Waste Is A D.J.

One quarter of an hour to three in the morning and it's just me and an irritable bowel. Twenty-five feet of digestive tissue failing to cope with vanilla soft serve despite tongues insistence on said treat being just what I needed. The night’s unsatanly storm clears just in time for a final soak from The Kid's transport to my door. Having hours ago put on our Wednesday worst we ventured east for fashion and poon and general weirdness and a free nights rest at the local lockup. Road obscuring rain and pupil dilating lightning provide entertainment and relief at the finally come apocalypse. Being a conscientious observer of rituals archaic and terrible, we have no fear of the tempests black diapason; it's the other douchebags on the road we're worried about. While on the topic of douchebaggery musings wander to the club d.j. and our mutual antipathy towards said douchebags. In the past, I've lamented both the loss of humanity in industry to technology and the lessened role of the album in the shitpod generation but cannot wait for shitpod playlists to completely replace the talentless fucktards screaming their name and the start of ladies hour during which ladies drink for free. Date rape included at no extra charge. Falling just below mimes but above restaurant magician the club d.j.'s only responsibility is to play new song, new song, remix of relatively recent song, old song once derided but now considered kitsche without forgetting to put the needle at the right spot. Foreboding weather, real country dark and misanthropy synergize in our guttiwuts to form a sinister anti-desire to enter our disco destination. Promises were made to our fauxshionista client and despite my not having made any I'm only the passenger and have little choice. Arriving at the mudpit parking lot, we saunter. Over muscled doorprick demands remuneration. Being the designer of the evening's promotional material The Kid is appalled. What is clearly going to be a legendary argument begins. Not sharing his love of verbal fisticuffs, I scuttle to the car in search of a battering ram. The only item of a suitable size in The Kid's transport is a thrift store Shrek doll destined for the internet auctions. Deeming it suitable I bum rush the door. In a haze of green fur and hair gel twenty minutes of bad craziness commences. With clubfolk running to and fro in a panic The Kid and I make a hasty retreat, satisfied with the mayhem. En route to our transport two birds of acceptable body fat percentages and agreeable dispositions express appreciation for our antics. Pleasantries are short but concise and they fill our backseat. A provision stop is necessary, as we've expended a majority of our debaucherous energies. The twenty four hour convenience store contains all we need to prepare for engaging in depravity of the highest order but during his long and intense coffee ritual one of the dirty birds fails to laugh at a Modigliani reference, rendering The Kid flaccid and frustrated. Undeterred but understanding I agree to leave empty handed and full balled. The frozen treats do much to lighten our moods, as does the belting of upbeat new wave and The Dead Kennedy's. At the alleyway I call home, the goodbyes are short and possibly final as I fully expect to void my soul directly after my bowels. One minute to three in the morning. Goodbye cruel poop.

Puppy Waste

One quarter of an hour to one in the morning and it's just me, a handful of blues, a mouthful of taquito and a fistful of someone elses dollars. The dissolution of romance with Lady Vapor leaves every available vagina within cock's reach in danger. Fortunately my cock's reach is insignificant and available vagina's few. Greasy fingered typing, tympanic shattering volume, declining string instrument simulation rank, pending vagrancy, becoming Ace Face, masturbation hindering obligation, people. One quarter of an hour to one in the morning. Mute ants.

