Thursday, May 30, 2013

A Liturgy of Thursday

Mow your fucking grass
I hate to sound stereotypically old
But actually no I don't fucking care
Mow your fucking grass
There are millions of acres of open Nebraska I could be
if I wanted to have to worry about being swarmed in ticks and rattlesnakes
Motherfucker you are in town
Mow your fucking grass
If you are dreadful of going outside
Know that the best way to keep the cops away
out of sight of whatever chemical inspires you to nothing
is to Mow Your Fucking Grass
Mow Your Fucking Grass
Mow Your Fucking Grass
Mow Your Fucking Grass


I think a biannual cycle of flood and drought   would give the Prairie climate a welcome sort of headiness, an air of the distinctive or even exotic.  Something writers could use for atmosphere in love stories, spy thrillers, magical realist fables etc. 

You can try to tell an outsider how our climate is in its way already fantastic without human interference.  You can try to tell them just how extreme the difference between the coldest winter night and the hottest summer day truly is, and it truly is.  I have every confidence that I could dress comfortably and smartly for Doha and Reykjavik both alike.   But all they're going to hear is that our winters are cold and our summers are hot, and so what?  Just another boring white bread normal trait of a boring white bread normal land.  You need to give them something visceral or even carnal in order to impress them.  And now we have it.


It I happened upon the real Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny having sex I would not commence to masturbate.  It would more like walking in on elderly neighbors or a married pair in which one is a distant relative.  It would be a shrinking and painful experience.  I would need to exile myself from my own social circle for a month or maybe two until they stopped talking about it. 

Oatman, Arizona is cool.  Cool to visit I mean.  I'm sure if I lived there for any appreciable time  I would hate my neighbors and be hated to the point of being 'invited' to leave in turn.  There's a bar there.  Of course there's a bar, and of course it's covered in the same 'we are so fucking rustic and cowboy' theme of every village bar west of the Missouri.  Though in this case there is no small veracity to it and, it's cute you know?  The donkeys are not pets.  Their vegetarian dentals are strong enough to turn your hand into pastrami and the odds are low that doctors would be able to spare it.  Oatman is rustic. Veracity, like I said.  It's a long way to a surgeon or any other kind of modern help.  And the donkeys are not pets. They have no civil affection. There is nothing to stop them from joining forces in the dead of night murdering the most well-armed humans in their sleep and ruling Oatman as a savage junta forever.

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