The Daily Fix

i drank coke today. it was black and inky until i drank some, and then it got brown. browner and browner til there was just some sticky residue left swirling around in a plastic fucking tidepool at the bottom of the plastic fucking bottle. then i felt nauseous, like i always do after drinking coke. why drink coke? because i enjoy nausea. because that lovely taste, saccharine and cloying and staying on your lips about half an hour after you’ve drunk your last is unlike anything else. coke: an individualistic drink, for the individual. very american. the taste is imagination, but less overrated. like everything is just a cream-puffy cloud of irrelevance, and your capitalist swine ham is sittin’ on old man moon’s hook chin, fishing for trouties and breamies and coddies and all types of fish (ies) in the deep, deep amazon. is that the amazon? no, although its brown, chalky depths, rich in sediment and giant catfish first appear to be indicitave of certain amazonian tendencies. no. it is ultimately not the amazon. it is a river of coke, with that almost turgid odor clogging your fucking nostrils and permeating your subconscious with dreams of dollar bills found on sidewalks and bell-bottom jeans and grass and summer and  hallefuckinglujah warm precious fucking moments. coca-cola.

I feel as though the most previous (or previousmost) post lacked something. It was, perhaps, a lengthy, awkward mumbling of justification for those sheerly thrilling last words, without which any significance placed into loses all piratical functionality oh no i’ve gone crosseyed. don’t worry, lovelies, this’ll cheer you up: interminable madness utilizing the English Langidge, in all its many-legged forms. single-celled organisms, you say? they have no legs. how terrible it must be to drown in the muffled artistic screaming of a youthful New Hebrides doorjamb occupant. x. zzy.

It seems we’ve reached an impasse. I can no longer think of any ridiculous jargon-paste at which you shall nibble; so instead I hope to keep the wolves at bay with bones. Them bones. Bones, like the color, happen to be white and thusfore not much good in the colored sections of town. y’know, east (or west depending on which side of the bide-no, bed- your captors tied you to this mor-ning) of the train tracks.

My brain is starving. It ran out of oxygen this morning, and what if I can never write again? Seriously, this is a concern of mine. These tiny spurts of inspiration are only available as long as I’m knee-deep in McDonald’s ketchup packets, and as it is we’re running quite dry. What if I woke up in the morning without fingers? Who has my fingers? Is it you, gentleman in the camel-hair coat? Is it you, lady in the back with the mustard in her hair? (how did that get there? is she a messy eater?). Period. My fingers. Gone. In the flash of a… a finger-cutter. Those things. With the needles. They deprived me of my fingers and more importantly my royalties? How am I supposed to write a nationally-acclaimed bestselling whale without- you caught me. I said whale instead of book! In other news, I just pressed “ctrl-I” about twelve to one hundred times more than necessary, because I’m afraid. Afraid that if I don’t use my fingers, they’ll go away. No, they’re still here! I was pretending.

You see, it’s like malt liquor or women or economy-size aprons. Once you use it all up, it’s gone, and there’s no more left for all the other guys to- Well, not the aprons. No. -drink or insert random tubular objects into. But that’s off topic! Like Hot Topic. Ain’t what they used to be. Well, I get all my kinky studded leather online, m’self, but it’s really more of a matter of personal preference than the fact that the lady behind the counter never gave me everything for free. Some say it’s because I never went in and asked, others because arson occurred. The fire was coincidental, though, believe me. You gotta believe me. The police didn’t, but there’s only so much a federal prison can do. One thing it can’t? Be resistant to riots. Well, there wasn’t a riot, but I got out because I let the Warden spank me.

So where was I? Fetishwear? Isle 3? (No, it was an island, not a typo). Along the sandy beaches of Portugal, often I have heard a dusky blonde speak my name. Well, okay. Really more nightmarish incandescent day-glo orange than blonde, I guess. But she was floating! In the air. It’s okay, got a nightstick, got a pistol, if criminals try to attack the mall, I’ll be fine. “DON’T MOVE!” Well, she was elderly. It was an honest mistake for me. You can’t be tried in a criminal court, if they were old and you shot them! Old people like being shot!

I stopped being Night Watchman after that. None of the other Watchmen watched me, even though I tried to grab their attention, wearing gauze see-through nurse outfits and getting frequent bikini waxes. This is all really to prove a point, though. I just can’t write today. Don’t bother me again, or it’ll come out bad like this one. I’ll cry. The last few were bloops. I’ll never be the same. My fingers got stolen. Please stop reading this. Please.

Don’t try to rationalize this.

    As I was walking from the bottom of a concrete monolithic twelve-ton radiation barrier, the parakeet in my brain sang out. Looks like those levees aren’t working, madam. Not that it matters in the long run, because I, you, the dog, the neighbor’s dog, the animals at the zoo, the neighbor, the mailmen, the president, and Europeans will die, all of us, like so many ants in the wintertime, probably less of radiation poisoning than not. It doesn’t matter in the short term, either, really. What does?
    So instead of being questioned for its motives, the poisonous little pinch of poultry kept trilling, operatically. It was sad, to know I had that little self-control. My head hurt. I felt suicidal. My parakeet was dying.
   
