Plague Three Point Oh: A Journal (Pt. 2)

Meanwhile, on a dead end street in Hilltop USA, a teen mom unhinged- daddy gone trap her, keep her.  She makes a terrible maternal translator after the recreational pharma, lack of sleep, dilatory hygiene and loss of zoobies render her income flaps all but unsaleable to the most far-sighted denizens cruising Sullivant Avenue.  Hence, she’s reduced to a whale-spouted swamp slug wreathed in rashes. From shedded cells to a microbial big hello, we welcome her to the virtual abortion clinic with open satellites.  It’s a remote controlled procedure, transforming her traphouse ward into a medical home theater.  Oversight provided courtesy of the MQ-1 Predator fleet.  If she squeals too much the machines will anesthetize her.  No need for her newest old man to shoot her normal.

This is, for the time being, a professional environment.

This khanki in khakis has no reference point for a traditional narrative.  She’d beat and rob a run of the mill life coach.  She’d level any hobotron with her contagious fuck bubbles… the stomach turning overcompensation signaled by overindulgence in knockoff Fan di Fendi that barely covers the must.  That piquant putty bouquet that shant be warshed a-weigh.  Normal is energetically comatose.  Vigorous yet spectacularly stunted.

Gaza landing strips under homemade Brazilian rule——– lawless, unruly territory.  Disaffected by extreme product identification… divided by the means of meaninglessness.


Advertising as aphrodisia.




That old gal at the department of health was bragging about being telegangbanged by three Ohio governors this morning.  That Mahoning County trollop.  That milfy egghead.  She’s totally a cougar hunter’s fantasy… brainy with a bit of an explosive side.  Probably a real pegger in the bedroom.




Plastic absorbs blood.

Some things are like that, absorbing every residue, every fluid they come in contact with.  Wood, concrete, steel, glass, phenol formaldehyde resin, skin, whatevahwhatevah they absorb.  Most ‘entities’ are permeable; that permeability makes the entity vulnerable to a greater or lesser degree.

I’m writing this out on a chalkboard before transcribing it here.

Throw a bunch of trifling folks together with cameras everywhere and watch the redundant fireworks display; pray you don’t catch a blazing ash and put it in your socket.  It’s best to stick to watching explosions on screens… fireworks varying in design and execution.

Which do you prefer: slicked back pony or high pony?  Me?  Can’t we have both?  The answer is yes, but that would make one ridiculous.


Let’s go for it.


You have powerful scent of death on you— get into my car.  I’m drawn to your duality.  Your ambiguity.  You smell like gasoline.  I kinda like looking into your abyss.  Hope you’re digging mine.

High pony it is!  The curative for your five hundred and eighty third nervous breakdown.  Mine too.  Not really.  The high pony and the slicked back pony are stressing my blog.

That is all.




I scratch myself awake. I open the blinds in the living room and the glass break alarm is triggered.  I must ignore the area under my ribs, a band spanning sternum to navel.  It’s begging me to touch it, to drag my nails across it.  I’m keeping my nails short these days for numerous reasons.  No more long nails, filed to points… although, on the west side the more one can naturally weaponize one’s body, the better.  The stretch from shoulder to neck is the worst.  It’s difficult to ignore it.

My tactical gloves are on the way.  Next up?  Military grade pepper spray, bear spray.  Something that can knock Gojira out cold

After what I’ve just eaten I’m probably going into diabetic shock.  Ever since I opened my eyes, every single thing I’ve put in my mouth has been utter garbage.  In my defense, I’ve drank more than my are dee ayy of aytch two oh.  Hopefully that’ll head off any trip to the hospital.  But, it’s premium bottled water which, as it turns out is undermining me too.

According to Coach Tim, I need to pour it down the drain and throw the bottle into the trashcan because recycling’s a scam.  He’s another electronic spamster shouting at us, on repeat, that tomatoes are poison.  All the nightshades have been indicted in health guru of the month court.  The verdict: GUILTY of inflammation in the first, second and third degrees.  Drop them in the humpty dumpster or in your local Salvation Army drop box IMMEDIATELY!  Give it to the poor because they don’t know any better.  Let them gorge on all your sickly vegetables.


Might as well.


Guinea pigs need their carboenergy to keep on Guinea piggin.  Living their bestest Guinea pig lives, earning those piggybacks.  Lord, lord… I got mines.  Shoot me up with Pine Sol now.

None of us knows better— Mayor McCheeto most of all.

Ground cuntrol to Major Honyok.  Major Honyok, do you read me?  I see you there on the ground in front of a wall of screens.  Ess oh ess.




It’s the time of the season for HI-DING!
What’s your name? 
Who’s your Daddy?

