How wonderful—Duchamp sticks a urinal in a museum, and changes the world. I talk my ass off for five hours to a bunch of hicks and they still don’t get it.

Some southern university invited me to present a seminar at their Intro to Dadaism class, and needless to say, I was met with either half-lobotomized faces, or pricks—most notably, a frat boy named Carter who kept saying ‘queer’ under his breath every time I spoke.

I told Carter he’s probably a Dadaist without even knowing it, and encouraged him to eat his own feces. “You can call it performance art,” I said. “That’s sick bro,” he said—which reminded me of the guy who kept asserting “Don’t tase me bro!” as the very imminence of his tasing grew sadly near.

Well it’s official: the editors at Playgirl don’t even look at their slush-pile. Who do they think they are, The New Yorker? I submitted 79 photos to them a while back, and just received this more than likely template rejection letter:

I was thinking about John Cage’s 4’33” avant garde ‘silent’ piece in which the audience listens to their own murmurs and disenchantment for four minutes and thirty-three seconds. Well, I decided to appropriate it; It was fairly easy, I just took a nap in the dressing room.

It’s called 107’13”—one hour, forty-seven minutes and thirteen seconds of avant garde silence. The audience didn’t seem to get it. They just group chanted “This blows!” over and over again. I don’t think the public (even my fans) are ready for completely mind-shattering concepts. Looks like I’ll go back to verse-chorus-verse ‘pop’ songs, which incidentally, I sing half-mockingly as a way to expose and/or implicate the artifice of the music industry.

All I really want is a little silence, a long nap, and a couple of million dollars in royalties. I think the avant garde deserves at least that much:

I accidentally punctured myself with my ‘knife mic’, and will be using my back-up ‘spatula mic’ for the rest of my tour. I sliced my femur artery and man o’ man—Gene Simmons eat your heart out. First of all, the blood was real, and second, it was mine. Ozzy, take your tablespoon of bat blood and go to hell.

Initially, my set-designer came up with a ‘ladle mic’ idea, but I’ve never been a fan of soup, and did not want to bear the constant evocations.

I’m always brainstorming new ways to blend genres together: goth/metal, masculine/effeminate, sacred/profane, and now — hip hop/marsupial. Now before everyone starts feeling worried for Nietzsche (our pet koala bear), just for the records my bestiality inclinations are limited to seals. (I like the slippery challenge of grabbing one.) As for Nietzsche, I see our relationship as strictly platonic — since he could claw off my testicles.

Dita Von Teese, Nietzsche and I spend careless afternoons sipping Mojitos while I practice my free-stylin’ — which isn’t working out so well. I’m too self-conscious about looking like Vanilla Ice or Weird Al Yankovic. I don’t look like them, do I? You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?

It’s these insecurities I can’t stand, the thought of being just another white guy who likes to spoon endangered species’. Just to clarify, spooning is NOT sexual. Neither is masturbating in front of a bear. I just need Nietzsche for the visuals. That bear is soooo adorable.

Can someone tell me what the number for 1-800-Dentist is? I can’t move my neck to look down at the dial. I hate it when agencies try to be all fancy by creating either acronyms or words that correspond with an arbitrary number. It’s easier just to dial in the number.

I need a new orthodontist. The one I had resigned — mid-way through a procedure — after I told him I become sexually fixated with anyone who touches my mouth. The mouth and anus are simply two ends of one tube. We are nothing more than a digestive track with nerve endings. To trace the concavity of my mouth with your finger is the same as tickling my prostrate. Love at first pinch.

My agent and I were going through some live show photos and we stumbled upon one of me wearing a United States flag like a sari, and I immediately thought of Waldo—with his striped red shirt and all. I think of the Where’s Waldo series as a metaphor for the American condition: the unrecognizable individual embedded into an obscure void of gentrified tasteless society.

The last thing I want to evoke is that, so no more United States flags for me. Brazil’s lime green could play off my mascara, and Japan’s red-dot sun on my ass would look really sexy, so I got many options. Definitely not the French flag though. I’m against the ‘red, white, and blue’ concept in general—even if their legal age of consent is 14; which reminds me, my flight to Paris leaves in half an hour. Later guys, time to get existential on their ass.

I’m running out of ideas for decorations and insignia to hang from my jacket. So far I got two chicken bones (went to KFC last night), and this weird Thai thing that looks like testicles. There’s an odd number of them, which is cause for concern for me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for anatomical anomalies, but even I want two kids in my sack. Just think of me as the fifth ‘ghost’ member of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

Tried out for a cameo appearance for The Office but the producers wouldn’t have any of my antics. I was to play an intern at Kinko’s who accidentally shows up at Dunder Mifflin. I even wore a tie.

I tried to spice it up by piercing my cheeks with a stapler remover and clipping my eyes shut with medium-sized binder clips. That’s when Steve Carrell shows up all diplomatic n’ shit and says this might not be such a great idea—that while he applauds my ‘aesthetic’ transgressions in life—he’s just worried that audience isn’t as well acclimated to sadomasochism as both he and I are. The only thing sadomasochistic about him is Evan Almighty. That movie sucked, and besides, there is no god. Jesus.