One would think you were the last great wonder of evolution, sitting there in your big chair, eating your Frosted Fecal Flakes, your Unicorn Urinal Cakes, entering the club and ordering champagne enemas for all around. Acting Jamaican- suburban dreadlocks reek of peat moss- carrying rumba box and shake shake, smoking spliffs, chugging fish tea. Your personal ad reads, 'Kung Fu Motherfucker Speaks to Horses.' You claim your high-fashion underwear modeling career was sidetracked by photographers whose styles aped filthy-chic Guess spots and Coors Light commercials. I say it's because you are hirsute, and you've got a face like a badger. Giving voice to an endless, empty string of pretensions- chiming on about how in your religion there is no concept of enemy, how time is just a meaningless word. Eating obscure nuts and berries, babbling about the birth of the hermaphroditic twins. Eyeballs painted on eyelids and prayer shawl- you say you're getting into your zone, but you have no zone, and that meditation shit you do ain't real. Try focusing on your problems, analysis and conclusion- don't meditate. Don't worship at the altar of the winged tortoise or skull, don't trust in snake-stones, in toad sweat, in chance. It's time to sweep all of your sweeping generalities to the curb!
       I wasn't a rich kid like you. I never got to go into the cages at the zoo and pet all of the Bengal tigers on my birthday. I was mauled by a tiger once though as a youth in Delhi. Still I look pretty good for a guy who floated over here on an oil drum raft with only the shirt on his back. No one would ever accuse me of having ambition- in dreams I'm always scooting around in one of those motorized wheelchairs. I started out with nothing and I have nothing left. Give me lemons and I'll just stare at them- give me a ham and you won't end up with ham salad. Despite my never-ending quest for anonymity I believe that when a man's getting beat up by the cops all the time you know he's on to something good. Yes, this life has proven to be the death of me- I end every evening paranoid, coked up, pacing the living room in a bathrobe, loaded .38 in my pocket, pondering how something like five hundred different companies could be making money manufacturing breakfast toaster strudels. But hey- at least there's no self-deception in that! Maybe you're not so wrong though- for life is all about what makes you feel big, isn't it? That collection of myths, that set of lies that help us get through the day. But the question is whether we're deluding ourselves just a bit too much.