Took Me A Little Walk This Evening.

Tha's right, man.

Off across th' moor I strode not unHeathcliffelike. I dug my well-lined hands into the pockets of my dungaroos and leaned into the raging noreastro.

And I thought, man. I thought hard. All about where we're going and the state of things.

And about how hard it's getting for an honest man to get a fair shake. And about how one man's problems don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. And I thought about the millions that perished on 9/11 in th' slaughter camps of Flussbertstein and Candice Belsen.

It hurt me to do it, but I nosed in and really sort of flopped around in it, man. Really lathered myself up with it. On th' moor.

And I turned over in my mind the state in which we find ourselves as a country.

Read that again.

It was hard to do, you know? Usually I just like thinking about Houses Of The Holy and Kristy Finkelstoon's butt in th' 11th grade. Like a sumptuous and fresh-cleffed pomegranite 'twas. Now? Now I suspect it resembleth th' Final Faceoff in the World Wide Jack Russell Terrier Wrestling Federation with th' battling pups confined to dirty pillowcases until the bell rings.

Ha ha ha. Butt I digress.

It was an unseasonably warm evening in th' autumn of the year and as I reached the tarn that surrounds the house of Usher on horseback I pondered what would happen to the children, you know? We have to teach them well. You have to teach the motherfucking children, right? Even if you do as I and simply provide an example of how not to be. I think that's valid, man. Actually, I really hope so. I'd like to think they cast an eye on their jittery and existentially embattled dear old stepdad and think yeah, music's out as a job, you know? Maybe some nice law school or macroeconomics. It's fun to play basketball or finish furniture or play Playstation with him but when he gets that look you want to be turning th' volume up.

It dawned on me as I came upon the small dirt road that leads around our compound how important it is to try and stay o-positive. Even as Biafra and th' Vietnam conflict rages around us. Even as bridges burn and rivers flow. Rivers of fire and brinestone. From whence the good salt comes. Cold as Vichy Soisse. Cold, cold, cold.

And the sun danced off to th' west and old mister moonlint bathed the heaths in silver as I strode ever onward. And the stars cane up in the sky and I offered a silent prayer; that we'd be all right, that the little ones would grow strong and honest. And that the Old Ones would all shuffle quietly away to ships and shuffleboard where they fucking belong before they fuck it up even worse. All those fucking towelhead tinpot fuckbag trillionaires in th' Mideast. All those fat, worthless, offal-devouring, stale-twizzler-dick twat Republican politicians with their sick, unctuating fish lips and their evil. All those dick-tickling fuckface lying shit head hypocrite radio "personalities". All the filthy, repulsive, cat-shit covered corporateer sootikin-devouring little Satans that run all the companies. All the infant-diddling, zit-sucking, scrotum-chinned religionists in their cumstained vestments. All our pasty, pouting, pussy Protooled pop stars nancying about with their cocks and cunts and tits and calves all stuffed with padding and sewn shut badly with fishing line and seeping pus and shame and self-hatred and vacuity. And all the suckass googling pissant e-peasants who drop their fucking blood money to keep all the feckless fucking movie stars in incontinence underwear so they they can better cope with the heartbreak of a rectum rendered loose and helpless by centuries of endless, loveless, hopeless buggery.

And I thought about how, really, the best-case scenario is really th' perpetuation of all of it. For a billion trillion years amen.

When I got home I shoved my dick in the motherfucking wood chipper.