scarecrow’s body begins to stir.
DECEMBER 21, 8:40 A . M . EST
A Rude Redemption
Posted by [email protected]
Gentle Tweeter,
Passing gas. Belching. