Joe: I know nothing about the man who died before me. In all truth, he was a tragically placed piece of meat. I learned little. The universe is least effective when posing as an expressionist, assigning bright colors and emotions arbitrarily.
……(ahem)….I speak in tongues but there can be no poignancy. I am a cold, listless wax in search of any and all heat in which to destroy me. Wickless entirely though. Fucked.
When I gazed at the plump raindrop plop into his left eye glassy, I knew he was all but gone. This was the first time I had seen a lifeless body, and the ecstasy was crystallizing into refined melodrama. He was an old neighbor…around 65.
My cousin and I stepped outside after hearing his wife knock on our door in utter panic. Outside: a stout, all but-bald latino gentleman taking a nap with eyes wide to the sky on his front stoop. She wept over him as the rain barreled down and the ambulance was there within 4 minutes.
They were rough, but that’s expected I guess hahaha. Yeah its been a crazy couple of weeks but I’m getting back into the swing of things finally. At least as far as the internet goes. Which means Teh tumblez is alive
I remember as a kid, my pediatrician used to whisper dirty jokes and the sweetest of nothings to my idiot mother during our visits. Delicate wisps and lisps of sexual tension bloomed between them, as they empedded poorly worded sex jokes inside each others ears.
It was fucking awkward getting a physical enough as a kid, but when your doctor is squeezing your nuts like they are in a vice grip as he ogles your mother…well that was youth. And no, I didn’t cough. I shrugged, which was too typical for me.
He was licensed and everything. Legit. I think. Graduated top of his class at Michigan State, probably impregnating 3 unfortunate girls along the way. Or maybe he just liked the football team, and that’s why he gave the walls ubiquitous helpings of Wolverines posters. That and enough toy action figures to give a pedophile a heart attack. A man who can only be described as an amateur walrus, his glazed white mustache attacked the sheer baldness of his head. I never trusted bald white men who shave their heads, and this was no exception. He always seemed too happy to see me, and would shake my hand as if I was getting him laid or something. Maybe all doctors were happy to have such a great and important job, I thought.
Visits to the doctor were always so short, and I knew it. Even then. It was an interesting feeling to watch my mother and this portly medical walrus exchange awkward glances and flirt openly. She always seemed flustered, and played with her hair too much before we went in, giving her thin brown bangs a look only high-school aged cockatiels would hope for. As per routine, I would be given my check-up or medicine within 10 minutes, then the good doctor bent down to me, exposing his wonderfully yellow teeth and spreading waves of lard and tell me “Now go into the waiting room, I’m gonna tell your mom a joke, OK?” and I, all of 9 would certainly, excitedly, respond with “Yes”.
They always took so long to tell their jokes. I would sit in the hard oak brawler rocking chairs in the waiting room, and think about cookie jars, and how long dirty jokes took to tell. Usually around 15 minutes or so. I imagine the Doc wasn’t so good at keeping the ladies in suspense, and that my mom’s ‘medicine’ was always so much cheaper than mine, and much harder to get out and down the hatch.
Mother used to point out his old Porsche if she saw it when we were out and about, or any obnoxiously painted sports car and talk about how it was a “Doctor’s Car”. But even as a child, I assumed she was pointing out that they all drove annoyingly bright and obvious attempts at advertising their dick sizes when she said they were ‘Doctor’s cars’. Turns out I was wrong, and it was really about the equally obnoxious amount of money they had. She would coo about the amount of cash it would take to drive such status symbols, and marvel at how beautiful they were. Often, she would tell me how drivers of the same make of car would wave to each other if they passed on the road, as if they were in some elite club. She always wanted to be in that club. I hated that.
Mother always had a way of ‘keeping up with Joneses’ so to speak, but simply could never afford such high-class idiocy. She would have to settle for middle-class idiocy, such as low-fat cakes and pre-made mix dinners, over-priced household items and appliances, sales at the local department store, and the foolish belief that she was living the american dream. I later found out that her american dream came with 2 cupholders, 300 horses, and bright, fire-engine red paint. Her american dream cost around 13k, and when I was around 18 years old, she finally bought the money pit she had always been dreaming she would fall into. A 1996 red corvette.
My american dream (on the other hand) cost about 20 dollars a gram, and the keys to her corvette were always in the same place… My american dream always had a flat-rate price of 20 bucks, plenty of gas, and time to spare. And as I backed out of her driveway one day, an old fuck of a white man driving a similar corvette saw me in the thing, and waved with a smile. I smiled back in a most sinister manner, and knew I had been waiting for this moment for a long time.
I will create a band known as “The Lead Zeppelin” and we will release 1 album of quiet genius, then disband permanently. The album will be called “Stairways to Heaven” and will include the longest of guitar solos, shattering the most brittle of pricks and picks.
My friends and I, we’re shit out of luck. If pooled together, the amount of psychotropic drugs we use as fuel could run a small ma an’ pa’ pharmacy on the corner. Deals come slow these days children, drugs keep us afloat in the massive waiting line of life, and if you’re graduating in the year 2012, the wisest thing to do is invest in mutual stocks, and toilet paper.
The apocalypse generation sure knows that there is nothing greater than the bland consumerism our parents put us through. Choosing a proper toilet paper is something necessary to the modern (dare I say oober-modern???) western experience!! And my cousin told me further: The world is going to end, and we need to invest in commodities people always want, even after the brilliant fall of humanity. Toilet Paper is universal, everyone needs soft tissue to wipe their collective ass…so put your money where your mouth should be. When I asked him about his plan to survive the incoming apocalypse, he said he would buy a shotgun, cabin, and fill his dwelling with toilet paper. I can imagine him in the future trying to sell shitty Scott tissue off as premium stuff at the local market, while everyone else is selling weird archaic hubcaps and metal scraps. From then on, I knew I was fucked if the world happened to end.
And we all are fucked. We rely on society, its toilet paper, and its psychotropic drugs, amongst other things. I know Paxil would not be making regular appearances in the mail when the shit hits the fan. That’s why its the end of the world. People die and shit all over each other. What a useless metaphor for our generation’s anxieties. Our parents had Vietnam, we have a theoretical Mayan Calender that doesn’t even contain chocolate. I never trust any Calender that does not contain chocolate behind the respective days. And toilet paper may run out, but we got plenty of paper towels. Can deal.