Is he a bitch?  A bitch like me?

Has he taken…
All your dimes?
Keeping it (keeping it) everything but real…

Tell it to me slowly with your mouths…
Give it to me roughly with sealed fists…

Doop droop doop…


Doop droop doop…


It’s the tiiiime of the see-eeea–son for HI-DING!

Obvs… I got a song in my heart.
I got the muzak in me!

The sound of a generation gap!
Those way out sanitarium vibes.

You can even do ‘The Mop’ to it if you wish.  You know… the new dance that all the coolest kids are doing?  The dance that re-enacts a chore without actually cleaning anything?  It certainly allows you to hellacopter your cock around in sweatpants… but so would doing something useful like… I dunno… MOPPING AN ACTUAL FUCKING FLOOR?


You can dance and clean at the same time (the only honorable form of multitasking).  Watch any fucking commercial or family oriented sitcom and you know this.  I’ve been waiting for the new ‘Twist’ the new ‘Electric Slide’ the new ‘Mashed Potato’ the new ‘Macarena’… and now… finally… here it is.  This is slightly better than ‘The Time Warp’ if only because everyone’s pretty.

I hate to say this, but I guess I don’t hate it enough to NOT say it: I knew about Ellen all along.   I indict her as well on fraud in every degree.  Is it too cynical to to say that whosoever plays it that cloyingly sweet and wholesome is overcompensating for a batch of red skeletons buried deep in the loam of their choots?  Well… I just said it.  Come at me ELLEN!  Or any lily-livered Ellen libber.  Find me.  I’m here, in my banana hamminess, with my finger onna tigger.


You flameboiled fucktard.

Forged in the swamp mud of Louisiana, she’s a polycephalic creature who keeps her semi-sentient auxiliary peanuts well hidden under some blander than normal corporate casualwear: she personifies this aesthetic.  She play acts, a mere pee are flirtation with, heterosexuality.  To be more relatable.

‘See… I think about a dick every decade or so.  Then… I think…


Portia should have dumped that Dopey, Grumpy and Sleepy ass when she had the chance a few years ago.  There’s another four (conveniently separate) dwarves out there ripened for the picking.  She could have her share, even at sextay (the new forty five).  Do you think they swing with pretty young things? Is that what keeps they’re three decades old relaysh fresh?  Works for Jada and Will, by Gog.

Ellen rules the air waves with a mediocrity more powerful than The Poperah.  She’s like a vanilla meltdown with a quick freeze shocker tacked on.  I feel like a lone villager, dazed, carrying an out of control torch and a fistful of pitchforks, looking for Ellen’s Khaki Kastle of Montecito.  It’s got a pool with a fountain that’s a putto squirting in a graceful arc.

She’s a troll dressed like the editor of a conservationist rag.

Who would trust a creature that looks like Peter Pan’s aunt from New Hampshire?

All of middle America, probably.

She’s avuncular, safe and smooth as predigested baby food.

Somebody needs to introduce her to golf.  A dynamic gal like her could seriously sink some balls.  She could be the clown carpet-muncher of the Calabasas courses.

Calabasas needs to gets its name out there, and what better way than to hitch your star to that lesbionic Pez dispenser of placebo compassion?


I’m not fond of the Ellen dance.  It’s only a cornball white lady’s version of the Cosby dance.  Everyone thinks the Ellen dance is, like, so funny.  Everyone thought the Cosby dance was a side-splitter, too.  Look at that dumb old man ticking like someone suffering Haldol side effects… watch him shuffle and jerk like an autistic idiot with restless legs.  Ho ho hee hee break a capsule in your aperitif.  His facial expressions become monstrous when you think about him sweaty on top of you, shoving his speckled stooge dick inside your limp, compliant vessel.

You always wanted to be a star.

Ellen was probably a Cosby fan when everyone in Hollywood was simply choosing to ignore his serial rape peccadilloes.  She’s keeping it clean for the old ladies who think she’s a nice boy. Just like the Cos did for pudding headed parents spanning the globe.  Plug a pudding pop in that thing and phone your doctor and apologies in in the ayy emm.

Paging Doctor Jelly Paws.  Report to the Oh Are stat.

Perception is everything, my dear.  The mucosal tears of a psychotic pierrot in Steve Madden Gills.  Tink tink got the blues.

But she’s put on her Adidas dancing shoes.  I wouldn’t be surprised if she plays something as droll as tennis or as tedious as badminton. I’d wager she swims thousands of laps a week.  She probably owns multiple designer track suits… like my dad used to.  Yyyyyaaawwwwwwnnnn.  Only his weren’t designer.  They were Tee Jay Max.

He lived in those fucken things.

