The Full Hot Orator (wickedflea) wrote,
The Full Hot Orator

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In honor of my birthday, I got a wicked cold last week. My roomie has been avoiding me like the plague, not that I blame her. Her esteemed cat Bogie, however, has taken good care of me, and I'm feeling much better now. Huzzah. We'll see if it lasts.

When I visited lulu_girl last March (seems like a lifetime ago) up heah in NYC, she gave me a book that she'd bought from a crazy man on the street: Sausagehead: The Passion of Sir Shizzle Monizzle.

We spent many hours flipping through this book and killing ourselves laffing at "PMD the author's" descriptions of farts, sausageheadedness, the saving grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and men impregnating chickens. I took the book home and eventually it accompanied me on my summer retreat in the woods last summer, where I confused my cottagemates by reading from it at our nightly wrap-up.

When I arrived to stay in NYC a few weeks back, lulu_girl gifted me with another PMD opus: How to Shovel Your Foot Up in the Devil's S. Although the title is quite wonderful, the text is a bit disappointing; instead of focusing on crazy stories, PMD mainly goes off on the importance of accepting Jesus. However, I was pleased to receive the new title, and PMD's place in the upper echelon of my personal library was secure. I secretly plotted to go on a pilgrimage to find this man and show him my slavish admiration.

So imagine my surprise when I stepped out of the Union Square subway station a couple of weeks ago and a man jumped right in front of me and yelled: "SIR! BUY MY BOOK, SAUSAGEHEAD: THE PASSION OF SIR SHIZZLE MONIZZLE!!!"

My world went black and I couldn't even see for several seconds. It was like meeting GOD, my friends. For the next ten minutes, PMD regaled me with descriptions of the images in his new art book, 9/11: The Analysis. I stood there with my knees buckling from laughter as PMD (which, he explained, stands for "Pimp Mack Daddy") showed me drawings with titles like "TITTYPENISBALLSHEAD" and "SAUSAGENECK" (so named because "well, you know, he got cocks on his neck.") "I'm not gonna lie, I was high as hell when I did this," he allowed. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure he was baked out of his gourd as we spoke, for his eyes were bloodshot as hell.

So now my life should be complete, no? Yes, by all rights it should. But now I can't sleep at night because I am haunted by his imagery and the notion that perhaps one day I might collaborate with Pimp Mack Daddy on a work of Artistic Importance. So now I must find this man once again.
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