I came to a pretty shocking conclusion today while sitting in the back of a cop car: I’ve grown a little too accustomed to the sweet life. I’ve indulged, lately...I’ve gotten doughy and lethargic enough to be considered basically inert, and my once fiery temper has completely exploded, creating a heretofore-unapproachable level of fury that has my mouth saying things that are going to get my ass killed; even I’m appalled at what’s coming out of my mouth, and I usually adore everything that I say. Take this morning, for instance: upon figuring out that I was fenced in on all sides by a marathon of some sort, my initial thoughts of, "wow, that’s great; I wish I could run a marathon", were quickly replaced with pangs of uncontrollable anguish at the traffic-cop who was less directing traffic and more stopping anyone in a motor-vehicle from moving. So, after turning off my car, I got out and asked him why. "Why what?" "Why am I not allowed to get to the highway?" "Marathon." "Yes, I see that; what I don’t, or didn’t, see are signs telling me that I should have prepared myself for a half-hour wait, or signs detailing some sort of detour to avoid this ridiculous mess." "Please go back to your car, sir." "When you’ve decided to wave me through, I’ll gladly go back to my car...but as it stands, I see about a hundred runners coming down the road here, and you still haven’t told me about the lack of proper signage." "If you won’t go back to your car, sir, we’ll put you in mine." "Was it a lapse in judgment, the lack of signs? I mean, it’s not like this was some spontaneous 'jog-off' here." "That’s it - get in the car." With an escort, I got into the back of the cruiser under my own power; as I waited for someone to come talk to me, I realized that I was aiming my frustrations in the wrong direction - not in this case, but in general. An older officer arrived to find me deep-breathing in the musky aroma known only to the back-seats of cruisers and taxi-cabs. With a smile, I said: "Surely, there’s a better way to go about this." "You could have stayed in your vehicle." "I don’t mean this, I mean drivers getting pigeonholed into an intersection with a concrete-median down the middle that prevents any kind of u-turn." "The Boxing Day marathon happens every year, using the same route, and you should have thought about that before you left the house." "Y’know what? Streets get closed every year too, but there are signs that say 'do not fucking enter' before you get to a big pothole and then thrown in the back of a cop car. Well, they don’t say that exactly, but you get my point." "Officer Grabel is just doing his job." "Do you find it funny that there is a marathon benefiting the heart & stroke foundation going on around hundreds of cars that are pumping noxious gasses into the air?" "Not particularly, but I see your point." "I’d say I’m sorry about picking on you guys for decisions that aren’t yours, but I’ve served many a burned hamburger in my day and it‘s not I could just grab the cook during the dinner rush to explain himself to the customer...well, I did that once, but it was a special occasion." "I’ll pass on your complaint." I know he was just paying me lip service, and that’s when it hit me: this clown isn’t going to have a coronary over something like this - I, however, am if I keep jumping out of my car and working myself into a lather over inconsequential bullshit. Either way, I was totally zen once I finally made it through...what does that mean?
It is now, officially-speaking, X-Mas. I am celebrating with a can of Coke and a cigarette; the girlfriend and puppies are celebrating by sleeping, and they are doing so, by the looks of things, soundly. I gave my employers a three-month window to replace me, a window that will be shutting come January 5th, a window through which they’ll be watching me ride off into a sunset of complete and utter joblessness. With equal parts ignorance and bravado, I’m going to try writing...for money. I have no prospects, no connections, no clue...but I do have a novel I’m working on called, "I Will Kill and Eat Chaos", and I’m ready to join the galaxy of frustrated novelists who believe that the world owes them something, that through a combination of sheer talent and breathtaking originality money will start overcrowding their mailbox like maggots on a kitty-cat-carcass, that if the book tanks it will be because those reading it lack "vision" and certainly not because it sucks. So, if you happen to be in the publishing business, in any capacity, beware that knocking on your door...it’s me, and I’m ready for you fuckers. You’d better be ready for me.
