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Oh my.

No fierce and fiery delivery today.

It begins with a brief history of race in America. Not at all didactic. It is conversational and sincere. Very real.

He talks about himself. His family and heritage. I am moved.

He is brilliant. He runs at it head on. Brave and with dignity.

He does what he needs to to do and he does relish doing it.

An extraordinarily courageous piece of work. We’ll most likely watch it for decades.

David Gergen called it the best speech of the campaign.

He speaks of Reverend Wright as being not part of the big picture and he’s right. The man is not perfect. He disagrees with him. He tells us that he knows far more of the man than those endless fifteen second soundbites.

Five goddamn days of this shite.

It’s magnificently ridiculous. What exactly are you people doing? The American media is an embarrassing stain. Let it go you fucking fucks. Stop. Knock it the fuck off. What Geraldine Ferraro said is far worse than anything this guy had to say.

Most of what I’ve heard him say is ugly but true. You guys scared of ugly but true?

Look at me. It’s not like Reverend Wright is lying. We are ruled by rich white people who don’t give a mad fuck about anyone else. Most black people know this. White people need to wake and smell the goddamn flesh burning.

He talks about his church, the noise and the peace. The flaws.

He points out that this man married he and his wife, and baptized his two children. He has no intention of walking away from the man and we should all put his remarks in the context of the life he’s lived as opposed to our own experience. Reverend Wright lived a life of humiliation, doubt and fear. Of anger and bitterness. The agony of generations of defeat.

He tells us that we cannot hope to walk a mile in this man’s shoes.

He points out the dangers of both black and white dogma.

His message is honest. It is eloquent.

He speaks the truth. It’s beauty is simple

I cannot tell you. Perhaps you should watch it.

Forgive me, still figuring out the links thing. Cut and paste bitches.

Drinks for my friends.

Like somebody snapped their fingers, I’m awake at one thirty seven a.m. He’s been here. I smell the pigs. Their breath and sweat. Raw intelligence. The steam of their violence.

Ice trays filled. Toilet paper on the roll. I don’t need to check.

A gob of pungent semen on my pillow and on my cheek.

Fuck!

I can’t fucking stand it. I really can’t fucking stand this.

I throw the bloody linens in the laundry with bleach in a gust of disgust and escape to my shower. The water is as hot as I can stand it, shocking the gash in my face when I step in front of it. My split plumb. Reflex, I lower my head. Blood pools at my feet. It’s coming from my face, but also from just above my knees. Something is carved into the flesh above each knee cap, underneath the meat of the thigh.

I can’t make it out. The blood and water simultaneous, make it impossible.

Still faded, this development makes me dizzy. I grab the nozzle with both hands so I don’t go down.

People say their lives are a nightmare, they have no idea.

Where do I go? Who do I tell?

The only blood around here is mine. A white plastic pawn with my hands all over it. I’ve just poured bleach on his DNA. Random and surreal but I’m losing my breath. I can’t breathe. Crazy. No police.

Can’t even picture that.

Man, I miss the good doctor Wednesdays at ten thirty. I doubt I could tell her. Either way she’d think I’m full blown dancing with myself.

I mean, maybe I am.

I’m not sure.

After that? Paranormal services like Ghost Busters? An exorcist?

See? How fucked I am?

Where would you go? Who would you tell? Tell me.

The carvings in my legs have numbed parts of my ankles and calves. I begin to let go of the nozzle and seem to be able to support my weight. I wonder how I’ll walk.

I soap and wash, over and over with one hand on the nozzle at all times.

I’m a senior citizen getting out of the shower.

Yer pretty fucking ambulatory!, I shout at myself in the mirror. My feet feel funny. Like I’m floating but literally tripping on them across the bathroom floor.

I begin to understand. Both my achilles tendons. They’re kinda numb. They still work, but I’m walking like a drunk with broken toes. He didn’t slash the actual tendons because he wants me mobile. I don’t kid myself that he could have.

Then there’s the symbolism of that particular tendon. Achilles. Greek Trojan war icon.

I understand that this insane liquid oxygen rocket fueled poltergeist has me on fucking defrost. He’s just playing. I’m his Sunday stroll. I wonder how many others he doing this to or has done it to.

I trip around the bed, putting on fresh linens.

I can’t wait to get to the office in the morning. I may have to pass on that. Whether I show or not, no good can come of it, they’re all so close to done with me.

An Ace and a Club, the two black suits. On my knees. Lotion stops the bleeding long enough to see.

Clearly, the Bible is a period piece, but I can’t help thinking about finding some creepy old cleric or maybe a shaman. What I’m up against here is light years beyond the archetypical antagonist.

For the twentieth time I tell myself I have no choice but to be his doom.

I have no choice. No other option. No other possibility.

No one one can end this but me.

The thought brings fear and frustration.

Just how the fuck am I gonna do this?

I’ve been thinking about a crossbow. Grenades. A shotgun.

Anybody know a white wizard?

They just refuse to release this limb of racism they’ve finally managed to sink their rotting canines into. The gaping, stinking maw of a vociferous and audacious media.

Here it is. Full frontal racism. They couldn’t wait to give us what they want. They warmed us up with Geraldine and Samantha Powers and Farrakhan. So now, with intrepid glee and gore, they serve it up. It’s disgusting.

I tend to favor CNN, at least over other mainstream news sources, and Anderson Cooper in particular. I imbibe because as a news network, it seems to attempt to not exclude the middle. After watching tonight however, I doubt I’d pass on an opportunity to deposit crap in Mr. Coopers mouth, if only to remind him that shit does come out of it on occassion.

This is so fucked up. I can find a racist friend or uncle in every white person’s circle despite the size of their hearts. I know them. I’ve spent time with them. They have broken bread with us. With my family. It’s no less ugly because they are loved and otherwise good people. Often they are an unfortunate product of indoctrination. My point is, you’re a goddamn fool if you think such disfigured dogma is exclusive to any race or skin pigmentation.

Allow this point; who among us cannot forgive any black man or woman, they having been on the recieving end of evil for centuries, to embrace a similiar set of beliefs and convictions? Victimisation to one degree or another is part of the culture. They didn’t make it that way. There is tons of horrifying ugliness there. Lynchings, burnings and profound humiliation.

The cliche about walking in a man’s shoes definitely applies.

For the better part of modern history, it has sucked to be black. The Rev. Jeremiah Wright is older than most of us and I’m sure has had a far more brutal experience with events than most of us.

I said this in a previous blog on this subject:

“We all, regardless of race or gender, have our own issues with race and gender. I’m no fool. I believe the idea is to recognize them and endeavor to change them. Being accountable for your own sets of bias or prejudice should be the beginning of humility.”

