The Reason All Those People Disappeared in The Swamp is The Alligators: A Response

To the Editor:

I am more than slightly aggrieved at your recent article titled “The Reason All Those People Disappeared In The Swamp is the Alligators,” published in the July edition of Cajun Quarterly. What a piece of utter nonsense. The author of this article, the so-called “Dr.” Harrison Saunders, has obviously never been close to the titular swamp, near Lake Okeechobee, and it is more than possible that he has never even been to the South in general. I am currently launching a full-scale investigation into this man to ensure that he's really who he says he is, because all signs point to a giant crocodilian NO. It pains me to see paginated real estate go to waste on such anti-reptile slander as that which this fraud has written. For the sake of clarity, I shall sum up my argument against the man and the piece in three (3) points. In this way he shall be reduced to a blubbering pile of idiotic tears and resurfaced daddy issues. If he is even a real person and not a sub-par automated word processor.

The Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich of Clothing

35 years ago, today, The King died at the tender young age of 42. It was an unexpected death that rocked the nation, specifically the middle-aged housewife demographic of the nation, who were devastated by the loss of their hunky mid-life crisis. Millions flocked to his ancestral Graceland to pay their respects and burgle the estate for heirlooms to pass onto their children. A couple dozen flocked to try and turn it into a tourist attraction before the hordes arrived. It was a real tragedy that, for once, everyone could agree to be sad about. Of course, he died on the crapper from what was likely a drug overdose, but that's not the point. The point is that he died on the crapper as a King of Rock'n'Roll. He could go no higher, no farther than what he was already. He was the pinnacle of musicianship with fancy hair and shiny shirts to boot.
So, to commemorate the passing of this legend, I've decided to open the pre-order queues for strickintees (uproarious applause). Now, before all you early adopters rush to your keyboards, I will warn you that these are the exact same pieces of art in t-shirt form as before. I mean, if you really want, you can get a second, but...you know what, if you want a second one, please get one. This grey and orange symphonic array of cotton will caress you with the soft touch of a beautiful woman who isn't your mother. It attracts members of the opposite sex like butterflies to a delicate flower. It smells like a delicate flower. It will get you into all the world's most exclusive clubs, including but not limited to the Mouseketeers, the Whiffenpoofs, and the Illuminati. It will be the best 13 bucks plus shipping and handling that you will ever spend, period.
As I said, it's just a pre-order, because I want to see the interest/collect orders before I actually get the shirts, so I don't order too few, like last time. Any questions, comments, or links to "Jailhouse Rock" may be directed to mah email.

strickintees: it's what Elvis would have worn.

(P.S. Happy Birthday Madonna!)

Farting on Art: The Perils of Too Much Fanciness

I like to consider myself one of the higher classes of life. Wherever I go I bear myself with the bearing of, like, royal blood. In another life I would no doubt have been probably a Duke, or a Baron, or maybe even a Queen, if it's that kind of "other-life" body-switching experience. Regardless of my pre-predestination gender, I definitely fall into the category of so-called Blue Bloods. Blue Blood, of course, comes from two Olde Englishe words, "bleu," meaning "fancy," and "blud," meaning "as the flippin' King of flippin' England, dammit, so get on my level, Uh." I rarely wear the same clothing twice, especially my hand-tailored silkworm-silk Alexander McQueen pajama pants, which were just made to be disposable. I eat only the finest custom-made Twinkies and Devil Dogs. My conditioner consists of just three things: infant skin follicles, microscopic robot hair-doctors, and two lemons. Four things, never mind. I don't have an iPod; instead, a formerly popular rock band follows me around and plays whatever I shout out. They do double duty as my harem. In short, to paraphrase myself: I'm, like, royalty.

It's a universal standard, very similar to Albert "Hairbrushes Are For Squares" Einstein's e=MC, squared formula. Except, unlike Berty's silly science-y formula for nerds, this one is actually usable in and applicable to everyday life. To be specific, my everyday life. It doesn't really work for, well, for anyone else's, but that's one me more than can be said for Al's string of letters and numbers and an equal sign drawn from a hat. This is the BH = Royalty, Squared, Uh, formula. In all my five minutes spent scouring the world wide web I was unable to find anything nearly on par with my Albert was not a Blue Blood, and thus was highly unprepared to deal with things like classiness. He was pretty good with science, I'll admit, so he wasn't a complete waste of time, space, or any other dimension. See, lower classes of people really are necessary, I promise. They're useful for more than just roadblocks and garnering sympathy points from supermodels. Well, some of them. Some of them seem to have no lifelong desire besides being a charity case, or even a case for several charities all at once. Ayn Rand was so right.

But being one of the few (and I say this in all possible kindness) actually cultured people on earth comes with a heavy price tag.