Whine-O-Genics

I haven’t written in a minute, in part because I’m a lazy bum.  I have other excuses that make me out to be something of an innocent angel, but nobody wants to hear about all that.  Nobody wants to hear about me being a lazy bum either.  In fact, I should probably just shut the fuck up.  But I won’t.  It’s not in my nature.  

But I really have been doing other stuff.  No shit, huh?  What’d you think? I’ve been cryogenically frozen?  Of course you didn’t.  You’re not a crazy moron.  Or maybe you are.  Something’s definitely wrong with you if you’re reading this nonsense.  Perhaps you’re convinced that I’ve been traveling time, that I’ve interfered with major events throughout human history, that I’ve done a terrible job and that I’m solely responsible for the human condition.  You’re ready to kick me in the balls the next time you see me.  You’re seeking to hire thugs to have my fingernails torn out.  Yep.  You’re a maniacal idiot.  

Get a fuckin grip. If I were a time-traveler I’d be playing Black Sabbath songs before Tony Iommi invented them, shooting coke and screwing groupies and letting Motorhead open for me on my tour.

Sorry, folks.  I’m just some guy. I’m not the Master of Reality. I guess I’m the master of my own reality. Sadly, I’m not even that. I’m more like my reality’s slightly younger sibling. Me and my reality squabble quite a bit. We pinch each other and pull each other’s hair in the back seat of the cosmic station wagon with the fake wood paneling as we careen around the blind curves along the rocky cliffs of life. Once in a while our dad tells us he’s gonna pull the goddam car over and kill the both of us, to which me and my reality say, “fuckin go for it”.

So far, Dad keeps pussying out. I’ve lost all respect for him if I ever had any at all.

Man, I don’t even know what the fuck I’m talkin about here with all this Dad shit but I like saying it so I’m gonna keep on typing.

I’ve been inudated with foks who have aversions to bugs lately. Not that I’m a big fuckin bug fan or anything, but we’re talkin about crickets and some unnameable, unidentifiable biting bugs that don’t seem to identify themselves to me, nor do they bite me. So I easily fall into the role of the guy in the horror movie who’s rightfully but obnoxiously skeptical about all the bugophobia. Jesus Christ! It’s a fuckin cricket! And you don’t like spiders or bats, either? WE’RE FUCKED!

As a piece of side info, I can’t fuckin stand spiders. I will, however, permit them to survive in my house as long as I know where they generally are, as long as I know they’re not poisonous, and as long as where they are is somewhere where I don’t have to look at them or deal with them. If there is evil in nature, spiders are the epitome of it. So are hyenas. Damn. I’ve seen young cats tear the entrails out of baby rabbits and let them live just so they could keep trying to catch them. Are cats evil?

Evidently they are.

The other morning I heard some kinda awful racket going on in the back room of the house. It was early and I was waiting for the coffee to get done. When I finally poured a cup and walked through on my way out for a cigarette, I saw an upturned cicada on the tile floor being simultaneously gently and violently batted at by the cat who was hiding behind the coat rack. Cicadas aren’t evil. At least I don’t think they are. I mean, they gotta eat so they probably ruin something’s lives, but they’re not like wasps or anything. Maybe if you’re a dandelion or something then cicadas are Freddy fuckin Kruger but overall, they’re pretty harmless.  

They look evil though. Holy shit! They look like something outta H.R. Giger’s nightmares. Perhaps they are. They’re all black and huge and noisy and semi-robotic looking. Fuck. Maybe the thing was a late-model NSA drone. The cat was having fun with it but he looked a little scared of it, too. I forgot that the cat wasn’t a dog so I kept urging him to “get it” to which he didn’t seem to respond any more than if I would’ve never walked into the room in the first place.

I thought about squishing the goddam thing except that the cicada seemed like it had no desire to be in the house and it wasn’t trying to bother anybody. Of course it was bothering me cos it was making all kinds of cicada noise but what the fuck did I expect? Plus, if I woulda squished it then I’d just have a big dead bug to clean up. I’m not real squeamish, but grabbing it didn’t sound appealing (especially before I’d had any coffee) so I scooped him up with a newspaper and chucked him out onto the patio where he promptly got eaten by one of the iguanas that lives on the deck.

Just kidding. We don’t have any iguanas. They might attack the cat.