Thursday, December 25, 1997

Nuclear Winter Wonderland

One fine day the mushrooms will be sprouting
As the nuclear hammer's dropping down.
Lethal clouds the earth will soon be shrouding
As insane survivors huddle underground.

In the sky, air is poison.
Birdies die,
Hear 'em noisin'.
Perpetual night, without any light,
Nuclear Winter Wonderland.

Outside the shelter, listen, someone's knockin'.
Open up, why look, it's Parson Brown!
He begs, "Let me buried."
We'll say, "You are, man."
Then we'll cut him up and pass his meat around.

In the dark, we'll conspire,
As our cities, burn with fire.
Life is nasty and poor
And brutish and short
In our Nuclear Winter Wonderland.

The mutant comes, believe me, he is no man.
Like an angry, vivisected, circus clown.
He ain't human and, oh God, he sure ain't slow, man.
Six shotgun blasts have failed to put him down.

All that snow's radioactive.
In your nose, it's reactive.
You'll soon feel a need. A sick need to feed,
In our Nuclear Winter Wonderland.

The earth is a grave, no one can be saved.
It's Nuclear Winter Wonderland.

Tuesday, December 16, 1997

Santa, Santa, Santa

Santa doesn't exist. He's dead, man. But then again, Santa lives. It's a paradox, with roots both in Taoist and Buddhist thought.

"The Santa that can be told is not the true Santa."
-- "Tao Te Kringle"

"If you meet the Santa on the road -- kill him."
--Zen saying.

Friday, November 21, 1997

Sex and Pork Rinds

(to the tune of Marcy Playground's "Sex and Candy") 


Hangin' round at the local ice cream shop
Had me a cone
But I know just when to stop
And there she was
A massive fatass pudge
Yeah there she was
Like Crisco double fudge
I smell sex and pork rinds
Who's that breaking …
The back of her poor chair?
Who's that casting devious stares
At my confection?
Mama this surely is a dream



Monday, November 3, 1997

Fear and Loathing at Yuletide

9:00 A HUNTER S. THOMPSON FAMILY CHRISTMAS. Friends old and new gather at the Thompson freehold to celebrate the season -- and the end of all things.

EXT, THOMPSON RANCH - NIGHT
Drifts of white powder almost covering the walkway to the enormous double entrance doors . The camera tracks up to the doors -- which magically open! We enter ...

INT, THOMPSON RANCH
...a vast open space with roaring fireplace and enormous Christmas tree wherein HUNTER S. THOMPSON celebrates with a festive crowd of friends and hallucinations. The BURL IVES SNOWMAN, patrolling with a shotgun vigilante-style, JESUS, BUDDHA, the WHORE OF BABYLON and BOB MARLEY.

SAMOAN LAWYER: Goddamn -- that angel on the top of the tree? There's fucking blood coming out, man. Jesus Christ!

JESUS: What?

LAWYER: Forget it. (to THOMPSON) So whaddya want for Christmas?

THOMPSON: Nothing...

BUDDHA smiles.

THOMPSON: I already had my fucking Christmas present.

VIGILANTE SNOWMAN: (Burle Ives-ish) Which was...?

THOMPSON: The death of John Denver.

The room applauds.

THOMPSON: I killed John Denver.

BOB MARLEY: I shot the Sherrif.

THOMPSON: Witchcraft. Scientific witchcraft.

MARLEY: But I did not shoot no Deputy.

THOMPSON: Fucker's up in his little, fag ultralight. Me? I'm riding my scooter...bringing him down. Just like Damien. Just got on my little Big Chief scooter and went round and round and round in circles -- widdershins -- counterclockwise, for the uninitiated, turning time back against itself like he did, murder not being murder, as Maggot pointed out...

TELLY SEVALAS: (sucking Tootsie Pop) Who loves ya, babe?

THOMPSON: ...when you're an instrument of the Lord's vengeance on that unaborted, pink-ass, baby-faced, moonpie, shitsucking, countryboy, fake-fucking, est-hole WINDOW into the direct cognition of emptiness before sunyatta, the void. Got that torque going...Coriolis effect. I created a vortex, see? A shearing factor. Fucker went down. He brought me down...he went down. Into the void. A mathematical expression of karma worthy of Dante on a six-day windowpane binge.