The entirety of my adult life has been spent assuming that 95% of the people I’m going to meet are going to be assholes on a sloping, gradient scale from mousy & passive-aggressive to bitter & unwaveringly idiotic. If this past year of teaching has taught me nothing else, however, it’s that dealing within the age group of 16-23 (for the most part) produces almost the exact opposite results. Does this mean that my assumptions are wrong? No, sir...it means that what people allow age to do to them is wrong. Everyone but the youthful will tell you that youth is good (and young’uns will tell you that too, but without resonance; indeed, what in the world do they have to compare to?), but forget to mention that aging is fun, too. Sure, the body is breaking down, and it takes more to spark the imagination because it’s been exposed to almost everything at least once...but now the stories you tell have a legendary quality to them: I remember when I could, only six years ago, lift a gigantic spool of cable that weighed twice what I do over my head and onto a loading dock - this story has now graduated to spool after spool of high-density steel-ribbon thrown like sacks of feathers onto the eight-foot-high, sharpened-edge of a platform guarded by Cerberus and a wall of fire while dodging exploding bullets shot from a wall-mounted, motion-activated tommy-gun. I was so fast I raced myself driving a car and I won; I was so clever I took half of Hell from Satan in a poker-game; my eyes were so good I could watch the earth rotate; my hands were so good that I could catch you falling asleep... The only thing more fun than doing something rad is telling someone how rad it was. Every story told is in the past - it’s just a matter of how far away you allow it to be. Young people know this, but end up getting it squeezed out of them by responsibility & "maturity" once they hit 30, and it’s a shame.
How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were? -Satchel Paige
Don’t allow the linearity of time dictate your age - punch a clock, literally; take your time back.
"Well, aren’t you full of holiday cheer!" I’m ALWAYS full of holiday fucking cheer, year motherfucking ‘round, and it’s a goddamned shame that I seem to be alone in that regard. Honestly, you’re unlikely to find a more polite, understanding human being on the planet than me in my capacity as "customer" because I’ve had many of those "customer-service" jobs and they suck, so I empathize. But to assume that because I’m nice during the month of December strictly because "‘tis the season" is not just incredibly patronizing, but also a reminder that come Jan. 1, everyone else will go back to hating their lives, trying to lose those fifteen pounds, and treating others with the disdain I usually reserve only for those who’ve wronged me in an outright fashion...it’s bunk. Bunk I say! A thought: what if instead of wishing each other a "merry fucking x-mas" (as I do, constantly), we shorten it to "merry fucking"...go get yourself some and call it a holiday. That’s something I could get behind, if you know what I’m saying.
I see marriage the same way that I see breast-augmentation surgery: good when it’s going well, inescapable without lawyers and whole lot of hassle when it’s not. I don’t believe in marriage, much to my girlfriend’s chagrin; all her friends tell her that I’ll "change my mind" eventually, that I’ll give in to societal/family pressures and "do the right thing"...but, unfortunately, this will not be the case. Ever. A side-story to illustrate: basketball was my life in high-school, and when I jumped to the senior team, the preferred hazing ritual was the shaving of a mohawk (before they were cool) or a friar-tuck into the rookies’ heads...hearing this, and looking at my luxurious mane of shoulder-length hair, I went home. Soon enough, there was a ring at my doorbell; my buddy Mike, hair all fucked up, stood on my porch with a senior member of the team and asked me to come back on the coach’s behalf. I told them I wasn’t getting myhead all fucked up, and the senior guy, after a pause, said, "you DO NOT have to worry about that." Back at practice, sitting with the coach and getting glares that could melt steel from everyone on the team, I was asked if I wanted to be the starting point guard...and I spent the rest of my illustrious high-school career that way. The team couldn’t freeze me out (usually done by not passing the ball to the offending player) because, being the point guard, I always had the ball. There was a grand "everyone-who-ever-went-to-my-high-school" reunion the year after, and when the older players came back to see that I had shaved my head of my own volition, I think it broke at least two of their brains; the others were livid. They would tell me how much shit they took for even attempting to shave my head, and I would say, "that’s what you get for being assholes," and laugh at them like they had their collective ass-hair caught in a mousetrap. The point, if there is one in this mucky puddle of nostalgia & sanctimony, is that the harder one pushes, the harder it’s going to come back. House, kids, monogamy? Cool. The antiquated, unnecessary, superfluous tradition of marriage? Nope; not even once. You can see, clearly, why I've been fighting girls off with a pointy stick...
