You Need To Do Something Anything
Ohhhh...oh, that's right Mr. Tough Guy. Oh, the motherfuckin' crows are at the door, Sunny Jim. You need to raise that prodigious lumpass of you'rn off that chair and get out a oz. or two of the ol' leaderooni. God damn straight.
You're getting lived, man. Your skin and your organs and your whole flippin' Tract are living off you while you sit there and fret like a horny nun. You see what I'm saying? The tail is wagging the polesmokin' dog, Dingbert.
And while you sit there and contemplate that oh-so-scrumptious rubato G minor 9th with that kooky dancing 11th you better take pause and exercise some of yo' much vaunted honesty and self-diprications. Oh, yes you had.
Time's runnin' down, man. See? Diggit? The little hand and all that shit? Oh, my god when I sit here and think of what I've done with all that time. Oh, my god I may as well have just spent it sitting in a window with my schramm in m'hand watching the traffic move heavy and low across th' Connecticut river Valium and making up offcolor lim'ricks.
Shitweed, people reach out to you every day and you there on your bum feelin' forsaken and artistic. Fuckin' parasite. You make me sick. The sight of you.
You're fuckin' old. You're set in your little patterns and now you're boring and now you're going to be wrong when people ask you things but you won't know it. Because you're a lazy sack of garbage who's lost his raison d'etre or some fucking crap and when you speak th' universe wobbles not in the slightest.
Best you can do now is exhibit some class. At least show some class. And I don't mean be a polesmokin' jackoff with lengthy opinions about everything that everyone rolls their god damn eyes about behind your back. Jesus, how are you going to get by being such a pud? You're like fuckin' Giamatti in Sideways but hotter. Maybe you can do something. Anything. Maybe be the guy with the drugs. That's a fine fallback for the Boring And Aged.
What the fuck? What the everloving fuck? My friend? What's it to be?
Check a fuckin' box, Otis.
posted by Bobby Lightfoot at 22:19
7 Comments:
I am so glad this isn't directed at me.
Um, this isn't directed at me, right?
No, no, no, my friend.
This is 3 minutes inside my fuckin' head. And there's a lot of 3 minute chunks in a day, Sunny Jim. And there's a lot of days in a life.
I've just found out how to make it go by reaaaaal slow.
Um... You tell 'em, Bobby?
By the second 'graph i knew it was the mirror.
I usually remind myself there isn't really any point to life aside from watching it,
just do what it takes to make sure you like what you see.
I bet you'd make a great a Xerox Machine Salesman.
I bet you'd make a great a Xerox Machine Salesman.
Unfuckin' berievable!
I know it don't help, and maybe some bit o' pride - or something - would obviate the truth of it but, dang mang, I do to be diggin' it.
Lotsalaughs to the Viscount, and dammit all if mdhatter ain't right.
Least I'm likin' it a little better lately.
If there's any hope of it bein' efficacious, Good Luck.
Every day made to the next is a kind of victory, Mr. B. Being hard on yourself is good for the ol' quality control, but don't let it go too far, otherwise you just end up beating up the wrong guy.
Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, one note behind the other, and when you look back on it all, you'll see the route you've taken, and realize it was a damned good one, as routes go.
It could be worse. It could always be worse.
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