Tag Archives: douglas

11. Bombs, Pot, and An Angry Bush.

It’s been very clear that these essays have become a bit academic.  Which is fine, but I don’t feel   like breaking open a web search page and looking anything up.  I am going to take the clothes off of my brain and go sans brain sack!  Who needs to keep their brain in a cellophane zip bag when I could let it fall right out of my nasal cavity and onto this blog?  Me.  That’s who.  So, without further ado… Start Up The Generator!

“Divorce Cellulose.”

Well, shit.  I guess I will have to give up my bomb making and pot smoking class at the adult learning annex.  Let’s define these two foes before we get on with it.  I guess we all know what “divorce” is.  Half of all of our parents have been divorced.  Or is it half of all the married couples?  Which half? And what parent?  For me, the bottom half of my dad was divorced from the top half of my mom.  My dad used to sit and eat dinner at the dinner table, but his bottom half had remarried and was living in Barstow, or some crappy place like that.   My poor mom’s bottom half just stood there.  “Hey, Ma!  Say something!”  But not a word.  Though, on occasion, she would do The River Dance.  She was half Irish.  Apparently, it was her bottom half.

  So on to the divorcee.  Cellulose:  “An insoluble substance that is the main constituent of plant cell walls and of vegetable fibers such as cotton.  Paint or lacquer consisting principally of cellulose acetate or nitrate in solution.”  OK.  So, its essentially everything but metal and plastics.  Though I used to own a load of Heavy Metal shirts that were made of cotton, so that’s a hybrid I guess.  BTW, I’m always amazed at the aggression of plant life.  At my apartment there is this Bougainvillea bush that is attacking our garden and has decided it wants the other side of the walkway.  Just a couple of days ago a single branch broke free and now hangs out eye level in a sudden reach for the grassy part of the front yard.  This branch has inch long thorns and dares anyone to try to dissuade it’s plans.  The branch is pretty thick and you can’t just grab it and break it off unless you want some interesting stigmata marks.  I stop and look at the whole bush, which has definitely doubled in size in the last six months.  “Look at you, you greedy bastard.  All this space, but it’s still not enough for you.  You’re killing the birds of paradise!  Don’t you like birds?  Me neither.  Especially Pigeons. Man, I hate those flying rats.  If people weren’t always looking, I’d kick the shit of them with my steel toed pigeon mangler!  Those aren’t songs they’re singing, you know.  Those are battle cries.  Warnings from the sky.  Death from above. And furthermore… Hey.  Aw, God damn it.  You got me monologuing!  That’s it, Bougainvillea.  I’m grabbing the biggest knife I can find with a serrated blade!  I hope you bleed more than that teenager I had last night”  Oh. Hi, there.  I’m sorry.  Where were we?

  So, let’s divorce some cellulose, shall we?  Let’s start with this:  “I don’t eat vegetables, bro.  I don’t eat fruits either.  I’m a strict meatatarian.  It doesn’t matter what it is either.  I’ll eat a baby lamb, an old horse, or a small beaver.  I ate your sisters beaver last night! Hahaha. JK, bro.  Listen, you shouldn’t have brought your kid over here.  This is a porn ready bachelor pad, bro.  This is no place for a child.  Plus, he is starting to look delicious.”

  OR, we could divorce marijuana.  “Listen, Mary.  I’m done with this relationship.  All we do is hang out at home.  We never go out anymore.  I hate Funyuns.  No, I do.  I just ate them because you liked them.  And Captain Crunch?  Bella, you are a grown woman.  You shouldn’t be eating Captain Crunch on a daily basis.  Look, Mary, it pains me to say this but you have gotten huuuge.  Have you seen the indention in our bed?  I have to anchor myself to the corner  by white knukling the edge of the mattress or I risk losing another limb.  Remember my right arm?  I certainly do!  AND, I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen your vagina in months.  No!  I just throw my penis down there and hope I find a crease!  The other day I found a midget down there, Mary!  A midget!  No, it wasn’t just a quiff!  It was a full-sized, half of a full human.  Wait a minute, was that your ex-husband?”

  Technology is our biggest home wrecker in these modern times.  When was the last time you wrote a letter, a check, or an essay, for that matter.  Writing is putting pen or pencil to cellulose and then licking the sticky cellulose on the edge of an envelope.  OR, binding cellulose to cellulose with some colored cellulose on a thicker cellulose that ancient people call books.  There is no need for cellulose as we read our Kindles and thumb our iPhones and flip open our laptops.  We all go (ironically) green  as we are emailed our bank statements and porn subscription bills and notifications that we have a new follower on Twitter.  Which, I guess, we where all trying to do anyway.  Paper companies were destroying the rain forest, but now, they can’t even destroy their unemployment papers with a few tear drops.  Sorry, Herman, but cellulose isn’t water-soluble.  And no matter how disgusting your crying is, those papers are not going to disappear anytime soon.

  All right.  So we have divorced cellulose, as dumb as that sounds.  Cellulose is a derivative of “cell.”  I mean how do you divorce something that is pretty much ubiquitous.   You can make fuel out of cellulose.  You can make a bomb out of cellulose.  You can smoke, cook, and wear cellulose.  You can even paint your body on game day with cellulose.  Yada yada yada, cellulose.  Now let me take off my cellulose and pull back the cellulose covers and get on my cellulose mattress and light another cellulose butt.  Hopefully I will fall asleep to the sound of cellulose swaying in the wind.  Except for you, Bougainvillea bush.  Tomorrow, I will introduce you to steel.

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8. No, Coach. I’ve Never Played With Those Balls.

