society fingerfucked me
papal papacy never sounded so delicious, especially after a delicious mixture of tang and chocolate milk. of course, that was immediately followed by a swift regurgitation of said substances, the stomach saying "fuck you bitch. there'll be none of that shit in there today. i've got enough problems to worry about."
yeah, that's what happened that day. i can't believe it happened. but it did.
those things just don't happen for a reason. they're just random occurrences played out in this little game we call frisbee golf (also known as life).
yeah, that's what they said alright. but fuck those guys, who always kept little rascals and Our Gang down back in the 30s. times were tough and a kid had to do whatever it took to ensure there was a clean meal on the plate for pop and pop, as well as your kid sister, juicy, and the dog, Exploratorium.
What a sight that was, that day the kids took the adults down and there were no more adults, no more fucking bastards to tell us what to do anymore. no more rules to be followed. no more stupid school to waste time in all day. when you could be doing shit that's much more constructive and beneficial to real life, like picking fights with people smaller than you, destroying things that don't belong to you in the name of fun, and shit on the sidewalk because your friend won't let you use his bathroom even though you really have to go, and so when the pain is too great, release is the only answer.
and so it began that day.
yeah, just like they said it was going to happen. on a beach. in your dream. out of my car. or something in between. betwixt may be a better term. those screeching wheels you hear in the background are for legitmate purposes. a cat's life was spared. a dog's weary breath will heave for another day even though he clumsily forgot to look both ways before crossing the busy street, the same damn street his younger brother, fido, was killed on not more than three years prior. but fuck, that was a long time ago, a different time, a different age, different priorities, less responsibility. the boom time. ah, those were the times. were they not?
they were. and were not.
but the real question here is not about the dog, but about those goddamned squealing tires, which keep on squealing and then you know someone's pet hamster or fox terrier wasn't going to make it through this night on planet earth. no sirree, things were going to change in a hurry for one sorry soul this night, the fucking night when the tires kept on squealing and the birds never started chirping, because it was fucking night and they have to sleep just like every other being inhabiting this godforsaken planet we call susquatchian. i love our planet's name. it's sooo, i dunno, earthy maybe.
yeah, that's it.
punish the weak, that's what THEY say. and THEY always know what the fuck is really up on this outpost we call california, land of the fees and the gnomes of the brave.
it all come down to this and those squealing tires, followed up by the not-so-sweet misfiring of some pistons or something near to the engine parts of which i speak and i spake and i smite and i smote and you know exactly what happens next, don't you?
bitch of course you know the answer.
the answer is the squealing tires followed up by the fast moving pistons and engine revving and pistons engaging more fully, more completely than previously, at least, within the last few minutes or so, maybe an hour, and then your realize, fuck! and double fuck.
those guys are being chased! by the cops? by the feds? by daddy notchell, leader of the east oakland spirit force and subsidiaries? or by don corleone, the Layne Stanley Tucci of his generation.
they are running from something, from someone, some being, some element in the force that is being weakened by this disgraceful, if not say, cannibalistic nature.
when all is said and done, only the asscheek of society can brunt this heavy blow on the butt we call america.
pensive, not stirred.