Letters to Hunter – #1

January creeps on timidly, the first few steps of the new year, anxiously testing the water, not fully commited.  The end of the last year forgotten and festering in the gutter along with a slew of used condoms, spent cigarette ends, and broken champagne bottles, we turn our attention to the future.  What will pass in these coming months Hunter?  What’s going to happen?  You missed a good Race last year.  We now have our first (mostly) black President (elect).  A groundbreaking step for our society, don’t you think?  It’s truly a shame that you missed it in person.  I’m sure word has gotten to you by now though, wherever you are.

If I ever leave this world alive…

“The Doctor is Dead.” says a voice in my head.  “Dead, gone, shot from a cannon…  His memory has already started to fade from the world, back to the place where all ideas and dreams come from.”

“Then he’s not dead, or gone, or even forgotten…  Just recycled.”  I reply.

“You and your hippie shit…”  It says.  “Fading back into the darkness of my thoughts.

DAMN!  DAMN! SHIT! FUCK! BOB SAGET GAH!  WHY ARE THERE NOT ENOUGH CURSE WORDS TO DESCRIBE THE RAGE AND ANNOYANCE THAT I FEEL?!

Let’s face it Hunter, I’m getting no younger.  The world is slowly passing me by, running like hell whenever I turn my back, like some fucked up version of Red Rover that has no end and the losers die at the end.  I’m falling to pieces physically and mentally, and my writing isn’t all that great either.  Bah…  Sometimes it would indeed be nice to own an arsenal to exterminate (with extreme prejudice) all the pumpkins that I plan to grow in a large garden just for that purpose.  Or maybe I’ll choose watermelons.  Whatever…  The fact remains that there will be a Rapture for whatever I choose to grow.  And all the ones who have been saved will…  Well…  Be spared I guess…  Till I eat them…

Sorry to go on and ramble about like this.  I know I really have no direction with this transmission, but at least we’re not in Tucson.  Or Florida.

That fucking clock on the wall assaults me each second with a loud ‘TICK’ or ‘TOCK’…  The more I listen, the more it sounds like nothing BUT ‘TOCKS’.

Well, that didn’t come out quite like planned…  But I’m much too lazy right now to go back and change it.  If you don’t like the buttocks, deal with it.  I’m not here to pander to your flighty whims.  That’s what the midget in the leopard print speedo standing in the corner is for.  When I need something, I grab some of that ‘Liquid Gold’ (shortening), at work and douse him in it before grabbing him by the butt floss and flinging him down the yards and yards and yards of Slip ‘n Slide that I’ve rigged up around the house to ease in the movement.  There have been times that he’s hit some pretty steep speeds.  He wants a helmet, but I can’t allow him to for insurance reasons.

Just last week our neighbor’s dog (A stomping dog) ) ((Chiuhauha)) decided it was going to take a pleasant shit on our front door step.  With a splash of the Liquid Gold and a few test swings I was ready.  So a few hours later, the dog is wandering idly in the front yard, completely unaware of the End of the World that slowly creeps up from behind.  Wat (pronounced “what”), clad in only his leopard print speedo and a HUGE nerf bat, neared the beast and waited for it’s attention to be taken.  I saw my moment and knocked on our window, causing the little bastard to turn my way.  Faster than I could react, Wat roared and pounced, slamming the soft foam bat into the ankle biter, knocking it unconcious.  Brave and noble Wat…

It took only minutes for the dog to wake back up.  It looked at me and growled, whined, and pissed, trying to escape the clutches of Wat.

“Alright you little bastard, time for revenge.”  I said, taking the dog.  I held the dog firmly by the scruff and wandered around the yard until I found a fresh pile, recently laid by another of the neighborhood strays.  “And this…  Is why you don’t fuck with someone who owns a midget.

Screaming ‘Bad Dog’ at the top of my lungs, I rubbed the dog through it, making sure to coat thoroughly.  A few seconds later, I heard a door open behind me, and standing there looking deeply disturbed was the dog’s owner.  They were speechless as we locked eyes and tried to push the others buttons.  I stood up, holding the very shitty dog in a gloved hand by the scruff of the neck, and walked over to the owner.

“Is this your dog?”

They nodded.

“Good.  I’ve just put it through obedience school.  If it ever shits on my front step or in the yard again, I swear to you on the cumstained sheets of Jerry Falwell’s mother, I will eat your dog and shit on YOUR front step.  Got it?”

Another nod.
“Good.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go feed the midget and change his speedo.”

I returned to my kingdom victorious.

Well Hunter, I’ve got to get going.  Work in a few hours, y’know?

At any rate, I’ll write again when the time allows me to.

Regards and candle smoke,

Scarab

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~ by binarycheshire on January 6, 2009.

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