Hi all, it's been awhile, the last time I posted I believe I was unhappily opining about the Caesar Administration (strap in, for no particular reason, there's going to be a panoply of Ancient Rome references - damn you, Robert Graves and your fine authoring!) but today's offering promises to be short and simple, brief and basic, Tom and Jerry (sorry, I ran out of pairings.)
This last year in my, not particularly exciting, fascinating or noteworthy life, (but, hey, who's the one reading this?) has most definitively demonstrated a dystorphic dilemma - despite consistent, intensive exercise, risking old-man hernias, pulled something or others, and fractured femurs; alongside a soupcon (that's right, I said soupcon, Google it!) of concern for my diet (I mean, come on, draught beer, burgers and egg creams are a must for any civilized existence) I am an aged and decrepid 63. I have gotten very old and have come to the painful, but blunt realization, that the way of life that I am accustomed to, love, enjoy, and take very much for granted, has most likely begun it's lingering denouement. I am probably never going to be fully healthy again, I have made new aquaintances, good friends, who have never even known me to be medication or treatment free. A day without some form of ache or pain, or non-stop, excruciating tooth/gum throbbing (my current and most frequent predicament) is like a day without Steve Harvey, it doesn't exist. I'm a devout world traveler (London, Paris, Rome, Asgaard, Avatar, cruises, and much, much more) and a lover of fine restaurants, theatre, live music, bawdy 1920s burlesque, Gladiatorial Games, along with so many other forms of leisure and entertainment, much of which is now beginning to appear, somewhat, in the rearview mirror (just a cliched turn of phrase, as a Manhattanite, I've never owned a car) and part of a glorious, wonderful, but now, bitterly behind me past. I've discovered that things I can control in my life are truly great, but those things that I can't, are pretty consistently, overwhelminly negative and conspiring against my future happiness.
In the distant past, when folks like Caligula ruled civilization, in a time before modern medical miracles, to make it to the age of 40, was to live a long life, I've made it to more than 2 decades beyond that, and so, in a way, this is all gravy. But how much more enjoyable and valuable would that Hollandaise be not spent with one malady quickly replacing the previous one? What did Tiberius know
?
Primo bluesman, Albert King gets it, Blues singers get everything!
"If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all."
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions? Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com
I’m a weird guy. Wait, let me be a tad more charitable to
myself, I’m an unusual person. I think I’ve
pretty much always been aware of this, potentially sad, fact and been basically
okay with it. This realization reoccurred to me last evening, as I scrolled
though the many and myriad videos I’ve contributed to a Facebook karaoke page,
and then pondered to myself - who does this, and what would my late father
think of this eccentric public display that I so willingly, gleefully and regularly participate in, and somewhat actually seem to need? Is this but a
woeful and piteous desperate cry for attention – and if so, why?
And I’m not even a singer, nor a performer of any kind. I couldn’t spin a plate, ventriloquize or
juggle bowling pins, if forced to at the point of a derringer. Needless to say, I also lack any particular
innate abilities or talents in the way of the crooner, serenader (Penny or
otherwise) or warbler, yet, the internet
is now forever chock a block with my mediocre to bad, but earnest, attempts at
song interpretation.
I’m also a heterosexual man, who, due to his
cultural interests, sartorial sensibilities and perhaps sensitive nature,
apparently ofttimes gets mistaken for someone more interested in those of his
own gender – or so I’ve been told. This
error in judgment, based on broad, outdated and ultimately ludicrous
stereotypes, neither irritates nor insults me, but certainly doesn’t assist, in
any positive manner, with the pursuit of meaningful and fulfilling amore.
