Filed under: Pirate Love Ballads | Tags: All Kinds of Fish, Aqua-People, Clown Fish, Fish, Gargoyles, Giant Squid, Puffer Fish
It was raining again. The water had begun to get icy cold and I suspected it would be freezing over soon, so I went in search of clams. I blindly stuck one foot into my harvest-yellow suit, repeated it with the other, then moved onto the exciting bit; the arms. I zipped it up with a giant rusty tab and reached for my helmet. Closing the antique metal window over my face and attaching the air hose to my tank, I went into the decompression chamber. I always took gasping breath as the water rose above my shoulders as I was still a land-walker at heart.
I took a slow, deliberate step outside once the hatch opened with a squeaky resistance.
“Morning, Mrs. Bonneur.” I said, waving, as she couldn’t hear me regardless. I could see her lips move in response and she waved back before bending back over to continue toiling away on her algae garden. “I’m afraid your plants might not survive the winter, Mrs. Bonneur. Lucy’s coral always wilted in the cold.” I said through a pensive demeanor, well-aware I was talking to myself.
I kept going at my painfully slow gate, not stopping to play fetch with Mr. Goodwill’s pet hermit crab. Arriving finally at Al’s oyster farm, I stepped inside his anti-chamber and swayed to the calming waiting music. When the port swung open, I walked in and greeted Al.
“What can I do for ya?” He asked, his rosy cheeks jiggling as he bounced on his soles.
“I thought I oughta stock up before the water freezes.”
“Leavin’ it a bit late, arntcha Jim?”
“I suppose.”
“How many will ya be needin’?”
“Oh, I dunno. Not too many, since it’s just me.”
“That’s right, that’s right…” He trailed off, touching his chin and staring at the ceiling of his shop for a moment, “Terrible business, that. She was a nice lady, she was. Gosh, I guess it’s almost been…”
“May as well give me 10 kilos, Al.”
“Good sir, good. We’ll get those delivered to you. How will you be paying?”
“Oh, let’s see… How about I give you a compliment every time I see you?”
“That would be most superb sir, superb. That old Miss Rothchild tried to pay me with those little pieces of paper last week, she did. Can you believe some people? Dunno what she thinks I’m going to do with those.”
I wasn’t listening. The words ‘terrible business’ knocked around in my head.
“Then Mr. York offered me a backrub just last week,” He continued. “of course I’m too kind to say no but I’d just as rather not receive it at all and get something more practical like a friendly phone call or-“
“What’s that on your head, Al?” I cut in, oblivious to what he was saying.
“Huh? Oh, what? This? This, Phil gave me this for a feed, he did, what’d he call it…A…”
“Santa hat?”
“Aye, that’s the one. I didn’t know you and Phil were close.”
“Thanks Al.”
“Oh, uh, thanks Tim. I’ll get one of the boys to drop those clams off tomorrow.”
I stood in the anti-chamber, gasping for my breath and thinking about Lucy and Christmas.
I riffled through the old boxes I kept in the back room until I found the picture. It was of Lucy and I, standing in our newly-purchased suits in front of our new house; an exact replica of our home in New Jersey, except with the appendix in front. We both looked young, our faces glowing; we were laughing at each other’s ridiculous Santa hats and enjoying our infinite mortality.
I cooked myself some left-over crab from the night before and went to the rift. Clutching my harpoon gun tightly in my gloved hand, I looked around nervously. The rift was usually off-limits for the townsfolk, but that had nothing to do with enforcement and everything to do with not getting killed. Massive bubbles rose from the cavernous fault line and great groans came from underneath. I didn’t stay.
I did my best to figure out what day it was. From what I could see from the rotations of the hazy sun in the crystallized air, it was the end of December, I guessed around the 23rd. An old almanac I had been using to level a sofa confirmed it. The next day I got prepared; I bought new harpoons, wrote a letter in the case that I did not return and traded Al his hat for a photo of a tree which flabbergasted him.
