WHO CARES what someone says on a blog (fuck me) and I’m gonna go home and tell my mom. Mommie is dead. Guppy is dead. He was a fish. Who gives a flying fuck. In 1462, I drove a Mustang. I was twelve but I could pass for sixteen I rode the fuck out of that thing. We were lovers. I was a Ft. Lauderdale beach whore I’m autistic really I am so. Like crazy. You don’t think I don’t know that that dead fish was smarter than that and no I don’t know who said who boo about what. We’re all out here looking for drugs and getting the whores high so we might fuck them in someone’s back yard. I am not proud of myself well kinda I am. I was sneaked into a slaughter house covid angle. It was a black hole of savagery no god ever once disposed of death itself over and over and over again. I had no idea. The smell alone was an after shock one after the other people slip and fall. But no. People do throw up. People faint. Even some old timers faint. I fainted. They had guns and the animals knew it. They gutted them alive but how is journalism any better. No one would believe it but what investment do I have in I have never read the Wall Street Journal. Why would I. It would never occur to me. The Post is so, so suburban. I keep expecting moms and birthday cakes I was out of there. These things murder anything and everything they can. Mis Los. And Mister Angelos. My car created a lot of attention. And action. I could buy gas money. They will bust you ass to detention if they catch you getting fucked in the ass in a parking lot and robbed and and your eyes would glow like and tulip bulbs. I am high functiong it’s a scale like naked like a whore. Go Gonzo. They’re not going to get it. Is it too much to play diddly with convention. Convention I return all of Tom Pynthon’s books to the library actually, I stole them. I gave Jayne Manfield a ride to the airport. She was stunning  and then beheaded like the National Inqusition ties you to whipping posts. A tie. Get me out of wherever I am. It doesn’t matter. What matters is survival. Some of us cannot pull it off but they go maybe a few days before Crazy Town Crazy and just get in the car and ride to town. What, you need a driver now. Are we going to rob any banks on the way.

Maybe. I never got caught, I have my very own time machine energy razor blades and sandwiches aimed at Jayne Mansfield’s pussy. I want my fish back. Guppy was a nice fish. But is he worthy of a book.

Probably. Yes. Cars. Don’t they call that AUTO something. I don’t want to know. I think we should boycott the New York Times Why Because they’re arrogant and they suck leaning right of center mother fuck. You have no busines slinging mud at the New York Times. I’m a pissed off writer what do you want from me. Civility. The problem is that you might tastefully ask w-h-o defines civility. The DEA soldiers in full black matching outfits sliding down to the ground on ropes. I ran. From civility. Do you really think the old granny in a cabin played the fiddle. Maybe fiddledeedee. Granny was a stripper off the Lousiana Interstate I just wanted out of there. The snakes drove me Miss Sugar Nut. Big as a barrel. Fucking gators but I would never kill one for shoes. My cowboy boots are from Walmart. But the best convience store dangerous to all children surrounding that place was in the swamps. Just in case someone somewhere might commit a thought crime. Men in wind machines hunting us down like the sex bitches from Mars. I am a gonzo resurrection. Editoral nightmares everywhere because they love to fuck with you. That simple. I used to sell my hole a long time ago, baby. I know where all the whores are buried. I know all the tricks. I know all about what tricks want and sometimes they want to kill you. Some try. But everyone had to have everyone elses’s backs and so we did. You go into a slaughterhouse. I don’t do coke so get it out of my fucking face. The parking lot is made of oyster shells and jeeps. Mescaline. But not at the New York Times. Everywhere I walk, crows take flight how dare he put us all through the demongrindermachineohtherehegoesagain oh please, publishing you are a big girl. Throw on some dignity, bitch. Noisy away in flocks what is gonzo journalism I am having coffee across the street and everyone’s god becomes a ruinous breaking of the temple’s symbolic walls, and I have to wrestle now with what the FUNDAMENTAL question has to be because it has to be Why Are You Here. Did I tell you about the time this guy walks into a bar. Don’t go in there. Huddle in the snow. Have a cigarette calm down. Coffee break. Gauloises. I am so fucking cool. Sunglasses. No toilet paper on my cowboy boot. No, I write it for me, and I am sorry I embarrass you, but I don’t know any of you. It makes no sense to me – I am disabled but I never use why bother they think I’m crazy anyway and sometimes I have to get into my mustang and go away. Now, I drive a dirt bike. Even in the winter. I’m living on a mountain. There but for the kindness of stranger no one is a stranger for long. Everyone knows everyone and everyone knows who the whores are. One can of Old Milwaukee. Am I supposed to worry about what they think. I do not know them. There is no there there. They’re dead to me. You have to learn to just keep going forward and yes, people will always gun for you. It’s so really really banal. To get knocked in the teeth by a boot any boot the boot was not the point. The boot was the weapon. What about that pizza in that pizza place with the strippers. Sex Workers. Strippers.