How long will it be, what will it take, for us as Americans to rise above this archaic nonsense? I’m starting to wonder and it’s pissing me off.

You know what I think? I think church and organized religion is as stupid and at least as dangerous as racism. Yet, as an agnostic, I suffer these dipshits in every aspect of my life everygoddamnday. Still, I have genuine affection for a great many of them.

Of course, like the foolish Americans we are, we cannot reisist the comingling of religion and politics. Church and State. It is here that we tumble head first down the stairs. So many of us play along but then we all fall down. It’s always embarrassing.

Issues kids. Stick to the issues. Hint. These are not issues. Work with me here. Issues are about policy and ethics, all the rest is an attempt to moralize and that’s not where this campaign belongs and neither do we.

Don’t get distracted by this shiny shallow thing.

Drinks for my friends.

Seven days a week. I know all of their faces if not their names. Some look at me with questions, a few with some concern. Long story, my hand up every time I say it. I take my iced venti drip, dump a little, glug half & half into it, stir it with the straw and leave.

$2.65

I sweat in the car and the air conditioner feels like a hose on my face.

At work I stop to put my briefcase and coffee in my office and head down the hall to greet the boss.

I’m self conscious. I begin to sweat and my face throbs. I own that I look like a pile of shit.

You wanna shut the door? He says. He’s alarmed, his eyebrows are up, friendly and neutral.

Nope. I actually fell down the goddamn stairs, I say. I was hammered, I say. I look at him embarrassed because I am. The stairs to my parking garage, I say.

My nose feels like a sliced plum as he stairs at it. I try to breathe quietly through my mouth. It’s not really working.

Sweet Jesus, he says. That’s gotta hurt like a bastard.

It does, I tell him. I tell him if I tear up it’s because it smarts and it’s not because my vagina hurts. He laughs but he’s still looking at me.

His nose barely wrinkles and I understand he knows I’m bullshitting him. It sucks.

I drop with care in my chair, it squeaks like a riot of cats in a sack, turn the computer on, grab the reciever and realize that even the phone against my face is fucking killing me.

They all do the double take when they pass my office.

Mattie’s office is across from mine and he can’t stand it. By lunch he’ll have his angle. He’s six four with a fauxhawk but today I will kill him. I feel fucking mean. Nothing to lose. I will beat him to death with the goddamn fax machine. I picture it and crack a smile. My face hurts so bad tears well up.

The morning is pain and humiliation. No one has really liked me for awhile. They’re all confused and afraid. I can’t blame them. I’ve been confrontational and antisocial for months. Today I show up with my face split open. Like that works.

Put yourself in my shoes. How do you even begin the conversation? We’re pretty close, all of us. But I don’t even hope to tell any of them the truth. This shit is crazy and that’s all they’ll get from me if I open my mouth. They’ll come away thinking I’ve lost my shit. I hate it, but it’s true.

Lunch is cool. Mattie has decided to forego the canyon in my face as a topic. After the first few minutes, I understand this and I’m grateful.

Not cool though. Everyone uncomfortable. Best friends and coworkers are beside themselves because of me. They try to include me in conversation, but look at me with cloudy revulsion and confusion. They have no idea what to make of me and there’s nothing I can say that will put them at ease.

I’m a fucking mess that keeps getting worse in all eyes.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this.

I want to scream that you people have layed awake worrying about how to pay a vendor, while I’ve been fistfighting a fucking demon every night. His eyes bleed and he drools. Fuck me, that’s not the half of it.

Then I go home.

To sleep.

To dream.

I get drunk first. On good gin.

I realize that my flat plasma throws heat because I feel it on my nose.

I go to bed.

I reach to turn off the lamp and on the nightstand, a white plastic pawn.

I’m so tired.

Fuck me. The sheer indignance for her to suggest she’s being persecuted for her remarks because she’s white is astounding.

“Racism works in two different directions. I really think they’re attacking me because I’m white. How’s that?” -Geraldine Ferraro

You have got be fucking kidding me.

They’re attacking you because you’re a stupid bitch.

Geraldine Ferraro has without reservation or mitigation stepped into a flaming pile of shit. World Class Stupid. To not apologize or even attempt to show remorse for the way her words have even been percieved, is really fucking dumb. Barack Obama is “lucky” to be black, and that he would not be where he is today “if he were a white man” or “a woman.” These words coming from the first ever female candidate for Vice President of the United States.

Irresponsibly incincendiary and egregiously thoughtless. It wasn’t but a few weeks ago that Shrillary attempted to make meat and potatos of Louis Farrakhan’s endorsement of our man Obama. An event that he handled gracefully and with aplomb on live television.

Shame on you Hillary, for allowing this brand of aspersion to glimpse another news cycle without anything but resounding denouncement. After you, without hesitation, condemn tactics by your opponent as being out of the dirty politics of Karl Rove’s playbook not long ago, over criticism of your health care plan.

Baby, you’re starting to really suck. As much as your husband embarrassed you, you have become a desperate humiliation to his legacy. Keep reaching down instead of up and you will find both hands empty as a result of your tragic willingness to squander.

I used to like you. You have become as transparent as a cellophane wrapper over the head of an asphyxiated toddler. That’s pretty rough, I know. What I’m trying to say here is that the blue toddler is a metaphor for hope. Yeah, that smacks of pollyanna. Fucking sue me.

We as a nation are actually responding to hope. It’s gorgeous.

On the other hand, I can’t stand what’s going on here.

We all, regardless of race or gender, have our own issues with race and gender. I’m no fool. I believe the idea is to recognize them and endeavor to change them. Being accountable for your own sets of bias or prejudice should be the beginning of humility.

I guess that doesn’t happen to everybody.

Geraldine Ferraro should go blow Elliot Spitzer.

Drinks for my friends.

My first reaction, who cares?

He may be bright and driven, but I doubt many women see him as a looker. Muted nasal trumpet honk, jug ears and male pattern baldness.

He can afford to indulge himself. He’s smart enough to know that contemporary evidence points to just one time around. So be it.

He chooses the long way home. It looks like he sucked at it. When the feds know all about you and you’re a former AG, you might be stupid.

Then, there is his wife standing beside him today. That poor woman.

Then there is the hypocrisy.

He portrayed himself as a moral and ethical crusader. Mixing morals and ethics is a path for fools.

What the man has done to his wife and family is not our business. It is sad. There is betrayal here, but it is not our business. Leave it be. It is a tragedy that should remain private.

The early word is that this guy is done. Fair enough. For his hubris in throwing stones while residing in a glass house.

