I don’t go that route.

“We’re all gay.” —Ron White

Put the hook here.

Hire a guitar & riff.

Who won’t all thirty-seven?

Eight!   What the fuck?  Stephen, a blinding pulse of headache.  Are you crazy?? Hello, retards: next iteration, hello, faggots. That word, “gay” is eponymous.  You let that shit name itself.  Don’t do that.  Cars is an early song by The Cars.  They had to manipulate an increasingly self-deluded majority.  Aren’t they sitting on a sound as good as sound gets?

Christianity is rank faggotry from stem to stern.  Priests child molesting is no reason to take Protestants out of the sphere of suspicion.  It only makes it more likely to find systemic rot the further we examine the motives of such a thing as a secondary government.  The real government, armed to the teeth, easily pays off the “pacifist” and devious sector steeped in dogmatic rationale.  In return, certain outspoken individuals are attacked, morality plays ensue, and we who are left are never freed from the harangue of the celebrated “lessons”.  Not everything happens to “show you”.  If you don’t do it, you won’t know, and if you don’t know by now, you never will.

You are terrorized at each and every age below 33, as if you, too, may die like Jesus.  You can’t call them wrong.  You don’t know what’s likely to happen between  now and the day you turn 34.  Don’t even think about 37.  I have to say that 1990 is twenty years ago, but, I need to push it back three more years, to 1987.

I’m staying at the “Y”.  Protestant, right?  I am coming off a sentence in county jail, and I must secrete myself.  I am in a bad marriage.  Now, I have bums, retards, addicts and faggots.  The retards call the addict-faggot population “bums”; it’s eponymous if it goes to hobo.

Oh, plus me, plus me.  I know it is no longer necessary for people like Lenny Bruce to actually be guilty of crimes to be repressed.  Not now, perhaps not ever.  Thus, the draconian drug laws are there to feed victims into the maw.  The bad actors are the women, wives 45 or so, like mine.  There is an audience for the sports, for the young.  A ready audience of faggots and women, and the stuff they want to drink must be quite intoxicating.  They have a good thing going.  They have to own their end of the government in a Faustian bargain as feminists, a power group.  All you’d need would be a similar power group on the drug question to do basically whatever you had a mind to.

“Sometimes I like a nice, succulent vagina”, my room mate, and, “I used to have good teeth, with a gap in the front.”  I tried to imagine him with teeth.  I came in one time and I had caught them doing something.  I should have backed back out.  They were ready to jump me.  It was coke and something else.  But, they only kick them out for the coke disturbances.  They got a poster, “Engaging Newcomers.”  They do.  At the YMCA, they see marriage as being about getting engaged.

To come, the verb infinitive (Lenny says it in  a routine.  He has worked it out; the verb intransitive).

The radio, like any subsystem, must be used properly for awhile before it can be extended to mimic other things.  I don’t like the workforce of labor unions.  That’s why I seldom write about them.  I owe the union a lot.  It has trained me and kept me semi-employed for ten years.  I just don’t like the people, nor do I appreciate the hard work.  I don’t see any of you volunteering to walk steel beams.  So, you either gear up and bail out when the truck stops rolling or you will be run off the site.  Ride with your tool belt on and remove any items which may dig into the upholstery.  Hold them in your lap.   You won’t work until June hits in the desert.

The radio sits one inch from your ear, or reposition it.  We’re all tuned to the same channel.  Keep it brief.  You don’t buy a radio and that is what you try.  If you yell it swamps out what you’re saying.  If they don’t hear you because you are yelling, and you yell louder, they won’t hear you still.  Walk out there.  They have the hammer.  Unless you walk out there calm, poised and crisp, “Turn your radio on,” I’m subject to want to club you with it.  I’ll meet you halfway.  We don’t work unless it’s noisy, dusty, hot, after driving forty-five miles.  We carry an eight-pound sledge, a hub bag, a lath rack with forty four-foot wooden lath, and our tools.  We also carry a lot of spikes, 60D by name.  This is over earth which has been ripped.  The spikes are nails; we also better have P-K nails, C-nails, blue nails, and tacks.  We don’t have water.  We take breaks.  At 115 °, we change and do carry water.  We should start working at 90° and get ahold of a Gatorade bottle before it gets hot.  The spikes aren’t always there.  Are you going to pound in a spike with a sledgehammer?  Don’t say my name over the radio, or point to me, or look at me in front of the boss, Mormons.

“Juan, this is God.  I command you to go right a foot, to the gun half a foot for another shot.  Right a tenth, to the gun five for a hub.”

“Spike ’em, fuck ’em.”

“Negatory, Juan.  Good for wood.”

“Need another shot.”

“Away three, left a couple.”  You got to carry the rod.  It’s carbon fiber.

“Shot for a tack.”

“Away a tenth, right seven.  Bump it.”

“It won’t move.  Can I hang it on the edge?”


(quietly)”I got to take out a rock.  Stand by.”

“Gun a foot, left thirty.  Gun, uh, twelve, good line.”

“Shot for a tack.”

“Right one, to the gun one—good.   A tack!  A tack!”

The God is nothing more than a very elaborate Wizard of Oz deal, or it’s going to be a very long day.



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