I have attempted to make myself relevant in this vacuous culture constructed by Slammy’s and enforced by the Trunks. For it seems now they are in it together (were they always?). I despise the products of this insane marriage, but oh how I want them to love me. I long for them to adopt me as their William Burroughs, their Sam Fuller, their Hunter Thompson—their sagacious primogenitor to be trotted about, admired, raptly listened to. But I suspect it is not to be. That position has been filled by that monstrous and doddering Armond White, who has the distinct advantage, at this point in history, of being African Cavian.