"I was so close, Rev. So damned close."
"The analysis of the past two weeks' results bears it out, Mr. Bidness. Round after round, tribe after tribe, the winning formula is very clear. It's just this simple: If you want to win a round, and I mean really want to win, you are going to need a tearjerker in the inimitable yet strangely ubiquitous style of the true LJ Idol winner. You are clearly never going to have a first-place finish with your two-dimensional fictional characters, votemongering lj-user tag-shoutouts, and shitty Real Doll jokes. When in Rome, Mr. Bidness..."
"...Yeah, yeah, I know how this one goes, Rev: When in Rome, tell them about how your ex-wife aborted your child without discussing it with you, cheated on you with your best friend, posted the pics in a Myspace bulletin, then murdered your childhood dog..."
"...And, Mr. Bidness, how you then ended up with 18 months' time in the state pen and a sub-550 credit score."
Dear LJ Idol readers: As you all know by now, the assigned topic for this week is "Saying goodbye in a moment of bliss to someone I mistook for someone I should've cared about, but didn't". This is my Week 5 LJ Idol entry on this decidedly assigned and definitely required topic. I hope you will consider voting for my entry! It will mean a lot to my dead dog and baby in heaven.
My Beloved Cherille:
I hope this letter makes sense someday... or really, that it makes sense ever. I am not sure how much sense it will make because, to be 100% honest, I am high as a fucking kite right now. You may have left, but damn, I am soooooo fucked UP, girl. How did I just type this paragraph? I have no idea. My hands are covered in Cheeto dust, or Cheeto mud, or whatever Cheeto dust becomes after you drool all over it... just... wow.
Thanks for leaving that shit behind, at least. Makes me care a lot less about being alone on a weeknight, not being able to park my hard pink bus of love in your turgid heated garage.
Aww, baby, I'm sorry. You know how completely unbearable my sexual metaphors become when I'm baked. And I am baked. Damn.
Anyway, listen, when you disappeared in the middle of the night last week, with not so much as a note to say goodbye, I figured there was a good explanation. For a little while I hoped you'd stepped out for a minute but would be bringing back some Taco Bell. When dawn came, I began to worry, but I still figured you'd come back or call to explain what happened. You never did those things.
I've called and I've emailed, and the only thing you've responded to is that text message I sent out asking if you were alive and OK. I guess that's fair... I guess this is all fair. We all get confused sometimes, sweet Cherille. You, my broken, precious, amply-cheeked flower, were always confused most of all. Let's face it, you didn't land that gig with HotAnalCheerleaders.com on the basis of demonstrated problem-solving prowess.
I don't know what you're thinking right now, Cherille. Maybe you've found someone else out there who can make a hot anal cheerleader feel like a princess-- don't ask me how anyone could love you more or treat you better than me. But I figure for whatever deluded reason, you've decided that you're finally done with ol' Daddy Bidness. And I just can't spank you in your rainbow stockings hard or long enough to talk you out of that one, if it's really what you want, my love.
Let me just say this before I set you free: there was a time, long ago, when I was confused about us too... a time when I was confused about just who my beloved Cherille really was...
Whoa, tildes make great wavy flashback-curtains. Baked, I tell you.
~ ~ ~ ~
"...And if you'll step over here, Mr. Bidness, you'll get a tantalizing firsthand look behind the scenes at your proud sponsor, HotAnalCheerleaders.com..."
Wow. I don't know if I'd describe the smell in here as 'tantalizing...'
"Surely, Mr. Bidness, every job does have its issues and inherent compromises. The current Internet roadmap also does not specify the transfer of olfactory information until at least 2024, so until then, let's consider the 'ambience' the product of cost-cutting measures, and part of the cost of doing business..."
Right, right, say no more. I've unclogged enough pink, tight 'n' nubile storm drains in this life to know the pros wear gloves, clothespin their noses, and get the job done. ...Hey, holy shit, who's this?
"This girl? Mr. Bidness, this is one of our most recent talent hires, and one we're very proud to have on board..."
Hrm. That's odd. See, from behind / on her knees like this, I could swear... I could totally swear that's my wife...
"Er, well, if that's true, Mr. Bidness, I do apologize, but we..."