    (Connect this, if you will, to the delusions of yesterweek, for I was also then speaking (metaphorically perhaps?) of fowl mortality. I’d like to think that this entry’s sharp lucidity counters the previous blights and afflictions that have been slowly but surely introduced into the collective consciousness’ bloodsteam like a serial killer’s ultimate innoculation. It won’t. In the end, I’m sure this will barely be read, and enjoyed less frequently still.)
   
    Pressing on.
   
    The wind was whipping my face as I struggled contemptuously to walk down the quikcrete pedestrian corral, and my sweaty skull was hanging from my torso by a rubberized neck, tenuously at best attached to some primordial remains of a spinal column. I felt gravity more profoundly than ever I had before, and I realized I was on my knees. It seemed that multiple orgasmic migraines were spilling over my forehead and into my chest, and it was very cold. All of a sudden I was alone in the gravel canyon, staring at mountains of human refuse. And on top of her skyline, I saw a face. It ceased to be cold.

I just deleted the post “Negligence/Sexyness”. It sucked anyway.

rightfully so, i thought we should all be awware that wait! what’s that? it is a televised television commercial, written by and starrring richard gere of the tv! let’s all stop and looka t this! it is not a revolution!

Pointing and then shooting a gun: the video game simulation attempt
i am in a forest. look, a birdie. oh mister birdie, how grievously and shamefully you have wronged yourself. goodness knows there was a time once when your poor, dear old mother could look upon your beaky countenance and regale herself with tales of virtue and chastity, those characteristics being your very own. but now in this light sztreaming from the forest roof, i see that it is not a forest i am in at all. it is a room, sans roof. birdie, did you take my roof? i shall not be angry if you did. there are little letters on my buttons, and i am not amused. birdie, i shall not make pretenses: for this you shall pay penance. the removal of my thatched roof i can exist by the side of, but the placement of white letters upon my finger-buttons has wounded me sorely in an area i was once proud enough to believe myself invulnerable. birdie, must it come to this? must i truly push back the safety, my fingers trembling? must i watch, as the sky reflects on the metallic barrel of my wonderful, wooden GUN is retrieved from its holster and pointed at your feathery head? i must, i feel. it is my duty as a citizen of this great republic. birdie, i am not the killing sort. i will give you, from the depths of my Jarvik Artificial Heart ™ a chance, oh a bonnie chance. do not try my patience, birdie. i know of locations where the darkest-souled fiends devour whole creatures like you, only pausing to pluck, roast, and tear asunde thy tiny body with various sharp implements before devouring you. not whole, for i have been erroneous, birdie, and in any fashion your ending will be similiarly gruesome. better the devil you know, birdie. better the devil you know. and the devil you know stands before you now, with the sun gleaming upon his gun’s barrel and his finger a-twitchin’. i shall consort with you as a foul beast of the forest once more, birdie, and only once. was it you in all your lack of chastity and virtue, your tarnished audaciousness, that took flight through my opened bed-chamber window, through my boudoir (for i, birdie, am no anglified tart. i know of words that are not directly germanic in descent), and into the cupboard, where my shiny black square metal electronic button finger devices were being held, securely, until further questioning? did you then, birdie, as i assume, take from ‘neath your crested plume a tiny paintbrush, coated in white primer of the most foul and wicked nature, and with this primer FUCKING WRITE TINY WHITE FUCKING LETTERS ON MY FUCKING KEYBOARD??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!

I AM NOT PLEASED! THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS, AND I DEMAND RECOMPENSATION FOR THE DAMAGES DONE!

just then, in malaysia, everybody died. and so my leukemia was cured and the birdie was strung up and eaten. as i had planned all along. and now, a pictorial guide on fowl cookery:

