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!
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…”
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!
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.
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.
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.”
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.