I am a baseball fanatic. The Toronto Blue Jays have been my team since I knew what a team was, and though it was time & geographical convenience that brought us together (we’re the same age, the Jays and I, and I’ve lived an hour from Toronto for most of my natural life), it’s clear-eyed understanding that pulled us apart. I herby disavow the Toronto Blue Jays. There are a plethora of reasons for my desertion, but let’s just say that the cut-fastball that broke the bat-handle of my loyalty was the signing of David Eckstein, a perennially sub-par, hilariously mediocre shortstop who throws from the hole like an eight-year-old, relegating John MacDonald and his brilliant glove-work to the bench. Granted, Johnny Mac pops out hits as frequently as Rick Astley at this point, but that’s what the number nine spot in the order is for: the all-mitt, no-stick shortstop who makes plays in the field that leaves even the most jaded sports fan yelling at the TV for a replay. So, I go forth into the 2008 season teamless for the first time in my memory...and just so everyone understands the severity of my disgust, I am canceling my cable package; no more cartoon network, no more comedy, food, or discovery channels, no more Blue Jays. Sigh; breaking up is hard to do.
coffee stains my teeth
nicotine stains my lungs
Tom Waits stains my ears
i could abstain...
i would complain
anger bruises my face
ideas get loose
ideas to lose
ideas to bruise my mind
i will complain some more
into the last hours of December
not to forget,
but to remember
Does this mean that you’ll add me on to the whack of daily-prayers you already burden god with? Kind of like getting invited to an insipid party because I was within earshot when you were discussing it? Or do you mean that you’ll, as a separate action, pray specifically for me? You would take a second after finishing your other prayers, to let god digest all the self-centered ramblings of your own continued good fortune, and then start all over again with me as the main topic...something like that?
Or would you say, "oh, and there’s this other guy I want to pray for, too"?
What if you’re praying for me because I’ve offended you a great deal? Like, say I tell you, historically and scientifically speaking, with gobs of common sense thrown in for laughs, that your god doesn’t exist...and even if he/she/it did exist, well, he/she/it doesn’t like you; you say, doubtlessly hearing the devil’s cackling voice wafting up through the hellfire of the inferno, that you’ll "pray for me".
According to Billy Graham, heaven is only 1600 square-miles across! That’s right - heaven is the distance between Vancouver & Phoenix! Do you really want me, the guy who told you that heaven, hell, god and the devil are the figments of a long-dead theologian’s imagination, taking up space in your Shangri-la while the rest of you are moshing for shoulder room?
You should, of course, because otherwise it would be incredibly boring...but your logic, if I can call it that, seems to be less cracked than fully broken.
So, knock it off. Or, at least admit that what you’re doing isn’t for the pray-ee, it’s for yourself.
A group of children came around the corner of the convenience-store to see, mid-shot, my behind-the-back bank of a Tic Tac container off a brick wall into a garbage can from about 10-feet away; one of them said, "nice shot!" Having not been witness to my earlier attempts from long range (two 20-foot set-shots that, at best, dinged the bottom of the can), I said, "are you kidding? I’m only connecting on 33% of my shots!" The kid replied, with a smile beyond his years, "practice makes perfect." You should’ve seen their faces after I went inside the convenience-store and came out with more Tic Tacs.
