2002-03-28 - 6:15 p.m.

I'm starting to become concerned with the things that most appeal to me as profitable ways to spend my time.

Viz: I am in the throes of a senior thesis. As any loyal Novo Collegian (or someone from a similarly sterling academic institution) can aver, this is a vast and horrifying prospect requiring every ounce of skill, extremes of devotion, and a willingness to grind one's bones to make bread for the ravens to feast on.

Quoth the raven: "This bread needs some jam, I think. Real dry, i'n't it?"

So with this vast and looming Kilimanjaro of scholarly achievement awaiting my grapnels of research and ice spikes of knowledge and rappelling ropes of synthesis and form, I make the natural choice.

I receive a copy of "Gouge Away" from Amazon.com, and decide to read all the Transmetropolitan books in order so as to be prepared to read the sixth one (eighth if you count "Filth of the City" and "I Hate it Here" -- which reminds me that I've spent over two hours looking for the latter before finding it in a comic store in New Zealand).

And by the time I've finished those it'll be time to go indulge in my di-weekly bread and circuses. "WWF Smackdown!" comes to us live tonight from somewhere in the Midwest, where thousands of fans will wait for the chance to see grown men work vigorously not to harm each other while making it appear that they are. They tell a story in spandex. A soap opera with a touch of ballet and a sprinkling of steel chairs.

Mock if you must, but these gladiators of the new era bleed and break bones and suffer permanent crippling injuries in the name of entertainment. We're all Roman emperors for these men who lose teeth and vertebrae and honor and their families and their lives.

And I'll sup my wine and gnaw my esoteric foreign delights from far shores -- I'm thinking spinach tofu munchees -- and I'll take in the spectaculum. But don't label me one of the drunken yokels who holler mindlessly for more blood and violence.

I shed a libation for each drop of blood.

"I may be laughing on the outside, but my joy is just skin deep. On the inside ... I'm CRYING. Won't you join me for a WEEP?"

Yes, a toast to these martyrs for entertainment. A toast!

And then a powerbomb through a flaming table.

Ah, bliss.

- "Stop him you fools!

He's getting away!"

- Wheel

*****

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