My Friend, My Mother's Cat and My Next Things

Adam Ostrofsky, who purchased the title of my "best friend", has continued to send me money - 10 here, 20 there, 100 today - and has made the once funny idea of selling my friendship online into what could something very creepy.

I still took the money.

Mother has the one cat Jimmy that has been waiting to die for some time but cant find a clear space on Mother's floor to fall down. Mother took him to a vet last week when she awoke from a deep sleep - induced by the Dollar Store Robitussin she uses to cure throat cancer - to find Jimmy gagging up blood. Turns out he was just choking on a tooth that had rotted out of its moribund head but they did say his terminal state is due to diabetes and failing kidneys. They suggested some type of state-of-the-art life support system or transplant or some such funnyness.

Mother decided that before she put him down, she would bring him to an "alternative" veteranary type. She has asked that I not use the "Doctor's" real name on my site, so I will refer to him as "Dr Valentine", as that is his real name. I'm too wine-drunk to pry my imagination.

Wine is what I drink when I'm not drinking tonite.

Anywhat, Mother brings Jimmy - as well as another kitty named Stanley - to St Valentine for whatever Ouija-Board medicine he has on tap. Stanley has been losing weight, she said and I tried to convince her that Stanley is gone Hollywood.

Mother called this morning and couldn't be happier with the results. The cats are doing great. They are all "calm" and "mellow" and in a whole new space, all because of this wonderful voodooman. I must miss the subtleties in the cats when I stop by to see mother. They always seem to be as calm as any animal trapped in a cluttered fire-hazard one-bedroom apartment could be.

(Editor's note- The phrase "one-bedroom" is misleading. No one has been into Mothers bedroom in years. Mother sleeps on a bunkbed in the front room that I left behind when I moved in 98. She sleeps on the bottom and uses the top for... well, clutter. Excesses of clutter. No one has seen the bedroom door opened since.) The diagnosis?

Seems that Jimmy the Dying Cat was just carrying "guilt" from being trapped in that emaciated body, guilt that he was picking up from Mother. Mother was stopped in her tracks with this show of clairvoyance. It must have been like he could actually crawl into kitty's dying head!

Mother asks in half-joking awe - "Do you do *people*?"

"Of course, I do." says Dr. No-Rape-For-The-Willing.

I'm in 1500 dollars already, Mother. Of course, he takes people. I bet for another 1500 he'll agree to do alternative plumbing or transmission work.

"The reason your engine is tapping is that it's sending you a signal in Morse Code. It's saying 'Have the boy send money!'. You haven't been... revving it, have you?"

Remember that Mother has had her experiences with *alternative* types. Back in Florida she got beat for 2500 clams by a psychic who claimed she'd had a curse put on her. In order to remove the curse, Mother had to tape hundred dollar bills on her body while she slept and then bring them back to the psychic so they could be burned in secret psychic-only ceremonies. After she was in for 2500, the woman vanished. A couple years later, Mother saw her on the evening news. Busted for ripping off stooges. Thank goodness has finally found one of the good apples in the Cat Whisperer.

After all, the proof is in the pudding. The fifteen year-old cats are calm - aren't they???

Mother has an appointment tomorrow for her sinus, chest and back problems.

With a holistic veteranarian. It'll take time, he told her and why wouldn't it. You can't expect overnight results trying to cure 45 years of smoking menthols with tuning forks and aromatherapy as much you can't remove a curse without burning many Ben Franklins.

Only now its my Ben Franklins.

Mother thinks that since I'm on television, we are rich. Mother doesn't realize that if the channel is higher than 11, we aint retiring anytime soon. But Mother sounded so happy - and the cats are feeling less remorseful, who am I to be the buzzkill?

You can no longer purchase my friendship online. But you can send money to buy Voodoo For Mother's Cats. Highest Bidder gets to be my Dad and will get the corpse of the first cat that dies of guilt.

Send money to buy Voodoo For Mother's Cats

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I just got to Memphis and it looks like this could be a good fucking time. A club that books Ron Jeremy, David Cross, Neil Hamburger, Rudy Ray Moore - in Memphis? I'll let you know what happens.

And get your tickets soon for the Madison show September 26th. The Hangdogs will be playing down the road after the show and may even play with me at the Barrymore.

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Hey, Los Angeles - I'm actually doing a show in town. So show up. 
September 17 at Amalfi, 143 N. La Brea Avenue (between Beverly and 1st) 
(323) 938-2504

The third in a series of meet-and-eat events for Arianna Huffington supporters will be held Wednesday night, September 17 at Amalfi in Los Angeles, from 7 to 9 pm. Come join the grassroots excitement surrounding Arianna's surging candidacy, which has received donations from more contributors than the campaigns of Schwarzenegger, Busatmante, and McClintock COMBINED! This meet-and-eat will feature performances by comedian Doug Stanhope. Wedesday, September 17, 2003 7:00 pm - 9:00 pm Amalfi 143 N. La Brea Avenue (between Beverly and 1st) Los Angeles (323) 938-2504 Free admission and free pizza "Everybody gets a slice!" Hosted by Jeff Norman Event info: www.citizenjeff.org Campaign info: www.votearianna.com

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~Doug

Peoria, Il.

