I'm currently reading Marilyn Manson's The Long Hard Road Out of Hell, which was ghost-penned by Neil Strauss! So excuse moi for my altered subconsciousness last night.
I found myself bosom buddies with Marilyn Manson, who waddled around his mansion in Prada house shoes with a tottering glass of rum.
"Should we go for a swim?" Marilyn asked. After years of drug abuse, frankly, Mr. Manson looked hard-up and worn out.
He held up powder blue spandex speedos for my perusal. Since I don't like people inspecting my package, I told Marilyn that I was fine in aqua jammies, you know, the ones the British Commonwealth would wear in grainy black-and-white films about public bathing?
Anyhoo, Marilyn's mother came into the picture at this point. And it was none other than Mrs. Cradell, a fire-and-brimstone Southern Baptist from my long-forgotten high school career.
"Hello, Mrs. Cradell," I go, excited to see someone from my past.
Mrs. Cradell takes a long toke from her cigarette which hangs precariously from her lips.
"Oh hello...Joey," she mutters.
As she leaves the room, I corner Marilyn with my neurotic firing line of questions including the priceless "How come your mother doesn't like me?"
Marilyn's answer is simple. "Because you're a faggot," he says matter-of-factly.
I don't understand how this woman loves Marilyn Manson. I mean, the Anti-Christ Superstar crawled from her loins, and she's offended that I have butt sex with men? Outrageous!
Mrs. Cradell returns to the room with a Long Island Ice Tea.
"Marilyn," she says, "everyone in our family thinks that you're mentally retarded."
Well, that settles it.