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By herself Date: 2008 Nov 23 Comment on this Work [[2008.11.23.12.58.3415]] |
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People go on and on about cool dead rock stars and poets and Saturday Night Live alumni. “When it came to playing angst on the acoustic, nobody who ever lived or will ever be born can touch that motherfucker. He had millions yet he survived on macaroni and cheese and kiwi Pop-Tarts. Damn, dude. I want to put purple carnations on his grave.” “He got drunk a lot and had his flings with raw sewage whores but when it came to the typewriter that son of a bitch didn’t fuck around. Rat a tat tat! Words as bullets! Poems as bowel movements, man!” “He was too brilliant to stay alive for very long. His heart was too huge for this ratty cardboard world. Well, you know he’s making the angels laugh their fluffy asses off. Jesus, too. Ha!” Yeah. Okay. Whatever. Enough, already. What about dead plumbers, mud engineers, call girls, call center robots, librarians, lollipop makers, carnies, nail technicians, morticians, bumblebee collectors, personal assistants, live in nannies, preschool teachers, roadies, motel maids and cake decorators? For instance: I knew the coolest cake decorator in the fucking cat piss roach shit world. His name was Perry. He was mostly gay but I was the exception. He called me Buttercream Dream and Sugar Rose. I gave him blow jobs and back rubs for free cakes but it wasn’t like that. I respected his craft and he respected mine. We both loved Richard Simmons, Skee Ball, the Pet Shop Boys, scratch-n-sniff stickers, authentic Mexican donkey piñatas, rabbit PEZ dispensers, Sweettarts, Coca-Cola Classic, “Celebrity Rehab,” Kim Wu’s Famous Kitchen, Koko Loko’s Bowl-N-Screw, Chef Boyardee cheese pizza and Simon Says. Perry liked to say, “Simon says suck my dick, bitch.” I liked to say, “Simon says eat my pussy, faggot.” For my sixty-ninth birthday Perry made me a special raspberry cream filled chocolate cock and balls cake. He rented a limo that dropped me off in the tranny hooker district. His big gift to me was a voucher for five minutes of sex with the tranny hooker of my choice. I chose Barbara Ann. She came, I didn’t. It takes me a while to warm up. Still, it was gooey and pleasant. Then. The day Perry was playing chicken with a locomotive I’m so sorry to report that I was there in my Pebbles Flintstone camisole and matching thong egging him on. His dying words: “This is not your fault. Could you bring me one last Whopper?” By the time I got back with the Whopper Perry was fucking dead. I’m still struggling with guilt and anxiety and a bunch of other shit that’s none of your goddamn wooden ass business. So don’t tell me about dead rock stars and poets and Saturday Night Live alumni. There’s no PR in hell. |