I hope you have enough sense to go away Mr. Spitzer. I hope you can pick up some pieces. I hope you don’t drag your wife on stage again. That was pathetic.

If there is any truth to what they say, and I believe there is because of your brief remarks today, don’t hesitate. Just do everyone a favor and walk.

Drinks for my friends.

So this idiot Republican congressman, Steve King, shows up on local Iowa radio yesterday to talk about how fair it is to make a big deal out of our man Obama’s middle name. Next thing you know, old Jed’s a millionaire. It goes national. CNN’s foulest morsel so far tonight.

Allright, to begin with, this guy’s a fucktardian douchebag. He’s a congressional representative from the fifth district of Iowa. It is among the most Republican voting districts in the country. The Family Research Council adores this prick. He is one very scary white man. By the way, he was unable to pronounce the word ‘Islamist’ on national television.

” DES MOINES, Iowa (AP) — An Iowa Republican congressman said Friday that terrorists would be “dancing in the streets” if Democratic candidate Barack Obama were to win the presidency. Rep. Steve King based his prediction on Obama’s pledge to pull troops out of Iraq, his Kenyan heritage and his middle name, Hussein.

“The radical Islamists, the al-Qaida … would be dancing in the streets in greater numbers than they did on Sept. 11 because they would declare victory in this war on terror,” King said in an interview with the Daily Reporter in Spencer.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Man, I hate these fuckers.

I want to debate this idiot. Somebody tell him that I’ll fly to Iowa and appear live on the radio with him. It’s a fair bet he’s friendly with the penis of Newt. Wikepedia tells me he’s a fan of McCarthy. This is why I want to debate him. It would be like inviting evangelicals or Jehova’s Witnesses into my home after they’ve rung the bell. It’s fair because if you knock, I get to say my piece too.

I have lots to say.

I’m pretty sure I can make this guy cry in front of his friends.

I’m just so offended by every angle of this thing. It’s not newsworthy. It’s relevance is singularly incendiary. And yes, Iowa’s cup runneth over with jackasses. What’s new pussycat?

Forgive me, but sometimes it’s hard to be confronted with facts like these. Facts like these people do exist. Facts like they are the consumate product of fear mongering and as such, they see their duty as to spread that fear.

These facts depress me. These facts discourage me. Ultimately, these facts piss me the fuck off.

So this guy, Steve King, is a human shitsmear. The scariest part is this. He probably believes, with ignorant frightened intensity, everything he spews.

What an asshole.

Drinks for my friends.

I open my eyes and there he is. He chuckles softly and sucks back some drool. He holds out a cheap plastic chess pawn. I can’t help but take it.

I see he’s wearing overalls with players from Hee Haw all over them. Buck Owens. Roy Clark. Minnie Pearl. Big titty country blonds.

With the same hand he punches me hard in the center of my face.

Whoohooooo! Where you been boy!?

My nose is erupting. Gotta breathe through my fucking mouth.

I kick as hard with my right heel as I can and actually land on solid meat underneath his pigeon fucking sternum. The smack sounds wet.

I may have his attention.

I’ve no fucking idea.

His pigs squeal a cacophony of lust. They smell my blood and think they can taste it. Dark and greasy tonight with red eyes and they scare me bad. They adore the violence about to occur.

I’m spooked enough to shit myself, I can’t help it. I shit myself.

He comes back to the bed and He’s pissed and confused. I swing hard at his facefull of tombstones.

Big mistake. His teeth lacerate my right fist, the venom they wear stings and infects me.

Twice though, I’ve knocked him back. Real flesh. Meat and teeth.

I think about the lumber on the other side of the bed.

I’m on my back in my own shit and I can smell it.

My fucking hand is throbbing.

Then I think, I want to live somewhere else. In the midwest. A small town next to a big town. I can’t help but imagine this. Not far from St. Louis I guess. Some place different. Maybe Portland. I see a window box filled with bright tulips outside a brick apartment on a city street under a very blue sky.

A cart full of flowers in all colors passes.

He’s bouncing around my bed. Crashing around my bedroom. He’s giggling. He twirls into the bathroom and spins the toilet paper roll. He says, Fuckin A. Over and over.

He moves to the kitchen counting in 3/4, pirouettes along the way. He’s humming a polka as he opens the freezer.

He slides the ice trays out one by one and ends every fourth bar with an Uh Huh. It’s three syllables. The same way The Romantics woould sing it.

The door clicks behind him and I hear his key turning the lock.

I’m so very tired but I’m screaming at myself to remember to understand something.

He pulled the sheet to my neck before he left. Sticky with my blood.

My right hand is screeching at me.

I wake up with the pawn in my right fist.

I crap you negative cowboy.

Florida and Michigan.

It was the Florida Republican leadership, executive and legislative branches, that advanced the polling date, rendering the Democratic primary a zero sum beauty contest.

Charlie Crist, Governor of Florida, is a pretty and pointy charismatic scumbag.

He pines on network TV that this is democracy in action and the way it should be, despite the rules of his own fucking party. He’s a frat boy Methodist. I don’t like this guy and he’s bucking for assistant manager under Doubtfire. He’s all grey too.

I will tell you this. Not a single delegate should have a chair in Denver unless there’s been a thorough and rigorous re-polling of every willing voter in both states.

This whole Super Delegate thing has got me spooked. Talk about a potential firewall against public opinion. It’s the mini-me of the electoral college.

No more unaccountable delegates, no more goddamn loose nukes.

Anybody see a pattern here? Again with fucking Florida.

Both states a compelling mix of crackers, bigots, rednecks, racists and I hope a significant ballast of good people, directed by common sense and not too susceptible to hysteria. I hope.

I’m shining a light on it. The fuckery has begun and it threatens the natives of both states with a pyroclastic flow. I’m kinda hoping since this isn’t their first rodeo, they can hold on a little better this time. A little longer. Maybe they’ll do more than breathe through their mouths and watch.

We’ll see. I refuse to hold my breath.

One thing is for sure.

Fuckery has commenced.

Drinks for my friends.

Absolutely nuts that the birth of this nation condoned the ownership, exploitation and abuse of men, women and children.

How do we explain that?

Ignorance among people unable to think for themselves?

Nope, not entirely. Economics. The filthy fucking lucre. Slaves were the economic engine that drove this country into the nineteeth century. Slaves. Slaves harvesting tobacco and cotton.

Revisionist history would have us believe that our nation was rent asunder over this practice a mere century later. Not entirely true.

Again, there were prevailing economic issues as well.

Slavery was the root and the rot but not the flag.

The enslavement of humans was the moral imperative. As long as one believed that those of a darker pigmentation were somehow inherently inferior and ought to be supine, well then, we had a difference seperating us worth killing for.

