Paragraphs. Please.



Or noone will have the patience to read it.

This piece is like a two headed snake, you just don't know what to do except keep looking at it and know that it's just not <myspace><myspace>right</myspace></myspace&g t;.

<º))))>< gü††ê®ñùggë† wrote:

zara [My heart is for Jim. My ankles for Syntax. wrote:

Paragraphs. Please.



Or noone will have the patience to read it.

I think the posting thing is screwy. it ate the paragaphs on one of my dirty stories too.

Thats because it detected the level of <s>filth</s> sensuality and adjusted accordingly.

One of the reasons I never considered suicide was that I was looking forward to an eternity of silence. And those bastards on the other side never shut up… especially the celebrities. Another is fear of reprisal, from whatever Supreme Being is lurking behind the shrubbery in the infinite dimension. Can you imagine what the static would be like if Heaven is listening to Sherry Lewis bitch about sock puppets for eternity?





This made me laugh out loud.

Dr. Filth wrote:

I’m running through motionless time, surrounded by rusting auto parts and barbed wire melting in the air. All things defy gravity. As obstacles are placed in my path, I see some dissolve, some forming new patterns, some changing molecular structure in rhythmic pulses to ocean waves that crash out of view. Occasionally, I’m whacked up side the head by a stray catalytic converter that seems to have a hard on for me. I’m tired of being skull-fucked by piston engines. I‘ve spent all my life trying to grow eyes in the back of my head in an effort to avoid amorous inanimate objects, but to no avail. I am not ever going to be the Pope. I am fallible and subject to the occasional abuse of levitating auto parts, though this does not dissuade me from my destiny.







All men are born to die, some more than others. My hand outstretched, I gather a pile of dust, seeing my own appendage disintegrate and flitter away… sands of time… ashes to ashes… my will be done… on earth as it is in cataclysm… we are all one… the distillation is complete. I awoke on the beaches of Playa Kalki dissolved in limestone, next to an abandoned snack bar. In the distance I could here the church bells of St. Anna Maria’s… I’ve spent an eternity here, waiting for the tide to carry me out to sea…









Now there’s an Asian fish market in my head… Chinamen bellowing in Cantonese and dialectic nonsense spewing volumes through the tainted air…L. Ron Hubbard in a kabuki mask directing traffic. Euro-trash in hand me down rickshaws corrode the veins and arteries… neural transmitters looking for a connection… they say fish oil makes a good lubricant. My imaginary friends have blood coursing through their veins at twice the speed of light but it takes all day for them to finish a sentence. I open my mouth to interrupt and ancient Chinese secrets spew forth from my convoluted wiring… the curse that I am born to live with.









Some men are born to mediocrity… others have mediocrity thrust upon them. Still others have mediocrity thrust upon them that’s wrapped in some sort of adhesive… like fly paper. A gooey mess of mediocrity that doesn’t give up, but only attracts its victims long enough so they may witness their own demise. This is the kind of thing I’m striving for... I wish to be average. I am destined to fail.









The voices begin to drone. Kabuki dreams inhabit my soul, as my subconscious gives way to the nightmare of my reality… always keeping in mind that there is a fine line between tragedy and comedy. Six beers for breakfast, and I am bathed and brushed, flossed and coifed… mannequin relics pass me in the skyways. Suits with their eyes on the prize… suffering from constipation as they work out deals to acquire more to deal with. The secretary parade follows… vacant eyed vixens dressed smartly in skirts, dainty blouses with tropical fishy prints, and a pair of running shoes that smell of gouda cheese. And there’s the has been’s and the never was’s, and the fresh little lamb chops that haven’t found a box that fits <myspace><myspace><myspace>right</myspace> ;</myspace></myspace>.









There’s dopers and gropers and all around no hopers who have come through the new millennium to shake hands with the messiah of their choice. Drug addicts, sex fiends, and plain old nut jobs, basking in the glow of a shopping cart full of aluminum and spine tingling refuse. Paint huffers roaming the streets with metallic noses… And alcoholics… you can’t sling a dead pigeon in this town without hitting some poor down and outer with a cardboard sign and a concealed bottle of Mad Dog.

I am not like them, I drink for medicinal reasons.











There’s a man on the corner of Ninth and Hennepin that I encounter almost daily... Old Geeb. He seems harmless enough, talking into a crushed water bottle to the abandoned souls of the afterlife, as he smokes stale ’Pall Mall’s’. He wears an Egyptian symbol, an Ankh, drawn on his forehead with permanent marker… a reminder that life is not temporary. Copper tubing ambles out from beneath his trench coat and collects his urine in an old pickle barrel. He says it has a rejuvenating effect when administered properly. He leaves the apparatus connected at all times, so that he never has to flex his sphincter muscles. Silly old fuck.

If I want to converse with the dead, all I have to do is sober up. I was discussing the afterlife with Sam Adams one morning, over breakfast. “There is no hell, only static.” he said. “Heaven is like being shot into a plane of existence where you are essentially a frequency of light or sound… a unique frequency that cannot be detected on your miserable little sphere. You can travel anywhere and observe… yet you can’t interact with the Earthbound souls or the living. The dead communicate amongst themselves, in a never ending flow of useless information, and telepathic communication does exist between their dimension and ours… but it remains to be proven.”













