time for a kinky summer 'do!

I am not a great man.

creme de la creme

But I like to treat my lover right, like to give her the finer things in life, and so I turned over to her the keys to the premiere post-ironic pop-lit humo[u]r magazine within a half-block radius of our apartment.

there goes the neighborhood

It’s been fun to see what she came up with. Some familiar faces grace her pages. She also ventured into new territory with what is known as “multiple medias.”

ho. lee. shiiiiiit!

Is it an issue I would’ve come up with? Not necessarily. But that’s the beauty of life-partnership. You don’t double-up on good stuff; you get stuff you wouldn’t have necessarily done on your own. It’s fresh. It’s surprising. Instead of double-insulated tunnel vision, you get bifocals, snatching up the shiny nuggets and loose change splashed across sidewalks near and far.

i can see everything!

I know what you’re thinking: Mr. Judas already seemed pretty transsexual.

it's what's inside the counts.

Well, here’s the pudding.

j-e-l-l-o-yeah!

All the best,

Mr. J

Z*U*M*A

Zuma Dogg, who graced Mr. Judas with his presence at the inaugural Bibliobacchanal a couple years back, has a blog and that blog has been ranked in the top five of California’s blogs by Blog Net News. You know, BNN.

Kudos to you, Dogg. Not sure you needed to say: “…AND THAT GOES FOR THE REST OF YOU LAZY ASS REPORTERS OUT THERE AT ALL THE “PROFESSIONAL” MEDIA OUTLETS, YOU LOSERS!” But, hey, it’s your special day.

And dig the PayPal link. Power to the people.

Right on!

Now it’s this dimpled young bloke in a tie belting out Michael Jackson…

Are Americans simply being reminded of Britain’s moral superiority by showcasing how, across the pond, freaks are celebrated for their talents whereas here they are simply held up for ridicule william “she bangs” hung; or chocolate rain, anyone?)?  Now, granted, American freaks probably do pull a little scratch, just as you have to pay for admittance to lobster boy’s lair or sneak a peek at a bearded lady.  But the British seem so genuinely taken with their freaks — goosebumps, wiped-away tears, doing that obnoxious arms-extended clapping.  Granted (again) the British freaks (and here, the young singer isn’t so much a freak but simply has the unfortunate fate of being inextricably linked with the frumpy dump) do seem to actually have talent.  And, of course, the British, for all their stiff upper lips, have always been more sentimental than the US (they make “Waking Ned Devine,” we make “Weekend at Bernie’s”).