What's that, M (you bitch)? Yes, as you (M, you bitch) point out, I couldn't call it "Agency" because back when I created it, before losing it betting the cyber idiot with the cyber dice was going to cybernetically roll cyber box cars [see MY LATEST ADDICTION ], my credit rating was so shitty I couldn't get bonded.

Yes, M, I admit not everything was always sunshine and peppermints and hot pussy on a Friday Night back then -- or now, which is the entire point of this... and therefore ....

{ZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzz} But hey, what the fuck was "Ralph's" called before those guys in the big corporate glass tower decided to fancy the name up a bit? I mean, come on... "Ralph's"? You got to wonder.

Anyway, like I was saying, YOU put on some sweats to run off to Pavilion's or Wild Oats or even fucking Ralph's -- which has the most tearable plastic bags in the business [and I'm not saying that just because they 86ed me after I said "Yeah, a blow job" when the little checkerette asked me if there was anything else I needed -- and the really scary part of that is how they can like automatically 86 a guy from 581 stores throughout the Southland as TV Weather Chicks with big tits from Canada like to call this part of California (a State which was named after a possibly fictional, possibly real -- at least to the wine and magic mushroom addled mind of the Spaniard who thought he'd found an island north of Tijuana (same guy who had an Aunt Juanita?) that was ruled by an Amazon Warrior Queen named Calif, or Caliph, or was into Californication before The Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Damn spooky if you think about it -- and I do, M!

Anyway, like I was saying before the rude interruption, YOU put on some sweats, run out to buy some fish for dinner and like have every one... especially guys -- and not gay ones either... shit if there were that many gay guys in Hollywood there'd be like zero popu... What's that? You're saying I was in West Hollywood... at the market in front of which all the pretty boy hustlers hang?

Well call me a taxi... no wonder none of those biker chicks made a grab for my crotch which looked like I'd stuck a cucumber I was trying to swipe down there.

Okay, okay M.... I realize the title was scientifically chosen by the new, uh... I hate saying this... owners of Orange Mars Literary Talent to draw in that critical 18-54 gay American male market (okay M -- I'll change the title from JUST BECAUSE THEY CALL ME BIG DICK THEY THINK MY LIFE IS EASYto JUST BECAUSE I HAVE A BIG DICK THEY THINK MY LIFE IS EASY right now, since that's "testing" better... cheeesh! Fifteen fucking focus groups to name a stupid column that was going to be about this stupid laxative -- is there no limit to which my new, ahem, owners won't sink to try to get OMLT to turn a buck? It isn't like I didn't try

And I'll watch the "gay bashing" as you call it M (you fucking cunt).

So when I get up in the morning my life like boils down to "Should I have a snort or a cup of coffee?" Is that what you want, M? Did that test well?

The truth is that having a large penis can make life darn complicating at times... from like Eighth Grade you're (that would be me) in a position to give other guys complexes of the type only a woman like my beloved slut of an ex-wife can cure by fucking anyone with a dick of any size and assuring him that size doesn't matter -- and I doubt it does unless you're taking it in the ass -- as my ex-wife repeatedly assured me that with one exception I was the worst lay she'd ever had, "and he was bigger than you. I asked him if he was deformed...." she told me that night we were out (apparently) to celebrate our first year of separation. She latter explained that her sadistic psychologist had her tell me "Your [I'm] the only person about whom I [she] can talk about sex" because: "I [she] knew it would make you [me] feel guilty because you [I] forced me [her] to dump you [me]" and then she laughed maniacally before falling silent.

Then it was like a light bulb went off over her head and she whipped out an abacus (in an attempt to remind me of the Chinese bastards who had raped and pillaged the House of Nyguen for a millennia or so), flipped some beads, looked at me sweetly and said "Hmmmmmmm -- don't worry."

"What, me worry?" I grimaced.

Then she yelled over the light din, "Your best friend and I agreed that if we ever fucked we wouldn't tell you." My ex-wife went back to the beads looking thoughtfully reflective before announcing loudly to the crowded restaurant:

"Men are to me what yards are to OJ Simpson."

This was, of course when she was 23 and OJ had not been accused of being able to filet a human faster than a nimrod could do a smelt... yet -- "and except for that side show freak, you were the worst -- did I tell you I asked him if he was deformed? Dai, are you deformed? Do you have a deformed penis, Dai?" I think when I last saw her she referred to this as "Do you mean that night we tried to get back together but I puked?

Sorry, M.... "OT" as they say in Deja Land or whatever it's called now that Deja may or may not be down and out for the count.

So, anyway, before I woke up with the lap top on top of my big dick with you screaming about how decided that would make a good title for the column I had planned on WOW the laxative advertised on Howard Stern before I was derailed by Hector the Dealer during his unexpected four hour visit yesterday (although he was no where near as annoying as Rex the Junky who also decided to pull me away from my planned Saturday trip to Target to get a coffee grinder for the Condo (and pick up some more sweats in which to display my manhood) asking me as I came out of the dry cleaners "Can Hector the Dealer use your (my) phone," as he poured sweat and hopped up and down.

Before further discussing my prick I think I better explain just what Hector the Dealer and Rex the Junky were doing up here yesterday, especially since my neighbors do read this poor excuse for writing and are looking for any excuse they can find to kick me out of the Condo Ass'n of which I'm President (an incompetent one -- or was it incontinent...? M would you look into that please? Thanks!)

Good, now she's off our backs.

