Summer 2016 is major suckin’, and I’m looking forward to its funeral…
My brain has been baked into a stank-ass casserole of pollution, pollen and petulance, a skull-cauldron of turbulent toxicity sending white squalls of waste crashing down and capsizing my soul; my inner groove has been sunk deep, only to be washed up on the butt-covered shores of Holiday World, Santa Claus, Indiana, as a library of bad weather nurtures and encourages mosquitos, bloated with the zika, to take to the muggy air and spread microscopic hell all around! (Donald Trump is encouraging Hillary Clinton’s assassination by proxy, and I’m going insane by association). Do you good people understand that last Tuesday night I had a dream in which David Duke was loaded into a guillotine on “America’s Got Talent” and had his plastic-surgery-disaster head lobbed clean off, and the judges passed the executioner through to the next round! That’s not cool in the least. I shouldn’t be dreaming of such things. The entire awful essence of David Duke should have disintegrated in 1988, but here we are in 2016, and this “C.H.U.D.” feels like he has enough clout to rise from his grease trap layer and say “hey” before invading my sleep!?
Oliver Goddamn North!
Look, having visions of Mike Pence being turned into a pillar of salt and then dollied off to conversion therapy, because being a cognitive lump of salt is a sin to some, might sound funny to you, but I ain’t laughing. We got Bevin wrecking shit left and right like he’s Hacksaw Jim Duggan, sans the wooden plank, and we got the capricious conspiracy theory camp trying its dumbest to paint Hillary Clinton as a “La Femme Nikita” type, with a hit-list of names, a 50-caliber Israeli Desert Eagle and a taste for snuffin’ out dissent. Washed-up Luc Besson wouldn’t even make that movie!
Meanwhile, here in Louisville, the little city with the big grudge, I’ve been laying low in woe and covered head to toe in Deet, sweet, sweet Deet, trying my best to not get shot and reading about how palm oil is killing ‘rang-tangs, and I’m like, “Oh shit! Palm oil, like the devil, is in everything great!” … You just can’t win y’all: Walk out that front door, and you’re immediately implicated in the murder of a panda bear, charge your batteries and — fuck you — you just melted an ice cap and wiped out a whole family of narwhals and then eat an almond, and all of California catches on fire. If I learn that the production of Astroglide causes blindness in bush babies, I’m gonna hit the ceiling and bust up straight through to Venus. What is happening! Why is my life being bombarded with a foul medley of illuminati lizard men, intergalactic exploding spiders, Paul Ryan, real-estate super villains with Peter Parker types scaling their golden towers, bad movies, stunted bands, poor air quality, poison fuckin’ ivy, leagues of bros, bruhs, fuk-bois and yacht dudes invading The Highlands, all the while making me nervous as fuck as I think of all y’all hippies fleeing to South Central to escape the “Fratining.” I’m sorry but I can’t be having that!
The very idea of a sanctimonious vegan breathing down my neck heavier than Keith Stone at deadline, just because I consume two cups of blood a day to stay regular, fills me with dread. I don’t need that sorta chastisement in my life right now … I got way too much other shit going down … like check this out: Anytime Trump or Bevin’s mean mugs flash on the TV, my wife, Shelby, becomes physically ill — her face turns pale, and she slumps over in a semi-conscious state, and the only way to revive her is to fan her face with pictures of topless Tom Hardy. Sixteen years of marriage, and I’ve never seen anything quite like it, and that’s as true and honest as Aunt May on a Sunday. And so I’m gonna have to completely agree with my fabulous friend Hannah Window, when she said “We’re not real. We’re just ghosts goin’ round and round on the vampire carousel” Amen sister, a-fuckin’-men.