LSD packs a powerful punch.......
I think I'll eat some with my lunch.......
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Friday, May 06, 2005
Head Bowed; Tail Between Legs
Argghhh...I guess an apology is in order for me hastiness in ending the last post, but you try posting stories of your life from a barn in south Virginia! Damn snakes and rabbits crawling all over me! I'm used to a more oceanic lifestyle; not this rubbish! But since barns provide an easy, and not to mention free, refuge as I make me way south for a much needed respite of undetermined duration, I guess I'll have to make due.
By the way, I expect that you'll accept my declaration that "an apology is in order" as my actual apology, because you and I both know that it's as close as you'll come to receiving an outright mea culpa from ole Quint, who is more man than Blackbeard and Magellan combined!
After losing my head a bit during that last post, I enjoyed a smoke to calm the ole nerves and decided that it was irresponsible of me to turn on you, oh faithful reader. But those are exactly the type of psychotic reactions an unhealthy dose of lysergic acid diethylamide inspires in a person who hasn't slept in 92 hours.
So allow me to offer the remaining details I originally intended to include in that last post...
Joe grabbed Sally about the waist like a caveman on amphetamines with a stubborn erection, and upon reaching the doorway of his new abode, he heaved her inanimate body so that she was halfway inside the entrance. Then he grabbed her legs and swung them around and grabbed the handle to lift himself inside. At that point he slammed the door shut, forcing my spy to relocate in order to accomodate the lack of visibility.
Apparently, Sally woke shortly after the door was shut, and unlike Joe, she remembered everything that happened with an idiot savant's clarity. Just as he crouched down to mount her, she whirled around and booted him in the crotch hard enough to propel one of his testicles into his stomach. I know what you're thinking, and yes, my spy's hearing is that precise! It should make no nevermind that he's deaf in one ear. The man knows when he hears a testicle flying into a stomach!
Oddly enough, Sally's a sucker for needy men, and just as she reached the door, she turned around to see ole Joe huddled on the cold, steel floor of the railcar, and she felt sorry for him. So she ran over to him and turned him on his back and ran a filthy hand through his even filthier hair, and she medicated Dingy with another dose of heroin to help him through the crippling pain of stomesticulitis. That's when Joe insisted that they consumate their newfound mutual respect for one another by engaging in sexual congress. Sally agreed and what ensued was the most gruesome, animalistic love-making this world has ever known.*
And that's the last I heard of Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally. I'm glad they found someone with whom they could share crack cocaine with during the horrors of a dreadfully hot summer in a stuffy steel railcar, but if I come back next winter and those tramps still believe they're entitled to my home, well I assure you they have another thing coming! I'll napalm the damn place!
*This statement stands true so long as we're not considering New Jersey, because everyone knows that 90% of those indigenous to Jersey are wretched abominations of human beings.
By the way, I expect that you'll accept my declaration that "an apology is in order" as my actual apology, because you and I both know that it's as close as you'll come to receiving an outright mea culpa from ole Quint, who is more man than Blackbeard and Magellan combined!
After losing my head a bit during that last post, I enjoyed a smoke to calm the ole nerves and decided that it was irresponsible of me to turn on you, oh faithful reader. But those are exactly the type of psychotic reactions an unhealthy dose of lysergic acid diethylamide inspires in a person who hasn't slept in 92 hours.
So allow me to offer the remaining details I originally intended to include in that last post...
Joe grabbed Sally about the waist like a caveman on amphetamines with a stubborn erection, and upon reaching the doorway of his new abode, he heaved her inanimate body so that she was halfway inside the entrance. Then he grabbed her legs and swung them around and grabbed the handle to lift himself inside. At that point he slammed the door shut, forcing my spy to relocate in order to accomodate the lack of visibility.
Apparently, Sally woke shortly after the door was shut, and unlike Joe, she remembered everything that happened with an idiot savant's clarity. Just as he crouched down to mount her, she whirled around and booted him in the crotch hard enough to propel one of his testicles into his stomach. I know what you're thinking, and yes, my spy's hearing is that precise! It should make no nevermind that he's deaf in one ear. The man knows when he hears a testicle flying into a stomach!
Oddly enough, Sally's a sucker for needy men, and just as she reached the door, she turned around to see ole Joe huddled on the cold, steel floor of the railcar, and she felt sorry for him. So she ran over to him and turned him on his back and ran a filthy hand through his even filthier hair, and she medicated Dingy with another dose of heroin to help him through the crippling pain of stomesticulitis. That's when Joe insisted that they consumate their newfound mutual respect for one another by engaging in sexual congress. Sally agreed and what ensued was the most gruesome, animalistic love-making this world has ever known.*
And that's the last I heard of Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally. I'm glad they found someone with whom they could share crack cocaine with during the horrors of a dreadfully hot summer in a stuffy steel railcar, but if I come back next winter and those tramps still believe they're entitled to my home, well I assure you they have another thing coming! I'll napalm the damn place!
