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Amish Drugs, Nooses, Mules
2003-06-03 - 3:02 a.m.


before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

Life is nothing if not to be experienced, and real writing is spawned by experience.  Put another way, the reeeaaal dull motherfuckers to read oot (the canadian pronunciation of 'out') here in cyberspace are the ones who don't have any real experiences tangling with the messy fishline that is life.

Go out, experience.  Come back, tell me about it.  Do something, *blink, blink* motherfucker.  This is why Hem suggested that all beginning writers put their neck in a noose and cut themselves down at the last minute.  So they'd always have the noose to talk about. Well, that's one of the reasons Hem said that. 

I'm glib tonite, and I don't know why.  I also relish spelling tonight, 'tonite', and saying words like 'trite' and 'tight', as in tight as the pussy on a virgin girl.  Ooowah, struggle to put it in.  Why hello, filth, it has been minutes since you've been gone.

Anyway, I typed up and epilogue (in my mind I thought, 'epitaph', but did not write it) to my venture, but dammit if microsoft word 2000 blah and whatever didn't fuck me over once.  Bill Gates, whatever he is, whoever he is, is not a poet.  That I can assure you.

Oh, godammit. The last fucking HOW many paragraphs just got erased.  Praise be to the allah and the touchpad.  I was busy crowing about my poem, that much I know for sure.  Twenty pages long, easy read, thirty seven choruses.  Uncle Jack was right, we should all document our lives in Proustian fashion so we will all have something to talk about when we get older.  Jack was a cool man with a fine sense for literature, and on certain days I think we should throw out the cannon of american writing that existed before him, and just say it started with Jack and a trip across America.

But I digress like a mad motherfucker.  Like a pyro in a straight jacket with adhd sitting in front of a lighter in a petrified forest.  And not one of them pussy "bic" lighter's, neither, one of them thare turbo jet flame crack lighters that the Amish youth use in pennsylvania. 

The pennsylvania dutch.  Yessss.  Heard all about the coke ring that had infested their society a few years ago.  Makes me laugh in a very sad way, like watching a gorgeous strung out stripper make the rounds around perverts row taking up dollar bills with her breasts.  Yes, some creepy uncle touched her, so its not her fault.  And neither is the drug problem the amish folk's fault.

Yes, drugs and the amish.  A foine combination.  Because what else do you want to be while you thresh wheat behind a swaybacked mule and ancient plow harness.  Yes, you want to be wired up like a freak with a definite need for conversation.  Father, jebodiah was out in the back forty talking to the mule a blue streak today, we don't know why, except his nose wont stop running for days on end and he spends all his time out in the barn with the Becker boys.

I so have an amish story in me somewhere.  Fraught with sex, drugs, and mules.  Woah did that sound bad.  But then, that's what the delete key is for.

En-knee-weigh. 

no, wait, it all slipped my mind.


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