Express Train To Waste

One quarter of an hour to four in the morning and it's just me and a stolen bag of Cashew Lovers Poppycock. Shiftless, obstinate mind ignores nagging deadline for collegiate portfolios for which my future calls me asshole. It forgets the day’s charitable actions. Venturing into society for the exchange of legal tender for a replacement epilating device, prohibitively long lines of contemptuous shrews, inarticulate beer guts and feckless youths result in immediate evacuation of the outside world. A small odiferous boy calls out to me in stentorian tones from behind a shopping cart full of what appears to be discarded junk turns out to be charitable junk offered at the high, high price of just seven greenbacks. That is to say the little bastard was peddling dollar store garbage for a charity likely of Dickensian intention. His efforts are great and commendable and at a level unseen in even the most high end of capitalist shit holes so I purchase pomaceous fruit shaped scented wax. I'm no miser. With Lady Vapor and I both desiring more Lady Vapor time and The Kid playing hide and don't seek I find myself with free time and extra social juice so the train station is determined the next destination. Unaware of the hour let alone rush hour I'm met by too many people by anyone’s standards and not just mine, which I note since my standard, is any. A narrow seat made narrower by Cro-Magnon build an exceptionally polite man takes the half seat next to me but I don't mind because he looks like a five foot tall Inspector Gadget. I'm no Dr. Claw. Upon arriving, a homeless self-described ex-marine requests change but I have only bills to offer so I do. After polite conversation, he recognizes me as one-half of the scourge of Gandalf the Bum and sullenly takes leave. He thought I was a nice guy. A little closer to four in the morning. Going about my business, which is none of your business I return to the mercifully less occupied train. A man in matching arm casts sits in an opiate haze across from me. Leaving his bags after getting off a scumbag piece of shit immediately begins eating their contents, which I hope with all of my black heart, is filled with A.I.D.S. and chemical castration. Last come first fucked on a man eat man train ride. I'm no cannibal. Attempting to escape the primal urge for charitable violence, I relocate. My new car is filled with bridge and tunnel hipsters of impressive dedication to self-labeling fashion. A cursory glance reveals the largest male leering at my tender man frame with lustful gluttony from behind his red and white checkered neck scarf. The internets provides no answer as to what homosexual fetish subculture a red neck scarf signifies. Fortunately, he lacks the courage to approach and I arrive unmolested. Getting into my automobile I run out of social juice and good graces and begin to feel dangerous again. Driving too fast trouble is determined the next destination. Four in the morning. I'm a highway star.

A Hard Day's Waste

One quarter of an hour to nine in the morning and it's just me and a bus replete with people. Nineteen carriers of virion and bacilli long forgotten by spoiled hermitic immune system. Inapt white blood cells dust off long dormant antibodies that call me asshole for interruption of respite despite their comparatively merciful job in relation to scent receptors. My olfactory is union and works hard. No odor, bodily or otherwise, goes unnoticed. That is to say this thing fucking reeks. Zoological observations of Homosapiens on the many recent adventures in public transportation further misanthropic desires for the extinction thereof excluding yours falsely and several thousand mating partners of the most pleasing genetics and loosest morals. That is to say me and some trim. A little closer to nine in the morning. Supervillainous ideologies take a backseat to the safe return of keys to a too small kiosk in the local center of commerce I once called job. Nine minutes, sixty-three seconds to nine in the morning. No money, no problems.

The Blind Wastemaker

One quarter of an hour to three in the afternoon and it's just me and five dirty fingernails. Uneven keratin sullied by the ultrasonically removed dead flesh, dried perspiration, soap scum and putrefied bodily fluids found on the backs of the timepieces of imperfect strangers. Putrid black stains of recent gainless employment in the local center of capitalism. Energies typically reserved for getting out of bed, not writing, preventing the self termination of metabolic functions, acquiring amphetamines, string instrument simulation and masturbation are spent on arriving on "time" to public transportation pick up locations, preventing termination of obdurate customers' metabolic functions, acquiring profits, human simulation and masturbation. Not being a great lover of people and being unafraid of unethical or criminal endeavors unethically bamboozling people would seem a criminal endeavor right down my alley but my interests lie solely in avoiding folks, not fucking them. I'm no Tony Robbins. A little closer to three in the afternoon. Economic benefits are meager and fast being outweighed by emotional hindrances. Perhaps I will find a million dollars on the bus. Three minutes to three in the afternoon. Or a pistol.

The Waste That Feeds

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and a bag of helianthus annuus achenes. Five point two five ounces of lip searing, mouth blistering deliciousness. Long ignored web log nags and Joanna Newsom's until diligence is inured. A busy month of nothing but independent cinema restlessness, life evaluation and genital chafing lends itself to not enough good stuff for suant creation. That is to say; no shit done, no shit written. Quasi-truth. Many sessions of simulated musicality with Smelly and The Kid peppered with the occasional fondling of Lady Vapor account for time spent constructively, not including time spent constructing excuses for not being constructive. I'm no Bob the Builder. Ten minutes to six in the morning. As the six hundred eighty eighth best guitar simulation performer, I've little time for writing. There's not getting laid to be done.

