I pay rent, but just not here

Seeing as how my life currently operates in an interdimensional phantom zone, and since I don't have the heart or mind to elaborate at this juncture, particularly with only 80 pages left in my shlock japanese teen exploitation graphic novel and fireworks being shot off at gruesome levels outside my window, the only thing I can really do tonight is post a picture of a great man I met this weekend. I confided in him that when I was in high school, he made me want gold teeth. His name is Billy Gibbons. You may know him as the lead singer of a band called ZZ Top. It was a special meeting, and your ol pal Marty was riding a high at the time. But ye, all good things come to an end, and now I'm sitting in my closet, typing frantically in a cold sweat and with a demonic lust for sleep and wishing, just wishing that I don't have to spend another weekend sleeping on a hotel room floor with a 22-year-old waitress from Van Nuys or doing the worm at 5;30 am while wearing a Sonny Bono wig. I'm treading on the precipice of HGL, which I will discuss in depth at a later point. But for now folks, happy fucking birthday to the US of A in the 2K nickel, and may Zod bless me with a sophisticated and voluptuous, mysterious di-polar shape shifting chick who likes basketball, makes a lot of money and all the while loves Martin just for being Martin. Oh, where was I? Please enjoy. Shakes.