Tuesday, May 18, 2004

Meety Your A Pock A Lips

He sat in his broken down wooden creaky chair with legs missing and screws loose and a hell of a lot more like he always did. That same vacant stare in his eyes as he watched his TV with the crooked antenna and the hazy reception and the black and white color. This night unlike any other that came before it in a ceaseless cycle he was watching the news. A reporter by the name of Donald Roole was blabbering on about something. The man had big wide staring eyes and rotund puffy cheeks with big fat man’s hands and the morbidly obese look of so many countless Americans because of their wonderful love of food. Mr. Roole at this moment was talking about something dealing with a poor little girl who had leukemia and who was in the hospital fighting for her life.

Mr. Roole’s fatingly unarousing face was replaced with a sad morose picture of the poor little girl. He watched with uncare in the same creaky chair with legs missing and screws loose and a hell of a lot more. Did he mention he didn’t care. Perhaps he had and perhaps he hadn’t but at least this little girl wasn’t going to have to suffer through what life had for her to rigor through. She did look like a little broken angel who never had any wings, though. The way her eyes peeked out at you from under her bed, all those machines hooked up to her, all those tubes. Now that looked like the life if there ever was a life.

“The doctors estimate she will only live for a month, and even then. . .they say it’s hopeless,” said Mr. Roole as his fat unappetizing face reappeared on the screen as if trying to bear witness to the sadness of the story and peak on it. Water of oncoming tears were reflecting in his eyes, making it look like they were irritated. He kept blinking and blinking and blinking to try and stop the oncoming tumult of tears. The black and white lips of Mr. Roole’s face were fluttering. His double—no triple—no quadruple—chins moved up and down as he contorted his fat face. There was a moment of naked silence, just Mr. Roole and his lips fluttering like they were scared and his wide staring eyes repressing water and his double—no triple—no quadruple—chins going up and down. Then it was over and thank god. The dramatics of the situation were like watching a soap opera. And he didn’t like showers. Especially not soap. And opera was a terrible form of entertainment—when they sang they sounded like women cooing during orgasm at ungodly high screech.

“In other news,” began The Fat Morbidly Obese Man, “scientists say it may be likely a meteor will hit the earth sometime this week. They say the meteor is five miles wide and could be devastating if it were to hit the Earth. This is not the first known case of scientists saying a meteor may hit the Earth. But still, some are saying it is the end of the world as we know it and are preparing for it. While others say it’s a farce.” The screen went to an old woman’s face with dinky glasses and white hair clinging to her forehead in small tufts.

“Yes, we have predicted a meteor has a chance to hit the Earth; however, the probability of such an occurance is not too likely. But there is more chance with this one than any other meteor that has come close to the Earth.” Her voice was like listening to hell, it sort of was so frail and so damn broken. The woman looked like she would just fall over dead right there. Seems she was still ticking nonetheless. Tick tick, tick tick. Tick tick tick tick. He smiled at this and had been paying intent attention. It was going to be the end of the world maybe! It’s what he had prayed (well, not really) for his whole life. What more was there to ask?

And there was nothing. Nothing to ask. Nothing more.

The TV went back to Mr. I’m So Fat I Have Rolls To Feed You With And Enough Girth To Crush You Like A Worm. He looked more collected, and ended with, “That’s a scary thing to hear. I know I’ll be praying. . .lord yes.” Oh dear god, now he was getting all religious. He smiled again and thought how weak this bastard looked right now. Like god, if there was one, cared. Like he really cared. “This is KMY News, Channel 7. Have a good night.” Yes. Have a goodnight too. They say heart attacks come when you least expect them. Maybe you can expect death to drop you a line. Or maybe you can burn off those calories over calories over calories Mr. Piggy Pig. Then death won’t have his deathly way with you. Either way those scientists said the meteor is coming. Better hope one kills you first Mr. Oinky.

He got up out of his piece of shit chair. He needed a new one but didn’t have the funds. He always spent his money as fun money and that was good for him. Money is just paper inked so who cares. Commerce is like sex: it’s worth something only if everyone puts a value on it, and if everyone believes a piece of paper with ink on it can rule their lives. But everyone thinks sex is the greatest thing ever and they put immense value on it and it’s not paper. Since it’s not paper maybe it isn’t like commerce. But then again, the sameness is so damn obvious. Sex can be given, can be received. So can the green paper But sex is a king and money is a ten of spades. Read em and weep.

He couldn’t understand how they could just write this genius thought off, veto it like Gerald Ford, give it pardon like a rolicking crooking Richard Nixon. He didn’t know and realized he was pretty crazy if crazy was crazy. His thoughts were all over the place. This was a massacre. So in his mind he reached on in and shut off the lamp. Night night.