Listen to the audio version on ITUNES or STITCHER or LIBSYN!

Sometimes you look up from your masturbation comma completely shocked!  You stare down at the kung fu grip you have on your penis and notice the incredible scar tissue that has developed.  “OMG!”, you text yourself.  Days have passed and you haven’t any evidence of worked accomplished.  Fuck it.  That’s when we freestyle this bitch!  But, with a twist.  We are going to call this “The Speed Round!”  Multiple Roundoms until we reach our thousand word goal.  Let us shoot it on your hunchback!  Start up the generator!

Insufficient Incentive.

Damn, this could be my catch phrase.  My mission statement.  I should have this tattooed on my forehead.  For the times when someone says, “Would you like to join us at Poopers where the girls wear a diaper filled load of barbecue sauce and serve it in ramekins from little tubes that shoot from their nipples!  It’s happy hour!”  No thanks.  I have seen that before.  It’s amazing how progressive Tijuana was in the nineties.  Except I think they served Hepatitis C instead of BBQ sauce.  Insert all other invitations after “Would you like…”

Exploited All.

The amazingly succesful marketing theory for every corporation ever!  A lot of people think “exploitation” is a bad thing.  But it’s by far the force that turns the capitalistic wheel.  Just accept the fact the everything you love is solely based on some exploited fact that tugged at your heart-strings and pulled your choad.  “I love Three Doors Down!  They have a song about soldiers in battle far from their homes and families.  AND, I support our troops!”  Which I might ask in reply, “So, if I wrote a song about the love of Satan and had Three Doors Down Sing it, would you feel the same way? No!  Because the exploitation of American Patriotism has your brain so confused, I could pinch out a giant turd holding a small American flag, and you would say you loved it.  You would even die for it.  But, it’s just some shit.  Everything, these days, is exploitation.  Even your Jenna Jamieson replica pocket pussy.  But, let’s face it.  Sexploitation is the best!  Thanks perverted scientists!

Worn Childhood.

Oh, fuck you, watchout4snakes!  “Look, Mama!  We are all fucked up now!”  We should change “the innocence of youth” to “the innocence and gullibility of youth.”  There are too many broken people out there because of some ill adjusted adult who got a hold of them during, say, their tenth year on this planet.  “Is this OK.  I can’t quite decide if I am supposed to have the head of a coaches cock at the tip of my lips.”  OR, “I know your not my real dad, but is this allowed?  I’m supposed to obey your every word, but I really don’t understand what “sexy” is.  Or how to bring it back.  Are all Catwoman underoos sexy?  And what does “hide the salami” mean?”  AND NOW, you wonder why the youth of America doesn’t respect their elders.  Why there is no more “sir” or “ma’am.”  It’s because we don’t deserve it.  We are now all guilty of societies perversions.  I feel an awkward shame when I walk down the street as a young girl is walking in the opposite direction.  “Don’t look at her.  We don’t want her to feel like I’m trying to get her in the back seat of my window-tinted Prius.”  I need to make this t-shirt:  “Save the earth and fuck the children.”  Now I understand why all of the sexual moments I have had in the last, say, ten years resemble a cage match.  Life is not a rape fantasy, kids.  But how could you possibly know that.

Graduated Spiral.

This is what happens to every community college graduate who has had to take out a school loan.  Irony has punched you all in the billfold.  You tried to escape your life as a Forever 21 employee at $8 an hour and ended up being hijacked like a United flight as your school loan payments insure you of a career at Starbucks at $12 dollars an hour.  Dreams of Columbia turned to beans of Colombia.  “Hi (contrived, supper happy greeting)!  Would you also like to pretend this is the greatest place on Earth!”  BTW, don’t these “partners” understand that I haven’t had caffeine yet? A bullhorn of a greeting  paired with a Cheshire cat’s grin isn’t an appropriate reaction.  Pretend I’m hung over and I need a small dose of Pedialite.  Softly, please.  I’m still trying to come to grips with the deafening screams of the pre-teen I tricked last night.

Cheerful Forty.

This is the roughly sixty minutes between the moment when 18th-street-homie Casper cracks his Micky’s big mouth and the moment when he want’s to fight anybody who glances his way.  “The goldie-locks-zone.”  I know this one well because I grew up with guys named Casper, Baboon, Stimpy and Puppet.  Not their given names, of course, but the names they mostly resembled.  For instance, Puppet got his name because he was such a big dude that when he talked, it appeared as if his chin wasn’t connected to the rest of his huge face.  And Puppet wouldn’t turn down a forty.  Luckily for me, he was on my team.  because once that goldy-locks-zone had passed, he would take great pleasure teaching someone a lesson in violence they won’t soon forget.  Which I found fascinating.  Now matter how closely you paid attention to his expressions in these moments of amazing aggression, I could never differentiate happiness from anger.  I should have given him a Native-American moniker.  “This is my fiend, Smiles-With-Blood.  Don’t be afraid of the gentle giant.  Just don’t feed the animal a forty.”

Solved Hope.

Listen, don’t pay attention to the dreams in the corner.  Those are merely aberrations of very tall tales.  The residue of comforting lies.  The trick that we fooled you with when you first opened your eyes.  There is no better place than this place.  There is no future arrival of some euphoric finish line.  There is no “free” time.  We are counting every second all the way down to zero.  Make the best of this day because you get only one per every 24 hours.  Tomorrow you will get a new day, so don’t waste this one.  Why don’t you grab the luggage that is your life and unpack it, please.  You have arrived at your destination.  Welcome to reality.

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