However, all this being said, I’m in my 6th
decade of existence, don’t know how drastically I can change now, and honestly,
how much I wish to. My aberrancy, heretofore, has never struck me as a handicap. I live where I always wanted to live,
Manhattan (top that!) I had a very successful, fruitful, creative career –
heck, I worked with Liza Minnelli and shook hands with Muhammad Ali. Tim Allen
once wanted my truthful feedback on some new stand-up material he was trying
out. I conversed with Sting backstage and interviewed the entire classic
company of Toronto’s Second City. I’ve mingled with legends… and Tim Allen. My
history of travel could be considered a thing to envy, consisting of years of
interesting, glamorous, fascinating and exciting journeys, by land, air and
sea, throughout these once United States and in foreign lands across the globe.
My family loves me, or fake it fairly convincingly, and I believe I’ve fostered fondness and affection of friends, although geographical
and other circumstances frequently find me in the company of but myself and a
not particularly empathetic or felicitous feline.
Yet, here I am at 61, having not lived what it is considered
the more conventional, and likely, emotionally satisfying life – not a single
spouse or solitary scion to be had (although, truth be told, I’m perfectly fine
san-scion) and so, when lights are diminished and head rests on pillow, it
occurs in isolation. Now, be not mistaken, I have dated, had relationships and cheerfully
and with gusto frolicked upon the carousel of carnality (although, one can always
use more turns on that merry go round), but have found no permanence, no true, lasting
love. And, far too many times, unlike Nat King Cole’s “Nature Boy” have loved, but
not been loved in return. And that (yes, finally a point) is what I now feel
is the real and true drawback and curse of being a weird guy (pardon, unusual
person) – decent company, knowledgeable, well-educated, handy with a humorous quip,
an impressive wardrobe befitting any and all occasions, well-mannered and well-behaved,
financially generous when out with others - and I could continue shamelessly searching
for admirable qualities (who else will?), but time and experience have shown,
not the type to tumble one head over heels, the sort to inspire fire, not a leading man of Hollywood's heyday.
Well, this has taken a troubling turn, but fear not,
patient and indulgent reader, but for one element (albeit a vastly crucial and
meaningful one) mine has been a full, interesting, rewarding life, I have
been places and done things that many may dream of but never fulfill (now, you’re
doubting me - how many Broadway and West End opening nights, regular Paris and London
excursions, and ocean voyages are in your high school reunion bios? How many of you have had your work on television and stage? Yeah, that's what I thought! And don’t
make me bring up Liza and Ali again!) and should the seemingly ceaseless
scourge of covid-19 ever abate, life will once more be pursued, full (or perhaps, demi) bore.
A final thought - where there is life, where there is breath, where there is desire and testosterone enhancing supplements. I guess there is still hope. Pickle ball playing ladies of Valencia Palms Restful Acres and Community, consider yourselves warned!
Should that conclusion not be a cheery enough note for you – Ladies and Gentleman, this is Tom Jones!!
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com
"I deeply want to believe that all human beings are a
blend of their best and their worst... I can't find any best in Trump. He is
simply evil - a dark, deluded, raging product of a childhood from which he
cannot recover nor be redeemed." - Tony Schwartz (Ghost Writer, “Trump: The
Art of the Deal”)
"You know, it really doesn`t matter what [the media]
write as long as you`ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass." – Donald
Trump
I've been afloat and I've been aloft for nearly a fortnight,
commencing with a flight to Barcelona (pronounce it "Barthelona"
tourista), continuing with a luxurious, outdoor hot tub and sparkling
vino-dominated cruise, setting ashore in Rome, Pisa, Mallorca, Genoa and Cannes
(my body is now comprised of 55% gelato, 25% croquetas and 20% Cava) returning,
once more, por dos dias to the Gaudi-styled, Spanish metropolis, before finally
boarding an always delayed Delta airship back to the beautiful spacious skies and
amber waves of grain of home - possibly, the least civilized, welcoming
and charming destination on this lengthy itinerary. Along this Vasco De
Gama-ing, my hearty and steadfast travel companion and I had the enjoyable,
good fortune of meeting and conversing ("conversating" to daytime
T.V. courtroom show aficionados) with fellow world inhabitants from India,
Indonesia, England, France, Spain, the Philippines, Argentina, Brazil, Italy,
Poland, and even (gasp!) Mexico, and were reassured of this following obvious
fact (and a chemical and biological fact, it is indeedy - so hold onto your
Chinese-manufactured, white-supremacist MAGA chapeaus, Trumpsters) WE ARE ALL
THE SAME!! No matter your cultural upbringing, choice of worship or language
spoken; we all are kind, thoughtful and considerate, and we're all
self-centered, selfish, thoughtless and egomaniacal. We are all the best and
worst of times, none of which is determined by hue, tongue or happenstance of
location of birth.
