Stupor too quicky surrenders to sobriety as Will peers over the edge of the embankment to the gutter below, a shimmering dark ribbon alive with water. The gutter. The perfect analogy for his current sad state of affairs. He averts his eyes, looks back to the fire, now just faintly glowing ash.
"Don't look down, fucker."
Those words he's heard before. Many times. Down at the Stagger Inn. Les likes to say that when neophytes wrinkle their noses at the boxed wine and cheap well liquor served at the Stagger Inn. Likes to say, "Don't look down, young sir, we're all closer to the gutter than we think." Says it's part of his "Icarus Philosophy," a bastardized version of the ancient Greek myth where the boy with the ingenious homemade wings represents both man's rise to greatness and the tragic flaw that he can never escape, no matter the lofty heights achieved. Icarus, the boy who flew so close to the sun, so close to the life giver, to the burning heart of existence, and instead of being drawn into it's blinding mystery, limply fell back to earth, back to the sea from where we all originally emerged. Different though, then Adam's fall from grace, he says, different in that it was only unfettered joy that prompted Icarus' reckless ascent, not the selfish desire for knowledge and profound insight, simply the abandonment of fear and a taste for the sublime. Les likes to say that either path is one worth treading with both always ending in mother earth's firm grip.
"But it's not the path you choose that's important, William," he remembers Les telling him one slow afternoon as they waited together for the mid day beer delivery, "but the way you walk your path and the things you find in the tall weeds growing alongside it." Les told him that it was best to keep your head held high, and to always drag one foot in the gutter. "A head in the clouds might make you feel like a god, young sir, but it's your dirty stinkin feet that will keep you grounded, William."
"I'm not sure I understand, Les," Will said. "Why a cautionary tale about joy? Shouldn't happiness be the one thing that has no downside? I seriously doubt that Icarus had a black heart. He had child-like wonder, right? I mean he wasn't trying to drop bombs, he just wanted to fly around like Peter fucking Pan."
Les took a deep puff from his cigarette, let the smoke roil thickly from his furred nostrils, and paused for a moment when the air compressor under the bar kicked on, then continued when the racket abated. "Indeed he did, William, but he colored outside the lines. Dadelus warned him of the perils of flight. Fly too high, the wax melts, fly too low, the feathers get too heavy . . . Happiness is not a gift given without consequence, and naivete or ignorance no excuse for not figuring that out."
"That sucks, Les. You trying to tell me that happiness comes when we follow all the rules, stay inside the ropes, don't feed the animals?"
"I'm not saying that at all, William. In fact, quite the opposite. I'm saying fly as high or low as you like. Icarus was doomed when his wings were crafted"
"You mean I'll always be happy as long as I don't look down?"
"Or until your feathers fall off."
"What happens then?"
"Well, I guess, if the fall doesn't kill you, then you make some new wings."
Curly’s Cold Cunt Combo Blues as sung to me by Curly (based on an embellished true story)
Category: Romance and Relationships
Chorus sung to the tune of Cowboy by Kid Rock
This is the story of the end.
The end of me and my girl friend Pancetta.
I always knew she was crazy.
Maybe it was the twenty-four seven drug cocktail.
Maybe it was the 227 phone calls in one night.
Maybe it was the sad look she’d get in her eyes when I wouldn’t fuck her in the ass . . .
Anway. . .
I knew she was crazy.
Not like a homeless guy.
More like a member of the Manson family.
"Ima man-whore, bay-bee . . .
"Ima man-whore, bay-beee . . ."
So we’re at the Beverly Wilshire.
Last weekend.
Los Ang-gelese.
Land of fake titties and suntan lotions.
I’m there with my crazy old lady. Like always she’s footing the bill.
It’s one of those special situations.
You heard about them before.
The ones that are kinda hard to turn your back on.
I got what she wants.
She got what I need.
Go ahead, you can say it . . .
"I’m a man whore bay-bee . . .
"I’m a man whore baay-beee."
So we’re in a LA.
Visiting some glamorous friends.
Drinking some tasty beverages.
Feasting on some delectable finger foods.
