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Among Other Things: Your Favorite Devil Considers The Goings Of Girls

By on March 3, 2013

By the rivers of Babylon I used to lurk and wait, a shadow at the unglassed window, sometimes, or as a ghost in some enchanted pillar.

It wasn’t a bad life, if that’s the right word for the circumstance. The Euphrates ran softly while I sang my song, and most if not all rooms smelled like honey. But it was late. It was late in their day, and things were getting a little crazy. I seem to remember these parties, these genetically-altered, long-necked pet-servants, and all of the famous women were prostitutes.

If you’re around for long enough, you’ll see everyone you ever knew again.

There’s something kind of sweet about a culture that is still kind of wavering as to whether it wants a hit of the strong stuff. They’re lying to themselves, always, and you know how it’s going to end. But it’s funny, you know, if not “funny ha ha.”

I do go on.

Because pageantry and pornography share a root-desire, and because we’re no longer the types to maintain arbitrary distinctions with any particular care, the former Miss Teen Delaware was recently forced to abandon these honors due to her having made a sex flick. Almost instantly, of course, she was offered a $250,000 contract by a sex-flick company. You go, girl! (I’ll decide where). Decline has a certain symmetry. I remember this girl from somewhere in lower Chaldea, made a pretty shekel in the court of Nabonidus doing this thing with a centaur-like entity. Her face was on a coin for a while.

I wonder what became of her ashes? I should look her up.

You can’t help but remember things, I guess. Even when you try really hard not to, or try not to have any particular thoughts or awareness at all. Perhaps appropriate to this place might be a plug for the literary endeavors of Brandi Glanville, who once did copulate with Scottish whiskyfist Gerard Butler, donchaknow.

With admirable succinctness, Ms. Glanville has titled the mythic narrative of her dessicated love-efforts “Drinking & Tweeting,” and a tanning-bed fuck-sequence IS DETAILED THEREIN. You have no idea to what degree the invention of electric light changed everything. I used to appear in lamp-smoke. Oh, the days.

Quite finally, but perhaps not finally enough, it would appear that starving-eyed death-waiter Lindsay Lohan has again mishandled her automobile, and feels aggrieved at the intentions of the authorities. The invention of the automobile, it must be added, changed almost nothing. But you do appreciate, in this and other modern areas of life, the speed with which things can happen.
Within this particular grain of sand, it would appear that the good burghers of Los Angeles have requested that Miss Lohan attend a rehab facility, which nearly by definition will not feature cocaine.

This, of course, is unacceptable. So we will wait, I guess, if not always see.

Such is unlife.

To entertain the swirling of these and other faces in the particular clouds of this time is exhausting, but not entirely without its grim pleasures. Though you, dear reader, have neither the memory nor the perspective to perceive these things in their fullness, you can still feel the underlying themes in your cells, shrinking your telomeres:

The Famous Are Dying.

Let us go to the places they go!


– Vinegar Tom

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