I dreamt vividly on Christmas Eve. Memories perforated my imagination. We stood before the rift, holding hands and admiring the schools of fish that swam by, their scales flowing red and green. “Merry Christmas” I breathed as morning broke, hoping she could read my lips. She smiled; of course she did. I slowly sunk to one knee and withdrew a small red velvet box. I opened it as an oyster would to reveal its pearl. Inside, enclosed in a tiny plastic bubble, was her mother’s wedding ring. She was instantly reduced to tears, threatening to drown herself inside her suit. Memories of our parents crashed upon us; scenes of pandemonium, scenes of necessary abandonment and destroyed families. She reached out to it, not believing it was real. She hugged me and wept. We stood there, on Christmas Day as snow fell onto the surface above us and a single tentacle rose behind her.
I awoke suddenly in a sweat. It was night outside, so I left. I arrived at the crevasse with harpoons and a propensity for revenge. The scene hit me there; the tentacle prying her from my arms, wrapping around her doll-like figure and crushing her soft frame. I ran at it, swiping and grabbing, connecting with the great beast’s eye, but it threw me off before sinking to the depths below with my beloved. I stood there; waiting, waiting for it to return as tears burned my face. I stayed until my oxygen was essentially gone and I had no choice but to leave. There I stood again, twenty uncelebrated Christmases later, wearing the ridiculous red hat. Just like that night, a tentacle rose from the black hell below.
The beast was enormous, its tentacles extended forever in every direction. Its eyes peered over the edge; one bore a scar through its retina, its milky white colouring suggested I had stolen his eyesight like he stole my betrothed. A moment’s calm fell over us as I stared into its massive dead eye that dwarfed me easily. I quickly reached for my gun as its infinite tentacles flew at me. I dove to my right and fired a bolt into his bulbous forehead. His many limbs thrashed furiously, breaking entire chunks of the shelf off into the abyss. I rolled about frantically, trying to avoid the fatal blows from his tree-sized appendages. The harpoon seemed to be of no serious consequence to him, as he soon discovered and furthered his attempts to abolish me. I soon became exhausted from his cat-and-mouse game, stopping for a quarter of a second to breathe deeply from my tank. One of his stray arms caught me by the tight. Delighted by its own success, he lifted me like a fisherman would display his best catch. I readied another harpoon as I swayed upside down and prayed for a true shot. I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger. The business-end connected squarely with his working eye and I was released, falling slowly to the ground. The blinded beast retracted his satellites and withdrew to stumble about in the darkness. I rose slowly, testing for any injuries. I turned back to return home when I noticed something from the corner of my eye. I reached into the sand and picked up the plastic-encased ring. It was identical to the day I lost my one true love to the sea.
“Merry Christmas”
Filed under: Pirate Love Ballads | Tags: Cesspool, Graves, Nympho-Necropheliacs, Turles
All the bankers rise from their shoulder-deep graves, smoking their cigarettes
Letting every particle of every drop of smoke cling to their bodies and their newly-installed
Dirt from centuries of demolished buildings and abandoned bodies
Of every lover who couldn’t say goodbye
To the corpses and tombstones they fell in love with
The nympho-necropheliacs who came out only at night, chasing ambulances and hearses
Who enjoyed the feeling of concrete ripping the rubber from the souls of their shoes
And worried about tuition and rent and gas prices
Who associated with religious fanatics on a personal level
Who went to church every Sunday to sit in awe and repentance
Of their filthy habit of being happy and content and happy and happy
Their acidic holy water was ushered into vials
So they could drink it graveside
As a replacement for empty tears and as lubricant
Only to have it all funneled to the giant swamp-like wading pool
For children and their ailing comrades
Trumpeting cures and regenerated limbs
Thanks to the larger saucer of contaminated salt and water
Home to all the halved turtles and loveless drifters
Who can’t find their way home again
Having eaten all their maps and navigators
In a moment of sea-sick crazy
Brought on by broken marriages and a forgotten legacy
As they bump in the plastic soup
The wrenching, growing neutron of anaerobic civilization
Floating with impudence in the human cesspool.
Filed under: Pirate Love Ballads | Tags: Atom Bomb, Bear, Fuck, Obscenities, Roman Candle, Shit, Wife
My baby didn’t want any of this. There it stood before us; a goliath of shit-your-pants fear. I was not prepared for this! I was raised on TV! No amount of flickering, above-the-shoulders people compared to this bear. I was never scared of the Discovery Channel. I don’t think I like this.
