Sale on Brut Body Spray; like calls unto like; I ain't voting today.

Frankie "Taco Stand" Williams?

Is not a problem, I tell you.

Nothing a two-hour faceplant can't cure.

I don't get to catch-up on some of these undesirables as much as I might like.  "Disposables" as the militia call their titular figureheads, but pasties they send to sit through the "procedurals".

I had a predeliction that I'd care less and less, participate less and less, and be misinterpreted more and more.

I was in town at the craft store, just getting some good Uniballs and sketch paper, and there were a couple of farmhands hauling stuff to the stables.  I'd wave and keep going, you know, doing the old Dr Pepper Communion between puffs a White Owl.  If that country preacher could have communion with a Sniggers bar, then I could probably do that with Reese's seasonal stuff, even if it was foreboding and marginally Satanic: to repurpose the evil unto the cause of the just.

I was thinking of O'Shaughnessy, kinda tickled about it, how you'd hear a lump in the other room.  See, everytime he leaned down to flush the toilet, he'd bump his against the wall, right against the painted faux wood grain paneling.

They had given the crudest most brutish, gutteral rhetoric stuff, and I just had to stay away.  They were sniping their own people when their wasn't a good outside focus.  If it wasn't the Mexicans, maybe the Jews, then.

I got to get in on one of my favorite seasonal flicks, too, right before the "harvest holiday".  St George's greasy sliding ass f*ck.  The Jason sequel, you know.  Amy Steele saying, "Paul? Paul?" and then Jason, bag over his head, coming into view.  She had prior went into a thing about Jason being a frightened little boy, and then he murdered everybody.

Me pissing on the culvert, keeping an eye out for approaching motorists, as if I were a "highway man", so full of light beer, I wondered if it made my eyes change color.

As I lad, I dreamed of Amy Steele's little boobies, and her kind of "new tan" kind of partially reddened skin, kind of lobster, and to go into that part of the country, maybe the Falls Niagara, and have her on one side, then cross the border, and deposit yet more sperm inside of her little buttercup.

I stood in the garage, reasoning all that, and me having also prior wrote an essay about that movie, and I would stand there, a Light Beer approaching room temperature in the last three fingers, listening to the hiss of the air lines bleeding off.

There was I Know What You Did Last Thursday, a Lion's Gait picture, ironically, facing limited theatrical release, on a Thursday, and it was, something, an eye gag in it, using animal parts, where they plopped an eyeball open on camera like Dali and Fulci.  I always wondered in those scenes with the real animal waste in the shot, how the scenes smelled; I had heard of Romero using rotten animal parts, just re-using them over and over again, just kind of ligature tripe and guts and all the little blood vessels, and stuff Smithfield didn't use.

And I had really written an essay on that other movie.  I really did.  Then I erased it from existence, as if to take it somehow into the ether, but out of eyeshot, saying to the firmament: "You don't want to wear Amy's shirt; you just want to fuck her."  I said to those people, the industry, the talking heads, all them, "I know something about you, too."

And it only mattered when they really wanted it to matter.

And Amy Steele holding out the pitchfork tines to protect herself, that made me unction go past three and a half inches, as if I had a rush of blood going while choking-out O'Shaughnessy in a guillotine maneuver.  He could feel it and was disgusted, but he was too hoarse and out of breath to yell at me to stop.


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Rolling on with Women's Month movie-watchin'.

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