(so I unembarrassedly confess)

I’m terribly addicted to Human Pets lately. We all know of my love for complete loons and, let’s face it, bloggy folk aren’t bringin’ the wackadoo anywhere near like they used to; they’re afraid of losing advertisers or sommat.

HP (as we swingin’ insiders call it), darlings, is fully saturated in the wackadoo. When I’m in Thompsonesque company, it makes me slightly happy, because I get to be proud that I’m a(n extremely tiny) smidge better by comparison, and I get to utter spectacular one-offs. Yesterday I got to say, “And thank you, thank you for buying me from that tragically creepy man.

“I’m okay with people beating the shit out of each other in the name of sexual freedom, but please, let’s be discreet about it. I mean, God, I don’t walk around with a pair of men’s hands wrapped around my neck, do I?? No, I don’t, because that would horrify my mother.”

Said man had pictures of himself hanging on a cross and this spiky penis-cover thing that he apparently doesn’t remove during intercourse. Er. Let me just clarify something here and now: I don’t have a damn thing against sexmarks, but I have no desire for my sexmarks to run inches-deep and -long, nor do I want them to be permanent.

Well, not unless there is a bunch of money involved. Or the guy is amazingly special. Har-har. (See mom? This is why you don’t want to be sneaking in here. THIS IS WHY I NEVER INVITED YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE)

I can’t believe some of you are still my friends, knowing that one day I will show up in your hometowns to stand on your porch and say, “HIIII! I’m here! Now let’s go get drunk so I can say the obnoxious things I typically say slightly louder and amidst a crowd of people I have never met. This is How We Have Teh Funs.”

Raise your hand if you can’t wait, puddin’.