“I figure, if I’m not having a good time, then it’s my fault,” and it wasn’t that I didn’t want to kill him just then - it was the bandannas the beard the sweat pants under the fatter cutoff sweatpants and the grey ponytail and beard and ‘Davy Jones’s Locker” T-shirt and everything else that I eventually got over.
“Time flies when you’re having rum!”
“The beatings will continue...”
This is a gasoline can. This is a car battery. This is a blackjack filled with 10-gauge buckshot (hey, where’d you get THAT? - oh, sent away. Back pages of Boys’ Life magazine yessir it ain’t all just rubber dogshit and Charles Atlas courses in ‘dynamic tension’ these days; I mean we got torrents of glass and steel cutting past us at awesome speeds and pot-bellied mustachioed coke-daddies whanging off to kiddie porn behind the adjustable angle of their laptop screens if only to forget for a minute that they WORK FOR MISTER WHITE, I mean the immortal cactus-drinking cougar-wrastlin’ inventor of alternating current and the motherhumping internet, too [stuff that in your inbox you KOOL AIDED I-POD KUNTS!] who drank the cool wine at the Fountain of Salmacis and became the illustrious and surpassingly compassionate Bodhisattva WHITEWESTINGHOUSE to whom all our obeySCIENCEs and prayers and AM-EX bills are unequivocally owed [...and when they meet, it’s a happy land - powerful man - universe man])
discursus: that
...so I slept on the beach after a pint of Bulliet bourbon and Krishna-only-knows how many of those knew-whangled micor-soft Moroccan whiz-bang whiz-beers with the special name and woke up eating a mash of barnacles and panties wrapped around a life preserver that had been afloat for some decades of pure saline desolation I later learned after a few lines of the WHIPSMART YEP YEP YEP THAT’S THE TONIC LAD GOTDAMN IN THE WHIP WHIP HOWDY MISTER HOT TO HOWDY ELMO HIS HE’S MISTER ELMO (this goes on for awhile - allow me to WHIP WHIP - HOT! WHARF! MANG! NOOBLE! okay so swaddle me in bacon and grill me if I didn’t come back from that pit of hell without a few of my F-A-C-U-L-T-I-E-S in disjoint. I’m just a piece of bread for Mike’s sake! ) and this kite-store sole proprietor and owner is nuzzling up to a styrofoam block murmuring the theme from Dune and grinding his huge lout-encrusted hippy hardon into the sand like it’s nobody’s business but his and his monkey’s!
I explained all this and more (with orange, lemon and cherry flavors and a full day’s supply of...
WAIT:
Banjo the cat crawled under our bed and swallowed a used condom.
Two days later, he deposited into his litterbox a condom-encased turd.
Cleanup was snap!
...vitamin C - just follow yer SPACEBAR
LAST NIGHT I HAD THIS DREAM THAT I MUST HAVE HAD BEFORE MILLIONS OF caps lock
“Time flies when you’re having rum!”
“The beatings will continue...”
This is a gasoline can. This is a car battery. This is a blackjack filled with 10-gauge buckshot (hey, where’d you get THAT? - oh, sent away. Back pages of Boys’ Life magazine yessir it ain’t all just rubber dogshit and Charles Atlas courses in ‘dynamic tension’ these days; I mean we got torrents of glass and steel cutting past us at awesome speeds and pot-bellied mustachioed coke-daddies whanging off to kiddie porn behind the adjustable angle of their laptop screens if only to forget for a minute that they WORK FOR MISTER WHITE, I mean the immortal cactus-drinking cougar-wrastlin’ inventor of alternating current and the motherhumping internet, too [stuff that in your inbox you KOOL AIDED I-POD KUNTS!] who drank the cool wine at the Fountain of Salmacis and became the illustrious and surpassingly compassionate Bodhisattva WHITEWESTINGHOUSE to whom all our obeySCIENCEs and prayers and AM-EX bills are unequivocally owed [...and when they meet, it’s a happy land - powerful man - universe man])
discursus: that
...so I slept on the beach after a pint of Bulliet bourbon and Krishna-only-knows how many of those knew-whangled micor-soft Moroccan whiz-bang whiz-beers with the special name and woke up eating a mash of barnacles and panties wrapped around a life preserver that had been afloat for some decades of pure saline desolation I later learned after a few lines of the WHIPSMART YEP YEP YEP THAT’S THE TONIC LAD GOTDAMN IN THE WHIP WHIP HOWDY MISTER HOT TO HOWDY ELMO HIS HE’S MISTER ELMO (this goes on for awhile - allow me to WHIP WHIP - HOT! WHARF! MANG! NOOBLE! okay so swaddle me in bacon and grill me if I didn’t come back from that pit of hell without a few of my F-A-C-U-L-T-I-E-S in disjoint. I’m just a piece of bread for Mike’s sake! ) and this kite-store sole proprietor and owner is nuzzling up to a styrofoam block murmuring the theme from Dune and grinding his huge lout-encrusted hippy hardon into the sand like it’s nobody’s business but his and his monkey’s!
I explained all this and more (with orange, lemon and cherry flavors and a full day’s supply of...
WAIT:
Banjo the cat crawled under our bed and swallowed a used condom.
Two days later, he deposited into his litterbox a condom-encased turd.
Cleanup was snap!
