It was a dark and stormy midday. The windows were spattered with the patter of an inebriated, sickly sound, a R&B/pop pap smeared on the glass via the entrails of a Now That's What I Call Vomit 37 disc except it was in French so I guess its title would be Maintenant qu'est ce que j'appelle vomi trente-sept but I'm not sure because I'm terrible at French which is why I couldn't tell whether the singer was praising or castigating me. Everybody sing! Castigation station, what's your obfuscation! Hooking up hookahs with lungs and nearby roads and thoroughfares where plying her trade might be a hooker! I know, where's the hook.
Anyway, the other day, my sometimes-better-half and I --
"Dumbass, turn the self-filter on!"
Last week the trees on a stretch of sidewalk near work sprouted their leaves, their shed buds a hard, bright yellow-green carpet laid upon the mute grey of the stone. After being trampled under foot while talkin' about love, they now radiate the distinct hue of vomit. No, that's not the theme but mere coincidence. I suppose one could infer that this is the theme of this apparent brain dump, but this isn't a brain dump proper -- should I be saying "time for a number two?" -- but more of a brain fizzle like when a garden hose nuzzles a bunch of gunk and the water doesn't come out full 3-2-1 blast off, the nozzle exhaling nothing but a trifling piffle. Ever see that shot of young Jimmy Page doing skiffle on Limey teevee?
Don't tell Crowley's ghost or there'll be a Whole Lotta Hex.
Perhaps starting with you, "private property owners." In the War On Islamojihadfascistocommiepinkoism®, or, The Convenient Other -- that sounds like the title of a bad postmodern novel just dying to be praised by 386 MFA critics and read by the 12 of them that aren't out bohoing in Soho until 3am or whatever it is those fuckers do. Damn you, self, if only I enjoyed metal ironically and owned multiple pairs of skinny jeans -- there's no such thing as private. Unless it's for national security purposes. Jesus says so. Look it up. Hubris, ostentatious extremism, three-piece suits, holy books, large beards, people blowed up real good which we, unlike those nihilists, are deeply, deeply sorry for, colossal imperialist displays of concrete and steel, cette guerre has it all. No quarter!
"It's not a brain dump if you pull something out of the newsies."
The gallows pole for you, socialist. I for one cannot wait for the Flight 93 Memorial Supersize Play Set, available only at Wal-Mart. Just look at these features!
- President Bush with removable codpiece and kung-fu grip!
- pull the string and hear the authentic "Let's Roll®!"
- large and larger American flag decals!
- complete set of boxcutters!
- not for children under 4!
- made in China!
- papier-mâché Congress sold separately!