VIGILANTE SNOWMAN: But why'd you kill him?

THOMPSON: He's a toad...that's in the Book of Revelations, the part the fucking Gideons rip out where they print the answers in the back of the fucking book -- the Toad of Babylon! I wanted to kill him and lick the back of his head and see what it did to me.

MARLEY: Makes sense.

THOMPSON: (holding up JOHN DENVER'S severed head -- he licks it) Nothing.

WHORE OF BABYLON: Me some too!

She takes the head. Licks it.

MARLEY: Don't bogart that head.

BOGART: I won't.

They pass the head around...

VIGILANTE SNOWMAN: What's say we sing a song?

EVERYBODY: Let's do!

The VIGILANTE SNOWMAN maneuvers about the room on his spherical fundament. He sings -- and everybody else joins in...

To the tune of "When Christmas Time is Here" from the "Rudolph the Rednose Reindeer Christmas" special ...

SNOWMAN...

Some acid for Molly, a hashpipe for Sue
A-dren-e-chrome cocktail
Well how-do-you-do?
When Christmastime is here...
We'll get fucked for the rest of the year!

VARIOUS WASTED, DECADENT PARTYGOERS...

I like to smoke reefer
I like to sniff glue
I do lots of coke...
And then I just screw!
When Christmastime is here...
We'll get fucked for the rest of the year!

The eyes on JOHN DENVER's head open. He begins merrily singing too as the song fades out and the VIGILANTE SNOWMAN rolls up to us...

VIGILANTE SNOWMAN: (putting on top hat as he begins to roll away from the celebration) Well, this charming ditty continues through a fairly comprehensive catalog of illicit substances, too numerous to get into at this time. Hunter S. Thompson is now in possession of an automatic weapon, by which he holds off the gate-crashing skeleton army as the Whore of Babylon goes down on him and the partygoers get up a lively game of soccer with John Denver's head. Sad to say, I must leave these revelers for now -- as I'm off to fight corporate crime in the gritty streets of a degenerate, post-Apocalyptic America! But remember this, kids... (eyes twinkling) The party's only over when you stop...

He rolls away.

The camera pulls back from the ranch.

Bright, bright powder falls.


Chickenshit Disclaimer: Drugs are bad, kids. This is a satire. Specifically, a satire of Hunter S. Thompson's overheated gonzo prose and those creepy Rankin/Bass stop-motion animation Christmas specials. Like, two great tastes that go great together, dig? But for the record: If you lick the back of John Denver's severed head, you will get seriously high.

Merry Christmas.

Friday, October 3, 1997

An Immigrant's Story

Ancient, black and white footage. Montage of New York City, early 1900s. Steamers, the Statue of Liberty, overcranked shots of crowded streets, etc.

ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) In 1907, Nikos Kakakrapulous came to America with nothing but the clothes on his back and a dream.

A young NIKOS KAKAKRAPULOUS addresses the camera --

NIKOS: (scratchy recording, not in sync) In America, anything is possible!

ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) Nikos’ dream? Selling human feces.

NIKOS: Americans will buy anything!

ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) He quickly took to the streets with a humble pushcart.

EXT, NEW YORK CITY - DAY

More ancient footage.

NIKOS: Turds!

ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) No one responded, at first.

NIKOS: Turds for sale! Who will buy?

ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) He was, after all, selling steaming human feces.

NIKOS: Fresh! Hot! Turds!

Upbeat 1940s montage.

ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) Flash-forward to World War II. Nikos’ turds became a household word.

EISENHOWER: Those turds helped win the war!

ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) Today, Americans are buying shit in all 50 states. Nikos’ designer Turde Shoppes can be found in every mall across the nation. But he remains a humble, and deeply grateful, man.

INT, HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY

Ancient NIKOS in a hospital bed. The hand of an unseen JOURNALIST holds a microphone to his face. NIKOS speaks with hesitation but a trace of his youthful fire.

NIKOS: When I started … I was alone. Today, everything you buy is shit! Is nothing but shit! My turds have started something that can never be finished. I love this country! I love my turds!

ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) Nikos Kakakrapulous. A man who changed America. With a dream. And a pushcart full of turds.

