Finally a new title wherein the author confesses hisfondness of Bush
Finally a new title wherein the author confesses his fondness of Bush, and how with hard work and sticktoitiveness he plans to become ever increasingly less American.
Dedicated to my three dedicated readers: Leeny, Chris, and Shaun.
Dedicated to my three dedicated readers: Leeny, Chris, and Shaun.
Winter is come to Sioux Falls again, having arrived here a few weeks ago. Only today has it warmed enough for me to stir and write for you. It is the warmest day since the cold has set, yet there is no sun. Very good, I say. Away with that lying bastard, I say. I once looked to it for warmth, as one should and most do, but the sun, like one’s perfect parents, dearest heroes and all other things utterly human, has let me down. You see, out here, in the winter if you want to feel warm again the last thing you want to see is the sun. Clouds keep the heat in.
And on those days, when there is complete gray cover, I sense a marvel unseen. Because, after all, the curious must wonder, where does that heat come from? I checked the ground to see if maybe it seeps up, and under a foot of hard packed snow I came up nil, no shit. I surmise in mind and heart that it must come from everything else: Every moving car, every sleeping bug, all the fat bunnies and squirrels hopping hither and yon, all the bundled idiot joggers and idiot Jodys that feel they must be out on the streets and sidewalks. From every home, the mall, and McDonald’s, from the jobless Indians, the buck-toothed Ethiopians, the unchecked Hispanics, and every other pasty white motherfucker I see. All of us, or “Allus” as the regular non-African black people would say, keeping warm by one another, barely speaking to one another. There’s a Christmas story in there somewhere, and it’s yours if you can find it.
Not me. Not today. My plan to endear you all with my next blog was to be some yarn about how Bush is all right with me. I’d spell it with a capital b having you all drop jawed, hands to your face Culkin style, only to find out what I’m really saying is I prefer a little hair on a cunt. Grow a little grass on the field. But it’s been too long since I’ve had a good proper lay, and even then she was bald. When you look down to watch it go in and out it looks like you’re fucking a kid. Fuck that. And like I was saying I’ve been too long without to do it justice. I’d write with too much adoration, not enough lust. I’d give it too much power. I’d wax philosophic about the unwaxed… Sorry. No more lines, I promise. I had meant to honor Bambi Woods, Kay Parker, Barbara Dare, and Nina Hartley. I would’ve ranted about the wayward direction women’s sexual liberation has taken. But that’s why people tune into Oprah to hear some menopausal liberal/conservative hybrid brunette in a suit give it to you straight. They don’t want to hear it from me. I don’t blame them. Besides, there is no way I could convince anyone that there’s a conservative bone in my body. They’d just think I was being funny. They’d label me a fraud and for all the wrong reasons.
You see, I, like the sun, am no longer my former. I’ve no right to write as though I’m so hard edged. Not any more. What can I say? One minute you’re coked to the fucking quick tearing ass down the interstate because for some fucked up reason the outlet mall sounds like a good idea, and the next you’re sipping “sleepy time” herbal tea in front of the Animal Planet channel, and rubbing lotion on your elbows. Then your doctor tells you you have high blood pressure and wants to put you on medication. I’m only twenty-seven. I once had a mid-mid life crisis when I was twenty-five. A friend my age was getting married and like TV had taught me I thought only of what that meant to me, blaming her for forcing me to grow up, really hamming it up to my friends, all of it feigned. Other than happiness for her I felt nothing for it. It was just my cue. But all of that acting out and playing pretend would not compare, nor could such antics ever convey that instantaneous implosion of shame and irresponsibility where the mind reels, and the heart bottoms out. I was no longer impressed with myself. Glory. Hallelujah. I said no to the meds and got a dietitian and a regimen. It’s strict. I eat much less calories than the recommended intake for the average American male. Good. The average American male eats shit and sits on his fat ass looking on the internet at what passes for porn stars these days; all blonde and double fisting themselves and whatever ridiculous object they can fit inside, making his poor wife feel old and unattractive in her au natural. It’s like they just want to see a hole where a woman once lay. It’s like they’re saying less pussy! What? Next we’ll be chopping off those cumbersome legs, mounting computer monitors on the headboards, and the mouse under the pillow.
