Programming Note: I WANT TO LIVE AGAIN! But Really, FUCK YOU Guy At Disneyland Whose Contaminated Sneezy Droplets I Walked Into While In Line For Pirates Of The Caribbean. Because You Failed To Cover Your Mouth. Because You're A Pig-Dog.

Ahh. This picture of These Hot Sluts
will take the pain away.

I'm certain everyone's been waiting with bated breath and/or has been residing on pins and needles for my next Brandon and Steve SAUNders tirade-and-obscenity-marinated slam piece pièce de résistance. I mean, my email inbox has been completely empty as always teeming with messages from desperate fans, imploring me to write more, more, MORE! And to that I say: step off, people! What, are your lives so pathetic like mine and completely dominated by a 23-year-old television show? Get a grip! I have no life, at all a life too, ya know. And by "I have a life too," I of course mean, "I've been sicker than shit with some kind of Demon Crud and will probably Poor (Almost Dead) Scott Scanlon myself any day now."

Don't you think you've run the
"Poor (Nearly At The End)
Scott Scanlon" analogies into the ground,
you ask? Answer:
THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE.

But really, to NO ONE ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH'S everyone's delight, I am - hopefully - on the mend, as I finally dragged my hypochondriac ass to an Urgent Care facility yesterday (in The Valley; GROSS, RIGHT? But it was actually the nice part of The Valley, so no, I didn't run into anyone with a grown-out perm masquerading as a comb-over and wearing tawny-colored, rayon-blend EVERYTHING) and got hooked up with something called a "Z-Pak," which totally sounds neon and hip and part of the lyrics from "Summertime" and regurgitated straight out of 1991, so there's no way it's NOT going to work, right? RIGHT?


(Oh, and I also "Pulled a Jay Sherman" and fucked up my back while hitting some fungos to a bunch of overprivileged asshole kids from West LA...meaning, I've been coughing for three weeks straight and strained my left lower back/buttock area. And have been shuffling around the house in my white tennis shoes and grubby Tony Soprano robe acting like a real bag of dicks. But really, I think God is actually just a huge Jim Walsh fan and decided to Teach Me A Lesson about taking on his Beloved Walsh Patriarch.)

Oh, Jim, you smarmy fuckwit wrapped in a douche pouch
wrapped in a mound of wrinkled foreskins wrapped in
a Talbots crew-neck sweater.

What I'm trying to say is that once this Steve-SAUNders-Of-A-Bacterial-Infection exits my body, I'll be back to business as usual, i.e. coming here to spread my written diarrhea upon the world. And by "the world," I of course mean, "the handful of people who were not-at-all blackmailed by me into reading this smut." Until then, I'll be busy scouring the internet, looking for the variety of diseases my symptoms are indicative of. So far, I've narrowed it down to AIDS with a side of goiter. Bacterial infection, MY ASS. It's ALWAYS something far worse, like cancer or shooting yourself in the gut on your birthday. (See? It never gets old!) Until we meet again!