My Foot. Your Butthole. Let’s Dance.

Booty Once in a while, I need to kick my own ass up and down the block to make sure I’m doing my work. I need to jettison the excuses. I need to identify problems and eradicate them with the mightiest of fucking prejudices. I need to rough myself up a little bit — let me know who’s the boss. I’m the boss of me, I say to myself as I bust my nose on a banister, as I hurl myself down a set of cellar steps, as I stick a mascara brush into the tip of my wangle rod and break that little bastard off a piece (snap). It’s a Zensplosion. Pots clanging. A twenty-one move-your-ass salute. A string of firecrackers.

It’s good sometimes. Jar yourself a little. Be honest with yourself. Drop your baggage on the floor and have a good long look at it.

It’s like with exercise — you need a push. You need someone to motivate you at the same time they’re scaring the rabbit pellets out from under your cottony tail.

So, I’m doing that with myself today.

I’ve got word count to hit, so by golly, I’m hitting it. I’m also hitting my own sphincter with my Size 10 Wide boot. And that’s hard to do, kicking your own ass.You gotta get limber first.

What that means, though, is I got the boot all warmed up. It’s butthole-ready. It’s a circle peg looking for a circle hole.

That means, you ask me real nice, I’ll cram my steel-toe up your corn-chute. I’ll even wiggle it around a little if you buy me a beer.

So.

Writers.

Storytellers.

Creative types.

Status reports, pronto.

How you doing?

Where you at?

Why aren’t you ahead? Why aren’t you doing better?

What’s your excuse?

Is it a good excuse? Or a shit one?

Anything I can help with? Anything anyone here can help with? We’re a hive-mind now. You’ve joined the collective. You are one terrible mind among many such wretched brains. Humanity is only as good as its weakest member, but the colony, the hive-mind, is as good as its best.

Let’s make it happen.

My foot.

Your butthole.

Let’s dance, motherbitches.

(And yes, I’m busy writing. Which means, shorter posts, and posts where I make you do some heavy lifting. Shut up. No, you shut up. Shut up! Don’t make me stick a mascara brush in one of your least comfortable orifices and snap that sucker in half. You don’t want that hospital bill. You don’t want me to send this guy to come and do the job, either.)