I am proof… living proof, I think, that these links do exist. But I have no interest in engaging humanity in any sort of debate concerning the authenticity of my delusions.





My goal in life is simple. To attain balance through the constant consumption of alcohol… never over indulging, yet never in that over-rated state of sobriety… all in an effort to keep the voices from gaining control. You might think that being able to converse with the dead would be a great gift… something to share with humanity… but spend an hour or two talking quantum physics with the King of rock n roll before you pass judgment on me.







There’s a point of interest… Elvis is very lonely, even in the afterlife. He was telling me one day about his death. He was sitting on the toilet, enjoying an erection while looking at pornography. Just when the crucial moment came, he had a heart attack and died. One of his faithful pried the porno out of his hands and replaced it with the good book, after giving the King a rub down with some Kleenex. By the time the doctors arrived he was cold and limp. There was all sorts of rumors that he faked his death, that he committed suicide, all in an effort to cover up the fact that he was caressing the rooster… long live the King.









One of the reasons I never considered suicide was that I was looking forward to an eternity of silence. And those bastards on the other side never shut up… especially the celebrities. Another is fear of reprisal, from whatever Supreme Being is lurking behind the shrubbery in the infinite dimension. Can you imagine what the static would be like if Heaven is listening to Sherry Lewis bitch about sock puppets for eternity?







But the main reason I refuse to take the early retirement, is that I’ve been told that in the not-so-distant future I shall become President of these United States of America. I have been given no timeline for the events that are to occur… that have occurred… that will always occur… only an assurance by a group I refer to as ‘the Conglomerate’ that it will happen.

They are a group of frequent visitors to my damaged psyche. And I hope and pray to that imbecilic infinite Supreme Being behind the shrubs, that the doctors of my youth were correct. That these voices are merely a manifestation of some childhood trauma and I will live cynically ever after in a half-drunken state of silent obliteration. My liver aches with anticipation in the meantime.







I need a drink… for medicinal reasons.





The voices had been silenced shortly after breakfast, but with the workday quickly approaching, there is no point in risking a relapse. I’ll s<myspace><myspace><myspace>top</myspace> ;</myspace></myspace> in at Lyle’s for a booster shot. There’s a skirt in front of the Scientology recruiting center that wants to give me a personality quiz. I’ve taken it already, and failed miserably. Not an ounce of personality could be detected… The bar is open, but empty. Lyle saunters over with a smile. He should know better.







“What’ll it be today, Seymour?” I looked behind the bar, checking my grill in the mirror behind the bottles of dusty liquor. There’s a vast selection of gin, vodka, rum, whiskey… all look to be abandoned. I’d love to give them a home and make them feel wanted, but I opt for another beer.







“Guinness please… a tall one. It’s like drinking rye bread… can’t go wrong with rye bread.”



Lyle ignores my feeble attempt at small talk as he pours a tall Guinness. I’m checking my look in the mirror again… it’s important to look normal if you‘re not. I noticed a bottle in the back row as Lyle placed my new best friend in front of me.



“What’s that in the back row up there? Fourth bottle from the <myspace><myspace><myspace>left</myspace> </myspace></myspace>…”



“What… This one here?” He reaches back and examines an antique bottle of rum which I find strangely erotic. The <myspace><myspace><myspace>bottom</myspace&g t;</myspace></myspace> is inverted, like most wine and liquor bottles are, but the glass rises up a full eight inches… forming what looks to be a large glass dildo inside. “Farrow’s Grand Reserve it says… some kinda rum… used to be a cigar up side ah there but we tossed it out. Got stale, I’m sure.“ His voice trails off as he returns the rum to it’s <myspace><myspace><myspace>right</myspace> ;</myspace></myspace>ful gravesite. First time it’s been moved in years, I’m sure.







“Well… “ I said, checking the clock “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar… an old stale cigar.” My Freudian reference is lost on Lyle. He’s a simple man. Been behind the bar most of his life, from what I gather. Lyle’s is an institution in downtown Minneapolis… one of the few bars here that isn’t stainless steel and neon. It has a certain run down charm with it’s hardwood floors, carved oak booths, and a large mounted leopard on the wall. There’s also some mounted trout and a walleye here and there, but Lyle’s Leopard Lounge wouldn’t be what is, without the leopard.







I checked the clock again, finished my beer and <myspace><myspace><myspace>left</myspace> </myspace></myspace> the man a healthy tip. The bartender is one of God’s most under rated inventions and most people treat them as such. I have a lot of respect for anyone who can putz around pouring drinks for twits and twats, listening to small talk all day, and not get putty faced themselves. I couldn’t do it. Especially, knowing that I am destined for greatness.







I pause for a moment outside, close my eyes and collect my thoughts, before I report to work. Gone are the rabid synaptic connections and oxidized limbs encased in limestone debris. I am complete. I am whole. I am embarking on a reluctant journey far away from mediocrity in all it’s insidious ineptitudes. I shall consume this nation of consumer driven whores, and regurgitate the undigested remains back onto the apathetic titty babies who remain on the sidelines.

the part about Elvis made me snicker.