Her, she! Oh my better half was better off being incomplete. She was a Prisoner of War and this did not compare. No sir, this was far worse. This was dire. Her face was painted in shock and the paint was still wet. Her face twitched and dropped; her facial muscles tightened and relaxed. Was she having a stroke? “Honey?” I said. Big mistake! Winnie-the-fucking-Pooh lit up like a Roman Candle. He was going to rip us apart until he found his honey. His unwarranted aggression would dissolve us like an atom bomb. Good god, his hands are like dinner plates and he has no life insurance! What kind of man was he? Not one at all; he had nothing to live for; he was a complete bezerker.
My legs jittered; they were possessed with fear and the need to swing themselves back and forth very quickly. This furry beast should be fighting on the shores of Normandy or be made into a rug, not threatening us witless campers!
His teeth were barred; they shone like yellow diamonds, just ready to be soaked in blood. His beady eyes were maniacal. They spoke to me like those of a drunkard I once knew; he was ready for ANYTHING. Like a lumbering boozebag, he wanted nothing more than to roam through the downtown streets at night and reclaim them as his own. He wanted to vicerate anybody in his way, and it was one hell of a deterrent, too. He had a mean streak as long as his bar tab, or about the length of this bear’s arms. He’d do it, too, the drunk, but he’s a humanist. What a curse! I prayed and hoped that the bear was one too.
I did not want to be the next vacationer inside this bear’s stomach. Already inside was a plethora of picnic enthusiasts, boyscouts, ships, small animals and parasites. That is no place for an organ donor and his wife! Good God, strike this heathen down!
But wait, why should we both die in vain? There’s simply no need! I must do what is right and save myself! She will understand; I’m much more successful. I turn to my sugar-pie to explain the situation to find that she has disappeared.
By God, how could this be? My one true love; a coward in the face of fear! Great bear, just devour me now, for I am truly unloved. Sky above and hell below; I do not want to live in on earth where I am discarded like the butt of a cigarette. Just eat me now!
Ah, but then there’s that book I was reading that was quite good, and I’d rather like to finish it. I’d also like to see the entire Godfather trilogy. Maybe I should carry on, if only long enough to finish up a few things.
In the face of this towering column, what is a good man to do?
He stared at me with those eyes. Why hasn’t it eaten me up? By now, I expected his stainless-steel claws to be poking around in my small intestine. I expected his cutting edge teeth to be gnawing into my cerebellum. For Christsake, I’d expected his children to be feasting on my spinal cord while the mother chased my poor wife and understood her insides to be a buffet. Come on, you great oaf! Some of us have places to be, and I know you must have some homeless people to chew on! This is simply anti-climactic! I’ve had it up to here!
I poked him in the chest
Then…then…nothing.
“Honey, leave the stuffed bear alone.”
Filed under: Pirate Love Ballads | Tags: Big Brother, Chemsitry, Clowns, Greens, Iron Maiden, Julie Chan, Teletubbies
I couldn’t help but smile at her eerie glow from the streetlight above.
“It’s the carrots.” She said without showing a tooth.
“Sure it is.” I replied.
She seemed to think that everything she was could be attributed to her diet. You are what you eat she’d tell me constantly. It wasn’t a nuisance, just an odd distraction from her beauty.
“You look nice tonight.” I’d say.
“It’s the pears I’ve been eating, they really help.” She’d reply.
It’s not even like she’d know, she’s not a dietitian; she’s a painter. Hell, she’s not even a great cook.
“What do you want for dinner?” She’d ask me nightly.
“Take-out?” I’d always try.
“No chance in hell! Full of MSG. I’ll cook a stir-fry.”
The stir-fry was her cross, and she, the savior of the Jews’ and the overweight, was forever nailed to the plate of vegetables and rice.
Her eyes aimed to the heavens above, “What do you want to do tonight?” She asked the streetlight flicking above her.
“Watch you be beautiful.” I replied, dreamily yet in all honesty.
“Something we can both do.”
”Should I get you a mirror?”
We ended up seeing a movie. Some train out of Hollywood that went off the tracks and ended up being a unintentional documentary on how culturally lost we are as a society.
