Clark Motherfucking Gable's Blog!

Holy farts, what excrement was THAT?

2006-05-30T17:12:00.000-07:00

Apologies, dear readers, for not having updated sooner. I had planned on relating my latest escapades last week, but have instead spent the past few days in a stupor over an atrocity that the tele-vision world somehow sees fit to call entertainment.

I speak, of course, of that phenomenon-among-the-retarded known as "American Idol", the "finale" of which was tele-vised a few days ago. To sum up my feelings regarding this amateur vomit-a-thon, if the very concept of entertainment had been aborted before it were hatched, and then that abortion defecated onto the carpet, and if said feces were particularly runny, they may actually be capable of farting out something approximating "American Idol."

To heap tastelessness upon tastelessness, the ostensible winner of this glorified piss festival was none other than some 42-year-old autistic man who kept calling out to his "Soul Patrol" in a manner reminiscent of the obscene wailings of Katharine Hepburn's first-born son Douglas, who met as untimely a demise as a full-grown-yet-not-potty-trained imbecile can (incidentally, I won the "How Will Douglas Die" pool that was so in vogue among the Hollywood elite at the time by guessing that it would somehow involve two boats and a graham cracker).

The greatest ignmony, of course, was that this gray-topped moron somehow managed to defeat the marginally more buxom young lady who opposed him, in spite of the obvious fact that she had a set of breasts the likes of which precipitated the fall of Rome so many centuries ago.

Truthfully, if this "Taylor" mongoloid is the sort of fellow that Americans back, then I am truly blessed to find myself on foreign soil. Or I would be blessed, were it not for the fact that I am currently in the northern assbucket known as Canada. I will write more at a later date. For now, the decline in America's values, which sees mental deficiency as somehow superior to glorious knockers (and I thought Jimmy Stewart's execrable tard love-in "Harvey" was a coup for the addle-pated!) has left me to disgusted and disillusioned to continue.

Very disappointed in you all,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Canada remains the dog's balls

2006-05-06T14:10:00.000-07:00

While some of you have returned to absorb my wise words, very few of you have come to my aid with funds to help me escape this vast northern wasteland. If you have never been here, first count your blessings, then read on for a brief synopsis.

Canada is much like New Jersey, except that the people seem to be happy to be here and are less prone to defecating in the streets. The entire country smells nonetheless of feces of the sort that typically escapes one's bowels after six straight days of drinking wood grain alcohol. The nation's primary import would appear to be the letter U, as these half-educated miscreants seem intent on slipping the letter in the middle of perfectly normal words: colour, flavour, honour. The whole practice seems somewhat homosexual (homousexual for you rat bastard Canadians reading this), and not in the positive, to-each-his-own sense. Honestly, if there is a Canadian out there who would like to explain this predilection you have with the letter U, please enlighten me. I realize that your nation was a British colony until about last November, but to dwell on this fact is patently ludicrous. Besides, who in the name of Noah's farts wishes to be British anymore?

In any case, here is my latest update. I was apparently spotted by one of Canada's police officers using my ornithologists' binoculars for their unintended but wholly more interesting purpose and was forced to spend a night in lock-up. Upon my release, I vowed to hie from this land, back to the coddling bosom and milk-giving teat of Mother America. To my chagrin, it is difficult to so much as walk across the border when one is bereft of identification. Undaunted to that point, I decided to find a spot where I could safely cross over without dealing with the oatmeal-jawed ninnies at "customs" and set out on a hike across the border. Ye cats, was I surprised to discover that the entire border was blocked of by a 43-foot-high fence made of electrified cobras!A deadlier barrier I have never seen, so I returned, tail between legs, to the misery that is Toronto... or so I thought!

When I stumbled across a city, I assumed it must have been the same one from whence I departed. After all, how many people could possibly CHOOSE to live in this land? No more than one city's worth, would that these people were at all sane. However, I found that the landmarks were all different, and to make matters worse, the natives were all speaking some sort of delirious bafflegab. I've no idea where I am at present, but am heartened by this city's naked-women-establishment-on-every-corner policy.

I would write more, but there are currently hundreds of nude young vixens awaiting the hungry leers of one Clark Motherfucking Gable.

Soon to be erect,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

What in the name of Satan's cock?!?

2006-05-01T17:56:00.000-07:00

Apparently, my "blog" no longer wishes to publish. I blame this entirely on the draconian rules here in mule-sodomizing Canada.

Can a Clark Motherfucking Gable not speak his mind in this god-forsaken land? O, to be back in America, where freedom of expression is abundant, as shown by our noble media.

Rest assured that I will not be silenced!

With much determination,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Clark Motherfucking... Ornithologist?!?

2006-05-01T16:10:00.000-07:00

Fondest greetings,

Many of you may recall that in my last post, I devised a scheme to wend my way into the ranks of the Canadian homeless in hopes of finding a way to destroy their army from within, much like Odysseus' idea of attacking the walled city of Troy from within by hiding in the anus of a horse (I was never one for history, but it seems an altogether too messy and depraved plan even for a Greek). My plan, however, went awry when I found that after four or five minutes surrounded by vagrants, I was forced through the vagaries of common decency to dispatch them to whatever circle of hell is reserved for such derelicts. I then dumped them in Toronto's Don River, the only body of water on this earth that would actually become cleaner with the addition of hobos.

With precious little to do after my research project ended sooner than anticipated, I have taken up a hobby: bird-watching.

You would be correct in assuming that this is a particularly un-Gablelike pastime, as it rarely involved the fervid sexing of barely legal teen girls. Practitioners of this particular avocation, in fact, are mostly male, obese, and bearded. There are a few women who also bird-watch, but they are largely indistinguishable from the men, being rather portly and most of them sporting champion-caliber beards of their own. Nonetheless, the mostly ignoble pursuit of watching these flying crap factories through binoculars has one perk: some of these birds have truly splendid names!

Most of you will have heard of the more common among them. There are, however, some about which only the seasoned bird-watcher (a demographic of which I am now a part) knows. Here is an abridged list of the birds that I have come across to date:

- The booby
- The tit
- The cock
- The wattled crane (of the genus bugeranus)
- The woodpecker
- The fruiteater
- The vaginal warble-grouse
- The Australian dongsucker
- The one-testicle-too-large-lopsided-flying wren
- The red-breasted gynecological disaster resulting in a pus-filled infection (very aptly named, I might add)
- The man who has swallowed so much of his own semen that when he farts on the vagina of his wife, his wife becomes pregnant with triplets

A brief confession, here and now: I have yet to see any of the aforementioned birds. I in fact came across them during various Google searches, only some of which were related to birds. Truth be told, friends, I have joined a roving band of ornithologists solely because they offered to furnish me with a set of binoculars, through which I have seen many naked Canadian women through their apartment windows.

