Slave, how thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse.
If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body;
And give the letters which thou find'st about me
To Edmund Earl of Gloucester; seek him out
Upon the English party: O! untimely death
Shalom and Shazam, Gerry! Bet you didn't see this shit coming, did you? You goddamnable clam-digging Walrus what you are to my misinformed and misled crate-digging Carpenter. It's
been a witchy-titted lil' bitch getting in touch with your shady fucking fata morgana lately and far too long since we honestly touched one another and so, while I
oughta be Cissy Strutting down the avenue to a Get Out My Life, Woman breakbeat, instead I'm moaning Baby, Please Don't Go; this cheesy,
carelessly-whispered, limp-wristed (yet alliterative) little missive o' mine being the next bestest thing to formally enjoining you to come back to me. In person. You scanlous
How am I doing? Thanks for asking, your highness, but... Now that you mention it and really must know?
Not so fucking hot.
You see, my latest and greatest narrow escape from the untimely clutches of acquiesent death/back-burned/disfigured/démodé obsolescence has effectively turn-tabled my
decidedly decadent and blissfully ignorant lifestyle into a sea-sickening tempest of bliblical incontinence and clinically depressed mental and physical degradation the likes of
which I haven't dealt with since the first time I cheated The Reaper back at that Mobile Army Surgical Hospital situated in the bombed-out crucible of ruthless delusion we still
insist on calling the Mesopotamian cradle of capricious civilization.
Knowing that you're an irredeemable basehead, filled to the waist-level brim with Sizzurp and Lean and Brylcreem for your short hairs, I'm sitting here a starry-eyed
cynic wondering if everything I thought I ever learned was even worth writing down on deforestated paper in the first fucking place. It should probably be clear
to me that baring my soul to you is neither here nor there or anywheres near to me being me, but... Believe me or not, the more I get matriculated on about the wicked workings of
this cruel and unusual world of ours (that is, the more shit I take and bottom-bitch experience I gain from interacting with the insanely inane population of this supposedly united
nation of outsiders who only unite in order to get inside the machine that works against me) the more it makes me wanna wildly gesticulate before vomiting volumes of demagoguery
versus the Delphic tyranny of the white male oligarchy that you, Gerry Leonard, perhaps unwittingly but definitively, represent.
Now that the book is finally finished, though; I'm gonna need to know, for once and for all, whether I oughta be coming or going in order to cause, affect, and effectively
spread According-to-Wilde pandemic happiness across this country tis' of thee. I'm asking you:
A) Should I be suffering fools and waiting for Godot to philosophically reward my insofar hapless ass of sassy succotash?
B) Should I be girding my loins with Viagra for when the great Gal Gadot herself inevitably and graciously decides to board my orgasmatronic three-masted/mushroom-tipped
ship cumming in?
That's the coming conundrum, capiche? The even bigger problem being that I can't see the fakakta forest for all the shit-eating mushrooms sustaining my
shinola metal ass at the moment. To be completely honest (also candidly churlish and completely cliched) I'm afraid I'm beginning to fear and doubt myself over here;
ensconced as I am in my own indomitable aura. I've got a creeping feeling, see, that I've been marching over dollars, bending over for doughnuts, and losing my
goddamned mind having a hard time gaining and maintaining an honorable erection hard enough and for long enough to enjoy myself some consensually hard-core/hardly-know-ya
While I'll freely admit to being a fabulously facetious cad --hopelessly addicted to hard drugs, hard liquor, and hard-bodied half-nekked ladies who'll go bump
in the night at the slightest hint of militant command-- ever since my hardbacked iambic puppy chow mein for the lowbrow mainstreamed brain book of Shadows and Hours was taken
hot off the godforsaken presses and immediately disseminated as a digital paperback...
Well, all I wanna say is: To hell we go but for the grace of Godiva this largely lliterate and illegitimate nation under one fungible God of ours.
Let the Devil Himself become our muthafuckin' martinet. Let Him get behind get us, rise above us; and pull our marionetted strings to no less than abdicated salvation.
Considering my own elevated age, and fungible utility; the historical import and lasting imprint of my existence on this planet so far is slowly but surely forcing me to
re-evaluate my dystopian comportment going forward, sooo...
In lesser words and with or without you by my side, Gerry; I literally haven't the slightest semblance of intellectual or emotional certainty about what in Heaven or
Hell lies above or below my imminent horizon. More than that, and exponentially more important to me than the potential authority of my posthumous legacy, is
the fact that my semi-precious sump pump of a superior soul-spelunking shmuck is currently kaput. Stuck in the existential auto-shop and headed straight for the auto-erotic
Won't you help me?
Listen, Gerry. According to the mere three-chord playing crack team of retainered prick physicians, private dicks, pop-psychiatrists, and criminal defense attorneys I've done put together
and paid an arm and a leg to motivate, monitor, and nourish me in anticipation and preparation for my imminent AntiChrist Superstardom; I've been wallowing in such a
woefully woebegone, wanton, thunderstruck, and exsanguinating funk these days that my superflous id, supercalifragilistic ego, and insuperable soul of fly-by-night ambition have all
but superciliously tried to kibitz and predict the Doomsday Clock over the bolder shoulders of all the gigantic sons-of-bitches who came and went batshit crazy trying to make a
superceding difference before me.
I know damn well you know who I'm talking about, Gerry. The slick and silky silver-screened heros and villains of distinction and denouncement who came too fast, made too many babies,
watched too many movies, peaked too fucking early, stood back or pat too long, and then packed ourr bags --instead of paying the Heavens-to-Betsy rent on time-- and ended up
rendering the rest of us this hot-housed fakakta fucking Hell on Earth we gotta hunt upon, hurdle over, and hip-hop hype in order to call it Home Sweet Home.
Vis-a-vis with the enemy, stanning a straight face full of grace and grasping at straws to placate our Ancient Alien masters to delay Armageddon, we will
effectively wreck my booty-calling clarion call for a body-political Shangri-La and...
I'm calling for all of us to lower our arms, raise our alms, get laid, get paid, and make some muthafucking hay. As cosmically competent/intelligent life forms worth
existing a little longer.
Come to me, Gerry. Before we all go the way of equivocal rats and lemmings and obsequious pets, screaming: "Hey, I was walking here!" to no avail but an
expendable destiny already set by foreign afore-destined entities.
If you know what I mean.
© Copyright 2019 John Hamler. All rights reserved.