With all the stragglers now gone from my apartment, I am now alone in my rubble and have little or no ambition to put it in any order. My office chair has lube stains from someone jacking on the computer and I know they aren't mine as I am a dry-jacker through and through. Devout. My guess is Mordal but it could have been cousin Eric. I have no time or money for DNA testing so I will just put down a towel.

Peoria held true to the "Shittier the town, the more fun the shows" theory. Not only did I get to perform with Brett Erickson again as well as local psychotic and rapingly funny Travis Lipski, but by chance Ralphie May was playing across town and stopped in for late nite hijinx.

Spontaneous "Juggie Auditions" in the middle of the drunken-brawl late show could become a staple as long as there are girls dumb enough to show their cans and clams once the alcohol has finally broken down the attention spans of crowd.

Social relevence even gets monotonous to me at those hours. Thanks to Chris for having the presence of mind to take photos.

I think I may take a stab at a new CD in Minneapolis in October, drag up banjo Randy from KC to give it some kick. Andy Andrist will be along and will be putting the final cuts on his upcoming CD as well so get your tickets early. Andy will be headlining there Tuesday - Thursday so catch his full set early and come back for the weekend when we're together. That always gets sloppy.

Thanks to everyone who responded to my request for hot tips on vacation spots. Most of you just looked at a globe and then said "Go to Fiji." Thanks, potatohead, I could'a done that myself. I was looking for the one guy who knew a guy that had a secret bungalow on the backside of an island where I could just ask for Carl and would then see things no white man had seen before for pennies on the dollar. A long shot, I know, but worth asking.

Memphis and Dayton coming up next. Check the schedule.

~Doug

A Rash in Pittsburgh

I stepped out of the shower in Pittsburgh and got a glance at a rash on my asscheeks that I first thought may be Mackenzie Phillips. Three days ago I was in Vegas with the Northern contingent for a hijack wedding and in the late hours, all in the depths of ecstasy, the bride decided to shave peoples chests in the shower. I opted for the ass shaving and promptly forgot about it, pushing the night into a long day at a Let It Ride table until the ATM machine told me to go to bed.

Not often an ass rash can bring back fond memories.

Not often you find a reason to smile in Pittsburgh.

It's a unique city, no doubt, although dilapitated and they told me not stray too far from hotel at night or I'd be killed. The club is 20 minutes away, an Improv, in a sterilized oasis with a TGIFriday, a Pier 1 Imports and 20 other interchangeable, familiar franchises. It's nice to know that when your seratonin levels are low from rolling and you could weep at an episode of the Simpsons, there's always a place like this you can go and feel bland.

I've thought about wandering around during the day and checking out downtown or maybe take in a Pirates game on a goof but instead I sit and chain smoke with no air circulation, making my second-hand smoke then third-hand and fourth and on.

I was talking to the bartender at the hotel bar here late-night and she says she was an airline attendant - her life's ambition - until she was laid off post-9/11. I asked her why it was so important that my seat-back be upright during take-off, thinking a common air-rager and ex-skycunt could share a laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

She said it was to keep the ailse clear. I explained the basic physics, that the seat doesn't recline into the aisle. So, why?

Her back went rigid and her eyes narrowed like a rat about to be hit with a blowdart and immediately went into her former powerdrunk air-waitress mode, ranting about how everything they do is for your safety and that she will defend her fellow workers to the end.

I told her about Attell getting booted off a flight for merely "looking suspicious" and she got even more abrasive in their defense as though I was calling into question the very heroes of the Let's Roll! flight. "We are trained to be attentive and I defend their decision. He shouldn't have looked suspicious."

I wanted to remind her that there is no "we" since she got the boot and is now humping drinks in a Marriott and that "they" should all be replaced by Coke Machines and locked cockpit.

Someone had her badge taken away and can no longer make people eat shit or walk and all that "training" doesn't even make you a proper waitress. No decent waitress has to get on the PA system and ask the general public if they can break a twenty.

I wanted to tell her all this, realizing that she was the exact bad apple that makes me prefer driving 30 hours to a gig rather than get treated like a grade-schooler on a plane. I wanted to tell her now that she was stripped of power but then I remembered that I was in barren downtown Pittsburgh and shouldn't wander from the hotel or get killed and of course I need another drink so it looks like you got me again, you cunt. You got me again where I have to sit up straight and be polite as you tell me how important you are. Eat shit or walk. It should say that on your name tag.

If anyone has a hot tip on a place for me and the Beckers to get out of the country in January, with mid-to low chances of being taken hostage by rebels, thats hot that time of year with a beach and doesn't have an abundance of American tourists or tour buses, let me know. We did Costa Rica and then Belize and are looking for something a little more obscure.

I'll try to get more pictures up as soon as I figure out this new camera.

If you're just getting here because of the Man Show, you're fucking late. Here's what you do to catch up. First, buy my CD's. It's far harder than any Ass Crack Game Show humor, so make sure your mom doesn't find out.

Then, go to www.freestateproject.org. There isn't anything funny there but it could be the most important and actually do-able movement that could actually change all of our lives and get you involved in something more than watching cable television. There will be plenty of time for jacking off to Juggies when the work is done.

Next, go to www.disinfo.com and buy "You Are Being Lied To" by Russ Kick. You will never be the same and you'll know why you signed up for the Free State Project.

Then quit school, do mushrooms, get laid and find a way to rape the system. You'll feel better about yourself.

stanhope