Tag Archives: Roundom

17. Lighting A Bag Of Dogshit On Fire

Sometimes you feel like a nut, and sometimes you feel like a meth induced lunatic.  I don’t know what exactly happened in the last eight days, but it happened.  Let’s see.  Maybe I can Nancy Drew this shit for you.  Firstly I have a roommate.  She is a good roommate who doesn’t judge any aspect of my lifestyle.  Regardless if I am raping my guitar with the ghost of Darby Crash or spewing the answers to life out loud like some cranked out, not as funny, George Carlin.  Which I like.  But she decided she was going to visit her mom for a week in Hawaii.  Cool.  I have a free week to write and walk around the apartment free-balling my way to success.  I’ll do the dishes when I fucking want to and blast the new Bloc Party until my anus bleeds.  All good.  What i didn’t count on was the lack of supervision.  Or, at least, a lifeline.

  I dissed my Roundoms and she was not keen to hang out.  Which was fine with me.  I couldn’t imagine rubbing on her noun like nipples at all.  Bleck!  Fuck her!  Fuck that!  I’m not going down that road right now.  I thought about writing everyday, but dismissed it immediately for long sessions of Fifa 13 and giant bottles of Gentleman Jack.  I watched a load of movies like some neanderthal.  I inhaled a small bag of pita bread and an entire container of roasted garlic humus to the warm flickers of “I Love You, Man.”  I slurped up an entire pan of pasta Primavera with pesto and crushed red peppers over the three hours of “The Green Mile.”  I pounded a six-pack of Fat Tire to Ice T‘s hip hop documentary.  And all the while I slowly turned into a mix of Gollum and The Uni-Bomber covered in speckles of random food items and my own drool.  I occasionally took a peep outside, but it just depressed me more as I decided this place was a fine place to curl up to no one and hang out with myself.  Which, I now understand, is fucking difficult.  I just kept drinking more whiskey and ignored anything that was calling my name.  I was sinking pretty deep.

  The interesting thing you notice when you are drowning in the deep end of life’s pool is how serene it becomes.  You are well aware that you are heading south underneath the surface of reality, but you don’t flap your arms or kick your feet.  You look around at the diminishing light trying to break through the surface as you sink like there are huge boulders of regret tied to each ankle.  And all you do is watch it happen.  It’s almost like you are enjoying it.

  “You should try to swim to the surface, you know.”  “Yeah.  I know.  But the water is perfectly warm and there is no one around at the surface.  Who will see me break free?”  “You will see.  Isn’t that the important part?  Do you not want to swim to the surface?”  “I dunno.  I just kinda want to pee right now.  Ahhhhhh.  I’m peeing.  I don’t know why peeing in a body of water is so fantastic.  But I find great pleasure in it.”  “But, you realize, this is all a metaphor.  This isn’t actually a body of water at all.  You have passed out on the floor of your apartment and you are pissing your pants.”  “No I’m not! Am I?  Fuck!  God damn it!  Fuckin’ asshole!  Get up. Dickhead.  I’m glad we have wood floors.”

  I should probably apologize to my Roundoms.  I created her and then hurt her pretty much immediately.  Which sounds pretty familiar to me.  I’m sorry, ladies of the past.  I’m sorry I didn’t fuck you over sooner!  Hahahahahaha!  Sike!  You got what you deserved!  Hahahahaha.  Oh my god!  I’m sorry.  Just playing and shit.  Don’t cry.  You knew I was an asshole.  Didn’t you? Oh.  I guess you didn’t.  Well then what am I, some fucking old shack?!  You thought you could put in new floors and a gazebo in the backyard?!  Well fuck that!  That yard is reserved for all the dead hookers that came before you!  You better run, Sugar Tits, because I have the perfect plot for you!  Right next to dear old Aunt Olivia!  Hi, Olivia!  Remember when I looked up your skirt?  You should have kicked me right away instead of squatting down for a tinkle!  I might have enjoyed it if you hadn’t eaten so much fuckin’ asparagus!  That was disgusting!  Your dietary selections are very important if you want to play the water works game…  Uhhh.  Hmm.  I’m sorry.  Wasn’t I going to apologize to someone?

