Saturday Rantings
I’m pissed.
Pissed we live in a world where greased up assclowns transform into ambulatory brand-name billboards while sweet boobie honey toesies with ringsies trip the blight fantastic.
Curvey nectarine hotts who taste like talcum and smell like roses and seek out pulsing noise machines and fog clouds of poo obscuring the crashing global spectacle around them.
Dancing in the dark with doucheclowns, when all I want to do is enlighten them by reading them Heidegger, and then suckling on their ankles like a famished madagascarian tree frog. Named Fred.
And yes, maybe it’s because I just ate half a box of tasty Drake’s Ring Dings.
Maybe it’s because the vague chemical aftertaste of a Ring Ding is colliding with my Trader Joes Blood Orange Soda in all sorts of “Coke and Pop Rocks” wrongness.
But the swirling shoulder tatt of meaningless emulation betray a bankruptcy of soul. A rot of spirit.
Clear pools where DJ Nero fiddles with the bass while Jim Rome burns.
Shouting politicians on the teevee and the cast of the The Hills wanting a raise. Some untalented suburbanite named Katy picking up the mantle of rock and rendering it a self-conscious in-joke.
Someone needs a serious ass kicking, and it’s not just Joey Porsche and The Gator.
I have no answers on this Saturday in the city of Angels. I see only sunlight and avacado. And homeless alley cats chasing bees on Larchmont.
