"Ah damn those Cheswicks," he'd think quietly to himself as he saw them pull up the drive on a somber rainy day, "Ahlways comin' over to pork me in my ass."  Then he'd race to the back bedroom and snozzle four lines of blow chased with perkodan and xanax, just to take the edge off.  Because but NOBODY gets anally violated in the ritual fashion these days without a good sawdust plug up the nose.  Sure back in the old days the worship was cleaaan, the worship was pure, but nowadays, especially with those godam choad toatin' Cheswicks roamin' about, clean pure worship was the last thing on anyone's mind.

----------------

Yeah, there's my nan-fucking-no-wri-blo. 

No, no, sure, its a great idea.  Everyone can fucking write.  Sure.

Writing sucks.  Its horrible work.  Sure, every once in a while you can unwind and flow, but generally speaking, if you wanna write, you're fucked, brother.  Its why I havent finished writing about the wedding.  A blacksmith and his anvil are not in love. (credit: vonnegut)

And, my am I negative today...maybe it has something to do with the freaks I saw at lunch.  Life is cruel and unfair, even at the best of times.

Typically, wherever I eat at lunch, Im usually surrounded by a cohort of elderly, dying people.  Which is fine, they know the good places to eat.

But one of the spots I haunt regualrly has got to be near some kind of rehab center, hidden in the area, I'm sure.  Because the place is just inundated with them.  Freaks.

Today a mother and her son with no chin ate lunch placidly across from me at the diner.  And this is cool and the gang.  I dont wanna fuck up his shit, I dont want to get down on him.  Particularly because he had a withered, burned chin and some other mental problems to boot.  And especially because I'd hope that if I were in that situation...well...

I gotta' be honest.  I'd be all about the sucking of the Big Black Cock Of Death.  Its a marvelous thing, the strength of will these people that I see every day have to keep going.  Its beautiful, in its own way.  People missing limbs, facial features, severe retardation and bad relatives.

And I'd have to think that if there were some uber compelling reason for me to live, that I'd find the fortitude to go on.  Like, people's lives depended on my continued existance and they just weren't as hip as I was to the whole "shuffling off of the mortal coil" thing.

But it just ain't happenin'.  I would never be the 'made for tv movie'.  I would never be that boy played by Eric Stoltz. (Mask).

I'd be the boy that went out in a blaze of fucking glory.  Somehow, someway.  I'm not saying I'd necessary cause misery to anyone else on the way out, but...

Philosophically speaking, lets be honest:  this christian notion that you have to 'play the cards that are dealt you' is just a load of crap.  It is utter bullshit meant to pacify the masses into accepting their lot, and, oh yeah, for the majority of history, the lives of the common man and woman SUCKED HARDCORE HAIRY BALL SAC.

Even at an early age as I meandered through the parochial school system it seemed like a racket.  A sort of codicil to the whole faith treatise meant to keep peasants from killing themselves.  Fuck, they lived to be thirty, then died in various horrible ways.  It sucked.  Why not hurry the end a few years and get to that whole reward part, the reason we've been building this goddam huge basilica, the one my cousins and the McGeurnekey boys died building.  The one my father died building and his father, and none of us has seen the end of the fucker.  Sure, dad went on and on about how building this cocksucker gave us a place in history, a marker, a bulwark against time and immortality.  A reason to live and link between past and present.  But I think its all bullshit.  Sure, I fingered my first girl in the rectory and father o'grady has been cornholing me since Vespers, but I dont give one whit whether this bastard is finished or not.  Fuck it, I say.  Lets get the harrington twins and go have an orgy, because its the only lasting thing we got.  And if we get wild and whooped out, lets go set the place on fire.  Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, it would be a powerfully nice thing to see it burn.  oh yeah, that's right, we go to hell if we do that.  meanwhile the aristocratic assholes on the hill, the ones who get to fuck my sister and my wife at will and never have to sweat a day in their life, yeah, God's chosen people.  Fuck youuuuuuuuuu.

I cant say that I would necessarily be the one, the executioner, if one of these physically damaged people flopped on my table one afternoon, sullying the sports page and ruining my beverage service, begging to be killed.  I think I could manage it.  I've done and seen some hard shit, working the ghettos of Detroit.  I've learned how to keep moving.  But the legal ramifications would suck, and that's something I'm just not hip to.

Maybe we should have arranged marraiges and a denoted family executioner.  I think that's the only way to keep things humane.

Then again, maybe Im negative because of the labs in school.

Yeah, that seems more likely.  Fuck the freaks. 

No, really, I mean that:  fuck the freaks.

They need love, too.