...vitamin C - just follow yer SPACEBAR
LAST NIGHT I HAD THIS DREAM THAT I MUST HAVE HAD BEFORE MILLIONS OF caps lock
-
Re: ...but only if Tappy won't
Tue, August 7, 2007 - 12:15 PMCAPS LOCK times before and it reminded me of a very dear and distant memory from my childhood -
actually it was from this morning - or was it late last night?
either way at least I woke up on the right side of the beach which is more than I can say for Cap’m Teagan who was still farting sand and dry-humping a piece of driftwood when I finally reconciled my wrecked intra-cranial membranes with my environs - you need to know a few things about the Cap’m - first: he runs one of the fifty-six hundred kite and T-shirt shops in the happy shopping-mall-turned-theme-park formerly known as Cannon Beach, which, legend has it, was once a “residential community” (pffft, whatever THAT is...), next: like me, he is a crusty denizen of the Sunset Empire public transportation system, or as they like to call themselves, “The Bus” - with a flagrant and iffy pastiche of the Dole corporate logo blazed across every tractor and rickshaw and submarine and hang-glider and Vespa in their amateurish employ - WE don’t drive and I’m suspecting more and more each day it is not just because we drink like, in the saucy words of Capote himself, parched water buffalos - but because we are entangled in their system, they dominate us and it just plain turns us on : the late arrivals and early departures, the softcore-porn-like titillation that comes every day from not knowing whether you’ll make your transfer on time, whether they’ll decide to call it an early day and leave you stranded at the Premarq Center, the artificial island scudding like a massive concrete lily-pad over the lowlands, as if to issue an apology in bargain consumer goods to the hopelessly encroached coastal marsh, hopelessly encroached upon as we were by the Jiffy Lubes and Rent-A-Centers and Suzuki dealerships, rootless carbon-dioxide dependent heliotropes on a snazzy misguided 1980s vacation.
“Would you like a Caramelbuck’s tripplehorn iced mochafrappecino today sir?”
“No, thanks, I’ll just go with the pink frippy and a system-biscuit.”
“5.65 at the window please.”
but I digress...
Cap’m looked agitated, as if he were privy to one of those rare pre-dawn premonitions that the long-coveted thing tantilizing his dreams was merely that, and nothing more - so I did him a favor by peeling one of the hard-boiled eggs I’d forgotten about in my sack-lunch last week and rolling its blissfully naked smooth surface in the sand - then in one swift karate flurry I whisked down his sweatpants and Santa Claus boxers and stuffed the treat smack between his furry butt-cheeks -
“Whoa, Nelly - now THAT got my number!”
Cap’m Teagan bolted upright, morning hardon trailing kelp-fronds of glory (I forgave him this minor indiscretion given the situation and my hot-crossed hangover), and saluted old glory which happened to be flapping like a buckwheat cake on a Walnut Grove morning out in front of the Merrimac hotel - beach towels, identically striped by municipal mandate waved in welcome from the sixteen tiers of bourgeois beach-front balconies -
“Rough night, Cap’m?”
“Missed that cunting bus again.”
“They do love to tease us. ‘Least you got your load on, then.”
“Well, I figure, if I’m not having a good time, then it’s my own fault.” -
-
Re: ...but only if Tappy won't
Tue, August 7, 2007 - 12:19 PMafter I thumbed it home started mainlining this cheap blended scotch that I happened to pocket while darting out of the liquor store last night - or was it earlier this morning? to say the least - it wasn't helping - I'd held the clerk up with nothing but a FINGERNAIL FILE and my own HALITOSIS - I scored a wad of twenties and didn’t even bother to count them - I also nabbed a whole case of Certs, and the aforementioned scotch which tastes like match-light briquettes but my arteries don’t seem to be protesting the flavor so much as the ph levels - well, flush with my new score, I headed to the 24-hour Safeway and picked up some pre-packaged shellfish and tomatoes and olives and a carton of Winstons for those wily hours between four and six when the aphids crawl out of the telephone jacks and the neighbors’ cats rape each other in their shit-stenched back stoops - and I can never spy on them because the pile of stolen Safeway shopping carts just keeps growing and it hasn’t rained in weeks so explain that! so, I whip up a real hefty batch of cioppino for my neighbor because she is lonely and we are best friends forever, I mean until the end - you know, whichever hits the proverbial fan first - and let it marry and meld and marinate there at room temperature for a few more hours and then I leave it her front porch with a note that says, “BEST FRIENDS FOREVER!”
what better way is there to end a perfect evening than to sit chain smoking Winstons and reading the ingredients on the shampoo bottle that one of the neighbor kids left in the gravel? I think he’d been using it as some sort of toy boat in the mud puddles during the spring rains but now that the puddles are all dried up and the crane-fly larvae are all stranded and shriveled and hopeless, the thing just sits there attracting scorpions. kids are so talented when it comes to deep imaginary play. anyway, after a few butts started piling up in the soup-bowl I figured I’d be hearing the those sawing, wailing sounds of the cats raping each other next door as the pre-dawn haze is bleeding up from the power lies - but nothing. what gives? so I’m practicing pronunciation of those ten-syllable phosphates or whatever and the next thing I know the little fuckers are licking the cioppino pot clean. I can see the whole sordid mess through the blinds. I left the pot and the note and figured Lisa would appreciate the thought. Besides, it’s likely been weeks since those cats have had a decent meal that wasn’t regurgitated by Reverend Cly on his two in the morning stumble home from last call.
I figured I’d done two good turns for the day - two birds with one stone - and sure enough, like clockwork came the aphids out of the empty phone jack, with messages from the great beetle, adulations, de-briefings on my latest conquest and a clean brittle formica countertop vision of the future.
best friends forever,
- Piece of Bread -
-
Re: ...but only if Tappy won't
Wed, August 8, 2007 - 4:36 PMyou win something like jellyfish, meester.
-
-
