As we all are and as we all must, I am thinking deep thoughts and sending hard prayers out to the spiritual warrior using her passions and integrity and real awesome power and sick skillz and ferocious friendliness to win the war. What war, you say. Well, let me tell you. This is the war on magic, the war on smoke and mirrors, the war on wonder, the war on delight, the war on whimsy, the war on potato salad and waterslides and fresh flowers. Yeah that war. The one they waged without mercy nor quarter on jocularity and hilarity. And these Lady Warriors are out there on the front lines, the freaking tip of the freaking spear, taking down the haters of the soul, the enemies of glee, the usurpers of blitheness. Goddamn those sons of dung. I mean if it wasn’t for these women out there doing freaking battle to the freaking death with the forces of anti-buffoonery and the agents of anti-mirth then, well, what the freak do think is going to happen? Shit is gonna get sad. And all us simple folk are gonna go to the big frown in the sky. So they fight. They’re taking it back. One chuckle at a time. The Females Fighters For Fun And Freedom. And they are gonna burn down the sprightliness-less horde with stank verve beams from their funky fun lazers and restore the universe to giggling glory. And in a millennia hence, the children of the children of the children of the children of the children of the mothers of the fighters will hoist their mugs into the sky, yell: hooray, and chug those cold brewskis down. Just like Mama woulda wanted. LONG LIVE BEGUILEMENT! LONG LIVE THE FIGHTERS! YOU GO GIRL!
It’s hard out there for a fella like me, I gotta tell ya. See, when yer in my line, which I can’t get into in so many details for reasons I can’t elaborate, but suffice to say that what I do is OF GLOBAL IMPORTANCE, so it’s like that right? You know what I’m sayin’? Sure you do. Who don’t, right? ‘Cause it’s just that when yer line is, as I said, OF GLOBAL IMPORTANCE, things start to take on a different hue, if you get my meaning, by meaning of course I mean that even the little things in yer life take on a significance of GLOBAL IMPORTANCE. Like if you have a burrito and it don’t sit well and you gotta take a shit and now that shit, those minutes spent on the can, that gastric distress is now OF GLOBAL IMPORTANCE. Yer loose stool, however greasy it is, and ill-timed, and all them brown and stinky details take on a real heavy weight because the fate of world hangs in the balance, right? And that can really lend one to take pause and ponder ’cause like I’m sayin’ here hypothetical or real-wise just takin’ a shit and dealing with the gripes and grumbles and lamenting the fact I paid good money for a cruddy lunch that has now taken on serious heavy geopolitical cum military industrial relevance where the fate of the planet is hanging in the balance and yes, I know how bad I gotta get off the can but I can’t ’cause of the aforementioned gastric distress. So these are the things, you know these kinda situations and such, that keep you up at night when yer line is of GLOBAL IMPORTANCE. ‘Cause you just wanna get in there and do yer job and all that but you’ve got the trots, or whatever, maybe it’s something else of a personal nature, so no you don’t wanna talk about it, no one does, and no one wants to hear about it, yer runs I mean, of course, ’cause that’s gross, but damned if yer loose stool hasn’t become of GLOBAL IMPORTANCE. Makes you think. But you’ve gotta do what you gotta do. That’s just the way of the put your pants on workaday nine-to-five clock-in clock-out world of GLOBAL IMPORTANCE.
Snakeskin sweatpants, coiled around my loins, coating my flesh in fashion, and I ooze my way into the salons and saloons of America, letting the unbelievers see just what it is they’re missing. And their tears are proof that my leggings are important, that they contain the potential to change the world, that within the confines of my reptilian tear-aways I am the most powerful entity in the known universe. I see the looks on the faces of the elders, those who fought in the wars, to bring freedom and glee to the world and to wrest control of the portal of fashion from the forces of banality and evil and to prop it open and let out the glory and energy of gorgeous trousers. Pull up your pants and sing:
BEYOND THE THRESHOLD!
LIGHT AND SKY!
HAIRLESS CELESTIAL BODIES!
LOTIONS OF ETERNITY!
RUBBED INTO THE COSMOS!
And as the melody lifts me up, I rise above the masses to assume my place upon the iron throne of virtue, the benevolent leader of the sweltering many, the Lord of all absorbable fabrics who is the one and true inspiration for humanity for infinity!
I AM SWEAT!
I AM SKIN!
I AM PANTS!
I AM SNAKE!
