Like Sand Thru Your Rectum, These are The Days of Our Lives

Another nigger day.  Who’s racist?  I’m the nigger, dumbass, save your Ralph Nader-righteousness for someone who gives a shit.   Too many chicken wings drowned in beer in my head.  If I have high blood psi I want to feel it…they call high-bp the “silent” killer, I say he takes too goddamned long.  I take so many pills each morn and night just to exist they should be M&M’s.  Look, here are some women walking along, this one has the face of a goddess and this one has big tits like happy floating moons and this one has an ass like a kidney-shaped swimming pool turned inside-out.  I’d like to poke all of their stomachs from the inside with my German helmet for 22 minutes then vanish like the Predator.  Each girl/woman is escorted by a ball cap-wearing jerkoff who looks like a cardboard cutout.  I don’t know what they have that I don’t:  I have the brains, the words, the humor and now thanks to chocolate protein powder and a few curls, a bit of bicep.  But I also have no money and only wear clothes I can afford and drive a car that looks like a green ladybug on wheels.  Now because I am lazy and want to beef this up and make a point, I’m going to hand you over to Dale Carnegie, long dead but still winning friends and influencing people:

“The average man who is happily married is happier by far than the genius who lives in solitude. Turgenev, the great Russian novelist, was acclaimed all over the civilized world. Yet he said: ‘I would give up all my genius, and all my books, if there were only some woman, somewhere, who cared whether or not I came home late for dinner.’

Everyone I know is not happily anything.  Same goes for everyone I know of.  I am sure that of the next 100 people I meet, not one will have read anything by Turgenev, whose name surely rhymes cadence with turkeyneck.  I’ve got to get to Tijuana and laid again, and not just a few times.  I need to save and save and leave that place with no bodily fluids, even my eyes must be dried apricots when I stumble out of the curtains into the piss-smelling Mexican air, happy for the first time in my life again.  I am so miserable sitting in this chair though the chair is doing its best.  The other day a friend drives us to the coffee place and an old fuck with a Walt Whitman beard is standing on his car’s passenger side with the door open, cockblocking the parking spot closet to the entrance.  I make a comment on how I could slit the old man’s throat and not feel a thing.  My friend continues to be my friend because he boils with the same rage, though configured differently.  Now we’re inside sitting on matching olive-green recliners and drinking iced fuckachinos; the dumb White kid with a mop of hair (see, no prejudice) had fucked up and put whipped cream on my drink, the dumbass.  When I went up the counter and ordered I said, give me your company’s version of a large-sized coffee-Slurpee, and he translated it into his magical coffee language and it was on.  And he fucked it up.  While we’re sitting on the recliners I recall the old man cockblocking us in the lot (I can still see him out there) and again express my desire to slit his throat wide open and piss in the gash.  I would be mildly horrified if someone else said this but when it’s me I know my limits.  The rage is forever there but the will to act senselessly isn’t in my blood, there are too many organized words keeping me from real happiness or joy or in this case one moment’s freedom releasing some ill-parked prick from his jail of karma.  Another man is going back and forth from the coffee store to his hybrid car, a liberal weenie straight from Central Casting.  He’s tall as a small tower so his hemp-cotton hybrid suit must’ve cost him extra, but let’s fess up, it’s cool to be him:  every year he gets a nice card from the rain forest thanking him for his efforts to change the temperature of the earth, even though the earth has felt exactly how it wants to feel for billions and billions of years without his or Yanni’s tampering.  Hybrid cars run on mouse farts and self-righteousness.  I would buy a hybrid if I were richer than dirt poor and it would be a Hummer that towed a backup Hummer behind it and both vehicles would have tires made of hemp.  Now the speakers in the coffee place are playing ugly clown circus music.  Why must everyone stick out their chest and be pretentious, even the music?  Some fat women arrive and leave.  Long after they’ve left my friend suggested we ask them to go home with us and suck our dicks (he can be an idiot).  His sister wouldn’t accept my offer to go down on her but that’s not his fault, I have this incredible aura of religious power, I can turn the loosest whore into a sex-fearing Christian just by saying hell-o.  These past few years have been the worst ever, because existentially I’m stuck in place treading diarrhea in a Jacuzzi filled with the same and having done it for so long, trying to keep my head above the liquid shit that passes for my fetid existence, I can spell diarrhea by heart, don’t even need spell-check.  I slit the old man’s throat and he bleeds all over his riceburning coupe.  That will teach you to hog parking spaces. old man.  One per cutomer here.  I had a dream of the future; there were computers that understood English, seven-story high shower stalls with walls covered in tiny square shower tiles and headless dogs—very much alive—running around.  Buses, however, were late.  I sometime wonder if/when I make it to 60 and everyone is a robot at last if I’m going to look back on these dark years and shudder, perhaps weep that I could not save myself, the 60-yr-old me is powerless to do so.  Left to my own wits this existence has been nothing but nightmare, paper towels that rip off the dispenser before they get started, married women cheating with goofballs instead of me, chocolate with maggots in it, batteries that die too soon, not enough juice in the cordless hacksaw for the whole job, rude home-schooled punkass kids taking over, bad music, spoiled milk, juicy girls young enough to land me in the clink forever ruining everything and their older legal sisters always demanding your soul like a slab of sushi tied to a bankroll with your bloody veins.  I can bench press hatred to 400 but I can’t say hell-o to the woman, there’s nothing to back it up, I don’t even own a ball cap, just two balls and a keyboard that sits bored too long, silent like the still-baking air gliding languorously between the legs of cacti far out in the desert where no one has ever cared and no one will.  I promise I will tell you what I see right when I die.  Other than that, we’re all on your own.        


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