That, and all the jobs were going north.

There were a lot more stupid rednecks back then.

Crazy. We killed over a half a million of ourselves.

There were heros on both sides.

Even though right and wrong were as clear as black and white, pun, forcefully intended, that ridiculous fucking flag lives on. That, Confederate flag.

Then we commenced killing natives and every goddamn buffalo we saw. Another story, probably just as bad, but we killed most of them so you don’t hear much about it.

We give them casinos now.

Can I tell you what I think happened last night?

Texans figured they had more stomach for a white woman than a black man. I can’t help but believe the same happened in Ohio.

And there we are.

He took cities, she took counties. Forgive me, but it was the rednecks versus the um, informed.

I realize how thin the ice is underneath me.

I’ve always felt that catering to the rural vote is tactically arduous but strategically simple. That is where Billary went, because they had to. She saw her own hide start to smoke and she got on with it.

That is where our man Obama went too. Same idea, opposite direction. He went to the cities. Sights set too low, perhaps as a result of a campaign not used to being flush with cash. A mistake.

What they may have done here by accident, is begin down a path that is as much about a white woman against a black man as it is about anything else.

They have begun to divide.

Not yet guilty, both poised to make matters worse if they’re not careful.

I do think that’s what happened.

I think it sucks.

Drinks for my friends.

He believes the earth is a mere five thousand or so years old. Despite that, he’s a pretty classy whack job. There’s something I like about his wife. She’s not attractive in the traditional sense, but I like how she looks at him as she stands quietly just a little over his shoulder. There is the fact that he’s a musician. I like musicians.

Huckabee.

Obviously, Doubtfire has finally wrested Republican gravity from the worlds most charismatic Southern Baptist. Not so long ago, considerably less than a foregone conclusion. Interesting yet, the voluptuous Red diva has commenced to warble in tune.

Doubtfire, our little Bootlicker, would be king.

He speaks. Terrorism. Duh. I’m screeching. Douchebaggery compels me like the power of Christ. He speaks to honor, when we have lost it. He references a swift conclusion in Iraq, when he’s been quoted suggesting one hundred years may not be too long. He speaks as though a more equitable trade policy in the face of a new world economy is somehow xenophobic. He pledges better access to health care for “some” Americans. Not a bad speech though. I guess. Whatever.

Nope. I don’t really mean that. His audience is laconic. There seems to be an abundance of seniors. When he’s done, we hear Johnny Be Good. Sheeezus. Grand OLD Party you fucking A.

I can’t help but pity him and I’m not entirely comfortable with that.

Hills takes Rhode Island and she’s one for twelve. No offense to it’s fine citizens, but I’ve got hemorrhoids that occupy more real estate. I’ve got one grape of ass that has an actual Super Delegate. Try not to think of me differently.

The evening darkens for our man Obama, although he siezes Vermont. Official brainspank forecast for Ohio goes to Hills at 7:10 pacific standard. It’s a dead fucking heat in Texas.

“I told her, never in hell, no special reason.
Must a lied ’cause I ain’t leavin’.
We’re in for a very long night.” -Van Halen “Romeo Delight”

“Got one foot out the door
Tryin’ to hit the road
Ain’t no match for your mean old man
I think it’s time to roll” -Van Halen “One Foot Out The Door”

I think it’s time to walk away for a bit. I just can’t stand it.

7:59, CNN projects Hills gets the king in Ohio. They’re a little behind.

Not exactly a Phoenix from an ash heap but fuck me in the neck, I’m a little frustrated by the margin.

The talking heads on CNN are lead by Lou Dobbs and I guess I’ve been distracted because this Canadian/NAFTA flap is a bigger conflagration than I knew.

Whatever happens, this has been one speed demon of a of a whiplash of a political contest.

Holy shit, watch the tail on that thing.

She speaks and gloats with grace but I still don’t believe her.

She postures like it’s incumbent on whomever wants to win this contest, they must engage the little Bootlicker. She swings hard to shift the direction and tone of this dialog and the field it’s played on. She seeks to marginalize Obama by engaging Doubtfire.

Nice move Grasshopper.

It’s bold and will resonate. At what frequency, we shall see.

This whole “Yes We Will” sloganeering makes me want to puke. They Borg Obama. They’re assimilating his message. “Yes We Can”. Hopes and dreams etc. Barely a week ago she mocked his optimism.

This tactic gives me pause because it’s working. The Clintons are infamous for packing switchblades.

If he’s smart he will fire back.

Next, our man Obama speaks in Texas. He orates. He does. He goes right after Doubtfire. This man is so sharp. Pairs him with Hills and then wipes them both from his hands. The world and what will we show them? He turns the microscope back to you and me and reminds us that the world is watching. It is a subtle and profound sentiment folded inside powerful words.

He is literally as good as it gets.

He is why I watch.

His point and message, far above hers. Even when he loses, he somehow doesn’t.

More fun to watch when he loses.

HA!

I kinda don’t care what he or his people said to Canada. Canada isn’t a problem in the scheme of things.

See what I’m saying?

And we wait for Texas.

It’s an archaic process in a state that I sometimes think should secede and be it’s own goddamn country for the sake of us all. Two thirds of delegates awarded based on the popular vote and one third delivered by caucus.

I mean, fer fucks sake. Kinda makes the electoral college look a little less sinister.

I may have to wait for the paper.

Word to Obama. It’s the economy stupid.

I’m out.

Drinks for my friends.

She smiles too much.

It was Hills, not Shrillary on Stewart tonight.

From the latest issue of Hustler Magazine in the bathroom on the left at work, Larry Flynt calls for civil war. Maybe he means civil disobedience, I’m not sure.

Anyway, Stewart did allright.

I’ve just either had a millisecond long flashback, or my Mac just took my fucking picture. Weird. Yes, it has a camera in it.

Sorry. Stewart flirted with shades of purple in terms of obsequiousness. Ass to mouth? Yes. Copious rimming? No. A complete absence of tongue. He was deferential.

There’s a literary term I think I first picked up from Stephen King. Suspension of disbelief. It refers to the willingness of the reader to forget he or she is reading a story. Or watching a movie, etc.

Hills has none of that. I’m not here to impugn her patriotism or sincerity in wanting to do some good in America. I’m saying I don’t believe her smile, her laugh or her anger. I don’t buy it. It wreaks of calculation.

Where is Triumph The Insult Dog when you need him?

I admit, it’s from the gut. In a venue that deserves more attention from my head. I can’t help it though, there is something very very wrong about that woman. Maybe it’s as simple as all defense shields set on full.

This from yours truly, who could at least go platonically gay for our first black President, William Jefferson Clinton. Every time I hear that, it sounds more retarded.