It was late anyway. He had work tomorrow. They said work equals force times distance and they were right. The force is being forced to work your entire life just so you can live in this bureaucracy with all the money the greed the “fiscal” (the word sounded like fish, only not) financial matters. The distance was the isolation the work forced upon you because you were coerced to work and be a slave and say, “Yes master. Yes master I do as you say, for you are master and I am useless slave bitch. Useless slave bitch is useless and he does only as master orders useless slave bitch.” He felt the distance right now sure as hell. If work were a bunny he would be having some bunny for supper sometime soon. But it wasn’t so it just wasn’t. And that meant he couldn’t have any bunny and it also meant he had to work tomorrow so he needed to sleep.

“Tell me about the bunnies, George,” was the last thought flooding into his head like a drying dam. It was too bad dam doesn’t have an “n.” It would have so much more power if it did. But damn, dam doesn’t give a damn so it’s just dam and not damn. That’s just the damndest thing if there ever was a damn thing that was damndest. Damn dam.

He was in his broken useless missing the springs hard as rocks and steel bed. He closed his eyes and he was free. Free like an eagle in the sky with the feathers and the beak and the immaculate eyesight. And he was seeing through a special eyeglass crafted by master dwarves (read: himself) that let him see the dreamy-est dreams he ever dreamed. It was here that he dreamed a harrowing dream about a certain meteor hitting the Earth and the causing of a certain cataclysmic apocalypse. In this dream I can tell you he smiled a smile so wide it is an understatement to say his mouth did not fall to the ground and did not crack in half for joy and amazement. For it is the cracks we always see.

He opened those two spheres we sometimes call eyes that look like two planets on the face of some alien that is really ourselves. The eyes were full of happiness and he said aloud to himself that dreams usually come true and maybe this dream he dreamed was going to come true. But then again he said to himself maybe not. He made a personal note within his thing called a mind and told himself to write in his journal about the dream as well as write a story—probably short—about it. For he was a writer and writers do one thing and only one thing and that’s the only thing they do and that is write. Sometimes they get a bone now and then too. But that’s rare. What’s even rarer is a writer writing something that is genius in person. Writing words that will be kept within someone’s memory banks for their entire lives. Writing words which shall be remembered for ages and ages until there is no more ages.

The hot heat of water torrented his skin and he was naked. Maybe you don’t want a picture of him naked in your head but I can say he is a nice looking man. I am not gay and I am not homosexual and I am not metrosexual for this. I am a straight man and straight as the Strait of Gibraltar. Mr. Bush can shove it with his "We need an amendment banning gay marriages because I am a stupid religious zealot!" For it does say in the constitution "All men are created equal," and obviously it is not correct. Inebitably they will get their rights. So fuck all you who think being gay is wrong. Fuck you to the depths of heeby boo. Thank you and adieu.

There was steam as he stepped out and wiped his naked body with a towel. He is now putting on clothes. It is a wonder we even wear clothes is what he is thinking. Clothes are so confining they are like another form of chains only they aren’t chains because they’re clothes and clothes are made of fabric and chains are made of metal or steel or something like that. He was now fully dressed it was a fully monty. Work was going to begin in thirty minutes so he got on his way.

He changed into his work habiliments in the bathroom. When he was in the bathroom he looked at the walls—there was always fresh meat to read here and it was addicting. More addicting than addicting is. Or ever will be.

The freshest meat was a message written in a crude scrawl. “NeD Sex? CaLL 555-232.” He knew one thing and that was that he didn’t “Ned” sex. Maybe need. But not Ned. Ned was a pretentious asshole upstuck name. That wasn’t the type of thing he wanted. He took out a napkin and decided, spontaneously, to write down the number. He used a napkin. Maybe he would give a call and take them up on this “Nedding” sex.

He stepped out and came to his manager. He said his greetings and was on his way to work when he went in the back and saw Geraldo and Rosie in another one of their goddamned tustles. The two were like lovers and it was the truth. Only lovers got in a tissy like this. A big tissy fit over nothing. This time they were fighting over the fact of the matter of how to “correctly” make bacon. He stepped in and told them to quit it with the goddamned tissy tustle. He said they should get married already they’re just like lovers. Just like two lovebirds. They responded with laughs at his amazing sarcasm. He said it’s okay, his sarcasm was just a chasm that never ended and was always full of things to say. He also instructed them there was no certain way—no “correct way”—to make bacon. Bacon was bacon was pig and you cooked it however. No one cares as long as it is bacon. That ended that and he had saved the day. He was superman and they were cretins—small little peasants in the caste system. But, they were “pleasant peasants” to him. And pleasant is a nice word. As beautiful as pheasants. Why, they were pheasants. Two lovebirds. What a genius connection he thought as he got an apron on and prepared to cook.
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