Slightly Updated: “Officer, I did NOT Fall OFF that Wagon; I was pushed. Arrest the push-er, not the push-ee.” Or, “I got tired of waking up on the freeway driving ninety.” Or, “This Post is Not the Post You Were Looking For…”

New shit:

Fuk it!

(I’ll edit it later)

Goddamn it!

Git off my back!

Author’s Note (at the beginning… Yes. Yes. Fucking YES!! I know! Not Great Form!)

Fuck it!

Author’s Note:

Recent Au Courant events (Afghanistan) are bumming me out.

Charlie Wilson: “These things happened. They were glorious and they changed the world… and then we fucked up the endgame.”

Nuff said?

“Yes Lance. Now STFU and write.”

“Okay.”

Okay, but…

One last ed. note:

This lame-ass post has a lot (even by my sub-standard standards)

A lot of attached… Lancelot Links and Vids.

It is highly (and drunkenly) recommended you ‘experience them all’ to get the

‘Full Benefit’

Jes sayin…

***

Now I know.

Now I know why

Now I know all the reasons whey–why

(“Lance! There is ALWAYS a Fucking Song! Ain’t they?!)

(Fuck off! Voice in my head)

And fuck you too Muse!

Run tell all that!

****

Now I know why I get drunk

Now I know why I used to stay drunk

Now I know why it is a good thing

And good for one

To stay drunk

Simple logistics and meta-physics:

To avoid the hangovers!

“The hairs of some dogs”

As it were

The hair of Man’s Best Friend!

For lack of a reason

Hairs of dogs are in season

***

Time of The Reason-Season

“What’s your name? Who’s Your Bag-Daddy??”

“Me! C’est Moi!”

(Asshole!)

Street Cred for Vid: andrew91118

Tis reason enuff.

To dip snuff.

(And I love dogs)

Amen

P.S. This is a ‘temporary’ affliction. It too shall pass.

“How do you know this Doctor Marcom?”

“Because I have been to Drunken Med School Grasshopper.”

This Computer Has Been Drinking (Not Me)

Street Cred for Vid: MasterBiblicalMemory

***

“But, Dr. Marcom, none shall pass. Pass out perhaps, but ‘pass’? Naw.”

None shall pass thru this life unscathed.

“Oye vay of little faith!”

“Dr. Marcom, you are stupid.”

*heavy sigh*

“Some people, you just cannot reach.”

What we have here…

Communication

***

Cynthia-The-Housekeeper and my Only BFF here in Commerce Amerika…

She.

She is ‘on to’ me.

She knows me.

She came to my door.

Asked me if I wanted to strip my bed.

Freudian Slip?

(Tuesdays here at Lion’s Lair are ‘Strip Yer Bed-Sheets Day)

I replied,

“No Ma’am; I’m good, but thanks for askin'”

She gave me that ‘Black-Woman-All-Knowing-Look’

That ‘Look’

That look that telegraphs.

Telegraphs “I know you’ve been drinking again”

My Tell-All, End All Tell.

Tis a curse!

I have no skill at poker.

Nor do I possess a poker-face.

My Cynthia asked over those “I already know the answer” eyes:

“You Okay?”

“Yep. I’m okay,” I lied.

“I’m watching you,” she said.

“I know you are Honey, and thank you for that,”

I replied.

As she walked away, I said to her moving away from me back,

“I love you.”

She said over her shoulder,

“I love you more. Catch ya later Alligator!”

(Her favorite catch-all, end-all phrase. I never ask why. Why she likes it. She just likes it. And that is reason enough for me. Because I am in love with her. Love is just that way Y’all. It works in those mysterious ways. Kinda like the Invisible Spaghetti-Man-in-the-sky. Man. Oh man!)

As soon as I shut the door I heard my Motorola Phone speaking to me:

“Hello Moto!”

(Note to self: ‘Change name to ‘Moto.’)

“Fuck you Moto!” I said.

Then I did something very very uncharacteristic:

I answered the damn phone.

“Hello?”

“Is this Rance Marcom?’ (Heavy Indian accent)

“No.”

“I need to speak Rance. Is he there?”

“Are you from India Mister Moto?”

“I from Capitol One.”

“No. I think you’re from India.”

“Mister Rance Marcom?”

“English ain’t yer first language is it? I just told you, ‘Mistah Rance’ ain’t here.”

“I need speak to Mister Rance Marcom.”

“Sorry to say, he is in Kabul at this moment getting his ass shot at.”

Mister Moto / Capitol One hung up on me.

Cannot imagine why.

***

In closing

In trying to put a fine point on the point that is This Pointless Post:

I love booze.

I love what it does to me.

I love what it doesn’t me.

I love it when it does not kill me.

(Apocryphal: ‘Write Drunk. Edit Sober)

I love it.

(Did I say this already?)

Don’t cry for me Miss Dementia

I’ll be fine.

***

The (Still) Living

END

*static on radio*

“Houston. We have a problem…”

TBC…

j’espere

(Dat’s France-ish for ‘j’espere’.  Google it! Yu lazy-fair mo-fo’s)

***

In closing

In trying to put a fine point on the point that is This Pointless Post:

I love booze.