  Right.  Let’s go over and knock on her door.  “Hello?  Are you in there?  I haven’t seen you come out of your room for over a week.  Are you OK?”

Permitting Think.

Yeah, me too.  Listen, Roundoms, I’m sorry I publicly humiliated you last week.  You challenge me like no other and, on occasion, I’m not up to that challenge.  I’m sorry.  Can we try this again?  No promises.  Let’s just try to work on our relationship one Roundom at a time.  Is that something we can do?

Estimate Treat.

Well, whatever you want.  Anything your heart desires.

Preverified Necessitude.

Well, I can’t assure you of anything I will say at any given time.  This is still a wild endeavor that I don’t know we will survive.  Listen, I created you but I wont debate with you on any of my opinions.  You still have only one roll in this and that is serving up the words as I tear them down with my slanted and enchanted intellect.  You choose the vehicle, and I choose where we go.  That’s it.  Take it or leave it.

Set Magnitude.

I say we set the controls to stun!  Just you and me, babe!  We have a load of work to do.  Let’s light this bag of dog shit on fire and watch their nostril hairs burn down to the flesh!  Fuck ’em all!  Dead by dawn!  Get off my back, dad!  You are crushing my smokes!

Mastermind Duke.

Roundoms.  You’re just so fuckin’ cute.

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16. Unroundoms 1 (Rape The Rapist)

When my alarm goes off early in the morning, my first thought is, “I’m dying!”  There is this strange rigor mortis that sets in when I’m deep asleep as if my body has caught up with my emotional state.  I rise out of bed like a sorority girl from her rape table and try to ignore the pain that has locked up my muscles like an uneducated black man.  Hah!  Two similes in one sentence!  I’d pat myself on the back if I could only reach it.

  The last, say, ten days, this Roundoms concept has been weighing heavy on my shoulders.  I like the project, but it feels like my mind is caught in some vortex of transitive verbs and uncommon nouns.  I keep generating words, but all of them come with a snide grin and a bully’s demeanor.  I even flipped the audio version to start with The Roundom with me taking on the role of some custodian after a poo punching party.  How did I allow this to happen?  This battle hasn’t reached the second quarter and I’m already acting like Roberto Duran.  “No mas.  No mas.”

  A wonderful thing about depression is it will completely lift if the right thought goes through your head.  I’m one of the lucky ones because I have a new thought every nano second.  They overlap one another, but if I pay close attention I can comprehend a thought or two.  So, yesterday as I had my lips around my early generation Glock 19, I had this epiphany:  “Why does Heineken smell like pee but taste like sweet honey?”  No, not that one.  This one:  “I don’t always have to cave to the generator’s words!  Sometimes I could just write about whatever crosses my demented mind!  If I wanted to write about head butting a twelve year old girl while I fingered a shitzu’s ass while it was being held by the approving smile of Ru Paul’s vagina, then I could take my fingers out of little fluffy and write it in blood on a Subway napkin. I don’t always have to cater you, Roundoms!  I have free will to do what I want!  Go ahead! Talk some shit, punk!

Stun Management.

I see!  You should be stunned! I’m in charge around here, you fucking manipulative bitch!  Watch how I stuff this square peg into my round butthole.  “Ouch.”  You see?  This act is a metaphor for our relationship.  I do what I want from now on.  Damn, that’s uncomfortable.  But I’m going to leave it in for the duration of this essay.  Just to prove a point.  So what do you have to say now?!

Skipping Trouser.

I knew it!  You just shit yourself!  Each corn kernel skipping right down your leg!  “When the cops are on your trail and you have a monkey trail.  Diarrhea, bum bum!  Diarrhea!”  You look pathetic, Roundom.  Am I being to harsh?  Are you gonna cwy now like a witlle baby?  What was that?

Small Brush.

