I Don't Wanna Go Down To The Basement

This is for me and my friends' writing group, I'm not used to writing fiction. The subject was ¨Spirituality¨. Whatever.  

Three figures are shrouded in whispy, white smoke.  It's impossible to ascertain from which of the three silouhetted figures a thin voice cuts the silence.

¨Jacob McDonald, you stand before us in this cosmic microsecond to realize your Eternal Destiny.¨

A small, thin man, balding, lifts his gaze from his toes to the direction of the speaker.  ¨What's goin on?', he stammers as he looks around at what appears to him to be the interior of a magnificent igloo that's been constructed of cotton balls.  Or clouds.  Probably clouds.  A heavy fog rolls at his feet, about shin deep.  When he thinks about it, Jake can't remember ever standing on so soft a surface.  It's as if he were levitating.

¨Excuse me?!!!¨, a deeper and more resonant, more authoritative voice booms.

¨I said what's happening?  Where the heck am I?¨, Jacob Mc Donald asks in an awe-struck voice.  ¨Am I where I think I am?  What happened?¨

¨If you feel that you stand before the door to eternal bliss, then you are correct¨, a third voice responds, this the voice of a kindly, motherly woman.  The voice continues.  ¨It appears that you have lived your life as an ignorant coward¨, the voice sounds in a disapproving tone.  ¨Is there any debate to be made on your behalf?¨

Jake looks into the fog bravely, though it is clearly written upon his face that he's terribly afraid.  He's distantly distracted by the near-wieghtlessness that standing in the warm carpet of fog provides.

The second voice, heavy and somehow simultaneously threatening and soothing rings in Jacob McDonald's brain.  ¨You have nothing to fear, sir.  Nothing at all.  Provided you've met the criteria for passage into the Realm of Truth.  If not...¨" the voice trails off, leaving Jake for a few secnds to chew the possibilities in his mind.

Within seconds, the gentle female voice rings in.  ¨If we find you truly guilty of purposefully shielding your mind from isness then you will have to retire through the basment door.¨

This statement provokes Jake to glance to his left where he suddenly notices an iron door behind one of the silhouettes.  The door is clean and white.  It gives one the impression of the door to the obstetrician's table.  Or to that of a morgue.  It's one flaw is that the exit sign hanging over it seems to need the lightbulb replaced.  It flickers.  Jake's remotely surprised that he hasn't noticed the door before now.

The first voice, a bit nasal and detached, almost bored, interrupts Jake's interest in the newly-discovered door.  ¨Mr. McDonald, it appears by my records that you have not lived your life in accordance with The Way of Eternal Truth.  The penalty for this is to spend eternity in the Basement.¨

Jake can't help but let his eyes dart quickly to the white door with the broken sign and then back again to the trio of black, humanoid shapes that seem as if they had been enveloped in fog since God had first created such an element.

¨Forgive me, your…  your honors¨, Jacob McDonald manages to blurt in a cowed voice.  ¨B-but I can't see where I've broken any rules¨.  He clears his throat and throws back his shoulders just enough to gain dignity without appearing defiant.  He attempts to make eye contact with the figure in the center, the tallest of the three that he assumes to be the leader of the judgement panel.  ¨I've lived a proper life¨, he declares, a little more loudly and with a measure of confidence and conviction.

¨How so?¨, the woman's voice asks, not unpleasantly but with a hint of accusation.

¨Ma'am¨, Jake begins.

¨Please address the entire panel, Mr. McDonald!¨, the deep voice thunders abruptly.  

