By Way of Introduction…
There are no naked pictures of me here. Consider yourself blessed. The sole adult content involves the judicious use of cuss words and random, frank discussions of genitalia as events warrant. Other than that, power down and put the lotion away. It ain’t that kind of show.
My name is Clarence Young. I’ve written 6 novels. You don’t know any of them. They haven’t been published. NOT FOR LACK OF TRYING. Actually, maybe a little. There’s only one in active circulation, and I’m beginning to think it really doesn’t give a you-know-what. It’s out there going through the motions, but where’s the passion? The book and I used to love each other, parting breathlessly with me eagerly anticipating word from it on its many adventures. Now it’s “See ya bye,” “Yeah, Ok,” and the manuscript shuts the door while I return immediately to the TV. I do short stories, the occasional poem, sci fi, literary drama, comedy, and—if the mood is right—erotica. Can’t read that word without getting tingly, can you? Reaching mentally for the lotion, aren’t you?
I love it when we’re horny.
You’ll never find me in McSweeney’s, which is a knock against them. Matter of fact, I’m thinking of posting everything I write, wrote, written here for bloody well free. New York can kiss my wrinkly left nut! Raise the one-gloved fist. I am in Dee-troit, dammit. I bicycle these mean streets for fun (actually a bordering suburb), and when I’m done I have TCBY yogurt. Or Dippin’ Dots if they’re open. My niece hipped me to the double D. Very tasty, and if you get just the right mix of flavors—heaven.
You betta recognize.
Understand, this blog isn’t about me. I’m not witty in person, not particularly thoughtful and, to hear it from my pre-teen nephew, sometimes I smell funny. Such a dear child will certainly go far. On a computer, via the light speed of the internet, I will strive to be serviceably witty, thoughtful, amusing, pithy, and sexy in briefs or boxers…but this isn’t me, is it? Unless we’re who we are when we get a chance to slow down and prepare. But that would mean this “fast paced world” is a sham. And surely our corporate entities, in whom we trust many valuable dollars, wouldn’t mislead us with false messages of haste and worry. By the way, I’m at work right now. White collar job in one of the older towers in the city, a gem from the thirties full of no-account doctors and tiny “Save the (insert perpetually downtrodden)” groups. There’s also a huge corporate office of Disney drones above me. Disney owns radio stations here in town. The building fears their unseen faces. It’s hard for me to defiantly shout “Stick it to the Man!” because my Man is, well, nice. Hell, he’s bought me chili cheese fries. Can you fault a man who buys you chili cheese fries? If you have no home training you can. But the idea of the Man—now you’re talking! Don’t get me wrong, I do my job extremely well (they pay me just enough to keep me coming and I do just enough to keep getting paid, etc, etc), but in the quiet hours when doofs aren’t calling on the phone with inane questions and salespeople return to their underground burrows to think up annoying phrases to mesmerize potential clients (more on “Powered By” in the future, bet on it), I have very little choice but to assemble a mental audience and sing to them. Feel the aria! In the quiet of the workday I sing a melody—Blogosphere! When the conference call it dawns, trapping my boss perhaps an hour—Blogosphere! When they see that I am typing but they don’t realize my words are rhyming—Blogosphere! I’ve written entire short stories here at work. That’s a proud accomplishment. There are any number of interruptions and distractions the job throws at me, but I persevere. That, dear ones, is what you and I connuble about. Perseverance and a sense of enterprise that opens the future like a floozie’s legs... and we’ve got 20 dollars and some change! Things just look bright for us. Very bright. There’s hope that people won’t be quite so dishearteningly stupid. That’s what this blogsite is about, Charlie Brown. If it makes me a million dollars, hell to the yeah!, but—as I’m sure there will never be more than 3 people out there reading this—more likely it will keep me from smearing grape jelly on my wife and doing filthy things to her to ameliorate yet another long, tiring day. Cathartic is the word. This is therapy. Please note my job offers no health benefits. I’ve been here 5 years but I’m still classified a temporary employee. Therefore, consider me proactive as I fight the power and increase my mental vigor with this, The Blog You Are Reading At Work In Lieu Of Performing Work Which Really You Have No Time For As It Annoyingly Interferes With Much More Important Things. Hell, there’s a short short story coming up. You might need 5 extra minutes on lunch. Oh, you 3 brave, proud men (women)…you magnificent bastards. I salute you to the last and would diddle you furiously if I wasn’t married, you weren’t a man (as, to date, I’m intractably heterosexual), and free love didn’t come with the additional baggage of free disease. Diddle you most furiously! Where there is passion there is life! God save the Queen. Let her hump to her heart’s content!
By Clarence Young
He was fired after two weeks when the manager overheard (to a pretty woman), “I grant thee fries with that.” Zoog was the last of the gods to step down among men after much tugging and pulling. Free fries seemed only right in exchange for possible lust or worship, even though in two weeks not a single worshipper had recognized him. But Kevin fired him. Had to set an example. Now he stood by the freeway because he had seen Foom do it. Someone could have told him that, god or no, at Wendy’s fries are never free.
Next Up: Smurfs!