The Daily Fix

The problem with child labor is that it’s in all the poverty-stricken places, and isn’t getting imported into the prosperous nations it ought to exist in. For example, I need (desperately) an eight-year-old butler to cater to my every whim. “Roberto, commence the fanning!” I would cry, and hence Roberto would come toddling forwards from his cleverly hidden quarters (also known as the “dryer”), carrying with him an immense palm frond. This palm frond would be utilized in the most ingenious of ways, as an air-circulation device. Who needs strength of character when an eight-year old Puerto Rican boy is hand-feeding you grapes, I ask? Nobody, that is who. Not even the Dalai Llama could resist Roberto’s charms, I feel.

But enough about my upbringing! Or, perhaps not. It is important to realize that it is not in my, Roberto the writer’s tiny scarred hands that the power rests in. Rather, it is John Moses Tarkington that holds the power over me. I am frenzied, hurried, driven mad by the delusive power of my literary glory! Or not. I believe John Moses Tarkington and I tire easily, and require sustenance. To the ink bar!

On behalf of the country, the president, and all the slaves, I’d like to welcome you back.

Back to the plantation!!!!

The love plantation!!!!!

Anyhow, I was noticing a disturbing trend the other day, whilst I was intently staring at my television screen. Prepare for some truly godwonderful observational comedy:

SO, you know how, like, they’re always re-doing these crazy low-budget crossover movies, and then, like, just going straight to cable and dvd? For example, I was at the local Movie Rental Hut/Rapist Shack, and I saw a movie with a bright red cover with a man in suspenders! Imagine! Also, get ready America! For “Jew-No!” Starring Ellen Page and Sacha Baron Cohen, this hilarious romp through the Tennessee backwoods combines our two favorite lovable characters Juno and Borat, acting as wacky and wiiiiild ans anything! Our lovable pregnant teen-aged friend cracks wise and says indecipherable quote-unquote (swatch carefully now, because I’m gonna PUT QUOTES around this next ‘un) “teen slang,” whilst our lovable Eastern European bigot shits in bags, swears in an innocent fashion, and murders Jews with a Pickaxe! Lighthearted comedy for the entire family!!!

Seriously, someone notify those semi-retarded frat-boys/jackasses over there at comedy central. I’m sure there can be some type of National Lampoon-esque thing. I’LL BE RICH NO MATTER WHAT

I’m on vacation. I don’t want to write. GoOoOoOoOoOoOoOodbye.

Talking to you makes me feel sick. Then again, I contracted Gonorrhea from not screaming loudly enough, so maybe I ought to say some things before you react to what I just said which might be a good thing because pregnancy too is a venereal disease and if I can only impress upon you gentleman at the Walt ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZDISNEY Corporation why it should be me who gets the golden ticket and not that other guy who got pregnant (however ill-begotten the child may be, I know it would be wrong to abort because my vacuum cleaner is too old and thus not powerful enough and the Pope told me not to while I was sitting on his lap in the mall and asking him to give me a pony and a Jewish loaf of bread; have you noticed that all bakeable items are either Jewish or not Jewish? I find this very strange).

Anyhow, I was asking you not to talk. Or rather, not to acknowledge that I’m talking to you. Well, I’m not, really. This is writing? Is it? Who? Did Horton hear it? Oh, I see, I’ll just type this sentence in italics to fulfill contractual obligations and thus avoid the cold-blooded murder of my family and my dog.

I don’t have a dog. Well, murderers, you can take my children and wife, just don’t harm my dog!
Hahaqhahahahahahahahahahahaha!

See? I don’t, like, have a dog, so you can’t hurt it! Ohhhhh man I laughed so hard my placenta hurts now.

Er, the baby’s placenta. I certainly didn’t steal my unborn child’s placenta and start wearing like a shawl.

This may come as a surprise, but the most important priority in my life isn’t to keep on typing in “www.blog.vom” over and over and fucking over again until finally something goes horribly awry and up comes that magical little “c” that allows me to type into an annoying (and constraining of artistic impulses) box for nobody to read.

I MUST NOT BE STIFLED! Children! Gather round! Your mother is going to tell you a very important story about how he was once inconvenienced by this most wicked and amoral male society!