¨I apologize, sir...¨

¨MR. McDONALD!!!¨, the voice erupts.  ¨I will NOT instruct you again!!!  Do NOT address the panel as individuals.  Please.¨  The voice quiets once again to a calm, almost fatherly volume.  ¨Explain yourself.¨

Jake whimpers meekly, ¨I'm sorry Mr…. I mean, your honors.¨  He glances at the white door again.  The EXIT sign above it is now blinking faster and arrhythmically.  ¨But I can't see what I've done to upset you.  I've followed the Bible as it is the Word of God.  As it is.¨

With this, Jake draws himself up and looks toward the looming black figures.  ¨I admit that I'm a sinner, but I have given my life to Our Lord, Jesus Christ.  My sins are few, your honors.  I've only known one woman in my life.  She was a virgin when we first started dating when I was a boy.¨  Jake stands taller, feeling the righteousness in his voice as he hears his own words.

¨I ordered my wife to explain the value of chastity to our daughter.  When Nikki was 14 and had turned her eyes away from the road that God had paved for her, I sheltered her at home.  When she unleashed my bastard granddaughter into the world, I did what I could to make sure that the baby had a happy foster home to go to¨.

Jake adds quickly, ¨And I sent Nikki to a girls' school where she wouldn't be tempted any longer.  He smiles, confidence spreading across his face.  ¨When I talk to her on the phone, she assures me that she's doing wonderfully.  Sister Elizabeth, her principal, confirms it.  She's a good girl.¨

He continues.  ¨I helped out with my church every Christmas to feed the homeless.  I was even asked by my congregation to present those poor folks with a sermon before we fed them.  I'm a good Christian.¨  Jake straightens up a little taller and stares at the three shadows in the mist.

The bored, thin voice that he imagines might belong to a snarky 26-year-old temp breaks the silence that has rapidly grown barren.  Jake's feet itch.

¨Mr. McDonald?  Hm...¨  He sounds genuinely concerned.  He's double checking the files.  ¨Would that I could, I would let you in.  I'm sincerely disappointed to have to tell you, however, that I'm going to have to ask you to stand at the door on your left.¨\

The sign over the door is now blinking chaotically, furiously.  

EXIT EXIT EXIT EXIT EXIT

¨PLEASE!!!  SAINT PETER!!!¨, Jake snivels.

The deep voice sounds once more, this time with a bass that does nothing to mask its' contempt and impatience.  ¨FOR THE LAST TIME, MR. McDONALD!!!  DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ADDRESS THE PANEL AS INDIVIDUALS!!!¨

¨Calm down, calm down¨,  the pleasant voice of the first-grade teacher slides in.  

¨You're right, dear¨, the deep voice nearly purrs in what sounds like relaxed resignation.

¨Jacob McDonald¨, the mild and mesmerizing woman's voice continues without missing a beat.  ¨Or I guess we'll just call you 'Jake'.  Is that okay?  You like 'Jake' as I understand it?¨

The color has drained from Jake's face.  ¨Yes, ma'am¨, he manages to peep.

¨MR. McDONALD!!!!!!...¨

¨Oh, HUSH!¨

¨Yes, Allison¨, the small voice pipes in sternly and with a seemingly newly acquired authority.

¨Sorry.  It's almost time for lunch¨, the baritone voice sounds as if it's shrugging.  ¨I'm a bit edgy.  You know how I get.¨

¨Professionalism, dear.  Professionalism.¨

¨Enough please, you two.  We're all getting hungry.¨  The tinny voice seems to Jake to manage to direct itself at him, though it's been emanating from all around him thus far.  ¨Mr. McDonald...¨

Jake is now fighting back tears, afraid to address anybody for any reason.  He doesn't know which of these specters is Allison, but he feels that he's bothered that hungry entity enough.  He simply nods, one eyebrow cocked severely on the north east side of his face.

The little voice continues.  ¨Perhaps you didn't understand what was at stake.  For that I'm truly sorry.  But the fact remains that you've scored exceedingly low on the HAYC test...¨

¨WHAT IN GOD'S CREATION IS THE HAYC TEST?!!!¨, Jake sobs.

