Dear carnal buffet of wonder and taste,
I’ve got it bad from both sides. My jack is jilling and my Jill is jacked. I’ve got a motor in the moonhole and an engine in the stars. And they both run on gas, Baby, gas. And by gas I mean the sex. I take it pure and fluid and nasty as a Norwegian Swede at a Mississippi Swamp Jam. You heard me. So. Question one. You wanna meet me in the bog, baby? Cause I’ve got thick wrinkled mudflaps that hang all the way from hello to goodbye! And I need a hot splashbone to part my curtains and wash my windows. My skin is covered in sexual grease and I need a heavy dripper to scrape me off and dry me out like a Bedouin Jacuzzi. I wanna feel the harsh wind of a throbbing blunder nugget splitting my mottled thighs open like a mountain does the sky. Make my sex place a Montana licence plate and ride the beef fleet on in and in and on and on. Juice my lewd tube and make it send sticky clouds into the fleshy sky. I’m a deuce caboose front and back and side to side stopping at all stations from Ladyville to Mantown. My body is nude thunder and naked lightning all buff and smooth and wrinkled and creased like a midnight prune. I give it and take it and mix it and make it because I’m double-edged piece of Parmesan that you wanna sprinkle on your erotic lasagna. I’m spaghetti and meatballs, baby. I’m sweatpants and tightjeans. I’m a loose goose. I’m a slop dog. Lather me up and rub me down and use my multi-body to clean the grime off of the city with them officials down at City Hall sitting up in their crystal offices writing sex cheques their nut butts can’t cash and sticking the dirty costs hard up into the crowded holes of the commoners sitting all complacent in front of their teevees vaping bubblegum and eating pudding and smiling their toothless smiles and wallowing in ignorant glee.
There ain’t no elevator here. No stairs neither. What if there’s a fire? Or some more sinister calamity? I’m just standing there and the klaxon starts screaming at me to get the hell out. Do I jump? I’ll need a window for that then. One that opens. Hopefully opens easy. I guess I could smash it if I had to. Use a chair or a coat-rack or if not that a well placed karate kick. I need to learn karate. Where’s the closest dojo? Good name for a dog that. Dojo. I should get a dog. I could train it to sniff out the smoke when there’s a fire. Do a special bark to warn me. Give me time to steel myself to karate kick out the window. You just don’t throw yourself into something like that. That’s how you get hurt. Pull a muscle, sprain something. Nothing more painful than a high ankle sprain. So I’d take the extra moment Dojo gave me to loosen up. Don’t freak out, stretch out. They should teach that in schools. Good mantra. Solid advice. Prevent a lot of needless injury. Kids these days get a lot more sprains. More than when I was a kid. Rehab costs have gone up too. So that affects everybody. Society and all. What with all the rising prices it’s hard to save a buck. Money in money out. Like piss in a bucket as the old timers would say. Kids would say something different. Probably something about how things are more tubular now. Including prices. A can of ham today is not the can of ham of yesteryear. You can say that again. Can of ham. Where’s the washroom? Usually it’s by the elevators. But then again not always. Toilets have changed too. For the better. That’s for serious. Outhouses used to be all the rage. Where are they now? Not anywhere I do my business. High-efficiency smell-less wonders of modern technology. That’s waste making and disposal in these future prefect times. Kids probably grow up never knowing the stench of a clapboard turd shack. You can’t put a price on that. But if you had to. Gotta be worth at least a couple large. Even a large ain’t as large as it used to be. One thousand ding-dongs now ain’t the thousand buckaroos of the old. Even the words are new. You hear a kid say buckaroo you’re gonna look twice and wonder what went wrong. Now every second word outta their mouth is ding-dong this and ding-dong that. It’s all about the money. That’s one thing that ain’t ever changed. Good to known there’s at least one thing. That and the Indy 500.
