Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated; in fact following a recent incident wherein half my face and lower mandible was singed off by a hot Italian sausage dinner, heated to what I conservatively described as a "somewhat excessive" degree, I subsequently adopted a nihilistic attitude toward flavorful cuisines of all sorts, having just recreantly dredged myself form the nadir of existential torpor wherein I ate only Navida yogurt straight out of the carton, because of the "fuck spoons" policy I had adopted in a fit of nihilistic desperation.
That reminds me, according to a recent poll, 73% of Americans agree that the earth is a den of thieves and needs to be met with celestial justice at the hands of a vengeful star. (The target of the poll was myself; I count myself as approximately two thirds of a person.) This is an axiom undeniable; but what of our sketch troupe, the Baleful Lads?
It goes without saying a man cannot produce comedy with only half a face; fortunately to my unexpected surprise I found that I had mysteriously "gotten better" upon waking one dismal November morning. Since that inexplicable reversal of fortunes I have been devoting most of my time to authoring vaguely threatening letters to Cold Stone Creamery; one needs to keep sharp lest your skills atrophy. It's also a good way to unwind after a full day of sitting motionless in a room with a dead expression in my eyes. Being driven to seek conversation exclusively form a small electrical fan is probably not seen as ideal life circumstances by most of polite society, but there are few options in the tenebrous depths of suburbia, and there aren't many better uses for a fan in the dead of winter.
Troubling nonsense aside, allow me to shed some light on the future plans of our ephemeral gang of story doers. Nick "Nicholas Nicolai" is fixing on pursuing formal training in the art of film production in the coming year, constituting a significant change in station for the intrepid monster. Hopefully he will find success as a helpless creature trapped in a dark place; easy to seize and manipulate, I shall say, to your own twisted whims. It will be extremely rad if we have a guy in our orbit who knows how to use a dolly.
For my own part, crippling face immolations aside, have been fixing to pursue haphazard measures as professional development in the direction of Studio City. I know a guy basically. I will endeavor to gain handsome payment to write the same alarming nonsense that I have done for funsies for years upon years now. This radical and risky gambit may spell my certain doom, but I have learned time and again that doom is the medium through which life communicates its ferocious intentions to us. Not to paint myself a creature of caprice, I do have some backup schemes on standby in case LA confirms my worst suspicions about itself. Most of them involve exiling myself to the jungles of Indochina.
To my erstwhile cohorts: good luck out there, you reckless fools.
