I forgot to tell you.
I am opening a commune.
It will be a commune for artists -- writers, painters, musicians, poets -- my kind of people.
I am not sure if my commune will have electricity or not.
Every night, just after our mystical barbecue ritual, we will sit around drinking Absinthe.
Some of us will probably smoke cigarettes.
You know what's funny?
I kind of like the smell of cigarettes.
I do not smoke. I do not need to smoke. I still hack up streaming wads of lung diarrhea from all those years of driving in the backseat of a Ford Falcon station wagon while my parents smoked like fucking chimneys with all the windows rolled up.
Yeah.
We used to have to "roll" windows.
Can I tell you? I came to an epiphany yesterday.
I am not afraid to admit that I am wrong. Here goes: After all these years, I realize I have been doing everything wrong, wrong, wrong!
Who knew?
That is why I am opening my artists' commune.
I am also not afraid to admit I am a socialist.
Except I am kind of anti-social.
I will do almost anything to avoid going to a "party."
Or a get-together.
I have already received applications for membership at my commune.
I put the applications onto a number-2-pencil Scantron matrix and feed it into my admissions computer.
So far, my computer keeps generating the same form letter response.
The response is this:
No. We regret to inform you that you may not join our artists' commune. You are too much of a douchebag.
The wonders of technology!