A Conveyance Enabling as Escape from Insanity
For any who depart the boundaries of the great 48 (with
additional props to Alaska and Hawaii), this time and distance removed from the
once-esteemed, now Trump-ghetto'd former U.S. of A, can provide a new and fresh
perspective about the planet we are precipitously depleting and destroying, the
bigoted antipathy spread from identical human to identical human, and the
foreboding fear and fury disseminated by the furor of the Orange Furher and his
purposely and proudly, hate-filled, zombie-horde of followers, who both support
and propel our nation's rapidly ruinous place in the worldwide society of man to
which we belong. To translate for those more mono-syllabic Trump/Fox/Info War-types
who may have regrettably happened upon this harangue, in other words, we Americans
kind of suck - we do - and you who hug the flag and buss the Bible and stake
claim to be the most patriotic and most American amongst the 300 million of us,
are truly and easily the worst of us. Congrats, at least you've accomplished
something.
When one ponders the horrific nature of what we Americans
and those onlookers across the globe have come to accept as the everyday and
normal in Trumplandia, added to the sorrowful sin that we citizens aren't
taking to the streets in daily outrage, nor storming the gates of 1600
Pennsylvania Avenue, Frankenstein-esque pitchforks and torches in hand,
demanding the immediate removal of the sociopathic, Mad-King, the greatest
enemy our country has ever encountered, by what possible sick and perverted
measure can anyone still blast the ever-annoying daily boast, that the United
States is the greatest country in the world - largest number of kidnapped and
caged babies growing up and dying in American concentration camps - most gun
deaths and school shootings - greatest frequency of synagogue burnings – swiftly
expanding wealth disparity between the escalating population of poor and the
ever-richer affluent – catastrophically expanding number of uninsured people
and the resulting bankruptcies and very avoidable deaths, perhaps? If bloviated
repetitive brags, and wishing and hoping and planning and scheming made it so,
as Dusty Springfield warbled, "you will be his" and my shiny, naked
pate would be topped with a sumptuous mane, while I squired my beloved Freema Agyeman
from Michelin touted eatery to Michelin touted eatery. But alas, wild-eyed
wishes and felonious fabrications do not make it so.
Ah, Freema!
The question must be asked, is Donald J. Trump - thief, liar,
tax evader, philanderer, sexual assaulter, child-rapist, con-man, traitor,
racist, the very vision of Mephistopheles on Earth, Messiah to the brainwashed
and brain-dead, the cause of America's current endless Pandora's Box of evils
and woe, or rather the logical and inevitable result of what we are and what
we've always been - a nation built on the back of one enslaved race, on land
stolen by the genocide of another? Millions have gleefully and passionately embraced
his merciless message of hatred, intolerance and xenophobia, while the pols of
the Republican party have found in him someone so soulless, so without
compassion, decency, humanity or empathy, a viper so voraciously vindictive and
vile; the long sought-after vehicle to fulfill all the poisonous and pestilent,
hateful and hurtful policies that previously were just unfulfilled and
fruitless fantasies - an America about stealing from the poor to give to the
rich, about cheating and harming others, about selfishness, anger, bitterness, prejudice
and unfettered hatred, an America solely of, by and for the wealthy white male.