We imbibe, just a little to much, and decide to retire to our swanky room and lay down together for a little . . . ahem . . . recuperative session.
Time passes . . .
Sun skates across the sky . . .
I can see the shadows move.
The designer drapes changing colors.
I wake up to a rumbly in my tumbly, and honey ain’t what I need.
I peek out the curtains to the street down below, and there’s a Subway! Right there! Right across the fucking street. God bless America.
Now don’t get me wrong I’m down with some haute cuisine.
I can suck up some fois grois and some sweet breads with the best of them.
But what I really dig is a foot long meat sandwich.
Subway.
Cold Cut motherfucking Combo.
Cocksucker is satisfying.
Cold Cut Combo.
"I’ma man-whore bay-bee . . .
"Ima man-whore bay beee . . ."
So I’m down at the Subway.
Waiting in line.
Thinking about how I was gonna bring back my girl Pancetta a foot long meat sangwich, too.
I was thinking about her sweet lips.
And her tight ass.
And about how good she looks after I’ve had a good meal.
And right before I get to the front of the line.
Right before I grabbed a pack of Lays Originals.
She rings me on my celly.
She says . . .
"Where the fuck are you?"
Now I’m kinda butt hurt by her attitude.
See I left her a note written in English in big ass kindy-garden letters that said "Hey turtle dump, I’m across the street at the sweet ass Subway Sangwich shop hooking us up with a couple foot long meat motherfuckers. The best! Cold cut motherfucking combos!"
Now I don’t write it exactly like that, but you know what I’m saying . . .
"I’m a man-whore bay-bee . . .
"I’m a man-whore bay-beee . . ."
So she just hangs up.
"Where the fuck are you . . ."
Then click.
Nada.
So I buy them meaty masterpieces.
I hustle back over to our over priced posh ass Hollywood hotel, up to our room, Cold Cut Combo’s smelling as good as my mom’s Norwegian meatloaf wrapped in bacon and slathered in ketchup.
Making my mouth water.
I’m horny for that shit.
I get up to the room, Pancetta is still passed out.
Looking nice in her skimpy undergarmets.
But she’s snoring.
And the room stinks.
It’s her breath.
It smells like she’s been sucking on the ass of the USC football team all afternoon like a bum at a spaghetti dinner with no utensils.
But I don’t say shit.
Cause . . .
"Ima man-whore, bay-bee . . .
"Ima man-whore, bay-beee . . ."
So I let her sleep it off while I polish off half of my Cold Cut Combo.
And then I sing out sweetly,
"Hey baby, you want a Cold Cut Combo?"
’What?" she says.
So I sidle on over like I’m Fred Astair and dangle that foot long just a couple of inches away from her puffy face.
She gets a good whiff of that greasy meaty ambrosia.
but she ain’t digging it, she just tries to push it away with her freshly manicured tips.
I say "Hey, baby . . . I said I got you a Cold Cut Combo . . . Foot long."
"Fuck you!" she said. "Fuck you you motherfucking bitch ass motherfucker."
"Ima man-whore, bay-beee . . .
"Ima man-whore, bay-bee . . ."
So I slapped her in the face with that fucking meat sangwhich!
I smacked her in her puss with that foot long meat sub and she looked at me with this crazy look in her eyes and screamed . . .
"Don’t you feed me like a fucking animal!"
And that’s no lie.
I got the fuck outta there.
I went around the corner to a Chinese food place and sucked down a few Tsing Taos and a plate of sweet and sour duck.
And when I got back to the room she was gone.
Not a sign of her.
Like she’s never even been there.
Except all the little shampoos and lotions and conditioners were gone, too.
The Cold Cut Combo was still there.
It was still on the pillow.
Slightly disheveled but pretty much intact.
So I put her back together.
Got it looking good and doctored her up with some specialty mustard that was in the mini-bar.
Did you guys see Katie Couric's finger last night?
It looked like a prepubescent penis pointing at a super high tech desktop computer screen, pointing at numbers and letter, graphs, colors. It was dazzling and stupid.
Much like the elections themselves.
I was talking with a friend of mine about this last night as we sat in my living room watching Katie's phallic pointer gently waggling back and forth and sharing a bottle of PVC cement.
My next door neighbor is an organic farmer.
We call him Hippy Scott.
He has long hair and often smells of compost.
He is a self proclaimed liberal political analyst and strategist and is vehemently opposed to all things "right wing."
He voted for Obama.
He thinks Obama can change the world.
He told me that people in the Middle East would suddenly see America in a different light if our leader's name was Obama.
He told me that he didn't really know if Obama's policies were any different or any better than any of the other candidates running for President of the United States, but that his name alone might just garner the respect and admiration of the world.
As he was telling me this I was watching Katie Couric's finger-penis point at her computer screen.
When she touched the screen with her finger, the screen would come alive: statistics and graphs, number, colors, maps, demographics all magically started dancing across the screen.
I asked Hippy Scott what he thought of the name Jesus Americano, (pronounced Gee-sus not Hay-soos). I asked if he thought that would be a good name for a President of the United States.
I suggested to him that the name Jesus Americano might appeal to Latino swing voters and conservative evangelicals, Catholics and coffee lovers and the kids! The kids like anything named Jesus for irreverence sake. I said it sounded kind of like a super hero and a Pope all rolled into one.
He wasn't buying it.
He didn't think anyone would vote for a candidate name Jesus Americano.
What about Katie Couric's finger? I asked him?
He said that was a ridiculous name.
I said it looked like a prepubescent penis waggling about pointing at the high tech desk top touch screen computer gizmo.
He agreed.
He said it looked like his girlfriend's dogs lipstick except not as pink.
He told me that Barak Obama was the new John Kennedy.
What does that mean? I asked him?
He said that he was young and good looking and wanted peace. A fresh start.
John Kennedy started the war in Viet Nam, I replied. And he wiped his face on the curtains in the Lincoln bedroom after sucking on the pussies of numerous underage starlets.
Barak Obama would have ended that war, too and his starlets will all be above the age of consent. Besides everybody knows that Barak doesn't suck pussy.
Good point, I said.
I asked him if perhaps Kennedy should have changed his name to Mao John Do. If that might have been all that was needed to calm the Communists in Viet Nam and China thereby eliminating the need for military intervention.
He told me I was being ridiculous.
He told me that changing his name to Mao John Do would have been seen as pandering by the Communist Chinese only inciting in them more anti-American sentiment. He told me if JFK changed his name to MJD that today the people of the Uniteed States would be mixing up our R's and L's.
That's a good point! I piped in.
I told him that if Obama is elected President of the United States Asian Americans with thick Asiany accents would have no choice but to call him Balak Obama, an unintended reference to his mixed race. I told Hippy Scott that that mispronunciation of Obama's name may stir up some bad blood in the ghetto.
He told me not to worry.
Katie Couric's penis pointed at a bar graph which morphed into a pie chart which then turned into a tin of tasty Vienna Sausages singing The Humpty Dance.
Katie pointed at the sausages and said that Hillary was getting a majority of her votes from Hispanics and older white women, while Balak Obama was garnering his votes from mainly balak people, young white voters and horny middle aged housewives.
I told Hippy Scott that those demographics were too broad, and not suppling the viewing public with enough significant information on where the votes were actually coming from.
Hippy Scott though that was a pun.
I told him that I wanted to know how Hillary was doing among second generation Hmong street gangs and twenty-two year old crack babies adopted by unwed lesbian amputees.
Hippy Scott said the Hmong street gangs would vote for Obama cause his name is so cool and street gangs always relate to the outsider, and that the crack babies would vote for Hillary because the unwed lesbian amputee coalition is listing firmly behind Hillary and crack babies always do what their adopted mamas tell them to do.
What about old geezers with shit stained underwear and red headed step children of voting age.
Old geezers go with McCain he told me and redheads vote Romney, of course.
His logic was unflappable.
Dildo sucking porn stars?
Hillary!
Drug addled celebrities?
Obama!
People who have suffered stigmata?
Huckabee!
