Once again, I've enjoyed the comments and a number of emails. Thanks to the many fine readers who asked "where the fuck" I was. I do appreciate the hell out of it.
Just returned from LA last night, after which I just drove around all night listening to Jerry Jeff Walker's LA Freeway. Cried my eyes dry. I've been there, off and on for the past three weeks. And I have hair on my arms. There. Now the Laeschians can go bananas again trying to figure out who the fuck I am.
Truthfully, I've made my whereabouts unkown for strictly personal reasons, as a major meltdown has occurred locally which has had me in a funk for some time. And I do have hair on my arms. There, again, is more proof that I am a man (with great tits) named Mark Blackman.
And I tried to keep up with 50MO, but blogging while trying to keep myself on the by-and-by on a fucking four-and-a-half hour flight to LA, while trying to hide from a shiftless God-Damnable psycho and stay somewhat coherent got to be a full-fucking-time job.
I'm just wondering when John Laesch is going to be honest and say who HRC really is. Laesch doesn't have tits, but he certainly is a world-class pussy, having fucked a decent man by "outing" him and then not apologizing publicly for being an oafish dolt. And a pussy who's blown a hundred grand of your money being a jackass every day since last Christmas. Maybe it started before that.
That's right. I'm John Laesch. And I do this to get attention and respect. Two things I desperately crave.
OK. Enough. I should've slept on the flight.
There is some fun in the old mailbag, gentle readers... I'll share after a little nap. Gotta skate out of here again before 5.