Wednesday, August 27, 1997

Slob Dressed Man

(to the tune of ZZ Top's Sharp Dressed Man)

Stained shirt, full of holes
My BVDs ain't dirty -- don't wear none at all
Nose hairs, double chin
You smell me coming before I step in

The girls run screaming just as fast as they can
They so damn disgusted 'bout a slob dressed man


Ass crack, stupid hat
Can't see my own feet cause I'm extremely fat
Stinky sneakers, don't match
My gut's exposed, makes it easy to scratch

The girls run screaming just as fast as they can
They so damn disgusted 'bout a slob dressed man

Saturday, August 2, 1997

Titanic - the God-proof boat

The boardwalk at Brighton, England, early in the 20th century. An Eric Idle-esque huckster in a straw boater is making a pitch to the well-dressed passersby. A booth behind him says "White Star Lines." A cloth partly covers it.


HUCKSTER: Hello, good sir. Good evening, madam. Are you considering an ocean cruise? May I be so bold as to suggest a cruise on a White Star liner?

TEDDY, a knockabout cockney walks by. Too well-dressed.

TEDDY: No.

HUCKSTER: Ah. You can't afford it?

TEDDY: I can afford to have you killed, mate.

HUCKSTER: Then cruise to your heart's content and then have me killed!

TEDDY: No. I hate the stupid bloody ocean, all right? It's dangerous.

HUCKER: Ah. Fear of drowning and so forth. Safety concerns?

TEDDY nods sheepishly. A small crowd starts to gather.

HUCKSTER: Well. Let safety concern you no more! White Star Lines has just the boat for you! For all of you! It is nigh indestructible, ladies and gentlemen! The safest ever created! It is proof against the injuries of coral, typhoons, whirlpools, sudden swells and violent waves. A triumph of British engineering!

TEDDY: What about acts of God?

HUCKSTER: Excuse me?

TEDDY: You heard me. That bloody safe boat of yours. Will it protect me from the wrath of a vengeful God?

HUCKSTER: Why on earth should you that concern you?

TEDDY: I dunno. Hypothetically? Theft, adultery, the odd bit of murder. I've read the bloody Bible, mate. I know how He thinks. He's just waiting to get me out in the middle of the Ocean where He can kill me for my sins.

HUCKSTER: Ah. So the fear of divine retribution is a factor in your vacation plans?

TEDDY: Why take the risk, eh? I'm not bloody stupid. I know for a fact your bloody engineers can't make a God-proof boat.

HUCKSTER: What if I told you they can? Behold ladies and gentlemen!

He whips back the cloth, revealing a gleaming painting of ...

HUCKSTER: The HMS Titanic! The God-proof boat!

The flowing cursive caption reads "God Himself can't sink her."

The crowd goes oooh.

HUCKSTER: Yes, that's right, ladies and gentlemen. The HMS Titanic. Fully God-proof! That's the White Star Lines difference! "God Himself can't sink her." We dare to make this bold claim!

TEDDY: Can you back it up?

MAN: (OS) This man is an obvious shill!

Sound of beating and a scuffle.
(OS)

HUCKSTER: Yes! We're prepared to back it up. Here's our chief engineer, Nigel Throckmorton.

NIGEL walks up.

NIGEL: Hello. Well. (holds out model) This may look like a toy. It is not.

WOMAN: It's so cute!

NIGEL: As may be.

WOMAN: I want it.

NIGEL: You can't have it!

WOMAN: I want it for my bathtub!

NIGEL: No! It's my little boat! Well. As I saying. This is not a toy. It's a full-scale model of the real thing, identical to the original in all respects except for size. We subjected it to all manner of product testing. I believe you have film?

HUCKSTER: Yes, we do. Edison's marvel will make Nigel's assertions clear!

A screen at the White Star booth plays the film.


GRAINY BLACK AND WHITE FILM FOOTAGE - SILENT
A tank in a lab where scientists are attacking the model Titanic.

NIGEL: As you can see, we subjected this little boat to every manner of divine retribution imaginable. Plague, locusts, fire from heaven, etcetera. After hundreds of hours of product testing, it survived every Biblical challenge. On that basis it is scientifically safe to assert that "God himself can't sink her." Like it says on the poster.

HUCKSTER: Very good Nigel.

NIGEL: I will now answer relevant questions.

TEDDY raises his hand.

NIGEL: Yes?

TEDDY: God's omnipotent right?

NIGEL: Yeah. Theoretically.