The voice of Betty White, if you will:  ¨It's short for the 'Hector's Are-You-Cool' Test.  Hector came up with it.  Hector's a genius!¨

Allison's heavy, leautthery voice chimes in.  ¨You're fuckin a right!  Don't you dare say he isn't...¨

¨HUSH!¨

¨Sorry...¨

¨Yes, so you see the HAYC test takes anywhere from 13 to 107 years to complete.  It essentially tests one's ablility to think for oneself, and to act upon those inclinations.  A mixture of what you would think of as a reflex test and a logic puzzle.¨

Jake stands and stares in horror as he awaits his fate.  His sentence.

¨So yes, dear, it just puts a pebble in my shoe to find out that you scored an F minus right down the line.  What would your mother say?¨, Betty White's voice rises to a scolding tone.

Jake responds meekly, ¨I dunno.  Where is she?  Can I ask her?¨

¨AW JESUS DUDE SHE'S DRINKIN A MARGARITA WITH YOUR UNCLE JOE OUT ON THE PATIO!!...¨

¨ALLISON!!!!!¨, the skinny voice and the friendly mom voice bark out in unison.

¨ SORRY!!!  geeze...¨

¨So yes, Mr. er…. Jake.  I see from your scores on the HAYC that you've ignored all logic and reason in favor of adhering to the parts of the bible that you felt were convenient at whatever particular time.¨  Jake almost hears pages turning in a register.  ¨For instance, you held hungry people hostage for 45 minutes or so because you knew they wanted some turkey.¨

¨And let's not forget, Hector dear, that the only time little Jakey ever bothered to worry about hungry people was in December...¨

¨What about Thanksgiving?!!!¨

¨I see that here, too, Mr. Jake¨.

¨Dear, why didn't you try to screw Ashley or whatever her name was?¨

¨The Bible said I shouldn't.  I was just following orders, ma'am.¨  Jake quickly corrects himself.  ¨I mean uh….  whoever you are.¨

Allison's voice has curiously begun to sound similar to that of Mr. T's.  ¨Damn, sucka!!!  They gonna run outta taco shells in the cafeteria, fool!  Hurry up an answer the bitch!!!¨

¨ALLISON!!!!¨

¨ANSWER THE QUESTION, FOOL!!!¨

Jake shouts in frustration and dismay, ¨I WAS FOLLOWING THE WORD OF GOD!!!!¨

¨Oh, dear...¨, the sweet old lady voice says quietly.  ¨There is no god, Jake.  Your life as you've known it was basically Hector's IQ test.  You've proven yourself to be a gutless moron.  Excuse me for being blunt.  But dear, it's true.¨

¨Yes, Mr. Jake.  There may be nicer ways to tell you that you're a gutless moron, but we're wanting to get in on those tacos at the cafeteria.  See, your mother and your Uncle Joe never really bought into all that Jesus nonsense.  Your mother cut it a little close, but Joe passed the HAYC test with flying colors.  Emma Goldman still holds the record, though.¨

¨Emma's one bad mothafucka!¨

¨She is, dear.  Now please shush.  Yes, Jake.  Tsk tsk…  So if you'll please go stand at the exit door….¨

¨Where's my dad?¨, Jake blubbers.

¨YOU'LL SEE HIM IN THE BASEMENT, FOOL!!¨

____________________________________

Later, in the basement….

¨Dad!¨

¨Jake! When did you get here?  Wait, I'll catch up with you later.  I gotta get this pan of taco shells up to the cafeteria!! I'll tell you what? You go change the lightbulb in the exit sign over Heck's door and I'll set up the cafeteria, then we can meet back down here and have a Bible study!¨

Spring - An Essay

I'm too lazy to actually research how rabbits became symbolic of Spring.  That's because I don't really fuckin care.  I'm tired of symbolism.  Symbolism is what separates Christians who would otherwise be relatively rational, reasonable people from the wingnuts who think that day was invented by the invisible man before he got around to inventing the Sun.  The otherwise-intelligent and sensible Christians will slyly declare that the bible is ¨symbolic¨.  I would assume that God could just say whatever the fuck he wanted to say without waxing poetic and confusing the shit outta everybody.  Maybe the invisble monster that lives under the flat Earth wrote it just to fuck us all up.  And maybe tiny little blue monkeys fly miniature blackhawk helicopters outta my butt while I'm sleeping and gun down all the goblins that live under my bed.  That would explain the absence of goblins under my bed.  The possibilities are endless.  The mind reels.