I doubt that I am the first or only of our crew to engage in such activities, given that most of the men have likely not seen a vagina with or without the aid of their six-inch-thick spectacles and few if any of the women would be able to see their own over their copious paunches. Truly, it is a depressing group with which I have begun associating, but as Canada's national motto states, "Life in Canada is atrocious, and shitfucked if you don't have to do whatever you can to while away the hours until you are cradled in the welcoming bosom of death."

Forever,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Still in asshole Canada!

2006-04-27T10:40:00.000-07:00

Good day,

It appears that the hurt and hard feelings over my lengthy departure have yet to abate. It has been four days since my entreaty for bus fare out of the shitpit in which I am currently stranded, and nary a single response.

Not much has happened since last I wrote, which is not surprising given that I am in desolate Canada. One unforeseen disadvantage to my exile to this land is that I have yet to find appropriate shelter and have forced myself to sleep under various bridges and trestles. Some of you may note the irony that I should now find myself homeless given my views toward those who the more euphemistic of you refer to as the "less fortunate." Should any of you feel the need to point this out, you will be met with a swift kick to the kidney region. My greatest weakness - homelessness - is also my greatest strength in that I am now perfectly nomadic and can travel anywhere I choose to deliver sound beatings to you smug irony-pointers-out.

A lesser man might despair over the plight in which I find myself. Given my enterprising spirit, however, I have decided to use this scenario to my benefit, my infiltrating the ranks of Canadian vagrants to find where they hide in the evenings. Beyond simply providing me with a pastime in this barren, ennui-inducing wasteland, it could prove a valuable sociological experiment that I might use whenever the old bloodlust begins percolating.

A few "Fun* Facts" that I have learned about Canada since my arrival:

• Canada is the missionary sex capital of the world (which, in terms of pure enjoyment, is akin to being the carob powder capital of Chocolateland)

• Canadian women are as loose and easy as their overprotective husbands are susceptible to ether (and given my potency, do expect to see several hundred mustachioed baby Gablets eating bacon-and-doughnut-flavored formula in nine months or so)

• Alcohol is not available in corner stores in Canada. Mescaline, however, can be had if you know the correct "password" to drop on the clerks (hint: the password is "Canada")

• Canadians are a wholly uninventive lot when it comes to devising passwords

• Canadian toddlers who create a public scene take on average two more kicks with a steel-toed boot to kill than publicly-crying American toddlers

• The only crime punishable by death in heathen Canada is worshipping the Christian God

* Note the asterisk, used because Canada is, as a rule, not fun.

That is all for now, friends. If you have considered sending donations to spring me from this prison of a wastelang, please make haste!

As always,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Welcome back, Clark!

2006-04-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

Greetings!

I hope the world has treated you all as well as you deserve over the course of my lengthy hiatus. What you have done in the time since I went missing is anyone's guess, though I would wager it had much to do with weeping, sobbing and gnashing of teeth over the loss of your interweb moral compass (which is to say, yours truly).

O, what a whirlwind couple of months it has been! Firstly, I was forced to deal with computer issues, as mentioned in my last post. When my own efforts to remedy the situation with a hammer and chisel (and, full disclosure, one-and-a-half quarts of vodka) failed, I was forced to bring all 78 bits and pieces of what remained of my console to the Russian ogres at the computer repair shop. There, I left the prized piece of machinery upon which I write the manifesto that is this blog in their grimy, soviet hands.

Upon returning home, my nostrils were assailed by an odor the likes of which I had never encountered in by 105 years on this earth. The stench of rotting vagrant had become far too much to bear. Let me assure you, if you think these parasites befoul the very air we breathe in life, their fetid stench is magnified a hundredfold when coupled with the aid of rot and maggotry. Dried urine is malodorous, but the reek of rotting urine can waft through the sturdiest of oaken floorboards and disrupt the sleep of the best of men.

Unfortunately, such was my haste in departing my home that I neglected to cover my trail and the authorities quickly uncovered my assemblage of derelicts. They promptly began a manhunt, as though what I had done was more criminal than public service, no aficionados of artistry, they. Needless to say, it was integral that I left Los Angeles pronto, and so I lit out in back of an 18-wheeled truck destined for parts unknown.

Well, friends, it is often said that no man is an island. Here, I would like to extrapolate and carry that popular maxim to its logical conclusion: no man is an island the likes of which could find itself in the back of a truck loaded with industrial-strength solvents and not be tempted to inhale some of the choicer types to rid his olfactory senses of the stench of rotted homeless. Long story short, when I awoke from the stupor induced by those very solvents, I was in Toronto, in cold, godless Canada!

So here I sit, in a dank interweb cafe, with cold rain beating down on the heathen Canadians outside, surrounded by Inuits and hairy-pitted women, and I am faced with a dilemma: how to leave this cesspoll of a nation, where there is nothing with which a rakish gadabout can bide his precious time.

It is here that I, tail firmly between my legs, must ask a favor. Believe you me when I say that I ask with no small shame. A Hollywood legend reduced to begging is a sad sight, to be sure, but can any of you loyal readers spare bus fare out of Canada? I will gladly accept fare for anywhere in the continental United States, with the exception of upstate New York, which is a shitpile of a different color, or Wisconsin, where there are various warrants for my arrest.

Please send bus fare to:

Clark Motherfucking Gable
Piss-shitting Canada

Graciously,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Living in the 21st Century is a Fool's Game!

2006-02-22T18:18:00.000-08:00

Well, friends, tragic thought it may be to report this, I may be in absentia for a time. It appears that my computer machine, the portal through which you have managed a glimpse into my life of late, is hell-bent on giving up the ghost. Hopefully, this will not be a long-term dilemma, but as I am tragically unversed in the ways of modern electro-devices, I have no way of knowing how long the proper repairs might take.

I contemplated posting regularly from an interweb cafe, but I am in one now and I must say that this nerdhaven is more than man or beat should ever be forced to bear.

In sooth, this is the second interweb cafe I have visited today, and both were tainted by the same pungent odor of unwashed flab coupled with residual stench left over from the various inhabitants' mothers' basements.