I love what it does me.

I love what it doesn’t me.

I love it when it does not kill me.

(Apocryphal: ‘Write Drunk. Edit Sober)

I love it.

(Did I say this already?)

Don’t cry for me Miss Dementia

“Objection Your Honor! The Witless Witness is Inebriated!”

“Sustained. Mister Moto, continue, but sobriety is the soul of wit. Please take some effort to remember that.”

“Yer honor…”

“Boom! Thirty Years! No Beers!”

It was at this point, Yoda spoke to me:

“Fucked you are.”

“Thanks for that Yoda.”

Aw Hell! Thursday is Coming: “Don’t Rain Shit On My Parade”

The version I wanted, but WordPress is stupid.

“Three A.M., it’s me again.”

Three A.M. and I was in the middle of a dream about ‘Shit River’ in Ologapo City, Philippines. (Freud would’ve loved me)

Then I woke up.

Woke up to a very un-dreamy-like smell of real shit. Real potent shit. Horrible smelling shit. Knock a buzzard off a shit wagon smelling shit.

I was living in an old two-story house in Commerce. Just outside my bedroom was the walk-in closet where I kept all the clothes I owned. I have never owned much in the way of clothes, by the way.

I heard something dripping like rain behind the door, but it wasn’t raining outside. I opened the door and sure as shit, shit was raining down from the ceiling.  All over my clothes. Spattering on the floor. My Chow Mix doggie, Tizzy, was obviously responsible.

Chow

I went around the corner, and there  he was  in that dog-taking-a-shit posture at the top of the stairway: Obviously with a really bad case of the doggie drizzling shits.

Took me until seven a.m. to clean up the shit and wash all my clothes.

I called in sick to work telling my boss,

“I feel like shit.”

“Officer, I did NOT Fall OFF that Wagon; I was pushed. Arrest the push-er, not the push-ee.” Or, “I got tired of waking up on the freeway driving ninety.” Or, “This Post is Not the Post You Were Looking For…”

Fuk it!

(I’ll edit it later)

Goddamn it!

Git off my back!

Author’s Note (at the beginning… Yes. Yes. Fucking YES!! I know! Not Great Form!)

Fuck it!

Author’s Note:

Recent Au Courant events (Afghanistan) are bumming me out.

Charlie Wilson: “These things happened. They were glorious and they changed the world… and then we fucked up the endgame.”

Nuff said?

“Yes Lance. Now STFU and write.”

“Okay.”

Okay, but…

One last ed. note:

This lame-ass post has a lot (even by my sub-standard standards)

A lot of attached… Lancelot Links and Vids.

It is highly (and drunkenly) recommended you ‘experience them all’ to get the

‘Full Benefit’

Jes sayin…

***

Now I know.

Now I know why

Now I know all the reasons whey–why

(“Lance! There is ALWAYS a Fucking Song! Ain’t they?!)

(Fuck off! Voice in my head)

And fuck you too Muse!

Run tell all that!

****

Now I know why I get drunk

Now I know why I used to stay drunk

Now I know why it is a good thing

And good for one

To stay drunk

Simple logistics and meta-physics:

To avoid the hangovers!

“The hairs of some dogs”

As it were

The hair of Man’s Best Friend!

For lack of a reason

Hairs of dogs are in season

***

Time of The Reason-Season

“What’s your name? Who’s Your Bag-Daddy??”

“Me! C’est Moi!”

(Asshole!)

Street Cred for Vid: andrew91118

Tis reason enuff.

To dip snuff.

(And I love dogs)

Amen

P.S. This is a ‘temporary’ affliction. It too shall pass.

“How do you know this Doctor Marcom?”

“Because I have been to Drunken Med School Grasshopper.”

This Computer Has Been Drinking (Not Me)

Street Cred for Vid: MasterBiblicalMemory

***

“But, Dr. Marcom, none shall pass. Pass out perhaps, but ‘pass’? Naw.”

None shall pass thru this life unscathed.

“Oye vay of little faith!”

“Dr. Marcom, you are stupid.”

*heavy sigh*

“Some people, you just cannot reach.”

What we have here…

Communication

***

Cynthia-The-Housekeeper and my Only BFF here in Commerce Amerika…

She.

She is ‘on to’ me.

She knows me.

She came to my door.

Asked me if I wanted to strip my bed.

Freudian Slip?

(Tuesdays here at Lion’s Lair are ‘Strip Yer Bed-Sheets Day)

I replied,

“No Ma’am; I’m good, but thanks for askin'”

She gave me that ‘Black-Woman-All-Knowing-Look’

That ‘Look’

That look that telegraphs.

Telegraphs “I know you’ve been drinking again”

My Tell-All, End All Tell.

Tis a curse!

I have no skill at poker.

Nor do I possess a poker-face.

My Cynthia asked over those “I already know the answer” eyes:

“You Okay?”

“Yep. I’m okay,” I lied.

“I’m watching you,” she said.

“I know you are Honey, and thank you for that,”

I replied.

As she walked away, I said to her moving away from me back,

“I love you.”

She said over her shoulder,

“I love you more. Catch ya later Alligator!”

