Today was a FUN day!

I woke up to the metallic squaking of Old Mr. Blue Jay again. What a grumpy bird! Anticipating this, I had plugged in my George Foreman Grill on the patio before retiring last night, sprinkling it liberally with sunflower seeds. So you can imagine the smile on my face when that cranky old bird woke me up this morning. I just lay in bed waiting, trying to hold in the laughter. Sure enough, in no time Old Mr. Blue Jay decided to have his breakfast and alighted on the grill, hoping to enjoy a delicious seed. That’s when I pulled the string, closing the hot grill on his pretty blue feathers. Oh the funny sounds he made as he cooked, the fat draining from his body just like George Foreman advertises (I wish I could box and invent grills as good as George Foreman)! My whole yard smelled like a Pollo Loco. That made me hungry so it was off to Arby’s. So far, the morning was perfect!

After a Montana Beef Sandwich and some Jalapeno Bites with Bronco Berry Sauce, it was time to go to yoga. Problem is, I left my headband at that Soup Plantation (I sweat when I eat certain soups, especially Country Corn Chowder), so I had to improvise, and improvise quickly. Class was going to start in 10 minutes! Scanning the living room, I saw an ornate length of Ceylonese silk I had forced a worker on Michael Caine’s 1000 acre tea plantation to weave for me while she was not toiling in the fields for twelve hours a day. So I wrapped my head in that luxurious silk, slung on my backpack, and started biking towards the yoga studio.

That’s when the confusion began.

I was riding so fast and so recklessly towards my yoga studio that I didn’t notice the police barricade outside Baja Fresh. Apparently a disgruntled ex-employee had phoned in a bomb threat, and here I am riding like a wild man straight towards the place with a backpack on and what looked to all the world like a turban on my head! Well, those officers didn’t skip a beat. They pulled out their tasers and gave yours truly 200,000 volts straight up the ass! I could just hear Old Mr. Bluejay laughing. Now I smelled like a Pollo Loco!

Once I came to and convinced the cops I wasn’t a Jihadist, I was already five minutes late for yoga—not good etiquette! I entered the sanctuary as quietly as possible, as the middle aged new age instructor beat some small brass gong, and laid my mat down in the only available space, in between a woman far too fat to adequately perform yoga and a black guy. The woman was panting heavily, and the sweat dripped off her brow like the fat draining out of Old Mr. Blue Jay as he roasted on the George Foreman Grill. Then it began to soak through the ass area of her aqua blue leotards, making a stain across her ass that was precisely in the shape of the continent of Africa. That reminded me, over to my right was a black. Never seeing one in yoga before, I grew curious. As I studied him quite effortlessly twist into a wounded pigeon asana, I realized…that’s Don Cheadle! “Oh great God!,” I yelped. “You’re Don Cheadle! You saved all those Africans over in that Hotel Zambia!”

The whole class stared at me, awe struck, as the black man said, “I’m not Don Cheadle. I’m Mekhi Phifer.”

“Oh,” I said. “You look like Don Cheadle.”

Amazingly, they didn’t ask me to leave. Everyone just got up and left, glaring at me, leaving me there alone with the panting fat woman with the sweat map of Africa on her ass and the middle aged new age instructor.

“Well,” the instructor said. “Hopefully we’ll all laugh at this someday. But in the meantime, looks like the perfect opportunity for a three way!”

The fat lady and I looked at each other and smiled broadly.

Then, we all fucked. We fucked in every imaginable position, using every yoga prop, gong, drum, block and strap in some creative sexual way. At one point I had an entire rolled up yoga mat up the fat lady’s ass, making it look like Africa on a stick!

When the level 2 class that followed ours knocked politely on the door, we realized we’d gone five minutes over our allotted class time and collapsed in a sweaty heap of limber flesh in the middle of the studio floor. “See you in class next week,” we all said in unison, followed by laughter.

It sure was a FUN day!

Today is my birthday, and the gift I have unwrapped is an overwhelming sense of my own mortality. And a new clock radio from my parents. Thanks guys. I’m going to head back out into the badlands to do some wandering, some self-discovery, maybe blow up some cacti with M-80s. Not sure when I’ll be back. Might depend on what Eminem decides to do.

In the meantime, here’s the transcript of an interview I did a while back with a small penny press in Arizona. They never had the good journalistic sense to publish it. Fucking hacks.

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Interview with Martin Sargent in the “LaHerda Times” in Flagstaff, Arizona June 3, 2005

Byline: Jim Falder, Entertainment Correspondent

JF: So, Martin Sargent, what have you been doing with yourself since your show Unscrewed was so unceremoniously cancelled last November?

MS: I dunno man, this and that.

JF: Can you elaborate?

MS: Well, after I got back from Michael Caine’s 1000 acre tea plantation in Ceylon, I had a little trouble adjusting. I kinda dropped out there for a while, I drifted down to through Nevada for a while, just went where the road took me.

JF: Have you done any work since the show ended?

MS: Sure man, odd jobs here and there. I worked for a while at a pawn shop outside of Sparks. Kept getting robbed though. I did a little time at an AM/PM somewhere in Arizona… I can’t even remember the name of that town.

JF: I meant TV work. You want me to believe you’ve been drifting around the southwest doing odd jobs? I don’t buy it.

MS: Believe what you want man. I don’t need you to believe a word I say man. I’ve learned some things lately, like, when was the last time you saw the sun set purple and warm over the high chaparral while sitting in a drainage culvert in the desert with two illegal Mexican immigrants, all drinking brandy out of a glass mason jar? I’m betting it’s been a while. But I’m gonna tell you, it’s fucking beautiful out there man, in the desert. The freedom. You start to notice every last little detail. The way the sun prisms through a shard of broken glass… the grains of sand. The raptor birds… the way they ride the thermals, the shiny blackness of a carrion beetle.