TEDDY: Well. What if God chooses to violate his own physical laws. Create a miracle, as it were?

NIGEL: Well, he could, I suppose. That wouldn't be cricket, would it. Can I go?

HUCKSTER: Yes. Thank you, Nigel. (hands him a cookie) A round of applause for Nigel!

The audience applauds.

HUCKSTER: And there you have it! Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. Fear has made you shut-ins! Well, fear no more! Stop crouching in your mansions where God can't hurt you. The Titanic is fully God-proof! Your doom will come, ladies and gentlemen. God will punish you for your sins. But not on our boat! You can relax in the delightful luxurious ambiance knowing that God can't touch you. Experience the thrill of the open ocean! Purchase your tickets now!

They flock and feverishly buy tickets for the cruise.

NIGEL steps up. Whispers to the HUCKSTER.


NIGEL: Hey, whatever your name is. I just thought of something.

HUCKSTER: Not now.

NIGEL: Hubris.

HUCKSTER: This is really bad timing.

NIGEL: I forgot to test for hubris.

HUCKSTER: Teddy!

NIGEL: Overweening pride or something.

TEDDY appears.

HUCKSTER: Take Nigel out for a pint, eh?

TEDDY: Come on, mate.

TEDDY puts his arm around NIGEL's shoulder and takes him away.

HUCKSTER: Bloody engineers.

Sunday, July 6, 1997

Battle Hymn of the 40-something Wanker

(To the tune of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic")
He’s an aging adolescent who’s accepted life’s defeat.
Since he cannot beat the odds he is content to beat the meat.
He sits at home and yanks his bone and tells himself he’s neat.
A wanker wanking on.

Gloriosky what a wanker.
Gloriosky what a wanker.
Gloriosky what a wanker.
A wanker wanking on.

Ziggurats of crusty porno rise in stacks beside his bed.
Each night he reads and creams and dreams of Heather Locklear giving head.
Oh there’s shit to do and bills to pay; the cat it must be fed.
You wanker wanking on.

Gloriosky what a wanker.
Gloriosky what a wanker.
Gloriosky what a wanker.
A wanker wanking on.

Sunday, May 4, 1997

The Genetic Engineering Song

(to the tune of "Someone's in the Kitchen with Dinah")

Someone's in the kitchen with DNA
Someone's in the kitchen, I know ...
Someone's in the kitchen with DNA
Cooking up an embryo!
And singing ...

How far, how far should we go?
How far should we go ....
How far, how far should we go?
Cooking up an embryo!

Sunday, March 30, 1997

Heaven's Gate

(to the tune of Bob Dylan's 'Knockin' on Heaven's Door')

Mama, take my balls away from me
I don't need 'em anymore.
They just make me masturbate
Feel like I'm knockin' on Heaven's Gate.

Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's Gate
Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's Gate
Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's Gate
Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's Gate

Mama, the saucer's come for me
So says Marshall Applewhite
It's hiding behind the comet's tail
Drink this Kool Aid, I'll be there tonight.

Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's Gate
Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's Gate
Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's Gate
Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's Gate

Friday, February 21, 1997

Give until we stop hurting you

This program has been brought to you by the law firm of Shaft, Lynch, Burn, Twist and Fry. And the generous support of viewers like you.

Necromarketing

INT, HAACK ADVERTISING AGENCY.

Meeting room. A group of ad agency types sitting around a table are about to reveal their efforts to a client – JOE SCHMUTZ, the Dirt Devil CEO. He’s expecting to see a commercial projected on the screen at the front of the room.

SCHMUTZ: OK, show me what you got, Haack. Fred Astaire dancing around with a Dirt Devil, right? Some animation thing with the computer?

HAACK: More like a reanimation thing.

SCHMUTZ: Reanimation … wha?

HAACK: Yes, hmm-hmm. Resurrecting his corpse proved actually cheaper than CGI.

SCHMUTZ: Yeah. Ha-ha. I’m a busy man, Haack. I don’t have time for jokes.

HAACK: No, joke. Hmm-hmm. We call it … Necromarketing! Behold!

FRED ASTAIRE’s reanimated corpse leaps out from behind the screen, starts dancing around with a Dirt Devil.

SCHMUTZ: Jesus Christ!