I know.  I know.  You’re more sensitive than a little orphan girl.  Jesus.  OK.  Come over here and sit down between my legs and I’ll brush your hair.  This blood has completely tangled everything.  Hold still, this is going to hurt a little.  Stop crying, or I’ll feed you to the Nigga in the alley.  He’ll eat anything.

  We should take a moment to bring you a word from our sponsor.  “Have you ever turned on the kitchen light and… Uh Oh!  Yuck!  There they go scampering under the sink, refrigerators and any nook and cranny that is available.  MEXICANS!  Don’t leave that tortilla chip on the floor, little Peggy.  Those Mexicans travel in packs!  If you attract one, you will attract the whole barrio!  But now you can stop them with, Cholaway!  Cholaway deters unwanted mexicans by distributing education capsules all over the room.  Once a Mexican sees all of that education, they scamper away as fast as they can to their dish washing and nanny jobs!  Mexicans hate education, and you hate Mexicans.  Get rid of them with, Cholaway!”

  Good.  No, better than good!  It’s wicked gnarly, kid!  I feel like I’m driving the short bus to see a matinée of Grown Ups part 2.  Because that movie is bound to be retarded.  I’m sorry.  Excuse me for a moment.  Hey, billy, stop eating that chocolate!  Where did you get that?  “A doggie dropped it.”  Gross!  Why would you eat some shit that a dog unloaded onto the grass?  Oh wait.  It’s because you’re retarded!  You will never know love, Little Billy.  Never know what a hard nipple on an excitable woman feels like.  You will never know the well oiled, worn in catcher’s mitt that is a woman’s floppy ass vagina.  You won’t even know what vagina means.  You are doomed to a life of unending celibacy!  You want to know why, Little Billy?  It’s because you are retarded!  Now go sit the fuck down with all the other fuckin’ retards!  Jesus, you’re stupid.  OK.  Where was I?

  Right!  I feel like an Asian girl on her first white guy date.  “Oohhh.  I’m gonna get it leal good.”  I feel like a bunch of cock suckers on a cock ranch.  “There’s too many feathers!”  I feel like an alcoholic that has just woke up behind a dumpster having found out he pissed himself.  “Yeahhh!  No shit this time!”  I feel like a man who has just shared a flirtatious moment with an interesting woman that ended with a soft giggle, a slight touch on the arm, an intoxicating smile and exiting comment like,  “See you around, smart guy.”

  So, I guess this is acceptable.  I feel good about it.  The essays will continue, but they don’t always have to include you, Generator.  Tomorrow is a new day and I don’t necessarily want you around all the time.  On occasion, I might want to be alone with my cold Glock and a sweating temple.  On other occasions, I might try to fit entire sentences into my rectum, regardless of their shape.  The point is you don’t own me anymore, Roundoms.  I will always cherish the moments we have had in the past and the ones we will definitely share in the future.  With that being said, I must also add, all of this feels good again.

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I Particularly Hate You!

  Hey, boys and girls!  What happens when Uncle Aaron has been too drunk to do research and construct an outline?  “Freestyle!”  That’s right, you little shitty human beings!  We are going to freestyle this bitch!  Start up the generator!

Slam Particular.

“Oh, President Washington!  I do declare that you have found me wearing nothing but my particulars!”  “I can not tell a lie, Miss Pettycoat.  So, I would venture that I’m going to slam those particulars right off of your swelling bosom.  But first, go make me some Kool-Aid.”  Why are panties so unmentionable?  AND, when did they become “particulars?”  I tried to look it up right now and all I can say about that search is Macy’s has panties on sale.  Thanks internet.  Though I do enjoy your short films where a young college student suffers an “angry dragon.”  I’m just kidding, those girls don’t go to college!  All kidding aside, you have to look up “angry dragon!”  There is nothing so simultaneously hilarious and depressing.  I call it, “The Sick Laughter.”  I’ll wait…

