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a letter from: Dr. Popeye-X --- to: Dr. Beaker in 1992 Hey, get it? BEAKER.DOC It's a DOS file. What's that? DOS? Yeah, ya know, that crazy little way of doing the things in life that you used to do because, MUSICALLY, you HAD to, whereas, now you do them a different way so YOU can INTERFACE with your latest PILE OF SPACE JUNK, the Model-T syndrome, but no two problems look the same, mass production or mess projection, alarm clocks piled to the sky, all of them showing different times, and each ringing like there's no tomorrow yesterday, and each one thinks that IT is, without a doubt, THE most imperitively soughtafter IDEAL, as far as irritating, jarring, unpleasant, HIGHLY FANTASTIC FOR NOW, BUT YOU PAY FOREVER, important REM-time interrupting "peizo 112db wakeup screamer" evaluation goes. And it IS, right? (Lost?) Hint: I'm kinda gettin', shall we say....stupid in my old age, and if I extrapolate and be extra polite, just suppose you could juxtapose, amidst old dusty clothes, worn out cliches, and army boots with fresh, steel razor blades glued all along the bottom seams. Run thru the crowd singing "THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS" as your "Foul Boots of Infirmity" open ever-widening vistas along the throats of smiling, pointless innocents. You think, "Here, let's see those EAR-TO-EAR GRINS!" and you twirl like a BALLERINA, just enough to make sure they have TIME to ask themselves, "Wha..?" and like a FLASH that leaves no residue, your nimble tootsies SLICE CRUDE ZORRO MARKS across their PTA-MIND CONTROL -FLEA COLLAR encrusted necks, which elect to gush in a typically jugular vein, totally out of step with the other bodily function purposes, so they FUCKING DIE, right there, and it's all because of a lazy, GOOD FOR ZILCH, never helped a blind man walk in front of an oncoming hospital bill, which was out of sight, EYE FOR EYE, TOOTH FOR TOOTH, YOUR DENTIST HAS YOUR BALLS BY THE MOUTH OF HIS ROOF, and believe you me, THAT HURTS! when a shiftless, jobless, witless, alchoholic, stumblebum, cumbersome colostomy-breathed winolike individual such as YOURSELF, do you care? I mean really, really CARE? Do you wake up in the LATE AFTERNOON asking yourself,
And since you really, really CARE, you are immediately on the phone to the newspapers, radio stations, TV stations, Police Dept., Fire Dept., Shoe Dept. (at Montgomery Wards,) and many other countless Shoe Dept.'s all across this big, wide beautiful planet full of kind, loving, giving, $-controlled, 99% obedient, status quotientel APOLOGY FOR MY BEING BORN yessir, nossir, I don't care, sir, whatever you want, oh, great kind beautiful SIRE, may I kiss your toes? perhaps suck a mouthload of hot LINT from your sweaty, steamy bellybutton flab? And spit it in your iced tea glass so you wont have to dig out your own LINTBALL, save your fingernail for the boil-letting ceremonies that take place every time you drink whiskey for three days and eat nothing but sack after sack of really great tasting at the time CHEETOS, and like a clock, your stomach tells you it may soon be a-chuckin'upwardly and before you even get a chance to stand up, GEYSERS of thoroughly chewed whiskey-soaked CHEETOS balloon from your chankered nostrils, which expand, instantly cracking open stinging, festered undergrowths, and amidst all the orange-brown salt taffy you have sprayed, somewhere in the middle of that GODAWFUL mess of the messy wino, there lives, rather flows, a gentle stream of amber wino piss..., and on this widening pond, much like Thoreau with his beanstalks, you ride the shoreline till you come to rest exactly where it soaks into the cushion, which is actually a short stack of old newspapers, anyway, no loss, might as well just go ahead and piss all over me or any place that's convenient for you, here, piss in my coffee cup, cuz it's actually an old dog food can, I don't care if the coffee tastes weird, I usually DIP the DOG FOOD in it like DONUTS anyway. Here, take this. It's my last square of cardboard soaked in bacon grease. We call it "WINO LUNCHMEAT". Not bad, eh? How's about some RED GAS STATION RAG SALAD? Try some of these coily little devils, eh? You'd never believe I peeled 'em off a buddy o'mine's feet, who, at the time of his death, had quite a sizable crop of INCREDIBLY STUBBORN FOOTCORNS. Had to tear em off in coiled strips, WHY, I guess you could think of 'em as BUNION RINGS, but they taste more like a SLIM-JIM dunked in BEDPAN STEW, with lots and lots of PAPRIKA and a HOT COWBOY MUG full of BLUE MOUNTAIN "oy-sture" TICKS, 'n chased with a JALAPENO 'n a couple of GRUB WORMS ...but don't chew 'em! Do like the natives and HOCK EM UP into yer sinus cavities and crush em by blowing your nose with your mouth full. Then, spit out that bite and make room for the scrumptious fluid that suddenly fills your mouth from above and behind, and like an old song that never seems to change, you try to stand up fast enough...but, no, HOT FESTERED GRUB WORM GUTS shoot thru the cracks in your teeth, and like a slimechoked showerhead, across the backs of couches, up the arms of wheelchairs, until, like some jerk at an office party, you land sitting upright in a chair with a lampshade on your head, and that FINAL BLOB OF GRUBWORM GUTS drips off your quivering chin, and you slobber aloud, "CAN SOMEONE, ANYONE, PLEASE, HELP ME, HELP ME, PLEEEEEEEASE, CAN YOU TELL ME? I'VE GOT TO FIND OUT! PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GAAA....." "What is it?", asks a bystander with lots of time to burn.
INTERMISSION: Whew!, what the fuck..? That was some DYNAMITE shit, eh? HMMM. I DIGRESS,...uh, where was I? (try bozoland) TO MY OL'BUD, DOCTOR BEAKER, don't worry, I didn't 4get U, I just...got a little too....HIGH? Enclosed is The TOILETSIDE READER, The Internet Version. GUESS WHAT? I got more stories! For some reason, I was scanning my scribble pile, and some of it is lots more lunatic than the earlier ones. A new level of integration, not Large Scale, perhaps HO scale, perhaps ALEXANDER GRAHAM CRACKER BELLPEPPER WILKES BOOTH, or ABRAHAM SALAMIGUTS PENCILDICK JONES, or way too fucking BLAZED for most people, and the upcoming word prossessed degeneration of TOILETCIDER will prove beyond ANY shadow of ANY doubt that these pathetic ramblings are VERY close to what most folks'd call...
...and yet, ask a blind man what he thinks of
the SUNSET and he'll probably tell you he Doesn't SEE The Humor in your rather
thoughtless banter, FLIP HIM THE BIRD, RIGHT? (loud beep) WRONG! Those cats can SMELL a raised
middle finger and they ain't EVEN shy about RIPPIN' IT OUT and SHOOTING IT straight
back 2 YA!! RIGHT IN THE EYES! The Whispering Roar Of Blind Rage Falling On Deaf Ears
fills your head as the blindman, with blinding speed, plucks your eyes from their sockets,
brandishing the WHITE CANE OF PERPETUAL DARKNESS meanwhile, an ARMY OF DEF MUTES marches ON the BEAT
of a different drummer... let's listen in on the RIP your ears out by the
roots,
The TOILETSIDE READER by Dr. Popeye X © Kurt Otto 2006 |
