My head is in another dimension. My feet are talking to their soles. My nose is detecting a hint of sweaty, overpumped poon. There's a spider corpse perpetually hanging on the wall next to my pillow that I don't have any desire to correct. My breath smells like Kuwait. My arms are doing the Crazy Granny Dance, and my hips are just plain jealous. I was born across the pond from a heretic's womb, and fathered by an equally atrocious Sinatra-obsessed lion tamer. If these are all the symptoms of a world-famous record producer whose lover has just ditched him for a career in straight porn, then becometh I the sum of all homoerotic fears. Now fetch me more scotch and someone to make use of my erection, preferably with their mouth." ---Wolfgang Stephanopolis