There aren’t too many things in this world I enjoy more than gazing up at the night sky, for nothing else is so infinite and wondrous. The thing I’ve found about gazing at the night sky is that on occasion you’ll find a surprise up there. And sometimes, if you’re real lucky, you’ll find a sexy surprise.

Why just this past Sunday I was so lucky as to be treated to the latter, as perchance were some of you. I reckon there were folks from as far as Tokyo who were going about their business; perhaps they were considering the playful sexual nature of the snowman as I was. Then suddenly something caught their eye – well what’s that up there?

What the fuck?

Maybe I haven’t checked my calendar in a while; is it National Flush Morgan Freeman’s Life down the Goddamn Toilet of Life Week already?

Let’s see; it’s only Thursday and already I’ve:

1) been pulled out of a car wreck by the jaws of life

2) broken an arm

3) undergone a five hour surgery

4) been served my divorce papers by my wife of 24 years

I don’t know what kind of shit-ass apocalyptic nightmare weekend is in store for me, but I do know one thing: Morgan 'bout to murder somebody.

When I saw that the media has begun writing about certain video game users creating pornographic characters, I thought I had better go public before the accusations begin. And so, my statement: I am not, nor have I ever been, a creator of sporn.

I can just see folks, upon glimpsing a picture of an exquisitely enormous-breasted transvestite wildebeest made in the Spore’s “Creature Creator” program, and jumping to conclusions. “This is clearly the work of Morgan Freeman,” they’ll surely say.

Well, let’s not spread rumors before we have the facts, is what I would say to that.

What a wondrous and awe-inspiring universe we live in. After reading data received from our Reconnaissance Orbiter spacecraft, NASA has learned that Mars was once the home to lakes and rivers of immense proportions. Which means Mars could have potentially supported microbes. Which means that the Martians almost definitely developed a specialized breed of sex slaves.

Ahh, to be a young Martian in those days. Just reading about the descriptions in the newspaper puts a shiver in this old spine. Have a look at this one, for example (the parentheticals are mine, though I’ve only added what is clearly implied):

“Water was once widespread on Mars… raising the prospect that the Red Planet could have supported life (and in particular, the Martian sex slaves, who were most gifted in the art of sweet lovemaking).”

Or have a gander at this next one:

It has come to my attention that our young people in the fields of science and technology are finally making advancements toward what I predict to be the most important invention of our lifetimes: the invisible cloak. I had hoped that the completion of the invisible cloak would have been achieved decades ago, but I am nevertheless most pleased by its imminent arrival.

Like you, I have spent much of my time pondering that great philosophical question: What would I do with my invisible cloak? I do believe I’ve constructed, in my mind, the idyllic day of cloaking, and it plays out thusly:

I awake to the news that work on the invisible cloak is complete, and only one cloak shall be produced and that cloak delivered to Morgan Freeman, forthwith. I receive my cloak and adorn myself with it. No one can see me (I have checked the mirror to verify).

I sit down to a meal of cornmeal and ham pancakes with grits, which I eat leisurely. I am still invisible and I smile with this knowledge. I read the paper, and the headline reads: “Morgan Freeman Invisible.”

I then walk down to the local aerobics facility and spend the rest of the day in the women’s locker room. I can see everything.

Miley Miley Miley.

Young lady you might not think it, but we’re not so different, you and I. You are at a crossroads; it is one that is quite familiar to me. Yes I’ve seen your photographs, and I’ve heard the chitchat of folks about town. But while it is far too late for me to change my skankish ways, for you it is not.

You see, I wasn’t always the cheap attention-crazed slut that people know me as today. Indeed, there was a time when I held myself to standards of dignity and respectability. Like yourself, my early career held much promise; films such as Lean on Me and Driving Miss Daisy established me as more than just another pretty face.

Hello and good evening. I don't wish to impose, but I felt I must notify your business of a grievance of mine.  Sonny, your parking garage has ultimately ruined my night. You see, this parking ramp, my boy, currently has no available parking spaces. Yet, it’s still permitting entrance into the ramp. Thoughtless and imprudent, is what this is.

I had tonight's itinerary planned out flawlessly. I was initially set to enjoy a solitary dinner for one at my local Applebee's Bar and Grill. I planned to ingest a chosen meal of a spinach & artichoke dip appetizer followed by the always alluring honey barbeque chicken sandwich. After the rigorous demands of my stomach had been met, I was to catch the latest showing of Gone Baby Gone. It would have been my third time this week seeing the film, as there are a few areas in the plot I am still trying to iron out.

When the clock read six o’clock, I made my way to your particular parking garage. As usual, I took a ticket and drove my 1989 Crown Victoria (I believe a man is only as modest as his automobile) upward to Level One. Now I am not criticizing the fact that there were no open spaces on the first level; in fact there seldom are. But after spiraling around all eleven levels, all filled with automobiles belonging to undoubtedly selfish and ungrateful men, I began to grow frustrated. 

The roof … my last option. No luck. I looked up to the sky as though some type of guidance would be shed upon me, but no such occurrence took place. I must have sat on the roof of that parking garage for nearly ten minutes straight.

An event occurred recently that carried such magnitude I can’t imagine a day will go by that I don’t feel the repercussions in some way or another; such magnitude that I felt rightly justified in puttin’ these old hands to work on a new blog. It all started with a youngster who went by the name of Leroy Jenkem. Leroy, who by my eye must’ve been around 16 years old, spotted me whittling on the front porch and looking into the horizon with a twinkle in my eye, which is how I generally prefer to spend my afternoons.

“Hey mister! You ever try jenkem?” Leroy asked. I had to admit that I had not. Leroy explained to me that jenkem, also known as butt hash, is a new drug popular with the youngsters, a drug made from fermented human sewage. Now, I’ve always said I’ll try anything once, especially if it involves inhaling the fumes of my own waste for a cheap high.