After some serious thought (or in this case... after some serious Bloody Marys), I've decided to enthusiastically exploit this whole Vampire craze sweeping our fine country. If George Hamilton can do it, so can I, Dammit! And it's not really much of a stretch for yours truly. I tend to slumber all day as it is, prowling the village lanes all eve looking like death warmed over; I love the cape and sash thing, AND have been told, on more than one occasion, that I suck the very life out of people.
If I may first bore you with my historically inaccurate pontifications... Apparently, this whole Dracula thing is loosely based on some dapper Transylvanian (or is it Pennsylvanian?) Cat by the name Vlad, with a panache for sticking people on poles like human corn dogs or something... which is the craziest coincidence, since my prep school chums bestowed the epithet "Link the Impaler" on me after that series of unfortunate javelin incidents in the school cafeteria.
That said... I am hard pressed to think of a more dapperly ghoulish incorporeal being. So who of the master thespians of vampire lore do I emulate? Grampa Munster? Bela Legosi? Count Chocula? Perhaps Blacula?
A trip to the Young Squires department at Shempley's is in order, post haste! Luckily my personal tailor, Señor Tito keeps late hours for us denizens of the dusk. He recommends a cape made of Megachiroptera bat fur, teamed with an ox blood sash, but I want something more macho so I choose a Ladakh pashmina cape with a candy apple red velvetine sash. Très virile!
In true Count Dappula™ style, I've festooned my sash with my many medals from my time as a soldier of fortune in the service of the Liberian junta. Actually, I have no idea how to fire a weapon. I was just there for the blood diamonds, but my dapper camo safariware and pistol-shaped cigarette lighter was apparently misconstrued as war mongeresque.C'est la guerre!
But I digress...
Donning my new accoutrements, I venture out into the gloomy eventide, looking for fresh meat to feed my insatiable appetite for blood. Blah! First stop... the local watering hole for a libation. Can't do any of the Devil's work on an empty liver! But, as I sit there, perched dapperly on my bar stool, I'm sensing a palpable lack of love from my fellow lovers of the bottle. The amount of stink eye is unbearable... and where did they get the pitchforks and torches? I decide to slink out while the slinkin' is good, only to find myself being chased by this pitch-fork wielding mob of angry liquor-fueled town folk. Who knew George Hamilton had such a negative impact on people?
Into my apartment building I fly, hammering on each and every door looking for an escape, only to be surprisingly handed small individual-sized chocolate confections and stale popcorn balls by befuddled neighbors, who apparently thought I was a tad early on the trick or treat gig.
Well, that was certainly a bust. No young fleshy women to sink my plastic teeth into. No succulent vampire-inspired aperitifs. No nuttin'! Just a handful of sweets that I'd get anyway from my weekly shakedown of the neighbor kids. Frankly, I'm starting to rethink this situation...
In retrospect, I'd be open to the whole werewolf thing instead, but I just got a full Brazilian.
While perusing the expansive Charmant Cabbage selection at the local green grocer (because as you well know, I have an unquenchable Slaw fetish), I noticed, neatly stacked in a fetchingly pyramid-shaped end aisle display, Glen Plaid-imprinted Chubbies Brand Diapers. Now, I'm more than familiar with the usual kiddie character-festooned poop pants, but these were downright dashing! In fact, dare I say... they were truly... Dapper... Crapper... Trappers™!
My mind was a flutter with steaming hot corn infused potential! So I grabbed a pack of XL Chubbies (For the portly child), to take for a test run... or should I say test "runs" in my case, given all the slaw I consume.
And what cat doesn't get a bit perturbed by having to cut short life's more scintillating activities to visit the powder room? I know I do! So, now sportin' my new Crapper Trappers™, I can continue to charm that lovely lass, play a rousing game of badminton, or even graze at the snobbiest supper clubs, all in the knowledge that I can simply "let it all go".
Since the pattern matches my favorite sport jacket, I don't have to bother with trousers. Plus, it makes clean up a snap! I just simply recline on the Le Corbusier, or if out and about, a park bench, or billiard table, lift up my legs skyward, and holler to my man-servant Chatsworth to wipe, powder, and replace. Viola!
But as any ecologically-minded gent, I worry about these doodie dungarees filling up our precious landfills. So, I have Chatsworth gather and deposit them in a special brass repository on my penthouse veranda. There they come in handy on warm sanguine afternoons to hurl at my recalcitrant Beatnik neighbors as they sun bathe and play those God-forsaken bongos!
Score one for the MAN... the MAN in the diapers, that is.