Sorry.  I got a bit off track there.  Off track of what exactly, well I'm not entirely sure.  Spring?  Rabbits?  Fuck it.  Who knows?  There's a wasp that looks like it just woke up crawling around on an empty beer bottle on my nightstand.  Great.  Good ol Spring.  I have zero sympathy for wasps.  Theyŕe just too damn powerful considering that theyŕe just bugs.  All they have to do is kill other bugs. They have no business hospitalizing human beings. I don't feel like dorking around and trying to kill this one, though.  He's on a bottle on the nightstand.  If I swat at him Iĺl just knock everything all over the place.  Not to mention, if I don't kill it then itĺl be all pissed off.  RIght now it seems to be enjoying a Sunday morning beer.  Maybe's it's hungover.  Maybe I should fix the goddam thing a bloody mary and some eggs.  I wonder if it would rather listen to Slayer or the White Stripes?  Perhaps I'll offer it some weed.  Cos that's the kinda guy I am.

So yeah, my friend's dog took off for three days.  That's another sign of Spring.  The dog gets all horny and loses his goddam mind.  I'm glad he came back.  He looks like I've felt on a thousand different mornings.  Hasn't eaten in a few days, was trying to get down some English Setter's pants, wound up getting beat up by some giant dude.  I wonder if he smoked crack?  Wait.  Allow me to clarify, to offer a brief retraction. I've never even considered screwing an English Setter.  I'm just trying to draw a fuckin analogy here.  I mean, I had a crush on a Brittany Spaniel once, but it was an isolated incident.  Won't happen again, I swear.  Anyway, I'm wondering if the dog got his yayas out or if he's just waiting to feel a little better so he can go out for more punishment.  Time shall reveal, I'm certain.

Rabbits.  They fuck a lot and have a lot of baby rabbits.  I mean, of course they have baby rabbits. What else are they gonna do? Lay pink and green chicken eggs? That'd be fuckin stupid. Oh wait... Anyway, that's probably the reason why they're the Spring things.  It's gotta be.  And if that's true, then it's probably some stupid pagan thing that's leftover from before Charlemagne was hacking everybody's brains out and making the survivors get into his stupid religion instead.  Rabbits also sometimes dress up like women and kiss you with toilet plungers or or hand you sticks of dynamite that look like cigars.  It happens.  I've seen it before in dramatic reenactments on TV on Saturday mornings when I was a kid.  And they're really good at stashing shitty candy.  I learned that from personal experience.  I'm gonna put an end to this buncha horseshit that I've been rattling on about for the past few paragraphs.  But before I do, I feel inclined to return to my theories and observations regarding the Trix rabbit.  

OK, so maybe you didn't have a TV when you were a kid, or maybe youŕe too old or too young to have known the Trix rabbit as a household name.  Did he have a name?  Hm.  There was Toucan Sam and Lucky the Leprechaun.  But I only remember the Trix rabbit as being the Trix rabbit.  Anyway, what would happen was that a couple of 8 year olds would be eating Trix at the table and then the cartoon Trix rabbit would walk in wearing some kind of disguise in an effort to obtain a bowl of Trix.  He'd invariably blow his cover within 13 seconds and the kids would tell him to fuck off and not give him any cereal.  What the hell kinda message is that?  The kids had a whole box of shit that they didn't even pay for and now they won't hook up a rabbit who's wearing a grass skirt and a pineapple on his head?  Greedy pricks…  Plus, I don't give a fuck what I'm consuming or who bought it, if a cartoon rabbit pops up and wants some I'm gonna give him some.  I'll share my only $20 crack rock with a fuckin cartoon animal if it asks.  In fact, smoking crack with the Trix rabbit would give me stories to tell my grandkids.  Of course, me having grandchildren is about as likely as me shooting crack with Porky Pig anyway, so it's all neither here nor there.