Near sighted fecal freaks?
McCain!
Dog owners?
Which breed?
Great Danes?
Hillary!
Pugs?
Obama!
Labs?
Balak, Obama!
Golden, Hillary!
Chocolate . . . too close to call!
It went on like that for hours!
Misguided pencil salesmen?
Hillary!
Guys with bad toupees?
Obama!
One eyed dump truck drivers?
Hillary!
Titty dancers with c-section scars?
Obama!
Post-op transsexuals?
Get a penis Obama!
Give a penis Hillary!
Guys who listen still listen to REO Speedwagon?
Obama!
Guys who still listen to Billy Squire?
Hillary!
Katie Couric's finger?
Hillary!
Finally I asked Hippy Scott which demographic would put Obama over the top.
Surprisingly, he told me it was the midget and Gypsy vote that would catapult Obama to his party's nomination.
That puzzled me.
Katie's penis finger hadn't pointed at a graph or a picture or a color all night that indicated that those much needed swing votes were coming from the gypsies or the midgets.
So I shouted, Gypsies!? Midgets?! Are you a fucking moron?! Everybody knows that the most important demographic in this election are the Sheeples!
Sheeples?
He was chewing on a piece of gum when he asked this, his pupils as big as a marbles from all the glue we were huffing. His beard and hair started turning into wool right before my eyes.
Yeah, sheeples, I told him as I started whetting the blade on my favorite butcher knife.
Ciagrette Jones Blues Day 4
Current mood: nostalgic
Category: Friends
I smoked my first cigarette when I was 14. At an all boys boarding school in San Jose, California with a girl named Debbie in a darkened racquetball court in the winter time.
Well, actually, when I was 8 or 9 I puffed on a few shoe flattened butts on a dare. But that's what happens when you mix a handful of kids together with a pack of matches and a few television commercials featuring theMarlboro Man. Just like little monkeys . . .
Anyway, back to my first cigarette with Debbie. On one of our first dates we made out at at the aformentioned darkened racquetball courts. My first french kiss. It was cold as hell. Afterwards she asked me if I wanted to smoke. Not wanting to look like a kook, I said sure, and we lit up. I coughed for about ten minutes straight after I got my breath back, snot brimming over my upper lip, eyes leaking water. I didn't smoke another cigarette until I was 18.
I met Debbie at a high school freshman mixer. She went to the all girls school down the street from the school I went to. I remember we danced to Slow Ride from Foghat at that mixer. She had blonde hair and a cute smile. Besides that I don't remember too much about her.
I do remember that one afternoon, after we had been dating for about two months, I stood in front of a jewelery case at a gift shop trying to pick out a gift for her birthday. A gift that would not only convey the deep puppy love that I was feeling for her, but that would also perhaps, maybe kinda sorta peel off her panties and allow me if not a taste or a feel at least a gander at the holiest of holies. I was doing a giant load of laundry at the laundromat next door to the gift shop so I had lots of time to look around, to study, to really shop for the most promising item.
Now I didn't have a lot of dough, mind you. I mean I was only fourteen, and I didn't have a job, and other than a small allowance I was pretty much flat broke all the time. So price was an issue. I didn't have enough money for anything other than a card and a pack of gum or maybe some kind of high end trinket from a gumball machine. But I couldn't get her a pack of gum or a chintzy tin ring, this girl was my first tongue kiss, this sweet catholic school girl was my first full-hand-touching-the-bra boob squeeze. So I started casing the joint.
I started eyeing these 26 carat golden style gold plated necklaces that were on display on top of the watch case in one of those spinning racks, the kind you find sunglasses on only smaller and instead of sunglasses it's filled with a bunch of velvet lined ring boxes filled with an assortment of 26 carat golden style gold plated necklaces.
The one that caught my eye was a knot. A little golded knot. I was certain that the knot was my ticket to the holiest of holies. I was totally convinced that when she opened my present that next night when she and her friend met me and my roomate at the ice cream parlor before the movies that she was going to open my eyes to the mysteries of the universe.