“Yesterday, I was driving a car when I saw a Woman driving a car. I hate women! The end.”

Yes, I realize that such ineloquence is not excusing the fact that for two(!) whole(!) days(?), you who need me have not been haivng what they need: euthanasia. I assure you that this mistake can only be made once, and as an apology I would like to offer you the chance to either euthanize yourselves, or allow me the undeniable pleasure of coming to your home with a man-sized cheese grater and doing my business as I will. This brings me to an important distinction I must make in the future: there are irrevocable differences between me and the good Dr. Kervorkian:

1) I have no medical degree, and only the other mental patients refer to me as “doctor.” Don’t let this get in the way of unconditionally trusting me, though!

2) Kervorkian was known because he “assisted suicides.” I inflict a practice known as “murdering my enemies.” This is not too important a distinction.

3) Kervorkian never watched “Dancing With the Stars.” I don’t either, but I hear America loves it!

And the list could go on, but I don’t have anything else to put on it, so it would just be a long string of numbers (which pain the eyes and make it difficult to read real words, like “jklhgfjdgnsdfa.” Say that five times fast! Wait, wait. Don’t. DON’T. Okay, I warned you. Wait, before you do- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH OH MY GOD IT’S HORRIBLE

Now that Borgnine’s Satanic claims have been revealed as falsehoods, I feel our gentle-ladie’s tea-club can turn to our true agenda:

I was watching the television the other day, and then Richard Hell passed out and we all had to go home.

No, let me start over.

I was watching the television the other day, when I saw a commercial.
Scratch that.

You know Motorhead? NO, the band. I’ll assume you do, seeing as the gimp suit you’re wearing has it printed all over.
Wait, we need context.

So anyhow, I saw this commercial, and it was for cellular phones. Quite a feat, those little things, eh? Oh, how I hate the younger generation sand their technical wizardry! How I begrudge them their almost fantastical ability to type out inane bits of meaningless driel with their thumbs! I use all of my fingers, in addition to a wide array of illegal Chinese sweatshop-children who are actually typing right now as I dictate some type of thing to them. Say something, Chang-Chang!

The cruel man is very bad to us. He has impregnated at least half of the women, and is rationing us twelve grapes per twenty-minute break. I feel as though the yoke of oppression that has been placed upon my poor, emaciated Chinese body is too much. I cannot go on.

Okay, that’s unrealistic. Like a starving Chinese eight-year-old knows the word “yoke.” Or “oppression.” Or English, for that matter. But worry not! I have lied to you! See, dishonesty can alleviate all your worries, and not just your allergy symptoms (unlike cocaine mixed with Allegra(tm), which only alleviates basically nothing).

Anyhow, where was I? Before the Chinese yong ‘uns became involved. Before the mobile idiot locaters. AH, Motorhead. I’d do a little Umlaut, but Blog.com won’t let me. Oh, the injustice! The tyranny!

Motorhead. In a commercial, that’s right. The Motorhead song, yeah. Well, not the whole thing. Just a bit of it.

You, the reader of this fine literary achievement, a bombastic statement of my scholastic might, may feel that you have been unjustly subjected to far too many words. I would like to answer your question with another question: why learn to read if you aren’t going to misuse your executive command over some language by reading some poorly-written piece of shit Chinese slave labor?

All answers to such a question may be put in the “comments” repository, where they will gather together in unlawful union.

Anyhow, on to Motorhead. The song was “Ace of Spades,” and whenever I hear it, I think to myself, “Why would AT&T put a song about niggers in one of their comemrcials?”

