Twenty two days ago I left you with a cryptic blog about going away to an undisclosed location for vague reasons. I alluded to mysterious forces trying to destroy us, the continuing threat of Francesca Fiori and her associate, the elusive Mr. Dr. Robert Young. I even put the blog on an orange alert. What was up you say? Good question. Where have I been for the last twenty two days. Even better one. Why do monarch butterflies all flock to the same valley in Mexico every year? I have no idea. Why you would go somewhere where everyone is beautiful too is beyond me. That's why I roost in Toronto. More moths than butterflies. So what did happen to me? Did I fall off a roof like Steve Weston and die? Obviously not because I wouldn't be here blogging unless this isn't really me. Did I fall in love and run off with someone? I wish. Maybe I had been trying to dust a 'Best Legs' trophy on a high book shelf at home and had fallen in between the shelf and the wall and had been trapped there for weeks hanging upside down like a curing slab of bacon. It was none of those things. It was far more boring. I was kidnapped and held hostage by a shadowy group where I was tortured for twenty two days. But it all worked out and I'm back, and all is well. Nay! Better than well. Wellbutrin well.
You'll have to excuse me for not getting more upset but it's not the first time I've been kidnapped. I was kidnapped once before by Uday Hussein and ended up having to have sex with him and his father so this was a cake walk by comparison. I don't even know what my kidnappers looked like because they wore Maude masks the entire time. They wanted me to associate the great Bea Arthur with this horrible experience and forever ruin my love of for her. That's how ruthless they were. All I know is there were four of them and at least two of them were women, one of whom spoke with a Latin accent and called herself Alfresca. Naturally I have my suspicions who it was but I can't say until I know more or get drunk and spill my guts. What was their purpose. They told me they were trying to bring about the collapse of civilization by kidnapping it's most amusing members and holding them hostage for twenty two days until they're broken whereupon they return them back to society so witless and dull that their demeanour will act as a soporific on their friends and eventually render everyone around then completely stupefied until we are all so compliant that we can be harvested as food. That's when I thought they might not be who they said they were. I asked them "Why twenty two days?" They said that it was because that was the life span of any given quip and that after that amount of time, it's impact diminished. Then I asked one of the men what this had to do with Ewe and the woman with the accent said "Nothing." and that Ewe was just collateral damage. I didn't believe her because the whole time she was talking she was writing various prices on a tomato with a sharpie.
For three weeks they tortured me. They blasted me with the soundtrack from Dreamgirls, just the men's parts. They forced me to vote for Sanjaya on American Idol over and over again until my fingers bled. The worst was when they made me write a letter to the editor of Entertainment Weekly thanking them for their "absolutely amazing" cover shot of Justin Timberlake that made him look "so real and completely approachable but still super hot." They almost got me there but I held on. That's when i decided to stop breathing. It's a trick I learned from a shaman/trick in Lake Titicaca and anyways it's come in handy a few times over the years when you want someone to leave. You don't actually stop breathing. You just take in enough air to keep from passing out. It drives your captor's crazy because they think you're dead and they don't want that at least not at the beginning. By the second week I was barely conscious. Week three, I don't remember any of it. Apparently I made a video where I talked about how mixed up Britney was and how I wished I could give her a hug and then I hugged the camera and fell into a coma.
During my time asleep I had this dream where I was in a a room shaped like a triangle lying on a triangular bed and Starbuck the beautiful tomboy space fighter on Battlestar Gallactica was sitting in a traingular chair with her legs crossed like a man and staring at me like she wanted to eat me and my firstborn. Then May Pang the woman John Lennon briefly left Yoko for, came through a round door carrying a case of *Coke Zero. She put the case down and then pulled on out one frosty can and tossed it to Starbuck. She grabbed it and popped it open with a satisfying fizz and then downed it in one go. Then she stood up and I could see that she was wearing a huge strap on penis. She began to walk towards me waggling her rubber appendage and that's all remember until I woke up under a hedge in Forest Hill wearing a bloody diaper. I had lost seventeen pounds and looked fabulous. It was all air. I gained it back by the time I got home. Oh well, that's why there's **Coke Zero.
* This mention of Coke Zero was paid for by Coca Cola Limited and it's subsidiaries and may not be used in or of itself as a stand in for any other cola or beverage of a bubbly brown nature including but not limited to Root Beer, Dr. Pepper, Brio, or Tab.
**This mention of Coke Zero was completely unsolicited.
Gabcast! ewe #33 - Be My Barbarian
This song was alledgedly recorded on March 24th 2007 by me after fifteen days in captivity. At this point I had just fallen into the coma so how I managed to summon the energy to record this cri de couer, I have no idea. What I imagined happened was that at some point in the night I sleptwalked to a studio where my captors had assembled my band Mouth Congress at gunpoint and forced them to accompany me while I raged and stormed in my vegetative state. What other explanation could there be?
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