and the locusts sang
Maybe its not the locusts, but I sleep with the window open and the sound of the chill comes in at me every now and then. I had big ideas for this email when i decided to start it, big blonde ideas, big blonde buxom ideas; put plain ones too. Can't assess the ol' mood. Got real worked up earlier in the day at the state of our world - and man alive, is it a bad one...It was mostly because Gabe was watching TV and I listened, in turn, to a special about Erin Brokovitch and those cocksuckers and PG&E (who i give money to still), then something about the registration interference (if i was Jesse Jackson that last bit would have ryhmed) and then something about banks now instantly letting checks clear regardless of the balance...and it hit me. I don't want to give these cock sucking ass rapists my money, energy, or time any more. i don't want their slick magazines, their coy abbrevieations, or their dog bones dropped at my feet when I start to chomp at the bit (mix that, you god damn pettifoggers). I was brilliantly inditing these bastards with clear and concise arguments that I think anyone would have been hard pressed to defend against. Melt me up that toothbrush and I'll shank these fuckdicks but good. It is no longer the merrysome folly of a man gaping at the sky and the trees and the lit windows (of uniform design)- and wondering wherefore am I here, down on the street - no. This is just disgust. I even sort of decided to go ahead and vote for Nadar...because fuck both of those assclowns. Marriage is between man and woman, feti (fetuses?) are IN fact insidisouly human, blah blah blah. Your daughters are sluts, you're wives are gold diggers, and your dicks are no doubt tiny and small. Go play in someone elses sandbox - I got a bathtub to fill with milk and a naked blonde to find who is willing to dip herself busom deep in it before the curdling comes on strong and that same blonde hair gets all nappy with cottage cheese - if you will. There is no money to be had, and I don't want any of that filthy fucking shit anyhow. Think about it...we live in a world where plenty of people shit on one another for kicks - you can't sit there and tell me that one out of every three dollar bills hasn't been jizzed on, pissed on, and shoved up some nancy boys ass before being passed on to the casheir for a copy of FHM or Maxim or The Wall Street Journal - don't see that particular corallation? I do. Tits and ass, my friend, tits and ass...they don't get you jobs...unless they're yours.
I'll take a red face in the snow, wool scarf wrapped all tight under the chin, maybe a six pack of guiness, some butter, some bacon, some flap jack mix - couple books, maybe, some photographs maybe, and call this mother fucker a day. Thats it man. I'm out. I'm taking my quarter back - I'm unplugging the phone - and I am taking T-Mobile, Comcast, Bush, Elective Surgery, Chiropracters, and anything that doesn't involve paper mache puppets, bending them over an iron wrought bench, and fucking the lot of them right in the ass. Let them have (metaphoric) blood in their stool for once. I don't got time to pussyfoot around when the rib cage starts aching as I hit the sheets for a night of aborted attempts to make things seem like they might once again be pretty, or plain, or pushed in one direction or another. Pass me the twinkies, a can of crisco, and a lifetime supply of real juicy pork chops, and I can make a god damn mansion of bones. Bones - the very marrow of which assails us in the night sometimes - bones, which lay beneath all our god damn vanities, insecurites, extra pounds, superflous hairs, unnecassary body odor, moustahces, thick brows, crows feet, bags under the eyes - lay beneath politicians and prostitutes alike - and everyone alive will see that god damn corrolation. If there were some way for me to get giantly obese without having the pressure of all that flesh crush in upon my heart, I'd go ahead and do that shit. If I didn't like masutrbation so much, I'd chop myself off at the neck and sit myself on a hill somewhere, on a spike with a time released axis that could spin me from maybe a nice view of Manhattan town to some kind of glade, where some other poor sap can try and goad naked women into bathtubs full of milk. Christ alive, sasquatch, whatever happened to that kind of bouyancy? When did these god damn wings get scorched, when did my feet dig into the soil - since when am I the most rational god damn man on the planet?
I tell you, lumps magilicutty, I breathe deep with joy that the only certain thing is that all this utter nonsense ends one day, and i can lay my weary bones in a pine box and glare into the darkness for eternities to come. Because, rest assured, Bush, Katherine Zeta Jones, Bill O'Riley, and every ad executive on the face of the planet will one day be lying right there with me. I'll shed some skin if it means a kinder, more gentle world, post collapse...bring on the knife fights over rat carcass burgers - i ain't never makin it to the million dollar bash no how.
Ah, but how the lungs do press in on themselves, how the eyes begin to bleed - a porcelain tub never sounded so good.
Boy howdy. This world is one real fucked up place.
I'll take a red face in the snow, wool scarf wrapped all tight under the chin, maybe a six pack of guiness, some butter, some bacon, some flap jack mix - couple books, maybe, some photographs maybe, and call this mother fucker a day. Thats it man. I'm out. I'm taking my quarter back - I'm unplugging the phone - and I am taking T-Mobile, Comcast, Bush, Elective Surgery, Chiropracters, and anything that doesn't involve paper mache puppets, bending them over an iron wrought bench, and fucking the lot of them right in the ass. Let them have (metaphoric) blood in their stool for once. I don't got time to pussyfoot around when the rib cage starts aching as I hit the sheets for a night of aborted attempts to make things seem like they might once again be pretty, or plain, or pushed in one direction or another. Pass me the twinkies, a can of crisco, and a lifetime supply of real juicy pork chops, and I can make a god damn mansion of bones. Bones - the very marrow of which assails us in the night sometimes - bones, which lay beneath all our god damn vanities, insecurites, extra pounds, superflous hairs, unnecassary body odor, moustahces, thick brows, crows feet, bags under the eyes - lay beneath politicians and prostitutes alike - and everyone alive will see that god damn corrolation. If there were some way for me to get giantly obese without having the pressure of all that flesh crush in upon my heart, I'd go ahead and do that shit. If I didn't like masutrbation so much, I'd chop myself off at the neck and sit myself on a hill somewhere, on a spike with a time released axis that could spin me from maybe a nice view of Manhattan town to some kind of glade, where some other poor sap can try and goad naked women into bathtubs full of milk. Christ alive, sasquatch, whatever happened to that kind of bouyancy? When did these god damn wings get scorched, when did my feet dig into the soil - since when am I the most rational god damn man on the planet?
I tell you, lumps magilicutty, I breathe deep with joy that the only certain thing is that all this utter nonsense ends one day, and i can lay my weary bones in a pine box and glare into the darkness for eternities to come. Because, rest assured, Bush, Katherine Zeta Jones, Bill O'Riley, and every ad executive on the face of the planet will one day be lying right there with me. I'll shed some skin if it means a kinder, more gentle world, post collapse...bring on the knife fights over rat carcass burgers - i ain't never makin it to the million dollar bash no how.
Ah, but how the lungs do press in on themselves, how the eyes begin to bleed - a porcelain tub never sounded so good.
Boy howdy. This world is one real fucked up place.