The Ghost of the Greyhound- INTERMISSION

OK.  Well, youŕe probably getting tired of all the wild shit that's been going on in that Greyhound story so maybe we oughtta take a break.  Plus, I don't feel like telling that story right now, not to mention that nothing actually even happened.  I mean the bus sucks and I was just gonna illustrate that by telling you about me being on it.  Don't worry, Iĺl get around to it but I'm just telling you that you might as well not shit your pants in anticipation.

Without googling it, I'm gonna sit here and wonder if anticipation and constipation are two words that are even remotely related to one another.

Probably not, but we can't be too sure.  Let's play it safe, folks.

So yeah, I napped intermittently throughout the night in between movies I never even thought about before on netflix and a 6 pack of ice beer.  And some giant can of some stupid margarita thing that they looked at me funny at the store for buying.  I finally watched Brokeback Mountain.  Not like I've necessarily been holding out for that one, but I have to admit I was curious as to what all the hype was about.  I'm still kinda in the dark about that one.  It was okay though.  God I'm weaning myself off of my stupid psyche medication and now I'm having dreams about talking basketballs and weird llama monster things whenever I manage to doze off for a few minutes.  

So that's where I am with the Greyhound story.

Aw, fuck it.  It's like 7 in the morning so I might as well wrap er up since I'm not gonna say anything about anything anyway.  Then I can advance to a whole new line of stupid crap that nobody oughtta be wasting their time with.

So I forget where I last left you hanging in this serial drama, but I think I was at the bus station being a drunk schmuck.  Just for the sake of keeping things rolling, Iĺl start there.

I was at the bus station being a drunk schmuck.  I wasn't really doing anything, but I was drunk and I was a schmuck so there you go.  Anyway, I put some vodka-enhanced charm on the lady who was selling tickets so that by the time she finally gave me my ticket she no longer totally hated my fuckin guts.  Or so it seemed.  I chalked it up as a victory.  Before I left the ticket lady I ever-so-suavely slurred that I was starvin my ass off and did she know where I could get a cheeseburger.  She smiled and told me all about this cheeseburger place that was about 25 feet away from me.  I wrote down the directions to the place and set out on an adventure to locate it..

The cheeseburger lady was a fuckin jerk.  Everybody who works for Greyhound is a fuckin jerk.  The employee policy seems to be ; "Ïf you don't fuckin like it then get the hell outta here with no refunds or weĺl call the cops and weĺl bet that they hate you worse than we do."  And that motto seems to work for them.  Greyhound is the armpit of America.  The dried up gum under the picnic table that you forgot probably existed but it does and somebody should've thrown it out years ago.  Not a good analogy but it's 7 in the morning and whatever.  

OK, so the burger chef sucked but the burger rocked.  You wouldn't think it would've, but it did.  It might've had something to do with my combined levels of intoxication and starvation.  Who knows?  Does old Kool and the Gang sound good or are you just drunk and nostalgic?  It's a timeless philosophical question that remains unanswered.  Either way, the only good memory I have of my recent bus experience was the one I have of that goddam cheeseburger.  It was delicious.

Uh oh.  Guess what, folks?  Weŕe all outta time.  I gotta make coffee or eat something or go get another 6-pack or something.  That's okay though, right?  I mean really, who gives a fuck?  If you do then you need to calm down.

The Ghost of the Greyhound: The Nightmare Begins

Well, I lost my pants.  They weren't the ones I was wearing the last time that I put on pants, so at least there's that.  Still, it's breaking news to me and I still can't quite get it off my mind.  I guess this is what happens when one staggers down the highway with a Gatorade bottle full of vodka in one's pocket.  Well, one has to drink the fuckin vodka too.  You don't just lose your pants by sticking booze in your coat.  Reminds me of a couple I read about in News of the Weird once who went to the doctor cos they couldn't get knocked up and it turns out they just thought they had to sleep in the same bed together.  

