Return, my estranged readers! Gather round for an opulent supper feast!

A fourteen course meal indulging every perverse, insatiable lusting of your craven flesh has been prepared! Seat yourselves around my table and prepare yourselves. Make certain that the waistbands of your pants are fashioned from the finest elastic, because the gratification we are about to partake in will be an affront to the natural order!

My servants, dressed uniformily in indigo silk gilded with pearls and shoes of the pointy-toed variety will now parade before us the dishes of our imminent feast. Salted cod! Wild boar slowly roasted over a flaming spit! Iberian peacock boiled in cherry preserves and stuffed with rose petals! Cheese quesadillas!

Now my dancers will gyrate about us as we lift high our goblets of reasonably-priced red wine! Imbibe deeply, my readers! See how my dancers are plumpened slightly, according to midcentury fashion. See how they undulate their hips toward you in a sensuous manner while maintaining a professionally provacative eye contact. All this according to my instruction, and aimed toward your pleasure!

Let us conclude our evening by watching the Detroit Pistons battle the Orlando Magic in a relatively meaningless Eastern Conference matchup! My team of technically-proficient eunuchs will prepare the home theater system! 5.1 Surround Sound for all!

Lean back, my supplicants, and savor the pleasures I have brought you tonight. I have lavished you with the luxurious indulgences of the Orient at great personal expense. No doubt these fleeting moments are the greatest you will ever experience. Never forget that it was I who brought them to you. Without my generosity, you would be desperately sucking the marrow from the bones of stray dogs.

Now, who will accompany me and the cats to my silken-pillowed bedchamber for dessert?

It’s a full moon tonight!

I hope I finally see a werewolf! I’ve always wondered what it would be like to see a werewolf in person. I bet it would be like the time I shook Kirby Puckett’s hand when I was 14, except the werewolf would be taller and I would have less acne.

Maybe the werewolf will approach me tentatively, and I would have to coax him toward me by offering him food – some bread crumbs, or a severed rooster head perhaps. Once the werewolf got near, I would offer him my hand so he could sniff it and make sure I’m friendly. Then he could give me a backrub. I bet his coarse, hairy knuckles would tickle the sensitive skin along the sides of my rib cage. With all due respect to my wife and son, the day I get a werewolf backrub will be the best day of my life by a mile.

Werewolves are sometimes misunderstood by the media. They want us to believe that all werewolves only want to rip their swarthy snouts into the steaming entrails of newly dead children, or slam dunk basketballs. I know that werewolves are a lot more than that. They have feelings too. Sure, they’re tormented by hot-blooded, animalistic impulses to down warm human blood like it was Snapple, but they also like friendship and dancing and holding hands. I have spent countless hours doing research in my dream journal about this.

Once I’ve lured the werewolf toward me, and the werewolf is giving me a backrub, then we can be free to open up to each other. We will have a deep and meaningful conversation, filled with poignant silences and unbroken eye contact. I can tell the werewolf about me hopes and disappointments, and he can tell me what a human spleen tastes like.

See you soon, my new werewolf friend! I can’t wait to meet you!

Late last night, my wife was awakened by an unnatural love.

Ben Franklin, having been denied the affections of his masters since the arrival of their son, took a firm grasp on his feminine friend Mona and attempted to take things to the next level. He did this despite the fact that his precious testes were callously tossed into a veteranarian’s dumpster several years ago.

Like the real Ben Franklin, our cat is not one to let biological futility or marriage vows stop him from seizing the rough love that he so cravenly desires.

After a swat and a scold from my wife, Ben Franklin scampered off the bed and down the hall for an extended, vigorous session of groin-licking. Mona remained still all along, as disinterested as she always in all manner of interaction that doesn’t involve birds. If she were a thoughtful companion, she would recognize that brusque, silent humping is Franklin’s love language. However, she did not reciprocate. Their relationship is a passionless arrangement, like Bill and Hillary Clinton.

Here’s wishing some one-sided cat love to all of you today!

Check out this awesome raisin, you guys!

Wow! Don’t you just want to put that fat, wrinkly son of a bitch in your mouth and suck it? It’s even better than normal since it has brown sugar all over it! It’s like slathering a delicious Wendy’s Double Stack in Miracle Whip – the best of both worlds!

One of my favorite things about raisins is how they taste vaguely like grapes. Why is that? I suppose we’ll never know. Thanks a lot, science.

All this talk of raisins reminds me of the timeless music of Big Raisin, who rocked the upstate New York region from 1990-1991.

They were, without a doubt, the voice of their generation. Their terrible, artistically bankrupt generation. Let’s lift a pail of raisins and toast Big Raisin – their song “Rock Patrol” lifted the spirits of a nation to new heights of adult contemporary refreshment, and their lead singer’s hairdo makes Art Garfunkel look like a reasonable person.

But back to the subject at hand, which is raisins. They’re awesome and I love to eat them every day. For some reason, raisins always taste best to me at 3am, right about the time my anxiety medication wears off.

Hooray, raisins!

PSSSST!

Come over here, ’cause we got a message for you!

That’s right. You are ugly.

Listen up, we should know ugly. After all, we’re a cow and a pig. You ever seen either of us eating from up close? Trust us, we know ugly when we see it, and you are ugly.

Even the fact that we’re simplified childrens drawings isn’t enough to mask the sheer misanthropy of the insult we just sent your way. Check out the look at the pig’s face. It’s called sheer disgust. Seriously, friend, have you showered lately? Your greasy hair and swollen neck-zits suggest you’ve been neglecting your grooming in favor of more quality time with the dumpster behind the Hostess bakery.

So take it from us, a pair of filth-encrusted barnyard animals, you are ugly. You should go away from everybody for a while to regroup and take a bleach-soaked rag to your armpits and crotch. It would do the world a favor. Better yet, ask Farmer Troy if you can borrow his shotgun. He uses it to put animals out of their misery. I bet it would fit pretty good in your mouth.

Seriously. Kill yourself.

Hope you enjoyed your visit to my blog today, folks!

Last night I was reading a book of nursery rhymes to Oliver before putting him to bed. This has become something that I enjoy tremendously, not so much for the father-son bonding, but for the fact that so many of our beloved nursery rhymes are actually very, very disturbing.

Here’s a favorite that I read to him three times in a row because I couldn’t quite get over what I was reading:

Goosey goosey gander,
Whither shall I wander?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my lady’s chamber.

There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers,
So I took him by his left leg
And threw him down the stairs.

Yes. Justice.

Certainly all of us agree that the protagonist in this tale took the proper, prudent course of action. He came upon an elderly man and ordered him to pray. The man refused. The old man was then tossed down the stairs to his death. John Calvin himself couldn’t have done any better.

I did a bit of research about this and it turns out it dates back to the days when Oliver Cromwell and his boys were driving the Catholics out of England (the old man in question didn’t say his prayers in English, he said them in Latin like a common, cross-eyed papist).

No matter. The fact that this story is printed in children’s books in 2010 without context is amusing enough for me. For now, I will put my little Oliver Cromwelle to bed with a lovely rhyme about intolerance and violence to the elderly.

Best dad ever? It’s too early to say.

(But I’m probably in the conversation.)