While Link finishes his electo-shock therapy over the trauma of the last few months, we thought, just for shits and giggles, we'd run an all new "Ask a Sausage Link..." that's been festering on the back burner for some time:
Dear Mr. Sausage Link,
First off, I'm a long time fan of the sausage. In fact, if I may toot my own intestine wrapped horn, I was crowned Ms. Kielbasa Queen '36 in the salad days of my youth. Well, the blossom of that young Kielbasa may have shriveled and putrified, along with the majority of my essential body parts, but I still crave the sausage in a big way.
Enclosed is a photo of me in full pork mode:
But I digress: Is it bad form for a lady of my maturity and vaginal dryness to ask a young man to see his sausage? I'm usually rebuffed with giggles and gagging, but all I desire is to feast my eyes on the fresh cylindrical beauty of young ground pork/beef/venison that he may be consuming or carrying at the moment.
Sally McDickleson Perth Amboy, New Jersey
Hot damn!!! YOU ARE A SAUCY SAUCY SALLY AREN'T YOU? Why can't I ever meet a spicy older broad with a taste for the sausage like you? All I seem to meet are hungry eyes and salivating mouths... I'm more than a wiener Goddamit! I'm a man! No wait... I am just a wiener. But a wiener with feelings, Sally. I know you understand. Can I come live with you? Be you're special salsiccia? If you're open-minded, I know a beefy Macedonian lukanec that would be open to a Ménage à trois!
Dear Mr. Sausage,
I have what I believe is the world's biggest sausage, but I need an expert's opinion. May I show you my sausage? It measures 50 feet long and has a thickness of 1 foot. Is there some sort of award, or ribbon, or maybe a parade that I could receive for such a feat of pork packing?
Ronald Berkowitz Long Island, New York
While certainly an impressive log of meat, it is laughably small and pathetic when compared to the what is the actual KING OF ALL THINGS SAUSAGE...
Behold The MUNDARE METTWURST MONSTER!
An amazing feat of pork-based architecture. I believe it only lasted one day until a group of whacked out hippies, high on dope, stumbled upon it, ate the supporting pork, causing a collapse which wiped out a nearby orphanage. God Damn HIPPIES!!!!!
So, no Ronald. No GOD DAMN PARADE!
Have any sausage-related questions? Well, then send them to:
Excuse my tardiness, for I have been most certainly delinquent in my Dapper™ blogifications. But to be frank... I 'm beginning to ponder what I find more deeply disquieting...
The fact that I have been missing for several long weeks, or the fact that NOBODY SEEMED TO NOTICE!!!!
I thought someone might inquire, or at least send a search party out to ascertain my whereabouts, but apparently Link Worthington III, Esq. isn't quite worth the effort. Well, I had the stratagem to just simply pretend to have been amiss in my professorial duties, due to fabulousity and drink, or dazzle you with tales of extreme sexually-charged international chicanery, but the truth is far more horrifying.
But that's for another day. As soon as the nightmares soften, the sores heal, and my sphincter stops quivering, then and only then, will I entertain the thought of passing on the blood-curdling details of my disappearance.
Which brings me to the subject of today's bloggery: SHOES. After weeks of sporting nothing but duct tape and Chinese take-out boxes, the first thing I did was to slip my precious little pitties into my coveted "Rodney of Burbank" loafers. Renowned for his use of only the most endangered animal skins, his footwear excel in both sheer audacity and soft pillowy comfort.
Mr. Rodney personally invites his most valued patrons along to hand pick the "raw materials" with which he'll weave his huarache magic, so off to the Hydrofoil! My last excursion was to the frozen tundra of Greenland, to find just the perfectly portly Phoca groenlandica pup pelt. Decisions, decisions! So many porky pelts to peruse. And times a tickin': We've only a few days to "harvest" the best snowy white furs before they molt! I just need to find the right little fellas and give them a hearty whack upside the noggin. I brought my own club along for this endeavor: A 3-foot long picana negra wood stocked, platinum tipped facilitator of fabulously fine feathery footwear.
But as I gaze hypnotically into those deep, moist, jet-black peepers, I can't seem to muster the inner blood-thirsty killer that I know lurks inside me. I have not a touch of chagrin with butchering my unruly manservants, but I find myself unable to... strike... the fuzzy... little... puff...
WHACK!!! As luck would have it, Mr. Rodney instantly notices my trepidation, and gentleman that he is, promptly pummels the fuzzy imp to death. Heavenly loafers, here I come!
And oh how that buttery soft baby seal fur soothes my horrible carbuncles, corns, and calluses. Cheers to you, Rodney!
