Hookers or Cake

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

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      ------------------------------------ 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 23, 2012 3:52 am
            How To Be A Big Success The best part about being massively rich and successful is that I get to tell people how to do things. If you want to kick ass, like me, you should do it my way. Of course this usually instantly devolves into me telling people that the only way to make a proper martini is to get nude. Or maybe I should become a complete loser and tell people how to fail. I could write a massively depressing tome trying to talk people into killing themselves. I bet someone somewhere would actually kill themselves and someone would see the book on their self and blame it on me and it would become a big news sensation. Then the book would sell like hot cakes. And there would be outrage and investigations maybe even some book banning and book burning. It would all be a publicists wet dream and I could turn the whole thing into a series and make some tall cash. Of course the twist would be that the original suicide victim was me, the author of the book. Then the book would really really sell, only later would it be revealed that the supposed author, me again, was a thief who stole from the original author who was such a big loser that he never created art or did anything interesting he just sat around and bitched like a depressed Socrates, meting out his logical actualization that life is a horrible shitty thing and there is no point to anything. Especially writing stupid shitty books that don’t exist. And then because the book didn’t really exist I’d still be alive and time would shrug its shoulders and we’d all just magically realize that self help or self destruction is a delusional appetizer. The maincourse being a silly funhouse full of mirrors, tears, and laughter. Death, but a pie in the face.

            How To Be A Big Success

            The best part about being massively rich and successful is that I get to tell people how to do things. If you want to kick ass, like me, you should do it my way. Of course this usually instantly devolves into me telling people that the only way to make a proper martini is to get nude.

            Or maybe I should become a complete loser and tell people how to fail. I could write a massively depressing tome trying to talk people into killing themselves. I bet someone somewhere would actually kill themselves and someone would see the book on their self and blame it on me and it would become a big news sensation. Then the book would sell like hot cakes. And there would be outrage and investigations maybe even some book banning and book burning. It would all be a publicists wet dream and I could turn the whole thing into a series and make some tall cash. Of course the twist would be that the original suicide victim was me, the author of the book. Then the book would really really sell, only later would it be revealed that the supposed author, me again, was a thief who stole from the original author who was such a big loser that he never created art or did anything interesting he just sat around and bitched like a depressed Socrates, meting out his logical actualization that life is a horrible shitty thing and there is no point to anything. Especially writing stupid shitty books that don’t exist.

            And then because the book didn’t really exist I’d still be alive and time would shrug its shoulders and we’d all just magically realize that self help or self destruction is a delusional appetizer. The maincourse being a silly funhouse full of mirrors, tears, and laughter. Death, but a pie in the face.

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