America's Legion of Doom
Take a journey, fly over this cuckoo's nest, sail from these
shores (you can use an exotic cruise, there's a bar in far Bombay) partake in a
restful and needed sojourn, removed from the lunacy and loathing that emanates
every week, every day, every minute from Donald Trump and the fellow traitors
that enable him, and sadly see, as a temporary outside observer from this safe
distance - there are many great countries in the world, it's doubtful that the
United States, 2019, is among them.
"Come Fly with Me, let's fly, let's fly,
Pack up, let's fly away"
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com
"Life is Change How it differs from the rocks I've seen their ways too often for my liking New worlds to gain My life is to survive and be alive for you" WHEN EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS GONE WHEN EVERYTHING YOU COUNT ON IS GONE WHEN EVERYTHING THAT GROUNDED YOU IS GONE WHEN WHAT YOU'VE GIVEN RETURNS REJECTED TATTERED BROKEN REFUSED WHEN ALL THAT YOU WERE TAUGHT BELIEVED IN WAS CERTAIN WAS RIGHT IS WRONG READY TO LEAVE WHEREVER BEGIN ANEW WITH ONE LAST HOPE WITH UNENDING HOPE NO EXCUSES NO EXPLANATIONS AND THEN...
"You are the crown of creation And you've gone no place to go."
Or The Joy of Having Ridiculously Talented Friends
Mais D’abord, Complètement Hors Sujet ... - But First, Completely Off Topic…
(Some ask, why in French? I choose to ask, why not?)
While ostensibly a political blog, I've taken great care to
avoid said sad subject in scribblings of late, as the unpleasant and ugly
un-United State of affairs that has overtaken our once great country is a sure
recipe for riling up resentment and deepening a depression that would make Sylvia
Path and Vincent Van Gogh seem blissful paragons of unrelenting, unremitting
and unapologetic joy and heavenly happiness. When an illegal, immoral and
illegitimate leader, a Mussolini wannabe, but with less personality, decency
and humanity, is empowered by a hostile foreign nation for the primary purpose
of destroying history's preeminent democracy; and is blindly followed and
worshipped as a modern demi-God by millions of either brain-dead or brainwashed
traitors, haters and misled malcontents, even the Family Brady would abandon
any notion of ever again experiencing a Sunshine Day;while the remainder of us merely hope that we
will still have a planet in which to awaken each morn. But, again, as hard as
it may be to grasp at this juncture, we have not gathered together today to
discuss politics, but rather rejoice and regale in far more pleasant pursuits.
They laugh alike, the talk alike, at times they even walk alike - you can lose your mind.
Sur Le Spectacle, C'est ça - On with the Show, This is It
(Okay, I guess this going to be a thing now.)
You read the writings of a grateful and extremely lucky
man,who has had the beneficial fortune
of enjoying exciting and unique show business events and artistic adventures
delivered, not through any deserving deeds of his own, but rather by tagging
along (I'm often known simply as "her friend'' or "that guy") in
the close company and cozy companionship of comrades blessed by nature, genes,
or Zeus, Osiris, Buddha, Jehovah, Trumpor whomever their designated deity, with the talents to write, compose,
lyricize, act, sing, dance, produce and, if required to, probably spin plates,
quick change, ventriloquize, train elephants, breathe fire, sword swallow,
change the course of mighty rivers, bend steel in their bare hands; and who,
disguised as Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, fight a never-ending battle for truth, justice and the American way
– although I may be mistaken about that last part.
Now, far be it from me to surrender or sabotage my own sense
of self or sizeable ego in a cascade of humbleness and humility for I, too,
have harvested the creative fields for, lo, some four decades, and have on
display the statuettes and plaques awarded for those earnest and oft-times,
effortless efforts. But while these television toilings have sometimes lead me
to activities of great interest and excitement, (perhaps, sometime, you'll read
of a day-long adventure with Liza with a Z, an emotional encounter with
Muhammad Ali, or a convivial conversational bon mot resulting in a Carol
Burnett chuckle) my own endeavors have not taken me to the arenas and opening
nights that I've relished so, simply by befriending the gifted and the generous.