So I worked on that knot. I took a bunch of those 26 carat golden style gold plated necklaces off of that revolving rack and looked at them up close. I had the lady at the counter try on a few for me. I asked her if she thought a gift as precious as a 26 carat golden style gold plated knot necklace was appropriate for a 14 year old boy to give to a 14 year old girl. She said it was very appropriate. I asked her how happy it would have made her when she was a 14 year old girl if a 14 year old boy presented her with a 26 carat golden style gold plated knot necklace for her birthday. She said it would have made her very happy. I looked at other things, dried flowers, candles, picture frames, I moped around that store for as long as my laundry spun and dried and dried and spun. After an agonizing amount of time I decided on a card and a pack of gum.
The thing is, that during my clumsy interaction with the counter girl I stashed the knot away, just under the counter out of her vision, and after she rang me up and I said thak you very much I just swept that knot right into my bag next to the Hallmark card and the pack of Juicy Fruit.
Well that night, me and my roomate met Debbie and her friend at the ice cream parlor. I gave her the jewel box right after the doe eyed ice cream crew sang Happy Birthday and delivered a giant mound of assorted ice creams and toppings and whipped cream, nuts and cherries, too.
She loved it. She loved the knot. She took me out to the parking lot and kissed me hard, and long, she let me feel her boobs through her sweater and put my hand in her ass pocket and squeeze. But that was it. No grinding. Not even a mini-hump. She wouldn't touch my cock.
So we went back to the ice cream parlor and then to the movies. As we sat there in the movies my skinny arm grwoing numb around her neck, I suddenly realized that something had soured between me and Debbie. It wasn't that I didn't get a mini-hump, or that she didn't touch my denim covered penis, it had something to do with the look in her eye, the subtle movements of her mouth, the way she flicked her hair out of her eyes when she opened the fuzzy box and got her first look at the knot. I knew that she wasn't impressed, I could tell that she knew exactly what 26 carat golden style gold plating was, and it didn't matter to her that I staged an elaborate hoax, risking danger and reprisal to bestow upon her tokens of my affection, gifts made of pure 26 carat golden style gold plating. I knew that I could never give her enough, that good intentions mixed with bad behavior no matter how cool and sincere and romantic would not ever bring me one cunt hair closer to the holiest of holies to the mysteries of the universe. We never saw each other again.
I used to work in hospitality. I used to throw parties at a really swanky resort in a shi-shi little village off the coast of a gloriously rugged coastline. Really extravagant to dos that cost way more money than they were worth. Canapes, crystal stemware, exotic napkin folds, gussied up organ meat, champers darling . . . you know the drill.
I wore a suit to work. My favorite was an olive green double breasted Eye-talian number that I wore with a purple shirt purple tie and matching purple socks. Anyway, sometimes I'd get ass sweat.
I'd be rustling up the crews, checking in with the kitchens and the set up guys, counting heads. I was busy! . . . and I'd get ass sweat. See, now the thing is . . . (and I know some of you are going to say "That's what you get weirdo.") I don't wear underwear. I haven't for years. In fact I haven't owned a pair since I was married.
I used to keep this one threadbare pair, basically it was just a waist band and a bunch of holes for my cock to flop through. I kept that raggedy ass pair of underwear for years, just for the times when my ex-wife would demand that I wear underwear.
No, no I'm totally serious, if we were going out to anywhere, anything, fancy dinner, office party, wedding, funeral, whatever, and I had to wear a pair of slacks, or white pants or anything with thin material, and she thought that she could see the vague outline of my penis through the material of my garmet, or got overly concerned that my pee dribble would be over the top obvious, she would throw a fit until I put on that pair of underwear.
You guys think I'm joking about this, but I'm not. I'd ask her, 'Hey, who do you think is going to be looking at my package?" Girls do that all the time, is what she always said back. "Do you look at other guys packages?" I asked her? Sometimes, she told me. "And?" And the guys not wearing underwear look fucking gross, she said. . . I used to call her a bitch after that, and she'd tell me I was a no good mother fucker and then I'd go out into the alley and smoke cigarettes.