FRED ASTAIRE starts dancing on the ceiling. Disgusting pieces of him start falling off. SCHMUTZ projectile vomits. Then FRED ASTAIRE leaps down from the ceiling, sinks his teeth in SCHMUTZ’ neck, and begins to feed. The other agency employees run screaming. HAACK and JACK GETZ walk out quietly--then shut and lock the door. HAACK turns to GETZ.

HAACK: Hmm. Well … I think it’s going to need a little more work.

Monday, February 17, 1997

The 20th Century Fair

12 Mar 2497: Sarasota.

People take the John and Mable Ringling/Burt Reynolds Museum and Holographic Simulation Array for granted around here. Bring the kids for a Saturday, interact with anyone you want to from the Baroque era; walk inside a Reubens with Paul Rubens as your host; recreate the Deliverance canoe ride.

It’s all there, anytime you want it. Sure.

But it’s not all simulated.

Somebody has to pay for it — and these days, they’re paying with thin sheets of printed green paper known as “money.” History buffs will be familiar with the term — that’s the basic medium of exchange before the North American Federation moved to an energy standard in 2044.

But it’s coin of the realm in the 20th Century Fair — all credit chips must be exchanged on the way in!

It’s like taking a step back in time.

Merchants are hawking their wares at “the Mall” — anything from microwave ovens to printed paper magazines to polyester shirts.

There’s an exciting recreation of what it must have been like to wait at the primitive Sarasota-Bradenton airport terminal; a hauntingly detailed condominium “model unit” — not a re-creation, but a one-of-a-kind historical artifact preserved in volcanic ash after the tragic eruption of 1998. All that, and exotic period foods like “pizza,” “hotdogs,” and “hamburgers,” along with colorful strolling musicians playing the quaint “rock” music of the period — with games like “miniature golf,” “bowling,” and “pinball” for those who want to recreate the ancient tradition of “fun on the weekend.”

Enjoy — but beware of the roaming “Muggers” and “Street People” who just might come up to you saying "empty your pockets.”

It’s all part of the fun!

Authentic traffic jams are staged daily employing authentic — gas powered internal combustion! — automobiles from the late 20th century period. Excited throngs watch as professional anachronists recreate what the dreaded “Tamiami Trail” must have actually looked — and sounded — like!

Crowds gasp in horror as the cars execute “passing maneuvers,” “giving the finger,” “cutting somebody off in traffic,” “out-running the police car.” Or at least that’s what the white Lexus was trying to do until the police car slammed into it at 110 kilometers an hour.

“Ooooh,” said the crowd, feeling the crash in their bones. No hologram could prepare you for this—this is what a car wreck actually looked like!

But everybody was “OK,” as they used to say.

“Agghhh,” said Officer Bill, pulling his body loose from the accordion-folded remains of his vintage police car, “I'm all right," he said, brushing himself off. "They were tough back then. There’s no way to fake it. If you want to do this you have to be tough—not like him.”

He was pointing at the driver of the Lexus—an entertainer dressed in the colorful “Yuppie” garb of the day complete with "cel-phone" and pony-tail. Officer Bill began squinting at the driver of the Lexus, studying him coldly for a moment, before he began shouting: “Hey! How much memory you got in that CPU you jacked in—huh? Biochips or silicon?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, you’re using AI, right? I’m just curious. You can tell me. What you got in that thing?”

“I’m not using AI.”

Which is when Officer Bill “got in his face,” as they used to say in olden times.

“Don’t lie to me—I saw that evasive manoeuvre, pal. You're enhanced. Nobody reacts that fast. Nobody.”

“Hey—I do, ‘kay? I do. I got the stuff.”

“You? That wasn’t you — that was the car. You got that thing rigged with proximity sensors, inertial dampers and some kind of virtual net to jack up your reaction time. You’re not using the steering wheel — you’re driving up here."

Officer Bill pointed to his forehead. The Yuppie seemed ashamed.

"Am I right?”

“Yeah.” the Yuppie mumbled, “You're right — I'm enhanced. But look at the car. That’s a ‘94 Lexus. I can’t afford to wreck it—”

“So you falsify the experience for everybody else — that’s good. That’s not what this is all about, is it?”

The Yuppie was starting to walk away now.

“It’s ‘kay,” he said. “Just forget it.”

