Tonight, as a special treat, we have author Stephen Kozeniewski guest blogging for me because I was lazy...I mean Indy got bit by a snake and I was taking care of him. And I'm milking that excuse for at least another day. And no, I'm not drunk (though I do occasionally partake, despite what some might think) but I think Stephen is.

Eh, at least I get the night off, right?

Ladies and gentlemen...I give you, Stephen Kozeniewski...

Attention followers of Erica Lucke Dean!

I now control the vertical.

I now control the horizontal.

I now control the fluff.

Yes. That’s right. ALL the fluff in China.

Because Indy is sick. So while Erica is taking care of doggy I am spelling her for a day on her blog. I know it’s not normally guest post day (Saturdays, 12:00/11:00 central) but, I mean, come on. Her dog got bit by a Coppertone.

What? Sun tan lotion? Yes I know.

Her dog got bit by an ophidian of some description.

So, for today, one day only, you get a blue light special on me: Snephen Kozanflumflum. (I forget how it’s spelled.)

First of all, I want to point out that I have repeatedly canvassed Erica to change the name of her blog to Shit Out of Lucke. (Clever, no? Not, “Clever: no” but rather the interrogative. But also the first thing.) And every time she has responded, “Did you know Cooper was based on Harry Cargill?”

Yes. Yes, we all know that.

The topic tonight is booze. The reason behind said pre-aforementioned topic is that Erica, as you know, does not and should not drink. However, if Sex and the City has taught me anything (and it hasn’t) it’s that romance people like their booze. And that Baryshnikov is a terrible, terrible lover. So two things, really, that it didn’t teach us.

My poison of choice is bourbon. It’s not very ladylike, which is good, because I’m not. Ladylike. (Except for pedicures. Those are awesome.) And, specificagally, a brand of Old Bourbon called Booze Crow. I’m drinking it right now, in fact. You couldn’t tell. That’s how good I am at wordsmithery.

And why not? But, more importantly, why? Because I’m an author. A scrivener, a la Bartleby. A writesman. And if there’s one thing that everyone knows that they didn’t learn from Sex and the City, it’s that writesmans needs booze.

And why not? But more importantly, why? Take Hemingway. Please. [rimshot] It is a well-known and popular fact that Hemingway drank excessively all his life with no ill effects. (ed – Hemingway shot himself as a result of morbid alcoholism.)

Or, as another example, take Poe. Please. [crickets] Ahem. [clears throat] Poe also drank his whole life, and also, with no ill effects. (ed – Poe also took his own life due to morbid alcoholism.) Or Bukowski! (ed – Bukowski…well, he died of leukemia. But the booze probably didn’t help matters.)

But what is it about bourbon, brownest of the brown liquors, and Old Crow, oldest of the brownest of the brown liquors, that causes me to recommend it so highly? Well, because Old Crow is a classic. My friends, to a tee, make fun of me for this predilection.

“Old Crow is a bottom shelf,” they say, or they would, if they were still talking to me.

“Ahhhh,” I would theoretically reply, “But was it not Dr. James Crow, the eponymous ‘Crow’ of the title, who invented the single batch sour mash process?”

To which nodding all around would be my reward.

So, I guess what I’m saying is: Kids, don’t drink. It’s not cool. Be cool. Like Erica. And feel better, Indy. There, I was nice to a dog. Proof positive of my humanity in these situations.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled flibberjibbetflurmypassthebour

bon…

Blog: http://manuscriptsburn.blogspot.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/outfortune

Until the next time...I'll be enjoying my much deserved night off.

I’m beginning to think “man” should be considered a four letter word. It can be an honorary title…like those college diplomas passed out to celebrities who didn’t earn them. “Man” can be the first three letter word given four-letter word notoriety.

Why? Isn’t it obvious? Man…or rather men…are different from us. We can love them…cherish them…but by God, we rarely understand them, do we?

First off, men have their own brand of math. The kind where $30 will buy enough groceries to feed an entire family for seven days, and six inches equals a foot. They’re like under-developed children, fixated on games, sports, and the endless pursuit of getting back into the womb.

Basically, everything we need to know about men can be summed up using my theory on dogs and cats. If you don’t understand the male psyche, watch a dog in its natural habitat. Watch the dog play in the mud. Rolling in it. Reveling in its muddiness. Watch as the dog chases every ball you throw. Then think of men and their games. Picture a football game, or a baseball game, where man rolls and slides in the dirt on a quest to chase the ball.

Women don’t do this…because women are like cats. And a cat wouldn’t be caught dead rolling in the mud. Unlike dogs, cats are meticulous about cleanliness.

A dog will unabashedly hump anyone’s leg. I have never in all my life seen a cat hump anything.

Cats like sparkly things…like diamonds.

Need more proof? Watch a dog eat. Then watch a cat eat.

I believe this explains why men are so enthralled with the idea of the convertible. They have a deep-seated need to stick their heads out the window, tongues flapping in the breeze.

And when it comes to dogs, there are so many different kinds. Big dogs. Medium dogs. And of course, the small dogs.

Short men are like small dogs. Some people refer to it as the Napoleon complex, but I prefer to call it the small dog syndrome. Have you ever noticed a territorial Terrier, a persnickety Pekinese or Poodle? And then by comparison you have the laidback Labrador, the gregarious Golden Retriever, or the gentlest giant of them all, the Mastiff. Small dogs are almost always noisier, more aggressive, and high strung…as if they come from the Jersey Shore. And big dogs lay around all day licking themselves and drooling. Because at their core, both men and dogs are just a little gross.

Sure, we love them…but do we really need to know everything about them?

I think there is such a thing as too much information, and I think when you’ve reached that point even a good marriage can start to fold under the pressure. Where is it written that husbands and wives should witness each other’s bodily functions? I absolutely don’t need to see what he discovers upon blowing his nose. And I most definitely don’t need to come running to see if his latest foray in the rest room would make it into the Guinness Book of World Records. I want a rule that forbids a man from taking a dump while I’m in the shower. In fact, I think there should be a law written that that explicitly prohibits men from doing anything gross at all while in the presence of a woman. The faces they make during sex are bad enough, it’s a wonder we ever invite them for a second go. But to be forced to see into the seedy underbelly of the male existence just may be too much for many of us to bear.

I’m giving men a hard time here, and maybe they don’t really deserve that. They have a lot of good points. For one, men are portable. Mine would be perfectly content living in a shed or a tent in the woods. He isn’t picky about what I cook, and has been known to eat things that were probably long since destined for the trash without a single complaint. And most men, at least, don’t mind killing the errant spider as it climbs up a wall within our personal space.

So for all their icky habits, and dirty ways, men have a place in our hearts, and our homes. As long as they wipe their feet first.

Until the next time…I’ll be catching shit for this blog for days to come!