JF: I’m not sure I follow. You are talking…

MS: I met a guy out there, in the desert. People called him Jeff. He taught me the art of taxidermy. I learned how to stuff birds. We used shoot ravens with an old .22 and stuff them and sell them at a roadside stand that Jeff would set up by the highway. I swear to Christ that one day while Jeff was off peeing, onna those ravens that I’d stuffed, it came to life man. Yeah, it lit into the sky and flew off without a sound. It never looked back. Just flew away until it was a speck and then… gone. I never told anyone about that before.

JF: What are your plans for the future?

MS: I’m going back to LA. I’m going to start a new show. I’m gonna get rich.

END

Holy mother of fuck! Have you been to this Soup Plantation? I thought Michael Caine’s 1000 acre tea plantation in Ceylon was something, but it’s got nothing on this Soup Plantation! If Mel Gibson ever makes a movie about The Book of Genesis, he’d be a fool to not shoot the Garden of Eden part at a Soup Plantation. Yeah, seriously, IT’S ON THAT LEVEL!!!!

Sure, Michael Caine’s 1000 acre tea plantation in Ceylon had vast, architecturally significant lodge buildings, an incredible array of silken pillows, ponds stocked so full of koi you could effortlessly impale them with fondue skewers for your supper, and an army of servants eager to provide any imaginable pleasure, including prostate milking.

But did Michael Caine’s 1000 acre tea plantation have a constantly replenished, two gallon vat of bacon bits? Fuck no! Chalk one up in the win column for Soup Plantation, beeyatch!

Neil Armstrong said there’s no way he could put the feeling of walking on the moon into words. That’s exactly how I feel about walking into Soup Plantation. Want to know the biggest difference between Neil Armstrong walking on the moon and me walking into Soup Plantation? My going to Soup Plantation wasn’t a fucking hoax!

No sir, I don’t need any fancy trick photography and an airplane hangar in the Utah desert to prove to you that Soup Plantation has the freshest produce and most delicious soups in the galaxy! See, we’re not in some heated soup and salad bar race with the communists like we were with the space race. We don’t NEED a soup and salad conspiracy at this point in our nation’s history. SOUP PLANTATION IS REAL.

Fuck, wouldn’t be a very exciting race, even if it was happening. The Soviets might have some dingy restaurant with a congealed vat of borscht and a rickety table with a rotten cabbage on it, but this is America, and we’ve got Soup Plantation. I’m talking a salad bar with over 70 items (including Honey Minted Fruit Toss, Joan’s Broccoli Madness, and Won Ton Chicken Happiness), plus six [6!] varieties of soup! And that’s to say nothing of the pasta, pizza and dessert bar! Two more words: UNLIMITED TRIPS!!! Give the Soviets one taste of that kind of eating and they’d start building more rockets for one simple reason: to fly over the Berlin Wall to taste more. Would be cool if Soup Plantation had a vodka bar, though.

Anyway, I didn’t see any celebrities at Soup Plantation like I thought I would. There was a guy refilling the Big Chunk Chicken Noodle and Yankee Clipper Clam Chowder w/Bacon vats who looked exactly like New Mexico Governor Bill Richardson, but he seemed pretty confused when I tried to pin him down on whether he’d be making a presidential bid in ’08. Plus his nametag said Manny, so it may not have been him. I’d still vote for him.

Next week I’ll hit the Soup Plantation in Brentwood. I heard Cato Caelin eats there or works there or something.

(B.S.: Have you been to Soup Plantation? If so, what’s your favorite item on the buffet? A much more difficult question, what would you like to see on the Soup Plantation buffet that isn’t already there? If you haven’t been to Soup Plantation, you’re a fucking tard.)

Now that I have returned to The Stardust Rodeo, I fully intend on taking you, my faithful fans, the devoted ranks of the powerful Unscrewed Army, along with me every gallop of the way. In the hypertext markup language pages of this very blog, I’ll share with you all the glorious adventures, secret and otherwise, of a television star living in Los Angeles.

Together, we’ll attend the most exclusive parties in the charming cliff side mansions of the Hollywood Hills. At these nocturnal feasts, will Adam Sandler show up with his guitar and give an impromptu performance of his new humorous ditty about snack foods? Will Bruce Willis get a little too Tequila drunk and awkwardly swan dive from the roof of Kirstie Alley’s guest house into her swimming pool? Will Bill Cosby pass me a blunt? I expect all will be so, and you will be there with me.

When I’m eating at The Ivy and Bronson Pinchot orders the crispy duck, I’ll reach across the table, fork a small piece, and let you taste it. When I’m doing the Lambada with Jennifer Anniston at the most exclusive Hollywood club, as I effortlessly combine carimbó, merengue and finger banging, my shirt unbuttoned, you will feel her hands cup the backs of your thighs as the sweat runs in forbidden rivers from your brow. When Rhea Pearlman gives me an oily hand job in her production trailer, you will hear my muted, earthy grunts and come hard with me.

Yes, as I ascend to my rightful shining place in the celebrity galaxy, you will be part of my brilliant constellation.

Let’s go. Hollywood has been waiting for the return of television’s Martin Sargent, and lucky for you, his all access pass is plus one.

(B. S.: I kind of miss Michael Caine’s 1000 acre tea plantation. So I’m gonna go check out this Soup Plantation place I saw in a strip mall on Lincoln Boulevard. I’ll tell you about all the celebrities I saw there tomorrow. Celebrities love soup.)