“Kay? Kay? You’re starting to irritate me, pal — they didn’t say ’kay back then—they said “OK.”

“They were starting to say 'kay.

“Not most people. Not until 2010—get it right or don’t do it at all!”

Which is when Officer Bill began shouting “Somebody throw this bum out of here.”

And they did — the fair officials are very strict when it comes to falsifying the experience. No simulations. No enhancements. No computers except for primitive 20th century models. This is as close to the real thing as possible — which is why the crowds keep coming back, year after year. They know this is not a hologram, not VR. Real car wrecks. Real fights. Real pizza.

Real smog.

So maybe it’s a matter of ticket sales — but it was clearly more than that to “Officer Bill.”

“I can’t stand people like that. I mean — what’s the point of all this if we’re
faking it? They didn’t have a user interface to the cerebral cortex back then — and cars didn’t think. All you had was the steering wheel and your nerve.”

How did you get involved with the 20th Century Fair?

"Well, it's hard to remember when I started. The 20th century has an interesting period to me, even when I was a kid — I was always a romantic, a dreamer. Just imagine! Flat-picture TV sets! Soldiers! Garbage cans! Cars! Cars that couldn’t think, couldn’t talk back to you — you actually had to drive them! The world was divided into different countries. They hadn’t invented cold fusion yet. There still had war. There still had criminals. No worries about galactic politics. Armadillos couldn’t even fly.”

Wasn't he romanticising it? Wasn't there a lot about this period that really wasn't all that wonderful? The disease? The violence?

“But that's part of what I liked about it. People were more alive back then because there was more risk, more danger.”

And then he was off—to an exciting recreation of the Rodney King riots of 1994. What joy it was to be alive in those days.

But, thanks to entertainers like Officer Bill, at least we have the next best thing.

Originally published in The Sarasota Arts Review.

Friday, January 3, 1997

Quentin Tarantino's "The Knife Before Christmas"

T'was the fucking night before X'mas
As I stalked through the house
Not a victim was stirring
(Each soon dead as a louse!)
Their stockings were hung by the chimney
Who cares?
Fuck their mythical hopes!
They were gonna get theirs...

My rich in-laws were nestled,
All smug in their beds
Dreams of shit they won't see
Danced in their heads
Bitch wife in her nightie
Me in PJs catblack
All ready for mayhem
With gun, knife or blackjack
When out on the lawn
There arose such a noise
I near pissed my pants
What the fuck -- some choirboy?
I leapt to the window, peeked out for a glance
What I saw -- not a caroler, nor ho with a trick
But my idiot black partner, dressed up like St. Nick
Complete with eight reindeer and sleigh
What a dick!

The moon seemed to flash like a knife on the snow
As he puffed on his crackpipe and lurched to and fro
Through the snow! To the trellis!
Like a rhino in heat
That nigger woke up everyone on the street
Time to move, and I did
As he worked down the chimney
All slicken'd with grease
I slit up Ms. Bitch and her kin
Just like fat Xmas geese
And when, from the fireplace, that fat fuck did appear
I capped him
Four shots in the face
And then two in the rear

Now sirens! Now bleeding! Now understand!
No time to gloat on my fucking great plan
From right hand to left, I shifted the knife
Plunged it in my own shoulder, but I didn't cry
But still pulled it out -- to Saint Creep's clenching hand!
Homeboy heard me exclaim
As he watched his life bleed...
"Merry Christmas, now die.
Here comes the police."

He did, and they did, and soon I was cozy
In my hospital bed, as warm as a pussy
While visions of loot danced inside my sick head
I was acting torn up -- "Aww, my fucking family was dead!"
All the chicks that I knew felt so sorry for me
As I cried on the outside, inside brimming with glee
As I thanked God for Xmas
And double indemnity

And I said to myself
Having lived through this riot
My next fucking partner
Had better be quiet

-- Dewey Grosshart, Marty Fugate (aka "Jack Getz")

Originally published, in extremely, ridiculously, gutlessly expurgated form, in The Sarasota Arts Review.

Bulk of the credit goes to "Dewey Grosshart" -- I mostly cleaned up the scan to make it fit the rhyme scheme.


PS: It should go without saying but, uh, duh, the "N-word" is part of the satire. See, uh, Quentin Tarantino uses the N-word a lot and, uh. You shouldn't say bad words like that.