In Which We Can Host

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I had a barbecued pulled pork sandwich for dinner and now I have been laid low by it. Let me tell you, I would never have dreamed my death certificate would include “cause of death: pig.”

it’s a shame to expire from a stupid sammich just now because Saturday Diane von Austinburg is coming to visit. I love Diane’s visits, better than I love christmas; they are a high point. There aren’t many people who I would accept as a guest, in fact, come to think of it, Diane is the only one.

I have no idea why she puts up with me, when she’s here, I spend almost the entire time asleep. The few moments, the precious few moments that I’m awake, all I do is complain about not being asleep. Still we usually squeeze in a little time for cooking (I love sharing a kitchen with her) and this time we’re going out to some odd sounding fashion glamor show at the DeYoung museum. Reports as they are available.

Diane sent me this yesterday. It’s so nice to have a friend who understands you.

Naked mens whom I might be willing to have sleep over:

You know what a fool I am for pretty hair.

Mmmmmmmmeaty

I don’t care if he’s not paying attention.

Captain Hook

Did you know you can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetary if you’re tattooed? Also, that big, luscious foreskin might be problematic.

Uhm, what is that equipment you’re sitting on, buddy?

About mrpeenee

A former bon vivant and terror of a number of New Orleans bars in the mad, gay 1980s, I'm now quietly retired and widowed in San Francisco. I have a crooked nose due to an unfortunate Frisbee accident.

8 responses »

  1. I am very sorry for your sandwich distress, but at least it is not caused by Taco Bell. (PS to Diane: Help Mr. P. find a new feline overlord. There’s no way he’d disturb the cat’s naps.)

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  2. Oh, squeetie, I hope your sandwich distress will be long gone by Saturday! And it is gratifying to hear you like my visits to you as much as I do. And I do. (Anon too: work in progress, dear.)

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