Ah ahm a LAYDAY, and a layday never gloats…

That said, check out my mentor, pastor and boss Audrey for a report on the timely demise of the New York Sports Express, for which I never had any animosity, but whose President-in-Chief Jeff Koyen talked untold amounts of crap about my beloved li’l L magazine, so much so that I spent many nights crying my limp-dick-writing Walter-Benjamin-adoring ass to sleep. As the legend goes, eventually there had to be a boxing match to settle the non-existent score. I wrote about the boxing match on this very unviewed-ever-blog, Koyen masturbatorily googled himself and found it, settled my STD falsehoods, and disappeared again into the tattoo-covered soulful-eyed mist where he continued to hate my beloved listings Zeitschrift. (I call it a ‘Zeitschrift’ because I’m in Europe and have affected a bunch of foreign mannerisms. I also know how to say ‘I habitually used to take the metro to class’ in Czech, but as it requires some voodoo conjuration and a mixture of heiroglyphics and gibberish I won’t share it with you all. I have managed not to obtain or infect anyone with Chlamydia so far, though I’m working on it.) Anyway, I don’t want to give my marvelous biweekly refuge the curse of the bambino (oh, a sports metaphor…how poignant), so…yeah. I’m sorry about the NYSX and I wish the L and ALL of its free-on-the-sidewalk friendsies a long and happy life. Oh, the high road. It is paved with cobblestones and marked in Czech.

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