Anyway, I was startled to realize that I was pantlsless.  Except for the 2 filthy pairs that I already knew I had.  Back in the day I only had one pair of pants, so in comparison 2 pairs makes me one pantsful motherfucker.  But I've grown.  Times have changed.  It's no longer 1995.  I should have more than 2 pairs of jeans.

And now I do!  I also have a Chromebook, which I never knew existed until now.  It's like a laptop only it sucks worse than one.  But it's a thousand times better than having no computer.  I'm typing on it now and my ass hurts cos I'm sitting on the floor that I refinished in exchange for the computer and some pants.  And I'm drinking Hurricane malt liquor in a goofy skull glass.  I'm kinda hungry and I don't care.  Life couldn't be finer.  Well, it could certainly be worse.

And it was!  In fact, right around this time last week it was totally worse.  I was in a Greyhound station.  I'm not gonna say where cos it's none of your goddam business, but I had hitchiked there through single digit temperatures over the course of a few days.  It was the first time I had ever hitched with enough money to get motel rooms, which I did cos it was fuckin freezing out.  But I was drunk the whole time so I kept saying ¨fuck it¨ and getting drunk in a motel room at like 3 in the afternoon and then staying til 11 the next morning just to get the most bang for my buck.

And I don't remember taking my psyche meds very often.  The combination of drinking excess amounts of straight vodka and rum and not taking the prozac that I'm now hooked on took its' toll, and when I finally stumbled into the bus station last Saturday evening I fit right in with the other Greyhound patrons.  Or at least I filled out one of the roles that every bus needs.  I was the smelly drunk bum who you should probably get the fuck away from but you can't cos youŕe stuck  on a goddam bus with him. Screw it. At least I was that character. Better than being a fat moron or a young woman that everybody wants a blowjob from. Or not even young woman. Just female individual. That's good enough for most of the assholes on the bus.

Ok, well I still haven't said anything about this goddam bus experience but we have all the time in the world. Just keeping you folks posted on the status of the level of discomfort in my buttocks and the fact that they are now covered with pants. And now that I have this stupid little computing machine Iĺl be certain to follow up on what I'm sure will be a joy and a pleasure for all of you to ignore. If for some reason I die before I can finish this epic tale, I'll give you a spoiler and tell you that the bus totally fuckin sucks.

The Ghost of the Greyhound: An Introduction

Well, I'm typing this on a laptop that isn't mine.  Don't worry, I didn't steal the goddam thing.  It's somebody else's.  Now, you may be thinking,"No shit it's somebody else's.  You just said it wasn't yours.  Whose is it?"  To that I shall say that it's none of your business.  I will say that I'm not used to typing on this thing and that if there are any minor typos then you can kiss my ass.  Well, you don't have to kiss my ass just over a typo but if you wanna get all picky and give me a fuckin B- just cos there's a few typos, well you can kiss my ass.

Then again, this is likely to not be a blog worthy of a B-.  But whatever.  If you can't handle a typo then I'll gladly trade problems with you.

OK, so so far I haven't said a goddam thing.  I've just been making idle threats to you nice people.  Or not threats, but vulgar proposals.  I mean, kissing my ass probably isn't that incredibly awful.  It's been done before under happier circumstances.  It's not like I told you I'd break your fuckin legs.

Geez. This band Solstafir goes really well with beer, fatigue, confusion and typing.

Anyhoo, what I jumped on here to explain is that Greyhound still exists.  I mean, you see them.  You see their stations.  You hear about them wrecking into medians and killing all their passengers.  But does it really exist?  Or is it like the moon landing and the holocaust?  Yep.  Greyhound is like the holocaust.  It exists and it fuckin sucks.  I recently survived a trip on the bus and I will tell you that it was a goddam nightmare.  Of course, you can't believe everything you read....

