S.W.A.G.

Sealed With A Gag - to show him you really care...

I recently checked in on the number of "reads" this here virtual soapbox of mine was up to...
I lie. I check all the time. It's in my competitive nature to permanently seek validation or superiority and having my hands down my pants is often frowned upon at work.

So I'd like to thank the army of loons that make up my rabid following for being as fanatical as you are. It can't be easy logging in time after time to read the same thing over and over again. How else to explain the staggering numbers? There can't possibly be that many of you! If you were Roman gods, you'd be Erudite. [You have to pronounce the last bit like the last bit in Aphrodite...]

Anyway, it is with much appreciation that I thank you from the heart of my black little bottom. I'll continue spewing drivel all over your screens as long as you allow me. Like the indulgent parent and the vomiting infant in the mall, a necessary cog in the mysterious machine that is life.

Not so mysterious is this whole "wine, women and song" thing that rules most of us. When I was younger, my dear ol' mom used to have very many suspicions (confirmed or not) about who was the "bad influence" on her precious little over achiever. Coincidentally, the suspicions first surfaced when the over achieving came to a sudden grinding halt. I still don't have the heart to tell her I was leading others into temptation and not the other way around. Barring, of course, the "women" part of the equation. No matter how much of myself I put out there, nothing and no one seemed interested in "taking the bait". But I digress. I was going to make the point that the three ingredients in that triumvirate of vices still rule the roost. And last night I got to experience them to the full. Again.
With the glaring exception of the "women" part. Again.
TDB, Rose Thorn (wine in hand) and I made glorious doom metal, echoing throughout the aching agony of the ages, and as far as my kitchen. I don't have a point, ok? I'm just padding my report on what I got up to. It was glorious.

And tonight SUBVERS get together to plot and scheme our way into your collective conscience, your dark little hearts and your knickers. I would tell you to look out for imminent updates but we all know that perfection takes time. Isn't it nice how we live in a world where subjectivity is so acceptable? Can you imagine rating bands on their empirical, rather than their emotive musical worth? I'd be fucked.

And on that blond bombshell, I'm out. Have the day you deserve. Cheeky, neh?

Spread The Love. Not The Cheeks.