It all started innocently
enough. I was there on
a sanctioned event. They
needed me or at least
that's what all those insecure
slobbering dogs said.
What they needed from me wasn't
clear...it still isn't,
but in the end who am I to
contemplate such weighty
matters in between bites of my ham
and lebanon baloney
sandwich?
So, I'm there in line pondering the
meaning of chaos
and the utter indifference of the
wave function to
the turning of the globe when I see
in my mind's
eye a fantastically disgusting image.
Bea Arthur
flogging the Pope as he masturbates
to naked pictures
of Pat Sajak. I tell myself
it's all a fantasy and
much too magnificent to ever be
true.
It's the jabbing from the slab of
meat standing next
to me that jogs me back to
"reality". The slimy bits
of lettuce in the stainless steel
bins are revolting,
so I begin to spoon out the clumpy
spaghetti-like kack
onto my plate with tongs. What
the fuck are they
thinking? Tongs? Grab the
spoon. Use the spoon, you
mindless conforming twat. This
is bullshit. When
you're done put it back in the
chicken bin covered
in spaghetti slop. You are
chaos.
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