Holy fuck, everyone. I just wrote a fucking heinous GF column. I decided to do the erotica thing I mentioned from last night, but it would be a real life thing, somewhat along the lines of the Shit Poems. Not the ones about Nic Cage or drinking. More like the ones about morning wood and when the hole in your boxers wanders, making it hard to get your dick out.
I'm flabbergasted because I deleted all of it ON PURPOSE. Because I think I went too far.
STOP THE PRESSES! STOP THE PRESSES!
Anyone who knows me in real life is probably reeling in shock right now. Wait, John Bruni thought he--himself--went too far? Is that even possible? I mean, this is the guy who thought of writing a book called [HOLY FUCK I SHOULD NEVER SAY THAT IN PUBLIC OR EVEN THINK IT], which would really be about [I MEAN IT, THE STUFF HERE IS REALLY BAD]. And *he* thinks he's going too far?
Some of you might take the stuff I've censored above as hyperbole. Rest assured [he said with absolute horror], I'm not kidding about that stuff. The idea is so old I feel certain I've rambled drunkenly to three people about it. If I did, indeed, do this, and they are, indeed, reading this, they can confirm that I should not be allowed in public, nor should I ever be allowed to write that book, not even under a pen name.
But yeah, I was about to click on publish when something weird hit my guts. It felt wrong. In all my life I have done stupid things knowing that it felt wrong, and I got fucked each and every time. Maybe about the time I got away from the booze, I told myself that if I was about to post something or write something or do something that just felt wrong, I would stop myself.
Heh. This feels a little like my Primitive Underbelly days with Jesse Russell, the GonZo to my STRAIGHT. (Technically THE STRAIGHT, but that didn't sound right.) One time we wrote a story about not getting a story, and this is a GF about not having a GF. The funny thing about that story is, the college got a lot of angry letters over our non-story. Except . . . it wasn't over a single thing we wrote. We wanted to find out what strippers did for Easter or some holiday other than Valentine's Day (the point was that it *wasn't* that one), but they didn't want to talk to the press. So we wrote about that. The pictures that went with our story, on the other hand, were scandalous. (You may begin your pearl clutching.) They were censored pictures of strippers at work. Picked, by the way, not by any of us lowly journalists but by the conservative woman editor of the newspaper. It was such a surprise that I had no idea that the pictures were going to be in the feature. I don't know if Jesse knew, either. And we pay how much to send our daughters to your school?!
I hope to fuck I haven't told that story before, because it's late and I don't have time to go back and look. If so, it won't have been for naught. But I need to relax now that I've gotten over the horror of deleting an entire complete fully formed without the need of a rewrite HOLY SHIT WHY DID I DO THAT?!
OK. Calm. I popped a gummy. 100 mg? That sounds fair. Goodnight, fuckers.
But the really funny thing is, I talked with Jesse recently, and we spoke of our old feature column. We realized with some horror (and an odd grim satisfaction) that we're old because the last one we wrote was 25 years ago. He said we should bring it back for our 25th anniversary . . .
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