That just pisses me me right off.
That laughter is the best medicine bullshit. Tell that to all those gruesome ghostboys on Iwo Jima and Omaha Beach. They’d laugh you right to hell.
Death comes to us all.
How about man-eating ants taking their sweet ass time gorging bit by itty bitty bit on your boney ass because you’re paralyzed because a goddamn asp bit you in that boney ass.
And don’t look at me like I don’t know that you’re thinking I’m an idiot for worrying about the FACT that nuclear weapons are being stored and handled and monitored and altogether CARED FOR by dumbass numbnutted idiots with no ambition.
I said it.
It’s a word. Look it up.
But it does not change a single atomic particle of the truth that Armageddon is being quote unquote held at bay by people who may have been let go prematurely by the local community college where they may have come into contact with the herpes virus.
Fucking irks my fucking ire.
And don’t get me started on the assheaded spacepeople with their peniseyes and vaginamouths and horrendous ideas about nutrition and sex.
Do not get me started.
Because I will not stop.
Except maybe for the Indy 500.
But who wouldn’t?
something came calling last night. from above. as i lay sweating my wang off during a terrible midnight. it’s been like that. things. coming. calling. whispering into my brain. but they don’t say anything. not that i think I can hear anyway. it’s always. just. out. of. reach. and i twist and turn and open and close and clench and grab and pull and push and. and. and. nothing happens. something is trying to tell me something. what the hell does that even mean. i am something. i know what that means. nothing is not something and that is something. confusing. and it always has to happen at night when i’m trying to sleep it all off. snooze away the world and its cruds and stinks and itches and thirsts and crowds and oh ho ho the goddamn kneejerks and all the etc they bring. but no, no snoozes for you, just thick sweats and strange invasive whisperings and a black rainbow poking me in the face. how come this stuff never happens just after lunch? after i’ve finished my sandwich and strawberry sundae and am sipping my brewski and then a black rainbow comes and pokes me in my silly face. I could maybe better deal with that. so how come that never happens? my unit has no answers. all it says is that i should get more rest, perhaps use a rectal-sleep-aid or sonic-rest-cure. believe you me i have tried all manner sonicgulletsuppositoriapharmocopials and have yet to have that moist and sinking feeling of sleep-thieving dread stay away for anything like a thrice-night. i’m pretty aware of the root causes. my wife and best friend are dead. and i am lonely. my only chum is a robot. and my unit. which is functional. but i do not love it.
“Jesus doesn’t wear unders, baby, he preaches au naturel.”
“You’re not going up to the top of that hill in just a robe and your junk. It’s uncivilized.”
“Say who? The Romans? Man, they go gladiator more often than freakin’ gladiators. C’mon Mary, don’t be such a square. Besides I’ll be wearing sanders, too.”
“That’s exactly why I want you to put something on over that dirty song of yours, the stupid, bastard Romans and their cosmopolitan says. You’re a man of the people, who ought to aim to be respected. So act that way. And I could go on about them dirty ass feet. Sweet Noah’s ghost, they nasty.”
“I came into the world as God made me, baby. I intend to go out into it that way.”
“Yeah, and if your ass gets run over by a chariot and all we’re left to remember you by is leather sandals and wrinkled balls.”
“Mother Moses, that’s a little dark ain’t it? C’mon, we rock the sermon today, tomorrow I head out to the desert for a little R and R. When I get back we just keep gigging. Keep the fever pitched , you dig? Maybe make some history.”
“I dig I dig, and I’m sorry to be so snooty but I just know you’re capable of great things. I don’t want you to do anything that’ll sabotage that. Underwear included.”
“Anyone else but you and I ain’t covering this nutsack for nothing.”
“Aww you’re sweet. And a bullshitter, I get Simon Peter in here making fun of your bare-knuckle low-hangers and you’d be begging me to wash and hammer dry you a fresh pair of undies.”
“Simon Peter can lick my left one.”
“Who’s saying he hasn’t?”
“Wha—who you been talking to?”
“I’m prayed to God to keep me appraised of your, ah hem, apostling.”
“Damn my Dad, I told him to leave me alone.”
“Don’t get upset. I don’t give a shit. In fact, I think it’s pretty hot.”
“You do, huh?”
“Yup. And I’ll prove after the sermon. So will you please reconsider the underwear.”
“Okay, hand me those there will ya?”
“Jesus Christ, these are disgusting. It’s just like Jeremiah said quoting your dad, although you wash yourself with lye and use much soap, the stain of your iniquity is before Me.”
“You want me to wear ‘em or not.”
“I just pray your Mother doesn’t decide to come see the show.”
“I’ve got a real good feeling about this one.”