I’m in the midst of reading Vincent Bugliosi’s Outrage, the story of the OJ Simpson trial, and it’s fabulous...but that’s not the point. No, sir. Yesterday, I’m reading about the deep-cut Simpson sustained on his left middle-finger, and about how the prosecution was inconceivably-lacking in their handling of this as it pertained to the murders, and I take a break and wander over to my brother’s house to help him install a new front-door handle. During this process, I push out the incumbent bolt-lock and shear fifteen-to-twenty layers of skin off my thumb-knuckle against the splintered-wood of the door. This becomes a big, bloody mess that I’m containing with my mouth’s vampire-like lust for seeping blood. It’s not a bad cut, just bloody, so I bandage it up and go about my business. Today, I’m at the mall and notice a couple of people looking at my hand, which I’m used to, as big-box department-store-employees assume I’ll be stealing something...this isn’t whining, this is the experience of hundreds of shopping-hours spent shadowed by customer-service do-gooders who just happen to be restocking every section of the store that I shop in, at the exact same time as I shop in it. In this case, however, they’re looking at rivulets of blood as they drip across the back of my hand; I notice this and head home to re-bandage my bloodier-than-expected wound. Re-bandaged now, I go back to the book; I read more about the incriminating cut-finger evidence against Simpson, and I see blood speckled at the bottom of some pages; I look at my bandage to see it trying to grip through the inherent hand-sweat and flaying around the edges, and make a note to change it again once I go to the bathroom, where the bandages are kept. This eventuality comes sooner than later, except that after I’ve pulled up my pants, the bandage is nowhere to be found. Nowhere. I sit here typing this naked, having incredulously and meticulously gone through every scrap of clothing I was wearing this morning, through every nook and/or cranny in my apartment, through every hiding place the dogs might have for such a tasty treat, and I’m flummoxed. Crazy going slowly am I...
I gave myself a full 48 hours to mull over The Meltdown, and have found, unsurprisingly, that there is no way I can tell this story without coming across as an actual lunatic; I have justifications, as you will see, but they aren’t exactly of the concrete variety for any right-thinking individual...the best way to encapsulate it is that I just snapped, and everyone is still around to tell the story. No harm, no foul? This little yarn begins on Saturday with an early-morning run to the coffee-shop before I started my workday; my coffee-shop is cursed with inadequate parking for the dawn-break rush of caffeine-addicts, so I took a back-road to circumvent the vulture-like circling for a spot commonplace on a Saturday morning. I found the road blocked by three parked city-trucks, a number of city-workers, and a one-man snow-shoveling vehicle that twists in the middle like a caterpillar...here on in, this machine will be referred to as a Bobcat-Lite. Normally, with no "road closed" signs present, the workers will run around a little bit and then notice a car waiting to pass, getting out of the way with a modicum of expedience. However, as cars started piling up behind me, as I busied my mind with other matters assuming the blockage to be temporary, my pre-coffee daze allowed me to let FIFTEEN MINUTES tick off the clock - I double-taked the clock so violently that I had to go over some mental math to prove the possibility that so much time had been stolen from my life. I slid my car into park, opened my door just enough to half-stand, and yelled, "move your ass!", followed by, "what the fuck are you doing?!" Here’s what they were doing: the grey-hair-mulleted foreman of the crew was snapping multiple digital-photos of a couple of asshat crew-members throwing salt on the sidewalk while the dipshit in the Bobcat-Lite twisted and wiggled his vehicle, doing little circles in the street and laughing with the photographer-foreman. After I yelled, Mr. Foreman gave me the finger, lit a cigarette, and continued laughing and taking pictures...this as the line of cars behind me snaked into the previous intersection, the occupants beeping and yelling out of their windows. This, of course, is when I snapped like a city-worker’s neck under a car tire. My car already parked, I turned off the ignition, got out, and walked over to the Bobcat-Lite, whereupon I lunged onto it like a puma onto a slow-footed antelope; feet on the