Thursday, October 21, 2004

Dignity does not come cheap.

Dignity never comes cheap. You admit you had been under that assumption for quite some time, but dignity manifested in the form of cheaply made French automobiles often affords one that illusion.

French made automobiles have a magical ability to transport you back to a realm of happiness unknown since the playful years of childhood. At the very least dignity for you will not come to you in the form of a 400 dollar Buick with transmission trouble.

You'll have to come to terms with what little dignity you can find walking back to McDonald's at 4:00 am to prevent Ronald 'The McDonald' from towing your vehicle off his parking lot, your thoughts turn naturally to the difficult logistics required of your situation.

You hope that the transmission fluid has settled back into the transaxles, so that your recent purchase will now glide back into reverse and traverse the three quarters of a mile distance back home. Otherwise your feelings of worth will be worth less than those carried by the homeless guy rummaging through your apartment's garbage cans.

It's only a matter of time before the car gets towed anyway. You just hope the apartment manager fails to notice the missing tags and license plate not attached to the 3300 hundred pound behemoth of American-Know-How.

When you finally make it back to the parking lot you are clap, clapp, clapping. Clapping like a three year old, who has just been told that cookies are for dinner and cake is for dessert. A three year old who still believes in Santa, never mind that the fat, jolly, old elf with his smarmy fucking Norwegian smile won't be sharing his cookies, won't be sharing his milk.

Never mind the 10 inch butcher's knife protruding from Santa's sack that he's been saving for Daddy. Never mind Santa chopping into Daddy's neck and storing daddy's blood in stockings designed especially for all the bad boys like your brother Sammy. Mean old Sammy who likes to hold your face under the mudd till you're just about to breathe.

"Don't worry" Santa says. "I take care of fuckers like him. I cut off their balls and then I serve them raw to little girls like you. I call them cherry bombers. Now just swallow it down with one big gulp like a good girl, till it pops out your ass and grows a bush in that filth you forget to wipe away each morning."

A bush your Uncle Billy would sure like to stick his fingers into. Unlike stickin' it to your Aunty Ann, who hasn't had his attention since you were born. Auntie Ann's been too busy to notice. Too busy arguing with Oprah, too busy fingering her crotch with her newest toy. Toys you won't be get for some time. Toys you wouldn't wanna be caught dead playing with.

The walk back has made you feel so lightheaded, dizzy. And the stifling bark of Effexor is pulsing in your head. You can feel the neurotransmitters ping ponging back and forth in your skull. You can taste the bile in the back of your throat and you can barely swallow. You can feel the vomit bulging in your neck, ready to explode. To burst forth with a comedic force. Showering the memory of old Santa in a prism hue of pink and chunky.

You can do all that while staring at the plate of missing cookies you were promised for dinner. You can look up at Santa with your child eyes with such innocence Uncle Billy feels ashamed. You can then glance side ways down the hall into the bedroom that Momma once shared with Poppa. You can almost feel the heat from his released blood spilling out into space.

The laws of thermodynamics then take over, and you can rest assured that whatever warmth Poppa once gave to you, he is now sharing with the whole universe. A cold universe, made only a smidgen warmer by the lactose intolerant carcass that now rests at just the particular angle needed to provide the backside view of your father's ass.

An ass covered with ingrown hairs protruding forward with a vulgar urbanity, spewing forth carbuncles of puss that wait to be popped like Britney Spears vulva in a Florida trailer park restroom floor. A floor covered in the grime of white trash piss and stink, the piss and stink of men who don't care where they piss, or what they piss on.

"Stop staring at your father's arse you little whore."

Who knew a Norwegian Saint would speak in a British accent, and a lower Cadsden one at that?

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