Would you believe it –
I have an intervention with myself
and it was cancelled?
How about this –
How about we fax a picture of Dudley’s bare ass –
yes, one exists – to all the movie studios?
We could expect a return phone call, then.
Did I mention? I met a punk singer
in Kingsbridge the other day.
She asked me to sign her chest with a red marker.
Something inside me winced,
but I’m agreeable if the lass is buxom enough…
Something still unfunny is curdling beneath my right kidney.
Why don’t you pour us a round and I’ll tell you what
the rainbow doctor played while I was under the knife.
I keep forgetting that handsome man to my left
isn’t my reflection, but my biographer.
“Is it true you dreamed Dudley was turning you on a spit?”
Oh, dear, that was the hangover talking.