base, hands on the roof, I shook this machine with the full force of my 178-lbs...I knew then that I had already gone too far and started to fully enjoy myself, thrusting my face to the sky and yelling "ATTICA!", craning my neck to scream "AT-TIC-A!" at the beyond-surprised Bobcat-Lite driver, shaking this glorified motorcycle until it was a stiff-breeze from tipping. I jumped down, and all frivolity had ceased, obviously...the only sound evident was my adrenaline-soaked panting. The beast inside the Bobcat-Lite pulled himself from the machine, and he was, almost-literally, TWICE my size; all I could envision was one of those meat-hooks he had hanging from his arm-socket swinging and belting me into a coma, so I did what any insane person would have done in that exact same situation: I screamed, "FREE JAMES BROWN!" at him. To say that confusion followed would be a tremendous understatement; meat-hooks looked as though I had short-circuited his brain, stalling as he did in his advancement upon me; mullet-foreman tried to ask me something but I screamed obscenities at him until his body-language told me all I needed to know about how unhinged I looked. I made mention of how children playing hockey in the road at least get out of the way when cars approach, that these mentally-stagnant fuckjobs had less collective mind-power than a group of twelve-year-olds, the fairly-benign task of getting the fuck out of the way being too much for them to translate into action. There was a pause, as absolute a silence as that street may have ever witnessed, and they left. They just left...reminiscent of the cop-incident a while back. Meat-hooks got into his Bobcat-Lite and creeped down the alleyway behind the coffee-shop, the foreman and his salt-dispensing jackasses got into their respective trucks and, seriously, peeled away like a bunch of street-racers on a Friday night at Burger King. I was left standing in front of a phalanx of beeping cars who were still in need of getting wherever it was they were going, sweating and stunned that the events turned out as they did. Every day, incompetence rears its ugly head in the social-network of life, and if someone were to try and list such examples their hand would cramp up and their pen would run dry before they had even gotten through the previous week. This, though...this was the asinine behaviour of cushy-job-holding fucking morons who know that, above all else, the city would take the brunt of complaints against them, that they would get paid regardless of how poorly they did their jobs...I’ve thought this incident over long and hard since it happened, and though I feel a little guilty about losing my head, I can’t say I would’ve handled it any differently had I been fully-caffeinated and in a more logical state of mind, which, I believe, says more about my own mentality than I care to get into... Moreover, if I was wrong in attacking the Bobcat-Lite to make my point, how did life return to normal directly after? Why did no-one call the police, why did the city-workers just leave, why did people in the coffee-shop smile at me while I waited for my turn in line? Is it because of the belief that "the ends justify the means"? Dangerous territory, that line of logic is...I think that’s why I called this "Meltdown" and not "The City-Workers Whom I Righteously Attacked". Maybe, as my brother said, I’m in need of "marijuana-therapy"; I’m of the mind that maybe, just maybe, I need to knock this shit off.
The air is crisp enough for me to watch the steam of my breath as it catches and vaporizes the mist of snow that falls in a twirl of slow-motion rain all around me. I see this and realize that my sudden need to urinate is palpable; my normally hot, impetuous blood is being slowly evicted from my veins, replaced with the acidy, dispassionate pee of my over-burdened bladder. Parent-flanked children are grabbing at the miniature snowflakes in wonder as I push through gravity and walk towards the nearby washroom as though carrying nitroglycerin in my pants. Purposeless teenagers lounge on new-look restaurant seats and impede my progress with their aimless dawdling, as does the slick tile that apparently wasn’t meant to carry slippery boot-soles across its length. I, however, persevere and am immediately rewarded with a stream of yellow justice that rivals the output of a hammer-hole in a dam, a flow that seems to drain the paleness from my face, restoring me to my apple-cheeked glory, allowing me and my cheeks to once again be kissed by the December mist without worry of possibly-impending social-awkwardness.
