The first person to shave away all their pubic hair - what were they thinking? Did they just wake up one morning, sip a cup of coffee, turn on the tele, stare at the sunrise through their blinds, eat a bowl of cereal, and say to themselves, hey, I want to get rid of the hair that I have been growing since childhood, down and around the balls and chain. I want the secret Vah'J J garden to be tilled to the surface. I need a fresh, brillo'y patch! Or a narrower landing strip! Or the shape of a non flying V, (I humbly bow), Or at least have the forest thinned out. I want to feel like a ten year old again. What would happen if each time we cut into a vegetable, or a piece of fruit, it screamed out loud in horrific pain? How nonchalant would we be then? How interesting would food prepping be? I just threw away an expired pack of ham and turkey that had been hiding in lower level of my fridge. It reminded me of the French fry you drop in between your car seat and middle console, the abyss, and you do not retrieve it until months down the road when you accidentally drop your cell phone there. The French fry waits, frozen in time, like a used wedding dress hanging in the closet of a divorcee. Like a fresh box of condoms hanging on the shelf. It reminds me of humans, when we cycle through our pick up lines, when all we need to do is say, "hello", and mean it. The pack of neglected ham smelled like a thousand hairy asses had profusely sweated on a cushioned, gel, gym bicycle seat and had that bodily fluid absorbed under the heat of a thousand suns. I dry gagged because it smelled like a musty hell and I was taking a break from my everyday face mask, so I was like, oh well! I took the meat outside and threw it near the tree line. For the raccoons. For the opossums. The buzzards. At least I still have a couple of Reese cups left. Sometimes, I think about the first person to have a tooth filled, then he or she, (probably a he), slides a piece of aluminum foil in between their teeth and bites down. I think about the first person to drive their car off a bridge, deliberately. I think about the first person to live with wild bears and actually try to hug one of them furry fuckers because he thought he was automatically accepted into their inner circle. Even in everyday society, you have to climb that ladder to get that hug, bro! Isn't it wild that asparagus makes your pee smell tainted. Sometimes I eat it just to have that experience. Fouled, fragrant piss. It's like crunching ice. It's like scraping the fork on the edges of your teeth when you take sustenance from your food rake and deposit it into your mouth. Eating asparagus is almost like rubbing fresh cocaine on your gums. I chew away at the stringy vegetable, knowing in an hour or less my urine is going to smell like rotten cabbage. I'd die for a yellow Gatorade right now. What about the first person to strap a bomb to their body and willingly become instant art on some civilian backdrop. I mean, do not get me wrong, having one million virgins surrounding you as you transcend this existence and into another sounds like a great afterlife, but, still, we have to keep in mind that it cannot get any tighter than the pistol grip of your right hand, dude. The grip of your left hand if you are cleverly ambidextrous. I can see the downside if you are missing a thumb and cannot anaconda squeeze the prey, so give credit where credit is due, I guess. All I know is that I'm going to sprinkle pepper into my cucumbers and vinegar tonight. I ordered two Balsam Fir three wick candles and six Balsam Fir plug ins. Just the way I smelled it. Why take a whiff when you can take a sniff! I give my Balsam Fir candles names and become attached because it's a strained relationship that you would never understand. There is Delores, the black woman I could never have, a slice of dark chocolate, who would gladly cook fried chicken, sass and chastise you, and smile while doing all of the above. There is Betsy, the white grandmother I no longer have because my grandparents transcended many years ago, a woman who would buy me white crew socks every year for Christmas if she had money... and arms... and a job. Then there's Marcita, the hispanic woman I wish I had because I could really go for a homemade steak and cheese enchilada right now, oven baked tortilla chips, and fresh salsa with extra cilantro. I am my candle's bitch. I consider eloping with these candles, taking them to the justice of the peace, signing the dotted line, and seeing how long we can make it. The manufacturer says this relationship will only last twenty-five to forty-five hours. The statistics are not on my side, but are they on anyone's side for any extended period of time? Should I risk the stereotypes for a title that I already hold dear in my heart, even though people think they need the county to certify it with a stamped seal, filing fee, and simple piece of paper? The stakes are high. I become anxious. Paranoid. I dry gag, out loud. I pack a bag. I clean out my bank account. I hop in my truck. I put my candle in the passenger seat and seatbelt her. I know they are onto us. If they take her away, then there's no way I can dribble her onto my chest hairs tonight. For now, we need to head to the border. Probably Canada. Because I really like poutine. It's going to be a good year. Hell, what am I saying? Last year was a good year, for me, minus this asshole virus, the innocent lives that were lost, and ignorant people's words and movements, and all their