Namaste, lady bastards!
You’re mistaken. I’ve not been locked up for the illegal possession of “llama” (it’s what the kids are calling weed these days). You’re absolutely correct; I’ve neglected this blog and should be shot at dawn with a staple gun until copiously bleeding from my nuts for having done so. But cut me some slack. I’m basically the equivalent of an internet hobo, squatting in the shadows of a logged off world in my apartment and then forgetting to take advantage of internet connectivity at work. I guess I’m just like you… a bit of a moron.
I suppose greater men would have continued to write hilarious accounts of invisible llamas and adventurous sexual exploits wearing nothing but their extra-large condoms and then hacked into the nearest local network through their microwaves in order to upload their magnificent prose for three people to read. But I like to think I’ve kept you all in a state of heightened suspense ready to… well, you know, gasp with pleasure at my sudden return from a writer’s premature grave.
Anyway, here’s some free advice to help you survive 2011, which is looking like the year people everywhere in Northern Africa decided to throw rocks at their oppressive regimes: If you’re walking around the streets like a lost fart in a perfume factory and see an angry mob of motherfuckers throwing shit at riot police, get on your llama or other mode of transport and head in the opposite direction. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you choke to death on tear gas.
Or, you could join them. Who knows, you may become a legend by throwing the stone that finally smacks Gaddafi between his shifty eyes, convincing him that he should quickly retire to his villa in Southern Spain before being sodomised by a llama and then disembowelled by angry revolutionaries.
But wait, there’s more free advice and llama love where that came from … Be tenacious. Just like those agitated mobs flipping the bird at Gaddafi and biting the bullet in the process. Tenacious like that Norman D. Vaughan dude who said, “Dream big and dare to fail.” Now, before you think he had tiny little balls like Gaddafi and a bigger ego, let me set the record straight: Norman had gigantic planet-sized testes made of titanium. He could have used his nuts as wrecking balls if he wanted to.
Norman was an American dogsled driver who was part of the first expedition to reach the South Pole. By the age of 68, however, he was divorced and bankrupt. Did poor old Norman crawl into a foetal position and whimper like a defeated twit? Not a fucking chance. He rebuilt his life. And then at the age of 88, he climbed a 3,150 metre mountain (10,000 feet for all you foreign morons). Fuck me gently, that’s an impressive pair of old man balls he swung between his legs.
When he turned 100, Norman was going to climb the same mountain again. But unfortunately, he died, as people tend to do at that age. I blame his mamma. You see, he had promised the old goat that he wouldn’t drink any alcohol until he was 100. So, on his 100th birthday he took his first sip of bubbly. He kicked the bucket a few days later, before he could pull his mountain gear over his wrinkled beach balls one last time.
A little tenacity chipped off Norman’s old block will take us all a long way in life. It sure did wonders for him. But I don’t advise you wait until you’re 100 to take your first sip of booze. That’s going to shock the living fuck out of your liver and kill you.
Live long and prosper. But get drunk once in a while.