How to do the wrong thing right

“Hey, hey, Donald J; how many lies did you tweet today?”

To call it an auspicious omen, I’m still a bit hesitant; nonetheless, Oct. 31 falls this year, rather cryptically, on a Saturday, replete with a full moon. And spookily enough, it is the second full moon of the month, also called a “blue moon” — rare enough that the term defines its unusual occurrence.

What a perfect storm of the macabre to make it blue; how stratospherically remote are the chances of any “holiday” so traditionally ridiculous as All Hallows’ Eve ever paying out triple-jackpot slots? Cute little feather-braided Pocahontas and Quarantine Couch Potato know perfectly well where the spectral blunt of this season’s treats-free blame truly lies: Rona, you soul-sucking, jack-o-lantern, candy killer whore!

’Tis sweetless comfort just to know that a Saturday Halloween blue moon only puts in an appearance about once every 100 years or so, and then to be forced share it with a global, fatal pandemic? Well, that’s nothing but a party pooper.

On the subject of partied, partisan shit, why now the Republicans’ portent urgency to milk the pandemic for its sympathy vote, a la the president, his first lady and the entire West Wing staff all succumbing so suddenly to Rona within 30 days to go before being tossed along with Biden’s bilge water anyhow?

What’s our petulantly powdered tangerine up to now? Which of his collected ISIS snuff films is his latest masturbatory delight?

Previously, our Oracle L’Orange had vehemently denied sovereign Rona so much as a face mask’s benefit of his doubt. But COVID, like karma, is an utter bitch: As the smiling Kremlin knows, even an anonymous bathhouse gangbang would have been more edifying than Donny Sr. and Sleepy Joe’s presidential “debate.” A Moscow midnight orgy room would be hard-pressed to voyeur up anything more wincingly Halloween-ish than those two masks of the grotesque pounding America out a new one (on live TV!) for all the world’s sniggering mortification.

“An Homage to Putin” the debate most was, certainly.

There’s no feeling left for horror, not even pain. Everything’s just numbness. Everything’s fake, rigged or casually fabricated. Four years spent in an “alternate truth” reality cannot a democratic republic still inspire for another four.

Frankly, until BLM, I was always flummoxed as to why “blue collars” so continuously and consistently always voted against their own best interest; suddenly, the answer was clear: Their hatred of melanin is greater than their fear of penury.

The justification for pan-apathy, though, requires more than a convenient pandemic. It requires an enemy opportunistic as this year’s Halloween-treat mail in ballots. Why, Rona, you ol’ witchy slowpoke, you! Ain’t you just the busman’s holiday that keeps on a-givin’, gurl! Y’all just rest easy this election year, 2020, kids: Dracula’s come home from the hospital!

Let’s get contagiously right to it.

“Hey, hey, bugged Don J, how many spores did you spray today?”

Dear Howard: Did you know, Mr. Howard, your loyal readership ricochets beyond just the boundaries of big Texas? Yep. I live in St. Louis, traveling all the time. I discovered your column on a “business” trip, of sorts, we’ll call it. (Yes, I’m am escort.)

Here’s the short version of my question: One night I get another call from a total stranger who, before I barely even knew it, had me on a business class ticket to Dallas. I’ve a sexual preference for women, yet I get turned on by men just knowing they’re being turned on by me. It’s fuckin’ great for your ego, knowing your aura and looks are so powerful that guys you’ve never even met will spend thousands just for the opportunity to be around you!

I already knew this gentleman was accomplished. He’d already told me his fantasies, and I was ready to deliver. I don’t have the biggest cock, but I’ve personally never met any white man’s hangin’ bigger, and that says a lot for a seasoned male escort who has entertained many men. Yes, there was a safe word; yes, it got used.

My animal nature emerged: I was giving him a first-time experience — now, that’s badass! I felt myself growling and flexing, feeling so masculine that I just wanted to explode — horny and loving… something I’d never experienced as an escort.

I craved taking it to another level when my inner Lucifer came out. It was a beast that I didn’t know existed escaping out of me and coming alive, some kind of distorted Sex-Hulk. My client softly groaned.

So, here I am, Mr. Howard, a G4P manwhore successfully enjoying some twisted shit I’d never imagined: ultra-dominant, but not quite sadomasochistic. I accomplished more with Client XXX in an hour than he, a man who had everything, had been wanting after years on the down-low. It’s seducing; it’s euphoric.

I’m home again, but something in my head is different. My future’s landscape looks different in my eyes; my attitude has been enlightened. I’m confident now in ways I’d never been before (and I’m already a pretty cocky guy). Mr. Howard, you’re the only one who I feel I can ask a question like this to: What the hell just happened with my whore soul?

— Kyler Saint

Dear Sainthood: Sounds to me like you stumbled across the unicorn all escorts both hope for and fear: a client with whom one sparks an emotional connection beyond boundaries of just another business exchange. If you’re just looking to play the happy highwayman, whoring as long as you can, that’s one thing; however, there’s an actual reason Cinderella is a cliché.

It’s the same reason lotteries are so successful: The fairytale pays off just enough, sometimes spectacularly, to keep fantastical delusions of instant grandeur alive. After all, somebody’s gotta win; why not you?

Granted, the chances of something more than lust striking any individual are about as likely as, say, a Saturday blue moon happening on Hallo-friggin’-ween — which reminds me, Saintly, you might wanna find room early on that enchanted new broom you found come Oct. 31. Time flies a bewitched, reverse course backwards by fully an hour. SPOO-KEE!

Dear Howard: You’re not gonna believe this, dude, but I just met a Gemini top. He’s rich, an alpha … everything! Only wrench is, I’m triple Cancer! Is our future gonna work the way we dare hope, like, happily cohabitating ever after, him puttin’ a ring on it and all. Could you tell me, please?

— Zeb, The Deb

Dear ZZZZzzzebbie: I’m awake; so sorry … yes, I’m awake now … so, come again? All you need here’s a little illumination regarding horoscope compatibility, zodiacal chemistry and the best sexual positions for turning an Aries man … alpha, rather … a Gemini top on? This, in lieu of the trifling fact that when he met you at the restaurant, he could tell you were no debutante?

OK, why don’t you go scald us up some water, Zebulon, while I fetch my tea leaves. Mind doing me a teensy favor first? Take a brief glance up at the top left corner of this page — here, directly underneath the bold typeface, “ASK HOWARD: How Your Star-Chart Hearts?”

Don’t see it? That’s odd. Oh, wait. I know. It’s because I’m not an astrologer!

All flippancy aside, dude, if you’re relying on a horoscope to be the barometric gauge of your love life’s star power, then you probably need seek out truer fake news birthers than I.

Thus, on this closing roust of my last column before our upcoming election’s never-ending rout, I would like to just say, “Poor Mister President: I can’t help but plausibly think you must have been truant from school on that day when they taught this following one piece of homespun wisdom that could have, crucially speaking, made a difference in the way you ultimately validated persons whose future paths your unlikely ascendancy would cross.

It’s a universal axiom:

“’You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.’”

What a senselessly tragic, wasted four years squandering splendor for nothing but pettiness, grievances revenged and a few scattered pockets of empty cheers. Halloween blue moons may be rare, but never are blood moons hallowed.

“Hey, hey, Little Donny J, how many fibs did you fab today? What can’t be toppled, you sure can’t slay/so large your lies, so little they sway.”

The floor is now yours, President Biden.

— Howard Lewis Russell

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