An Airing Of Pretentions
You seem to be leading the honkiest existence one could ever dream of.
I'm a native. You're a nativist. I'm local. You must be on tour. It's about to get raw in here. Attitude-
that's what I've got. You’re the type of person the assailants wish to grab onto during a hostage situation.
If I was your high school guidance counselor I would have advised you to go out into the world and be anybody,
just don't be yourself. Roasting weenies on a beach- talking about how nature smells so 'natural.' Writing
pamphlets on how not to make your dog feel ashamed about his bowel movements. Always tuned in to your
webisodes- I don't fuck with that Internet shit. I'm off the grid- out of reach- untouchable- an outcast.
The maps I use are made by Rand McNally, not Google. You probably never even heard of them. You're so wrapped
up in your own self-image you can't see the forest through the leaves. Reciting those positive adages
everybody clings to as a crutch to actual language, to actual feeling- hey, it's not a breakthrough moment
if you have one every five minutes. Me, I'm hip like beat poetry- ask me a question and I'll feed you a line.
I'm like this- zip zam- genius- record this shit- write it down. I'm in the rhetorical room reading about the
latest idioglossia, philatelist. Check my exophthalmos. You're looking all confused- that's the mystique.
You say you like my style, you want to get to know me- fat chance. I don't do interviews, just ask my
publicist. And where are all your little friends tonight anyway, your little buddies, Los Paquitos, as I like
to call them? You know- your sycophants, your peons, yes men- those cats always finding subtle ways to make
reference to their economic or social status. Probably at a drugged-out leather party, cocaine cut with Drano
and baby powder. Well while you were drunken, comatose, urinating in the middle of the boulevard last night I
was home swallowing a string and passing it through my bowels. I'm about experience- you read about it in the
paper. My opinions are actually facts yet to be accepted by those with obsequious mentalities. And as the
ambulances, the fire trucks arrive to pick up your carcass, freshly perished at the local fitness club- yeah,
death by treadmill- I hope you've finally achieved enlightenment. Either way, at least you won't be talking
about the weather for once.