Glue Ghost

I was full-blown nauseous in the taxi on the way to the airport yesterday. The stench inside the cab was obscene. It smelled like a mixture of sweat, rendered lamb fat, and Nick Nolte's pussy. My interpretation of the stink's origin goes something like this...





...Greasy-haired Turkish man with red rimmed eyes awakens on a cold tile floor, naked. A collapsible poker table sits in the corner, with a brand new box of 64 crayons at its center.

The Turk grunts and tears apart the crayon box, devouring all 64 crayons. A multicolored glaze coats his teeth. He pulls a timer out of his bare ass, and sets it for one hour. He ties a shoelace to the timer and slips it over his head. He walks outside, finds an abandoned taxi, and smashes the driver's side window with his elbow.

Once inside, he sits in the backseat and thinks. He daydreams about lopping the heads off of beautiful geese with a machete at a large family picnic. Women and children screaming. Dogs shitting. Fathers frozen in horror as The Turk writhes in the grass, bathed in goose blood, grinning blissfully.





His thoughts are interrupted by loud beeps from the timer. He pushes a button to silence the beeps, pukes a psychedelic rainbow of melted crayons all over the interior of the taxi, and flees back to his dismal lair.

...2 years later...

The Turk has been getting his shit together. Night school, new clothes, and a part-time relationship with soap. One night, on his way home from class, he spots the crayon-puke cab parked on a curb. It hasn't been touched in the 2 years since he defiled it. His spew is now dried, cracked, and crusty, though the smell is the same. He gazes upon the kaleidoscopic mess. The word "opportunity" flashes through his mind over and over.





He picks off as much of the caked ooze as he can, and sprays the interior down with Febreze. The taxi starts by itself. The radio starts playing the Reading Rainbow theme song at full volume...

"Butterfly in the sky
I can go twice as high
Take a look, it's in a book
a Reading Rainbow.

I can go anywhere!
Friends to know
and ways to grow
a Reading Rainbow."




And then he drove me to the airport.

Kobe Beef Curtains

I'm experiencing a surge of post illness positivity right now. All the gremlins have left mein digestive system, and I no longer feel like a garbage bag full of catfish. My brain is rejoicing. I don't know if it's an endorphin kick or just the relief of not having to treat my body like a tender foal, but I feel damn good.

I conclude that this positive mood is a gift from some celestial force that's telling me, "Hey there, my special little treasure. It's me, Glappy! You've survived another illness, and I've decided to reward you. Boom! This is what joy feels like. Pretty nice, huh? Don't get too comfy though, because it's not gonna last very long. Go on, eat up while it's still fresh, ya fat bitch!"





Onto another topic...

...I've been thinking about how completing a marathon is now a socially acceptable goal for boring people, and how it's considered to be an admirable endeavor. What a crock of boxcar taco tits! Contrary to what your glue-sniffing cousin says, lung pain isn't "fun". Those aren't smiles on people's faces at the finish line, they're the physical manifestations of torment and regret.




Unless you're training to outrun the apocalypse, I don't see the point. What's the upside, anyway? Epic blisters? Bloody armpits?

And for the people dedicating marathons to their dead relatives, I have some bad news - it isn't going to make your uncles breathe again, claw their way up from the grave, and give you Christmas presents. Even if they did, the presents would just be boxes filled with dirt. Dead people don't give good gifts, which is why I want to be buried with an anchor around my neck to prevent me from reanimating and going to birthday parties.





One more thing...




Smell ya later, my special little treasures.

Dying in a McDonald's Parking Lot

The sunlight is fading sooner and the nights are getting longer. The nights have been particularly long as of late, because I picked up a stomach virus, and my battles with it have been brutal. I now know what it feels like to have my peaceful village burned to cinders by a swarm of berserkers. Actually, it’s not as bad as the stomach flu I got last winter, but it’s shitty city nonetheless. So that’s my current burden, which will give way to some other burden next week. Right now, I’m not eating anything, and I have all the time I need to feed my irrational fears, and think about stupid things.




One of my biggest fears is dying in a parking lot. Stroking off or otherwise suddenly dying in the parking lot of a grocery store would be awful. And yes, I know that if I’m dead, it couldn’t possibly embarrass me, but I don’t care. I can’t let it happen.

My Hebrew school principal died in a McDonald’s parking lot. They found him slumped over the steering wheel. He had terminal cancer and was fading fast, so it wasn’t surprising that he passed. And even though I didn’t particularly like him (he kicked me out of Hebrew school), I remember hearing about it and thinking it was the saddest goddamned thing in the world. What an undignified way to die. And I thought about who might have found him - A customer? A McDonald’s employee? – And I thought about his family. How could they ever think about McDonald’s the same way again? I know I couldn't. There are McDonald’s everywhere, so the memory would be inescapable. Hell, every time I pass a Brown’s Chicken, and there aren’t that many, I shudder because I’m reminded of the Brown’s Chicken massacre back in ’93. (FYI: The murder site is becoming a Chase bank, which is a fantastic idea because ghosts love money.)




Maybe it’s the thought of dying alone in a flat concrete wasteland that makes me anxious. Maybe it's the soullessness of modern commercial landscapes and the horror of being defeated there. I don’t know why the prospect makes me so sad, but here I am, thinking about it. And it doesn’t make me feel any better.

