hi, my name is george w. bush

i’m the president of the united states of america.

i have a message to osama bin laden.

osama, im calling you out.

i want to meet with you at an agreed-upon location and i want to beat your ass.

man to man.

face to face.

i’m sick, quite frankly, of this cat and mouse kiddie game of hide and seek and i am giving you one week to stand up to me as a man and take the licking you so deserve.

if you’re so badass, why don’t you meet me, the american white devil, anywhere you want so i can slap that stupid look off your face.

i know you’re probably thinking that this is a trap, that the armed forces of the united states, or the u.n., or the northern alliance will jump out from the bushes and capture your sorry ass, and imprison you.

but i’m hereby giving you temporary immunity. you have no excuse to decline this offer.

i swear upon my word as president, on my word as a Christian, on my word as an American citizen that your safety will be guaranteed up to your meeting with me. and if you survive the single handed texas asskicking that i will deliver on your person, i will assure your safety back into whatever dusty hole you’re currently hiding in.

but the only way you’ll get home is through me, osama, and only you would call that gopher hole home.

simply put, if you think you’re man enough to take me, i want a piece of you and i will do whatever it takes to make this happen.

im going to grab you with my own hands and prove to you, and to the world, that even though we are both sons of millionaire oil men, there’s a difference between you and i.

you are a slimy, lying, gutless, cheap-shot artist who hides behind religion and ignorance in your sick quest to have others murder innocent people under your twisted leadership.

and i am the embodiment of american vengence, and you’ve awaken an innocent giant who’s going to kick your clueless ass into tomorrow.

we can do this in switzerland, or antarctica, or right in front of mecca for all i care.

you can have as many of your measly bodyguards around me, if it’s me who you distrust, but i assure you that no one other than me will attack you.

somehow, i don’t expect the same sportsmanship from you.

but i don’t care, osama bin laden. this is what a leader should do.

before you have one of your goons take a sneaky sniper shot at me from 300 yards, allow me the pleasure to serve you a slice of texas justice, of american payback, if you are indeed a man.

which i doubt.

ive seen you walk on your hind legs, so you must at least be a mammal.

you have a beard, but so do many of your wives.

people refer to you as “he” so i assume you’re male, but i am curious as to if you are truly a man.

you’ve yet to act like one.

meet me at the coliseum in rome.


next monday.

let me see who you are.

lets settle this beef you have with my country

and with freedom.

be there on time, you pathetic eyesore.

don’t pretend that you didn’t get this.

i’m going to be there and i’m going to be waiting for you with just my bare fists.


bin laden.

scum of the desert.

creator of lies.

prove to the world that you’re a man, and meet me.

noon, you dirty fake.


remember when ashley put something in my drink

last week to make me fall in love with her? well now im starting to think that there wasnt anything in my drink after all, but it was the drink itself!

im starting to think that she made me gulp down our old pal Absinthe!

why? because i have had the most vivid dream lately!!!

perhaps you dont know me very well, but i have been able to live quite a carefree life, some might say, because i do not have to worry about the burdomesome dreamstate, which, i theorize, is the reason why i look years and years younger than men half my age.

quick story.

me and ashley were at the Old Spaghetti Factory and our server looks at my afro and says, “yo, bro, my lil brother has hair like yours. how old are you?”

i lied, “24.” then asked him to guess ashley’s age.


we laughed. then i asked the dude his age and he said 36! omg did i ever laugh at the whole scene. what was this guy saying? that i looked younger than 20 year old ashley?

sometimes its true. and especially since he knew who was in charge of tipping.

anywho i think the less you dream the less you age. and i dont dream hardly at all. i dont care what anyone says. those studies dont apply to me.

three nights in a row, however, i have been attacked by dreams. one hit me mere seconds as i fell asleep on ashley’s shoulder. she said, wake up youre missing Glitter! and i was able to tell her this long detailed dream that i had just been victimized to.

she said, no way you were asleep for maybe 30 seconds.

