In a recent episode of The Bachelorette, the male suitors were asked to compose a song for bachelorette Deanna. It’s hard not to be a snob when people are so untalented. Most of the verse went something like this:

Deanna, I need you
Please don’t go away
If you go away
I’ll be so sad
I won’t be glad
Deanna, I need you

Deanna, I need you to take off your high heels and stab those morons in the eye for me, okay? Deanna, I need to you give me the final rose. Don’t worry, I’m not attracted to you, but it would be great marketing. Hey, I even wrote a song for you:

Look at my pale dong
And its pulse beating to this sing-along
I’m the guy without any pants on
If jizzing on the set is bad
I wanna be wrong

Counting sheep to try to fall asleep is so boring and middle-class. Who cares about some fat guy in the suburbs going 88, 89, 90, bah, bah?

When I can’t sleep, instead of counting, I wear sheep. I will admit, it doesn’t really help (and I can only get to 15 before it gets too heavy); in fact, I get even more excited. Just something about wearing dead flesh that I really like.

I generally hate conformity, except when it comes to whomever I happen to be banging at the time. Before I started dating Rachel Evan Wood, she was your typical looking girl. Her wholesomeness sickened me—all that natural hair color and clear complexion. I can be very passive-aggressive when I want to. “Oh, the black hair dye is on sale at Walgreens,” I said one day. She didn’t get the hint. “Oh, the black hair dye is on sale at Walgreens,” I said again later that week. Finally, I drugged her and dunked her head in a bucket of black dye.

Some people say she’s slowly looking exactly like Dita Von Teese, which may be truth, though I molded Dita to look like Elvira—who I always thought was the female version of me. Now I know what you’re thinking: I’m already the female version of me. I suppose there’s some truth to that.

1. If you’re going to do all my coke and hemorrhage your nasal cavity, please don’t collapse with your firm yet lush ass facing upwards. You are really turning me on, and I’m not even into men (on the weekends).

2. If you’re going wear a small Speedo that barely covers your generously sized dong, please don’t land in such a way that you’re fucking my gopher hole. My gopher hole is for Theodore, my gopher. Theodore doesn’t like the entrance to his home fucked by an overdosed model.

3. If you’re going to come to my pool party, bring all your eurotrash friends. Don’t just show up alone. It’s depressing when only one person shows up at your party. I even bought Chex mix.

4. If you’re not going to notice my alligator shoes, pool party sun glasses, or my passionfruit cocktail, at least notice my new hair cut. It cost more than a home in Peru.

As the voice of our misled youth, I figured I’d start incorporating elementary math lessons into my shows. The plan was to start off with addition, transition into multiplication—breeze through long division—and end with a brief introduction to algebra. My set design team even built huge math symbols out of birch (we used lighter fluid on it so its sheen could play off the stage lights better).

I thought it might be fun to use musical examples. We did a cover of Radiohead’s 2 + 2 = 5 (true, not mathematically correct, but that’s the price of artistic discretion), and the Beatles’ Come Together, in which “1 + 1 + 1 = 3” (good job Sir Lennon) when I started smelling the redolent puffs of a forgotten campfire. I turn around and the ‘+’ sign is completely in flames.

Lesson: If you’re going to hire a drummer with a fetish for putting out cigarettes on his nutsack, veer him clear from the large edifices of dry birch covered in lighter fluid.

You sick people! I’m not talking about fellatio—I’m talking about decapitating a mannequin and signing a song to its head in front of thousands to people in order to reestablish the fact that I hold no prejudices towards human effigies, and can converse with them as well as any living person. Besides, they don’t talk back.

And yes, it is not merely incidental that she bears a striking resemblance to my girlfriend Evan Rachel Wood. Does it weird her out? Only when I hump its esophagus from the decapitated end—which makes it ‘reverse fellatio’ I guess.

The plaster is somewhat coarse, but hey, I’m an easy going guy.
 

Among the vast fecund lot of my talents is seeing into the future. For example, when I was four years old, I saw a highly-marketed egomaniac androgynous freak screaming clichés into a microphone. Or, last month, I saw some sheets covered in stains…wait…that wasn’t the future; that was just my bed. I totally need to rehire my maid, either that or fix my catheter.

Most recently, I looked into my ball o’ future and saw a glow-in-the-dark bowling ball. True, one may argue that I was merely looking at the thing itself and not into some metaphysical realm, but I assure you—I’m a professional.

To help manifest this vision, tonight I’m going bowling with my crew. I have to admit I’m a horrible bowler. Finally though, my mind won’t be the only thing in the gutter.

Blue Man Group’s satirical take on the entertainment and music industry is almost as deft as what my band does, so I figure I’d honor them by being their fourth member. Unfortunately, I ran out of blue halfway.

My agent contacted them, proposing that either they rename themselves ‘Blue Man (and a half-blue Man) Group’, or just hold off until I can find more makeup. You know, I really don’t know how Bjork does it with all that intricate make up. But then again, she’s merely propagating the institutionalized idea(l) that women are incomplete without their makeup on—whereas I’m transgressing cultural premises of gender and aesthetics (at least 50%).

Okay, off to Walgreens to reload on my blue cosmetics. I’m only half the blue man I want to be.