Due to recent legislation that has been enacted by both state and federal governments we have found the need to clarify acceptable inter-office conversations based around this beverage station. Please do not take this as any sort of ban on conversing with your fellow employees around said beverage station, in fact, a major principle of a piece of said legislation expressly forbids employers from prohibiting inter-office conversations around beverage stations of any kind, be it water, coffee, tea, juice, smoothie, lassi, soda (diet, high-fructose, Dr. Pepper), milk, lactose-free milk, non-dairy lactose infused milk, non-milk milk (almond, soy, pine), or liquid whatever.
It is now company policy that any and all conversations around this beverage station must recognize the following guidelines:
-Regarding any and all of employee’s political views and their opinions there of, in no way will the pure and proper ideals of ownership and management impede on those held by the painfully mistaken members of our team, and neither shall any employee. This includes, and is not limited to, right-wing conservatives (try it, you’ll like it, there are pamphlets in the staff room), liberal leftists (Santa is dead. Believe that.), centrists (get off the fucking fence), socialists (you want me to pay for whose what?), communists (so ultra-over), kleptocrats (there’s something there but it’s all “who you know”, y’know?), anarchists (like the IT department, it’s lonely, complains a lot, and smells like b.o.), proponents of true democracy (BWAHAHAHAHA! –wiping away tears- Seriously though, your points are valid), and the don’t know-don’t care-don’t vote ideologues (we’re looking at you, Janitorial staff). It’s all good.
-Regarding any and all employee’s political views, whether they be (most correctly) right-wing conservative, gossip-mongering centrists (we hear you secretarial pool), anarchy (which like it’s IT dept. proponents is lonely, complains a lot, and smells like b.o.), or the don’t-know don’t-care don’t-vote ideologues of the Janitorial staff, it’s all good.
-Regarding sports. All hail sports. Unless you hate sports. Then, go heil yourself.
-Concerning co-workers who like to spout off about their sexual conquests. While the newly minted personage bestowed upon the corporate entity that is this company believes that certain sexual proclivities are utterly indecent and immoral, it is no way our business, or yours, to restrict Lance in the data-processing department from extolling you with how much fucking pole he smoked at Buster’s Thug and Tug last night. Nor is it in anyway acceptable for us to limit the amount of Melissa in PR’s non-stop dry as all hell descriptions of how painfully unsatisfying her husbands penis is.
-This also goes for conversations concerning employee’s automobiles. All forms of transit are valid and to be included. Especially someone’s robust enthusiasm for continuously letting you know how awesome theirs is and how much awesomer theirs is going to be with the new whatever the hell kind of thing they’re going to attach to it mechano-babble-blah-blah-blah, day-in and day-out. Yes Hector, we know you have a cool car. Is that also why you have five kids with three different women at age twenty-six? It’s not for us to judge or even question. But still–
-When Janelle or Peter or You-know-who wants to talk ceaselessly about how many hot wings they put back at The Sports Pump on the weekend, you must let them, but also you are well within your rights to let them know they make you sick to your fucking stomachs. Then politely let them roll back to their special desks near the elevator, which of course was also part of new special legislation, which made fat-as-shit a universal job qualification in all places of employment.
-When a co-worker just has to rave about the episode of television he/she/gender-neutral saw last night, and is just BLOWN AWAY that you didn’t see it and then you’re all like if she says spoiler alert one more time I swear on my gram-mam’s freakin’ grave I’m-a gonna stab her freakin’ eyes in wit’ a pen, please understand that you have just got to roll with that, bro. (Important note, this company is legally obligated to ensuring that this is a certifiably safe working environment and that any and all acts of violence will not be tolerated and may result in suspension and/or some kind of mild reprimand).
-If Soo-Yin from Acquisitions and Mergers wants to tell you how talented and smart her two-year old twins are she is fully encouraged to. Over and over and over again. But always keep in mind the rumor that they may actually both have Down’s Syndrome and/or Spina Bifida, which is totally fine by the way, and that in no way makes them any lesser a part of society, but that’s also why she looks so tired all the time. And why the husband’s no longer in the picture. Feel free to discuss.
-Concerning religion, there is of course only one true God and it is through him and his only begotten son, Jesus, that you will find the way. We’re pretty firm on this one. Still, we respect your right to talk out of your ass.
