LXXX. New Year's Resolutions
I make resolutions; I don't make "personal enrichment goals" or "quiet promises to myself." I make good, strong resolutions, hard and fast, without mercy, until I am spent. This is the year that you will see a completely new and different Clubber in print. A bolder, more bold, betterer writer who thinks before he speaks and ... just everything.
My writing will become alive, quickening your pulse, shortening your breath, causing butterflies from cervix to sternum. You'll call your friends with breathy exhortations: "You've got to go to 101-stories. You won't believe what Clubber wrote about nutmeg (or whatever I am writing about, nutmeg just being an example here)."
It is a publishing fact – detailed accounts of my adventurous life sell papers, even the free ones. My biography is the poetry of a well-lived life, and I owe it to you to transport you with my words. You'll be there as I hunt boar in the Loire Valley, smelling the copper of cooling blood wafting from my knife as I feed you phrase after terse phrase.
You'll taste the warm wine of a Spanish morning as the sun breaks over the Valencia rooftops and I nudge the crow-haired beauties entwined on the bed and tell them to get the hell out. You'll be there at GW Hospital when my test results come back.
Ladies and gentlemen, I experience life so you don't have to, and I am resolved to let you live vicariously though me in the coming year. If there is one thing that I have learned it's that Persians press charges. But something else I've learned is that there are no guarantees in this world. Actually there are, but they are mainly for exercise equipment and mattresses. Please disregard.
I think of Whitney.
Whitney Houston, who once held the entire world in her hand, is now selling her enema kits, blood-crusted coke spoons and Versace evening gowns (size: Crank Whore) to settle outstanding debts. But I swear to you, I will never sell my Crank Whore gowns, even if they don't fit and are covered with another man's nutmeg.
Happy New Year.
My writing will become alive, quickening your pulse, shortening your breath, causing butterflies from cervix to sternum. You'll call your friends with breathy exhortations: "You've got to go to 101-stories. You won't believe what Clubber wrote about nutmeg (or whatever I am writing about, nutmeg just being an example here)."
It is a publishing fact – detailed accounts of my adventurous life sell papers, even the free ones. My biography is the poetry of a well-lived life, and I owe it to you to transport you with my words. You'll be there as I hunt boar in the Loire Valley, smelling the copper of cooling blood wafting from my knife as I feed you phrase after terse phrase.
You'll taste the warm wine of a Spanish morning as the sun breaks over the Valencia rooftops and I nudge the crow-haired beauties entwined on the bed and tell them to get the hell out. You'll be there at GW Hospital when my test results come back.
Ladies and gentlemen, I experience life so you don't have to, and I am resolved to let you live vicariously though me in the coming year. If there is one thing that I have learned it's that Persians press charges. But something else I've learned is that there are no guarantees in this world. Actually there are, but they are mainly for exercise equipment and mattresses. Please disregard.
I think of Whitney.
Whitney Houston, who once held the entire world in her hand, is now selling her enema kits, blood-crusted coke spoons and Versace evening gowns (size: Crank Whore) to settle outstanding debts. But I swear to you, I will never sell my Crank Whore gowns, even if they don't fit and are covered with another man's nutmeg.
Happy New Year.
posted by Clubber Lang at 12:28 PM
1 Comments:
I challenge you Clubber. Head on. Directly to the Forehead. You will rue the day that you began a year without directly referencing me in any whey, shaip, or phorm in your homage to a new year.
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