politics, and the views that are so far off the spectrum that we should put those certain people and ideals behind a tall glass window and view them from afar so people can see what stupid really looks like. I know I'm supposed to have more love in my heart, but, still, without hate, love would be fucking irrelevant. Maybe it's disdain more than anything. I don't know. All I know is I'm craving sushi, and the only cure for this disease is more Rainbow Roll. Sometimes, I think about the first person to swim with sharks. To wrangle a deadly cobra and put it inside a basket, then serenade that venomous bastard with a flute. To wrestle crocodiles. To juggle chainsaws as their sharpened blades turn. To swallow swords. To bury themselves alive. To bungee jump. To sky dive. What made them wake up one morning, slide their feet into their cushioned slippers, brush their teeth with peppermint Colgate, rinse their mouth out with wintergreen Listerine, and think, I'm going to try this today. Wish me luck. This one is for you, momma. I'm going to make you proud! Thank you for pushing me out of your vagina and into this world. This is my destiny. Or so they thought. Have you ever looked at someone and thought, well, if that isn't a dumb looking sonuvabitch, then I don't know what is? Has someone ever looked at you and thought, well, if that isn't a dumb looking sonuvabitch, then I don't know what is. Have you ever looked at someone and thought, well, if he's a dumb looking sonuvabitch, and I'm a dumb looking sonuvabitch, what happens next? If two wrongs do not make a right, what does two sonuvabitches make? Another sonuvabitch? Then, that's three. So, what do we do? Set the bar low? No! Wait! Set the bar even lower! I need an ant to be able to jump over it. (hang on - I swallowed my coffee wrong - * cough cough cough * God knew what he was doing - * cough cough cough* when he thought - * cough cough cough* this disappointing species is going to need an epiglottis!) What do we need to do then? We need to break that cycle. Snuff out that cigarette. Become sober. Vigilant. Observe. Shake our heads visibly, yes, but still have an understanding heart. Good chicken and pastry, (like mama's or grandmamma's) is so damn delicious, fresh and warm, but when stored away in your fridge for a day or two, when it becomes cold, and congealed, the smell, when you open the lid then, BOOM, you think, what the fuck happened here? It smells like sixty wet armpits have been basking in a sauna and been rubbed together with sixty humid scrotums, and have hit you directly in your face, while driving through Yakima, Washington State. I think, some foods can be so narcissistic. Except ice cream. Ice cream has never been bipolar. Pickles are schizo's. It's heartless to do that to a cucumber. I think I'll start protesting. Impeach the pickles. What made you think of that? What made me think of what? What made me think of this? What made think think of think? What about the first person that strapped himself inside a rocket? Thrusters engaged. Or was it a monkey? We have liftoff. Or a dog. A hot dog would be awesome right now. All beef frank, not the cheap red ones. Ketchup. Chili. Mustard. They say a spoonful of mustard helps leg cramping. Why perform magic when you can be magic? I gave my Cutie oranges away at work today to a hungry coworker. I watched her chew three slices and swallow them, then I walked away. I like watching people swallow, because, (there's no way I can leave that sentence open ended) one must hold their breath to do so. Don't believe me? Try it then! Try to swallow and breathe at the same time. Good luck! For the past three years, I have been using wet wipes along with toilet paper. I use them like a drug. If I cannot find them or re-up, I feel lost, as does the terrain between my butt cheeks. I start to sweat. I lose my appetite. I feel like I did an eight-ball in under an hour, with no alcohol or cigarettes. My jaw starts to grind. I pawn my mom's VCR. I smoke crack in my grandmother's 1990 Buick Regal Classic. I miss work and stay up late hours of the night. I look for people selling wet wipes on street corners. I walk up to the man wearing the raggedy coat and worn out beanie, the man with white residue around his nose and gold spray paint around his mouth, and slip him a twenty. I lift my shirt and show the dealer that I'm not wearing a wire. He slips me a one hundred pack of off-brand, wet, ass wipes. I do not feel so bad anymore. Neither does my bum. My sceptic tank cries due to my addiction. My family continues to love me. I go home and put on sweat pants and a white tank top. I tell my wife that I'm going to the bathroom for a bit. She yells out that she's going to her mother's house, threatens to leave me, walks out of our condo, and slams the door. I sit in the bathroom and wonder, if birds fly South for the winter, does a turkey know when Thanksgiving cometh? (up above, when I mentioned about holding your breath and swallowing, did you try it? Why? Are you psychotic? Do you like to live life on the edge? You have something to live for! Okay? Don't ever do that again! Okay? Go buy some Skittles and find the nearest park bench.) If people tell you they are going green, ask them where their mason jar is that they are farting into. If they cannot reply or effectively debate that, then they would be a great politician. Ask them if they para-sailed to work! Hot air ballooned! Rollerbladed! Common sense. Uncommon sense. Hypocrites! My lip injections are so puffy, my