The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, or at least it’s supposed to be, according to the contract I bid on.
The road’s even worse now. The job shoulda been done by now, and I’m way over budget, but how was I to know about the weather problems, the commodities market run by speculators on good intentions, and the union going on strike on me… it’s not my fault, really.
I have no time for my other contracts, my business is about to go under.
I look down… and the road’s finished.
Time for me to walk it.
Tag: dystopia
A Wise Man
A wise man once said that it you’re fat, surround yourself with people who are even fatter and you’ll look thin by comparison.
This works for people who are any kind of extreme in appearance.
If you’re tall, hang out with taller people.
Or if you’re short, hang out with smaller people.
Dark skin, light skin, any color skin, really.
If you’ve got green skin, find a freaking Martian to stand next to, and you’ll look less green.
Sounds crazy, right?
Not really. Because I’m standing next to a bunch of crazier people.
They have knives. And wicked, evil grins.
Going back to college
I’m going back to college.
After years of shit menial jobs, it was time I went back.
They’d been asking me for a while now, but my pride kept getting in the way.
You see, I was a football hero. Set school records and all.
Then, in the Rose Bowl, trashed my knees scoring the winning touchdown.
No pro career.
No diploma.
No future at all.
There were medical bills, lawyer bills.
When all was said and done, I pushed mops and brooms and stayed drunk.
Now, I’m goin back to college.
Classes? No dice.
To be a janitor there.
Opulent
The bus station was opulent compared to this alley.
Yes, I use the word opulent to compare one hellhole to another.
Not the sort of word you expect from a common street bum?
I guess that means I’m no common street bum.
My journey from Saville Row to Skid Row is a sad tale, for certain, but pride and the length of that stop light prevent me from saying much more.
As a public service, I’ve scrubbed your windshield clean, and I ask nothing more than your thanks, but if your gratitude compels you, perhaps-
WELL FUCK YOU TOO, BUDDY!
Turning Ten
My son turns ten today.
We’re going to have a big party for him: clowns, bouncy house, his friends, so many presents, and a cake.
Then, when the party’s over, the leasing company will come by to pick him up.
Most parents choose up the option to buy, but we’ve been wanting another baby, so we’re sending this one back.
This time, we’ll just do a two-year lease. Avoid those Terrible Twos, that whole First Day Of School thing.
I don’t mind changing diapers, really.
Everything’s up in the attic, but we’ll get it later.
Oh, and Happy Birthday, son!
I can hear the television cameras
They say I am the Bobby Fischer of Tiddly Winks.
I say I am better than he was at… at…
Play chess?
Piss people off?
Hate Jews?
Whatever he did, I am better at Tiddly Winks than what he did.
He had his board, his pieces.
His outbursts.
I have my squidger, my winks, my mat, and my cup.
Blitz! Blitz! Blitz!
Pot them all fast!
One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!
Now I wait for my partner… and…
NO!
COME ON, YOU COULD HAVE MADE THAT SHOT!
Hurry up! Hurry up!
Hurry up, doctors…
Hurry up and clone me!
Drip
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The faucet on the bathroom sink is leaking.
I get out of bed, walk to the bathroom, and tighten the knob.
And then go back to bed.
The water company will probably charge us more this month.
Not because of the wasted water, mind you. They have plenty of water.
Too much water, and it’s gone to their heads.
Now, instead of charging people for the water they use, they hold everybody ransom with the threat of opening the valves at night and drowning you in your sleep.
It starts with a drip, I hear.
Drip.
Drip.
Cabbage Rolls
Welcome to Armpitsburgh.
Here, have a cabbage roll.
We make the best cabbage rolls here.
Especially with the Cabbage Roll Festival coming up next week.
Everybody makes their best cabbage rolls, brings them out to the town square, and we hold a Cabbage Roll Dance.
Then, Miss Cabbage Roll is crowned and she chooses her mate.
We circle around the happy couple with pickaxes, they fornicate, and the prince is beheaded.
Then his head is mounted on a pike.
Say, I notice the lack of a ring on your finger.
Oh, you’re leaving on Friday?
Darn.
Have another cabbage roll?
Posterity
We leave many things to future generations.
The stuff we’re proud of, we put our names on them.
The stuff we’re not, we try to keep our names off of them.
Or bury them as deep as we can so they turn up long after we’re gone and forgotten.
Last night, when I caught Earl trying to bury a barrel of nuclear waste with his name on it, I told him “You’re doin it wrong, Earl.”
He smacked his forehead and said “You’re right, Joe.”
He got out a can of white spraypaint, crossed out the EARL, and wrote JOE.
The Lost God
Whuh, the God Of All Who Are Lost.
He has no priests, no followers, no temples.
Wander, traveler, and you are in the domain of Whuh.
The old bum, over there, under a crumpled, misfolded map as a paper hat, steering shopping cart full of broken GPS boxes, his chattering chorus of misdirection.
His eyes have seen many lands.
But he remembers none of them.
Do not ask him for directions.
Just walk. Walk in any direction.
You’ll find your way.
You’ll escape from the domain of Whuh.
The electronic chorus says TURN LEFT NOW.
The bum coughs and laughs.