This morning it’s good to see Booze Hat on the bus. He’s looking amused as I pass him headed toward the back… amused in that far out, disassociated way. It’s cold again- mid 30s this morning— so he’s got the Olde English 800 in his touk. No hi-viz gear, so maybe he got fired from the construction job.
The wind is whipping; it feels like tornado weather.
What kind of drugs do YOU start YOUR day with? Caffeine? Nicotine? Olde English 800? Mushrooms? Prozac? Ibuprofen? Lamictal? Weed? Lipitor? Seroquel? Lozol? Foschnizzle?
You need something to jump start that dead heart and lame body, right? A little something to engage that comatose brain or round off a double-edged model.
Am I right?
Because the boring reality of linear, homogeneous space is crushing: the prescription necessitating a prescription propelling us into that bland, beige future no-one predicted and nobody really wants anyway.
Who’s with me?
Today is about fitting Tab A into slot B… folding Flap C over Divider D… etc..
and that is all. And the day after we’ll flip it and reverse it. See? Why make it any more complicated than that? Make sure you keep track of your hardware… you don’t want to be caught a screw short.
While we’re on the topic of a screw short, the GOB has been trying to talk to me all morning so far, but I’ve been acting like I’m on the phone. I call the time and weather if there isn’t someone else I can call in a pinch. I can hear him coming, dragging that right foot like a tard- better than a bell around his neck. This morning he was making that same old joke he likes to make whenever water gets splashed on the front of his pants. The joke and it’s variations usually involve Depends, being old, prostate issues, incontinence… y’know… the stuff of real comedy. He will seek out a warm, semi-attentive body to do his stand-up for. Anyone will do… although, these days it appears I’m his preferred audience.
I’m as semi-attentive as they come.
My warmth, i.e., my literal temperature is one of the few things I have going for me. A result of a spastic soul, an inability to stay still. Probably how I remain skinny. I’m a trash incinerator.
Articles like this beg the question: what the fuck are we doing?
A question that leads to an argument for complete annihilation.
Or at least one powerful ass whipping.
Are modern men really craving the grave as much as they appear to be? This is the real question.
I guess the answer is yes. Sexy German Shepherd Style. A new kind of 21st century Patrolman rape fantasy. A buddy story.
This is now.
Appetite for complete destruction… maybe the new measles epidemic will help sort some of this out. Some good washed away with some bad. Bad seeds spreading in contaminated soil. What we have here is a whole jungle of toxic flora. Noxious weeds, as it were. Weeds mistaken for flowers. Paris is burning. According to the GOB, it’s from widespread acceptance of homosexuality. This from the fruitiest fruit in the agency. It’s a pity I can still hear him through his closet door.
I simply think this factory farm is overburdened and nature is going out of her way to seek stability. We are the short arms of Her law. We’re supposed to peck each other to death when we reach this milestone- those of us that still have peckers, that is. What our arms and beaks lack in length or strength they more than make up for in treachery.
What we need now is a one tough-as-nails cop with an asshole of gold. The authority of one highly decorated runch… a gilded asterisk. Along with The Helping Hands of Breaking Brains Outreach Ministries this thing would be in the bag. Rally those protective forces that know where to put their prods for maximum results. Total submission coming up, ground to order.
This illusion is too strong to be dissolved. It becomes more real with every click. With every retelling. With every comment and brawl in its name. To pull the veil away now would destabilize the great entirety of the bogus society. Shitty Jenga games for bloated losers.
Let’s all hold hands.
Ring around the poseurs… our idols.
They ALL think they can dance.
The dude with the star of bethlehem between his eyes was on the bus again going home today. It’s confirmed today: I’m developing a fetish for face tattoos and gold grills. Skinny cafe au lait dude with script under right eye, a variety of tear drops under the left and some kind of star where the third eye would be. It occurred to me that the star looks like all the representations I’d ever seen of the S.O.B. (star of bethlehem). I wanted to stare until he poked my eyes out and skull fucked me. Long bony fingers with hand tattoos, too— long fingernails, like a movie vampire.
Gold teeth that he almost sneezed out.
He had a Marvel Universe backpack and smelled like cigarettes and ramen noodles. Not a super combination. Not a total disqualifier I guess. Skinny as hell. Would still take a genetic sample from him in the most complicated way possible.
I’m assaulted with a metallic druggie odor… a whiff of shit.
Public transport is #1.
Just to clarify, the whiff of shit DID NOT emanate from Lil Star of Bethlehem.
As the kids are fond of saying, that would immediately CANCEL him.
Yeah sure… I’ll go along with that… people are like TV shows.
We’re all spin offs of each others’ shows.
Some aren’t up for renewal next season…
whenever that is…
I mean are there even seasons anymore? Those season lovers are in quite a whirl right now, do you see it? I live with a season lover. I would be content with one temperature— 80%. The mean temperature of Havana is 77 degrees Fahrenheit. I don’t think a faggot like me could make it there very long…. especially with my… how shall we say… tastes? B would never go to South America. He’s made that perfectly clear. He has more sense than I do.
‘I don’t want to get hacked to death by machete.’ he says.
I would before he would, probably… get hacked by a machete, that is… (if they couldn’t tell he was American he’d have a chance, but he’d have to keep his mouth shut). They’d surely kill me first, because, while I’ve passed for Puerto Rican in a certain type of lighting (even a sickly Mexican), I’d never pass for Cuban. And my Spanish is lousy, although I’m working on it. I’m working on Latin too but the languages are a whole other tangent and I’m tangential enough.
I wish Thoth would poo out a PHD or a Masters for me because I’ve surely earned one by now.
The life of an ‘occultist’, ‘artist’ or ‘writer’ is one of eternal study. Research.
We never stop.
Maybe that’s too lofty.
Maybe I’m full of shit.
Three bag fool.
I’m sorry Thoth.
Just write it out longhand and pass it to me through my bong.
I’m sorry again.
I’ll keep your name out of my thread.
B has always told me that my irreverence will get me in the end.
He is right.
It’s already been proved.
Back to TV… because it always is… right?… I have a theory that because most people growing up now spend more time with TV and movies than they do with their parents they tend to act like their favorite characters doing things in their favorite TV shows. HBO and CW SEED (hmmmm) and CBS (I won’t even touch MTV) are only leading by example. Instructing the mutable, half-formed minds of our youth. Comforting isn’t it?
Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli was my real father.
And I snap my fingers at broads all the time.
Some of the broads are dudes.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha what a crazy mixed up world. fuck this place.