Driving through the city at night with my soul-sister-supreme sittin’ copilot, up to nothing in particular, Kid Congo Powers on the stereo as we try to pick between White Castles and the Waffle House, my brains sorta’ kinda’ thinking about this column, my unchallenged thoughts, so to speak — me saying what’s what in this iron galaxy we call home as if I got a f’n clue. I’m feeling at this juncture the rulebook to the board game has been burned to ash, and it ain’t online! We’re all just standing on the torso of the Americas pissing into a strong wind, mon frere, looking even dumber then the day we were born and so, without further ado, I present to you,
Ramblings! From The Two Biggest Fools Who Have Ever Been Seen.
As I turned left on Breckenridge headed for Sixth I said:
“I wish this Plymouth could fly, we could escape this tugboat before it reaches Landfill Island!”
“Hells yeah!” she exclaimed, before elaborating, “We could fly down to Honduras, that’s where it’s going on!”
“Not Chile? Cause I hear the Wal-Marts are beautiful this time of year in Chile”
“No no, Honduras, that’s where the action is!”
“Yeah Honduras they got the Coco River giving into the Caribbean — it’s all happening right there”
“To the south, driver, to the south!”
“Keep it warm”
“Yeah ‘cause nowhere cold bud, Sweden no bueno!”
“Sweet Sweden! You know about that Yule Goat the Swedes got?”
“Nah, what’s that?”
“In Sweden, every Christmas, at the start of Advent, they build this big-ass goat out of wood in the town square of Gavle, and every year, for like, the last fuckin’ 50 years, vandals burn it to the goddamn ground just for the meanness of it, and they get real goofy with it too! One year a guy dressed up as the gingerbread man and shot a flaming arrow right into that great goat’s face and whoosh! Toasted goat!”
“Nuh uh?!”
“Swear to Crom! People spend all this money and invest all this time and effort building the fuckin’ thing, and then some drunk Swedish dork is like, ‘Fuck you Galve Goat! Have some fire!’ Like, holy smokes!”
“That’s gully as fuck!”
“Yeah, and I think we need something like that here stateside, too. A huge Christmas effigy to be burned to the ground. A wooden monument of America’s most important son, David Koresh.”
“David Koresh! What in the Scrooge McDuck are you talking about, Shane Powell? That guy was a nut-bar!”
“Yeah he was, but more than just being a corpse-torturing lunatic, he’s a true symbol of what so many Americans hold to be true and crispy. Like, he was the respected leader of his church who spoke directly with our Lord and Saviour Jesus the Christ, and he was a huge, gun lover who not only stockpiled weapons, but even owned his own gun shop called the ‘Mag Bag.’”
“Haha the fuckin Mag Bag! Texas be crazy in a big way!”
“He played a mean blues guitar, drank beer, engaged in gun fights, rebuked any-fuckin’-body who’s pitch-poor interpretation of the Good Book clashed with his own; (even though Koresh could barely fucking read mind you, but hey, we love us some dum-dums). I mean this asshole viewed himself as a well-rounded, bad-ass messiah who went out in an actual blaze of sanctimonious glory. Dude was so balls-out red, white and bibled, he should be America’s patron saint of Glocks and bad hair cuts.”
“Well hells yeah, buddy! David Koresh as our grunger Galve Goat to burn on lawns from sea to shining sea! ... So what’s it like seeing the world through the dreaded male gaze?”
“Everything looks like it’s covered in frozen blood.”
“Ha ha ha. Well that’s scary!”
“It’s terrifying”
“I’m starving, I wanna marry a mess of eggs!”
“So the Waffle House it is!”
“Yeah, get us there Shane Powell, due haste boy, I wanna butt-fuck some hash browns, smothered, covered, chunked, diced, peppered, capped and topped!”
“Oh you going all out kid!”
(She starts singing)
“Out of hand, out of hand, I’m a hard livin’ kind of man.”
“Well Ten-four, good buddy.”
