COMPULSIVE COMPOSITION

You know, even if you’re deliberately lazy, like me,
life continues to rush ever faster. With more weight
and steam, down slick rails towards inevitable
conclusions.

At the very same time it pauses without stopping.
Everything races along like a jet on a sled and then there’s a simultaneous
cessation of all activity so as to allow “The Piledrive”.

The Piledrive serves to provide at least one, if not several issues
to drive you mad for the day or perhaps, insane for life.

And it all manifests while your pursuing the land speed record.

When people get on your nerves, they’re vying for a
place in line at the controls of The Piledriver.

You know what I mean.

The people I picture, well, I wouldn’t mind seeing hip
failure in most of them.

Some of them, I kinda like, but were they handicapped, I doubt I’d be sad.

Sometimes mere objects make the list.

I have two rings on my keychain and nothing else but
keys. None of that random pointless detritus that
occupies most people’s key collection. One is house
keys and one is work/other. I can’t fucking stand it
when a key from one gets caught through the ring of
the other. How does that happen if I have to take the
fucking thing apart to fix it? It literally defies
the laws of gravity.

Another example, probably just as wierd: If you’re a
guy, no matter what, every once in awhile after you
take a squirt, you end up with a little moisture.
This is always well after you’ve shaken it like a
polaroid and closed up shop.

You may even experience a little trouser spotting.
When this happens to me, I really dig into my work to
give it time to dry.

When I piss my pants, I tie my sweatshirt around my
waste and announce I’ve got lunch with a client. Then
I drop a few mints into my crotch and have a nice solo
afternoon meal. A well worn urinal cake works in a
pinch.

If I’m out of town, I may have talc in my briefcase.

I really hate it when I blow bad air in my office and
someone comes in with a question. The whole time I’m
wondering if they can smell it. And then I’m
convinced they’re wondering if I know they can smell it.

When I shit my pants I tie my sweatshirt around my
waste…….baha! Announce I’ve got lunch with a
cleint, go home, shower and change my pants.

When I kill someone, I wear a jumpsuit, I prefer
orange, and wash up real thorough afterwards.
Then I dispose of all crime related attire.

When I drive a race car, all bets are off.

When I write, I literally need to set fire to my
brain. I’m not sure how it works, but I must manage
to light the fuse. Otherwise, nothing. The duck
quacks and there is no echo.

Sometimes, the old hot
poker shoved up the olfactory organ becomes necessary.

When I pet The Gurry, I’m looking to make her purr,
satiate my need for softness and innocence, and mask
the noise of The Piledriver.

Gin is an efficacious instrument for this
malaise as well.

A strange brand of lucidity reared it’s pretty head
upon combining the two powerful principals, booze and
prose. Ever greater doses of both tend to remand the
very idea of The Piledriver to recess in unlit
alcoves that can barely break for air when the
early morning mind movies that are dreams come.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. That is to say, bullshit of the purest variety rises to the spigot like drunken vomit and Del Taco with all the force of a firehose and the next thing I know I’ve painted my entire immediate diorama with a fetor of extravagance, fabrication and hyperbole.

Ha! Guess what?

Sometimes it smells pretty good.

If you like my blogs, now you know. If you don’t and you’re reading this, well, you do.

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