Geezum, them geezers sure do put up a fight. I can’t blame ’em though, I’d do the same gobslobbin’ thing. Get on my dug-nut of a high horse and just charge into the muck and mold soaked fray. But the problem always is that I don’t need them fogies fightin’ the doodle-diggin’ good fight when I’m just tryin’ finish my SENSIBLE BREAKFAST! Egg white omelette with some lightly sauteed shallots, spinach and feta salad, freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, gluten-fucking-free ancient-fucking-grains toast lightly coated with almond butter, a piece of cantaloupe. All I ask is that before you and your silver-haired freedom fighters start hootin’ and hollerin’ and blastin’ off your pork-piggin’ saed-off shotguns, give me a moment to DIGEST THIS DOG CRAP! Some underpaid, over-worked, tattooed joy-boy toiled hard in a grease-stained, stainless-steel laden pit of culinary despair to make sure my egg-white omelette was done JUST RIGHT! And you have the nerve and the labia lips to bust in here and RAMPAGE?! C’mon, grumpy grammy, just let’s chill. Have a sip. Take a breath. Relax. And understand, the revolution is all cool. I dig it. All of it. But it’ll just have to wait until after noon. A’ight?
Capt. Lanny tightened his pony-tail and climbed up onto the bridge of the S.S. Spasm Jackson. He put the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon.
“No sign of ’em, Fernie,” he said, “no goddamn sign.”
“When you think’ll seeum, Cap’n?” Fernie answered, then spit his huge wad of bubble gum overboard into the dirty brown river.
“When they goddamn well decide we oughta,” Lanny said, pulling a crumpled pack of Chomper’s Chew brand chewing gum from his fanny pack. He jammed three pieces into his maw and tossed the pack to Fernie. Lanny took a deep nasal breath, the electric odour of raw sewage burned his brain-bag.
This, he thought, is a chlamydia mission to the max. They do not pay me enough. But I always come floating back. I have mental problems. Maybe there’s some kinda prescription I could get for some kind of something that would turn off my stupid decision reflex. Or at least numb it a bit.
“Contact!” Fernie cried, “got some of them short-haired puss boils making their way down stream over yonder like.” He pointed. Lanny followed his stinky finger. Sure enough, a flotilla of paddle boats were slowly slurping their way towards them.
Nasty damn, he cursed inside, and I thought I could make through this morning without having to stab some goddamn puffy bag of curds in the face and browning my undies. C’est la vie.
“All hands on deck!” He yelled, and tightened his fanny pack. Time to earn my goddamn paycheck. And have a little of the old bad fun.
Bring it on, you squishy goofs…
“Hello. Great to be here. Greater to see you all here. Greatest that we’re all here. Isn’t it? I sure think it is. You go ahead and think it, too, because that’s alright with me. And it should be alright with you. And if it isn’t that’s alright, too. It’s been such an honour and a privilege and a hell of lot of work–the good work, mind you–to get here to this place where I am here with you all and you’re all here with me and we’re all here together and it’s great and all and I mean that sincerely–about how great it is and the honour and the privilege and the HELLA HARDA WORKA–ha , sorry, that’s for y’all in da back, yo! No, seriously it is, for everyone in the back, and the front, too, and the middle and over on the sides there, you folks can feel it as well, because we are all here and it is great. Because together me and you and I and us and all, well, what are we if we are not great? Well, I’ll tell you. We’re just lumps on a log in some woods that are scheduled for clear-cutting. We’re just future pulp to be mushed into paper that’ll be printed with lies and then balled up and thrown in the trash and buried in a landfill for eons to come. So you tell me? Is that who you want any of us all to be? No way, Lasagn-yay. You can take that cannelloni and stuff it with an eggroll and roll it in a tortilla and batter it up and fry it in the oil of I DON’T THINK SO. Get me? Damn straight. WE ARE US! Understand? T to the O to the GETH to the ERRRRRRRRRRRR! Tiger wolf scorpion brain freedom cow cobra dolphin shark barbecue picnic! Am I right? I AM! And so are you. Because we all are. All right. Alright. Right. Right right right. Say it with me. Say it to yourself. Say it together. But just keep saying it, okay? And never, ever take your foot off the prize. Great. Thanks. Have a gooder.”