Waste A Little Dream For Me

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and three sheets of hydrogen bonded cellulose on which the first draft of the first chapter of the first chronicling of The Untold Tales of Jack Daniels and The Fabulous Machismo are written. Reeling, unsure mind fails to convert symbols into language due to having roused only minutes ago from the sleeping prison of itself. That is to say I had bad dreams. Pellucid sensory hallucinations whose only tells are stripped psychological defenses. Forced to endure unfiltered morosity I crumble then wake to waking, scream bloody truth and wake again. Despite the universality of these experiences, it's your misfortune and none of my own so I don't give a shit. I'm no Oprah. A little closer to six in the morning. Possessing an amount of time disproportionate to things with which to fill that time attempts are made to endure the finest Oscar worthy works of fart. "Before The Devil Knows You're Dead" and "The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford" display reverse gestalt attributes while "No Country For Old Men" and "There Will Be Blood" arouse whatever bits of brain evolved to handle arousal of that nature. The quasi-autobiographical semi bullshit total genius of collaborative efforts with The Kid take center stage in a no ring circus; contained within its rants and accounts of criminal activity phrases such as "moralless compass" and "giant man hands" all but guarantee success in prison libraries. Six minutes to six in the morning. Has it really been so long? That's what she said.

Waste Exhibit

One quarter of an hour to three in the morning and it's just me and an ice pack. Refrigerant filled plastic sac meant to provide relief to battered scrotum manages only to coalesce antecedent pain with cold searing for which my gonads call me asshole. Missives of discomfort travel to upright brains from hanging ones so I dispose of the offending cryotherapeutic aid. Several attempts at creative expression end in more self abuse than words written so I try my hand at the paradoxical art movement inspired by me, anti-ideaism. Developed by The Kid anti-ideaism consists fundamentally of repeating anti-ideaism as much as possible and not creating under the philosophy that any ideations have previously been ideated and if not it's because they weren't worth ideating to begin with. That is to say it's all been done so don't do shit. Four hundred thirty eight chants later, a lewd idea forms and I realize I've been lilting panty I needs 'em for half an hour. A little closer to three in the morning. Hermitic urges conflict with vagabond tendencies. Food and wanderlust no longer strong enough motivators for travel marital status and solitude leave no means of discovering how quotidian lust would fare. That isn't to say there's anything ordinary about my lust. I'm no Mrs. Grundy. Lengths of "time" and low quantity of fingers when tabulating trends of affection depresses but I can't help whose flesh chemically pleases my gray matter without the help of genital duping ethanol but that's a lot of work and really who has the time? Eight minutes to three in the morning. I’ve much nothing to do.

The Boy Who Cried Waste

One quarter of an hour to half past six in the morning and it's just me and a shitty romance novel. Aching fatigued mind glancing over too many pages of middle-aged homemaker escapism. Freshly returned from first excursion to the outside world in several rotations of Earth I make plans to make it several more rotations until the next. I'm no claustrophobe. Too many servings of boiled semolina dough metabolizing in my digestive tract purveyed levels of energy my rapidly decreasing mass hasn't had for months leading to particularly altitudinous sense of primordial malevolence making normal gait a perfectly postured animal saunter and limbs feel lithe despite one hundred thirteen million three hundred ninety eight thousand ninety two point five milligram frame. That is to say I'm feeling tough. Driving at a speed reckless by even James Dean's incorporeal standards I think those at my destination fortunate I'm sans Jack Daniels. Ambling in from a side entrance concurrent with another patron from a front entrance I muster an aura unfriendly as is possible without a darker skin tone or firearms. The male, naively unaware of his status as omega quickens his pace to the counter but my entrance was closer, rendering me the next in line by default and without that fucktarded half run. Finally realizing his status in our temporary pack I prepare to order but the infection currently inhabiting my maxillary and ethmoid sinus cavities imparts a nasal gargle to my vocal emissions which the omega quickly utilizes to order over me before throat can be cleared. A little closer to half past six in the morning. Ahem.