We hope this clarifies things.
Thank you for your understanding on this issue,
She rested her head on his chest. It was like listening to rawhide breathe.
“I can’t hear your heart beat,” she said.
“It’s there, baby,” he cooed, “beneath the lotion, beneath the bronze silk made by the licking of the Sun. Listen deep.”
She did. ba-dump. ba-dump. ba-dump. Yes, it was there, like some deep snuff-coloured planetoid floating in a crimson void. And on it was a civilization of sensual intellectuals whose culture was steeped in a copper-toned mysticism that radiated out across the universe uplifting the spirits of any and all lifeforms that were bathed by its waves of mahogany goodness. She imagined Jesus himself, lying out on the beach by the Sea of Galilee with Simon Peter and a couple of the other apostles, maybe Phil and Judy and Jimmy the Lesser, soaking up some rays, and these magical vibes giving him a solid tan and inspiration for the Sermon on the Mount.
She looked up into his bisterous face.
“Teach me to tan,” she whispered.
His eyes looked into her, into the well of her soul, sending a bucket of knowing into its waters and he intoned, “I will teach you. I will tan you. We will become one. In ecru.”
She knew then that she had finally–
The space is long and thin and cramped like the fallopian tube of some giant woman that offers a blue plate special up inside her. The waitress, herself some giant woman, seats you at your table, which is covered in a fungoid mold unknown outside the blast zones of atomic weapon test sites. Her demeanor conveys a mixture of emotions that fit somewhere between blue and brown. Call it bluwn. Her teeth are like used buckshot, round and bloody and reeking of death, and the breath they filter is equally so. It merges with the ordure of the kitchen that floats through the pores in the drywall and slap-swingy doors lazily and lethally like a cloud of summertime Sarin, and hangs there in the air, daring you to breathe. It stirs your hunger like a cannibal chef stirs a massive iron pot of man-stew, strong and proud and utterly terrifying. The menu is a stupefying assortment of Sweet Holy Christ and You Want Me To What? Gravy is everywhere like a sludgy, grey dictator’s secret police. Will it come for me in the night? Tell my wife I love her. You order. The waitress in the sonic equivalent of a rusty rake disagrees with your choice, chooses not to give a shit, and blobs off, hacking a thousand cigarettes worth of phlegm into the fabric of space-time as she does. Rick himself, blurping and cursing around the grill and deep fryer like some kind of hell-pear, dumpy and and ovoid and violent and sweating as if he had been born with malaria and then went on to engage daily with what must be the anti-thesis of exercise. Dying fatly, I’d offer. He trowels out your hash as if it was an ancient plague, splashing the plate down with a vomitous “PICK UP!”. The waitress still phlegming at the mouth and so charitably raining it over your dish like a Rangoon monsoon, drops the plate before you like a dead pigeon and possibly mouths the dirt-bag version of bon appetit. I looked it up, it’s Go Fuck Yourself. You gag it down. And now you know now what trench warfare tastes like. Prepare to sleep the sleep of million rampaging bowels.
Ricky Rick’s Bar & Grill
324 West Ash Rd.
Open for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner.
Long story short.
I’m cruisin’ like a neon worm. Squiggling through the electric soil. Atomic manure bleeding radioactive small particles picking at my fluorescent flesh like so many diesel-powered mosquitoes. bzzzzzzz-bzzzzzzzzzz-bzzzzzzzzz. I’m gonna need some balm, rub it on sweet because this future fresh picnic is purring along like a candy-cane motorbike–whoa, sorry I’ve got a bad case of the metaphors. Probably was those gas-station tamales, they give me the psychedelic mind runs something fierce. Can anyone recommend a good brain firmer? I’ve used Bayer’s SolidThought (both regular and x-tra strength (both x and xx but not xxx)) and had reasonable results but it still had my mentalities hanging lambent and loose in the wind all razzle this and dazzle that and freaking the crap out of everybody. So I’d appreciate any help.
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?