...Nope, never mind. Yeah, it's just the hair from this angle, but her ass is waaaay too nice to be my wife's. Too bad. I figured this would finally be that totally convenient excuse for divorce I've been hoping for, you know what I'm sayin'? Giving me all of her devotion, love and money for all these years and never once complaining about it... it just gets old after a while, you know?
"Yes, ahem, well, allow me to introduce the two of you. Cherille, this is our new sponsor, Mr. Bidness..."
"...Oh, hi, Mr. Bidness! Like, I'm Cherille!"
Charmed, Cherille, I'm sure.
~ ~ ~ ~
And then I looked deeply into your half-vacant eyes and kissed your hand, do you remember that? Looking back, it makes me laugh. What was I thinking? I mean, I had just been watching what you were doing with that hand... hell, with your entire fist. I guess Carlin was right... it never hurts to give the ol' immune system some target practice.
The rest, as they say, is history, my beloved. Of course, our history is still in the making, and you are the one who decides whether this is the final chapter for us. Ever since the Rev brought you back into my life-- at no small expense, I'm sure, I can't imagine who or what he had to pay off to get you free of that place-- I've never had a question about what I want, about who I want in my future.
All these months after losing my sponsorship, I waited, hoped to have you back in my life again. And of course, I could go on and on about how I unraveled completely when it occurred to me that you might actually be gone for good this time, for no reason I can readily understand, for no reason you've even bothered to explain. But I'm an old man, not a whiny little emo specimen. I know that these things don't matter. Either you feel the same about me, Cherille, or you don't. Either you want me or you don't. Nothing I can say about how much I love and miss you will make a damn bit of difference.
But I'm standing here in front of all these people telling you that I'm sure you are the one I want, Cherille. Maybe there was a time when, like you, I wasn't sure. I'm sure now... 150%. I've never been so sure of anything, not since I sent my future-themed goth-synth-pop demo tape to 4AD back in '82.
It was so obvious... I mean, you've heard the tape, right? They would have been idiots not to sign a fucking genius like me.
Sure, for whatever reason, they never got back to me. Perhaps they just couldn't see how many millions of dollars I was going to make them-- the dime-a-dozen story of a once-in-a-lifetime artistic achievement. Or, y'know, maybe the tape just got lost in the mail. I've always thought it was probably the latter.
Well, it's 2008, not 1982, and the postal service is obsolete now. I hope you see this loving and proudly open letter from across the vast expanse of the Internet, Cherille. I hope it finds you well. I hope you are just running scared, just for a moment, from the goodness that is our love. I know it can be scary sometimes... it's impossible for me to look directly at it, to fully comprehend how good we are together.
From the very moment I kissed your stained, pungent, adorable digits and casually displaced my beautiful, adoring, devoted ex-wife from mental recollection forever, I've known that some things in life are just too good, too sweet, too wonderful for mere mortals to truly comprehend.
All I can do, Cherille, is find the strength to say goodbye... all the time hoping that you'll soon give up fighting it too, and come back home to me... home... where you truly belong.
And if you do come home, don't forget to bring along your impossibly sumptuous ass. I'll tap that thang so hard, so deep, you'll think it's something to do with the Patriot Act.
All my love,
This has been my LJ Idol entry for Week 5 on "Saying goodbye in a moment of bliss to someone I mistook for someone I should've cared about, but didn't". Please, please remember to vote for me, mister or missus! Officer Shirley tells me I can't apply for parole or a mortgage until I land first place in an Idol round! Come on! It's not like I punched a woman in the face or something and then totally got off on writing about it! And a bunch of you voted for that sick bastard last week!
"In my opinion, Mr. Bidness... for the intended purpose... really now, it needs more high fructose corn syrup. And you know, some halfway-decent writing might also have helped."
"Oh, come the fuck on, Rev. I mean, I do love the girl as much as one probably-fictional character with no consistent, palpable traits can possibly love another. But how do you expect me to write a real tearjerker with a topic like... like this? Man. I really, really don't know what Gary was thinking. This topic is so fucking stupid."
I heard the Rev, whose British accent had been growing curiously stronger with each passing entry, quaffing deeply of his probably-illicit cigar. He chuckled ominously, as per usual.
"Quite, quite. But then again, Mr. Bidness... when you get right down to it... they're all fucking stupid."
note: if the above player looks "broken," just click on the broken-looking thing once.