(no subject)
A Friday night in autumn - here we are, again. I've been here before. It smells like children's tears, new algebra textbooks and dead birds. I feel as though I've just been released from a prison I had no idea I'd been doing time in. I'm out on parole. Trick or treat.
I'd love to say it's just me and the moon, tonight, but I've just altered the geometries a man's skull using an antique recoilless hammer. I feel as though it would be impolite to exclude mention of him (quiet as he is). I don't like the way he's looking at me. I feel as though I'm being judged. We'll be parting ways soon.
I've got a half tank of gas and the urge to travel. It's just the moon and me, now; my confidant and companion on a never-ending quest for the truth about Sammy Davis Jr.'s time in the Church of Satan. A pop-culture footnote everyone hears about, but refuses to question. Where's the outrage? Pee-Wee Herman gets caught being nice to himself in the relative privacy of a sleazy theater, he gets crucified; we drag him through the streets and stone his corpse, cursing his name and telling our children to despise his memory. How does this greasy Puerto-Rican get to keep singing, dancing and releasing record after record of smooth jazz shit after publicly flaunting an allegiance to the lord of all mortal terror and sin? None of it adds up.
Samuel, you Nixon loving born-again kike... what were you hiding? I've got you now. I'll put cigarettes out in your eyes. One of them, anyway; I'm keeping the other one. That lying, lubricated marble you've been squinting over since Eisenhower's second term... I've got plans for it. I've got a cigar box behind my mattress that I use to store mementos, trinkets and keepsakes. I'm a sentimental guy. I put my sister's ear in there after it was sent to me in the mail. So far that's the extent of my collection - but it's a buyer's market and I'm looking to expand.
A man needs dreams and goals, after all. Keep himself from going crazy.
I'd love to say it's just me and the moon, tonight, but I've just altered the geometries a man's skull using an antique recoilless hammer. I feel as though it would be impolite to exclude mention of him (quiet as he is). I don't like the way he's looking at me. I feel as though I'm being judged. We'll be parting ways soon.
I've got a half tank of gas and the urge to travel. It's just the moon and me, now; my confidant and companion on a never-ending quest for the truth about Sammy Davis Jr.'s time in the Church of Satan. A pop-culture footnote everyone hears about, but refuses to question. Where's the outrage? Pee-Wee Herman gets caught being nice to himself in the relative privacy of a sleazy theater, he gets crucified; we drag him through the streets and stone his corpse, cursing his name and telling our children to despise his memory. How does this greasy Puerto-Rican get to keep singing, dancing and releasing record after record of smooth jazz shit after publicly flaunting an allegiance to the lord of all mortal terror and sin? None of it adds up.
Samuel, you Nixon loving born-again kike... what were you hiding? I've got you now. I'll put cigarettes out in your eyes. One of them, anyway; I'm keeping the other one. That lying, lubricated marble you've been squinting over since Eisenhower's second term... I've got plans for it. I've got a cigar box behind my mattress that I use to store mementos, trinkets and keepsakes. I'm a sentimental guy. I put my sister's ear in there after it was sent to me in the mail. So far that's the extent of my collection - but it's a buyer's market and I'm looking to expand.
A man needs dreams and goals, after all. Keep himself from going crazy.