Doubtfire will have his wrinkled and puckered ass served to him on one of those flimsy paper plates with an already bent spork. Were he to be elected, I’m positive his heart would explode in his chest like a fruit pie dropped from a parking structure before his first term begins to flop like a fish that mistook Georgia asphalt in the summer for a cool pond in the shade.

Sorry about that. I get to entertain myself at the same time.

Tomorrow night might just be the most compelling night in the history of televised politics.

Drinks for my friends.

http://www.iht.com/articles/ap/2008/03/04/arts/Clinton-Stewart.php

He slips inside. The key is smooth, the knob twists. He enters and shuts the door behind, very quiet.

He throws the bolt.

I see it in my head. The bolt.

I smell lamb and garlic.

Then I breathe shit. Overwhelming. No air in these fumes. He smells homeless. He smells like piss and puke and shit and sweat. It’s a stench so monstorous.

I gag.

I’ll retch. I’m sure.

I hear him begin to fill the empty ice trays on the counter. He turns the faucet off after the first one and he whispers….. too full. Very slowly he poors a thin stream into the sink.

He moves to the bathroom.

I see the spring loaded roll snap into place as I hear it.

My eyes are crusted. He’s rolling away from me. Out of my bed.

Crusty eyes and blurry vision.

Out of my bed.

What?

The front door closes.

My rabbit is dead.

His name was Watership and I adored him.

He’s been sprayed on the walls of my apartment.

His skin is on the floor. The carpet. Ears and all. He was my boy. His velvet nose.

He slept in his cage at night. His water bottle smashed on the marble mantle. He was so sweet and docile. Above the fireplace is a crude scrawl in his blood. It looks Japanese.

I think of that song by The Vapors.

There is fur in the wire around the door of his cage, he liked his cage, he came and went willingly, so I undersand he struggled violently.

He was soft and cocoa brown. His eyes were kind and he shuffled to rub his face on me.

Ever heard a rabbit scream? I have. Sounds like a baby human.

I break all the way down. Collapse. Fold. Fall. Lose it.

I scrape his remains.

Thoroughly. I collect them, all I can get or lift, and deposit them in a ceramic pot I made in grade school.

I don’t know what to do with bowl so I cover it in plastic wrap and put it in the freezer. I’m disgusted by it but it’s all I have.

His name was Watership, I adored him.

As I sit here, I miss him. He was innocence.

There’s a big piece of lumber always propped against the wall by my trash chute. It’s handy for forcing fat bags of trash down the maw. It looks vaguely nautical, like it should be on a medium sized sailboat. It’s been here for the two years I’ve been here.

I take it with me. Back to my apartment.

Hours after dawn and I still smell his fucking pigs.

I will wait forever for him.

He is fucked.

I’m not sure what he is. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to kill him.

I’m kinda loathe to piggy back on issues raised by journalists or pundits. I’m making an exception because tonight I was reminded of something that really chaps my ass.

Tonight, Bill Maher raised an issue relevant, for it’s irrelevancy; steroids in baseball.

I just don’t give a mad fuck.

But.

Since when are performance enhancing drugs somehow the provenance of our elected officials in the House of Representatives? Jurisdiction notwithstanding, how could it possibly be a priority?

Hello? DEA?

Of all the people who have stood in front of congress and lied, refused to answer or flat out refused to even be questioned under oath, Darth Cheney and Dumbya included, how on earth can the insouciant persecution and indictment of Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens be justified or somehow in our best interest as a nation at war?

Congress seeks to convict these mere entertainers, of perjury.

Yes, they lied to you.

Everybody lies to you.

All the sudden you care?

About this?

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Of all the people who’ve stood before them and lied, and they knew they were being lied to, The American Congress, the cream of our legislative crop, chooses an attempt to make an example of Major League Baseball players.

I say attempt, because how much you wanna bet that they come up with a shit sandwich?

Every time these asschimps whack off or take a bribe they either get caught or everyone knows about it. They are Keystone Cops in fast motion with that whacky Benny Hill music.

By the way, Barry Bonds is an asshole replete and Roger Clemens is one sorry lilly livered loose lipped motherfucking lip licking cashier. Douchebags both. Baseball is stupid.

Sometimes I can’t stand it.

Drinks for my friends.

Condoleezza Rice is a Vulcan!

This has nothing to do with the following.

Merely my most recent epiphany. Think she could mind meld with The Horta or do the grip?

Wanna know what I like most about this week so far?

Not much really, it’s been shit, except:

Well, it’s our little Bootlicker. First he fires a missile at Barack about the existence of Al Qaeda in Iraq. Our man swats it down with a yawn, a wink and a grin by pointing out that they certainly had no presence there before we wrongfully invaded.

Duh! Lunch is on us this week. If McCain thinks he’s gonna come out on top on the issue of Iraq with around seventy percent of Americans wanting us the hell out of there………well, I’d like to have his number because I think I’ve got a rusty Ford Pinto he may want to buy.

See, the comedy/irony of it all, is that He intends to do just that.

Buy the rusty Ford Pinto.

He’s running on the war! The Surge! Evil! Brown people!

He’s gonna lose because of that and the economy. He wants to keep those cuts to the wealthy permanent. Sheezus.

This very bitter pill, Doubtfire will wrangle down his gullet with those oversized jowls he’s been developing in anger since high school wrestling. Against Obama, some teeth will likely be the chaser. Poor bastard.

But then, Doubtfire swung hard on Bill Cunningham for ugly and overt histrionics. For mocking and ridiculing our man for the unfortunate coincidence of having the middle name “Hussein”.

McCain said, “My entire campaign I have treated Sen. Obama and Sen. Clinton with respect,” McCain said. “I will continue to do that throughout this campaign.” -Cincinnati Business Courier

Asked whether the use of Obama’s middle name — the same as former Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein — is proper, McCain said: “No, it is not. Any comment that is disparaging of either Senator Clinton or Senator Obama is totally inappropriate.” -Crooks and Liars.

Fuck this guy. If the Bootlicker needs him to win, then the bootlicker is fine with losing. Pretty cool. I like that Doubtfire has no patience with the intolerant. He denounced Robertson and Falwell you know. He called them “agents of intolerance”.

This guy Bill Cunningham, is the epitome of what’s wrong with “broadcast journalism”. He is, one word, a completefuckingidiot. Another word, anachronism. To suggest that Obama’s middle name is somehow even relevant to this Presidential contest and the future of our country, is the worst kind of backward ass, ignorant motherfucking racist and despicable shit I’ve ever seen. Who is this piece of shit? He speaks with the same whack-job vacuous eyes of Zell “spitball” Miller.