  Back to this crappy Roundom.  It’s crappy because anything can be particular.  For example, “I wasn’t raped by the whole gang, but that particular handsome guy.”  OR, “Of all the hairs that hang off your balls, that particular follicle has a booger hanging from it.”  OR, “I didn’t cum on both her tits, but only on the real one.”  There!  Did you notice that?  I didn’t use the word particular and yet you understood the sentence.  Which begs this question.  WHY DOES THIS WORD EXIST!!!  We already have the word specific!  “I specifically remember her and the specifics of her bleached asshole.  Down to the specific sore that I first had mistaken for a mole.”  That works fine.  Or you could just point and grunt.  I will just have to guess at what particular you have chosen.  Just nod when I point at the specific doughnut you will stick up your fat ass because you just had oral surgery and can’t live without a doughnut inside you.  Which I find particularly sad, Officer Stadanko,  and now I feel a certain specific particular desire to cut off the front part of my head.  The front part because suicidal practices are so predictable. AND, I want to go out in a magical, particular way.

  I suppose you could say someone IS particular implying they partake in a very specific existence.  Like, “Joe has a particular girl he fancies.  Mostly, he likes them to be around twelve.  But he will also occasionally date an Asian.”  OR, “Don’t touch those figurines!  Mohammad has a particular way he likes his Jihad Super Heroes. I think they mostly point to Mecca.  Or was it Macon.  Georgia, Saudi Arabia, it’s pretty much the same place.”  But again, it’s just my wonderful imagination that is keeping this Roundom afloat, because there isn’t any meat in it.  Like a ninety year old woman in her particulars.  Except for her meatloaf vagina.  Which is mostly just breadcrumbs anyway.

  What if we flip the words.  “Are you ready for the most encroaching, the most pugnacious, the most militant energy drink since liquid napalm!  PARTICULAR SLAAAMMM!  Slam one of these down and you’re jugular will rupture from just a furrow of your unibrow!  Go over the top douche style!  PARTICULAR SLAAAMMM!  From the makers of Scooby Dew.”

  What if this omnipresent word is god like to other words.  “…we are all within him and he is within all of us.  That was beautiful.  All right, congregation, please take a seat.  Now I know we all have family members who, shall we say, hang out on the wrong side of the commas.  A stray verb.  A lost adjective.  But I’m here to tell you there is always a way to get back in the good graces with The Particular.  I’m sorry, but are those n-words I see down in the audience?  Get those n-word bastards out of my church!  We all know numbers can’t be saved.”

  The truth of the matter is I am losing to this fucking word.  How much bullshit can I come up with?!?  The scope of such a word is too grand for this simple endeavor.  Never have I met a stronger adversary than you, particular.  I know I have been slamming you like a giant whore face first into the head post of this virtual bed, but you won’t stop laughing.  Or are you crying?  I can never tell.  Yet, I am still so far away from the word count I have assigned myself.  And there you sit, looking over you’re back fat with your sloppy face and your strange noises.  I swear it sounds like your laughing.  OK, I’ll drop it.  Let us kick you off the bed and come up with a noun that is particular in it’s definition.  And then we will slam it into submission.  Good bye, particular.  And fuck you very much.

  OK, generator.  Stop fucking around!

Slam Contract.

I’d like to take out a contract on “particular.”  “Yeah, I’m talking to you, you fucking prick!  I don’t want to see your fuckin ass around here ever again or I’m going to break that p right off your body an shove it up your ass!  God, I hate that guy.”  I just feel like this is cheating.  You work so hard at something and you get no reciprocity.  I know, I know.  But there is something about him I can’t get over.  I know he fucked luwonda, but he said he was drunk and that hoe molested him.  That triflin’ bitch!  If I ever see her around the 99 cent store, I’m gonna bust that bitch in the mouth!  Isn’t there anything I can do to get him back?  I just feel like I’m to emotional right now to make any intelligent decision.  Don’t touch me!  I’m not kidding, take your hands off..  I’M NOT KIDDING!  THAT’S IT! I’M GOING TO KILL MYSELF!  I’M GOING TO CUT OFF THE FRONT OF MY HEAD!  And, scene.  Thank you, thank you.  Oh, that’s very kind.  Thank you all very much.

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