See, awards! I know you doubted me.
Aucun Homme N'est une Ile de Staten – No Man is Staten Island
(Oh, that’s fairly clever.)
When but a lower middle class lad, born and raised in the
semi-civilized, proudly backward and dreadfully dull hamlet of Staten Island,
New York (we will never speak of these origins again) the idea of attending a
black-tie Broadway opening would have seemed as fantastical a fantasy as space
exploration, Dr. Doolittle-esque animal communication or a satisfying
occurrence of carnal cavorting with legendary rock goddess Grace Slick (but
perhaps it's best I leave last evening's dreams out of this), yet that very
event (the Broadway opening, not the rock and roll sex) is a biographical
highlight. And, in many ways, was just the beginning.
Artistic interpretation of a life lived on Staten Island.
I pen this, thousands of feet aloft in the wild blue yonder
(in an aeroplane, not by benefit of my own powers, but I suppose that did not
actually require explanation, did it?) returning from London, and the closing
of yet another brilliant new musical, for which I had previously attended its
triumphant West End opening. And again, I owe all credit for this unique,
memorable and wonderful journey, and the friendships made and experiences
enjoyed, to the incredible, admirable and X-Men, mutant-like musical and
writing abilities (more later) of a treasured, irreplaceable and dear friend.
(The link to Google Translate - https://translate.google.com.)
From Elsah, Illinois, to Lancaster, Pennsylvania; from
Sarasota, Florida to Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario, it’s been one glitzy,
glamorous, international capital and hotspot after another (not to forget
London, Paris, Muenster, Amsterdam, Edmonton, Chicago, Shrewsbury...), all
thanks to being a “plus 1” to a genius just born with natural, extraordinary
abilities – to compose powerful, melodic, sometime intricate, sometime playful
music; to write intelligent, adroit, empathetic and witty lyrics, and to lift and
move heavy objects by the surprisingly terrifying power of mental telepathy
(which, of course, keeps me in constant fear of my life.)
Il n'y a Personne Comme Show People - There's No People Like
Show People
(Now, it’s just purposely annoying!)
Finally, (patient readers exhale a deep sigh of relief) the
richest reward of being a showbiz hanger-oner, has undoubtedly been the dozens
and dozens of fine, friendly, warmly welcoming, and ludicrously talented
individuals encountered and befriended from theatrical trek to theatrical trek;
people from different backgrounds, different parts of the country and the
world, different languages, all with one thing in common - being gracious enough to me so that they now must endure my endlessly verbose, judgmental and self-righteous
political ponderings on Facebook, and for that, I am both authentically
apologetic and beholden.In a
nutshell (although, as you may have surmised, brevity is not a strength) and in
less haughty verbiage, I get to do all kinds of fantastic things, without
actual having to put in the work or possess the talent. And I am never not
aware of that and forever and always appreciative and thankful.
We close with an unusual version of “There’s No Business
Like Show Business” by the late, great Elaine Stritch.
“The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk
Are secretly unhappy men because
The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk
Get paid for what they do but no applause.
They'd gladly bid their dreary jobs goodbye for anything
theatrical and why?”
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions,
cash contributions?Contact me at
butchersaprons@mail.com
Random Reflections from a Far Too Long Plane
Ride, or
Hopefully, it's Not My Ignorance that’s
Bliss
“Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away
If you can use some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay
Come on and fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away” – S. Cahn
A 7 and ½ hour flight lay ahead of
me, from Newark Airport to Heathrow and yet, inexplicably, I feel a calm, a
peace, I have never before experienced on any flight, even a trek as blissfully
brief as one frequented from my beloved NYC home to the mini-NYC of the Great
White North, Toronto. I can’t explain this phenomena, and I shan’t attempt to
now (although, an explanation of some sort is likely forthcoming as I have very
little control of the thoughts, ideas and opinions that make its way from a
semi-creative, often active noggin to the fingertips struggling across a Bluetooth
keyboard awash in error and verbal miscalculations.)