The first such establishment I patronized was by far the cleanest I could find, and being as I refuse to associate with vagrants and their ilk save to cause them grievous bodily harm, seemed the most in line with mine own sensibilities.

O, how I erred in making that judgment! The sweaty-pitted troglodyte manning the front desk assigned me a computer, upon which I promptly downloaded some barely legal porn and whipped out my glistening Gabledong. This seemed to alarm said trog (and an alarming sight it is, though the social retard in question seemed more disturbed and dismayed than awed at its magnificence) and he asked - nay, told - me to vacate the premises immediately. Me! Clark Motherfucking Gable!

I ask you, what is the point of the interweb if not to track down the most delectable barely legal teens the world has to offer and tug one's rope? Information?!? Ha! Clark Motherfucking Gable knows more about everything in the world than any the interweb could ever dream! Need I remind you that I am 105 years old whereas the charlatan science known as computery has been around for a mere few decades?

So here I sit in my second interweb cafe of a day, and though I doubt in looking at the buffoons at the neighboring computer machine stations that they would object to my exposed genitalia (indeed, some would probably not even know what it is, as I doubt they recognize much of anything that does not come equipped with a keyboard and blinking lights), I would not subject "Li'l Clark" to such horrors. Firstly, I would hate for it to become infested with whatever ticks and chiggers lurk on the corpulence of these lonely and pathetic behemoths and secondly, the scent of rotted bacon, of which I swear at least one of these hippopotami must consist entirely, would be enough to send even my brave exlporer into hiding.

Fear not, however. I have already made arrangements to have the place flooded with gasoline and lit afire the moment I leave and barricade the door behind me.

Soonly,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

I'm number one!! I'm number one!!

2006-02-20T11:46:00.000-08:00

Dearest fans of Clark Motherfucking Gable,

I am pleased to draw your attention to the following link:

http://channels.netscape.com/celebrity/package.jsp?name=fte/bestmoviekisses/bestmoviekisses&floc=wn-ns

It shows, as many have long posited, that Clark Motherfucking Gable is the single best kisser in the history of Hollywood and, as film stars are just like normal humans but far better, quite likely the world. Should the link be broken by the time you read this post, I will reprint the top ten film kisses below:

1. Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh in "Gone With the Wind"
2. Omar Sharif and Julie Christie in "Doctor Zhivago"
3. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman at the end of "Casablanca"
4. Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn in "Sabrina"
5. Rock Hudson and Doris Day in "Pillow Talk"
6. Molly Ringwald and Michael Schoeffling in "Sixteen Candles"
7. Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift in "A Place in the Sun"
8. Molly Ringwald and Judd Nelson' in "The Breakfast Club"
9. Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds in "Singin' in the Rain"
10. Winona Ryder and Ethan Hawke in "Reality Bites"

A few minor points about the famous kiss in question must be brought to light, in spite of the myriad protestations from the estate of Vivien Leigh. First, it must be pointed out that any credit for the title of greatest kiss should fall clearly in the lap of Clark Motherfucking Gable. Vivien kissed, quite frankly, like a nine-year-old boy (a claim I first made before ever having kissed a nine-year-old boy but one that, purely in the interest of science, I verified on more than one occasion thereafter).

Second, and this one is difficult to explain, Vivien Leigh's lips tasted remarkably like fish, and I would swear during my more lucid, less mescaline-fueled moments on set, that they actually had scales as well. It was all I could do not to vomit in her mouth when she leaned in to kiss me. In truth, I did not always succeed in withholding the percolating bile and vomit, expelling the contents of my stomach onto her face take after take after take. Finally, I retreated to my trailer and coated my lips in peanut butter before returning to the set and firmly locking lips with the stench-lipped gorgon.

Few knew that Vivien was so deathly allergic to peanut butter - I plead the fifth - and we were forced to wrap shooting for the day while she was rushed off to hospital.

I visited her that night, ostensibly to apologize and ask forgiveness, but in sooth to slip a mild sedative into her intravenous medication and laminate her mouth in a fine plastic. My ruse worked, and the next day we filmed the greatest kiss since the kiss was first invented between two Frenchmen in a hot air balloon who were forced to find other ways to amuse themselves when the zippers on their pantaloons stuck.

In any case, since that time I have never travelled anywhere without a coating of smooth peanut butter on my lips, a habit which gave rise to many fallacious rumours about Clark Motherfucking Gable having halitosis, the likes of which I hope this tale will serve to dispel.

Before I leave you on this day, I would like to offer some salient observations about some of the other kisses on the Top 10 list.

• Humphrey Bogart makes this list twice, which should come as no surprise to anyone who knew of his trade secrets. Ever the method actor, he infused passion into his kisses by inserting his penis into his corresponding leading lady as the take was being filmed.

• Gene Kelly, it is often said, worked up the requisite zeal in kissing Debbie Reynolds by thinking of none other than Clark Motherfucking Gable! Such reverie would hardly be the case now, as Debbie Reynolds is mannish enough in her appearance to please even Gene Kelly.

• Molly Ringwald also makes this list twice, largely because any time she kisses on screen, it means that her mouth is otherwise occupied and she is forced to shut the shitfuck up. Honestly, who ever thought that this carp-mouthed automaton would make for a good leading lady?

• I would not allow Ethan Hawke to kiss so much as my shit. Were he to try, I would offer a quick karate chop to his trachea and then toss him a few dollars which he would hopefully use to purchase some real facial hair.

• The other kisses on the list were all utter cowshit.

With many peanut butter kisses,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Stay young the Clark Motherfucking Gable way!

2006-02-19T08:40:00.000-08:00

Friends, countrymen, but most certainly not Romans,

Some of you may be wondering how, after 105 years on this spheroid known colloquially as Earth, Clark Motherfucking Gable has managed to continue to be not only a living being but also a sensual one. I continue to possess the taut skin of a 28-year-old, the limber legs of an 18-year-old, the keen wit of a 22-year-old (coupled with the wisdom accumulated over these 105 years - no rube am I!), the voracious sexual appetite of a 15-year-old (though in the interest of legality, I must point out that my tastes lean toward more barely-legal 18 and 19-year-old women, and blondes, always blondes) at an age when my former peers are long past dessicated.

It is a simple recipe, truthfully, and though a magician is loath to share his secrets, I will hereby share mine with the huddled and unwashed masses (i.e. you).

