I know what your thinking, that its all more minutia, nothing that touches your own circle, nothing that penetrates your daily life.
But can you be so sure?
I'm like Santa Claus, babies, because I'm everywhere at once. And I'm not good at stitching people back up either, so there is like a "wetworks crew" that sometimes has to fix my handiwork, and usually after I've left the seen.
"They don't pay me to mop the floor, Darryl." I throw my pogs, and then the ones I don't win back, I mean, really, who gives a fig about those?
Howell Kirvonnen is now, on this website, christened as "Bitch Pudding". Its not a derisive term, mind, but like that guy they called Snake Shit, its like somewhere between Utilitarian defeatism and endearment. And maybe even Bitch Pudding himself doesn't even know the difference.
On second thought, Darryl: make Bitch Pudding mop the floor. Darryl, I just wondered if you're even alive anymore, or maybe in an assisted-living facility. Like maybe I could bring you some of those strawberry candies and some bananas, let you bum a cigarette off me.
It would be fun. We could talk about cars worth less than 1500 dollars, and dream about how many we'd like to own, perpetually intending to buy something, at least one big-ticket replacement item for each of our specimens, tires and battery here, wiring harness and transmission there.
But most importantly, like I mentioned earlier about the wetworks crew, we don't just leave a body on the table.
A marionette with it's strings clipped, but no, Pinnochio, not made a real boy, just on that trip from which there is no return, beyond the mortal coil through a cloud of pollen towards the radiation belt, and that with its own peculiar magnetism.
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