Now if only we can rid ourselves of those pesky PETA agitators forever blocking patronage to your fine establishment. Today it's the seal slip-ons, tomorrow... who knows? Will they be ruffled by your Kitten Klogs™? Your Tibetan Sand Fox puppy pumps? And why pray tell is it only the homeliest of the group that must strip and paint faux blood all over their corpulent frames??? I've a right mind to protest their visual pollution! Well... as soon as my sphinter ceases to quiver that is.
As a man of unparalleled Dapperness & Wealth™, I loathe the 15th of April almost as much as I loathe my continually reoccurring case of the Prawns.
I so despise having to give a penny of my hard-earned (earned by someone else) money to the "Man" only to have it be given to supporting various ridiculous services, organizations, charities, and worth-while associations that I'm not directly affected by...
How will this help me purchase those fur pants I've been eyeing, if I have to give .0001% of my income (I have a great accountant) to help pay for silliness such as the police, army, fire, or civil services? I say Anarchy in the streets! I have my penthouse safe room AND access to the Worthington Family Armageddon Bungalow™ on the Cape. Plus, my new manservant Chatsworth is trained in the deadly arts. Not sure which ones, but they're DEADLY...
So when I came upon literature pertaining to something called a "Tea Party" rallying against taxes, I though it my civic (ie. greed-induced) duty to attend. Well, actually it was the rumors of "Tea Bagging" that got me a tad bit more titillated. Tax protest AND orgy. What a great combination!
But upon arriving (wearing my special quick-releasing silk ORGY pants), I saw no such activities taking place. And to be brutally honest, I wouldn't even want to dangle my treasured man-sack in any of these homely pie-holes. The nerve of such false advertisement!
After storming out, it dawned on me...
The perfect protest is to drink heavily! Hence this weeks Drink of the Week:
Tax Time Tea Baggin' Toddy
1 All-American, Red-blooded Lipton Tea Bag
4 Shots Wal Mart Barn-Burnin' Brandy
1 Tbsp. Honey (From some God Forsaken Dustbowl State)
1 Lemon Slice (Carved in the shape of a Bald Eagle)
1 1934 Minted $1000 bill
Steep tea in hot water for 10 minutes. Place tea bag off to side. Mix in brandy and honey. Garnish with Lemon Eagle. Place $1000 bill in mug, light on fire, then throw drink out of nearest window, or if incarcerated down the toilet. Now drop cold tea bag into mouth, and stew about giving away both your precious booze and money.
I truly am an unabashed Paraclete of the Arts, as all us bona fide Dapper Gents™ are. When not posing au naturel for the local progressive-minded primary school figurative drawing classes, I'm snatching up young penniless artisan's work hand over foot to both horde and later exploit.
At the moment, my collective "peepers" have been focused on the talents of one Margaret Keane. Her hauntingly disconcerting doe-eyed rascals equally charm and creep the hell out of me. In fact, when I placed my vast collection in my boudoir the other eve, I had a dickens of a time persuading my various lady friends to disrobe and fornicate. So off to the rumpus room with you, Keane-ish freaks!
I kept the kitty pillows though. Worked with the milieu of the room.
Ms. Keane was kind enough to let me pose for a portrait recently, and I am tickled pink by the horrific results! I swore she wouldn't make me cry, but she had to bring up my dearest Mr. Dingles... and the waterworks began...
I believe she has captured my true essence... that of a small, forlorn pipe-smokin' man-boy who's only dream in life was to skin his pet leopard for a fur-lined bathtub. Where's my hanky? Sob...
A little trade secret: As luck would have it, these priceless Keane paintings show up ever so often in local second hand stores, rummage sales, and more commonly dumpsters. Pick any random trash receptacle, dive in, and you'll surely come up with a Keane painting AND a nice pre-chewed, post-supper snack.
Next time on Art Collecting with Link™: A behind the scenes look at my life-size, anatomically-exaggerated, Alabaster sculpture garden.
Hello all you lucky Kitty Cats, and welcome to my new impeccably furnished social networking swing-a-ding-dingin' pad. Sit down and take off those oh-so- tight pumps and let me rub them pitties, while I pour you a long tall cocktail. Mmmm that's good.
For ages, cats have stopped me and asked: "How can I be a swing-a-ding-dinger like you?" Well.. You can't. Only I have the "Joie de vivre" to pull off a look as dashing as this. You can only ogle and awe, as you dream of being 1/10th the stallion that I am. But for giggles, I'll show you how I have perfected my "Dapper Gent" smoothness. Perhaps one day, you too can call yourself "dapper", but by that time I will be long dead and rolling in my grave at the very thought.