Prior to embarking on my recipe for eternal youth, allow me to dispel a few myths. My secret is not, as some have postured, to strike a bargain with Satan himself. While I am not innocent of making deals with the devil, it was not eternal youth for which I asked him. My request shall remain secret, but for this one clue: do you honestly believe that Hiroshima would have happened without a little string-pulling by Clark Motherfucking Gable? I claim no responsibility for Nagasaki, though I will say that Satan hied from my home to keep an appointment with Spencer Tracy, whose hatred of the Nagasakites was well-documented.

I also do not drink the blood of virgins, given that any virgin of legal age in my general vicinity is typically stripped of that title within 15 minutes whether I copulate with them or not, such is the burden of my unchecked virility.

Nay, the secret to my continued youth is quite simple, and I will detail it to you forthwith:

What You Will Need
1 (One) Wheelchair-Bound Cripple, aged 18 to 30
30 (Thirty) Gallons of Fresh Placenta
4 (Four) Tubes of Oil of Olay
1 (One) Television Set
1 (One) Bathtub
Plenty (Plenty) of Opium
1 (One) Sprig of Rosemary (optional)

With a list of ingredients such as the above, your course of action should be fairly obvious. However, for the dim-witted and outright mentally retarded among you, I will run through the steps en route to securing immortality.

1. Fill the bathtub with placenta. Should you not know where to find 30 gallons of placenta each day, may I suggest that eternal youth is perhaps not the best option for you.

2. Disassemble the wheelchair and reassemble it in the form of a cage. In recent years, a company known as Ikea, founded by Swedes, has begun selling wheelchairs with easy-to-assemble instructions that teach you how to turn the various pieces into either a wheelchair or a cage, but the savvy Ponce de Leon will find a way with or without said instructions.

3. Place the cripple in his cage.

3a. Ignore the bafflegab of your chosen cripple. Many raise quite a ruckus both when you disassemble their means of locomotion and place them in a cage. This is of no concern to you. After all, you seek a higher purpose.

4. Place the cage, cripple and all, into the bathtub and await the inevitable self-soiling and drowning that will ensue.

4a. Schadenfreude!

5. Mix the Oil of Olay with the Opium.

6. Administer the Opium-Olay mixture generously. There are undoubtedly many methods of doing so, though I prefer adding water and rosemary to the mix and squirting the mixture up my rectum with a turkey baster. Let it never be said that attaining eternal youth cannot be pleasurable as well as functional.

7. Retire to the rumpus room to watch Wheel of Fortune and masturbate.

And voila! Eternal youth is yours! Please note that steps 1-4 and step 7 are not necessary, but they come highly recommended by none other than Clark Motherfucking Gable. By following these steps, you will not only enrich your experience a hundredfold, but you will also be doing the world a great service, as the metal from the wheelchair can then be recycled and used to make motorcycles.

Eternally,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Celebrate, my nubian friends!

2006-02-17T15:52:00.000-08:00

Well, compatriots, here we stand more than halfway through "Black History Month", and I feel I would be remiss in not recognizing such a momentous time in my minuscule nook on the interweb.

You may wonder what right I have to pay homage the noble people of color. In truth, I did make a concerted effort at the beginning of February to sleep through this entire month. Not out of disrespect for the race of honor, but because I felt that they should be allowed to have this time to celebrate without the white man twatballing it all up.

I do remind you all, however, that there was a time not 70 years ago when I went through some of the same trials and tribulations as the nubians. For instance, while I was a finely skilled actor, most ladies in Hollywoodtown ignored many of my notable traits and focused solely on the fact that I had an enormous cock, much like my black brothers.

These days, of course, members of the heroic black race are known as African-Americans. This is a far cry from my day, when they were viewed more as Afri-can't-Americans, for all the things that they were believed unable to do. Do you see the clever wordplay in which I just engaged? From Afri-can't-Americans to AfriCAN-Americans? Let it never again be said that Clark Motherfucking Gable is incapable of creating a pun that is empowering to other races, and fie on those of you who said as much in the first place.

In any case, this month is already nearly two-thirds over. Shame on whitey for giving the nubians the shortest month of the year with which to celebrate their myriad accomplishments. Why, I could spend a week touting the talents of Sammy Davis Jr. alone!

In any case, here stands a recap of some of the highlights of Black History Month 2006 thus far. White people, you can stop reading now. This is simply between my brothers and I.

February 1: Day After Jackie Robinson's Birthday Day
Each year, this day celebrates the accomplishments of baseball great Jackie Robinson, whose breaking of the color barrier in 1947 became a symbol for civil rights progress as racism in baseball slowly receded from being overt to being insidious and subtle.

February 3: 63rd annual Superbowl between light-skinned blacks and dark-skinned blacks
You would be correct in noticing that the black Superbowl predates the NFL Superbowl by some 23 years. This is but one of many elements of black culture that the oppressive colonialists have pilfered and claimed as their own, along with dancing (all types), music (all heterosexual and most homosexual types), peanuts, and watching Oprah.

February 5: Black Panther Parade and Fireworks Extravaganza
Sadly, this year's festivities were cut short when police arrested all of the parade marchers for possessing explosives.

February 9: Black Daylight Savings Time
The day when all African-Americans turned their clocks back an hour. White people who had scheduled meetings with their black peers were often angry to have been kept waiting a full hour before said peers showed up, but it was their own godfucking fault for being so shitpissing ignorant!

February 12: Rosa Parks Day
On this day, African-Americans all took the time to purposely sit at the front of a public transit bus. This was mandatory, regardless of whether they had planned on riding transit or not. Some rural blacks had to drive hundreds of miles to get to an urban center in order to find a bus on which to ride while others still were roused from their sleep to fulfill their civic duty.

February 13: 17 Man March
Due to email server problems, word of the second Million Man March did not get out to nearly as many participants as expected. The low turnout served a blow to morale and so, rather than marching on Washington, the protesters instead just marched to a local Denny's where they had to wait nearly 20 minutes for a table. And you say racism no longer exists?!?

February 16: Al Jolson Was A Bitch Day
This one needs little explanation, except to say that it started out with the gathering of a shovel, a crowbar and a map to Al Jolson's gravesite. It might also be useful to point out that it was less of a "Black History Month" event and more of a "Clark Motherfucking Gable was bored on a Thursday night" event.

Well, I believe that brings you up to speed on the goings-on within the African-American community. And for those of you who have let the previous 18 days pass without any sort of celebration whatsoever, I urge you, by God's balls, to hug a nubian today.

Equal rightsingly,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

An evening gone awry!