mustache sits in the shade all day. Before long, we will all look like we have had an allergic reaction to something. As long as you buy that dress that shows as much side tit as possible. Please! A smushed side tit if the paparazzi is lucky. Guess what? I'm making sausage balls tomorrow. They have more testosterone than most of the world leaders, network reporters, journalistic writers, free thought thinkers, government officials, movement creators, trend setters, etc., have in today's world. Etc. is such a lazy word. I know that is why it was designed, but, still. I cannot apologize for an apology you'll never receive. I'm using Bisquik and sharp cheddar on my breakfast balls. Time to get busy. When you think of thinking, your think turns into a present thought, and a present thought is a past think, for a future thinking. You know how I would torture the world, besides setting off a global EMP bomb? I would take away high definition television. Go back to standard definition only. Black and white. Back to radio programs only. Make televisions thirty inches or less. Rabbit ear antennas with tin foil balls at the top. A nation of strained eyed squinters. I instantly crave take-out Chinese food. Hibachi steak. Miso soup. Ginger dressing. You know those people, who have an awesome story to tell, and they'll shorten their cliff noted version by saying, "yadda yadda". Do not be that person. Own that story. There is enough yadda yadda in today's world without us having to say it. Don't believe me? Go watch the news station of your choice. It's time "we" take away the yadda yadda from the yadda yadders. I just thought about the monkey or dog being shot into space then brought back down to the people who sacrificed an animalistic life for their humanistic one. That dog or monkey, floating around in the vastness of a cold darkness, listening to the bleeps of flashing buttons and warnings, thinking in their miniscule brains, about the humans, them some dumb, crazy sonuvabitches. When Earth is tired of you, she will hit reset and that will be that. All the while, I'm sitting here thinking, how many breeds did they play eeny meeny miny moe with, and, who was paid, with taxpayer money, a full salary, with benefits, for years on end, to perform that job? *I clear my throat, giggle, and turn the channel* Yeah! You know what? You're right! Do not infiltrate the Capitol building. Do not put them in their place. The politicians are invincible. Just give us another button, or a flawed, controlled, insignificant ballot, so we can maintain our illusion of importance. Brand the resistance as terrorists. Fuck with the labels, as well as our brains, as well as our hearts, and exhausted souls. Did you see that one guy that infiltrated and showed up wearing horns and fur and stomped around the podiums, where our state's crypt keepers talk all day - at our expense - granted, the guy whose avatar is at level one hundred while ours remain at twenty or below? They brand him the crazy one. Right? We cannot invade their bubble, but...they...can...invade...ours? Sounds fair. I do not mean any of this. Our government is doing a great job. Send another round of stimulus. Stimulate me into a distracted complacency. Like a dating app. We are born as AAA batteries. Hopefully, by death's rattle, we are at least a D or twelve volt. I really want to eat some sour gummy worms right now. We have been known to shoot for the stars while ignoring what is in front of our very own noses. In front of our own face. We stare at the vastness of what is above us and think about conquering other worlds, but we cannot overcome our own planet, much less our own ego, and the people therein. So what's the point? For all we know, our night sky is a Light Brite toy, and some mythological child is playing a game with us. You want to know something even crazier? There are eight lemons sitting in my kitchen right now. Eight! Who the fuck needs eight lemons? A lemonade stand, being ran by three ten year olds, doesn't even need eight lemons. I remember drinking water from a water hose. How many antibodies were in that pipeline? I'm surprised Congress hasn't tried to shut that off too, considering they are so worried about global warming, knowing our president flies around on a kite and not a jumbo luxury passenger airliner. It's all a crock of shit. How much shit is in an actual crock? They say when life hands you lemons then you need to make lemonade, but I think, them dumb sonuvabitches, because I have a cut in the corner of my thumb and lemon juice stings like hell's fury, so I consider throwing six of my eight lemons outside and saving two. Maybe instead of shooting bullets and bombs and missiles at one another, we should fill water guns with lemon juice. The headline would read - "Death by Lemons." Can you imagine how much money the goggle industry would make? Can you imagine how much money the mask industry has made? Water guns evolve into juice guns. Squirt squirt. Sounds like a party to me. "Death by Sex." "Death by Cotton Candy." "Death by Motorboating." There are still a lot of good band names left out there. If one person never thinks a thought, then the thought is never thunk for a think that has yet to be thoughten. My lips just went numb. I've washed my hands constantly and wore my mask. The Center for Disease Control sure dropped the ball. The invisible assailant that filters the air and has taken away our loved ones and replaced the marrow in our bones with paranoia and seized control