(Her favorite catch-all, end-all phrase. I never ask why. Why she likes it. She just likes it. And that is reason enough for me. Because I am in love with her. Love is just that way Y’all. It works in those mysterious ways. Kinda like the Invisible Spaghetti-Man-in-the-sky. Man. Oh man!)

As soon as I shut the door I heard my Motorola Phone speaking to me:

“Hello Moto!”

(Note to self: ‘Change name to ‘Moto.’)

“Fuck you Moto!” I said.

Then I did something very very uncharacteristic:

I answered the damn phone.

“Hello?”

“Is this Rance Marcom?’ (Heavy Indian accent)

“No.”

“I need to speak Rance. Is he there?”

“Are you from India Mister Moto?”

“I from Capitol One.”

“No. I think you’re from India.”

“Mister Rance Marcom?”

“English ain’t yer first language is it? I just told you, ‘Mistah Rance’ ain’t here.”

“I need speak to Mister Rance Marcom.”

“Sorry to say, he is in Kabul at this moment getting his ass shot at.”

Mister Moto / Capitol One hung up on me.

Cannot imagine why.

***

In closing

In trying to put a fine point on the point that is This Pointless Post:

I love booze.

I love what it does to me.

I love what it doesn’t me.

I love it when it does not kill me.

(Apocryphal: ‘Write Drunk. Edit Sober)

I love it.

(Did I say this already?)

Don’t cry for me Miss Dementia

I’ll be fine.

***

The (Still) Living

END

*static on radio*

“Houston. We have a problem…”

TBC…

j’espere

(Dat’s France-ish for ‘j’espere’.  Google it! Yu lazy-fair mo-fo’s)

***

In closing

In trying to put a fine point on the point that is This Pointless Post:

I love booze.

I love what it does me.

I love what it doesn’t me.

I love it when it does not kill me.

(Apocryphal: ‘Write Drunk. Edit Sober)

I love it.

(Did I say this already?)

Don’t cry for me Miss Dementia

“Objection Your Honor! The Witless Witness is Inebriated!”

“Sustained. Mister Moto, continue, but sobriety is the soul of wit. Please take some effort to remember that.”

“Yer honor…”

“Boom! Thirty Years! No Beers!”

It was at this point, Yoda spoke to me:

“Fucked you are.”“Thanks for that Yoda.”

Aw Hell! Thursday is Coming: “Don’t Rain Shit On My Parade”

The version I wanted, but WordPress is stupid.

“Three A.M., it’s me again.”

Three A.M. and I was in the middle of a dream about ‘Shit River’ in Ologapo City, Philippines. (Freud would’ve loved me)

Then I woke up.

Woke up to a very un-dreamy-like smell of real shit. Real potent shit. Horrible smelling shit. Knock a buzzard off a shit wagon smelling shit.

I was living in an old two-story house in Commerce. Just outside my bedroom was the walk-in closet where I kept all the clothes I owned. I have never owned much in the way of clothes, by the way.

I heard something dripping like rain behind the door, but it wasn’t raining outside. I opened the door and sure as shit, shit was raining down from the ceiling.  All over my clothes. Spattering on the floor. My Chow Mix doggie, Tizzy, was obviously responsible.

Chow

I went around the corner, and there  he was  in that dog-taking-a-shit posture at the top of the stairway: Obviously with a really bad case of the doggie drizzling shits.

Took me until seven a.m. to clean up the shit and wash all my clothes.

I called in sick to work telling my boss,

“I feel like shit.”

It’s Thursday O’clock Somewhere

As I continue to struggle through a temporary writer’s block (Kind of like running in soft sand) figured I’d just throw this blast-from-the-past against the wall and see if it sticks.

Apologies to those who have already seen and read this one (both of you 😉 )

Happy Thursday to you, wherever and whatever time-zone you may find yourself in.

–Your Humble Servant: Merde Le Roi

***********************

Three A.M. and I was in the middle of a dream about ‘Shit River’ in Ologapo City, Philippines. (Freud would’ve loved me)

Then I woke up.

Woke up to a very un-dreamy-like smell of real shit. Real potent shit. Horrible smelling shit. Knock a buzzard off a shit wagon smelling shit. Bring out yer dead, Shit.

“Who’s that?”

“Must be a king”

“Why?”

“He hasn’t got shit all over ‘im”

I was living in an old two-story house in Commerce. Just outside my bedroom was the walk-in closet where I kept all the clothes I owned. I have never owned much in the way of clothes, by the way.

I heard something dripping like rain behind the door, but it wasn’t raining outside. I opened the door and sure as shit, shit was raining down from the ceiling. All over my clothes. Spattering on the floor. My Chow Mix doggie, Tizzy, was obviously responsible.

Chow

I went around the corner, and there he was in that dog-taking-a-shit posture at the top of the stairway: Obviously with a really bad case of the doggie drizzling shits. Made me miss my ant farm.

Or my spiders.

Obviously, I was “not a king” (see above video)

Took me until seven a.m. to clean up the shit and wash all my clothes.

I called in sick to work telling my boss,

“I feel like shit.”

Then I did the only prudent thing that came to mind and would give me peace.