2006-02-16T17:22:00.000-08:00

Friends,

Last night, I decided that the Gable-oats had not been sown in far too long and thus hit the proverbial town in search of a young vixen who might tickle my fancy.

There were clubs a-plenty out there for the choosing, but the lineups for some were positively egregious and the meatheads manning the doors of said club were apparently enormously envious of my celebrity. So much so, in fact, that they insisted that I head to the back of the line in spite of several salient and well-argued points on my part about my being Clark Motherfucking Gable, as well as the fact that Clark Motherfucking Gable waits for no man, woman or beast.

Truly, I am amazed that these beefy behemoths known as "bouncers" are able to find pants to fit their massive girth and even more shocked at the fact that they, in spite of their obviously diminished mental capacity, are able to put said pants on without accidentally choking themselves to death with the pant legs.

To make a long story short, after much gadding about, I wound up at a smallish dive dubbed "Reggie's", which was vaguely reminiscent of Rick's Cafe Americain from Casablanca, would that the Cafe Americain had been shat upon by all manner of bull after a massive chili pepper fiesta.

I would not have lingered longer than a millisecond, but for the fact that my Gabletestes felt about full to bursting. I plunked myself down on a stool (the sitting kind, not the what-this-place-reeked-of kind) and scanned the bar for potential paramours.

I noticed that one particular woman was already sizing me up. Apparently 45 years in isolation does little to quell my unique brand of charisma that I had patented as "Clarkrisma" in 1941. A quick note about this woman, if you will indulge...

I will not pretend for a moment that the lady in question did not reek of desperation and the sort of friction burn that takes place between plastic toy and labia. I will also not suggest that she was not portly. However, I justified my reciprocated interest in her by reminding myself that the French once viewed portly women as sex symbols, and this woman looked precisely like one of those French models would, if she had eaten another portly French woman and then sat on a radiator and melted (in retrospect, the fact that I was taking any sort of cue from the French should have cued me in to the fact that I was not thinking straight and that my whiskey-goggles were firmly affixed to my head).

I bravely ventured to ask the interested she-beast what her drink of choice might be, to which she replied "rum and Coke".

I promptly ordered her a rum and diet Coke, punching the "diet" so as to make a point that should have already been crystal clear, but given the general din in the bar and the number of hooligans poking mindless fun as my ascot, I sincerely doubt that she heard me. I tried to reinforce my point by suggesting to the barkeep that if he had diet rum, that would also be preferable, but once again, my entreaties were drowned out.

This woman and I whiled away the hours, she laughing at my witty repartee and I trying to envision her without jowls and a double-chin, and before I knew it the barkeep was in my face suggesting that it was the establishment's last call.

Well, this simply would not do, and I made as much clear. "It will be last call, you mongoloid, when I say that it is last call," I said.

"Oh yeah, bud? And when do you suppose that'll be?" he replied.

The answer seemed fairly obvious to me, but as the barkeep obviously lacked sufficient vision to discern the obvious, I educated him.

"As soon as I've drank enough to make this whale sitting next to me appear fuckable," I told him.

Well, this sparked up a shitfuck of a reaction, and admist many flailing limbs, thrown drinks and scratches from tubby-handed fingernails, my probable mate for the evening had egressed. I must say that she scrapped like a tiger at the drop of my altogether-merited comment. Like an enormously godfucking fat tiger.

I returned home to salve my wounds, my Gablenuts no less full than before but my libido thankfully sated by an evening spent with Gargantua, the Crisco Queen.

I would like to close this posting with the lesson gleaned from this encounter, but alas, I must confess that after much reflection and soul-searching I have been as yet unable to come up with one.

To better times and thinner women,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Happy Valentine's Day, scrote-lickers!

2006-02-14T11:43:00.000-08:00

In honor of this most wondrous day, I proffer a list of Clark Motherfucking Gable's 10 favorite former lovers, with a fun fact about each!

10. Betty Grable: Had her gag reflex surgically removed at the age of 14 to help her secure plum film roles. Died years later when she accidentally drank a cup of bleach and couldn't induce vomiting, even when she stuck her entire fist down her throat.

9. Fay Wray: Nipples the size of saucers... on her back! Dear rats in Heaven, you should have seen the size of the ones on her breasts! And shaped like toboggans, no less!

8. Jessica Tandy: A very good listener, but also a veritable powderkeg between the sheets! That pansy Hume Cronyn was ridiculously out of his league with THAT feral tigress. Rumor has it that she killed him during their first night of lovemaking, then had a machinist replace his innards with gears and motors, which finally sputtered out in 2003.

7. Carole Lombard: My third wife, yet the one who loved urinating on Clark Motherfucking Gable more than any other. Over 60 years after her death, I am as yet quite unsure as to precisely how this makes me feel.

6. Lionel Barrymore: Truly, the less said about this, the better.

5. Jean Harlow: Only once in her life did she ever wear a brassiere, and that was after losing a bet. To prove a point, once she put it on, she did not remove that brassiere for nine years. When she removed it, her breasts were covered in fur, like that of an ape!

4. Mae West: Once downed 40 gallons of cooking oil in a single sitting and it lubricated her colon and rectum to the point where she could not control her bowel movements for a month and a half.

3. Myrna Loy: There is nary a single fact about Myrna Loy that would constitute "fun". But oh, what a vagina!

2. Barbara Stanwyck: Had the hands of a surgeon, in that they were steady, sure and reeked of latex gloves. She enjoyed taking part in a game called "chokey-kicky" that frequently resulted in she and I spending months at a time in adjoining hospital beds. While there, we would shit out the window of our shared sixth-floor room onto people stopping in to visit sick relatives. Oh Barbara, how I miss you!

1. Clark Motherfucking Gable!: The fact that you are still reading, as though there could possibly be any other speaks volumes about your ignorance! Who did you expect? Vivien God Damned Leigh? Fuckballs to that shrill harpy! Do you hear me from down there in Hades, Vivien? Clark Motherfucking Gable says Fuckballs to you!

CLARK!!! CLARK!!! CLARK!!! CLARK!!! CLARK!!!

Happy-sadly,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

We're sending people to the godfarting MOON?!?

2006-02-13T23:08:00.000-08:00

My dearest compeers,

Today, I received quite the shock to my system. You see, during my hiatus from society at large, I endeavored to keep abreast of all current events and spectacles throughout these wonderful United States of America. Sadly, that effort was thwarted when I spent much of 1969, 1970 and 1971 in a whiskey-fueled stupor. During that time, America did the unthinkable and sent a manned mission to the moon without Clark Motherfucking Gable!