Worse than Limbaugh, and don’t you know his big hypocritical ass piled on.

I mean really. You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Kudos and points for the Bootlicker. Incidentally, the reason I’ve given, nay bestowed, the moniker of Bootlicker upon him is his embarrassing and shameless embrace of Dumbya after being mercilessly smeared by Dick-in-Bush and Rove et. al. in two thousand. It was disgraceful. Painful to witness. A maverick indeed.

Well, whatever, he did the right thing the other day and it will cost him. For that, he should be commended. I may go back to calling him sparkplug or maybe even fire hydrant.

Of course, it will further marginalize the neoconservative blowhards on the radio. I wonder if the posse of old white “broadcast journalists” factored that in. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Toss bags.

Drinks for my friends.

The New York Philharmonic played in North Korea this week. They played An American In Paris, my second favorite by Gershwin, just behind Rhapsody In Blue. How cool. I adore the word Philharmonic. It’s a cool word.

How cool is the whole thing? One of America’s premier orchestras moves an audience in North Korea as much as any band could. Broadcast over the entire country. How fucking cool is that? Sorry. Let’s send the Foo Fighters next. Really. That’s diplomacy. It is how to get shit started.

We, are all the same.

From US News & World Report:

“Still, the Bush administration sought to dampen expectations. The White House Tuesday all but ruled out further cultural exchanges until North Korea reveals all of its nuclear programs. And Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, herself a classically trained pianist, offered a cool assessment recently, saying, “I don’t think we should get carried away with what listening to Dvorak is going to do in North Korea.”

Bitch. Assholes.

This, while Christian Amanpour reports from Pyongyang, touring plants, machines and other disabled nuclear things.

Idiocy, bought and paid for.

You have got be fucking kidding me.

An effort to say something positive, to reach out, arrogantly squandered by our very own Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice.

It will be interesting to see what Obama has in store for you. At the very least, I’m hoping he parks your ass down the road and across the street.

Drinks for my friends.

What hubris. What a dick. He’s lost five fucking times. He managed to capture .03 percent of the vote last time. Not even enough for his party to qualify for federal campaign funds.

I admire Nader, but it’s getting more difficult to do so. If his intent is to raise the level of discourse, I must cast aspersion, that window has closed. He’s clearly not the right guy.

Many believe he cost Gore the race in two thousand. Indeed, he may have. As did Rovian fuckery and the general malaise of voter fraud in Florida. That was a contest so thick with corruption some voters had to swim through it just to get to the flawed ballot.

He’s older than Doubtfire. Think he wears a diaper?

He would have us believe that his efforts are purely magnanimous and altruistic. Maybe he really owns that. That would make him a delusional dotard in my eyes. He would have us believe there’s virtually no difference between the Republicans and Democrats. He’s a goddamn fool because there is one glaring and profound asymmetry between them. It’s the war, you disingenuous fucktard.

What do you do with a man like this? Tough call, there’s a chance he’s sincere. Just like another politician, but this one’s been elected. Dumbya is more popular, at least among the stupider, because he is stupider. Both men may have the courage of their convictions. Of course, one mostly right and the other almost completely wrong.

I can’t help but see a larger, older, smarter and generally dissimilar doppelganger here.

Both, at the very least, infected with Lead Singer Disease. Yep, narcissism and delusions of granduer.

At the end of the day, two goddamn fools that can’t help but be full of themselves at the expense of us all.

See what I’m saying?

Drinks for my friends.

Yesterday Shrillary accused Obama of getting all Karl Rove on her ass. Oh really?

Did he set up a campaign funded phone bank to ask the people of Texas and Ohio if they’d still vote for her, despite giving birth to an illegitimate black child?

No.

Rove did that to McCain in two thousand

Did he sit back and allow the swiftboating of spurious lies about her public service?

No.

Rove did that to Kerry in two thousand four.

What he did, was say a few things in a mailer that he’s said to her face. I know, I saw it. In the very last debate. She just seems unable to avoid rising to the occasion as nothing but offensive and shrill. She couldn’t help attempting to land a glove on him by reaching too far beneath herself for a handul of shit on the idea he’s a blatant plagiarist. She was booed for her efforts.

Methinks she doth protest too much.

The Obama campaign answered back:

“But Obama’s campaign isn’t backing down. “Everything in those mailers is completely accurate,” says spokesman Bill Burton. “The facts are that Senator Clinton was a supporter of NAFTA and the China permanent trade treaties until this campaign began. And she herself has said that under the Clinton health care plan, she would consider “going after the wages” of Americans who don’t purchase heath insurance, whether they can afford it or not.” -Fox News

The truth is they are congruent on policy at least ninety percent of the time. Obama comes out on top in the remaining ten percent. He’s more charismatic and a far better orator.

She’s about to lose and she knows it. It is time focus on the dignity and grace you brought at end of the last debate my dear. The high road is your only choice, because you’ll still have a career.

Drinks for my friends.

I’m a submarine, way down deep, hull compromised. Pinhole leaks will soon begin to gush. You’ve seen the movies. Once that shit starts, it’s the beginning of the end.

Now he e-mails me on all three of my accounts.
Nothing too sinister, emoticons and random puncuation
that I’m sure are supposed to correspond or be in
context somehow with sightings of him.

I haven’t filled an ice tray in weeks, but they’re always full. Lately, the toilet paper is installed properly on the wall dispenser. Something I never do.

I keep hearing the wind blow outside. When I step out
for a smoke, the air is still.

The radio turns on in the middle of the night. Wierd stations that sound like Hamm radio. Sometimes orchestras from the forties.

Constantly lately, what must be ancient perfume. Simple pungent notes. Disturbing but instantly nostalgic.

Then there’s the pigs.

I ask her if she’s noticing them. Not so much says she.

They seem to be everywhere. Iconic to a degree in American culture, she points out, smirk gratis.

Maybe I just notice them more. Everywhere from news magazines to National Geographic.

The ones in the Geographic have dirty tusks and crazy eyes swimming in violence. I smell them when I wake in the middle of the night. I hear their bifurcated hooves in other rooms.

They squeal and clack on my balcony.

They’ll eat anything you know. Anything.

The very next time I see him, his eyes are filled with
blood. Our entire encounter, he blinks once.

There’s a big ass Ralph’s across the street. Tremendous selection of frozen meals as well as standing at the fridge food. Good soup kiosk and a really good salad bar. Single males understand this food dynamic as well as the need for as many plants as you can possibly get down into your goddamn gastrointestinal.

Anyway, sometimes I start on the right because I’m in a hurry. When I start left it’s because I’m cool and I have a little time.

