Impressions of journalistic voyeurism

My entry in the Sanssouci Doncabfan impersonation contest.

I don't feel guilty about the stupid octopus -- it's not my fault he tastes so good!

Now you people ask me all the time, "Marcus, could I ask you something?" I snort derisive laughter at you that reveal to me such an obviously pathetic show of your weakness. But I have pity on you. I am prepared to share my genius with you in a magnanimous gesture of my humble, yet clearly undeniable, superiority. Such is the irony of my life. Though my moral fiber is vast and hefty, what I am trying to convince you of is that the alien generated beams of sound entering my cerebral cortex are for one and all, but I hate it when you rip my skull apart trying to press your ear to my pulsing grey matter. My brain oozes into your ear canals and is no longer clean, because you forgot to use your Q-tips, you bastards!


And, as a bonus, if I were Sanssouci for a day.... (and I'm not making fun of you, Sans, I just envy your style)

Question du jour:

If you could be anyone's eyes beneath that dark, mysterious wide-brimed hat of yours, whose would they be? Here's mine, even though they're the wrong color:




Click, babe, I'm just a Barry White voice stuck in a 80's New Wave mix tape tonight.