a square jaw meets an oval face, to create a whirligig of catharsis and maudlin resentment, with sex and psychobabble coleslaw sprinkled lightly on the side. oh, madam, my sweet darling ruffley madam, did i fail to mention there has been a chocolate garnish earthquake? we are all out of dowagers today. they have fled the enclosure to higher ground. the flood is here. it is a flood of salty liquid. oh. my tears. i am crying! here we are, in bed with a toothache, and the ladies are screaming on their stage, and rhinoceros rhinoceros bladder control mutants and a pipe bomb. i believe i can exercise mind control, over the one right here. jingle jangle goes the little six-stringed instrument that some no-name is eating out. because that’s what this particular form of entertainment is, really. long, drawn-out, hairy, and gratifying to WOMEN. oh, there. i said it. apparently, the oral manipulation of genitalia is not just satisfactory to us of the phallic possession, it is also quite fancied by the briny musseltaints we often know as “loquacia misdemeanoralis,” or as my uncle buck UNCLE BUCK used to say, “damn milk cows!”
except he lived on a farm, so of course he was a paranoid schizophrenic. he had no choice, just as i had no choice but to willfully rent and then view several poor films in a row. such is the working man’s plight i feel. i do admit to feeling the plights of many working men. plight is a euphemism for “earlobe.” they are soft and comforting, like a soft cascade of toddler’s tongues across your midriff. and once again we return to oral pleasure. for truly if nostradamus’ final prophecy has bore fruit (i had a wife who bore fruit once, but it wasn’t mine and thus had to be disposed of in the ocean blue, 1492, a gibbon and a partridge in the guillotine across the table, next to the salt), then you shall be and indeed are as i speak with a turgid tongue OH NO MY TONGUE IS STIFF that you shall inherit the earth. i swear. put down the mace. get off of the dinner table. i understand that thanksgiving is not your national holiday, but we need to be sensitive to those of different holiday celebrating mass. mass. like midnight mass. escape mass velocity. did i mention they had all escaped from the enclosures? even the model trains. they ran right off their tracks into little holes, and now i just can’t find them. i looked underneath her dress, and there they all were, one in each pant-leg. how very odd. it must be christmas after all. anyhow. reading this aloud, to your significant other or child, please first call them a cunt/jewess, and then slap them about the chops. then please not that although you have orally pleased yourself as an antecedent, you too have been giving a small child extreme oral pleasure. by reading. reading, it is literacy, literacy being the highest point of a degree i can earn in a janitor uniform while looking at pictures of transvestite serial killers. why must i wield the executive power of the mop? it is for our safety, which is paramount theaters. do they own MGM? that is a casino. JAMES. BOND JAMES. S&M AND FRILLY CLOTHING ON AN OPERA SINGER’S DEAD DOGS.

thus concluded the previous day’s question and answer session, providing more answers than there were questions and proving that no matter where i live, whether it be cardboard ten-dollar billfolds or underneath clive davis’ solid gold hammond organ (his penis), (most of us live ‘neath clive davis’ tremendous genital master circuit), we shall all outstrip demand. by supplying. with our demand. we are supplying the demand for supplies!
or else i’ll roast my husband’s heart and eat it, in front of the children!

oh, look, i’m a donner clam.

Know sumboddy’s went and poasted themselfs a missage on a bolg poast ov myne. i wood lick make evurrytihng vary kleer and sai thsi: yuo havv evry rite too sai taht. i bileave in feer speacg, eaven iff yoo doant and waunt mee two stoap saing tihngs. aslo, yuo havv unvailed my eevil plaut, too detsory demcorcacy buy makeign funn off tihngs. manny poeple trie two maek huomorus bolgs, taht are facetious (see? i can spell, yet i am intentionally mocking your horrific spelling! I guess the charade can end now, due to the fact that your dehydrated cranial contents have thankfully just comprehended this, since I spelled it out to you. someone’s gotta, since apparently you can’t. spell, that is), but I don’t want to do something as trivial as that! No, instead of making a light-hearted jest that is well-protected and even encouraged as “satire” under the First Amendment, I’d rather insinuate lies to stupid people, thus single-handedly defeating Barack Obama in the Presidential election. And of course I’m a racist! Because I made a ridiculous, fantastical “story” about Barack Obama being an evil, slave-owning white person, and that means I’m a racist against black folks! I sure do hate that Barack Obama negro fellow! Oh, if only he really was white and evil, and owned slaves! Gee golly, that would be great! What? Liberal? Me? Oh heavens no, I hate Barack Obama, simply because he is black!

In addendum, I’m sorry you “don’t agree” with my previous post. Personally, I “don’t agree” with it either.

Do you know why?

BECAUSE I DON’T BELIEVE IT IS TRUE!
MAYBE, JUST MAYBE NOT EVERYONE IS AS STUPID AS YOU! MAYBE PEOPLE, SOMEWHERE, IN SOME MAGICAL LAND, CAN INDEED WRITE THINGS THAT THEY DO NOT BELIEVE IN! HAVE YOU HEARD OF SATIRE? CAN YOU SPELL IT? (I’m sorry, anonymous, I know you can’t spell it. That was rhetorical, and you do not need to go angrily a-postin’ on this one, spelling “satire” at me).

In conclusion, if you do not enjoy humor of this nature, then you deserve to be offended. This is nature’s way of allowing me to discern between dumb people and really, really dumb people. You, sir or madam, are the latter. And I dismiss you as such, the ignorant, filthy dunce you are and were since your mother unwittingly pushed you from betwixt her loins, thus plaguing the Earth with a most singularly foolish and recalcitrant gnome, the likes of which have ne’er been seen before.

You aren’t writing from the White House, are you?