Richard Marx We Love You! <h1> Richard Marx in: Love's Elusiveness. </h1> By <A HREF="mailto:timeandtimes@hotmail.com">Sarah Hutchings.</a> As the camera panned down to Richard's Guatemalen-style mansion, noting the Spanish-tiled kitchen, the kidney-shaped swimming pool and gold statue of a naked Gene Simmons (accurate right down to the fruit n' veg), the aforementioned sex god heaved streams of reeking vomit into his throne (or 'toilet' to the layman). Gripping the sides with his pudgy fists, our rock star sobbed. "Why? boo-hoo, BLEAARRGHH, parp" echoed around the bathroom, the latter noise one of those unavoidable occurrences when one's whole body is gripped with spasm and one's bowels are not up to the job. "BON-BLEAARGHH-JOVI!!" he screamed, summoning the butler he had kindly renamed. Jon strolled casually up the stairs after helping himself to some of the Jack Daniels left over from the night before, and a quick snort of a substance spilled on the carpet that was bound to be narcotic. "COMING, ELVIS!" he replied as he had been instructed. "Hold my hair out of the way" Marxie gasped and Jovi obliged, grimacing whilst removing some stray hairs out of Richie's gob. When Marxie had rid his stomach of its foul invaders, he changed his shirt, and after his customary look at his pert buttocks in the bathroom mirror, decided he had better change his strides too. This was truly the morning after the night before. Richie's hair had lost all it's fluff, and was dry and lifeless to boot. His mind swam hazily back to the previous night. It had all started innocently enough. A truckload of Beam, Daniels, Walker and Richie's favourite, Kahlua ('cause it tastes like a chocolate milkshake but 'gets ya there') had arrived on the dot of eight o'clock. A fair portion of this lot was already consumed by our hero by the time the guests arrived. He welcomed them into his abode, singing 'Hungry Eyes' and waving a bottle dangerously around in time to the 'music'. The girls from Heart requested that Richard put a little music on the stereo. He kindly obliged them with 'Marx' at full volume. The room soon became hazy with smoke and hair, buckles and blue jeans. Richie was having the time of his life. "I'll show you eternal flame!" he said, setting fire to some peroxided locks after a Bangle turned down his request for sex. Unfortunately, in his drunken stupor he set fire to his own hair, and had to run screaming out to the swimming pool. Once immersed, he immediately forgot his trauma and used the excuse that his whaleskin pants would be ruined to fling off all his clothes. He was a little perplexed when nobody ran out of the house to join him. "Hey guys! Come skinny-dipping!", he yelled. There was no response from the noisy musician-filled room. His tears were stopped in their tracks, however, by the dimly perceivable figure Richard spied across the patio. "Have yourselllllllf........a.....merry.....little.....Christmaaaaaas," a croaky voice crooned. "M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-Michael Bolton!" Marxie yelped and shot drippingly naked across to where the figure was crouched hugging a bottle. "I just gotta make that Christmas album." Bolton muttered, before sighting the shining wet body of our lust-object. "R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-Richard Marx!" he similarly uttered. I think you can imagine what happened next. Afterwards, they lay on the warm paving smoking contentedly, water dripping laboriously from their long tresses. All thoughts of Gene and the girl from the Bangles were expelled from Richard's mind. Even his fling with Jon Bon Jovi no longer excited the pain it had formerly. Richard had found 'the one'. "Welp, better get back to the wife and kids" Bolton exclaimed after finishing his durry. The sound of Richard's heart breaking was almost audible. He ran back into the house, stuck his head in the punch bowl and sucked up as much liquid as possible. Copious amounts of alcohol and sex finally took their toll, and Richard collapsed on the floor, naked apart from punch and chlorinated water. The sheer heartbreaking horror of the night now hit Richard with full force. Luckily, embarrassment was not in Richie's makeup, otherwise he would have at least cringed at the full colour picture on the front of the tabloid he read religiously. "Hmmm....nice cheeks," he commended himself before again collapsing, this time in a flurry of tears. Will our lonely rock star ever find true love? Will anybody? What is love, anyway? Why are we here? Who am I? These and many more questions will be answered in future episodes documenting the eventful life of our Richard Marx. <a href="sarah.htm"> Back to the ROCK page! </a> <a href="index.html"> Back to the main page! </a> </body></html>