August 3

(found this in my rant archives... made me laugh out loud)

August 03-05

I was told I was the best in the world, I was told I would go far, but look at me now, sitting and clacking upon the plastic and far from love, liberty, ecstasy and goodness. Stuck here in the smelting iron core, breathing char and fumes and burned by every kind of cinder. I was once the great prodigy of the West, a darling child of sunshine and a conveyor of delights. Then I was struck by black lightning; my whimsy wilted and my spark went cold. No company can I keep, for I weep at inopportune moments and frighten the children. I have tried to keep a garden, I have learned a bit of the kitchen; I have become expert upon the loom. But I have no lady to welcome me home in the evening; I have no more inner twirl. There are certain fibres that are stunted, and certain frying pans that no longer sizzle. My utensils are reduced to a few dull spoons. I am spent of ideas and I want to break some skulls. Can you lend me a sturdy sledgehammer? I will pick up my landlady and swing her by the feet against the wall.

Do you need help crafting a riddle? I can supply you with a chuckle or two, but it will be empty of mirth and full of gall only. I have a bit of acid in my tongue, and a chip or two upon the shoulder. I could rent a smile for a day or so but I’m sure it would run away screaming. I wish I had a mail-order bride. Can you lend me some tasteful pornography? I am blacklisted from church and none of the artists will return my one-line text messages: "feeling bleak, love me now" "make puns not war" and "has anyone seen my uncle’s pet badger – run over by a knife-sharpening van?"

My pencils are made of pins and needles, my pens are full of mucus. I have a little bit of toejam stuck between my teeth- that’s how often I get my foot stuck in my mouth. I had a rift with my local baker and since then he made a voodoo doll with my face on it. My baker is Haitian and now I hate all goddamned Haitian bakers; their floury visages are deceptive as their hearts are full of lye.

My sister called me “cabbage face” on several occasions this month; I have no idea what it means. I have a cabbage stench, this is true, because my shower hasn't worked for a month. I would dunk myself in a lake but my town is landlocked and not free. How appropriate.

My grammar homework is particularly difficult today; I am still a student and have not graduated though my lengthy academic sojourn has reached Guinnessean proportions. I need staples for my stapler; my pencil sharpener is overflowing with mouldy shavings and the carcasses of potato bugs. I could vacuum them I suppose but I don’t believe in electricity. As in, I don’t trust the science. Whatever happened to kerosene? Good things never go out of style. Electronica, Schmelectronica. My only friend in this world is a ham sandwich and I ate him a half-hour ago. Not many people are about to shit their friends out their asses before evening. I give me one hour till my next bowel movement. Then my friend will join all the others down at the filtration plant. Life is a grand and glorious circle, sure, but some times you just end up shit down the pipes.

I was happier, oh, about 5 years ago, but that was before the dotcom bubble. Not that I invest, but I thought with there being no 'bubble' at the time, there would also be no 'Bubo'. I make a lot of decisions based on pun potential, see, and I feared greatly the 'dotcom Bubo,' because I greatly fear death by internet-borne medieval plague. I am afraid of germs so I wipe my hands diligently after every encounter with a stranger, sometimes on the stranger’s own forehead. I have not been slapped yet this week but then again I haven’t been out, as I’ve been writing. There are so many germs on this keyboard; all you people who don’t sterilize your mouse, you really make me puke.

I like to write sometimes, just like other people sometimes like to have enema bags shoved up their brownhole. I also like spelling. But really I prefer hang-gliding, at least from what I can tell from the happy hang-gliders on tv. I have never glided myself, because as I said my town has no elevations or bodies of water. Sometimes I wish I lived in a global village. My cousin Edgar, he would be the village idiot. He at least has more problems than I do, and I take great comfort in that.

I was a dunce once in my fargone youth, but really most of the time I could sizzle with the best and coerce all typology of grins; I was beaming with competence, promise and poise. I was like the poster child for bullishness; I had a half-dozen tricks up my sleeve and I never wanted to call the barker. 'Call the barker' is a slang for ‘pack it in, real slow and spicylike’ ie Cajun-style. I used to invent sayings on the spot, and try to justify them with a smokescreen of rationale and logic, but I’m through with logic just like I’m done with electricity. I got sick of the system, and sure it’s cliché but I know what side of the trough my bread is buttered on, and a monkey who can type at a typewriter knows that a dog will have its day; I guess it takes one to know one but my patience at least is a virtue.