R
Richard Longwoo
Guest
Though he had mostly bitter memories of this period of his life when he used the
text in the subject line in a response to his own baited RBR postings, these
bitter memories were somewhat mitigated by the close personal friendships he had
formed with many world-famous and world-revered celebrities, who remained close
to him throughout his life and who, time and again, helped pull him through some
of the most pathetic of human moments, even though they knew he knew they utterly
sucked. He'd come up to you, stopped at a light or at a gas station, screaming,
"Why aren't you staring at me?" and force you to take his autographed photos and
candid snapshots of his family being arraigned. Then he'd start rambling on and
on about his 6-picture, 4-magazine, 8-greeting card, 3-theme park, 5-album deals,
and blockbuster promotional Tour tie-ins up the wazoo, and how Lance, Jan, Tyler,
and Roberto Heras were gonna do their personalized doorbell ring just for him,
just as soon as they got back from vacationing in Spain. Then, one day, there was
a knock on his broom closet door. It was the Police, of course, but this time
they weren't here to arrest him for not being enough of a Krispy Kreme junkie,
but just wanted to know which side he was on in the next Tour. But when he tried
to find a side to join, somehow his race or class or gender or ethnicity or
national origin or personality (sic) or set of preferences or predispositions or
predilections didn't seem to be represented anywhere on any of the lists of
possible choices. Of course, I suppose he really shouldn't complain about this,
since everybody knows what
between self-righteous Lance on one side, and the equally brutal, self-righteous
Jan, Tyler and Roberto, on the other.
text in the subject line in a response to his own baited RBR postings, these
bitter memories were somewhat mitigated by the close personal friendships he had
formed with many world-famous and world-revered celebrities, who remained close
to him throughout his life and who, time and again, helped pull him through some
of the most pathetic of human moments, even though they knew he knew they utterly
sucked. He'd come up to you, stopped at a light or at a gas station, screaming,
"Why aren't you staring at me?" and force you to take his autographed photos and
candid snapshots of his family being arraigned. Then he'd start rambling on and
on about his 6-picture, 4-magazine, 8-greeting card, 3-theme park, 5-album deals,
and blockbuster promotional Tour tie-ins up the wazoo, and how Lance, Jan, Tyler,
and Roberto Heras were gonna do their personalized doorbell ring just for him,
just as soon as they got back from vacationing in Spain. Then, one day, there was
a knock on his broom closet door. It was the Police, of course, but this time
they weren't here to arrest him for not being enough of a Krispy Kreme junkie,
but just wanted to know which side he was on in the next Tour. But when he tried
to find a side to join, somehow his race or class or gender or ethnicity or
national origin or personality (sic) or set of preferences or predispositions or
predilections didn't seem to be represented anywhere on any of the lists of
possible choices. Of course, I suppose he really shouldn't complain about this,
since everybody knows what
between self-righteous Lance on one side, and the equally brutal, self-righteous
Jan, Tyler and Roberto, on the other.
