Beef McGee: Ascension of a God

http://aornightdrive.blogspot.com/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:
BALLOON!
BABOON!
FLOAT BEAST!
BEYOND THE THRESHOLD!
LIGHT AND SKY!
DARK MATTER!
SPIRIT WARRIOR!
TRANS-DIMENSIONAL!
HAIRLESS CELESTIAL BODIES!
SHAVED SMOOTH!
GLISTENING NIGHT!
LOTIONS OF ETERNITY!
RUBBED INTO THE COSMOS!
OOOOOOH!
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!

Advertisements

The Boy with One Nostril

maxresdefaultThe 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 a 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 lead 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.