My Top Five List of Things to Accomplish in 2024 While Doing Virtually Nothing

Tao baby. It's all about, like, just going with the Universal Flow. And I'm flowing faster than Great Aunt Margaret during the middle of the month.

So that word, "Bildungsroman," I learned that at collatch. Yeah, two dozen years ago when I could still get an erection without the intervention of an AI-driven, cybernetically-enhanced, Star Wars implant.

Bil's. Dung. Was a-roamin. I can't even remember what the FOCK it's 'apposed' to mean, as my little cousin Timmy (who I just made up for the sake of this dumb essay) was want to say around a mouthful of Baby Gerber green peas and apple juice. Ah, ain't it a cute image?

(Actually, I meant the word 'apposed' for 'supposed.' NOT FOCK, which is a profanity of sorts and would get Timmy's mouth washed out with lye soap, which might burn his vocal cords and render him mute so that if he ever saw a homicidal EC comic book doctor kill the woman next door, he couldn't testify in a court of law as to the identity of the perpetrator [what? he couldn't draw it out with Crayolas?])

Getting back to it, Bil's Roman Dung aside (and that term either means his fecal matter is unusually animate, or of vaguely Italian descent. It may have crucified the Fisherman's Shoes), I have Five Things I want to accomplish this Evil Year of Our Lord Twenty-Twenty Four. Here's El Numero Uno on Tom Baker's Global Roadmap to Planetary Domination.

1. Make Love to Ameca

Ameca is an android cybernetically-driven curiously humanoid ROBOT mega babe with a sort of prosthetic face that does cute little things when you ask her about exterminating mankind. I think you have to like that in a girl. Of course, she's cold and hollow and full of wires below the waist, but so am I. (Shrugs.)

She'll never care how you look, or smell, if you take her out to eat (she juices on two thousand volts. Plug her int0 the wall, babe), and she's always ready to rock your world, from here to Helsinki, by way of the Sprawl. Downside? I heard C-3po and f*cking Gort were both making plays for her, so you have some competition there. Klaatu Barada Niktu.

2. Publish my Dirty Sitcom Theme Music Parodies

I mean, I go back and forth on this. No one likes my serious writings anydamnway (well, really, virtually no one likes ANY of my writings, but, I'm nothing if not persistent, and well, it's the fantasy of the thing). But, man, I can turn a sitcom theme into a side-splitting, raunchy, "let's do blue" routine that will have you visualizing the entire cast of Three's Company having a massive coke-fueled Seventies Orgy-A-Thon (or Orgy-A-Go-Go, or something along those little white lines). And what I do to the "Camptown Ladies," you don't wanna know, babe!

Here's a little sample:

"Camptowan Ladies on my shlong, doo-dah! Doo-dah! Come on gals my pecker's long, oh-da-doo-dah-dey!

"Gonna hump all night! Gonna screw all day!"

I'll spare you the rest. (But my "Three's Company" song is really a hootenanny. Maybe even call it a 'hoedown'.)

3. Finish reading Neuromancer by William Gibson

I always get bogged down at the middle point of the book, when Case takes up with the Space Rastafarians. Otherwise, I already know what happens in the book, and how it ends, even though I don't understand any of it, or know why. I know that Molly Millions has cybernetic glass eyes and razors in her fingertips. Meaning that even though she has a name that sounds like a camgirl on Chaturbate, any sort of intimate contact with her is a seriously risky affair. ("Ah! Jesus, that hurts!")

4. ?

I'm drawing a f*cking blank here.

(G-d damn psychoactive drugs.)

5. Make Fifty Million Thousand Hundred Dollars Selling Old Comic Books, Dirty Socks, and My Own Inimitable Macabre Clown Artwork.

Since Money is All That Matters in this bitter, cynical world, I figure I need plenty of it. No one in their right mind (or not on any mind-altering substances) would ever buy my body, and souls, as Dr. Anton LaVey observed once, "Come very cheap these days." Thus, I am forced to peddle the olfactory aroma of my rather deliciously grotesque razor-taloned trotters. Believe you me: there are dudes out there twisted enough to actually want them. Once, in between my nightly bouts of prognosticatin', when I was pulling double night shifts on the 24/7 Adult Line (as "Luke Lovemonkey"), I had a grossly obese man with obvious social interaction challenges send me pictures of himself with toys jammed in his butt.

Sometimes you just detach from the world, knowing that it's a collection of visual/auditory/and tactile stimuli sent as a projection from Universal Conscious Awareness so that it may understand Itself better through the biological lens that is You.

Or something like that.

As far as my Creepy Clowns. I figured, since I don't have a crawlspace, there's NOTHING for anyone to worry about. Nothing at all.

In closing, a "bildungsroman" is, apparently a novel about the formative years. It reminds me of the Lord of the Rings, for some reason; that first part of the word I think, "Bil." Like "Bilbo." I'm going to write a parody one day of Lord, with "Dildo Raggins," and his cousin "Dodo" chasing the evil, toad-like Glumglum for the One Ring. What they do with that ring or where they stick it once they find it is a matter for another day, but maybe they go insane and stuff it up the kiester of a Wandering Wizard after rolling around in a fresh and stinky pile of goblin shit.

Ciao baby!