“I liked it.” She offered.
“You like everything.” I countered.
“Why can’t you?”
She had a tendency to hang life over me with a string.
“Isn’t life great?” She’d say, setting the trap.
“Not particularly.” I’d say, half-heartedly. I could barely muster the energy to be pessimistic.
“Maybe that’s just because you’re not trying hard enough.”
No matter how hard I tried, how many movies I liked or how many greens I ate, I still wasn’t trying hard enough. She couldn’t accept my pessimism as genuine distrust for civilization.
“But people are so nice!” She’d cry.
“Tell that to the man stealing your purse.” I snorted. She never got that purse back.
Pessimism is genetic. My father was a writer, and his father before him was one as well. Somewhere along the line there was a defect, as my great-grandfather happened to be a clown. Life is funny like that. Not funny like a clown, funny like knowing that annually, hippopotami tend to kill more people than lions.
“Ohh, don’t you just love clowns!” She exclaimed, pointing at a street busker.
“My great-grandfather was a clown, and my great-uncle died because his dad couldn’t afford food.” I said, my eyes trying to melt the pavement beneath my feet.
It’s not like we weren’t in love. If I believed in true love, I’m sure we would have had that. Our relationship was like so: she is a single, positively charged Hydrogen ion, whereas I am two negatively charged Oxygen ions, we combined to neutralize each other and create harmless water.
“Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.” I said to her.
“You know I don’t like Iron Maiden.” She said with a frown
I sighed like Boreas, the Greek god of the northern wind, blowing a Persian ship to the great beyond. She frowned like a Teletubby paying alimony.
Nightly, she would return to her apartment at 7pm sharp to watch television. This was fine by me, because I usually wanted to be home to watch the news. It took me months to discover what show was so dreadfully important to her. Sitting on her lopsided sofa, we began to watch Jeopardy. Pleasantly surprised, I concluded that I might not have been giving her enough credit.
“Oopsie daisy! Wrong channel.” She exploded, snatching the remote and slamming her tiny fingers onto the buttons.
When she finally got to the right channel, I found myself wishing I were nose-deep in sulfuric acid.
“Big Brother?” I said in a disbelieving undertone.
“Oh it’s my favorite show!” She said in a clueless overtone.
Big Brother is my least favorite television show.
“How can you watch this?” I said, eyebrows hidden under my hair.
“Easily!” She chirped, fingernails hidden between her teeth. “It’s so exciting!”
An hour later, I was asleep and she was crying. I woke up with a start, expecting to see a bloody butcher knife in my right hand, and Julie Chan’s severed head in the left.
“What?! What is it?” I shouted, drool hanging limply on my lip.
“Rob got voted off!” She said through sobs.
I went back to sleep.
She was beautiful, I cannot tell a lie. I sometimes wondered if that fact alone was all that held us together after a long night of playing Monopoly Jr. and watching The Price Is Right re-runs. I enjoyed my time with her, although it generally equated to the warm fuzzy feeling that your stomach explains to your brain after telling some kid a joke and ruffling their hair.
On the other side of the wooden coin; she offers a sort of uncorrupted serenity that intelligent people cannot offer. How can you be happy knowing that there’s no reason to be?
“There’s not reason not to be happy!” She giggled. She was in a bubbly mood that night.
The next night; “There’s no reason not to be happy; these avocados are to die for!” She was in a you are what you eat mood that night.
And the next; “There’s no reason not to be happy; there are so many good movies out this week!” She was in a I like it mood that night.
A week later; “There’s no reason not to be happy; that man just gave 20 to charity!” She was in a people are so nice mood that night.
The next month; “There’s no reason not to be happy; Chelsea got voted off!” She was in a Big Brother mood that night.
The next year, it was I that was happy; “There’s no reason not to be happy; you’re here.” I was in a her mood that night.”
