:: Electric Psychedelic Pussycat Swinger's Club ::

:: Friday, February 06, 2004 ::

the art of war

A friend of mine, Niccolo Machiavelli (his deli customers call him "Nicco"), and I were having a discussion over a couple of espressos last Monday. His manner became suddenly stricken with deathful seriousness, as he leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. He suggested to me in that dimly lit cafe near the lower east side that a writer could fake his own death to then plot behind the scenes against his enemies.

Well, Niccolo was an idiot.

Never one to know when to shut his yapper, he'd be known to go on and on about his life's greatest work, "The Prince". Monday was no exception. The biography sparks controversy by arguing that Prince circa early 80's was far inferior to Prince & The New Power Generation of the early 90's. "C'mon!", I screamed.

Always one to brag about the quality of his writing, I had to put his ego in check by mentioning that he was nothing but a plagiarist as the ideas he wrote about were simply ganked straight off my 2nd cousin, Sun Tzu, from 2000 years prior. What a hack.

No longer in the mood to stand for such blasphemy, I demanded he finish his espresso and leave. He obliged by putting on his raspberry beret and high-tailing it outa my face in his little red corvette. Spoiled bitch. No one's gonna believe that bullshit. Needless to say, "The Prince" never became a New York Times best-seller.

Anyway, the faking of my blog's death is over. Can you blame me? I mean, the entire week it wouldn't stop bitching about how uncomfortable it was inside that stuffy coffin.

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