Ed. Note: Lance would kill all the bugs in the Watergate Hotel, the Pentagon, and the White House for JUST one affectionate sideways glance from Bobbie Gentry
She put down her Rubik’s Cube, grabbed the DDT can and bounced it off my head.
That’s my Gal!
Video Credit: benjichilders
More Unsolicited ‘Opinion’ From Y’all’s Favorite Asshole: C’est Moi.
“Donovan:”
Child–King of The Boy Wonder, One-Hit Wonders:
“Atlantis”Way down below the fuckin’ Ocean. You shoulda remained there.Dear Donnie. Just sayin’.
Bobbie Gentry Did him a Solid by even allowing him on her TV show.
How lame was he?
Trust me: The Math breaks down at this point.
But He was Pretty-Boy Lame
******************
So… I’m sleeping one off when I felt something tickling.
Woke up and discovered a rather plumpish large roach parked on my nose.
(Had to go cross-eyed to look at him—yes, I am assuming gender here—my bad)
He jumped off my nose onto my chin.
Then he spoke to me:
“Hey Bubba, we be outta here.”
Still half-asleep and somewhat groggy, all I could muster was, “Whaaat?”
Mister Roach continued, “We are leaving your Dumb Ass.”
I bolted upright, causing Mister Roach to tumble onto my mattress.
“Take a gander Mutha Fukker!”He shouted out of his Little Roach Lips.
But I heard him well enough.
Focused my eyes on the floor. Sure as shit, there was a single file line of cockroaches, some carrying suitcases, some wearing backpacks, all marching quick-time toward my back door. I looked up and saw a squadron of gnats flying over the marching roaches, providing air-cover I quickly surmised.
Spokesman Roach was preparing to jump off my mattress, but before he leapt down to join his comrades, he turned to me and said, “Don’t you wanna know why we are leaving your sorry ass?”
“Not really,” I replied. “But I figure you’re gonna tell me anyway.”
“Damn Skippy Asshole.”
“Well, get it off your chest then. Does your kind have chests, by the way? I have spent many a sleepless night pondering this heavy mystery.”
“Very Funny You Schmuck,” He shot back.
He coughed up some vile phlegm, depositing it on my mattress.
And continued, “For your edification (This was a literate Roach, with a solid command of The Queen’s English) For your edification, he repeated, we have thoraxes.”
“I am praying you will soon arrive-at-the-point,” I said.
He obliged:
“Here is our list of grievances,” He said, handing me a sheet of toilet paper. “Read and Weep. Then wipe your ass.”
I perused the paper and discovered this Piercing Eloquence:
“To Wit, Please Discover Below Our Valid and Legitimate Justifications For ‘Buggin’ Out.”
(I had to laugh at that—This Roach had a sense of humor—who knew?)
I continued my read:
This ‘Host Human’ is a nasty son of a bitch—no shower in weeks—even by our standards, this is beyond the pale
There is no uneaten food anywhere to be found in this ‘Mouse House’
The ‘Music’ he plays (too loudly) assaults our sensibilities and disrupts our concentration
He has been known to spray, indiscriminately, recklessly, RAID at our brother and sister gnats, thus branding him as a ‘Mass-Murderer’
He is ugly and disgusting
He is stupid
“Seems to me Y’all have put a great deal of thought into this… uh… ‘Declaration of Independence,” I said, handing him back his manifesto.
“Yes, we have. Now will you kindly get the door so that we may make good our departure?”
“Sure,” I said. But one question before you ‘Bug Out.”
“Make it quick Jerk; we have somewhere to be.”
“Where are you going? What will Y’all do?”
“Never mind what we will do. Just get the damn door.”
“But how will you get to where you are going?”
“If you must know, there is a ‘Roach Coach’ headed here as we speak. Catch ya laters.”
I opened the door and waited until the Caboose of the Bug Train made it out into the parking lot. I stood in the doorway and lo’ and behold, I saw a Roach Coach (Meskin, judging by the paint scheme on the vehicle). Seemed fitting I suppose: La Cucaracha.
Even though MY Roaches were all Texican/American Roaches and spoke even less Meskin than me.
I wished them well.
Oh Well.
I suppose they could learn. MY Roaches were not idiots. I mean, under good leadership, they had the intelligence to abandon a sinking ship.
I stepped back into my hooch; shut and locked the door; sat down on my bed. Was thinking,
“Well fuck them! My Ingrate Pets. I need to adopt a Dog, or a Cat, or an Armadillo, or an Ant Farm of Fire Ants—any one of which would be more loyal.”
As I was sitting there feeling all alone and abandoned, I became aware of a funky odor and it was ME!
So I spent ‘An Hour In The Shower.’
“I dream of things I can’t say, or I’ll get put away.”
******
To Put A Cork In This Story:
Never put your Faith in Roaches or Gnats. They are fickle and never loyal. They will not stand by you during the lean times.
Get Yourself an Armadillo.
Cheers Y’all!
P.S., “Never hit your Mother with a Shovel. It leaves a Dull Impression on Her Mind.”
–Butch Cassidy
****
Just for you, Donavan:
Credit where Credit is Due:
This was/is a great Song.
Too bad it is all you had in you.
But Hey! Ride that Fame-Train.
Until you run outta track
Video Credit: Carlos Lara
By the way, Donovan, you ain’t no Cat Stevens
Sorry: ‘Yusuf Islam’
(Difficult to keep up with all you ‘stars’ name changes—Identity changes.)
“Yusuf Islam’—Gag me with the ‘Woke-Ness’ Monster spoon, but Cat,
Your wonderful music supersedes your lame-ass identity politics.”
Hey Cat/‘Yusuf!