The opportunity to engage in some guilt-free tomfoolery rarely presents itself...but when it does, when even your conscience is begging you to take up the cause, you have to turn to that conscience of yours and say, "it’s okay, conscience; get up from your knees and get ready to feel that sweet, sweet release of humiliation at someone else’s expense". Especially when that "someone else" is a group of white, sideways-hat-wearing, shit-talking, pot-smoking dipshits who’ve just spent the last fifteen-minutes hollering about "bitches" and being "thugs" even though they aren’t old enough for either. Gloriously, one of them asks me for a smoke: Me:
Oh... [opening pack to reveal seven cigarettes] ...I can’t. I’m going to need them. [pause] I have to go to an execution later today, so I’m a little stressed. Another Dipshit From the Group:There’s no executions in Canada, man. Me: [turning to face him] There sure are; the government reversed their opinion on capital punishment in June. [frown] You didn’t hear about that? Yet Another Dipshit From the Group:[scrunching up face] Really? Me: Yep. In fact, I could really use some of that shit you were talking about, y’know... [I hold my pinched fingers to my pursed lips] ...to take the edge off. [they try to figure out how to they could tell if I’m a cop] It’s going to be a long day. Dipshit Who Asked For a Cigarette:
I’ve only got a little bit left. Me:
Who’d you get it from, Marco? Dipshit Who Asked For a Cigarette:
Nah, man. Josh. Me:Josh? [grimace] You know he cuts his shit with grass-clippings, right? Another Dipshit From the Group:[making sure we‘re talking about the same guy] Josh? Me: Mm-hmm. And in winter? [pause as they lean in to hear] Shredded bonsai-tree leaves. [they all pull out their stash and hold it to the light, looking for imaginary foliage] Oh, well. Thanks anyway. [I get into my car and watch them angrily dial their cell-phones; I shift it to drive as I hear one of them yell "Josh, you motherfucker!" at what had to be either a surprised teenager or some hardcore gangster who won‘t take kindly to being called a "motherfucker"; I smoothly negotiate the cracked and brittle parking lot exit, cackling]
The word "clusterfuck" isn’t nearly strong enough to describe what happened with my soon-to-be-former employers today. Nor does the imagery of a monkey fucking a football, a frequently-used simile, convey the pure, unadulterated sense of spine-shivering chaos permeating this rancid job and the shit-fed morons who run it. Idiotic? Nope - that would give the impression that some sort of thought was involved. It was like watching diseased squirrels quarrel in shrieking-tones while slap-fighting, or a herd of giraffes slam into a bridge that wasn’t quite tall enough to get under, or maybe even a sadomasochistic otter biting at its own flesh with hurried, piercing snaps while other less courageous otters sat around masturbating in a circle-jerk of otter-voyeurism. Despite the assurances that I would "no longer have egg on [my] face", my employers proceeded to fry up a bevy of omelets and drop them on me from a two-storey high-rise. I’m not talking about one singular fuck-up here; I’m talking about an epic series of horrifically mismanaged events that have, just today, merged into a monolithic Fuck Mountain of Incompetence. The fact that these people are supposedly functioning members of society, with families & houses & vehicles, does nothing to eclipse the theory that they all seem to be mentally-handicapped; their motor-skills look to be working properly, from what I’ve seen, but their brains seem to be getting by on some sort repetitive muscle-memory system that precludes logic and any smidgen of common sense from entering like trying to push a football into a closed fist. I’m not even angry as much as I am amazed that any one of these clods is capable of clothing themselves. Today was a calamity of such unfathomable proportions that I want to throw an office-building off a cliff and piss fire on the rubble.