so last night i went to sleep around 10:30pm, got way too much sleep, in order to get all those dreams that had obviously accrued from backorder, out of my system.

maybe the rest of humanity needs these images, i dont.

my imagination during waking life does me plenty. plus i live in a dreamworld anyway.

with that said, if those varmits return tonight, i am going to write them down and share them with you.


in the meantime for those of you who live in LA, Dylan tickets go on sale this weekend for the Wiltern shows.

p.s. one example of living a dream, is having your favorite rock critic say that she gets bummed when she sees that you havent updated your blog.

just saved this lady and this man

had some help from my partner. didnt even scuff my shoes it was so easy and she was being wheeled away to the abulance. her man was still in shock not saying a word.

she said to me and my partner that we were her heroes.

i just smiled and told her that it was all a work of God and she started crying.

i dont say that sort of stuff to people who dont wear crucifixes. im not a dick.

me and him were flying back to the office and i started thinking about heroes and how we dont even really pick our heroes any more. theyre presented to us in a lineup of fakers and the good ones stand out and we want to identify with them but lots of times we’re too young or dumb or freaked out to know any better and sometimes we just want them to live up to that superman rating we give them even though we know deep down that its probably pretty impossible do maintain.

i thought it was an easy deal but my partner kept asking me how many times ive been called a hero out on the field. and i said lots. and he said him too. i said how many times in the office and he said none. i said once.

he said by who?

i said by the captain.

he said, youre shitting me.

i said, really, once i saw his phone was ringing so i picked it up and it was his wife and she was frantically looking for him and i said that he was just getting back from Subway and he’d call her as soon as he got back.

my partner asked, “where was he?”

i said, where do you think he was.

he said, “oh.”

so cap came back a few minutes later and i said, i think your cell phone is off, he said, what makes you think that, i said, because your wife called and i picked up and told her that you were getting us sandwiches.

and the cap turned red and looked at his cell phone, and indeed he had forgotten to turn it back on.

and he said, “sonny, youre my hero.” he sounded like a little kid.

my partner laughed.

i said, yeah but the funny part was when he told his wife he just got back from Togo’s and she said, “i thought you went out to Subway”?

“that dude is such an ass,” my partner said.

“he’s just making due with what he’s got,” i said.

“look at all those pools,” my partner said.

and there were a lot of them down there.

and none were ours.

on days like today

when i have to show up to work in a suit and tie, because i have to go to court, or because i have to go deep undercover, or because i have to lurk in the shadows, or stake out someone in beverly hills, or drive a fancy car, or drink in the corners of a swanky cafe, or pick up a debutante’s mamma and flirt with the chamber maid, or fly the friendly skies first classe, or eat crepes, or beat the shit out of a badfella in the mens room of santa anita, before i head out to the greater los angeles metropolis i make sure to get my shoes shined, a task lost on the nike generation, but one that i appreciate for it slows us down on our quick step through life.

being black i like to have my shoes polished by a white man but i talk to the black man.

“your girl just won in china,” he says to me. i tip them both $5 and a cuban cigar, before the shine.

try it.

“what girl is that?” i ask.

“anna coppacabana.” he says and flashes a gold incisor.

“ah, yes,” i say, “she won easily 6-1, 6-4 over Mireille Dittmann,” i tell my friends.

the white guy does his magic. he overworks himself, but its all part of the show. there will be no streaks, no marks, no flaws. but i’ll take care of that.

“Dittmann,” my brotha asks me, “German?”

“Australian.” i correct.

“doesn’t sound Australian, but if you say so. he knows these things,” he tells the white guy.

me and the Black shoe shine guy are both sitting on the tall chairs. i have a uniform on, he has a uniform on. both our shoes look great. both our hairdos look great. both our wallets are fat. both our guns are loaded.

“why is she playing in China anyway?” he asks me after whistling a little dixieland riff.

“she’s making a comeback.” i say. “she’ll play anywhere she can right now.”

