Yes, I know, St. Patrick's day isn't for another week or so, but in honor of the bullshit-ass St. Patrick's Day Parade they had in Wappingers today that shut down all local traffic and made my commute home take like 45 minutes, here is once again my classic ode to that lamest of lame holidays:
FUCK SAINT PATRICK’S DAY
You know what? St. Patrick wasn't even Irish. He was something else that I am too lazy to look up (or not -- he was Welsh) and was taken from his family by marauding hordes of Irishmen. Whether they were painted green history doesn't record but they were probably as drunk as the marauding hordes of Irish assholes getting all puffed up because it's getting to be St. Patrick's Day. You know what really pisses me off? When someone says "On St. Patrick's Day, everyone's Irish!" What an arrogant and presumptuous statement. What other holiday has the balls to be so culturally insensitive? Can you imagine it elsewhere? "On Yom Kippur, everyone's Jewish!" "On Earth Day, everyone's a hippie!" "On Nasmas, everyone loves Illmatic!" Name another cultural group that gets a special parade for their holiday.
And I know, I know, the real reason St. Patrick's Day is such a crossover success is because it’s a reason to drink a lot. Who needs a reason? You want a reason to get stinking drunk? Try looking in the mirror and realizing that your entire life is a big fat lie. No, seriously, go try it. I'll wait. Tap tap tap. It's a sobering thought, isn't it? Shit, I think I'll have something to drink now too. Gulp, paranoid stare around the room.
Fuck Saint Patricks Day, and fuck Irish Pride. You love Ireland so much? Go the fuck back, they got that potato problem fixed now. There's some guy shivering in a box right now who would love to take up your eco-social slot when you go back to the Motherland, and I'm sure he'd be proud to be an American unlike you, you ungrateful little shit. Yeah, you, I'm talking to you. No, not you, the bitch sitting next to you. Yeah, you, bitch, you. Whatcha gonna do about it? Huh? Huh?
Goddamn I get belligerent while I'm drunk. Where was I? Oh yeah, fuck Saint Patricks' Day, and before you reply to disagree know that I already know what you're going to say and I think you're an idiot. Yeah, you, the fat kid in the back. You dumb fatso. I can read you like a book.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Blood: A Tone Poem Shoehorned Into Prose
I was coughing blood today. No lie. Not a lot of blood, sure – I was in no danger of losing precious liters – but it was blood nonetheless. Little specks that stained my tissue, like red snowflakes against an all-white sky.
I was coughing blood today. No lie. I guess it’s the chickens coming home to roost. For the sickly child I was, I’ve abused my lungs too much, for too long. I smoked marijuana daily for like seven years, and that's not exactly past tense behavior. For a long time I smoked cigarettes too – and unfiltered Luckies, no less. During a dark and desperate time in my life I was a fiend for nitrous oxide. I’ve smoked PCP. I’ve smoked opium. I’ve smoked salvia divinorum. Christ, I’ve even smoked orange Tic-Tacs, or tried to though they refused to burn. Did I miss anything? Oh, cloves. I also smoked clove cigarettes – again, a dark and desperate time in my life. The point is, if my childhood was marked by various respiratory ailments, my adult life has been characterized by my complete and utter lack of concern for said respiratory ailments. I always joked that I’d know it was time to quit when I started coughing up blood. Now that I have...
I was coughing blood today, no lie, and now I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid to get it checked out, for two reasons. First, because I am scared that this is the beginning of the end, that I have finally done one stupid thing to my body too many, that these specks of blood represent the punctuation at the end of my sentence. But I am also afraid that it won’t turn out to be anything fatal or terminal or even anything serious at all – that after all the coughing is said and done, after the blood has all dried up and the tissues are long discarded, it will be back to business as usual, and I will still have to wake up every day as I get older and more bitter. That I could still live long enough to see my fire die slowly instead, from flame to ember to ash.
I was coughing blood today. No lie.
I was coughing blood today. No lie. I guess it’s the chickens coming home to roost. For the sickly child I was, I’ve abused my lungs too much, for too long. I smoked marijuana daily for like seven years, and that's not exactly past tense behavior. For a long time I smoked cigarettes too – and unfiltered Luckies, no less. During a dark and desperate time in my life I was a fiend for nitrous oxide. I’ve smoked PCP. I’ve smoked opium. I’ve smoked salvia divinorum. Christ, I’ve even smoked orange Tic-Tacs, or tried to though they refused to burn. Did I miss anything? Oh, cloves. I also smoked clove cigarettes – again, a dark and desperate time in my life. The point is, if my childhood was marked by various respiratory ailments, my adult life has been characterized by my complete and utter lack of concern for said respiratory ailments. I always joked that I’d know it was time to quit when I started coughing up blood. Now that I have...
I was coughing blood today, no lie, and now I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid to get it checked out, for two reasons. First, because I am scared that this is the beginning of the end, that I have finally done one stupid thing to my body too many, that these specks of blood represent the punctuation at the end of my sentence. But I am also afraid that it won’t turn out to be anything fatal or terminal or even anything serious at all – that after all the coughing is said and done, after the blood has all dried up and the tissues are long discarded, it will be back to business as usual, and I will still have to wake up every day as I get older and more bitter. That I could still live long enough to see my fire die slowly instead, from flame to ember to ash.
I was coughing blood today. No lie.
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