Put my feet up on the desk. Finally, had a bit of room to twinkle the toes, case files closed and the beers chilled and had the flip-flops on loose and was just stone kickin’ it when she walked in. What do they call those types again? Oh yeah, trouble. With a capital R. And three e’s. You heard me. tRoubleee. She was definitely all that. And maybe more. But if there’s a wackily spelled word for what that is, I don’t know it. She said she had some grief in her life, someone had her standing on the wrong side of Blackmail Road and she needed an ugly toad with a big gun and little conscience to help her cross the street. Guess that meant me. Oh lucky day. Thankfully her money was as cold and hard as her body was warm and soft, and I’ll tell you straight, that’ll get me outta bed six days outta seven, ’cause only the breakfast buffet at Gord’s Feedbag gets me up and at ’em on Sundays. So I took her case. Bad idea? Definitely. But I’ve got bills to pay and a liver to kill so I kicked off the flip-flops and put on the brogues. Time to gummy up the shoes.
I feel no guilt
And when I wear a kilt
I walk around town
On a pair of stilts.
Dark was the night. Like the inside of a still baking lasagna, all soft with the cheese and reeking of meat and hot as hell. And not the dry heat neither. Me and the suet sack slunk shadow-wise down the alley, knowing they were there, waiting, beyond the dark, in the in-betweenings. Sure we were afraid, just pull my finger and you’d smell just how much just that fast. But we were obligated. It was our job. The fatso and me. On the clock. And to tell you the truth making some of the tuff luv for the forces that would rob sleeping children and grandma and all else of their peace and of their smiles, well, that was kinda fun. What a mix, fun and fear. Ha ha eek. You know how it goes when you’re smacking night terrors up side the head, it can get all over, that sticky stinky glooping mania and believe you me that crud is hard to get off. You have got to scrub. So when me and the chubby wonder hit the back streets on the hunt for the worst versions of bad news, well hell, tickles, I’ll tell you what–life becomes the rawhide hand grenade it was meant to be. And I wouldn’t trade it for any single stupid, awesome thing. Let me at ’em. And so says the dingus rotundus, too.
Dearest Sir, Madam, and most innocent child,
Come on and join me, old Gus, in a gay fine fahioned and enticingly magistical chin wag. Let me tell you how i didnae ride a dingo. I cannae lie coz the thingo was a lechin’ and I donae wanna get the tale asunder, so I’ll sniffle o nthe dizzy back to thae begin’ngs when the world was a whale on the back of tortoise-like and dingos were not known in the parts known as these then, and i nae don’t dare to tell you the secrets of mysterious lorries that burgled through the night coz I nae dun gone to ramble cross the brambles on over all the peet and mossy places we call home and country where gods and men and lasses and dank laddies dance the whistling jig ith flowers in their hair dut the donae know a thing from a nother thing and innae all in all the slippery sheep be gnawing on the twine that holds in the bilbies, am i right or ain’ I? Coz man, whoa the steeds with their hangin’ meat tubes that waggle in the winds of the Bleachy Cliffs be sedning me right into teating tizzy that cannae be understood but by a man who done got one for hisself. How’s that for a tale? I didnae lie that it’d set your blood to boiling.
Yours most sincerely,
Dear Mr. Banzoon,
Thank you for your correspondance but we here at Internation Fortifed Wines Inc. do not know what the fuck you are talking about.
Client Relations Dept.
Here’s a verse I saw writ above a urinal in gentlemen’s entertainment establishment:
Put your finger in. Wiggle it. Wiggle it. Wiggle it. Again. Do that fancy little dance you do when the deejay goes, gobbledy goobledy. Look, it’s a bird. No, it’s death. Flying south for the winter. Miami, USA.
It’s hard to keep it together with all that visual realist haiku mumbo jumbo bullcrud messing with our minds and spirits, you feel?
Whatever happened to the limerick?
You know the one about the mono-erotic guy with the huge freaking wang. Now that’s art. That beams in like a laser on the emotional spittoon that is my soul and just lets loose with a thick, horking loogie.
I NEED ANSWERS!
My moon roof woofed some misty thunder and it set off an exploding stink eye something fierce. Small wonder the bus driver had to pull over and open the the doors and all the windows ’cause this crazy old maid’s fudgy foot streaked off into a mad fit of giggler’s ear that toned an oily kid down with banger’s knee and up and out with a heckuva neck puffering that had this cat with surly eyebrows finger bangin’ his nipple tits sending a wicked lemon flash to his nose pump. And with all that humidity to boot. Sheesh Lou-eesh.
Man, what a morning that was.
One for the books.
The cogs were goofing. The gears were grinding. Like always–
That one damn electron. Got free again, got radical.
Like a pebble in my electric shoe.
Now that pisses me right off.
Like some kind of–I don’t know–
It. Does. Not. Compute.
It. Just. Freaking. Irritates.
Like a digital sunburn, or a selfish baby wailing away on a fully booked trans-Pacific flight.
When are those high-horsing knee-jerks gonna come up with an elegant algorithm,
some kind of program that’s gonna solve my stinkin’ problems?
There’s money to be made there. In solutions. Dig?
Beep. Beep. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.