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was eaten in a “snacky” way. By the white man and his family
     as they watched the slaughter. Also, what’s up with oyster stuffing? Makes no sense on paper.
MY BIRTHDAY
    While I realize that this is not yet recognized as a federal holiday, by the time this is published, if my agent is worth
     his commission, it will be. What will I have done to earn this? Uh… does the gift of laughter mean anything to you people?
     How about developing little-watched TV shows? What about my work with the folks at the Office Depot over on Broadway and Eighth?
     How about teaching indigenous tribes in the Amazon rain forest how to dig for fresh water and creating viable aqueducts? * My birthday should be a day of celebration and somber reflection, rather than what it is now—a day of mourning or penance.

The Mystifying Allure of Gratuitous Luxury
    idrinkforareason.com/luxury
    A S I CONTINUE MY TODDLE THROUGH THIS LIFE THAT OTHERS HAVE chosen for me (I’m talking to you, God! What was the deal with the Red Sox blowing that 5-run lead to fucking Kansas City
     last Tuesday? And how about that crazy thing with You getting me drunk and then having me accidentally run over that boy’s
     dog, killing it? What were You thinking?), I will on occasion have a momentary lapse in my endless habitual daydreaming where
     I will see things in a clear and stark way that point out some absurd human foible that, although a ubiquitous part of my
     life, I hadn’t really noticed before. That’s my gift. And it’s a shitty gift too, so don’t get jealous. Some people refer
     to this as an “epiphany,” but I think that might be a little too grand. It suggests an angel’s knowing hand in the whole thing.
    The latest in these tiny “What the fucks?” occurred early yesterday evening as I was in my hotel room pooing. I was experiencing
     a particularly bad spell of IBS that saw me cramped and on the toilet with my arms uselessly wrapped around my stomach as
     I leaned forward in some involuntary sense-memory re-enactment. I had left the bathroom door open. (Why wouldn’t I? It’s my
     room, and also there was a full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door, whose existence has always bothered me,
     as I don’t like to watch myself taking a shit. Maybe if I was German, but I’m not. I’m one hundred percent American, so suck
     it, Lou Dobbs!) Anyway, while I was sitting there the maid knocked on the door and announced, “Housekeeping.” I panicked,
     but because I was all cramped up, all I could manage at that moment was a weakly croaked, “No!” She clearly didn’t hear and
     knocked again, saying, “Housekeeping, turn down?” I said, louder and much more urgently, “No thanks, I’m in bathroom!” Except
     she did that thing most hotel staff do where they will open the door as they’re knocking and announcing themselves. I yelled,
     “I’m taking a shit!” as she turned, looked, and, having no choice in the matter, smelled. She was as embarrassed as I was
     (Perhaps more so: I think hotel maids are often like black bears—they’re more scared of you than you are of them, and all
     they really want to do is just root through your trash), and she quickly backed out, averting her eyes, apologizing the entire
     time, and that was that. Now, that alone didn’t bother me. In fact I found it pretty funny almost immediately, as well as
     being a top candidate for a good story to relate to my friends and family at the upcoming Thanksgiving Throwdown my sister
     sponsors. What does ever so slightly bother me, though, is the reason she was going to enter my room in the first place. She
     was there to administer the “turn down service.” She was given a key to my room for the sole purpose of turning down one of
     the corners of my bedsheet and to leave a small piece of chocolate on the pillow. Thank you, but no. The sight of a mini chocolate
     on my newly exposed pillow does nothing for me. Absolutely nothing at all. Am I to be