Dispatches from the Island of Misfit Toys

"Bother," said Pooh.

Well, pits.

So that’s it for Mischief, the 26-year-old Goth Biscuit.

I guess I’m starting in the middle of the story. For the record, this weekend had ups and downs. Let’s get the maudlin out of the way so we can end on a high note (for once). In addition to the money strains, the aforementioned knuckle-rapping for this very blog, and the inability to solve the truck problems from earlier in the week (fucking holidays), my friend Amber has been having a major relationship meltdown.

Which segues into Mischief.

Understand, I’ve known this girl for less than two weeks, ya’all. We’ve seen each other exactly four times. We haven’t fucked (for reasons she explained to me on our first date, having to do with a promise made to a long-distance conquest who was incoming in June), but we’ve indulged in just about everything else.

This weekend, in a whirlwind of (to my mind) wanton manipulation, her most recent ex, whom Mischief is far from even beginning to get over, appeared like a bolt of lightning from the clear blue sky to propose. And she’s going for it.

I know, that was my reaction. But you can’t live people’s lives for them.

I’m not crushed or heartbroken… four dates, y’know? But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. She’s smart, funny, sexy & dirty. You can smell it on her, feel it in her skin. There was potential there, a big, heavy, potent aura of it that both of us were keenly aware of. It’s a shame, but I missed the train this time, and wish her good luck.

Vaya con huevos, kiddo. Go with eggs.

…

On the plus side, Adrianna & I went to see Prince of Persia on Saturday night, which was really, awfully, hysterically bad. Just soooooo bad.

I’ll get a full review up once Rob & I record our new podcast tomorrow night.

The point is spending time with Adrianna is fucking great. We ate, walked a little to kill time, prowled bookstores, almost missed the movie (what a crime that would have been). We had fun. But. I’m just not sure what the hell we’re doing. I’m not sure she’s sure.

Not that there necessarily has to be a point. We’ve known each other for years, so it might be that, for Adrianna, I’ve gotten wedged into the “friend” drawer next to the stripy socks. For my part, I want to lick the sweat out of her navel. I would drag my dick through a mile of broken glass just to jack off in her shadow.

Too much?

Of course, I’ve always felt that way about Adrianna. Most men — hell, most people — feel that way about her. She just oozes sexuality, even when she isn’t doing anything. Even when she dresses down and tries to hide it. Must be kind of a pain in the ass.

If she gives me an indication she feels anything similar, I’ll send up a flare, have it advertised on the side of the Goodyear Blimp, and print up T-shirts. Watch this space for details.

If not, I’m perfectly happy being her occasional partner-in-crime. She’s a great companion.

Otherwise, tomorrow is a busy day; errands to do in the morning since the entire country closed up shop over the weekend, a new podcast to shoot with Rob in the evening, and somewhere in there, editing before the whole Naughty America machine rolls up again Wednesday.

Maybe I can get to sleep before 5 a.m…?

In the meantime, here is a little gift Mischief turned me onto. A great song about relationships by British comedian Tim Minchin…

Sarah Jessica Parker walks into a bar. The bartender says, "Why the long face?"

I loathe Sex and the City. In fact, “loathe” doesn’t even begin to describe my abject hatred. It’s like the Woody Allen quote from Annie Hall, “Love is too weak a word for what I feel… I lurve you.  Y’know, I loove you, I, I luff you.  There are two f’s.  I have to invent… ”

I loathez it… I loo-athess it…

You get the idea. It’s a fucking blight on my brain. I hate every single thing about it. I hate the people, I hate the city (as portrayed), I hate the lifestyle. I hate SATC so much that when I encounter some desperate, overweight single woman in her 40s who equates shoes with happiness and money with more-gooder happiness (i.e., a fan of the show), a switch closes in my brain and I immediately assume… no, decide… they are a dysfuntional human of less-than-average-worth.

Actually, I decide that they’re a crass, tasteless fucking retard.

Perhaps the worst part of Robin Hood (and there are many as it is a terrible film) was sitting through the trailer for Sex and the City 2: Cunty Barren Jamboree.

However, one good thing has come from this estrogen-deprived festival of horror: Lindy West of The Stranger has posted her review, and it is the greatest thing you’ll ever read.

Here’s a brief taste:

“Sex and the City 2 makes Phyllis Schlafly look like Andrea Dworkin. Or that super-masculine version of Cynthia Nixon that Cynthia Nixon dates. Or, like, Ralph Nader (wait, bad example—Schlafly totally does look like Ralph Nader in a granny wig). SATC2 takes everything that I hold dear as a woman and as a human—working hard, contributing to society, not being an entitled cunt like it’s my job—and rapes it to death with a stiletto that costs more than my car.”

Go. Read. Now.

Lindy West’ Sex and the City 2 Review