Anyway, for some reason I can never say 'no' to Hector the Dealer (so it's a good thing I don't do drugs... actually, I was afraid they were going to do a freaking deal on the hood of my car and it was like "Guys, not here... you can use the Condo" -- especially since I knew Rex would be after me to use my bathroom as soon as he copped as his cardboard and Hefty Bag home does not have running water (although it is back near here... so Gloria H you old bitch, you better watch out because your property values are soon to CRASH....)

So along with my shirts and a suit I drag Hector the Dealer and Rex the Homeless, Hopeless Junky up here figuring it'd be a five minute deal... besides I kind of like the guys.... which is good, because while Rex spent the next four hours wretching and otherwise stinkifying the "public" bathroom of the Millennial Condo as he occasionally called out in misery to see if Hector the Dealer had connected with one of his connections, Hector the Dealer and I sat in the living room and chatted civilly, glad all the (legal ... there are only legal) drugs I may or may not have were in the bedroom or the dressing area or, well, someplace Rex was not.

It was amazing how much, according to Hector the Dealer, the drug game has changed since Hector the Dealer went away (as they say).

If you want a little history, go to "HOPELESS" JUNKY SAVES LIFE (pictures at eleven), but let's just say Hector the Dealer knows from at least the perspective of someone in his La EmŽ Familia who got cut off after practically starting a fucking war one drunk and ugly evening, See, Hector the Dealer, who is still known along Fig and the upper avenues by some old time LAPD types, didn't want to have to swallow what was in the cap he handed me -- and he wanted to keep it away from Rex, who at that point would have tried anything in his delusional condition.

Hector the Dealer told me later the matchbook sized slab in the cap was worth about a thousand dollars (he mentioned this when he was checking to see if I'd ripped him off by "showing" me what was in the hat -- in a classier way than I thought he would... he took some ettiquette lessons in the joint).

Oh hi, M.... lo siento as I believe they might say in the nation of your origin... The United Women Built Like the Fire Hydrants of East Parsippany... so where were we... yes -- Rex the Junky was spewing chunks as Hector the Dealer and I discussed his business situation and Hector the Dealer made occasional calls to his connection who was "away from the mobile unit", which was the message received after a nice lady who spoke espa–ol solamente asked Hector the Dealer to wait a minute... and this could or couldn't explain why my phone has been constantly ringing today when no one is on the other end of the line... except for the woman quien habla ingles solamente who tells you "Hey you fucking idiot, if you want to make a call, hang up the phone and dial it correctly."

All of which I find rather unnerving (so give me a break, eh, M), as I figure (and as Hector the Dealer eventually figured) they got popped, which should drive up the business of local rehabs and clinics come dawn Monday, as, according to Hector the Dealer, this one "group" (El Grupo for long) actually controls the entire chain of smack and coke ("rock" or "roca" as it's known in these parts) for this "whole area" (area entireamente), buying by the ton and selling in retail (a phenomenon which actually started to develop while he was "away").

So, assuming that's what happened, and drug dealers who deal in serious drugs in a serious way tend to always stay open (at least those who deal in roca, because, as Hector the Dealer explained to me while discussing how he had gotten several of his relatives strung out on rock (he explained this as he used my phone to scream at one of the younger ones who couldn't get it through his head that the honeymoon was over and Hector the Dealer would no longer be selling tres rocas por viente dollares... not even to this poor kid who had been out burglarizing all day to support his mother's and his habits, as any good son would, one would think.

"They're worse than dope fiends, man... waking me up at three fucking o'clock in the morning for that shit. They think I don't know how it is... they don't get sick from the rock, man, and they're crying man."

Hector the Dealer paused to call the man to try to get poor Rex something to settle his stomach, making an expression which showed he, Hector the Dealer, neither knew nor cared to know, so long as no one was taking advantage of his generous nature or getting in his path on the way to the bank....

So, these phone calls have me a little jangled. I figure it will either be the cops or a band of rocked out crack heads who come sailing into the Millennial Condo at about three this morning (or with my luck, both, one to rob me of all my worldly possessions, the latter to arrest me for knowing Hector the Dealer, and letting him use my phone... and eventually letting Hector the Dealer back in as I was finishing dinner (sole in a light lemon sauce, spinach blanched in sesame oil and topped with Feta Cheese and a baked onion... and then feeding Rex after the medication which Hector the Dealer brought took hold, turning the Millennial Condo technically, if unintentionally, into the Millennial Detox Clinic, Shooting Gallery, Dope House and Soup Kitchen... what's that M... yes I know this has taken me a bit longer to write than either of us anticipated... fix yourself a drink and try to ignore the constant ringing of the phone and men dangling from those black helicopters over head and I'll whip you up a pizza shortly...

I think I had better put my plans to review WOW off until next time -- what with the impending forced entry robbery and ensuing FBI/DEA/CIA/IRS/NEA/NHS/LAPD Ramparts Division Raid I don't think I'll need any WOW to get rid of (the possible) twenty to sixty pounds of toxic fecal material packed into my colon (as advertised on Howard Stern) this week....

No... I think I'll just keep my loaded really cool looking and fully operational The Good, The Bad and The Ugly Confederate Guerilla style, Italian made .44 by my side and the shot gun under my bed -- hell, in the bed with me tonight....

Who knows? Maybe if they don't find anything and (I) don't mistake them for crazed crack heads and end up firing at will (or peeing on them if, in the dark, I mistake my enormous schlong for one of the guns) I'll get an official "FBI/DEA/CIA/IRS/NEA/NHS/LAPD RAID ON THE MILLENNIAL CONDO 2001" windbreaker just like the guy who is on the roof of the building across the street is wearing?

See, I told you there ain't nothing about having a big dick that makes life easy.