“Bejing?” he asks. i shake him off.

“Hong Kong?” he asks. i frown.

“Shanghai,” he asks and i smile.

i get up. i dont look at my shoes. these men are pros. im on no power trip. within an hour i will have fucked up the shine in one way or another. might even do it by getting out of the flying car. it’s warm outside in los angeles, again, today.

i think about taking off my bulletproof vest before i head out.

and remember i have that plane ticket that all you all hooked me up with

so i leave it on.

emmanuelle has audio and photographic evidence of the famed baby shower of lil Kobe.

sara educates us on the sadness of bazooms.

and this just in: greg has Video of ken and matt singing the baby tune! ah, technology.

i get a lot of email from you kids and its great cuz you have a lot of good questions

apparently someone saw me getting picked up from work by ashley the other day in her brand new car and was wondering if i still liked riding the bus.

while it’s true that its nice being picked up and driven to work by a cute girl in her new ride, just like dreams those moments are fleeting. but i am still quite a fan of the mta here in los angeles. and i know i might bitch from time to time at the people who scoot all the way to the middle of the bus to stand rightnexttome even though theres lots of standing room in the back or in the front, or complain about the gang members who bring their bikes onto the subway at 745am when you’re not supposed to have ANY bikes on the subway between 6-9am, or gripe about the surley busdrivers who dont say hello or goodbye or how the hell are ya and stop too fast at corners or speed away too fast as people are running towards them, i still love the bus.

someone else writes in and asks about ashley’s latest diary entry which she posted yesterday all about her first love, rocko. “Why is your woman writing about this guy when she’s still wit you?”

okay, it’s a fact that ashley did write that piece in my computer room, on my new computer chair, with my new ergonomic keyboard tray, while drinking Diet Coke that i bought, and eating food that i bought, after buying no doubt tickets with my credit card, after being completely satisfied by my big ten inch .. record that plays the blues …

where was i? what was the question? am i jealous? no im not jealous.

if a young girl comes to your house and you wine her and dine her and take her to movies and get thatclose to introducing her to her alltime hero and treating her nice and touching her the way that she loves and waking the neighbors and etc. and if once you leave the house she writes about some other guy, just take it as feedback, and get back to saving the world.

cant please everyone.

another gentlemen writes in to ask how i can choose just one office hottie to have a lil crush on out of all the beautiful ivy league grads who work at the xbi?

easy. after 108 years i know exactly what i like. i also have a superpower where i can see people’s hearts. this came in handy when i was a recruiter for the dot com. some fellas undress a woman with their eyes, i look for that something special and usually i can find it. sometimes it’s not so sweet, sometimes its way sweeter than you’d expect.

i happen to sit at a desk where the ladies just parade by and a few of them have the most beautiful hearts.

“please explain #65: i think oj didnt do it”

1. the glove didnt fit 2. a man dating a playboy playmate doesnt repeatedly stab his exwife over a fit of “lover’s rage” 3. mark furman claims he jumped over OJ’s gate to make sure that OJ was ok (something im sure he does for every exhusband of dead wives that he stumbles across in LA county) and suddenly finds a bloody glove… that didnt fit

“I’m sorry but for #79 (“loves… williams”), I honestly don’t know if you mean Anson Williams or Clarence Williams III. Or somebody else.”

i mean Dr. William Carlos Williams of “the red wheelbarrow” fame.

“The Red Wheelbarrow”

so much depends


a red wheel


glazed with rain


beside the white


“how can you watch the howard stern show for an hour everyday, without having cable for 6 years?”

i have DirecTV

and finally, as per the very important matter of my favorite beer, i claim Sam Adams, to which a curious reader asks, “What happened to Old Style?”

Old Style was the beer of my youth. it’s only sold in the midwest. i love it still, but since i have lived in California for a very long time, it’s about time for me to live in the present and claim a brew that i can enjoy on this side of the mississippi, my dark ale, sam.