Filed under: Pirate Love Ballads
The all-too real streets of sludge and slime caressed the thin soles of my shoes as I started slowly down the entrance of a downtown mineshaft. I walked into the foreboding space as an endless wave of pushers and users crashed around me, grabbing at bits and pieces of my remaining cleanliness. The wave broke and receded, realizing I was no market for crushed opium or low-risk loans. I walked straight to the back of the enclosure, my head held high, even under the weight of my tremendous curiosity of the various freaks and spectacles in this museum of cultural devastation. Out of the fringes of my peripheral vision I could make out swirling shapes; women in flowing dresses, clad in beads and playing castanets in their hands. There were punks and Goths who seemed to be having an orgy in one corner of their underground palace. I scolded my wandering eyes and made my purchase, then left.
“These taste funny.” Said a voice.
“I think they’re supposed to.” Said mine.
It came on suddenly, without warning and without consideration for the women and children nearby. I was struck, hit, devastated. I began to slip; this was not good. I was going over the edge of the bridge, and below there were only rainbows and vampires.
I was grounded again. It was good, it was normal. Colours were a total gas, but other than that, everything was cool and groovy. Kids wandered around in their masks, clutching their sacks of loot like maddened bankers in the height of recession. Smiling faces bounced past, and I stood in the dead center of the rounded street, taking it all in. They were almost choreographed in their movements. To each house they would go, in perfect synchronization. Neat little line ups formed on each doorstep and once they finished, the freed child would move one house to the left. Every house they would go to, their sacks would get a little fuller and their faces would get a little brighter. By God, it was damned near magical.
They manifested; evolved. They turned on me, no longer clever elves of my own enjoyment, but satanic agents of my demise. Their faces glowed red and their eyes became slits. They grubby, pudgy fingers reached for my flesh, their darker purpose was to tear it off and stuff it into their bags. Later, they would bob for my eyeballs and play pin-the-tail-on-the-fleshless-corpse. The houses in the poorly lit cul-de-sac conspired with them. Their open doors became vicious sucking orifices, their foundations sprouting legs. They were dumb, blind and wild carnivorous things. They crushed cars and snapped trees on their wanton path of destruction. Their shudders flapped noisily and their exposed pipes gushed dirty water and blood. Entire families were trapped inside, screaming and bleeding from their mouths. This was the final destruction of the nuclear family.
A massive Galleon careened into the neighbourhood, destroying several unchained houses and pinning several demon-children under her magnificent, barnacle coated hull. Her mast proudly displayed the Jolly Roger, and they lowered me a lifeboat and voices in my head told me to get in. I made for the small dinghy, narrowly missing an infant’s razor sharp claws. The crew seemed friendly, albeit sloppily dressed. Ignoring the insignificant detail, I motioned to set sail, and we did. Once we ventured through one of the maddened house’s interior and made it to the open city, I rounded on them. Their eyes light up with a devilish glare. They showed their true colours; their peg legs were frauds, their bears were held on by elastic bands and their parrots were nothing but plastic and polyester feathers.
“What kind of pirate ship is this?” I said, frantic.
“Ar matey, ye best calm down before ye get yerself throw off sooner than scheduled”
“What? You picked me up just to throw me out again?”
“Aye, but we’ll be taking yer wallet before ye leave.”
True to their word, I was soon walking the plank, minus my wallet. I was given a hard shove and fell into the ocean of concrete, sinking down farther and farther. Fish skeletons swam past in a blur, dead bodies bobbed in the slate-gray water underneath the city. I resurfaced in what seemed to be an office building, facedown and drenched in sweat and sea water. I was in the main lobby, and it appeared to be recently vacated. The interior marble was still polished, but the floor was littered with paper and broken glass. The receptionist desk bared no signs of life, only scattered office supplies and a broken pair of women’s glasses. The logo, or what used to be the logo, was on the wall behind the desk, but it was covered in grime and all of the letters were peeling off or missing altogether. I kept on, going deeper inside the belly of the business beast, looking for a living being to accompany me through this living nightmare. It got darker, as more of the lights seemed to be broken. Evidently, power had not been cut off, yet many bulbs were either broken or just flickering. I pressed ‘up’ on the cracked elevator button that glared at me from waist-level. It light up to a sickly green and I heard gears churning behind it. The shining doors reflected me perfectly. I was a mess. I glanced briefly into my own eyes, but before I managed to get a decent look at myself, the light cut out again. Buzzing loudly, it tried to restore itself to no avail. I closed my eyes tightly and wondered where I had been all night, only recollecting brief chunks of insanity. I heard a soft scraping from behind me and my eyes snapped open. The lights returned from their early grave as I heard a loud DING. Before the elevator doors slid open, I caught a ghastly sight in the reflection; that of a decaying, green-tinted corpse in rags stumbling towards me, his face covered in the blood of family men and school teachers. His flesh hanged from his bones and his eyes bulged from his withdrawn face. I cried in shock and horror and jumped into the elevator without processing any thoughts. The doors closed slowly as the horrific figure approached, and I breathed a tortured sigh of relief. Slumping against the walls and sliding down its side, my face cradled in my hands, I wondered what the hell was happening. I checked out the inside of my moving metal tomb and came face to face with the bloodied corpse of the elevator attendant. His gaping mouth was full of flesh and blood and his teeth were broken and yellowed from all of his late night outings. His hair was patchy, as though chunks had been ripped out. His clothes were ripped and there were holes in his chest. The coup-de-grace seemed to be the axe protruding from his cranium at an odd angle. The bell chimed and the doors opened, showing me the ungodly scene that played out on the 13th floor.