Yep . . . So anyway, besides the times that I was nagged into wearing "the waistband" I've been commando for going on 15 years. And I think because of that, because my testicles have been allowed to drop ever closer to sweet mother earth, they are begining to droop ever so slightlyt, kind of like a 60 year old pygmy's titties. So when I get some ass sweat going, let me tell you I get some ass sweat going.
So anyway, when I was trying to look all cool in my olive green Italian suit with the purple shirt and matching purple tie and purple socks, and my ass starts to sweat, and my saggy balls start swaying from side to side, coming into contact with that ass sweat and kicking out some ball sweat of their own . . . and I mean my ass is sweating!
But remember, I'm hustling, people, remember, I've got a crew of 60 people working at multiple locations putting on fancy schmancy parties, I'm chatting up guests and group contacts and checking the water temperature in the chafers on the buffet, lighting candles and making sure the band has power, hitting on one of the banquet servers with a strand of hair falling in front of her eye, telling the bride that it really does'nt matter if we are one chair short, somebody always doesn't show up, and my balls are sweating and sticking to my thighs, and the waist band of my slacks is starting to turn a slightly darker colour . . . and well . . . that's just not appetizing nor is it cool. Not in the least. Might I say that it's . . . yes, that's right . . . gross.
Thank god for a cigarette and a sport coat. I'd throw that coat on to cover up that ass sweat then I'd go outside and light up. Mmm. I'd find a place under a tree somewhere, someplace where a cool and gentle breeze would blow up the legs of my pants and sweetly dry my dripping balls, my salty taint. I'd light up and stand there, take a break as the butt sweat abated and my sweat stain receded into the crack of my ass. Thank god for cigarettes, I would think. Thank fucking god.
It was cool, not smoking, but I missed the smoking. Missed it bad.
When people would ask me how it was going with my quitting smoking, I'd say,
"Great!"
I'd say, "Yeah . . . hey, no prob. you know I'm really feeling better. That terrible hack, you know the one you get in the morning, in the shower, coughing up those lungers stained with tar. I do not miss that, boy! No way . . . Yeah, I'm cool. No fucking problemo . . ."
But I was lying.
I missed those ciggies, especially when I was having a beer.
And i love having a couple of beers.
Not too many, just a few, low octane, Coors Light.
Cause I can drink some of those beers and not get all hammered and hurting in the morning.
I used to like me a Sierry Nevady or an Anchor Steam, Pilsner Urkel, but that shit started tearing me up, so I down-graded to the cool aid of beers.
Anyway, I like to smoke when I drink. And luckily for me, down at my local drinking establishment, I can smoke. Everybody smokes, if you don't smoke people look at you funny, if you complain, you better starting smoking.
So I started smoking again.
And loving it.
But then about two months ago I got a cold, and I smoked right through it.
I John Wayned it.
My cough got worse.
My sputum yellowed and then mellowed, and in the morning that glorious cough, sometimes a tinge of blood, my spit born with a port wine stain.
I decided I needed to quit.
Unfortunately I started feeling better so I kept smoking.
In fact I started smoking more.
I've usually been a half a pack a day guy.
For years half a pack.
Ten cigs tops.
And I never smoke a cigarette to the butt.
In fact sometimes I will have one, two drags and put a smoke out.
No seriously, acks anybody.
I will gladly give a complete stranger a smoke with the caveat that they can take only one drag if they want and then put it out immediately after that one puff and then ask for another cigarette immediately thereafter.
Anyway, I went from half a pack a day to a pack a day and that started to bug me.
And then I started seeing this anti-smoking commercial and it kind of got to me, too.
No, no it really got to me.
It makes me feel kind of ashamed to tell you that.
Because I try my hardest to not allow the god like influence of the corporate media to saturate my mind, to even permeate my consciousness.
