The Extinction Agenda

Friends tell me I smoke too much. I do. A pack and a half a day, rookie. Chain smoking is no longer a foreign concept*. And yet I feel holier-than-thou when some dude I meet in a bar -- I meet a lot of dudes in bars, by the way -- tells me he murders two, three on Saturdays. Silver fucking lining, there are people more fucked up than me.

Maybe it's the nicotine, but I also can't keep my hands from shaking. Every day I feel like the time I first tried to touch your breasts and fumbled with your bra strap. That was embarrassing, but you made it all right by telling me even Jordan missed game-winning shots. And then you massaged my prostate.

Maybe it's my shaky hands, but, also, I can't assassinate people with the gusto I once held. I'm like that gay-dressed guy in Fallen Angels. Plus, I'm in love with Michele Reis. I'm so going to die at the end of this one.

Shaky? Talk about shaky, my bowels are shakier than Tom Hanks's on The Vomit Comet, or the hips on your favorite belly dancer (every man has one). Or the Tacoma Narrows Bridge circa November 7, 1940, 11:00AM. Word to mechanical resonance. R.I.P., Tubby.

I'm going deaf. Foxy Brown style. Finally, time to put those sign language textbooks to good use. I mean, time for YOU to put those sign language textbooks to good use. Because I can master sign language, but a lot of good it's gonna do me if you don't know what the hell I'm not-talking about. It's doesn't take a genius to sign "Put it in your mouth," I know, but it's going to be tough to communicate "How the hell can there be a heaven when every RZA solo album sucks?"

What I'm trying to say is

(you've got a pretty mouth)

stress kills. Shit creeps up on you. You're all "I'm fine," and next thing you know, you're clutching your chest, waiting for that next breath that isn't -- joke's on you, Jack -- coming, wishing you had listened to Mecca and the Soul Brother for the thousandth time and watched March of the Penguins for the first.

Penguins. If there are no penguins in heaven, I'm not going.

Ditto for Jack Daniels, Dostoevsky, and Charmane Star. And Beefaroni and Cheez-Ums, natch.

(And Idealjetsam posts.)

And...

...Psychedelic Kimchi.

(And sex. I said that quietly, right?)




* I still haven't achieved that Tom Waits voice, however. Dammit. K-Hot, should I increase my whisky intake?

K-Hot: You better. Man the fuck up.