I hate shitting sometimes because I sit there on the john with the soiled paper in my hands staring up at the heavens asking "Why God, why?"

When I have money I blow it on expensive clothing and booze. When I'm broke I call all of my art dealors and beg for money like an upper middle class Marxist college student to his parents.

I kept soaking my erection until it had a big ball of suds on the tip; it reminded me of a kind of soap suds afro on an albino jive turkey strutting down the street in the 1970's. I pretended it was just an innocent puppet show going on inside all of this soaping so I'd be able to steal an orgasm without suffering divine consequences.

This column has done nothing for me but erode my credibility as an artist and degrade my image into a lowbrow columnist for a magazine with the same demographic as Tiger Beat.

...Until your mom and dad finally kick you out of the house. Then you get an apartment with some 90 pound weirdo with long pinkie nails and dyed black hair who's name you found on the bulletin board of your local coffee shop. Eventually he'll turn you on to the wonderful world of the occult where you'll spend the best years of your life killing chickens, piercing your genitals and making out with chicks who wear plastic Dracula teeth.

Your crowing achievement in life so far besides graduating from the necessity of a plastic matress cover was being kicked in the face by Courtney Love as she dove into the mosh pit.

Now to all you young women who write me love letters: Please send me naked photos of yourself instead.

I don't look at the youth of America and see the seeds of greatness. What I do see is a group of bed wetting, cry babies with snot collections wiped on their headboards, who think the world owes them something just for showing their zitty faces in public.

Cut this sensitive male rock star crap, women don't like to see men whining and crying on stage. They want to see a man who's not afraid to tease his hair, put on lipstick, and tights and go prancing around on stage screaming about pussy.

I was even further depressed when I discovered that Homer Simpson's high school music was the same as my own. How old is that guy supposed to be anyway?

...The type of kid who got his first erection after sniffing toe mud on his finger.

This whole driving under the influence thing is ridiculous. Everyone on the road is driving under the influence of something. For instance, if a drag queen is driving down the highway, is a cop going to pull him over for driving under the influence of Judy Garland?

You dim witted, zip pinching, community college, drop out, garbage band forming, keg beer drinking, pot smoking, monkey slapping retards who call youself readers...

Listen up you dyslexic, stinky fingered, glue sniffing, cyber slut, U.F.O. sighting, McDonald's farting, trailor trash, morons. Get your homicidal hands off Grandpa's gun collection and pay attention! Your dreams amount to little more than those of scratch ticket addicted schizophrenics gumming stale doughnuts in the dumpster behind the Krispy Kreme. Which is to score a big chunk of cash and buy a bunch of stupid shit that ends up rusting in the weed strewn patch of dirt you call your front yard.

Get as much pussy as you can when you're young; the older you get the weirder you feel about fucking high school chicks.

...Then there is the dirt poor trailor trash types; the kids who steal their single mother's cigarette money to either get high or buy C.D.'s. These are the type of kids who blow their faces off while listening to Judas Priest.

I've gone to great lengths to not fart in front women. In my lifetime, in fact, if I remember correctly, I was holding a fart in during nearly all of them. Now, when I'm at a restaraunt and I see a couple on a first date, I can't help imagining that they're both tight assed with farts on the brink.

I owe my 65 year old hard working mother $3,000 that I borrowed to buy a Prada suit to look snappy at my last opening. That show didn't sell, I can't pay her back, and the suit's already gone out of style.

I wonder what I'm doing in a rock magazine in the first place. I know nothing about music or pop culture. I'm getting old, fat, and conservative. Why am I?