There are few things on earth so tragic—and so apt to seethe up through the pragmatist’s gullet in an acid belch of incipient nihilism—than the sight of a muddy, tractor-savaged field of trampled beets, battle-bested, their classified numbers still thick and oblong in heavy pulped mounds, muted and bruised in dirt-scuffed reds, many of them cleaved, their wounds puncuated by a sickening gutted whiteness: beet flesh, like carved bird or the shock of cracked coconut blinking into sunlight, is, when violently treated, oftentimes torn into meaty strips and shredded, some of it simply mashed into the surrounding skin to form a mealy pink paste, dry ruddy patches bursting open at fibered ridges like infected wounds by a bitter insistent stream of milky fermenting sugars that drip steadily into the ground—the spilled seed of hanged men longing to find meaning in the waste of their dreams, to redeem themselves, perhaps, in the birth of mandrake…
—Which is, of course, why I insisted that my dolphin contact have the agency spring for a 15 HP Commercial DR Field and Brush Mower Pro—with the 430cc Kawasaki (FH430V) 26.3 cubic inch electric starting twin cylinder overhead valve engine, cast-iron cylinder sleeves, in-line fuel filter, and dual-element air cleaner with a 26” cutting width and a 2” sapling capacity.
Because here’s the thing: I’m a compassionate guy—really I am—but I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to suffer through 20 years of existential night terrors for a lousy $800 a month and a few bored, pendulum-breasted hookers—not to mention the kind of increasingly crappy black tar heroin that even Leif Garrett—as hard up as that cat can sometimes get for a fix and a meatball sandwich—would feel guilty enough to throw back into the pond.
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Sometimes I suspect that I am misunderstood. But then I realize that that’s probably just my special friend Hermie, who lives in my thyroid, trying to pump up my self esteem.
Which is quite selfless of him, really, because I have no idea what I can do to thank a thyroid, other than maybe treating it to a couple of shots of Iosol Iodine.
Did John Ashbery die?
You can tell us. We can take it.
Tethered to separate kites, Don Delilo and Thomas Pynchon once collided in mid-air while chasing the same single-winged locust
I was fortunate enough to be walking along beneath them and have one of Delilo’s shoes plummet 30 feet and hit me flush in the skull.
Turns out that’s where he keeps his weed, in a cheap little ziplock.
The asshole.
Memo to investigating officer: the red pills are synergistic with benzodiazepine. This may be therapeutically valuable. Further data required.
The existing protocol is of no value. There aren’t any controls. But anything that can make the subject pass up Kubota in favor of that Kawasaki schleck has effects we can use, especially back in the closed wards where this guy is gonna be if he keeps on self-medicating. I mean, have you seen that B2910 with the telescoping stabilizers!? Sweeeeet…
Speechless.
Fruit fly larvae in an open one liter pepsi bottle now half full of amber hued dip spit spend most of their time wriggling around randomly like some sort of maggoty Brownian motion. Every once in a while, though, they’ll start line dancing or spell out profanities.
Fuckers.
Jeff,
You need to just start vaccuuming out your sofa in a disinterested manner. You’re giving me existential night terrors. And you’re getting good at it.
TW=often. As in I wake during the night often, wondering how even my fat white ass could produce so much cold sweat…
I used to suffer from the brutal misperception that I actually understood most of what I read. Then I came here………and fuck me if I can make heads or tales………………
You really oughta lay off the Klonopin while writing.
Although it must be admitted, “the spilled seed of hanged men longing to find meaning in the waste of their dreams, to maybe redeem themselves in the birth of mandrake” was good.
SB: ill
Okay, Jeff—those aren’t Sudafed. Those are Hot Tamales candies.
Ironically, this is one thing the New Agers got right, post-traumatic stress is NOT caused by the content of our memories, but by how we feel about them. It really is about your self-esteem.
So buck up there, soldier. While $800 a month and few hookers may not sound like much, think of it this way: Andrew Sullivan may have more money than you, but you don’t have his problems to keep you awake at night.
Interestingly Van Gogh also had a friend named Hermie who reportedly lived in Vincent’s left ear. Beware the whispers and remember: body parts – especially tiny endocrine glands – do not make good gifts for prostitutes. They’ve always preferred cash to soft tissue and are surprisingly squeamish about such presents.
Damn. Mojo beat me to it. Although I do think there must be some deep-seated psychological reason that you happened to pick that particular component of the issue of hanged men. And I don’t mean “issue” as in topic.
At what point do we ask Kawasaki if this is a compensated endorsement?
Because if it is…that’s one f***ed up way to heave Leif Garrett back into the collective conciousness.
BECAUSE OF THE RED PILL INJUSTICE OF OMISSION INFLICTED UPON TONY DEFRANCO!!!
P.S.: A heartbeat IS a lovebeat, you know.
…or even issue as in “topic.”
You, I want to party with. If I don’t have to drive. If I don’t have to walk. If I can just drop where I am. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
The spilled seed of hanged men is a pleasant sort of image if you’re in the right kind of mood.
Maybe it’s just me but if you were to spurn that bolted together piece of junk from Lincoln, NE, and find a way to mount some nikasil lined goodness from Berlin into that thing, it will serve you far better.
to wit: the first BMW engine ever made was discovered on a farm in Germany last decade, still merrily chugging along pumping shit.
One of these days I’m going to learn to stop falling for aggregiously pretty bitchy girls that make your knees weak, and eat their lunch time meals in that outreageously sexual way with the subtle tongue licking across the soft ruby lips thing going on, while your member does the happy dance in your slightly moisened shorts….. or not….
On the other hand I’ve never enjoyed the sucking sensations of a 31.2 millilitre Richardson, twin barrel carbarator, with the throttle on full RPM’s either, so what do I know….
TW: At times I think I can actually pass My effervescent fingers right through my face, grasping my larnyz, as I sing Mandy at the top of my lungs….
I read it once.
Then I read it again.
This made my head hurt. Or maybe it was the 4 Blue Sapphire Martinis I had last night,
either way DAMN YOU JEFF GOLDSTEIN!!!
This post makes me think of Katarina Witt. Or a Dixie Chopper Xtreme Mowchine.
http://www.dixiechopper.com/xtreme_.php
Sure, it won’t cut 2” saplings, but it mows at 15 mph. Zero-turn radius pirouettes with grace and power; what’s not to like?
That is, as long as the mini-skirt is on Katarina and not the mower.
My cat’s breath smells like cat food.
You really oughta lay off the Klonopin while writing.
No, no, fer gawdsaik! Don’t you understand the stuff is like a T1 connection to his muse?
What? You want all pedantic all the time?
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