Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Like White on Rice

I know you.

I see you everyday.

You are the girl sitting on the outside seat on the overground rail, blocking other passengers’ way in. You are the guy sitting next to her ejaculating beat samples from your ears. You are the guy sitting next to me with his legs splayed into my area to showcase your hose. You are the girl trotting in front of me in shoes you can’t walk in, your ass swaying like a fault line. You are the guy who won’t raise his umbrella. You are each of the three girls walking abreast in front of me. You are asking how I am when you give me new work before I’ve even turned on my PC. You are the sobbing toddler in the queue whose mother calls him, “Alvin, son.” You are Alvin’s mother. You are the fashion abortion wearing Ray-Bans in the rain. You are asking me a question with your phone to your ear. You are not listening. You are the voice of everyone who calls. You leave excreta floating in the only place where I can be alone. You are always leaving something there just to remind me you exist. You are talking beyond your knowledge. You are talking out of turn. You are turning out to be a real prick. You are the well-read moralist, reading tits on every third page. You are the well-fed writer, feeding off the un-educated. You are the well-to-do leader, not up to doing anything for any of the people I’ve mentioned above. You are hurting many people. You are killing me, man. You are the patriot in your mama's basement beating your keyboard to tell us history dictates we should impose ourselves. You are the historian who tells us history is an easily unpacked box that explains a people’s past and not a version of a story grounded in your political and cultural concerns, reshuffled and simplified to advance your contemporary agenda. You tut behind me. You think I don't hear. You look away as we transact a sale. You host a property program on TV. You bought the bungalow in Biarritz to accentuate your bigger boobs. You bark next door. You sell me Volkswagens. You sell me broadband. You sell me KFC. You sell me instant coffee. You sell me little gelatin candies. You sell me more KFC. You can sing a rainbow, too.

And me?

I, too, am an asshole. But I work for the Department of Hate.

And I'm on to you.

2 Mewling Pricks

At 9:22 am, Anonymous Condoleeza Rice ejaculated...

When I saw the title of your blog entry, I thought it would be a hot story a la Letters to Penthouse about Condoleeza and Donald Rumsfield. (I hear his nickname around the Pentagon is "Long Don(g).") Man, was I dissapointed.

At 7:29 pm, Blogger Snotty McShot ejaculated...

Whatever, man. If that fucked up shit does it for you, you go write it your damn self.

I mean, you must be one sick fuck to get your kicks from picturing Condy peeling apart Rummy's liver-spotted, elephant hide assflaps, wrapping the saggy dried-out old flesh around her ears and administering a vicious tongue-pounding on a par with the most thorough colonic irrigation money can buy, while Dubya sits in the corner, one hand in his training pants, furiously working his...his uh...

Excuse me for a moment.


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