"Why should Clark Motherfucking Gable assume that he would be on a mission to the moon, anyway?" you may well be asking.

Well I'll damned well tell you why! Because in August of 1959, I sent a very clear, concise and simple letter to President Dwight D. Eisenhower, that's horsefucking well why! For your edification, I have transcribed said letter and present it to you now:

"Dearest Dewey,

I hope this letter finds you well.

No, shitfuck the formalities. I care not a whit how this letter finds you! I'm writing specifically to request - nay, demand - a role in any manned missions to the moon. Why me, you ask? Why Clark Motherfucking Gable? I include a list of reasons for your perusal:

1) I am fluent in several variations of moon-man language, or at the very least, several languages that I have devised that I imagine moon men may speak. To wit: 'Apata gix obnenofors' is northern moon-man-ese for 'Clark Motherfucking Gable.' Curiously, 'gix' is the word for 'Clark.' Moon men often put people's first names second. The fact that you did not even know this simple fact demonstrates that you know nothing about moon men and are therefore less fit than I to choose who goes on a moon mission.

2) If shit were to go down, do not believe for a second that Clark Motherfucking Gable could not handle said shit. If the moon men were to attempt any sort of moon shenanigans, I am more than capable of splitting the piddling satellite on which they reside clean in half with one god damned punch.

3) I'm Glark Motherfucking Gable!

I hope that you see the inherent logic in sending me on a manned moon mission.

Warmest regards, pig-sexer.
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

P.S. Should I shuffle off this mortal coil prior to the launch of the first manned moon mission, I do trust that you will cease all further attempts at space exploration out of respect for my wishes. Also, please pass this letter on to subsequent Presidents so that they don't ballcock up my one simple request.

P.P.S. I do hate to be a nag, but you never replied to my query as to what the law states about injecting vagrants with table salt. I... a friend... not even a friend, really... more of a friend of an acquaintance really and truly wants to know."

Truly, could I have been more clear? Who is to blame here? Who could the weak link have been in the presidential game of broken telephone that led to my wish going unfulfilled? I know not for sure, but were I to wager, I would place 11 trillion dollars on that ratfart Lyndon Baines Johnson, who always struck me as the sort of man who would sell his mother for a tire from a monster truck, likely while shoveling fistful after fistful of staples down his craw.

Regardless, the dirty deed is done now. Men have been on the moon, none of them Clark Motherfucking Gable, and in all probability no amount of injecting vagrants with table salt will undo that treason. However, it is likely best to get out my syringes and bag of salt regardless, as such a course of action could never hurt.

Off to deliver injections,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

I have found my muse!

2006-02-12T19:43:00.000-08:00

Friends,

I am pleased to report that Clark Motherfucking Cable has found a living inspiration, the mere sight of whom stirs my loins and provides me with faith in the ability of humanity to produce things of beauty during these trying times.

Her name, dear readers, is none other than Scarlett Johansson, and she bears a classic mien reminiscent of Rita Hayworth prior to her discovery of, and subsequent gorging on iced cream, or of Bette Davis before she became the abominable scarecrow of a woman into which she turned during her later years.

Lo, Scarlett, how I would love to show you the passion which still courses through these centegenarian veins! How I quiver at the thought of your ample bosom heaving against mine own broadchestedness! Your stunning comeliness has urged me to compose poetry for thee.

Okay, full disclosure: I have written poems for others before, but they consisted solely of limericks bandied about without a care and almost certainly utilizing "Nantucket" as one of the rhymes. Nay, Scarlett, for you I shall compose a Haiku, the wondrous Japanese poem of the 5/7/5 syllabic scheme that will assuredly bring about reciprocation, by you, of my love for you. Without further ado...

Scarlett Johansson
Clark Motherfucking Gable
Wants you to suck his

Gah! Those damnable Japanese and their rules! Why must they be so restrictive with their poetic protocol?!? Why do they hate art so? What sort of filthing poem is limited to 17 godfucking syllables, anyway?

We shall see who wins THIS battle, Japan! We shall see!

With much disgruntlement,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

It's holy bullshit o'clock!

2006-02-11T23:24:00.000-08:00

My apologies, friends, for not posting until this late hour.

I confess to having little excuse for my tardiness beyond the fact that I stumbled across an old stash of mescaline while rooting around under my floorboards this morning. I likely needn't mention that copious amounts of mescaline can reduce one's desire and ability to "blog". What should be said is that mescaline, if left unmolested for 45 or so years packs quite a wallop!

Oh, what a ride it was! I spent most of the morning roving about town, offering to cut people's eyes in exchange for coins, trinkets or lint. Finding no takers, I stopped in at a local coffee establishment known as Starbucks for the first (and perhaps last) time.

Apparently, after today, Clark Motherfucking Gable is apparently no longer welcome at the Starbucks near his abode, the result of a bizarre misunderstanding which I will now relate to you.

I was sitting at a table watching a cup of hot cocoa engage in an epic fencing duel with some sort of iced concoction with a name so convoluted it could only have originated in that putrid pus-hole known as Italy. It could have been the mescaline that caused me to see that, but I would prefer to think that my hot cocoa had had enough of the damnable cockswell of Italian beverages infesting our land in this day and age. As the battle was about to come to a climax, some half-human-half-butterfat oaf waddled over to me and said, "Hey, man. You look just like Clark Gable."

"Oh?" I replied. "Do I? Do I really look just like Clark Motherfucking Gable? And why do you suppose that is?"

It was then that his eyes widened in recognition - not of yours truly, but rather of the fact that I had rammed a stir-stick through his nutsack. He spat out a frothy ooze, and the nimbies assembled in said Starbucks reacted with a shock and fear wholly unsuited to the situation. Believe you me, there was a time in this town when it was commonly known that if a bitch wants to stir things up with Clark Motherfucking Gable, a bitch will get stabbed, likely with a stir stick, and almost assuredly in the nutsack. If you find this dubious, I encourage you to check your back issues of Variety! magazine, which routinely ran a 'nutsacks punctured by Clark Motherfucking Gable' feature on page five.

Getting back to today's ordeal, the barista came out from behind the counter, pointed to me as though I were the one who had been out of line, and said, "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

As per usual, my barbed tongue was at the ready, and I retorted, "Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to suck my god damned cock!"

