduced into my system my pancreas over-reacts and pumps out slugs of insulin into my body like Rambo on a rampage. The insulin hits my already deranged brain blowing my blood sugar level to tiny bits. The results are headaches, depression, psychosis and, worst of all, sluggish prose.

How do I deal with this handicap? Simple. I don't eat sweets, or lots of carbs, and I dump these little light blue packets into my cup o'joe. It's called "NutraSweet" and is branded as a true substitute for sugar with no aftertaste (like that other pink crap that will grow you a third eye even though you are not an Eastern mystic).

That was at first, now it is being touted like some miracle substance which, in Star Trek terms, is able to "bypasses pancreatic anomalies with no residual effects." NutraSweet is great in pudding, popsicles and ice cream.

Long live Nutrasweet!

I think.

*******

I am still shaking this morning a bit.

Not because I had a cherry cheese danish this morning (I didn't), but because of yesterday.

Outside my H street apartment, a young guy walked up to me and asked if could give him directions to 20th and G streets. Considering that we were at 18th and H streets, I naturally questioned his ability to apply simple numbers and letters.

It was only then that I divined the true reason for his inquiry: he wanted my wallet.

This revelation came to me in the form of a small snub-nosed revolver which the young junkie had pressed firmly at my mid-section, threatening to ventilate, of all things, my pancreas! And let's face it, it is just this sort of medical information (about a person's pancreas) which street scum are not normally privy to.

All I could think of was the gun, my trigger-happy pancreas, and the fact I had not had forty buck in my wallet for over a month. As I stared into his dilated eyes I made my decision: "There is no fucking way I'm giving you my wallet," I said directly.

He may not have been the smartest guy, and he was definitely high, but somewhere in his vermanic brainpan my assailant recognized in my eyes a look that clearly said, "You can shoot me, but I will throttle you before I go down."

"Here is how we are going to work this" I said, "I'm going to turn around and walk back into my apartment, and you are going to turn around and walk away."

With that, the little toady took a step back, and I took this to mean he understood my terms, so I too turned and returned to my apartment, feeling some ambivalence as my young assailant ran off into the night.

Sometimes having a faulty pancreas is the next best thing to having balls.

*******

But what the fuck is NutraSweet? Where does it come from? What is it made of, and what do they mean when they say it is "all natural"?

The name implies that it is nutritious and will sweeten. I looked all over the heavily branded box for the mandated nutritional information and was met with nothing but zeros. No calories, no fat, no sodium, no proteins. If not for the trace elements of carbs and sugars, it would be had to prove that NutraSweet wasn't just the Emperor's new sweetener.

What it does have in it is "phenylketonuric." (I know that makes me feel a lot better.) The specific "phenylketonuric" that NutraSweet sports is "phenylalanine" which, for obvious reasons, will herein be referred to simply as Funny-LaLa-Nine.

So I turned to my research department, the Inktomi worldwide web search engine, to do a search for relevant articles on NutraSweet and Funny-Lala-Nine, and doggone it if NutraSweet doesn't have their own web page (http/www.nutrasweet.com) which has a page title "What is NutraSweet made of?"

Here is their answer to the question.

"NutraSweetTM brand sweetener is made up of common food components that, when combined, deliver a clean sweet taste. In fact, these are the same components found in much greater amounts in many foods we eat everyday, like meat, fruit or dairy products."

I'm not kidding.

But these "food components" are never identified except that they occur in some unknown way in at least half of what we buy at the grocery store. That narrows it down, huh?.

If, with my blender, I hit on the right combination, say a ham hock, a banana and some feta cheese, can I get a clean sweet taste?

Okay, the ham hock is probably the wrong food component because it's too salty. I guess I am still stuck on branding a pig as a pigoramus.

What about', er, well, what kind of meat would be sweet? I could only think of sweet-breads. That's gotta be the secret!!

But what is sweetbreads?

Here's where it gets eerie: (and again, I'm not kidding about this). I dropped my Oxford's dictionary after I read the following,

"Sweet*bread (sweet-bred) n. an animal's thymus gland or pancreas used as food."

Well you know what they say, "you are what you eat."

Posting new stuff today.