Paging Dr. Cliff Huxtable.  Dr. Cliff Huxtable report to abattoir STAT!

Dr. Jelly Paws is predictably indisposed… megaloerotically exposed in see-thru scripture while Jesus Came on 8 track, I behold immaculate pythonic conception… it’s a greasy little soul hack disguised as a slimy pink confection!  By the droll trauma of elitists I emerge defeatist to make my deals: a king’s ring fingering under my tatty surplice of chenille.  And, all the while, I’m singing, ‘I got the music in me!  I got the music in me!  I-GOT-THE-MUSIC-IN-MEEEEEE!’  Finger away old buddy, old pal, old friend of mine… King of Cocks!  Crow like the misaligned barn foul you are!  Make your noises, shoot your best shot all over the place.

Give me delivery, a salmon dinner, and never teach me anything whatsoever.  Donut on my doorstep… how do my my my rashes grow?  Donut donut I’m substituting.  Cigarette suffragette- in the dark shooting.  I want to smash someone’s face in with a toilet seat right now.  Just for the fuck of it, y’know.  I’ve had a lot to do with toilet seats.  My life this week has been a telenovela starring toilet seats.

I’m singing a what the fuck is wrong with me lullaby to go to sleep and dream about suffocating in some shopping mall parking deck structure where nobody knows my name.  If not that, then I’ll gorge myself midwestern to pear-shaped on pâtisseries and pipi-cola.

Ooooo what a lucky man o war, I am! 


Morte, oil on wooden crate, 1994 copyright GPD


It’s more true than not.  And I continue to be the unstable obstacle I want to see in this world.  A heartworm smacked dead in the very corazón of this fanfuckintastic cuntry: the unrivaled host of the beloved lifestyles slash programmes that’ve made us so soft and silly over the centuries: so expectant of ease and ready-made pleasures.  Let’s melt together in the smelting pot only to be imbibed as molten laxative for a hairy-backed giant who ate too many other diseased villagers.  We’re all in it together is the slogan for your Hogan.  Come with me, won’t you?

I’ve axed so much of you already.  It’s not fair for me to ax this. I’m starting to come across as rude.  Don’t you think?

Go the fuck to bed, Gary.


No sooner are the trash bins in Garbage Alley emptied in the morn, they’re overflowing as quickly by the eve.

I’m getting bi-weekly messages from Dr. Berverly Nasim’s orifice to make an appointment.  I JUST HAD AN APPOINTMENT, BITCH!  ASAMATTEROFMUTHAFUCKINFACT, I JUST FIRED OFF THE COPAY ON THAT LAST TELEXAM THIS PAST WEEK.

It seems physicians should be flush with cash and more than busy enough to not be so intent on getting me back to the wellness orifice with my nervous breakdowns and ancillary rashes.

I know, I know…. I had the polyp thing

butt… alas,

mine polyp garden hath been harvest’d and plow’d under. A mug of dewberries twere to recurr eternal!

My new toilet seat does everything… including speaks eh-Spanish.  It whispers sweet nothings in fragrant breezes across my sandbar… the driveway to my former jardin de polypes.

Or, as my toilet seat would say… jardín de pólipos. Subtle differences… but… isn’t culture fun?  Say it’s fun

Don’t disappoint me.

Not twelve hours after I’ve picked the debris from my fence, the links are braided again.


I just heard the term ‘mystery meat people’ and now I’m hungry.

Some dumbshit passed out wearing a mask on a long distance drive. He was alone in the car. He crashed the car as he was asphyxiating himself on his own carbon dioxide. Some people shouldn’t be allowed outside. Much less operating heavy machinery.

Let’s talk about contract tracing…
Ohhhhh… on second thought…

Let’s not.

These local assholes are clawing their families apart because their Instant edges have loosened from their moorings. The bling has fallen away from their nostrils and nails. The luster of the Norman Rockwell painting has not only dulled, but has completely crumbled into hazardous waste that no first responder should have to deal with. As the artifice atrophies, the homicide and suicide rates will soar. The more folks have to face themselves and their families, raw without distractions or escape without potentially disastrous consequences, the more the bodies will hit the floor. Then… all of the sudden… food won’t be scarce anymore; the skies and oceans may actually get a minute to take a breath.

But, only a minute.

This quarantine business will also yield some sort of baby boom. Somebody can take that to the bank; not you. No no no. Not you.

Is that too much of an assumption? For all I know, the eagle has explosively shit all over you. Perhaps you’re rolling in it, drunk with droppings! Well… aren’t you the lucky duckies? Welcome to a new level of heartache, paranoia and imprisonment.

Who’s real and who’s not? You thought it was hard to tell when you were ‘poor’.

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