Quite looking forward to wrassling with the pooches. Three vizslas remain in the old spank manse. Brassie and Lash have been reabsorbed into the earth. Two Thanksgivings ago was the last time I snuggled Lash. Earlier this spring was the last time Brassie nestled herself in my lap. Bone cancer got Lash, a weird form of aging dementia took Brassie. Superb specimens both and mighty decent pals as well. My stint as a New Yorker has now outlived the last remnants of my canine childhood. Tis the way of the disorder.

Still, the wag and lick fest upon my prodigal ascension across the spank fam threshold will be most comforting. Berry, Milo and Spice. Sounds like a Saturday morning animated crime fighting trio if I ever heard one. Excited butt wiggling, warm whisker fuzzies, and deep sniffer snorkling of my Gotham imbued skin. Hopefully they will refrain from unleashing their military funded superpowers on me. Covering me with immobilising fur. Wet tongue whips across my nostrils and ear canals cutting off most of my senses. Luckily, the folks are excellent hero trainers. Usually Berry, Milo and Spice take it easy on me.

Yaaaaaaay, it's about to be doggie time! Rock.

Already in mixology correspondence with Pop. He remains unconvinced the couple extra bones for Grey Goose will make any palate difference. He has a rational tongue. I, on the other hand, have a princess and the pea set of tastebuds. I choke on Smirnoff no matter how much thick saccharine mixer you douse it with. Stoli and up is my staunch vodka credo.

Expensive tasting low life. Dat's me. Keeps me away from the severe rotgut. Also keeps me away from a successful savings account.

Those keeping track of such things might note that I have been less faithful in regular updates. Splitting off some of my creativity for life support, occupying my manic mind with solving the algebraic equations of my existence and earnestly attempting to keep my cock wet have all usurped the journal time. Alas, I fear this trip might damage this effort more. Will be gone for over two weeks, navigating the beaten paths of the clan. Who knows, might cause more inspiration than usual.

Anyway, you all might not be coated with as much spank juice as you are accustomed to. Spank juice withdrawal is harsh I know. Cope bitch.

So, I will stoke the feeding dish with extra kibble. Back to the notebook. That's correct mammirammers, ye olde brain mania tactic. Sigh, as I have discovered, a few exist that be confused and shit, I will explain one last time. The freak highway in my skull has no speed limits or much of any traffic rules whatsoever. Ideas flood my cranium constantly. I procure numerous notebooks to handle the oscillating grey matter missles. Every now and again I go back and read what I have written, include some of the nuggets here and then comment on them. Got it? Werd.

You sure you got it? Excellisplendiferosity!

The armpit stain at First Federal Frank and Crust who said he wouldn't hire a kid applying for short order cook, because he didn't dress in professional business attire. Some yellow frocked aryan viking descendent bastard, managing a mickey mouse pizza operation, acting like some lofty ivory tower corporate dickwad. Part of the reason I fled the Midwest as soon as possible was for intolerant nutsuckers like this. You want ghetto kids to purchase a suit and tie just to get their foot in the door for the wonderful opportunity of scrubbing deep dish pans and tossing pepperoni on a pie? I hope that self righteous load gargler persished under an avalanche of putrid steaming medical waste. Makes this current visit, and every time before, always somewhat tight in my chest. Loathe to share the same breathing space as the conservative lice infesting the middle of the country.

Freedom of speech but, but, but, but, but, but, but, BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT! I'm sure this personal internet project would fall somewheres between the seventh and eighth but. But, it's unpatriotic to defend your First Amendment rights, right? Eat stale shit you right wing toejam harvesters.

Thrown panties used to wipe my brow and clean off the specs. Was imagining some stage time where ladies, grateful I moistened their cotton, would honor me with the dainty treasures to prove it. Of course, I'm the kind of geek who would sniff them in front of an audience. They smell best fresh from the dewy tulips.

I want mouse traps that vaporise the critters instantly. Simply need to dispose of a pile of ashes. Actually, that seems quite Orwellian now. Don't really know if I'd be in support of rodent zappers. Watching moths bite it on those throbbing periwinkle death traps is sometimes fun. Picturing a derezzed Jerry smoldering away on one of my traps. Prolly not necessary. Bad brain.

I am hoping the whole forgive the genius anything he does scenario will be available to me. Like Woody Allen nailing his adopted Asian daughter or Roman Polanski opening up a thirteen year old. Yeah, but, Annie Hall, Chinatown and shit, I mean c'mon. Not that I fancy myself a honest prophets genius. Workin on it though. Anyway, hopefully enough of my creative value will be around to guard against serious public scrutiny.

People living in Disneyland. Part of the head examination has revolved around my current living situation. The corpulent fraulein I sublet from has foisted much of her detritus and responsibilty on my shoulders. And I'm never impatient or grumpy with other people's failings right? Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. This chick has a difficult time believing in reality. Just one innocuous example: She has busted ass feet. I mean, bu-hu-hu-hu-husted ass jimmies. They resemble horribly mistreated seal flippers, and have a bouquet that reminds one of rancid movie theater popcorn butter. After suggesting she lose some weight to relieve some of the crushing pressure on her damaged planks she replied in a plaintive high pitched whine, "I've got cute feet". Right. I am king judge on what makes a foot attractive, and you got's a pair of the worse hooves I have ever encountered. Puts a hurtin on my vision to see em in my periphery. Impossible to convince her of this or anything else that hinders her purple skied realm. I will divest myself of it as soon as possible.

Maybe I was meant to be left handed, and they forced me into right handedness out of the predjudice of the time. I definitely sucked my left hand thumb as a lad. I tend to jerk off with the left often. Always felt somewhat uncoordinated with the hand eye activities. One of those questions that will keep a stoner insomniac freak awake for hours.

Was a harsh environment that created this milky peach skin color. Forced to live in caves. Knocked the tan right out of us nordic types. The continent of Europe was first settled by Homo Sapiens during an ice age. Completely liveable situation for humans, rough, but liveable. Migrating up from Africa, chasing out the Neanderthals, and planting the communities in snow covered caverns. Not much need for melanoma. Knocked it right out, two times. Do like the furnace naturally brewing in my belly at all times. I'm better comfort than central heating on a chilly night.

I have become master of the wank exercise system. Until I find some lady to mount three or four times a day, I've been wagging the weasel excessively. Each session lasts anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours. And I put my whole body into it. The stomach muscles get a great work out. Also, since I lick my hands clean, I take in all that fat trapping spunk. Snicker or gag all ya want, I have lost twenty pounds in less than two months. The spank jerk and spunk health system will run rapshod over Atkins one day. Raaaaaawwwwwr!

That's it for now. Everyone play with themselves while I'm gone. Peace, I'll see ya when I see ya.