You’ll have to excuse spelling errors and splatters in this week’s column; the Martha Stewart goons who run the editorial department asked me to write about leaks so I obliged them by writing this at the men’s urinal at Beverly’s.
Those of you who were reading carefully will recognize that I dropped my first major leak right there—while taking one! Could I get more meta? If I’m using a men’s urinal, I must be a dude. As far as leaks go, this probably has the same surprise factor as learning that a redneck duck hunter from Louisiana is also a racist homophobe, but I like to start with a light stream that grows in confidence, as well as stench, with the passage of time.
Why does this leak not come as a surprise? All the angry pitchfork-wielding folk say it must be so, and though I have to admit that I’ve always been curious and maybe the slightest bit concerned by their obsession with what type of equipment I’m packing in my nether regions, they’re so obviously right. Take Michael Larrea, who addresses his outrage at my antics both to “Mr. Starky” and “Mr. Starkey.” It is terribly difficult, I know, to check one’s spelling, especially when trading barbs with a professional writer, so I’ll let the multiple spellings slide, and simply say: Yes, Mr. Larrea, I am Mr. Starkey.
And Jim Elfers of Atascadero, who felt compelled to add “and I am confident that The Shredder is a he” (again, why is everyone always expressing so much interest in my private bits?), of course you are correct. Women have never been known to express themselves forcefully and, besides, I’m old fashioned and wouldn’t allow it.
But it was Assemblyman Katcho’s tumble into the trap of assumption that inspired me to leak my identity. In his letter to New Times, in which he attempts to shame me—does he not realize that I have no shame?—Katcho insists “I do not believe his inaccurate tirade should go unanswered.” Well, I hear you, Katcho. And what I really mean by “I” is “he,” him,” “his” and more masculine pronouns that I can’t think of because I didn’t think to bring a dictionary with me to the whiz palace.
Speaking of leaks, or at least the unintended ones, word in the Trib—or, at least, one very earnest article by Julia Hickey—has it that cops are now running around the city stopping good drivers … and giving them $15 gift certificates. Frankly, getting flagged over by a bored police officer with practically no accountability to the community for their actions would inspire another kind of leak altogether, and then I’d have to try to barter my $15 Food-4-Less gift certificate for a cleaning agent strong enough to remove the shit stains from my seat. So, consider this a tip rather than a leak: Make sure you leave your house 15 minutes early from now on to account for the fact that you might get pulled over for doing nothing wrong whatsoever. Also, make sure you have an attorney on speed dial. I’m predicting a year of lawsuits for the San Luis Obispo Staff Officers’ Association and San Luis Obispo Police Officers’ Association.
We can’t talk about bodily fluids without referencing the rascals, nutjobs, and ne’er-do-wells I’ve pissed off over the years … or 2013, at least, since this is 2013 in Review. Word on the street is the cowboy crowd at Marston’s was angrier than a cowpoke with a saddlebag full of cowpie—that’s an apt countrywestern metaphor, right?—over a sentence-long joke about finding a blue tic-tac in the restroom at Marston’s. Whenever I’m looking to paint some local color into my column, I usually look to McCarthy’s, but I was in the midst of a late-middle life crisis and wanted to mix things up with a different bar. The sensitive cowboys took exception. I suppose they’re really big on clean floors and something about the notion of blue tic tacs skittering across the ground at their favorite watering hole kicked in their OCD. That or the folks at McCarthy’s have a better developed sense of humor.
And for the teed-off nutjob finale, which I’m singing—the acoustics in this urinal are freaking fantastic, by the way—12 recallers recalling, 11 Residents for Quality Neighborhoods a-whining, 10 birthers bitching, nine twerks a-twerkin’—screw it, those hot toddies can only keep you going for so long and I’m running out of steam. And yes, my doctor told me that it probably shouldn’t be steaming, but you try getting over a dry ice addiction. In any case, hold your complaints until next week so I have fodder for my 2014 Year in Review.
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