I am perennially dehydrated; luckily my skin hasn’t yet shown signs of my complete lack of water ingestion, all smooth and supple like a bar of soap after a single use, but it won’t be long before I wrinkle up like a raisin out in the sun being squeezed by vice-grips. The only water I manage to drip into my system comes from osmosis during a rainstorm, or in the coffee I drink, the caffeine of the latter dehydrating as it hydrates, essentially canceling itself out. I’m supposed to drink, what, EIGHT glasses of water...a day? Ridiculous; I’d have to permanently affix a catheter to a mobile piss-containment-unit to have any chance of living a normal life...as it is, I’m taking piss-breaks every forty-five minutes due to the coffee I swill like juice from the fountain of youth. Although: a few years ago, after a truly prodigious night of hell-bent binge-drinking, I showed up at my girlfriend’s place to finish an ugly fight that had led to the binge-drinking in the first place (and let it be said here that I’m giggly and contemplative when drunk, so I don’t mean "fight" as in "fisticuffs"); replacing one’s daily allotment of water with alcohol isn’t ever the smartest choice, but doing it umpteen days in a row? Yikes. The fight was over quickly, more than likely because I was in such bad shape that the girlfriend’s maternal instincts luckily overshadowed her probably-justified anger towards me. We decided that sleep was the answer to this and many other things, and I awoke with an overwhelming NEED to, um, poop. I stood up and immediately sat back down, concerned because that action made everything go dark; my resolve to poop stood me back up again and bathroom-bound I bounced off the walls in the hallway like kernels in a popcorn-maker; I was still drunk, yes, but this was different: bits of the apartment were lit as though by candlelight, but I had many blindspots directly in front of me, and I knew from clicking the bathroom light on that all the other available lights were off...even in my state, I knew something was wrong. Then, on top of that, I couldn’t do my thing, poop-wise; the world spun around me a kaleidoscope of muted light and sinking darkness; I called the girlfriend and muttered what I found out later was gibberish to such a degree that I sounded possessed; 911 was called, and paramedics arrived to find me barely coherent on the couch. After the night’s events were explained, mostly by the girlfriend, one of them crouched down and said, "you’re massively dehydrated." I must have looked like he was speaking an alien dialect, because he continued, "have you even tried drinking some water?" I shook my head, and there was a glass of water in my hand before I even fully understood who was talking to me. As glass after glass of water slid down my parched throat, the second paramedic told me that feeling the urge to shit (my phrasing) was a symptom of dehydration, and that if I had put my head between my legs while sitting on the throne, I would have felt better almost instantaneously. Huh. Despite the fact that these paramedics were intent on taking me for a ride to hospital, which was unnecessary at that point, as we had bottles of Gatorade to go with our endless supply of water, they were very informative. Nowadays, at the slightest inkling of weirdness, I go and drink a giant glass of water...be it a stubbed toe or encounter with a particularly heinous homeless guy, I drink water to make sure my head’s on straight. You’d think, at this point, that I’d imbibe water as a preemptive strike, but no - I’m a pain in the ass of reactionary decision-making, and stubborn to boot. How is it just now occurring to me that I’m a complete and total asshole? I just drank a big ole glass of water, that's how.
oh my god!
it’s etched into your features;
you knew now
what you didn’t then:
it takes more than good cabbage
to make good coleslaw
you need finesse
you need guile
you need your predatory instincts in the grocery aisle
you don’t need god
nor help from the slack-jawed
you need mayonnaise outlawed
the flaw in your reasoning
is your blame on the seasoning
but you will do what you do
you will "go with god," indeed
I will reel back in horror
I will wink and nod and plead:
"spare them the mishandling, both
that poor cabbage and those you feed!"
HeyZeus was a hungry fucker, cursed
created with nothing more than commoner jism
his slender length, the makings of an x
died for your sins
fried up some skins
pronunciation is a cross to bear
too long one way
too stubby the next
no hope for east nor west
verticality points to heaven
get him some pizza
hey hey hey...Zeus!
Why does it take a limping Canada Goose to remind me that I still have my health? Because I’m distracted, that’s why. I watched this poor goose struggle to keep up with the pack this morning, getting snapped and jeered at by his more savage brethren, and it made clear the distinction between fighting for survival and rushing to get a goddamned coffee. As I watched the gap between him and the herd widen, I was surprised by the wingmen (so to speak) who hung back with the gimpy-goose, flanking him and providing relief from goose-on-goose violence when he periodically succumbed to the strain of forward-motion. My friends have long understood my annual hibernation come wintertime; for all intents & purposes I am incommunicado, and those who have been swayed by the winds of disinterest have lost my phone-number...
What an unbearable pity. What an unnecessary use of sarcasm for a perfectly legitimate reaction to my sloth. If this pimp-rolling goose has taught me nothing else today, it’s made me realize that winter be damned - I want my own posse back.