Like Pussy On Toast it's... MY MASONIC APRON'S 300TH POST!

There's a demented black beggar in Clint Eastwood's otherwise forgettable 1999 flick "True Crime" who mercilessly hounds Eastwood's character, named Steve.

"Steve!" the toothless, crazy bastard shouts as Eastwood's journalist character passes by in a huff, "gimme some-a-dat pussy on toast!" The beggar clasps his outstretched hands and arms together like a child might do in an imitation of an alligator's jaws.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

"Gimme some pussy on toast!" he screams. Later on in the film, evidently feeling less horny and more poverty-stricken, he requests "money on toast," though I don't especially know what he'd do with either, and why necessarily he requires it on toast. I guess because he's fucking nuts or just loves carbs.

You're unmistakably drawn to this character, who appears twice or maybe three times in the film. I saw the movie once the year it came out, and that was ten years ago. I couldn't tell you anything really substantive about the plot, but I remember Mr. Pussy-on-Toast vividly, partly because I can remember almost exploding my pancreas laughing when I heard that line.

That's easily one of the best lines in American cinema today-- in entirely another league than "Frankly, Scarlet...," "Soilent Green is People...," and "Welease Wodewick!"

I hope I never become a crazy, homeless black guy but, if I do, I sure as hell hope I run around screaming stuff like, "Gimme some-a-dat pussy on toast!" and I hope I get to know people well enough to call them by their first names when I make these requests.

At this stage in my life, I think becoming a crazy, homeless black guy is pretty unlikely. I'm a relatively sane, caucasian homeowner. I'm gainfully if not happily employed, and I'm married to the cutest, most loyal, intelligent and snuggly buddy in the world. Hell, even the dog is clean and smells delicious, having just gotten "the works" at the local groomer yesterday. Life is pretty solid today as I pen my 300th blog post, and so, as a result, you're being treated to a relatively upbeat Mr. Apron.

Lucky you!

When I wake up in the morning and I go through my morning routine (tippy-top secret, bitches) and I get around to looking at Blogger.com and I see the lovely avatars and faces of "my followers" (whoa-- that makes me sound like David Koresh or, worse, Oprah) I can't tell you how proud and soupie-glowy it makes me to know that you're sitting around in Meadville or Princeton Junction (yes, I have tracking software and I use it!) saying to me:

"Hey, Apron! Gimme some-a-dat blog on toast!"

I'm accountable to people, good, fun, engaging, interesting people, and that feels really good. You expect something of me, and it's my responsibility in a way to deliver. When I was in college, I had an independent study in playwriting where I was required to have fresh material each week-- at least three or four pages of dialogue or monologue. Because I have OCD-type-issues, I wrote a one-act play a week for ten weeks. That was 2002. I haven't written a one-act play since.

There is something to be said, people, for accountability.

This is not to say, of course, that, if I didn't blog every day, your worlds would implode and your dog would nuclear-shit all over your dry-cleaning and your eyelids would disintigrate and all of your coworkers would immediately vomit into each others' shirt pockets while performing "It's Rainin' Men in sign language.

I know that. But, still, you'd be kind of bummed. Right?

You'd be all like, "Apron! Where's my blog on pussy? You toast."

And I hear you.

I was very skeptical about blogging in the way way beginning. "Blogging," I said derisively, "Isn't that for self-absorbed prats?" I asked my wife. "I think so," she answered, "but so is therapy, and you did that almost all through college."

She had me there!

Of course, I guess, if you think about it, I was dubious about blogging before I had ever met any of you, well, most of you, and maybe that's the reason why I didn't know if it would be the thing for me. After 300 posts, I know that it is. Maybe it won't be forever, but it's done the trick beautifully so far. And so have you.

To those of you who are regular, loyal readers who comment all the time: you're like Jesus on toast as far as I'm concerned.

To those of you who are regular, loyal readers who smile silently and move on to something else: I like the strong, silent types. Don't sweat it. You're awesome.

To those of you who pop in once in a while: I'm grateful for your visits, however infrequent.

To those of you who don't read my blog: give me your home address so I can break into your house, put hardcore gay porno mags inside your sock drawer and rub my naked ass all over your sofa.

On toast.