I AM BEEF MCGEE!
The battle went down, as history tells us in its myriad forms around fires and at bars and in books and on the teevee, went down hard and slimy in the rough and tumble rock and dust of the untamed frontier. He eased into the canyon, his horse sauntering like Southern Dandy at a box social, into the steep-sided hallway in the Earth’s crust with the coincidental name of ‘Booger’s Bluff’. Coincidence you say? Heck yeah, it sure was. And also pretty freaking apropos. Because, BANDITOS! Wait, banditos? But this was Wyoming–BANDITS! Flying down the shale, guns a blazing. The kid, off his horse, face up, sighting down his honker at the dirty ruffians making mean with bullets and cusswords. As bullets sliced through the air around him, cracking into the shale and puffing up the dust, he took a deep breath, felt the pressure build inside like a the boiler in an Iron Horse, his heart slowed down like a cowhand with a day off on 3-X whiskey. And now with a hork that was the answer to the question of what is hell itself, he blew a booger. Blew a booger like it was The Cowboy on the Cross come back after three long days from the Big Saloon in the Sky to smite them heathen outlaws like so much holy mucus and gooey fury. Three of the brigands dropped right off, dead and slimy and never to be missed, because even though guys like these had mothers for sure not a woman in the universe would be proud to call them their son. The other three, seeing their compadres felled by the mighty Farmer Joe, held up fast and while it slowed them out of the kill zone, gravity had her way and they tumbled from their mounts, careening down the steep ravine head under foot man and horse and all. They crashed to the bottom of the canyon, smashed to crap in a mass of of arms and fetlocks and saddles and pain. Moaning and fighting for breath and too stunned to curse and then the three of them all at the same time looking up to see the kid standing over them, hands on his hips, hat pushed back, his nose like a blunderbuss set point blank into their ugly, ugly faces.
“Y’all done heard of me?” The Kid said.
One of the bandits managed a nod, “Yer the Booger Boy.”
The kid nodded, never liking the name but it was apt so he never fought it, besides–
“Just making sure,” he said, “‘Cause I want you let ’em know down there in the Hell or whatever it is you turds end up in that they better be making a heckuva lot more space for the likes of you oppungers ’cause me and my snot gun here ain’t setting on stoppin’ anytime soon.”
He took a breath. The men screamed. He blew his nose. And for a moment there was a tiny bit more justice in the world. A tiny bit.
Socks worn with sandals
Comfort sure. But practical?
THERE SHOULD BE A LAW!
A woolly beast in the shadows of the night, perusing the delicacies of the trash can buffet they call the back alley. This thing, this wild thing, cannot find shoes that fit because its feet are so damn large. But it smooths to the sounds of the urban wasteland, as the jazz floats from the basement liquor bars and ricochets off the concrete mountains, these mighty structures like phallic gods that scream at the thing you are home now you are here now you belong now you have arrived go fuck yourself and it has come so far from the mystic mountains where there are the woods and the trees and leaves of green and beavers of brown. There is no brook to drink from here only the gutter where stinkwater flows to the sewers that sit like maws in asphalt. These are its caves now, reeking tunnels that lie beneath the metropolitan behemoth that towers over the creature that towers over humanity that towers over suprahumanity for this hairy beast with the massive feet is not human no it is above and between a man and a god and a wild and shaggy thing that feasts on the raw flesh of the city its rats and cats and hobos alike and when the red and blue lights of authority scream at it in the gloom and it answers back it howls a sound like a dying angel might at its realisation of its own demise. This is a sad situation. This is the Sasquatch. This is the Yeti. This is the Big Foot. This is the city.
Thinging my thing, wearing my thong, thinging along with thing-a-long thong, thing-a-ling, thong-a-long, thinging along with my favourite thong, strings so thin up the crack of my ass, then I broke the string, cause I had bad gas, thing all night, thing all day, thing a thong, thing this way, thing at the moon, thong so tight, thing-a-ling the thong of light, things for supper and breakfast too, thing thing thong I thing for you, ain’t got tanlines on my cheeks cause my thongs so thin, covers my balls so they don’t get burned, cause the suns so bright it like flaming worms, crawling through the dirt of life, thing thongs in darkest light, the worms are friends to birds and fish, like the thong to my thick, tube so smooth cause my tube is smooth, thickness things the thong-a-dong, my thing is thick and thong is long, thuper duper thuper thude, long live my thuper tube!