It was an afternoon copasetic as I entered left off the elevator with my smooth and noisless cart. I turned right after perusing the produce section and picking out some avacados, tomatos and onions. I proceeded down the middle north to south aisle. It bisects the store and aisles on your right and left.

He appeared at the head of the first one.

His eyes were rimmed with blood. His hair was more yellow. I thought of a naked corn cob. Right there, thirty five feet to my right. Not showing his teeth today and that’s a relief. Kinda, because the lower front of his face seems to struggle at containing them.

Next block down he’s at the tail of that one and thirty five feet to my left.

The next aisle is a block party. Fireworks bust and spatter in the night overhead. It’s the nexus of this retail venue, and at the same time, red and gold popcorn carts, clowns, balloons and herds of women in pastel stretch pants and heels.

I jerk left down the next lane and it’s just carnival games and frozen food. He’s at that end as I roll up on him while he stares at me through eyes full of blood. He blinks slowly and his lids are squeegees. Fresh red blood runs from his eyes and into his teeth as he begins to grin.

He’s got dozens of pigs with him. Some are hogs. Some are boars. Some are swine.

I understand that if I’m not his demise, he will be mine. I smell this fact when I flip a bitch in front of him and head down the road on the opposite side.

He follows me and it’s loud. He marches and brings his feet down hard. He constantly sucks drool back through his teeth.

I’m panicking. My heart in my throat as my brain screams about how life is fucking tough enough, why me today?

I glance back and his nose and ears have joined in the gush over his giant teeth.

Red blood streams into his maw like rivulets before a wash.

Now he’s ahead of me eating slices of pineapple from a can. Blood and fruit juice run over his chin and down to his shirt to look like sweat. I wonder if I have just minutes to kill this crazy motherfucker.

Or will it be another day?

He beats me to the register and I watch him bag my groceries. His shirt is a dark blue now and his eyes are bloodshot but clear.

I tell him paper & plastic and to pack them heavy. He does all that.

I still understand that I have to be this guy’s fucking hurricane.

Drinks for my friends.

The other day I was standing on the sidewalk with a lady friend in Hollywood, we were sharing a cigarette. Out of the corner of my ear I hear a woman call her son Eric and I turn around. There’s Eric, flirting with his mucus.

A toddler dressed in green with his right index finger jammed so far up his nose I feared brain damage.

I told him it was bad form to pick his nose so overtly. He continued his olfactory expedition and fired blanks at me with his adorable kid eyes.

My friend let fly that as long as he wasn’t eating it, he was cool.

The mother hustled him off. We forgot to think about how much we were embarrassing her.

Oh well. Our pie was ready.

Damianos. I still got a piece on top of the nuker. I think she’s about cured.

Once the shouting ended, it was ultimately about a word I loathe somewhat. “Presidential”. If it can be defined as who one can most realistically picture as President of The United States, so be it. Still, it’s meaning is nebulous and very subjective and I think likely to be an intellectually dishonest concept.

He is certainly more selfless in his answers than she is. He simply has more charisma and composure.

Hillary closed very strong with a very poignant sentiment. She did however, stumble into a flaming pile of shit on her flogging of the plagiarism thing. She cancelled out the magnanimity she finished with.

Let me say this. There were certain instances where she did shine. When she said with gravity that we all knew she’d seen some shit. She didn’t suck. I was reminded how smart she is.

If there was an actual victor, it was brainspank endorsee Barack Obama. Despite that, it was remarkably civil and I was generally pleased at the conviviality of it all. Again, the truth is, despite my personal preference, we will be better off by far with either of these two. Things are looking up.

I see no reason for any additional debates at this point.

I want this man as my President. He is smarter than I am. I like that. I deserve that and so do you.

I also have to say, Obama stands a far better chance at handing McCain his ass come November. It’s obvious to me he’s far more formidable in that context than would be Hills, if for no other reason than his voting record on this dumb fucking war. I honestly believe that is something we forget at our peril.

We have no evidence whether Doubtfire is wearing a diaper or not.

Drinks for my friends.

So we learn today that the New York Times will publish a story tomorrow detailing alleged improprieties between Doubtfire and a lobbyist named Vicki Iseman.

I really don’t give a mad fuck whether McCain got his stinger wet or not. I didn’t care whether or not Big Bad Bill did either. It’s just not my business. It’s a serious matter, but a matter between the men in question and their families. It is just not our business. Peroid.

Get the fuck over it. If you care, you’re a loser. This message brought to you by my Council For Common sense and my Life Is Too Short……….See what I’m Saying? Coalition.

If, on the other hand favors were granted, special consideration extended, Minden/Gardenerville, we have a problem. As much as I make fun of the Little Bootlicker and doubt that his stinger has even approached tumescence in at least a decade, I have always believed him to possess a modicum of integrity. I would be happy to know these allegations are false.

Is he friends with Bob Dole?

I’m of the opinion that Doubtfire is essentially a good but profoundly misguided man. Somewhat of a dipshit. Yet still, a man with the courage of his convictions, as ridiculously stupid as they may be. I would be loathe to see this as a defining moment. To have it somehow be the pivot in the most important election in American history. It would inevitably soil the process and somewhat spoil it for me.

Although it says very little, he is the best they’ve got and I’d like to see a fair fight.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Hills has lost her mojo. She is looking more and more like a real estate agent, one I’d be happy to have, as she is an ass kicker. Less and less Presidential. Hard to watch.

They debate tomorrow night. I’ll be there. She’ll be stumbling out to a ninth round and it will be interesting to see what she brings.

She’s short, Obama likes to punch down.

By the way, we’ve proven we can blow a satellite out of orbit. It was doing seventeen thousand miles an hour while the Navy rocket was doing like five thousand. Ten second window.

I could do it. If I could practice on less important satellites for a few years.

Then I learn China has already pulled this off.

Drinks for my friends.

Nine straight and most likely ten. By double digits tonight. The demographic breakdown is compelling. Obama now dominates. Rocking the vote as it were.

Doubtfire has begun to train his guns, forgive me, water pistols, on our man. “An elequent but empty call for change” At the same Doubtfire says he’ll keep us strong, safe and proud.

Keep us? Fucking hello? We are weak, vulnerable and ashamed, you out of touch asshole.

Tax cuts for the rich permanent and a one hundred year war. Good luck with that.

This is nothing but good news.

Official brainspank endorsee, Barack Obama, is quite likely to be America’s first black President. The color of his skin is thankfully less important than the content of his character and what America percieves him to be. Change.

They say his message is empty. It is not empty. I’m here to tell you that I believe that Mr. Obama is not here to fuck around.

She, on the other hand, is tired and disgusted that her presumptiveness atrophied lickety split.

