Saturday, July 31, 2004

I exercise my inner Hunter Thompson.

I post at Best of the Fray at

appropo of nothing at all I did a little rant and it goes like this. a one and a two and a.......

In keeping with the new high standards of Checkmarking at BOTF- I'd like to do my part. Today I'm dressed like a Nascar driver with the names of the editors chums and various Slate writers and forums sewn into my white jumpsuit ...

I get ready for a neighborhood tour in my Volkwagen Bug- with a big bobbleheaded clown on the top that waves and farts as I drive slowly up and down the streets.

We are so lucky to be in the virtual changing rooms of the Martha Stewart of cyber publishing. I wanted to origami little butterflies tapestried with my renaissance sensibilities but I was never there.

I was, oh...SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW!!! clash of Tympani's, screeching of ravens and crows....flash to video of ravens and crows picking the eyes from dead sheep. flash to strange images of the New Kids on the Block with their heads pressed through the bars of a cellblock enclosure...frenzied images of hard looking convicts at work behind them....flash to....flash to...uh uh....flash to....uh huh- uh huh...get down...get down....flash to

...BOTF posters moving through dark cloisters hooded with cowls chanting in C++++ passing worm eaten sarcophagi...small stiletto's of light break through cracks in wet ceiling...vampires scream...advertisers run....flash to...there's a neon george hanging in a fist fucking sling...soundover of multi-plungers working on a plugged drain...

Lord, what dark cornucopia is this.......intermittent flashes of Beatles songs followed by ball-peen hammers hitting tin roof's and piercing screams of bastinado victims in forced moonwalks through Thriller outtakes.....flash to...flash too uh...uh...uh...get down...GET DOWN!!!

uh....flash to...flash too...flash also...flash gordon...flash in the pan-everybody is making their mark under the invisible billboard of the Sunset Blvd shark cruising up and down then over to Santa Monica late night prowl.....up town...down town......It's all a non-stop poorly accomplished blowjob on 8 milimeter film with lots of satanic naked fat guys laughing....

HAH HAH HAH!!!!!!!! HAH HAH HAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! greasy 75 pound skank whores are laughing too..."GET OUT OF TOWN YOU LOSER!!!" then they throw condoms loaded with rat shit, neo-con intestinal juices and the sexual fluids of Goliath tree spiders at me.....

I'm not laughing....yes I am...AH HAH AH HAH HAHAHAHA HAHAHAH HAHAhAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Get me Tipper Gore on the snorkel phone there's something wrong with the lyrics of this song.....When the world goes mad it won't be an all of a sudden thing, long out of control before it hits the wall and slams back out into the street. It's gonna come with small little incidents in apartment buildings, on subways and mall food courts and movie theaters.

It won't be connected it will just random out in incomprehensible patterns.

It will sneak into the papers like a check-kiting smiler... making his way through the convenience stores and supermarkets two steps ahead of the bunko squad.

It will be humming The Midnight Rambler and it will sound the way tinfoil feels when it connects with your teeth. BOTF is one of the places you can see it happen. It won't happen through the occasional posters or the chronic day in day out touts who lounge like middle aged men in bad hats at the OTB' will come from all sides, from the top down... will leak like battery acid in a junkyard over dirty broken concrete...can't you feel it? I can. Will some naked Godiva on a horse with a mace and a whip break through your monitor and tear through the forum page causing metal confetti to fly and sharp edges of polymer burn-on's to smoke and burst into flame? I don't think so. It would be nice but I suspect it will all happen inside your head. Have a nice day.

The BOTF prostitutes primp in the mirror, snort off the mirror and then fall into the mirror- looking in we can see a gaggle of Munch characters reaching from behind the barrier. Her agent answers the phone. He's a hunkie just off the boat with some vague connections in Little Odessa. He speaks pretty good English.

He wants to know what you want. You tell him you want that whore BOTF. You heard she's a nasty chick with a dick and you wanna thrubba dubb her head into a sheetrock wall while you pretend to be a jackhammer operator.

You want her to dress nize, like she does...but you want her to perform like a crack whore in an alley off 42nd street on a hot night in July. Tell the guy you don't want she should wear the false teeth this time and you want the Star Wars cosmetics.

You know she's got more STD's than Carter's got little liver pills or James Baker has little liver spots and you want every one of them. You're hooked and you know it. There's no accounting for Love and you know this isn't Love.

This ressembles Love about as much as karl rove does Brad Pitt. But you want it. You want it with vomit enhanced breath and the backdraft of the charnel house. You want her to talk like Tom Waits and you want her skin to feel like rhino hide.

She's all of those things and she's a guy too. She's everything you ever really wanted all those times you drank Winners Cup vodka by the caseload in your trailer outside of Bakersfield back in your salad days. You know she/he has done everything with everybody you hate and she did it in front of you while they had their way with you first.

You smiled afterwards through the broken teeth and the pooling blood. You never had it that good again. You want it now though and you don't care what it costs.All you got to do is go over there and post.

You know it...if you just post she/he's gonna show up sooner or later and give you what for, right down there on the oil-stained floor among the rusting tractor parts and dead animals. Go ahead, Top Post some shit...all you got to do is wait. She's find you.

She'll walk out of the smoke of your burning apartment wreathed in the incense of burning carpet and melting tupperware. You can go down to Hell together...but what does it matter? You are already there.


Anonymous said...

dude, what's with all the naked guy talk? i bet you would like to exercize the inner hunter thompson!



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