Is it the fact that the destination
at journey’s end is undoubtedly my favorite locale on the globe, the land in
which I fantasize experiencing the remainder of my retired years? Is it the
very English woman in the adjoining seat who was immediately reminiscent of
brilliant British thespian, Glenda Jackson? Is it the shuffle on my iPod Nano,
frequently playing Jefferson Airplane and Jefferson Airplane related
performers, who usually never fail to relax me with or without the assistance
of Mother Nature's most successful and soon to be legal herbal intoxicant? Or
mayhaps, most realistically, was it the two, overly-poured pinot grigios at the
faux fancy airport tavern and the delightfully unanticipated free champagne
upon boarding in Premium Economy? Yet, although it very well may be the potent
potables that force me to compose this while the plan was headsets on, pillow ‘neath
the neck, blanket tightly tucked with a hoped for visit from the Sandman for
this overnight odyssey across the Atlantic; this post-Lindberg, trans-Atlantic
foray is one I’ve partaken of almost a dozen times, fueled by spirits each and
every outing, and never before has such serenity overtaken me.
Upon further thought, as the almost otherworldly
perfection and beauty of Miles Davis' Flamenco Sketches now wafts through my
Audio Technica noise reduction headphones, maybe my current pacificity arises
from that trumpeted artistry in concert with the beautiful British Isles accent
of the Billie Piper-doppelganger flight attendant who just handed me my hot,
really not so hot, cocoa. And to some degree, I suspect, this enjoyable and
continuous contentment and calm may have also come from the satisfying and
long-awaited unfriending and blocking of a childhood comrade on Facebook,
immediately prior to boarding, who has mistakenly believed for years, that
because we were once cordial some 4 decades ago, she held the right
to condescendingly judge, criticize and critique each writing, opinion and life choice I have
ever openly articulated. She does not, and the
freedom of finally releasing her from my online existence after interminable,
imagined eons of wishing to do so, but for fear of offense, is indeed, quite
freeing.
Assuredly, said serenity certainly does
not originate from the ever-tightening, vise grip of the shoes, midair, in
faulty made-made, cabin overly-pressured environment, which upon blessed Mother
Earth are definitively the most comfortable foot coverings I own, or the
sudden, consistent throbbing in my lower leg. Then, I suppose, we also must
consider the food tray, recently arrived, carrying comestibles, under which any
other more sane circumstances would be justifiably, roundly and righteously, rightfully
rejected, but once trapped thousands of feet in the atmosphere, with naught to
pass the time but Vince Vaughn film festivals and Lock Up, maximum security
level meals are excitedly anticipated and gloriously accepted and treasured as
the Magi anticipated the birth of the savior.
To be terrifically truthful, once
alighting upon the bountifully beautiful British Empire, I will be reunited
with a dear friend,my personal favorite
of all of Earth's population, of whom I have been separated, a sea apart, but
with the occasional company of her loving feline, for a thoroughly unacceptable
period of time. And, when once again, keeping her company, we will be doing so
for the opening of her brand new musical on a West End stage, an enviable
impressive accomplishment and artistic achievement, so one would imagine these
further elements would certainly bespeak the rarity of such an optimistic and
uncharacteristically pleasant and delighted demeanor.
If you have been benevolent enough to
stay attentive throughout this entire meandering expressive endeavor, perhaps
the query has occurred to you, "is there a point arriving at some
juncture?" for I, too, share that very concern and have, unfortunately, arrived
at the conclusion, that that ship has sailed many alliterations ago. No pending
satisfactory denouement to be found here, just a need to convey happiness at a
troubled time when such sentiments are becoming increasingly difficult to
obtain. Come fly with me.