Aw christ.  I gotta get off this damn computer mostly cos my back's sore and I'm sick of typing.  Well, not really but it'll take too long to finish the goddam Greyhound story right now so I'll tell it later.  In the meantime, I kinda like this piece of drivel cos I'm the kinda guy who likes drivel such as this.  So let this be the prologue to a blog and I'll go ahead and post the damn thing.  I'm sure you'll be on the edges of your seats awaiting the story that is certain to come whenever it does.  If you're not, well then I'm not sure what to tell you.  I already told you to kiss my ass.  Use your imagination.

Faith

Well, this is thing that I'm not sure what I'm gonna say is certain to sound fucked up. It has plenty of the qualities of a soap opera. Then again, what doesn't? If you don't have a story that I can relate to a soap opera, then it's fuckin boring and shut up. Unless I can compare it to the Three Stooges, in which case you might as well tell me what the fuck happened. I don't like the Three Stooges, never have. But if you ran into a fuckin telephone pole on your bike and you saw the humor in it, by all means tell me the story. I'm all ears.

I had a friend (I say “had” mostly cos I haven't talked to the motherfucker in awhile) who seemed to have made the decision that it would be funny if he became a redneck asshole. I mean, he was just kidding. But he seemed to have taken his joke too far, seemed to have forgotten who he was, or at least seemed to have forgotten what fundamental ideals that we shared that made me feel a connection with him in the first place. I mean, beyond those basic agreements we had had about how the world is and how it oughtta be, we weren't all that similar. But I admired him for his strengths and for his abilities that I lacked, and he admired me for mine. We complimented one another.

This particular friend of mine didn't drink very much. Most of my close friends were as drunk as I was, which was pretty motherfuckin drunk. This dude wasn't like most of my close friends, another reason why I loved and respected him. But we had always seen eye to eye on the basics, the fundamentals, the elementary: WAR IS EVIL. RACISM (especially racism in the face of information and logic, not what's been passed down by one's bigoted parents or society) IS EVIL. WE LUST FOR FAIRNESS FOR EVERYBODY and for EVERYTHING. Something like that. If you don't know what I'm talkin about then you never will. But yeah, the guy was kidding about being a racist, god-fearing American until he almost became one.

I finally told him to shut the fuck up. And I was an alcoholic bum, living on his property and enjoying the profits of his hard work, dedication and endurance (all qualities of his that I sincerely admired). It could've gotten ugly. It almost did. That guy could've totally fucked me up. But he wouldn't. He was my friend. I think he forgot who he was for a minute there. We talked about it and that's more or less the last time I really talked to him. From what I hear, he kinda grew up and a little to the right, but that's alright. I haven't grown up (if I have then I have nothing to show for it) but I still respect him and hope all the best for him.

Yesterday I found myself in the unlikely situation to be arguing on the side of the Holocaust's existence. My friend with whom I was debating was playing devil's advocate, but he was losing. And he was pissed that he was losing. I think I know him well enough to know that he wasn't serious.  He probably just doesn't like losing an argument.  Who does?  Anyway, I may be a fuckin idiot, but I'm a fuckin genius too so don't tell me that the Holocaust was any kind of a hoax. I dunno. I used to be paranoid and I'd shrug at any conspiracy theory that somebody came up with. After all, how the fuck do I know anything? Do I actually know that the Holocaust happened?  Do I really know that the Earth revolves around the Sun?  Well, I don't. But I have faith in humanity. I have faith that nothing like Soviet Russia can last forever before it's violently overthrown by humans who just can't fuckin take it anymore. And I have faith that humans are capable of torture, genocide and burning the bodies of innocents in mass graves.

Some folks have faith in Jesus but his track record is mythological, at best.

I have faith in humanity and it makes me wanna fuckin puke.

Fuck You and Your Stupid Snake or Spider or Whatever.