*This statement stands true so long as we're not considering New Jersey, because everyone knows that 90% of those indigenous to Jersey are wretched abominations of human beings.
A Needle in a Haystack...Or Just in Joe's Arm
It's been a few days now since my close call with Dingy Joe and Sally, and aside from a repulsive bruise on my right bicep caused by Joe's pipe-lashing and a handful of fingernail scratches under my eyes, you'd never know that less than a week ago I kicked death in the gonads and lived to tell about it. Yes, my friends, oxygen has been tasting that much sweeter since that afternoon.
Sure, I was merciful and perhaps weak by allowing two of my enemies to live, but as they are nothing more than unintelligent addicts from the bottom of the barrel, I am content with the knowledge that they lack the necessary accouterments to track the musky scent of yours truly. And let's be honest, even if they did, I'd surely pound their faces into mashed potatoes with Washington and Lincoln! Who are they you ask? Why they are my fists, good reader; so named because they closely resemble in size the two flanking heads on Mount Rushmore. And they prefer French, or as I prefer to call them, "Freedom greetings"...two kisses, one on each side of the face.
Because you are my trusted companions and dare I say...friends? No, I don't like the sound of that. We'll stick with the former label. But even so, I feel I should let it be known that I have eyes and ears from Hoboken to Madagascar. Sure, several of these eyes and ears are about as accurate as those formerly employed by Hellen Keller, but more often than not I can depend on the paranoid delusions of the operators of said eyes and ears to steer me clear of any serious predicaments.
The facts as I have gathered them thus far hold that not long after I left, Joe snapped out of his heroin daze and limped back towards the railcar. He seemingly had no recollection of the afternoon's previous events, and just as he reached for the handle on the door to pull himself up, his roaming eye spotted Sally's unconscious form slumped on the ground to his left.
Now it is rare for a heroin addict to retain a sexual appetite whilst in the ravages of the drug, but as I have told you before, Dingy Joe is not your average human being. His libido rivals the intensity of an Indian kid at a spelling bee competition, and I shudder to imagine the thoughts that danced inside his head like a Parkinson's patient with bladder control problems upon first noticing Sally's helpless form lying prostrate on the ground.
At this point, according to my sources, Joe grasped Sally around the waist like a sack of...well let's see...I used retarded midgets last time...hmm...a sack of full grown...no wait, that won't work either. Damn it! A sack of shit! You're all a sack of shit! End of post!
Sure, I was merciful and perhaps weak by allowing two of my enemies to live, but as they are nothing more than unintelligent addicts from the bottom of the barrel, I am content with the knowledge that they lack the necessary accouterments to track the musky scent of yours truly. And let's be honest, even if they did, I'd surely pound their faces into mashed potatoes with Washington and Lincoln! Who are they you ask? Why they are my fists, good reader; so named because they closely resemble in size the two flanking heads on Mount Rushmore. And they prefer French, or as I prefer to call them, "Freedom greetings"...two kisses, one on each side of the face.
Because you are my trusted companions and dare I say...friends? No, I don't like the sound of that. We'll stick with the former label. But even so, I feel I should let it be known that I have eyes and ears from Hoboken to Madagascar. Sure, several of these eyes and ears are about as accurate as those formerly employed by Hellen Keller, but more often than not I can depend on the paranoid delusions of the operators of said eyes and ears to steer me clear of any serious predicaments.
The facts as I have gathered them thus far hold that not long after I left, Joe snapped out of his heroin daze and limped back towards the railcar. He seemingly had no recollection of the afternoon's previous events, and just as he reached for the handle on the door to pull himself up, his roaming eye spotted Sally's unconscious form slumped on the ground to his left.
Now it is rare for a heroin addict to retain a sexual appetite whilst in the ravages of the drug, but as I have told you before, Dingy Joe is not your average human being. His libido rivals the intensity of an Indian kid at a spelling bee competition, and I shudder to imagine the thoughts that danced inside his head like a Parkinson's patient with bladder control problems upon first noticing Sally's helpless form lying prostrate on the ground.
At this point, according to my sources, Joe grasped Sally around the waist like a sack of...well let's see...I used retarded midgets last time...hmm...a sack of full grown...no wait, that won't work either. Damn it! A sack of shit! You're all a sack of shit! End of post!
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