dear ufos who read this blog, hi

im sorry i didnt believe in you.

i had enough problems.

i hope you are here to collect all the air pollution to bring back to your planets to use to cure diseases or something.

i hope you arent here to film us all and then laugh and laugh and laugh at your movie theaters

ok fine

if thats why youre here just dont call me anthony

i know thats the name you will see on all of my government-issued documents

but the only time anyone uses it it is bad news.

once the government thought i had impregnated a homeless lady and we had a kid.

when my lawyer asked me, just between you and me, did you do it?

i said, i always wear a condom

she said always?

i said i use condoms with people you know. dont you think i would use one with a homeless lady?

she said so you DID have sex with her!

i said i meant hypothetically.

last night i was talking with a lawyer on twitter and she said she didnt like lawyers

but i have had really good luck with them.

kim got me out of that one with the homeless lady

and at the Times i would talk with karleene almost every day to ask her about journalism law

the first amendment, slander, fair use,


not only is she super smart but it was a full blown education in there.

the other day i was looking through pictures and i thought

i have had like 5 college educations, on the clock, while getting paid.

almost every job ive held for about 4 years taught me so much.

and yet theres so much to learn.

i cant even habla espanol.

anyways, ufos, if theres one thing you should do while youre here its try some real mexican food.

tacos and burritos, sure, but figure out a way to get into a sit down family style mexican restaurant

with hot plates and flaming presentations

margaritas and mariachis.

warm chips.

good friends.

and spicy salsa.

you cant really go back to planet Zip and have someone ask,

oh you went to Earth? did you try a wet tamale and a cadillac marg?

and not have a good answer.

also try the mdma


it’s gonna be hard

the more creative you are the less likely you are to be understood

the more ambitious you are, the more likely someone will want to stop you

people will not call back. people will not write back. people will be people.

read the Bible, they even acted this way to the guy who restored sight to the blind.

it’s ok. it’s supposed to be hard.

and you will break through.

and it will be harder

and you will get through that one. and again and again.

when we are kids we fall and bounce back. we do it so much we dont even notice. and when we cry our parents who know better say hush now. shhhhh.

whenever i think about winning the lottery it feels like a lot of work: how do you stop people from begging for some cash, what do you do about All the poor? what do you do about buying every pre-1984 Corvette model they made?

how do you buy the Cubs?

i dont worry about those things, being poor. in fact my worries seem minuscule in comparison.

for example, if one is a billionaire can one just stroll on a beach in a country known for kidnapping rich people? no. if one is a billionaire and one sees an empty sky scrapper, can one just pass it by without thinking “how can i just fill this place up with homeless people and call it a day?”

can a billionaire go to Guitar Center and leave without buying a piano, 10 guitars, 2 drum sets, a gong and a marimba? and then lessons. and then a smoke machine? and then that disco floor from The Jerk?

how many bodyguards should a modern billionaire have? how many guns? how many houses? how many top hats? how many bowling alleys? how many dive bars? how many farms?

the good book says its easier for a rich man to get through the eye of a needle than to get into heaven. how many good books does a rich man read? hopefully more than a working man because a rich man has more time? no?

life is meant to be lived and a lived life isnt easy.

if it was the aliens would vacation here more often.

she was from another planet.

plainly. probably another time as well. her private parts had a sort of suction going on that was equal parts creepy/wrong and omg/omg.

her name was <3

i said, less than three?

she said, i dont make fun of your name, please dont make fun of mine.

i agreed and the suction continued.

when she kissed me i time traveled in my mind. except i had no control of where i went.

because my luck is sometimes rotten, i ended up in the gift shop of the smithsonian in 1989. i wanted to look around the museum, but it was after hours and i didnt have full control of my feet.

when we stopped kissing i came back to earth. or wherever it was that i was.

i opened my eyes and four of her hands retracted quickly. without moving her head she looked up and to the right and began whistling a carefree tune.

we went back to kissing and i time traveled into the very near future. exactly what i was resisting. i tried to pull away from the caress but i phsyically couldnt.

it was judgement day. two rows of white men with long white beards and pitchforks sat to the right of me while two rows of black men with long white bears and lightening bolts sat to the left of me.

the opening strains of hells bells were being played and two giant feet and legs that reached into the heavens stood in front of me.

everything was happening via esp.

how dare you!

im so sorry.

why didnt you?

laziness. sloth. igorance. selfishness. fear of success. assholeness. apathy. fear. pride. age.

you will ruin the mix.

i know it.

you never went to church.

it was so dull.

you could have taken over.

i could have?

why do you think you were ordained?

cuz you needed me?

pride! i dont need you.

cuz you wanted me to?

and what do you do when you dont get what you want?

i bitch.

no whiners in heaven.


hasta, fucker.

one of the feet rose. it looked to be made of cement. he wore sandals. a shadow blanketed me, blotting me out of sight.

she pulled away shreiking. i had bitten into one of her tounges.

someone busted through the door on a pale horse and swept <3 away from me as i sat shaking

suddenly alone

and dreading the inevitable future.

broken girl