“Once I get you up there where the air is rarified
We'll just glide, starry-eyed
Once I get you up there I'll be holding you so very near
You may even hear a whole gang cheer 'cause we're together”
Any comments,
questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com
In light of Rudy “3 Wives Down, 3 More to Go” Giuliani’s
recent sage, wise and indignantly ignorant and judgmental public proclamations
on the morality, integrity and probity of Stormy Daniels (liberally bookmarked
on Rudy’s laptop for meticulous and conscientious research only, that vat of
Jergen’s is just coincidentally nearby)
and the converse goodness, righteousness and perpetual purity and virginity of
Donald “My Next Wife Hasn’t Even Been Born Yet” Trump’s triumvirate of spouses,
numbers two and three each an
extramarital mistress, in turn, prior to betrothal, “… and several butcher’s
aprons” significantly less than proudly, and with some trepidation and extreme
degrees of shame, brings you -
Rudolph Giuliani Presents:Uncle Rudy's Guide to Love, Marriage and
Sexual Mores
Rudy and cousin/first wife
It’s a Family
Affair
Whether you’re America's Mayor and have copulated with
cousin, or the King of the United States, and desire to diddle daughter, remember,
it's always better to bed, betroth and breed blood, for if you marry outside of
family, you never know what you’ll catch from a stranger.
Donald with daughter/wife
“I know Donald
Trump. Look at his three wives - beautiful women, classy women, women of great
substance.” – Rudolph Giuliani
Til Death Us Do
Part
Marriage is a sacred institution, not to be entered into
unadvisedly or carelessly, but reverently, joyfully and in the love of God.
Consequently, the more the better! Display your devotion to this honorable
estate by partaking in it aplenty - the more marriages, the more divorces, the
more moral. As the classic vows profess – love is patient, love is kind. It
does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude. Love means never having to say
you’re sorry. Love is all you need. Love, love is strange. Love is funny, or
it's sad or it's quiet, or it's mad, it's a good thing or it's bad but
beautiful. Love is a battlefield (I fear I have lost my rhetorical way, no more
Spotify while writing.) It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always
perseveres… never lasts. Aim for a minimum of three marriages.
Home is Where the
Heart is
When possible, move your mistress (future wife 3/future,
future ex-wife 3) under the same roof where you blissfully, familially cohabitate with wife
duex and children. Should you reside in a municipally financed mayor’s mansion
mores the better. It will save your
chauffer effort, save you from prying paparazzi, save time, save steps - save
everything but face, your soul, or the forever scarred psyche of your offspring.
“ I don't respect
a porn star the way I respect a career woman or a woman of substance or a woman
who has great respect for herself as a woman and as a person and isn't going to
sell her body for sexual exploitation.” – Rudolph Giuliani
She Works Hard for
the Money
From the book of Giuliani 2:22 -24, “And the rib, which
the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man.
And Adam said, this is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall
be called Woman, how much for a BBBJ, a Full Service or Around the World?” And
thus it has always been and thus it shall always be - a man will pay a woman
for sex, remain honored and revered and perhaps even ascend to the planet’s premiere
pinnacles of power, and $130,000 will commence that carnal negotiation.But the woman solicited for said service,
shall forthwith be disregarded, disrespected and disparaged, but for the sole
specific exception of erotic nude models hailing from Slovenia.
"If
you're going to sell your body for money, you just don't have a reputation. I
may be old fashioned, I dunno." – Rudolph Giuliani
Melania and friend, "old fashioned" girls
Next time, stay tuned for Rudy's anxiously awaited follow
up, “Sex and the Single Cellmate.”When
you’re as pretty as Rudy and Don, a life sentence doesn't have to mean a life
of celibacy – coming soon, to a blog near you.
“It's a family affair, it's a family affair
It's a family affair, it's a family affair”
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions,
cash contributions?Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com
