Hookers or Cake

Where the self-obsessed get serious about silly
I'm too wacky to be hip.

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      • ------------------------------------- How this blog got its name

      ------------------------------------ There was a large painting of Evel Knievel shaking hands with Richard Nixon. It hung in the Mayors office. Late one evening after everyone went home. I took it down to the lab. I zoomed in on Evel’s left eye a 100x and enhanced it. It was an address. I went to the address. It was a modest, 1970’s style, split level ranch home in the suburbs.

      ----------------------------------- Inside I found a dead parrot lying on a waterbed. I revived the parrot with some saltines and adrenaline. We became good friends. The parrots name was Randy. One night a few years later while Randy and me played Gin Rummy, he sang me a song about a fire. The title of this blog was never mentioned but I sensed it, and Randy confirmed it by giving me ‘THE LOOK’.

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          • September 6, 2012 1:35 am
            Remember when everyone thought God was a forgetful bear cult and we all ran into the woods shouting Gods secret name? I don’t know how you spell it, really it was just a bunch of fart noises. Anywho it turned out God had married the Devil, who’d taken carnal form as a pit of snakes, that talked like Charles Nelson Reilly. It was a beautiful autumn wedding. The dusk was setting and the bats spoke to you of quietly coming undone. Remember? In front of everyone, remember? How you were happy and then you forgot why you were happy so you got sad? Well as Charles Nelson Reilly would yell, “Wake up bitch! This pile of snakes isn’t going to fuck itself.”

            Remember when everyone thought God was a forgetful bear cult and we all ran into the woods shouting Gods secret name? I don’t know how you spell it, really it was just a bunch of fart noises. Anywho it turned out God had married the Devil, who’d taken carnal form as a pit of snakes, that talked like Charles Nelson Reilly. It was a beautiful autumn wedding. The dusk was setting and the bats spoke to you of quietly coming undone. Remember? In front of everyone, remember? How you were happy and then you forgot why you were happy so you got sad?

            Well as Charles Nelson Reilly would yell, “Wake up bitch! This pile of snakes isn’t going to fuck itself.”

            89 notes Filed under:  prose, religion, Charles Nelson Reilly,.
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