my man Layne

has made the big time, He didn’t have to get on tv and yell at people, he didnt have to get an eye-lift, he didnt have to get traded for millions of dollars and several high draft choices, he simply had to be himself (and provide more insights in a teeney little column than Fox has on half of it’s huge site.)

Yes, they present him like he’s a witty highschooler typing away on his pappy’s 486 above the garage after class, but what did you expect from the fourth network?

All I have to say is I’m glad that he is getting some of the recognition that he deserves, and once the channel realizes that he can speak nearly as well as he can type and he has an irresistable drawl-like thing which would make him perfect for television, then we can all really rejoice in the splendor, but let’s first click the front page of’s Views and see the wonder, and then click the little box buddy and read the words and click the links.

Ah, and you can say that you all knew him when he was just a drunk with a smelly suit jacket.

Nice work, compadre.

But what’s this, a Ken Layne archive of stories? This is not the first story that he has written for them?

Alas, I am the drunk, and not even a classy enough one to don a suit coat!

Where have I been during all of this progress? Lord help us, I couldnt have been working!

Anyway, good to see your bro’s making a name for themselves where they belong: on the Internet pointing fingers at the idiots and spotting the marks. But what I really love is his obvious ommission of his ever working for the Online Journalism Review in his bio at the bottom of his columns. Guess they wont be getting any hits from his column, but gratefully I am. Thanks, bro.

spent a week with Ashley

it was only supposed to be a few days for Valentine’s day, but she couldn’t find a ride home.

People write in and ask, “what on Earth do you have in common with a 20 year old girl? Like, what do you talk about?”

Like most girls, Ashley doesn’t like to talk about “gross things,” so that rules out a lot of my interests.

She doesn’t have any love for sports, so that rules out any of my real knowledge.

And I really don’t like any of the same music that she likes, so driving with the radio on can be challenging.

But the other day we had a fairly interesting dialogue on the topic of blonde pussy hairs.

Strangely, she didn’t consider this “gross.”

I don’t know how the coversation began, but Ashely came up with the theory that all “blonde” pussy hairs were fake.

“Bullshit,” I said, “I’ve seen one up-close-and-personal, if you know what I mean.” She was holding my hand and squeezed tightly and gave me a dirty look.

“It was fake, poohead.”

“No no, it was real. I even wrote a poem about it. I said that it was like a cloud floating above heaven. It was published in several magazines.”

“She dyed it,” Ashley insisted.

I was dumbstruck. I was quiet. Bad music played on the radio and I didnt even notice. My world was being shattered by a girl who had spent several years in an all-girls Catholic school – breathe – obviously she had seen her share of lockerrooms and blondes and …

“Well, what about all the redheads,” I said, “I have seen two of them whose…”

“Carpet matched the drapes?”

“Collars matched the cuffs.”

“Redheads are real,” Ashley confirmend. “That’s why they’re such freaks. They’re rare, but real.”

“And not blondes?”

“Tony, I was blonde at birth – incredibly rare. My eyebrows are blonde, by arm hairs, but not those hairs. So what does that tell you?”

“It tells me I have now found a new purpose. A new quest.”

My hand was being squeezed again. It hurt.

But at least I knew why I was still alive.