    Wow.  I’m a fuckin mess.  Not like that’s some kinda revelation, but it’s almost alarming.  I’m staying with a friend who has a pet snake.  “Pet” seems like too friendly of a word for it, but she seems to like the goddam thing.  Me?  I don’t really care for the things myself.  I don’t hate them, but I like it better when there’s not a fuckin snake in the house.  I let him (or her) slither on me for a minute before I gladly handed it back to it’s person.  Turns out it’s not that easy to identify a snake’s gender.  That’s the kinda thing I’ve thought about before but never while I was near Google.  Same with pc keyboards in Chinese.  How the hell do they do it?  There are so many unique characters!  It boggles the mind.  Reminds me of when I was a little kid and I'd swallow something that went down the wrong pipe.  I thought there was a fuckin pipe for everything.  Like my eggs went down the spinach pipe, etc.  I'd wonder how I had so many pipes in one little neck.  Anyway, when I googled the snake sex thing it basically said “DON’T FUCKIN WORRY ABOUT IT UNLESS YOU’RE AN EXPERT”.  So I quit fuckin worrying about it.  Evidently it involves sticking weird probes up the thing’s ass or something and I don’t even like letting it sniff my finger very much, much less trying to find it's asshole with a roto-rooter and hoping I don't get fuckin bit.

    But this led me to wonder who the fuck raises venomous snakes?  I’ve wondered that before too, but I’m wondering about it again now.  You can totally quit reading this and I won’t fuckin blame you.  If you’re still reading this, that is...  Anyway, yeah I just can’t see getting all that friendly with a snake.  They don’t seem very bright, nor do they seem very social.  I mean, a dog can and might bite you but they’re wired to hang out with other dogs and with people.  So you shouldn’t worry about your dog biting you.  If you do, get rid of the fuckin dog.  But I’m pretty sure that we humans are wired to mistrust snakes.  It’s primal.  Those fuckers are something you should just leave alone, at best.  As a matter of fact, you  should probably kill em with a shovel or something.  That’s because there are rattlers and cobras and coral snakes and all kinds of other terrible serpents that’ll fuckin kill you just cos you’re walking around.

    So, venomous snake-raisers:  Stupid?  Crazy?  Or did they just not get the memo?  Just how the hell are you supposed to clean the King Cobra tank?  And then why the fuck did you put it in a tank just so you’d have to find out?  My buddy had some kinda python that pooped turds about the same gauge as a house cat's.  The thing wasn’t even poisonous but it got pissed off and bit my friend when he was trying to give it some water or something.  So there you got a couple of 8 penny nails jammed in your forearm just for trying to be a nice guy.  Nevermind if the goddam thing woulda been some awful snake that you’re done if you get bit by it.  Yeah, I’ll take my chances with a Rottweiler.  Plus, the dog’s obviously glad I got home.  Snakes just aren’t all that affectionate.  And you can tell me that they’re friendly and loving and then I shall refer you to the first couple of sentences of this paragraph.

    Well, this isn’t going anywhere.  Not like it needs to, I guess.  Fuck it.  It’s just  brain diarrhea.  Gotta do something with it.  Might as well flush it into the ethernet with all the other worthlessness.  I would like to say before I go, though, that anybody who has a pet spider is a goddam whacko.  I’d say they’re fuckin morons but I’m not here to offend anybody.  And if you’re seriously insulted by being called a goddam whacko then I’ll trade my problems for yours any day of the week.  That means you’re also a pussy.  But yeah, fuck spiders.  I mean, it makes more sense to be scared of dogs but I don’t care.  I can’t stand the whole idea of spiders.  If there was a hell and I went to it, I’d be getting eaten by spiders.  I used to hold a sign up asking for money and people’d drive by and slap you a dollar.  I used to think it’d be fucked up if somebody drove by and handed me a live tarantula.  JESUS!!!  It’d make me laugh and cringe a little to imagine it while I was standing there on the median.  I’m sure then I just looked like a goddam wingnut.  And I probably was. 

    Okay.  That’s enough of that.