But that is an impossible thing to accomplish and something that a weakling like me would crumple under (but seriously, a commercial just came on my television that is really freaking me out. It's the OnStar commercial. The one where the opening shot comes from the interior of an SUV. For a moment the picture is out of focus and when it clears up you can see a cracked windshield, a smattering of blood. It's obvious that an accident has happened. A voice floods the cockpit of the still interior, dust settles. "Mr. Cockshmear? Are you all right Mr. Cockschmear?" Yes, a weak voice replies. "Don't worry Mr. Cockschmear, help is on the way." Honey, he says to his passenger. Are you ok? "Yes," is all she says . . . Scary . . . Yes no? NO! FUCK NO! It's retarded! Ok so how many accidents happen to people out in the middle of nowhere? Anybody? I'll bet, and I'm gonna go big just to stay on the safe side, I'll bet that 5000 (way less) car accidents a year happen to people who are out in the middle of nowhere. Right? A giant rock falls on your car. You hit a moose. Fall asleep and your car flies over a cliff. All plausible. But is it probable? No it's not. So why would you be afraid of something that most likely, no, probably, will never, ever happen to you? Just to be safe, right? Would you rather be tracked by some rent a cop or potentially but not likely run your auto into a Moose some rainy night on your way through rural Maine . . .)
Sorry I digress, but I mean really.
Jesus.
Anyway, the anti smoking commercial that got to me . . . the one with the rat.
Yeah.
The one where the kinda bloated dude in a white t-shirt is standing on some loading dock puffing on a cig.
He's digging that cigareet, bro.
Mmmm it's so sweet and delicious.
And then they cut to a rat.
It's in a cage, of course.
And there's a head size hole in the front of it so he can stick his head out and rub his little rat tongue along the bottom hole of a metal nozzle connected to a water bottle designed for all types of vermin, I imagine, rats and mice and guinea pigs and weasels, ceptin there's no water in that bottle (well there probably is in real tv commercial land but in the commercial it's something else).
There's nic-o-tene in that bottle!
It's yellow and looks like poison.
Now I know that rats eat poison, believe me, I've kilt some rats, trapped 'em both stick and spring, poisoned 'em, even swerved to nail 'em in my car, but you got to make the poison taste like peanut butter or popcorn or fetid cheese in order to get them to eat it.
So I imagine that they put something in the nic-o-tene water like maybe cool-aid or soy chai latte in there to entice them to lick it.
But once they lick it, they're hooked, and they keep coming back.
But not for the yummy drink, the come back for the nic-o-tene.
They can't get enough.
They love it.
It's their Jesus.
Their Camel on a cross if you will.
So then they go to split screen. . . on the commercial.
They go to split screen and on one side they show the pudgy guy's face and he's pulling on that fag filling his lungs and letting smoke spill out the sides of his mouth his nostrils.
And on the other side is the rat.
And he's poking his head out of the rat size hole and licking the spot where the nic-o-tene comes dripping out.
One puffs.
The other one licks. . .
(Speaking of licks . . . any porn producers out there? I'm hawking a porn script to all comers. It's a spin off of the current political campaigns called "The Iowa Cockasses" An all anal, no holes barred spectacle of filth and debauchery.)
It was driving me crazy.
I'd turn that channel if I saw it come on the screen.
But when I did turn it to the other channel I felt ashamed.
Like a fucking pussy.
So I'd smoke more.
Fuck you TV ad man! I'll smoke if I fucking want to.
That's what I was thinking.
that's what i was thinking that I was thinking.
That's what my hungry mind, my tricky brain was telling me.
But that's not what I was really thinking.
I was thinking . . . about killing rats.
Not about rats killing themselves.
Figured the New Year would be a good time to test my will.
I'm feeling pretty good about it right about now.
Who knows what I'll feel like tomorrow.
I made some split pea soup tonight.
Threw in some celery and some carrot and garlic and big ole smoked ham shank.
Oh no! They tagged me, Cisco! Suck the poision from the wound . . .
Category: Blogging
Here are the rules as they were described to me. Feel free to break them as rules are in fact, by Christ's command, made to be broken.
Once you have been tagged, write a blog with 10 weird, random things, facts, habits, or goals about yourself. At the end choose 5 people to be tagged, listing their names and why you chose them. Don't forget to leave them a comment (you're it) and to read your blog. You can't tag the person who tagged you. Since you can't tag me back, let me know when you've posted your blog so I can see your answers.