Eating Sad Cookies

Another dispatch from the front lines of the NEST OF GRUMP...




Ah, nothing like some depression to kick start the fall. Nothing like waking up to screaming shitheaded children, playing in the streets like dogs. Nothing like the hatred for my neighbors, even though they’re just living their lives, albeit in the most annoying way possible. And the dumpster on the street for construction junk, the one that’s right outside my front door, yeah, having the whole neighborhood heap old furniture and hamburger wrappers upon it to the point of overflowing is fantastic. Smells nice. God, I hate everyone and everything. And I hate that I hate.





Waking up guilty is an awesome feeling, too. Not being able to fall asleep until 7am and waking up at 3pm with most of the day gone makes my heart swell. Not that I had anything important to do anyway. Maybe I’m pissed because all these people are running around like they’re happy and I don’t feel like that at all. Yes, I know that a lot of the people I see are far from happy, but I just can't help projecting my uneasiness around like birdshot.

And yuppies with no visible flaws anger the shit out of my ass. I know they’re just as insecure as I am, but it would be nice if they could at least show some outward manifestations of it. Gimme some sad eyes, slight limps, dry hair, stained shirts, and scars. It makes me feel better.





There are only a few times a month when I feel like everything is alright. When my body, mind, and surroundings are aligned and in order. But it’s short-lived, maybe a couple hours long. These moments include meeting someone new that isn’t full of shit, reading or watching something that causes genuine laughter, hanging out with a few friends outdoors, and taking a refreshing dump on a lazy afternoon. These are my only joys.





It’s amazing that I’m friends with anyone, actually. I’m a privileged moody prick filled with potential that I never act upon. Oh look, over there, it’s a glimpse of the person I could be if I tried harder. He looks happy! That was a fun little exercise! Oh dear, look at the time… I’m due back at the gloomy van of hogshit at 8. You see, I’m taking a three month roadtrip of indecision and guilt-induced diarrhea. It's gonna be more fun than watching a tampon commercial!

Ahh shit. I’m just depressed and bored and don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I don’t want to drink or take drugs. I don’t want to watch a movie or TV. I don’t want to take a walk and get more pissed at the people I see. I’d like to move away deep in the woods, but I’d get sick of that, too. Sometimes being alone is nice, and other times it gets to me and I pace around my apartment like a caged animal.





Depression. It’s a vague term, but it applies to whatever I’m feeling right now. I’ll lay it out in simple terms. I harbor deep hatred for my fellow man. I can’t stop thinking negatively. I don’t want to do anything. All choices are rigged. All paths lead to nothing. Where the fuck do I release this darkness? Inside a cop’s mouth? Honestly, I don’t know what I need or what I want. And it frustrates the hell out of me.

5 Not So Hilarious One Liners

1. Well excuse me, Condoleezza Rice!





2. I love you more than God loves earthquakes.





3. Here's a photo of me and Oprah in the dark...





4. Opposites attract ants.





5. Reggie White Power!

You Were Like Crack, Randy

Psst... You need some Randy Rock, yo? Easy, buddy. I'm completely human. Check my throat. No cyborg parts there, right? It's cool, man. But not really. You didn't check my chest, did you? It's all machines, man. I'M A FUCKING CYBORG!!! RANDY ROCK!!!

Tupac: Legacy of Sexual Satisfaction

I am a cracker. This can not be disputed...





I am a sesame flatbread cracker eaten by Tupac, who is alive and well, wrapped up in a cozy quilt at his cabin in the Yukon. His entourage is small these days, consisting of 3 wolves, 2 Inuit, and a long white bone whom he calls Todd. But Todd isn’t just some random bone. He was once a mighty femur belonging to a headless gorilla that wandered the Pacific Northwest, trying on different heads, going berserk when they didn’t fit. They never fit.

He must have decapitated 300 campers and their families before he died while bathing in a waterfall near Vancouver. You see, his neck hole was always dirty, and it needed to be cleaned regularly. And during a routine hole wash, a sturgeon managed to get stuck in his chuckhole. The thrashing fishtail-headed gorilla choked to death.





His body floated some ways before a group of teenagers found him. They got high and took pictures with the rotting corpse until it wasn’t funny anymore. Then the wolves arrived. They left only bones. The leader of the pack took the femur with him as a souvenir of their rare find. Then it was off to Tupac's cabin.

Tupac likes wolves and wolves like Tupac. And when the lead wolf set the gorilla femur at Tupac's feet, a covenant was undertaken. The wolves signed a 20 year binding contract to serve as the exclusive watch dogs for his Yukon compound. And in turn, the wolves gained studio access and microwave privileges.





Todd received his name on a night when some drunken polar bears were being way too loud, disturbing Tupac's sleep. He grabbed the femur and struck their rowdy bear skulls with graceful flair, receiving oohs and ahhs from caribou nearby. Acknowledging their admiration, Pac bowed courteously and went back to bed, leaving a wake of polar bear blood behind him. Before going to sleep, he thanked the femur for its loyalty, declared it to be his new ally, bestowed the name Todd unto it, and licked the bone clean.

Pac, the wolves, the Inuit, and Todd live in the Yukon to this day, with enough love to fill multiple lifetimes. On the real.