Men, women and bankers were all scurrying to a common the mantel piece of the office; a poor teenager who lay naked on a large banquet table. His organs spilled out like so much spaghetti. The business-zombies who pawed at his dying body all groaned in an awful chorus of the undead. The young boy screamed with all the energy he had left, and gave one final plea for help from the new player in the scene; his head rose and his eyes locked with mine. His pupils were huge and bathing in salty water, he was so alive yet so obviously dying. Eventually, as everybody will, he gave up the ghost and allowed himself to become food for hungry monsters. I stood there, awe-struck. Those freaks had already lost their taste for high-risk loans and low interest rates, they had become connoisseurs of human flesh, and I wondered if I would be next. I slumped against the side of the elevator and shut my eyes.
I awoke in a hospital bed, chained and tethered to a filthy mattress and hooked up to all sorts of rusted machines and dead robots. Screams and satanic yelling pushed into my ears and the feeling of thousands of feet and feelers ran across my legs. A syringe stuck out loosely from my forearm, my eyes fluttered shut and my neck muscles tensed and relaxed sporadically. Shadows of doctors with chainsaws and nurses with hammers flew past the sheets that surrounded my bed. More sounds of rejected credit cards and eviscerated husbands fell onto my lap, which was covered in bloodied sheets.
It was black for awhile. I fell through the nothingness, enjoying the brief vacation from the devastation.
When I awoke, my costume had been left somewhere, and I had swapped various pieces of it with others; no doubt at the time having over-evaluated my bartering skills. I was now a grotesque Devil-Nurse-Ghost-Witch-Pirate-Robot hybrid, along with a few items I could not trace back to a profession. I was filthy and I had no recollection of where I had actually been. My wallet, of course, was missing and my throat was stripped and raw. I started to stumble back home, though the blackened streets of pumpkins and fireworks.
Filed under: 1 | Tags: Downtown, Heroin, Triclops, Winter Of Our Discontent
What kind of place was this? All the women had short skirts and three eyes, hissing whenever I approached. Oil exploded from the linoleum tiled floor as men wallowed in her black ground-goo. Happy days are here again! Men in black suits walked around, measuring this and that and comparing them with what size they would be 20 years from now. The bartender snorted little lines of coffee sweetener from an economy sized bag with half of a dollar bill.
Madness! Pure as the heroin in this bar’s ventilation system!
A rum runner made love to a piano and a dead veteran played the jug. They smuggled whiskey from across the Atlantic oceans; nobody had told them of our successful battle with prohibition nor of the invention of the aeroplane.
The dance floor was shelled. entire apartment buildings sat there, destitute and empty on the inside.
I’ve got to go! This is not the place to be! Not in the slightest! Nixon? No, I don’t want to buy any! Reagan? Let go of my coat! Carter? Oh sir, I’m sorry for your loss! Ford? You swine! Where is my car?
Goddam it, I seem to have made little bullet-sized holes in the ceiling. That could not have been me, could it? I like to think that I have a pretty good grip! It appears that I’m gripping a gun at the moment. Everybody is running, all the triclopses, oil addicts and businessmen. I don’t know what they’re running from, but I want to be as far away from it as possible.
