Guess whose wicked fatass will be sauntering about in Minnesota on family bidness all this week?

Yeah. Minne-fucking-sota, baby.

And believe you me, it’s certainly not my family’s bidness to which I shall be dutifully attending. Minnesota is far too…umm, help me out here — what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, yes…too white for anybody related to my trashy brown Fresno ass to have arisen hence.

When someone in my family gets sick, do we fly out to Mayo Clinic to seek the best medical care on the planet? Oh, hell, no. We heal ourselves, goddamnit: we get a new tattoo of the Tasmanian Devil giving the finger, gamble rent money at the Indian casino, squander food stamps on pork rinds and Little Debbie cakes, snort trucker speed off a hooker’s ass, work overtime on the midway, fuck a cousin…you know, the usual homeopathic curatives of the working class.

While I am out there — aside from providing affection and care for said family member — I hope to take in a little of the local color (which, by all current chilly meteorological accounts, is apparently snow white), get some much-needed writing done, and, weather permitting, maybe even do a little canvassing for my man, Barack. Any of you Gophers got any activity or sightseeing suggestions for an old West Coast hooker?

And you just know I’m a tried and true So Cal tart because I’m excited beyond belief simply by the fact that I actually get to pull my old black witch coat out of the back of my closet and cloak myself in her lovely, cozy embrace for a time. She gets so lonely out here on the coast. Hurray for the blustery weather!

It is 91 degrees in Los Angeles as I write this.