This Saturday’s Speed Writing

today’s speed writing exercises definitely show i’m odder when i haven’t had enough sleep.

Nobody likes a smart-ass… my father’s favorite saying.
I give him the finger every time I race. Easy to do, we start by the cemetery.
Wait for the signal to turn green… five blocks away. Roar off the line, light’s guaranteed to be red when we get there.
Generally, that’s the first point possibility of the day.
Little, fiberglass, fuel-efficient, commuter cars getting t-boned by reinforced, steel-chassised V-8 death machines.
We call the results “accordion with strawberry jam”.
Scoring conventions… hard to remember when the adrenaline is pumping.
That’s why we have navigators.
“Bob, no rules, head for the park.”
No rules – minimal points, go for quantity.
“Florida rules! Nursing home, take the next left!”
Florida rules – old people worth double.
“Texas rules! Playground, right two lights down!”
Texas rules – triple points for kids.
I’m not saying I like killing… but I do like racing, I love the competition…
You know, fuck that.
I love the killing.


welcome to my home
candied children, fresh and hot,
don’t eat until cool

sandpaper couches
enjoy my electric chair,
nation’s finest thrill

first door on your right,
parallel razor toilet
potty overload


Of course we put the clowns away. Can’t have their kind roaming free.
Have you ever seen one of them actually entertain someone? If you have, you’re the first.
Ought to move the clown college right next to the asylum, shorten the trip.
And we put all the hunchbacks, dwarfs, and midgets under bridges.
Didn’t tell the kids… more fun that way.
But back to the asylum… not just clowns. We put the politicians there as well. Electro-convulsive therapy twelve times a day.
Last week one of them burst into flames, and his gold crowns flew out of his mouth like popcorn. A hell of a lot more fun than goddamn clowns.
We thought about putting the clergy in there, too, but relented. We just keep packing the preachy motherfuckers into Kansas. The wall is so high and thick, no one can hear them anymore.
Don’t be silly. We’ve set up cameras, and we’re waiting for them to start Holy-Communing each other.
Congress is now a petting zoo… helps the kids with their bridge-trauma.
Lawyers… great huge ranches in Oklahoma and Texas where they run free… with bombs planted in their asses.
Periodically, we randomly detonate one, and watch the stampede.
Speaking of which, pass the popcorn.


First thing… the alligators weren’t my idea. You can thank Ed for that.
I had no idea how to get rid of the body. I thought dumpster… then thought about cutting him up, and leaving chunks of him in all the office trash cans. They don’t run the AC in the office over the weekend, would have gotten real fragrant.
But Ed just sat on the back of his truck, bouncing his kid’s basketball, and shaking his head.
Waste of goddamn money, buying Jr any sporting equipment. Kid’s a natural-born victim, and pretending otherwise is living a dream.
But anyway, good ol-what’s-his-name… I pleaded with him. I need this job.
New owners of the company, must make cuts, my position’s been outsourced.
So I called Ed. He and me, we’re gonna drive ol’… lemme find his name tag… Stewart. We’re gonna drive Stewart out to the alligator farm, and they’ll take care of the body, no muss no fuss.
Then Ed wants to go get Jr a skateboard.
Waste of goddamn money, if you ask me.


There are mothers who react to everything their kids do with a tranquil and implacable calm… I think of it as “the vegetative vibe”.
There are mothers who seem little more than cheerleaders for their children’s every endeavor. I call those the “rah-rah ma’s”.
There are mothers who push their children into potentially lucrative activities. I call them “profit pimps”.
Then there’s my Mom. The explosively inappropriate. Every day is doomsday.
“You call that a haircut! What, did she charge me $40 to cut three hairs? I’m going in there and getting my money back!”
“Did you read that editorial your friend Ricki’s daddy wrote to the paper? Man’s little better than a communist! You don’t hang out with Ricki ever again!”
“I saw that paper you had to write for your so-called ‘science’ class! Galaxies! There’s something you’ll never need to know in real life! You’re taking shop next year!”
I don’t count the years or months until I turn 18 and can leave… I count the goddamn hours.
26,283 hours to go.

listening to: “The Sixties: The Vietnam War”
mood: tired

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