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A Few Short Ones this Afternoon

June 10, 2012


I’m dying.  I am fucking dying and I know it.

Every night, I don’t drift peacefully into sleep.  I am suddenly slammed into the slate cliffs on the shore of sleep.  I awaken much too early, always needing a fierce piss, always remembering I forgot to floss.  When I lie back down, the extra hour only makes my back hurt.  I feel rushed to relax, rushed to get up.

Here, on the bone of my wrist, see that?  There’s a red splotch, it’s skin disease, it has to be.  It has gotten bigger today.  Just a matter of time, just a matter of fucking time.

And there’s this little pain in the front of the bulge of my belly.  Like there’s a soft spot there on the inside.  Like there’s a little belly chicken inside pecking it’s way through the enamel.  I change my diet.  The belly chicken keeps at it.

I haven’t had a decent, non-onanistic orgasm in over five months.  Six!  I’m sick of all my favourite pornos.  The passive, organic part of my sexuality, completely weakened by wanking.  There’s no beauty for me in a statue of a dancer anymore.  Only a fidgety shame.  Fuck me, I’m depressed.

But at least I have my dignity.


Mad Flavour, he calls himself.  Mad Flavour or Coco.  Have your pick.

He grew up mixing with the wrong crowds and got pinched for some offense at an early age.  Something worthy of a stint in some bighouse.  The lore says he used to entertain the other inmates by goofing on the food served at meal times; he honed a craft that has kept him alive in the quarter-century since then.  He is a stand-up comedian.

He’s a big guy.  His voice is very distinctive, an undulating gravely yell.  A smoker, he sounds like someone is strangling the dirty truth out of a drunken Brooklyn priest.  Cuban extraction.  Tells real raucous stories about growing up rabble-rousing, then selling drugs in late-‘eighties Los Angeles.  His opinions are quite firm, and he accentuates them with well-placed explosions of “fucking cocksuckers” and “you better fucking believe it.”

One of his colleagues and close friends says Joey Diaz could crease you up reading out of the phonebook.

A true American story.  This youth takes a turn out of trouble and supports himself and his family from his art.  By putting in the effort to get good at something positive.  He’s no household name, but he’s got enough of a following to have his shows sell out while he’s on the road.  Check out his wiki page – they’re even making a documentary about his life.  Fucking cocksuckers, better believe it.


Ten percent is one in ten.  Nine percent is nine times out of one hundred, or .9 out of ten.

This isn’t the only example of what is an insubstantial difference nonetheless appearing much larger.  If you heard that taking ten lovers in the next year, there’s a one in ten chance one of them turns out to be the love your life, next to whom you would end up buried, well you would think, oh, but for the journey there.

On the other hand, I tell you that you have a nine in one hundred chance over the next year of finding that same person, you would probably say fuck all that happy ending bullshit and ask me to pick up the tab, you’ve got an engagement elsewhere.  There would be ice left in a highball on a coaster and nothing else.  But the amounts of the probabilities are virtually the same.  Do you see yet?

This is the trick in the butcher’s window.  Four pound, ninety-nine pence per kilo beef will never, ever look as expensive as five pound per kilo beef.  Ever.

This is the way car lots are playgrounds for magicians.  Wave the paint-marker about on the windshield of the saloon, and pronounce a price point more palatable to the demographic.  Even the Bentley sales lot will repeat the spell.  Once you have a power like this in your grasp, to not take the advantage becomes risky business for the whole institution.

And that is why, my friendly readers, you get TWO candidates, each one of them ashed with a slight variant on the same blue-grey, asphyxiated tone of death, during each election cycle.  Only a slight variant, appearing so different from the other.  Tada!

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