Who’s a gloomy gus? Are you a gloomy gus? If so, hearken to my tale: I am not, and I am cutting off all contact with anyone who is. So if you’re a gloomy gus, fuck the hell off. The tribe has spoken, homes. You have asked for no quarter, and thus you shall receive none. Why the preemptive attack? Why am I giving you the proverbial Heisman? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m in a good mood because I just ate my first cream-cheese-laden bagel in over a month, and I did so with the same gusto as John Tesh describing little Olympic gymnasts. Or it could be a direct result of hearing Sonic Youth’s “Schizophrenia” this morning. Or maybe it’s because I’m tired of jibba-jabba. Gloomy gusses only speak in jibba-jabba. So pucker up, buttercup.

[AJS note: Any gloomy gus who reads this far and feels absolutely alienated and unwanted by AJS, please come back tomorrow, at which time I will welcome you back with open arms, or at the very least with one of those curt hand-bumps that are popular among the kids nowadays. I’m just funking on you today.]


I have Ethel Merman’s “There’s No Business Like Show Business” stuck in my head.