I’m still looking for ‘That Hard-Headed Woman.‘
HBO?
Help a brother out?
And Cat/Yusuf, I too have known a lot of fancy dancers.
They need not apply.
I am in the Crusade of ‘REAL.’
****
Oh shit! A sudden fear comes upon me:
“What if MS Muse swerves into this post?”
I’ll tell ya what:
It will not be a pleasant experience for your humble servant, that’s what.
P.P.S., I LOVE The Art.
I Give zero shits about the ‘Artists’ Politics.
I love and Appreciate The ART
These sentiments of mine are well-documented in these pages.
said these words to me shortly after Cat Stevens changed his ‘Religion’ (and his name) from whatever-it-was to Islam: “I always knew he was ‘that way.’” “What way?” I asked. “Islamic- Ass-Misogamist,” she said. “You do not know that,” I said back. “You are ignorant on this topic.” She stormed away. Needless to say, I did not get laid that day. And for many days thereafter. Bitch saved grudges like cash money.
And it has occurred at me: I never ‘gave’ her a Proper Name.
I am gonna go with ‘Katherine.’
Works for me (And Hopefully, Her)
I was at my computer, banging out my latest travesty of prose.
As Was instructed/demanded by MS Muse.
Finished it and hit The ‘Publish’ Button.
(I NEVER allow Anyone, not even MS Muse, to proof-read nor comment or my so-called ‘work’ before I cast it out into the endless sea that is the Internet.)
Muse will certainly be the first to read it and then as she is reading it, I’ll stand by for heavy rolls and unhappy critique.
But this post is not about that.
I leaned back in my chair, cracked open another beer, and glanced over my shoulder at MS Muse.
She had not yet gotten the “Moron-Writer-Just-Posted Alert.”
She was preoccupied with working her NYT Crossword
(Using an INK PEN! Vice a PENCIL like all the rest of us Mortals. Who has confidence enough to do that? She does.)
As I was staring at her, she apparently became aware.
She put down her New York Times, stared right back at me and said,
“Now what?”
I cleared my throat, mustered all the courage and moxie I had remaining, and said,
“Will You Marry Me?”
It didn’t exactly go like this, but this here/below, is
MY FANTASY.
I can concoct it as however it serves my wont.
Or ‘want.’
Call it ‘Creative License.’
If you must.
To be continued…
P.S., I am in love with Carly Simon & Emma Thompson
(As if Regular Readers Did Not Already Know This)
She(S) was / is a bit of a slut,
But ain’t we all?
(I warmly embrace my ‘slutiness.’ It defines me)
Carly’s Slutiness Makes Me Love Her Even That Much More!
“Kate! Katherine! Muse!” I shouted, as I bounded from my computer chair over to her.
“I love you! Will you marry me or no? I must know!”
I stood in front of her, trembling.
She stood up, sidestepped the nasty coffee table, and walked up to face me at very close range.
She pierced me with those eyes. Looked down (almost sadly—I perceived—then took my hands into hers)
She looked back into my eyes and said,
“Lance, Baby, you understand I am not a real girl. You created me. I live in your mind and at your leisure.”
“Whaaaa?”
“Yes. I am a figment of your mind. Does not mean I don’t love you. I will always be here for you. And if you choose, I will love you. I will ‘write’ you, as far as you may write yourself. But ‘marry’?
I cannot.
You must write for YOU, and only for YOU.”
*********
She dropped my hands and sat back down on The Nasty Couch. Took a sip of Pinot, picked up her NY Times, took another sip of Pinot, and a drag off her Virginia Slims, and as if nothing had just happened, got back to being Her.
I retired to my writing chair. Sat there for some moments, tears welling, then smiled inside.
“She will always love me. She has no choice. It is all up to me,” I mused.
And then I got busy writing.
After some pregnant pauses…
“Hey Asshole! You better be writing something readable!” I heard from over my shoulder.
Yes! She loves me still!
THE END
And Afterall:
Just to ‘Lighten’ the mood…
The Sudden Stark Realization That MS Muse Was Not Real…
Some of you good and loyal readers have been with me all the way on this Odyssey.
Others of you… not so much.
But if Y’all read-between-the-lines, you will discover how my sanity is a very fragile entity.
I ‘Created’ Katherine/MS Muse out of a ‘need’ I had.
To FillA Hollow Vacant Void in my Heart.
I was lonely.
I needed her.
To kick my ass and make me a better writer.
I created her. Then I, Pygmalion-Like, fell in Love with Her. (Yeah, I kinda carried it too far)
She was always there. (‘Cept for the Snowpocalypse, when she invited me to fuck off)
I loved her.
I still love her.
*************
Last real conversation I had with her:
“Lance, Baby, you understand I am not a real girl. You created me. I live in your mind and at your leisure.”
“Yes. I am a figment of your mind. Does not mean I don’t love you. I will always be here for you. And if you choose, I will love you. I will ‘write’ you, as far as you may write yourself. But ‘marry’?
I cannot.
You must write for YOU, and only for YOU.”
**************
After sitting in front of my computer and trying to write, I looked over at her, sitting on The Nasty Couch with her NY Times, Pinot, Virginia Slims…
Walked over to her.
Offered my hand
She looked me in my eyes, took my hand.
Then she melted.
Turned into a pile of sand.
I screamed!
“What just happened!?”
A soft, familiar voice came at me from the ceiling:
“Lance, My Love, we are done. You are done. You are ready. I must leave you now.”
“NOOOOO!”
“Yes,” she said and that was it.
I fell to my knees and wept like a little pup/bitch.
Then I spied a note on the floor:
Picked it up.
It read:
“Lance, you were the best. I loved you. Write on!”