I come from downtown! Born and ready for you!
All these Tropicana dancers, doing the can-can out the door; where are they going? The party’s right here, guys!
Filed under: Pirate Love Ballads | Tags: 1-800 Phone Numbers, Drunken Scribbles
Part I
The party has ceased and I’m all alone. Sitting at a dining room table on the Mira River. How’s this for Gonzo Journalism? Gonzo Gonzo Gonzo! Motorboat Brent sleeps in the other room.Vroom Vroom Vroom ! Beer bottles clink with a friendly satisfaction “Keep up the good work!” They say. I’ll probably fall asleep on this table. Little bits of marijuana herb grass are clinging to this book. “Take us to your leader! Set us ablaze!” They shout. My writing is sloppy. Hunter S. Thompson says he once had a mountain lion jump into his car, so he killed it with a hammer. Do you believe him? I do. I could use another cigarette. Puff Puff Puff! Where are all the boats this time of the pre-morning ooze? They all got pulled over by the highway patrol. “Stop, in the name of the law!” Soon, all the birds will check in, “Po-tweet? Po-tweet?” The Asiaman sleeps tonight. Ooo-oohh . Welcome to the end of the phone book, my number is 1800-SET-ME-FREE. Call for a good time. The other pen is dead. Peace. Maybe I’ll go watch the sun rise over the Mira and yell “Rise and shine! Welcome to the world, you fiery bastard!”
Part III
I want to see the sun rise. Bang, somebody just died. Boom. Someone was just born. Goodbye, welcome. Politics. Nothing else needs to be said about that.
It’s a good time of night to be asleep. One sheep, two sheep…
Part IV
Welcome to the Jaques Cartier motel. Welcome to fear and greed and Kim’s escort service. Get used to the smell of crying men. “My wife just left me”, “My dog ran away” etc. It’s all about being alone. I’m alone. I have lots of numbers, though. The numbers for everybody in town! “Hi, I’m writing about you!” Should I call? My light is dying. Then will I be truly alone? Emergency services, I just got hit by lightening! Come help! What’s your sign? And so on, and so on.
Part V
Egad you vile thing, don’t die now! The dark is a bad place to be, especially when there’s no light! Who can help me? I’ll call 911. “Help! It’s so dark I can’t see myself! It’s awful!” Achoo! My friend told me that this dusty old place is 107 years old today. Happy birthday.
Part VI
“Hi this is Kim’s escort service.”
“I need a high class honey.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“I need somebody to love.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Ha Ha.”
Filed under: Pirate Love Ballads | Tags: Bad, Hippies, Marijuana, Shootings, Terminally Ill Cancer Patients
Those damn hippies! They’ve got their pot and their pot and their pot! They can’t keep the smoke out of their lungs! Marijuana is bad bad bad and you are bad bad bad for smoking it! We should three fourths of the population and SHOOT them. Bad kids! Bad doctors! Bad terminally ill cancer patients! Bad lawyers! Bad bad bad bad bad! Weed need to take all their plants and their trees and their little gardens and just burn them down! Do you think anybody did anything good while high? Go tell Timoth Leary that he is uninvited for Thanksgiving Dinner.
Filed under: Pirate Love Ballads | Tags: Ah!, He's Too Tallitics, Ooga Booga!, Patrionizing Politics, Realpolitik, Ron Paulitics, The Politics of Fear, The Politics of Hope, Welcome to the Mallitics
Ah! Ooga booga! Look at dat big bad black boy! He’s running around your country! He’s corrupting your children! Ah! Ooga booga! Look at that old man! You know him! Ah! Ooga booga! Look! A camera! Look! A tank! Look! A squad car! Look! Look! Look! Here’s the cat! Here’s the cradle! Over here! Over here! It’s a plane! It’s a plane! Run! Ah! Ooga booga! It’s a flag! It’s a flag! You love it? Flag! Flag! Flag! Where’s your pin? Pin! Pin! Pin! Democracy! Democracy! Democracy! I decide the democracy! I decide! I am the decider! Smile for the camera! Ah! Ooga booga!
