Whoa! Whoa!
I was just told that some people who say they have prolonged colds or sinus infections or flus—or people who just sneeze a lot—and especially people who claim to have no sense of smell—these people often are heavy drug users! Who burn out their fucking sinus cavities.
Amish!
Amish is obviously a heroin addict.
Did you know Amish can't smell? He clains to be incapable of smell . . . which explains some things.
That's right, he's a freak.
A fucking freak!
Freaks have no place in this society!
. . .
Yesterday I had a serious jones for a typewriter. This is because every time I go back and look at old stuff I've written it seems ephemeral and cartoony on the screen, and I change bits and change more bits and anyway, I wanted some ink.
This is an account of my Quest to find a Typewriter
First I went over to the West Side Goodwill, which happens to be in a strip mall. A very nice and sexy strip mall, actually. In the Goodwill, I went straight back to the "Electrics" and found one word processor, very nice, very new, for nine bucks. This thing was sweet to the max, man, wet to the gills, whatever that means. It was a constipated dalmation on an Adventureland ride. But what the hell would I do with a slick new word processor? Nothing. Nothing!
Some behemoth of a man asked where the other Goodwills were in town, and I mumbled about Douglas and then went over to Subway for a 12 inch sammich, which turned into two 6 inch sammiches, and I read about Sylvia Plath—the Spider Slayer—trying to kill herself.
And then I went off toward the Douglas Ave. Goodwill, and Rominger called me, and asked if I'd take a survey over the phone from Michelle, for her psych class.
"Do you still have the beard?" I asked.
". . ."
"Do you?"
". . . no."
I sighed. "Oooookehay," I said.
"Okay," she said (they were on speaker phone). "Do you believe in premarital sex?"
"Oh," I said, and missed my turn. On the radio, some NPR drone was blabbering about the deaths of supreme court officials, and I turned that shit off. Way off. I knew I was fucked. How could I answer this question without causing Michelle to summon Jehovatron?
The next question was: do you believe in cohabitation?
The third question was: do you think homosexuals should be allowed to marry?
At this point I swerved the car off the road and into a giant tanker truck carrying ketchup and mustard, which spewed into the air in a muddy geyser and splattered all over the road, turning the tanker truck into a gigantous hot dog.
And the Douglas Ave. Goodwill only had a new electric word processor as well. So to Ankeny I went, and—
Oh, I bought a can of vanilla coke at a vending machine on 86th. How old is this fucker? I wondered. I hadn't seen Vanilla Coke in decades. (Hizzle, I would have asked you to come along, but this all took place before your ass even got home.)
And then: at Goodwill in Ankeny: a shitload of typewriters.
How to describe this? I poked at the electrics, blah blah, all shiny and plastic with their shitty keyboards, and then I noticed this little plastic case on the floor, and I opened it, and there was a blue-and-white Royal, and where was the power cord? There was no power cord.
This motherfucker was a manual.
I had a couple orgasms, and when I came to I lay clutching the Royal close, in an ever-spreading pool of ketchup and mustard and bodily fluids. I threw some scrap paper into that beyatch and fired out a couple paragraphs there on the floor while college girls looked at me like I was deranged/hobotanical/artistic, and my god it was amazing. But it also sucked. The keys jammed if I typed too fast and there was no return--no return!--and backspace—forget it. After ten minutes I painfully repackaged the $9 royal and tried out an electric Sears One the color of maple frosting. This one I almost bought as well, but after testing it on a $5 bill I discovered that the keys were misaligned.
Amish!
Amish is obviously a heroin addict.
Did you know Amish can't smell? He clains to be incapable of smell . . . which explains some things.
That's right, he's a freak.
A fucking freak!
Freaks have no place in this society!
. . .
Yesterday I had a serious jones for a typewriter. This is because every time I go back and look at old stuff I've written it seems ephemeral and cartoony on the screen, and I change bits and change more bits and anyway, I wanted some ink.
This is an account of my Quest to find a Typewriter
First I went over to the West Side Goodwill, which happens to be in a strip mall. A very nice and sexy strip mall, actually. In the Goodwill, I went straight back to the "Electrics" and found one word processor, very nice, very new, for nine bucks. This thing was sweet to the max, man, wet to the gills, whatever that means. It was a constipated dalmation on an Adventureland ride. But what the hell would I do with a slick new word processor? Nothing. Nothing!
Some behemoth of a man asked where the other Goodwills were in town, and I mumbled about Douglas and then went over to Subway for a 12 inch sammich, which turned into two 6 inch sammiches, and I read about Sylvia Plath—the Spider Slayer—trying to kill herself.
And then I went off toward the Douglas Ave. Goodwill, and Rominger called me, and asked if I'd take a survey over the phone from Michelle, for her psych class.
"Do you still have the beard?" I asked.
". . ."
"Do you?"
". . . no."
I sighed. "Oooookehay," I said.
"Okay," she said (they were on speaker phone). "Do you believe in premarital sex?"
"Oh," I said, and missed my turn. On the radio, some NPR drone was blabbering about the deaths of supreme court officials, and I turned that shit off. Way off. I knew I was fucked. How could I answer this question without causing Michelle to summon Jehovatron?
The next question was: do you believe in cohabitation?
The third question was: do you think homosexuals should be allowed to marry?
At this point I swerved the car off the road and into a giant tanker truck carrying ketchup and mustard, which spewed into the air in a muddy geyser and splattered all over the road, turning the tanker truck into a gigantous hot dog.
And the Douglas Ave. Goodwill only had a new electric word processor as well. So to Ankeny I went, and—
Oh, I bought a can of vanilla coke at a vending machine on 86th. How old is this fucker? I wondered. I hadn't seen Vanilla Coke in decades. (Hizzle, I would have asked you to come along, but this all took place before your ass even got home.)
And then: at Goodwill in Ankeny: a shitload of typewriters.
How to describe this? I poked at the electrics, blah blah, all shiny and plastic with their shitty keyboards, and then I noticed this little plastic case on the floor, and I opened it, and there was a blue-and-white Royal, and where was the power cord? There was no power cord.
This motherfucker was a manual.
I had a couple orgasms, and when I came to I lay clutching the Royal close, in an ever-spreading pool of ketchup and mustard and bodily fluids. I threw some scrap paper into that beyatch and fired out a couple paragraphs there on the floor while college girls looked at me like I was deranged/hobotanical/artistic, and my god it was amazing. But it also sucked. The keys jammed if I typed too fast and there was no return--no return!--and backspace—forget it. After ten minutes I painfully repackaged the $9 royal and tried out an electric Sears One the color of maple frosting. This one I almost bought as well, but after testing it on a $5 bill I discovered that the keys were misaligned.
0 Replies:
Post a Comment
<< Home