Well, I whipped it out then and there, the sunlight glistening off of its bulbous head, and began running in circles, attempting to urinate in as many people's beverages as possible. Shortly, however, the sound of sirens snapped me back to attention and I was forced to make my escape. In my haste and still-notable mescaline haze, I must confess that I forgot to reinsert L'il Clark back from whence he came, and thus my flight through the back alleys of Hollywood was marked by much slapping of Gablemeat on trou.

Good Heavens, how I ran! I reached San Diego before I realized that I had accidentally been running in the wrong direction, away from my home, and so quickly reversed course, sprinted home and promptly sat down to unbend this wending tale on my "blog". Along the way, I happened past the aforementioned Starbucks and saw quite the police scene there. There was also a photograph of myself above the bottles of flavor shots which looked considerably more like a wanted poster than a film billboard touting my accomplishments on the silver screen. Never one to miss a hint, I took that to mean that I should mayhap cool my jets and avoid that particular establishment for the upcoming week or so.

In any case, I shall endeavor to post earlier tomorrow, friends and allies, but I warn you now that I did find a bottle of well-aged absinthe under the floorboards next to the mescaline earlier today, and it is long overdue a sampling.

Onward and upward,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Who gives a mule's scrotum that some cowboys had homosexual relations?

2006-02-10T15:04:00.000-08:00

Greetings,

In looking through this year's contenders for the Academy Awards (or "Oscars", as the awards are known despite several thousand letters sent anonymously to the Academy over the past 45 years that the statuettes be dubbed "Gables"), I noticed that one of the favourites is a certain something known as "Brokeback Mountain."

I promptly downloaded said film (which I understand is illegal, but if that's the most the authorities can drum up on Clark Motherfucking Gable after all these years, then I am one fortunate son of a bitch) and watched. It must be said, dear readers, that I fail to see the cause for all the hoopla.

The film is a western love story between two cowboys, which has apparently created quite the stir among Hollywood types. To this I say, aren't all westerns simply love stories between two cowboys? Believe you me, Clark Motherfucking Gable received more than his share of pleading telegrams from John Wayne, wherein Mr. Wayne implored me to take on a role opposite him in one or all of his films. He promised moonlit nights under the stars - just he, I, a tent, a campfire, a camera crew and a bathtub full of peyote. I very nearly accepted - how naive I was in those early days! - until I witnessed the heavy-petting fiesta known as John Wayne's "Fort Apache". Wayne's co-star, Henry Fonda, was naturally scandalized and soon became a pariah among starlets in our time. Not wanting to see that particular well run dry (fat chance, given how wet said well was both figuratively AND literally where Clark Motherfucking Gable was concerned), I declined Wayne's dozens upon dozens of entreaties.

Now, let it not be said that my negative attitude toward this "Brokeback Mountain" is in any way indicative of any sort of disdain toward homosexuals on the part of Clark Motherfucking Gable. I consider myself somewhat of a Renaissance man, quite tolerant of others and their lifestyles. I once kissed Jimmy Stewart full on the lips as part of a drunken dare (and oh, how I regretted it when he refused to let that one incident drop over the ensuing 30 years!) But I was none-too-enthusiastic about having any sort of Clark-Motherfucking-Gable-on-man passion captured on film. The delight that is Gablesex is usually only reserved for the magnificent presence of Clark Motherfucking Gable, his large stable of starlets and a well-placed mirror.

To summarize, cowboy-on-cowboy love is as old as celluloid, and likely predates even that. I implore the Academy of Arts and Sciences to allow saner heads to prevail and to instead bestow the prestigious award to a certain little-known masterpiece known as "Clark Motherfucking Gable Kicks A Vagrant In The Mouth For 90 Minutes." Granted, the subject matter in that film is hardly groundbreaking either, as it has been a pastime of mine for nigh on 80 years now, but if we're treading old water, we may as well ensure that the water being re-tread is god damned fine.

Best,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

A day of travesties!

2006-02-09T18:03:00.000-08:00

Dear readers,

Today was a complete and utter waste of Clark Motherfucking Gable's time. It is days like today that remind your humble author precisely why 45 years spent isolated from the rancid meatsacks known as human beings should hardly be deemed a great loss.

It began innocuously enough when I left my abode for a cigarette. Upon lighting said cigarette outside, a great, fat mass of a man galumphed toward me and, spotting me standing alone, cheerfully chirped, "does standing outside smoking alone remind you of the story of the lepers from the Bible?"

Never shy for a quip, I replied, "no, but your massive girth nicely parallels the Biblical tale of Jonah, as such a whale as yourself surely eats all that appears before him."

I could see that he was preparing to launch a rebuttal, or at the very least opening his gargantuan mouth to swallow me whole, so I quickly broadsided him with a blow to the temple. He reeled and eventually toppled to the ground, unconscious.

I knew that this would bode ill for Clark Motherfucking Gable. It was a similar circumstance that led to my original self-imposed exile nearly a half century ago, when I chose to falsify my death rather than face the myriad criminal charges that would no doubt ensue (I say myriad because the original incident involved several Mexicans, a pizza cutter and a sock full of batteries). Thinking quickly, I began dragging the corpulent demi-retard toward the whore's graveyard that I call a back lawn, taking a moment to tuck my ascot into my jacket so as not to have it sweep across the comatose mammoth's sweaty epidermis. Oh, how I struggled and strained! It took nigh on an hour to finally pull the oaf away from prying eyes and into the side alley next to my home. At that point, I was all but spent, and so went to my garage and found a spade, which I used to sever the fat man's limbs. I carried them one by one and heaved them, using every ounce of my impressive Gable strength, into a neighbor's pool.

After that horrific ideal, I took a shower - my 11th of the day - scrubbing myself raw to remove the acrid stench of paunchy repugnance from my skin.

From there, it seemed clear that I was due a little relaxation, so I stumbled upon an interweb "chat room" under the clever pseudonym "clarkmfgable", where I surmised I might be able to fashion a credible alibi should tubby's dismembered corpse be discovered.

Before I set into the second part of my tale, I ask you what sort of wasteland is this world where a room full of pulchritudinous biddies and permanent (and deserved) spinsters can gather, only to be told how "beautiful" they are by a gaggle of self-soiled cretins?

I soldiered on, looking to find a worthy accomplice who would corroborate my alibi, should one be necessary. Sometimes, great sacrifices must be made for the greater good of keeping Clark Motherfucking Gable out of prison, where I would surely draw the lustful eye of every inmate incarcerated there and would have to filthy my fists beating each and every last one of them to a bloodied pulp.

