This Homie now resides in a magical place called Portugal. Those are oranges. As you know, oranges can only be found in Portugal. It is a very magical place. I am not sure what his real name is, but Renato is calling him Jesse “El Charro” Hernandez, and he likes to read Proust and, interestingly enough, my book. “El Charro” means joint. As in the kind you smoke, not the kind you stick up with a mask and a gun.

This is Laughing Boy and he now lives in Australia with Kate and what appears to be a Tasmanian devil, everyone’s favorite carnivorous marsupial. According to the Homies site, Laughing Boy loves to laugh so much that “Ther (sic) is little doubt that he will eventually laugh himself to death.” That’s very sweet.

This is Steve’s first Homie. Oh? Where’d it go? It is a mystery. It looks like someone stuck a finger in there and pulled out the Homie. Bastards!

This is my last Homie, which is on hold for Steve. During my “minivation,” I found the sweetest lighter ever. I believe it was given to me by Aaron, who bought it at a gas station in Texas. This is the final Homie in my collection unless I buy more, which is a possibility. I feel bad there were people who didn’t get one, and plus, I like this Annietown Daft Punk Edition: Homies Around the World.

Ok keep the pictures coming. In the meantime, ask yourselves this question:

Why doesn’t Annie have heat?

My friend Mike now lives on some stupid island called Hawaii, which sounds like the worst place ever with its stupid trees and stupid rainbows and stupid, puppy-eating sharks. Anyway he received his sweet Homie and took a picture of it. His Homie looks really happy, even though it’s stuck on some stupid island with those actors from Lost. Anyway, I think it would be kind of kick-ass, much like a magical unicorn in an enchanged forest, if those of you who received Homies, sent me a picture of it. I will put them up and post an Annietown Special Daft Punk Edition: Homies Around the World. I also find myself wanting to buy more Homies and mailing them out, but the whole point of this exercise was to actually get rid of my Homies and not collect more, but they are kind of addicting. I see they have a new series just based on dogs, called Homie Hood Hounds. Homies have really come a long way. How can I resist? I am not a robot. I am made of flesh and blood. WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS TO ME?

I am officially out of Homies. However, I have other fun little things that I discovered during my compartment-to-palace renovation. So if you want a Homie, too bad so sad, but if you want something even uglier and/or stupider, you can email me. It will be a total grab bag of crap. I think most of it is sweeter than a Homie. I mean don’t get me wrong, Homies are totally sweet, but WHAT ABOUT A FINGER PUPPET OF A MOOSE? Pretty sweet, right? A moose could totally kick a Homies ass, no question. I have no idea how any of this stuff ends up in my apartment, but it does. I found a bag of volcanic rocks. Did I ever visit a volcano? No, I did not. But I have the rocks. It’s like getting a concert shirt without going to the concert. My friend Aaron got me a Siegfried and Roy shirt in Vegas even though he didn’t go to the show. The shirt has tigers and glitter and everything. It’s kind of the most ugliest awesome thing you’ve ever seen. On a side note, my friend Marco saw Celine Dion in Vegas with his parents (he says it was against his will, but you know he was all up in front raging in the pit) and said she was amazing with all of her arm choreography and “go on, girl!” and then introduced the band, “Give it up for Celine Dion’s bassist!” “This is Celine Dion’s drummer! Give it up!” Celine Dion scares me. She kind of reminds me of the crypt keeper, except she’s French Canadian.

Anyway, please let me know if you guys received your stuff. I am at war with the United States Postal Office. So far they are kicking my ass, but I fight dirty. I will be victorious.

Steve just told me that his Homie got SNATCHED. He received an envelope with my note, but with no Homie. I’m really sad. And in addition angry. If you have to steal and be a jerk, then take money or drugs or some electronic equipment that you can actually GET MONEY FOR, YOU MORON. LEAVE THE HOMIES ALONE.

