Have you ever felt crazy? Not the crazy where you are trying to stuff a 14 inch pizza in your ass one slice at a time, but the clear crazy. The lucid crazy. The outer body experience crazy. “What the fuck am I supposed to be doing right now? Should I reply to that Facebook message I need to go to the printer yes a nap sounds nice I need to call my brother should I tweet some more I should probably eat you need to write you need to write you need to write you need to write. Right.” I have tied my ankles to the table legs with wire. I’m ready, you bastard!
Start Up The Generator!!!
Answer Editor.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Bubba McBubba. Is your relationship going down the shitter because you have forgotten how to respond to your better half? Does it feel like you are being questioned by a mercenary? Is your body one big red button that your spouse is constantly driving their bony fingers into? I’m hear to help. I’m your “Answer Editor!” Let’s give a demonstration, shall we? This is John and Mary. They have been married for twenty five years of sheer torment. Until they hired me! “Do you always have to eat with your fucking mouth open like that?! It’s disgusting, John.” (John leans over and whispers his answer into the Answer Editors ear.) “It’s because your food is so repugnant, I have to breath through my mouth to keep from smelling this god damn abortion of a meal!” I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t realize I was doing that. I’ll refrain at once. “Do you always have to wear those god damn pearls on a daily basis? You look like a stuck up bitch!” (Mary leans over to whisper.) It’s what I get for marrying an alcoholic loser like you. I don’t have anything else to wear because you can’t afford it!” But they are my all time favorite gift, dear. It reminds me of the love we share. See?! They are living in perfect harmony! If you need a little help, call me! Bubba McBubba! I’m your answer editor!
To edit your answers, one must know the questions. Everything we do is based off a series of questions. Some are big questions and some are small. But it’s all we do all day long, every day of our life. For instance: “Do I wan’t to get up right now? Do I wan’t to hit the snooze button? Should I make coffee before I take a dump? Do I have time to masturbate? Should I bring out the candles and sandpaper?” And then we react with an answer. “Fuck no, I don’t want to get up. Hell yes I’m hitting snooze. Coffee will help loosen up that extra pound of rump roast I ate last night. I have plenty of time to rub one out. No candles, but I will partake in a good bloody stump. Maybe I should use a cheese grater this time?”
Of course, Philosophers ponder bigger questions than masturbation. The “Who am I” and “Is there a purpose to the universe” and “What is imagination?” These questions don’t really have a clear cut answer. That’s why modern philosophers are still asking the same questions. Which seems to be a huge waste of time. How am I supposed to know who the fuck I am when I change on a daily basis. On one day I love slutty girls and on another day I might wonder what it would be like to have a hard cock in my mouth. Maybe the question should be, “Who am I today?” “Today I will be a Jew hating black man with eight kids by nine women. Two of them couldn’t afford a full pregnancy so they had to split it. I will be jaded in isolation and I will beat thirty percent of my ex-wives. And then I will convert to being muslim. Hey, Chris Brown! It’s legal in the middle east.”
Sometimes people have answers they want to hear from your mouth. This is where it gets tricky. Someone, say a date, want’s to get to know you. AND, say she is pushing forty and she still doesn’t have kids. AND, she wants some fuckin’ kids yesterday already. So, how will her desperate questions influence how you will edit your answers? “Are you afraid of ghosts?” “Um, I don’t really believe in ghosts.” “Are you afraid of heights?” “Why, is this date going to make me want to jump from a bridge?” “Are you afraid of commitment?” “Are you serious? Isn’t it a little early to ask that question? “Do you love children?” “Not your children, if that’s what your asking.” “Do you see your father as the head of your family.” “My father? No. Why? Do you know where he is?” “Have you ever gone to therapy?” “As soon as this dates over? “How many lovers have you had?” “Are we including your mom?” “Do you like me?!” “Yeah, sure. You’re ok I guess.” “YOU’RE MY BOYFRIEND NOW!”
I once had a high school counselor say to me, “So, you think you have all the answers, huh?” Which is a ridiculous concept because everyone has all the answers. They are just not always the right answers. But deep thinking was not as important as rebellion back then, so I think my answer was, “No! I don’t have all the answers. I just don’t want to be like you. Is that so hard to understand?” If I remember correctly, it was hard for him to understand because he knocked over his coffee in a huff to make it around his desk to grab me buy my Slayer t-shirt and pull me right up nose to nose. It was a different time back then and this kinda stuff wasn’t as shocking as it is now. I mean some of the institutions leaders had fucking ass paddles on display in their offices. He continued, “Listen, asshole. You are never going to be like me. I’ve been guiding the youth of America for over twenty years now. And you are just some burnout that will end up dead or in jail. Now get out of my office because you make me sick.”
Why was I always making adults sick? How come I never ended up in jail? Was this “death” thing literal or emotional? How many times have I had such great advice? How many shots of whiskey does it take to get to the center of the whiskey pop? Why do Nordic women sound retarded during sex? Is ambition always this hard? I might have to answer these tomorrow. Because today’s question is, “Why do I give a fuck?”
Roundoms! 