And on those days, when there is complete gray cover, I sense a marvel unseen. Because, after all, the curious must wonder, where does that heat come from? I checked the ground to see if maybe it seeps up, and under a foot of hard packed snow I came up nil, no shit. I surmise in mind and heart that it must come from everything else: Every moving car, every sleeping bug, all the fat bunnies and squirrels hopping hither and yon, all the bundled idiot joggers and idiot Jodys that feel they must be out on the streets and sidewalks. From every home, the mall, and McDonald’s, from the jobless Indians, the buck-toothed Ethiopians, the unchecked Hispanics, and every other pasty white motherfucker I see. All of us, or “Allus” as the regular non-African black people would say, keeping warm by one another, barely speaking to one another. There’s a Christmas story in there somewhere, and it’s yours if you can find it.
Not me. Not today. My plan to endear you all with my next blog was to be some yarn about how Bush is all right with me. I’d spell it with a capital b having you all drop jawed, hands to your face Culkin style, only to find out what I’m really saying is I prefer a little hair on a cunt. Grow a little grass on the field. But it’s been too long since I’ve had a good proper lay, and even then she was bald. When you look down to watch it go in and out it looks like you’re fucking a kid. Fuck that. And like I was saying I’ve been too long without to do it justice. I’d write with too much adoration, not enough lust. I’d give it too much power. I’d wax philosophic about the unwaxed… Sorry. No more lines, I promise. I had meant to honor Bambi Woods, Kay Parker, Barbara Dare, and Nina Hartley. I would’ve ranted about the wayward direction women’s sexual liberation has taken. But that’s why people tune into Oprah to hear some menopausal liberal/conservative hybrid brunette in a suit give it to you straight. They don’t want to hear it from me. I don’t blame them. Besides, there is no way I could convince anyone that there’s a conservative bone in my body. They’d just think I was being funny. They’d label me a fraud and for all the wrong reasons.
You see, I, like the sun, am no longer my former. I’ve no right to write as though I’m so hard edged. Not any more. What can I say? One minute you’re coked to the fucking quick tearing ass down the interstate because for some fucked up reason the outlet mall sounds like a good idea, and the next you’re sipping “sleepy time” herbal tea in front of the Animal Planet channel, and rubbing lotion on your elbows. Then your doctor tells you you have high blood pressure and wants to put you on medication. I’m only twenty-seven. I once had a mid-mid life crisis when I was twenty-five. A friend my age was getting married and like TV had taught me I thought only of what that meant to me, blaming her for forcing me to grow up, really hamming it up to my friends, all of it feigned. Other than happiness for her I felt nothing for it. It was just my cue. But all of that acting out and playing pretend would not compare, nor could such antics ever convey that instantaneous implosion of shame and irresponsibility where the mind reels, and the heart bottoms out. I was no longer impressed with myself. Glory. Hallelujah. I said no to the meds and got a dietitian and a regimen. It’s strict. I eat much less calories than the recommended intake for the average American male. Good. The average American male eats shit and sits on his fat ass looking on the internet at what passes for porn stars these days; all blonde and double fisting themselves and whatever ridiculous object they can fit inside, making his poor wife feel old and unattractive in her au natural. It’s like they just want to see a hole where a woman once lay. It’s like they’re saying less pussy! What? Next we’ll be chopping off those cumbersome legs, mounting computer monitors on the headboards, and the mouse under the pillow.
Enough. I’m dropping my fat ass, becoming less American. Fuck the internet. I’m adding three hours a day of writing to my regimen. Why not? There’s nothing good on TV and all that porn is starting to run together. And at the end of this when I’m this beautiful Un-American pussy lovin’ writer I’m grabbing me up a hottie brunette or redhead (At least trim the hedges though, baby. I’m trying get some adult action, not chop through jungle.), stealing us a car with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, a plate of coke and we’re turning our backs to the sun and going home. Wherever the fuck that is.
posted by pacoblue at 6:43 PM
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