over our souls and we cannot hug one another or high five a friend or bro hug a brother or a sister or kiss our mother's cheek or pat our father's shoulder in fear that we might super spread the intangible virus that permeates our day to day. One thing is certain. I like to eat raw cookie dough. Whoever did this to us, their own mothers probably think, them dumb sonuvabitches. All the money in the world, all the debt in the world, all the make believe currency in the world and this is the best we can do. Those people deserve to be covered in coconut shavings. They do not deserve a three wick soulmate like me. They deserve to be slapped in the face with a hot and sweaty, hairy, bare skinned, ten-inch, throbbing pickle. We have turned into the monkey that was shot into outer space. Crab cakes are baking in my oven as I type. My house smells like the inner thighs of a semi-attractive, professional female athlete, who has been going hard at practice for an entire day. Or male athlete. Or dog athlete. Or cat athlete. Or ghost athlete. No need to discriminate now, but I discriminate. Against mayonnaise. And pickles. Cream cheese. Greek yogurt. Three of those four things are white. I am a racist. You want to know what else is racist? A hurricane or typhoon on a weatherman's (OR WOMAN - phew - caught myself) green screen map of our beautiful Earth. Snow is racist. Charcoal is racist. But, still, I like both of those things. I use the analogy of a piano and the keys when it concerns racism. Some antagonist replies, "there's more white keys than black keys." Thank you, CNN. ABC. NBC. CBS. FOX. MSNBC. ASS. I reply, "Elton John doesn't care about the color of the keys." They reply, "that's because he's gay." They have now created a loophole. My universal job, as a constant, is to close it before we are sucked into its meaningless void. I reply, "what about Ray Charles or Stevie Wonder then?" They stutter. They lag. They begin to glitch. I tell them before walking away, "time to ween yourself off the world's 34-C titty." I fucking hate pickles. My co-workers joke on my age. I think, in dog years , I'm legendary. I'm a sage. Then, I think, how do humans know what a 'true' dog year is. When we pretend to act like we know everything, we show how little we honestly know, and our mere existence becomes a contradiction. I bought Krispy Kreme chocolate covered creme puffs at the grocery yesterday. They were moist. Like a freshly showered inner thigh of a non attractive person. Like a smoothly shaved armpit of an attractive person. What will you do for attention? What will I do to be ignored? Oh, you know! I know that you know. You know that I know you know. I know that you know that I know you know. If I never thought a past think for a future thunk, would the present thought think the future thunk if the past thunk thought about thinking the present think. It's happening again. The peril still exists. Half of my big toenail on my left foot has fallen off. The first little piggy that had roast beef. It's been waiting how long to do this? Six months, you dumb sonuvabitch, I think. A thought. I thunk. I blink. I swallow then breathe. Because I'm not psychotic! I ponder my existence. I think about what I'm eating for breakfast tomorrow. I take another big inhalation of fresh air. The crab cakes. My house smells like the stale air of a strip club's male bathroom in the middle of summer. Man's still gotta eat! I try to chase pussy, whether I like it or not, whether I want to or not, cats off my property, day or night, cold or hot, wet or dry, all week long if I need to, because they spray on almost everything, and the feral ones can be mean. Better work on that sentence structure, hombre! Let me make a statement, whether I like it or not, whether it's an admittance of guilt, a statement of fact, a line of defense, an apology, an observation, and add 'but, still' to it to further it along. "I know he was right, 'but, still'." "I know she was wrong, 'but, still'." I cannot remember the last time I had hiccups. I cannot remember the last time I _____ _______. What would your blanks be? I know, I know, but, still. If I think a thought that has already been thoughten then the think thought the thinking and thunk it in retrospect of when the thought was merely a think for the thinking. I know, I know, time for me to go, but, still. Are you missing movie theaters yet? Not the price but the experience. Seems like yesterday, huh? As teens, we went there to swap tongue and finger bang, not caring what was truly on the screen. As young adults, we went there to disappear and escape, catching a couple of good previews along the way. As senior citizens, we went there so we would not have to watch a movie alone, feeling at home in the midst of strangers. What stage of age do you find yourself in? Wandering hands, wanting to escape, or feeling lonely? Go dissolve into yourself! Hot date tonight? I'll pick you up at seven p.m., with cold palms and a wet wallet and a three wick candle named Keisha Bunns. Be ready. Really not really, but, still. Your life is a movie for others to see. What will people be doing as they watch it? I know what I'll be doing during it! *wink wink* One thing I do know for a fact. Pickles are nothing more but a bitchy cucumber.
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22 Replies to “But, Still!”
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Answer: It depends upon the size of the crock.
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