Perhaps the answer is only in the deification of the old boredoms, the droll amusements we used to hurl ourselves into in order to scare away any type of contact with one another. They’re gone now, you know. Those long summer afternoons, spent staring at the sun and throwing tiny pebbles into the void. Gone and dead. Now we take our dogs for walks in separate parks, watching the clichéd mist form from our mouths as the winter air grasps our carbon dioxide in its tiny, prickly forearms. Winter is all-encompassing; it seems as though the shovels, men in jackets, women in jackets, children in jackets, even those asinine animals in jackets with their idiotic frou-frou owners running after them rule our stultified, strangled and strained world inside the snow-globe. Sadly, suburbia this isn’t, and we have to deal, head-on, nastily, with the introduction of other people’s vignettes to our own pithy existences, watching the dime-store-novel romances and coffee-shop bohemian lurching of suppressed minds color the travails of our otherwise drab lives as though they were the screens we once so longingly and readily gazed upon, as our little men beat the living shit out of one another. Well, not for much longer. Spring comes, it comes and it goes and it comes, and what have we to show for it? Nothing but our own hypothermic delusions, fueled by our fevered brains bludgeoned by beaurocracy and barbiturates, barring the bastions of blue brilliance that spout out of your profanity-riddled nightmares.

Good Night.

I’d like to think that the fourth wall is broken every time a piece of art is created. After all, all art is created with the intent of viewing, and so the art communicates (intently) with the viewer, on a visual, aural, or perhaps literal level. Hitherto, this work shall be referred to as “John Moses Tarkington.” Say hello to John Moses Tarkington, will you? Did you know that John Moses Tarkington’s Flesch-Kinkaid reading level is at eleventh grade? A high-school junior probably wouldn’t agree with this; they are so full of vitality and youth (and therefore mistaken thoughts that they are here for a reason) that they couldn’t ever ever ever ever ever love John Moses Tarkington. Of course, he’s not meant to be loved- OH GOD A PRONOUN.

This particularly infantile practice of quickly ending a sentence by segueing into another, totally irrelevant one seems to be a large, hairy dinosaur. Dinosaurs existed mainly for the edification of Rhodes scholars, like Kris Kristofferson, certified member of the board of Members, Canada ’s largest organization of male organ donors. They’ll “donate” their organs to you any time! It’s just that they’ll put them back in their trousers when their done (as if you didn’t get the high-laaariously amusing joke already, I have hidden inside this infant paragraph the gift of obvious secondary lines that add no value to my already invaluable humor).

Good evening, my computer compatriots! A Pragmatic sweep of our resources has found that in our electrified-barbed-wire holding-cell, there are scant items of food left raw and living. This is where, after all, the lovelier bits of human nature are arraigned in glory about the shoulders of some lovelorn neighbor-boy like a shawl, despite the fact that he’s ben locked up in a cage made of electrififed barbed wire for a few hours.

I think our problem is that we just don’t communicate well enough, him and I. He seems to look down upon me in a rather disparaging matter, the runt, having decided that my vocabulary consists mainly of a few random squawks and yelps. This cannot remain the situation at hand! There must be dialogues, serious dialogues, my friend, as to the nature of the problems our relationship is undergoing. He only has a few days to live, after all, before I cap ‘im and feed him to the squid, and I am not under the illusion that

Jose says I should use some type of punctuation to indicate that I have made my departure from the particular line of thought I’m departing, but what does he know? He was foolish enough to be trapped by a gigantic descending basket, so what does he know? Not much, admittedly. Wait, I’m not admitting anything. That wasn’t signed, you can’t link it to me in any incriminating way!

Whose writing is this, anyway? I think Jose is just jealous, due to his lack of contact to the outside world. I bring him his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and yet he refuses to speak! The yellow wallpaper speaks to me, Manuel, Raoul, Omar, Paco, Sancho, and all the rest of me and m international friends! I think the world looks brighter in a poncho, because the border’s so far away and the sun shines brighter when you don’t have a sunburned white man hugging your legs as you do a little cha-cha-cha away from the schnauzers who seem to be hell-bent on biting some, any piece of you. Just an opinion, a personal opinion.

TO VIEW THIS BEAUTIFUL WORK OF ART, PLEASE TURN YOUR MONITOR ON ITS SIDE

oh! we’re all crazy famous people who just LOVE to play piano for-ever and ever! we have so much fun, drinking tea and ignoring the Edict of Nantes! Blah, Blah Blah!

Seriously, look at Beethoven. Look at his little beard and moustache, with his glasses, there. Doesn’t he look just like a demented 19th-century Colonel Sanders?

Well, neither do you, in my defense.