And she lacks. No suspension of disbelief. I just don’t believe her.

By the way, I’m always right.

The fierce urgency of now. Unity. Indeed. Forgive me, but, yes we can. Bring it.

I don’t believe for a second that the decision will be made by super delegate party insiders. If for no other reason than they are the party of vaginas, the Democrats do not own enough testosterone to pull off that kinda fuckery.

Official brainspank prediction is America will have her first black President.

Drinks for my friends.

“calls into question the premise of his candidacy”
That motherfucking pisses me off.

I’m a writer, so is Mr. Obama. I lift from my consciousness and my unconciousness. The filter is off. I’m happy to quote someone and give them credit. I cite sources. But the filter is off.

He shared an appreciation with his friend, Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick, of inspirational quotes by other historic Americans. There were but two commonalities between the speeches. The aforementioned sharing of enthusiasm for phrases that should be of public domain (if they are not already), and the concept that they are not “just words”.

Well, no shit they’re not just words: I have a dream. We hold these truths to be self-evident. That all men are created equal.

They don’t even need quotes.

Plagiarism? Please. He was giving his buddy a wink and a nod at most.

It smacks of desperation and it’s beginning to spoil the taste of Clinton accomplishments past. It’s shrill. Sorry Hills, but yer playin like a bitch.

The latest Bill Clinton “meltdown” was not that at all. It was passion. As simple as a goddamn eye booger is, even after a shower. Sheezus.

He was being heckled by pro lifers at an event and he said, I’m just going to paraphrase here………..I gave you your answer and we disagree, you want to criminalize women and their doctors and we disagree. Then he goes on to defend his record and Hillary’s position with clarity and specifics while simultaneously ripping the dipshit who would heckle Bill Clinton into little of slices bologna on an issue as retard proof as abortion.

Passion.

By the way, the first place I found a link to the Vid was on a very conservative website. Seriously, the site is called Hillbilly white trash. It would be against my religious beliefs to post a link.

The rest of this crap, I gleaned from CNN. I don’t think of them as the end all, but for fucks sake. Slow news day?

I’m sorry children, but if there’s nothing else to do. I mean, if you’re bored, play outside, because your whining and moaning annoy me. It is the last thing we need. It’s bad enough that the Clintons are pissing on Obama’s shoes and and you give oxygen to that at all. Then, you try to sensationalize a passionate and truthful counterpunch at a fucktard heckler by spinning it as a meltdown.

Shame the fuck on you. You dirty bastards are half the goddamn problem. No sack, but a sneaky underhanded temerity for villifying and exaggerating. Days like today, I loathe your shit.

Goddamn media: -1
Goddamn Billary: -1
Obama: 0

Drinks for my friends.

It was interesting. Fascinating. Kinda compelling.

I had fun with it.

For awhile.

Sometimes, it was like picking at a scab or the tongue constantly probing a sore in the mouth.

Still, enigmatic in the most consumate of ways.

Until he was standing over my bed on a silent night, when some sense caused me to open my eyes.

I think I first noticed him on a movie poster. Outside a shopping mall. One of those faux shelters for public transportation. Maybe on the side of a bus.

I remember thinking, after clocking his countenance out of the corner of my consciousness, that’s one creepy motherfucker. In the background of one of those visually exploding advertisements for some inspid action movie. He registered only after the fact, in my mind’s eye.

Weird.

Time passed.

I swear I saw him wearing sunglasses in a potato chip ad on the back of a comic book. I don’t really read them anymore, but I’ll thumb through them when I come across a display.

Not long after, he was an extra in a cell phone commercial on TV. I wondered at how many times I’d watched that one before I noticed him.

Tall, pale. Gaunt. Always seeming to stare right at me.

Then, he was pictured on packaging for disposable razors.

Then again, in the very back of an advertisement for a new amusement park ride on a plastic fast food cup. I’ve always kept those cups. They hold a lot and it doesn’t matter what happens to them. They make excellent mini trash receptacles for a coffee or bedside table in the apartment of a single male.

Didn’t hang on to that one.

I would catch a glimpse of him walking opposite me while driving. Of course, I looked back and checked my mirrors. Of course, nothing.

He had large front teeth, maybe buck toothed. Red hair in a sort of crew cut flat top. Pale blue eyes that were unbelievably bloodshot.

I could only imagine all these companies hiring him for these ads must have thought he was kinda goofy and cool somehow, they were infusing their shit with character or quirkiness, or something.

I thought he was scary as fuck.

He started to appear in my dreams. Still pretty innocuous, but more overt. Winking, saying hello to me. That sort of thing.

He kept showing up in different places.

In the audience on a talk show.

Blackjack dealer in Vegas once.

One day, he was pumping gas a couple islands over at a Shell station.

Early seventies GTO. It was green. He pulled out very slow.

I walked through a mall and saw him going down an escalator on a lower level grinning up at me before he looked down, sprinted the last few moving steps and disappeared.

He always bolts or turns away when I see him. He knows me.

Obviously.

He said nothing. When he placed his index finger on my sternum ever so gently, I swear I could smell dirt and grease under a long nail. He said nothing but looked right at me. Not through me, but at me. The sliding door to my balcony was open, wind clattered the vertical blinds. I could smell gasoline.

He grinned; a rictus affording massive and misshapen incisors. He began to drool, then sucked it back violently. He blew air past his lips and walked away, away from my bed and out my front door. I heard him close it quietly behind him.

Now I get phone calls at work and on my cell. HEY MIKEY IT’S ME JERRY!! Or, ANTWON!! Or, WILLIAM!!

It freezes me. I know it’s him before it rings, if I don’t answer the goddamn thing, he’ll leave a voice mail and I’ll be absolutely compelled to listen to it. So I try to take it on the chin and then hang up. Get it over with. I know when it’s him.

Get this, he always wears brown corduroy pants, blue suede Puma Clydes, a maroon t-shirt under a leather biker jacket and he’s pigeon chested. Yeah, it’s all lopsided and the fit of his leather coat emphasizes it. His shoulders are narrow and he’s very tall. Sinewy and long limbed. A glance at his hands tells that one of them would kill you if it got you by the throat.

About a week ago, I was at Starbucks waiting for my unsweetened iced crack and he was backing out the door and firing a gun at me with his thumb and index finger. I pissed my pants. I’m pretty sure no one noticed.

I had to go home. I was late to work. The boss gave me the look and pointed out my shitty performance lately. I nodded and apologized.

I don’t sleep much anymore. I’ve begun to obsess about pigs. They scare the shit out of me. Are you aware of how smart they are? They will eat any motherfucking thing. And we eat them.

This is bad.