Dianetics, Back Alley Blow Jobs and Luther Vandross

Yesterday on the street, I was accosted by a man handing out Scientology paraphernalia and wearing a shirt that said “Dianetics: Read It!” And of course, by “accosted,” I mean, I ran up to him and asked him for information. Everyone who walked past him flashed him a dirty look or offered him a derisive laugh, so I think he was really psyched that I was paying attention to him. Little did he know that I am just a sick guy who loves a good cult. He was handing out pamphlets inviting unsuspecting, spiritually poor and disaffected people to come to a free screening of “Orientation,” a L. Ron Hubbard film at your closest Church of Scientology.

The movie “answers your questions about Scientology. You’ll find out what Scientology can do for you and how to take your next step.”

Hey, I need to take a next step! I know that Scientology is a huge pyramid scheme/possible sex cult, in which you have to pay tons of money to gain higher levels of enlightenment, but I want to go see this movie so I can tell everyone about it. Maybe I could even meet Xenu or Tom Cruise! Please let me know, dear reader, if you’re interested in being my very special date to a very special cult indoctrination. It will be all kinds of very special. My only fear going into this is that they might tie me down and do naughty things to me. Normally I wouldn’t mind this, but I know how their “church” feels about the love that dare not speak its name. So, I probably wouldn’t be invited to your average Scientologist’s breakfast table. But that’s fine, since I probably wouldn’t want to eat their sausage anyway.

Today in craigslist fun, someone makes the mistake of picking a whore with an active gag reflex. If only there were only a way to tell before she pukes on your junk. I think we’ve all been here:

You were the drunk girl in the Alley torn jeans and a lime green top. Real pretty. You asked me if you gave me a bj would I give you some money. You then threw up on my penis and I smacked you in the face, and spit in your hair. Wanted to say sorry about that, and see if your up for going out this weekend.

The fact that this man believes in second chances makes me forgive him for the fact that is grammar makes me sic. (Ha. Latin editorial jokes rule!) Like my mom never used to say: always be prepared to get thrown up on when being fellated in a dark alley by someone in torn jeans.

I woke up at 2:00 am, and I couldn’t fall back to sleep for a couple hours. I think I was still drunk from a happy hour that turned into 4 hours that I went to after work. So, of course, I walked downstairs in my undies and finished the half-eaten burrito that was on my coffee table. I was the very picture of refinement and panache. It’s probably moments like these when people with more self-awareness realize that they have hit rock bottom. I put on the television and saw some amazing things; it’s been a while since I have been conscious that late on a weeknight (which also makes me a total loser).

First, I watched an entire infomercial concerning the 144 Greatest R&B ballads of all time. I want it more than anything. It’s a 10 CD set of all songs by really old, black people. I estimate that a healthy 14% of the songs are by Luther Vandross and/or Marvin Gaye. This infomercial had actual testimonials from real-life, fat African American couples that this music collection brought sexual spice back into their relationships. If Patti LaBelle songs can do this for these people, then I think we should be sending Anita Baker and Peabo Bryson to Iraq to grapple with peace in the Middle East. Also, I like to think that if Barry White were alive, President Bush would have appointed him to the Supreme Court this week. Can you imagine how great the confirmation hearings were if Barry were there to lull us into a sex coma with his deep, dulcet tones. Damn.

Next, I watched my favorite news show of all time, World News Now. This is a news show in which ABC hires people who have flunked out of journalism school, takes away their Ritalin and Prozac and lets them talk about anything they want. Because its on so late and their target demographic is insomniacs, serial killers and their overlap, they just sort of sit around and laugh at serious news stories and each other. They always hire a gay-vague, attractive, snarky guy to make fun of a really pretty girl, and both of them are the anchors. Anderson Cooper used to be one of the anchors, for example. Ron Corning is my new network news boyfriend. No one cares. One of their weather reports I watched when I was in college said, “Aurora, Illinois: Excellent!”

If you don’t get the brilliance of that joke, you are either too young or too old for me to bother with you. Stop reading this and immediately rent Wayne’s World. Anyway, my point is, every Thursday, the show ends the week with the World News Now polka. Somehow the Pulitzer and Peabody committees have failed to take notice of this zenith of journalistic integrity. For your sake, please don’t be as flippant about this oversight as they are.

If I told you that I called a radio station and dedicated “Everybody’s Working For The Weekend,” by Loverboy, it would be unfair. It would imply that I have been working.