So now I worry that all the Homies I have sent off in the world are going to be Homie-snatched too. And all of you will remain homieless. I’ll have to start some kind of fundraiser for the homieless. So to my human homies, I apologize that New York-based United States postal workers cannot be trusted with toy Homies, I’m sorry if you don’t receive yours because of some filthy Homie pirates.

I will be mad pissed if my Homie doesn’t make it to Australia. Can you imagine? It takes like a hundred years for crap to get there, and then on the other end, you just get a stupid note without a Homie. Like what is the point of even living.

Boo.

OK, my peoples, I still have some Homies left. So if you want one, I will mail it to you. I will even mail it overseas, to ANOTHER CONTINENT, but I am warning you, they are incredibly unimpressive. You’ll receive one and you’ll say, WTF I can’t believe that clown Annie sent me this piece of crap. Then you will go outside and kick some puppies, because that’s how pissed you will be. Damn you puppy, with your velvety nose and your big, brown eyes! I hate you!

Anyway, email me your snail mail address. You can find my email in the contact page.
<—- Over there, somewhere.

In other news, I received a gift in the mail from Alex. It is the gift of the world’s ultimate, most manliest man-hero alive, second only to Tom Selleck as Magnum P.I.–

DAVID HASSELHOFF AS MICHAEL KNIGHT.

It’s a 8×10 glossy black and white photo and he looks dreamy and delicious. He has nuthugging jeans and his eyes….those eyes…I can just get lost in them. It’s important to note that I was very much into the Hoff before he was on that stupid talent show. Even though he is even (more) overexposed, I still heart him. When he was drunk and eating a Whopper on the hotel room floor and sobbing at his daughter, I knew it was true love. Not that fake love you see at weddings. This is the real thing.

I need to rearrange my fridge so that the Hoff gets the real estate he deserves. It also means moving Ricky Martin somewhere else. On one hand, Ricky was there first. So he’d be like the Native American of my fridge, except he is Puerto Rican. But on the other hand, the Hoff is so clearly a force, a hairy, smoldering force with a white-man fro. How can Ricky even hope to compete? There will be a war.

Pictures to come…when I, uh, find my camera. I moved it to a new place and now I feel like those squirrels that can’t find their nuts. (Every time I use the word nuts, I want to go heh heh. Like, who does not want to do that? If you don’t, then you are a lying jackmule. I bet even Alan Greenspan laughs at “nuts.”)

I am cleaning out my apartment in order to turn my 187 square foot COMPARTMENT into a PALACE. How do I do this? I’m glad you asked! It is a very complicated process, but I like to think of it more as a voyage of discovery. I am thinking that as I clean out my junk, my crap, my shit, my detritus, and my late 90’s and early ought clothing, I will actually find a door that leads down a hallway into ANOTHER ROOM and I will discover that this entire time I was actually living in a ONE BEDROOM PALACE and not a COMPARTMENT. Then all of the sudden I will realize I am getting a very, very good deal on my PALACE. By the look on your face, I see that you are very excited.

What I discovered on my voyage of discovery is that I am really just keeping the same amount of shit, but reorganizing it so they are in different boxes. This creates a problem. In order to turn my compartment into a PALACE I actually have to get rid of things, as in move items from my compartment to a location off the premises, most likely the trash or Goodwill. What I found is that I actually don’t have a lot of stuff. My apartment makes it seem as if I have two tons of shit crammed in a one ton truck. But actually, I have probably half a cup of shit, but my apartment can only take 3 teaspoons of it. Therein lies my problem.

I wish that as a like, totally famous writer, oh my god, I lived in more glamorous conditions, but instead I live in a compartment surrounded by my own shit. I have to say it’s really nice shit though. I mean look at my table. It’s from IKEA. Nice right? It even has a funny name. I also found a big bag of Homies which I decided I could not part with and instead, I will be giving them away to my peoples. If you want a homie, email me and I will mail you one for the low, low price of free. Because, like I said, you are my peoples.