Friday, March 10, 2006


Weep not, my lovelies, nor gnash thy teeth either.

Temporarily decamped to the sub-aquatic HQ of hardened combat-blogger Dom Zero. The vat-grown wimmin he has on display are specifically designed for pleasure, but I just can't get used to their gills. No matter how much I practice I still initially panic when my lungs fill w/ water.

Dom has a special room where everything is soft, moist and chewy. It is painted "Neutral". He also has access to futuristic drugs that can prolong the male orgasm for up to 10 days, so bang goes my deadline for the Russian edition of Vogue. Still, it's hard to believe that while we're being fed priceless narcotic oysters by a crack squad of exotic Cheryl Ladd lookalike mer-chicks, a mere 8 ft away the miserable folk of Balham are walking to work in the rain, seperated from us by only a semi-permeable membrane.

Which only goes to show, kids, it don't pay to work for The Man.

Chin, chin!