Chulius Caesar's Story of Woe and Eventual Triumph

Some of you may remember my previous blog, Chu Rock: he's blogalicious. I know, I know...it was marvelous. It was a shining star in the blog heavens, leading the faithful Zoroastrian astrologers of the internet to the newborn Son. And Chu Rock: he's blogalicious was cut down in its prime.

(That's kind of a funny image: Freddy Mercury riding a camel across Iraq, humming "Fat Bottom Girls" or "Bicycle Race.")

But like the mighty Phoenix, Chu Rock, in His Imperial Incarnation CHULIUS CAESAR, has risen from the smoldering embers of the blogosphere to reclaim the glory and majesty that is His Birthright.

Nonetheless, this is all but distraction. The original intent of this post was to revisit something I said quite some time ago. As you may remember, Hrvatska Senzacija, in all of her benevolence and mercy, allowed me one celebrity exemption to our relationship: Miss Scarlett Johansson. This comes to mind because I recently acquired my own widescreen copy of Lost in Translation. If ever one needed a reason to own a 50 inch plasma screen tv, the opening shot of Lost in Translation would be it.

Miss Johansson has recently admitted that she would have no trouble being "romantically involved" with someone older than herself. Of course, she's demonstrated her disdain for ageism with a rather disturbing episode involving Benicio del Toro and an elevator that never happened no it didn't shut the fuck up before I shank you okay fucker you fucking asked for it. According to the ever so useful innernet movee dater bass, Scarlett was born the Twenty-second of November, 1984, making her a spritely nineteen years old. I was born several years prior to 1984, placing me on the downhill slope to thirty.

19 (Scarlett) < 25 (Chulius Caesar)

I am older than Scarlett Johansson.

Just what she's looking for.

Scarlett: email me, IM me, call me any time day or night.

Let's make the magic happen.

One Sharp Lookin' Muthafucka

Earlier this morning, whilst standing on the corner suckling at the smokey teat of Our Lorde and Saviour Nicotine, I was approached by a gentleman from the National Coalition for the Homeless who happened to be selling that organization's paper, Street Sense. For those of you in less "urban" climes than your humble narrator, the purveyors of Street Sense are most often homeless people.

He said to me: "Man, I'm gonna tell you this and it ain't no con: you one sharp lookin' muthafucka."

He then asked me for a one dollar donation for a copy his periodical.

Now, one dollar for a paper in the District is pretty frickin' steep. The Washington City Paper is free; the Washington Times is 25 cents (and is, coincidentally, owned lock stock and barrell by the man who crowned himself the Messiah in one of the Senate office buildings); and of course the Washington Post, which is 35 cents.

Despite the excessive cost, I purchased a copy of Street Sense for one dollar. I did this for several reasons. First, it's a worthy cause. Second, the man seemed like a nice enough fellow. Lastly, and most importantly, he appealed to my vanity.

The lesson in this story is that flattering the Imperator can go a long way towards securing Our Imperial Largesse.

Chulius Caesar Crosses the Rubicon

That's right bitches. Don Chulius has returned.

I've come to crush my enemies, see them driven before me, and to hear the lamentation of their women.

Snootch to the motherfuckin' nootch.