1. I believe that human beings are the aliens of the future, either that, or we are the progeny of extraterrestrials from a far away galaxy and chimpanzees. Whichever theory you prefer, it kinda sorta makes us inbred, which in an odd way confirms both the creationist and evolutionist theories of the origin of man.
2. I have castrated young bull calves and roasted their testicles over a smoldering fire filled with hot irons. The testicles taste like giblets, and the sadness they fill you with as acrid as hair smoke.
3. I vote for myself every general election. Well that's not exactly true, once I voted for Ronald Regan and once I voted for Jacques Cousteau and once for Frank Zappa but other than those times and a couple abstentions, I vote for myself . . . no I'm serious and so should YOU.
4. I love my sons unconditionally.
5. Unlike most of the general population, age, it seems, is having a contrary effect of me. The older I get the more of an anarchist I become. Fight the power!
6. I don't own a cell phone, an ATM card, a bank account, a credit card. I don't have cable TV. I pay with cash. Cash only. But I like to pronounce it "gAsh" with the long "A" sound, like a Jersey goon.
7. Celebrities give me the creeps, kinda like dust mites do. I mean you know that they are everywhere, you can't touch them or see them without the aid of some televisualscopic device, but they are there, and there and there! all around you, constantly feeding off your dead skin and reeking like over filled vacuum cleaner bags.
8. Once, while traveling across Japan in a beat up Datsun station wagon, I heard the song Take a Walk on the Wild Side come on an all Japanese radio station. When I say all Japanese radio station I mean only traditional Japanese music was being played on it for hours. It was the only radio station we could tune in on the crappy radio in that beat up old Datsun. So for hours we're listening to the lilting sounds of Japan, then quite suddenly, unexpectedly at about one thirty in the morning, bAM! just like that Take a Walk on the Wild Side starts up and plays all the way through to the last chorus of the colored girls. Then the traditional Japanese music starts up again. I thought it was really weird, cause Lou Reed is my favorite rock star of all time. And the colored girls sing . . .
9. I've seen a man get shot in the chest, and watched as his lungs filled up with blood before he took his last breath. The look he had in his eyes before he died was not one of fear but one of confusion. I took some comfort in that.
10. I've been water boarded. What's all the fuss?
So then I Taggeth thee
Zoe Brock-because you are loved by many
Hobo Kitty-because you are
Ms. Supreme Commander- because you don't have enough going on right now and because I loves you
Josie- because you I believe started this little game
Firme Pistolera - because "where you been, biscochita?"
Marylins Overdose- because I'm curious
Casey- welcome to the fold
Well there you have it.
My tagging duties are done.
Into the future I send this chain letter in the hopes of it having great effect on the world and all who live upon her.
To some of you this may come as very sad news, to others it may be joyous reason for celebration. Jerry Falwell has died. He has been called up to the bosom of his holy father where he will be able to suckle at the teat of the Almighty for all of eternity.
He was found expired in his office at Liberty University. As of yet, the cause of death remains unknown. However there are those who say that just prior to his death a heavenly choir comprised exclusively of cherubic angels of late term abortions decended upon the town of Lynchburg, VA and sang a dirge in his honor.
Other witnesses attest to a strong odor most likely akin to a Krispy Kreme factory emanating from his corpulant body.
Some of his followers claim this phenomena to be a sign from God, and are petitioning the Vatican for immediate cannonization.
Others from his flock, are stunned by this desire for Sainthood, reminding devotees that Rev. Falwell felt Catholic Saints were an abomination, a callous violation of the 3rd commandment, and he would have rather become a homosexual prostitute than be cannonized by the Pope.
The Pope's people were not available for comment. However an un-named Vatican source disclosed that the sickly sweet smells of donuts and glaze are considered by the Church to be an augury of evil, the stink of the devil, flatulento diabalicus, or the farting of Satan.
Rumor has it that a few third world nations are bidding on his remains as a way to end hunger in their drought ridden countries.
nostalgic
sweaty
anxious
cynical
