Book, Book, Bo Book, Bananafana Fo Fook...

While a bloody and relentless bidding war continues to ensue over the rights to my forthcoming memoir, I decided that if I'm going to be writing a book, the thing's going to have to have a title. But, what do you name the best book since the Autobiogrpahy of Sliced Bread? Here are a few of my ideas:

The Seven Habits of Highly-Infected Poopers

Tuesdays with M.O., R.R. and I.E.

Buttholes and the Buttfucking Buttfuckers Who Buttfuck Them

Analsex: A Novel

The New New Testament

The Brownest Eye

Naked Lunch

An Assbreaking Work of Buggering Genius

Using My Powers For Good, Not Evil

Ever since this blog started getting attention, I've been called a lot of names. Most of them are some variation of "sleazy, money-grubbing, anal-whore". And as much as I would like to simply say, "Sticks and stones may tear my sphincter, but names will never hurt me," some of the negativity does sting a little.

So, last night I decided to really take inventory of who I am. I got to thinking about all the money I've made and about all of the poor and underpriveledged people in this world, and I realized I had to do something to give back. With that in mind, I took a ride over to the Georgetown Hospital Children's Burn Unit and gave out free rim jobs until sunrise. And, you know what? It felt good. It felt really good.

Hello, Freaky? Hi, It's Deaky.

It's been one hell of a night. It's 9:30 and I just got home. Before I hit the hay, I thought I share some deets.

So, the date with CT didn't go quite as planned. We got back to his place, me bombed on sake, and as soon as he started to take his clothes off, he puked all over the place, including on my third-favorite pair of open-toed red heels.

He apologized and offered to give me the full 12Gs if I'd just leave him with a Polaroid of my pooper. As I left his place with a much heavier handbag, I had a brainstorm: Since I'm suddenly such a hot property and can't ever make time for all of my potential suiters, I should start carrying a stack of asshole Polaroids with me at all times. I was thinking some artsy professional shots might be better, but then I realized that these guys would definitely prefer the snuff-film vibe of a poorly-lit Polaroid.

Anyway, with a lot more time on my hands, I decided to answer one of my jazillion voicemails. A phonecall and a cab-ride later and I was hooking up with JW. No more cab-rides for this beltway strumpet! JW gave me a car! Sure it was only a 2002 PT Cruiser, but I only had to let him finger me to get it. Cha-Ching.

As I departed JW's in my new wheels, it was getting pretty late, but I figured it had to be early somewhere in the world and set up another date. This one was with ObL. I was a bit skeptical when he told me he'd give 1.2 million if I took a dump on his chest while giving him an HJ with sandpaper, but for that kind of money, it was worth a shot. Plus, I figured it'd be nice to have something coming out of my asshole on a date for a change!

Well, ObL was true to his word and a speedy cummer, but there was one catch: He paid me the mill-point-two in gold bricks! Jerk! Lucky for me, I gave one of my brown-eye Polaroids to a guy in a moving van and he's handling it for me.

I Just Got Back to Blogging and Boy is My Asshole Tired

What a day it's been! Job offers, book deals, interviews and (more than anything) propostitions are pouring in like Republican jizz on the small of my back.

I'm meeting CT tonight for sushi. He says he'll give me five-grand for an old-fashioned ass-fucking, eight if I'll do it sans lube and 12 if I'll fart in the middle of it. I know CT is supposed to be a Diet Coke drinker, but I'm going to be downing the sake pretty heavy tonight. Come to think of it, I ought to get my hands on some baked beans too.