Most of the aforementioned spinsters and imbeciles, however, were held fast in inane, disjointed and - it must be said - barely literate conversations with their fellow patheticons.

After a short time speaking primarily to myself (the only one in the "chat room" worth speaking to, if I do say so myself), I did get responses. But oh, you would be hard-pressed to believe how confrontational and unflattering they were! Apparently, speaking in complete sentences in a "chat room" is a practice rather severely frowned upon in this day and age. One would think that such people would be kind to strangers, seeing as they have few if any actual friends in the day-to-day world, but apparently the well-merited tauntings of others had already beaten them into a state of near-permanent bitterness. A "MissXena431" was first, commenting on my wit, when it was clear to anyone whose head contained more than a fetal-alcohol-addled brain stem topped with a steaming turd that she herself had none of which to speak.

Then came "blondeandblue4u", who took a moment from her incessant babbling about penes to chime in - albeit barely coherently - that I was dull. Clark Motherfucking Gable, dull?!? I dismissed her out of hand and continued to search for anyone even remotely versed in the Queen's English. Should the police come knocking, I would prefer that my alibi be corroborated by someone whose responses aren't limited to vague wonderings about genitalia - of which I'm sure two-thirds of these fools have seen only their own and the other third of which may not even be able to make that simple claim - and sporadic LOLs.

Before long, however, I was banned - BANNED! - from the chat room by a particularly degraded and undoubtedly overly-masturbatory buffoon known as "BigBossMan_2". Clark Motherfucking Gable, kicked from an interweb "chat room"?!? And for the simple use of proper grammar, no less?!? Would that these whores (and man-whores, to be fair) knew how close they were to celebrity, their dessicated and unkempt loins would have wept! The ladies (and that is but a loose translation of THAT term, I assure you) would have leapt at my nethers, though having caught glimpses of their "pics", their leaps would have been met with much flying of fists and deadly jabbings of my always-handy broken whiskey bottle.

So yes, today Clark Motherfucking Gable was sloughed off by a collection of barely-sentient lumps of salty cellulite the likes of whom would not be worthy of tasting the waste that emanates from my bowels. Had I not begun the day by ridding the world of that heavy-treading, loud-squawking rhinoceros of a man now filthying my neighbor's pool, it would not have paid to have arisen from the comfort of my bed.

I am, once again,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

What blasphemy is THIS?

2006-02-08T09:24:00.000-08:00

Much as I have been reclusive lo these many years, I have recently begun to catch up on the various happenings in popular culture through a technique known as "Googling." Back in the 1940s, Cary Grant and I also had a pastime known as googling, but it was far different than the current incarnation, involving, as it did, a crate of empty whiskey bottles, a couple of street urchins and a sharpened melon baller.

That aside, when I "Googled" my own name (using the non-melon-balling technique), I was pleased to come across several doting fan sites (some of the authors of which might like to learn to control their gaping hoo-hahs as it would appear by their typewritten words that the mere thought of my debonair self would cause them to leave snail trails of female ejaculate everywhere they went), as well as some less flattering "biographies." Wikipedia, for instance, never once made mention of the number of female fans and starlets who lined up to suck my massive Gablecock (116,798), or the going rate that I charged the less starlet-y ones (sliding scale of $15 for hook-nosed uglies to $175 for one particularly pig-eyed beast of a woman) to do so.

But none of those compared in the least to my discovery that a group of mincing preens calling themselves "The Postal Service" dared appropriate my name in a droning dog-fart of a song. I downloaded the song using a device known as LimeWire (Grant and I had a technique involving piano wire and lime juice [and the requisite street urchins], but we simply called it 'strangling street urchins with piano wire and pouring lime juice into the wounds as they choked and bled'). From the first pussy-squirt of a note, I could tell that this song was no homage - in fact, it was so airy-fairy that it damn near turned me into a girl! Me! Clark Motherfucking Gable!

I "Googled" these "Postal Service" imbeciles (do you see how quickly I am re-integrating into society after 45 years away? "Wily like a cat is that Clark Motherfucking Gable," you would do well to believe) and looked up the lyrics to the bitch-slap they laid upon me by sullying my good - and manly - name. Thankfully, there is but one real reference to myself, and it is this:

"I kissed you in a style that Clark Gable would have admired, and then fart fart something insipid fart fart fart"

After hearing this song, there is but one style of kiss that I will ever admire again, and that is a kiss given while punching this Ben-Gibbard-of-the-Postal-Service directly in the throat! Yes, that's right. I have "Googled" you, Ben Gibbard! Watch your back!

Forever and Always,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Greetings, pisslickers!

2006-02-07T16:21:00.000-08:00

Regards to all those out in cyber-space. More than 45 years after faking my death, I am once again ready to take on the world... through the interweb!

There are, admittedly, a few things about which you, my loyal fans, may be curious. For instance, why did I fake my death, and why am I choosing to re-emerge 45 years later to a bunch of nimby fruit cups who very rarely leave their parents' basements to taste the sweet kiss of sunlight? Perhaps I shall answer these questions at a later date. If not, you will have to be content with what you have - an ongoing diary of my thoughts. You want more of Clark Gable? Try to find me, you pigeon-sexing nancies!

For those of you who don't know of me, first let me say that I detest you for your ignorance, and would that you were here, I would eviscerate you. Nonetheless, I will take a moment to re-introduce myself to you, the slobbering mongoloid masses:

Name: Clark Motherfucking Gable!
Date of Birth: February 1, 1901
Professional Highlight: Portrayed Rhett Butler in seminal film Gone With The Wind
Personal Highlight: Four day mescaline bender during which I ate a whole vagrant, bones and all!
Date of (Faked) Death: November 16, 1960
Brief Filmography: The Merry Widow; Dance, Fools, Dance; Gone With The Wind; Fists Of Violence, Balls of Agony (uncredited); Six Vagrants, A Knife And A Bathtub Full Of Lye (black market release only); It Happened One Night; Clark Motherfucking Gable Fucks Peoples Shit Up Volumes I-LVIII (home movies); Mutiny On The Bounty

Now you know a little about me. Tell me a little about yourselves, but limit your responses to names, addresses, size of brassiere where applicable, phobias and fatal weaknesses. I don't want to know your dog's name or about your first job selling peanuts, you insipid drones. I have better things to do with my time that read that drivel. After all, I am Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Yours,
Clark Motherfucking Gable