On June 15th, 2019.
It's me, myself, and I
--the one and only John Henry Hamler, male, tall, 36, single, bisexual, and purposefully bald, praetorian fit, African-American, dressed like a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger
with the intimidating red pleather suit and inscrutable motorcycle battle helm and all--
onstage but not "on" quite yet. Speaking in electronically modulated, but clearly exasperated, sotto voce; to both my literary agent
--the one and only Gerry Leonard, male, 49, married, straight, unwittingly bald, and unapologetically overweight Jew dressed like a neo-conservative game warden with the
camoflauge bulletproof vest and utility belt and all--
and the owner of this dilapidated bookshop; my ostensible hostess with the mostest:
--the one and only Jackson Jong, female, 33, ostensibly single, heterosexual, and martial-artistical Eurasian hybrid dressed like a self-aware Spice
Girl sporting a trendy/flattering bob with bangs, halter top and leopard-print fuck-me pumps and all--
with my be-gloved hand over the microphone, saying:
"Great shwetty fucking balls of googly-moogly Virgin Mary toast points, Gerry. You never prepared me for such a tremendous and torrential turnout!
Yeah, well, Miss Jong. And now that you ask... I'm being sarcastic. If not caustic as fuck, Miss Jong. Or Miss Jackson, if you're nasty. Do you happen to
be nasty, by any chance? Because enquiring minds would like to know what your plans might be for later tonight.
So you say, naturally, but... Look! There's all of six --six!-- goddamned souls up in this piece come to listen to my sorry lips move. None of them brave or brazen enough to
hazard the front row, the lot of them maddogging my spandexed crotch like I maybe/mighta fucked, fertilized, and bad-seeded their precious little princess over the freakin'
weekend. As if my puckish spunk is carrying the satanic Antichrist gene or some shit.
On top of that shit; the air-conditioning is busted, on top of the cat piss miasma I'm inhaling, on top of the fact that my big silly biggest toe is sticking out of a hole in
my smelly cum-addled sock and I can't take my fucking Uggs off to fix it because my foot be in a lather like a spiked thoroughbred slogging thru the kind of bacterial mud
would make a Babylonian whore in church shoes wanna slip, break down, and cry havoc for hairspray...
No, no, no. This hot and messy fucked-up fucking dumpster fire is gonna be my fakakta fucking funeral pyre, Gerry. Can't you see that? I know you don't wanna know about how the
WASPs and the Royal We saved you and your sorry-ass chosen souls from holocaustic oblivion, but...
Lemme tell you something good for once: Only Christ knows how I suffer. You self-loathing hymie, what you are. The Pantocrator Himself being the one and
only Super-Jew who can commisserate my succotash.
What are you doing, dude? Are you sitting there with a shit-eating grin on your face trying to shit me, fucko? I mean... First you put the kike-y fucking kibosh on my
transcendent audio-visual prelude and now you wanna--
Yeah, yeah. I'm well aware about what I said when I said I didn't want to go through with the whole hyperbolic cinematic rigamarole, but I just assumed --you being my agent, intrepid
marathon messenger, and earthly prophet and whatnot-- that you'd be able to see through my artificial humility and make my nocturnal emissions come true. Make my
sodden satin-sheeted night sweats go away, too.
Now the fuck am I supposed to do?
Cocksucker, what? Didn't you tell pretty Miss Jackson over here to put out a media kit or a press release or a whatever-the-Hell else you people call the whatever the fuck it
is you're supposed to do before I get here? Slot me an opening act, at least?
Fuck if I know? For the love of the almighty Mucka-Ferguson, motherfuckers. I'm the talent, you're the help. It's y'alls job to make the
baby-kissing/butt-seating arrangements around here, no? Opening act, people. How hard could it be to book some mosquito-bitten, tiny-titted, chain-wallet
wearing, uber-cunt self-published a self-help book about herself touting the non-lesbian virtues of her alimentary hot yoga-doing/nonfat
Twisted little twat-divining cops like that? They gotta be a dime a dozen this part of the country. Am I right?
Of course, I'm right. But you wanna know what else? Fuckit. Don't go doing a goddamned thing for me from here on out. Please. I need me some motherfucking lebensraum over here is
what I want. So why don't the two of you sit back on your shit-caked pussies over there and lemme get my gentle groove on?
Whispering to my agent, specifically, I say: Although, Gerry; if you are just gonna sit there and insist on flying in the face of conventional taste, fashion, and
overhwelming public opinion? Well, then why don't you own that dopey-looking Caesar ring you got ringing around your rosy fucking dickhead and gimme a hearty and
heartfelt --Hey Now!-- introduction?
Whispering to nasty Miss Jackson Jong, specifcally, I say: You starting to feel me, baby girl? No? Well, you will. In time. Trust me when I say I'll blow your
mind and glow-up your mons venus in equal measure. Just watch me --amazed-- as I go to work prodding and plumbing the intellectually-shallow depths of these
creepy fat-assed cowboy junkies you brung me. Slowly but surely molding their minds and motivating their elementary butts towards the edges of their molded plastic
classroom seats. Bitch.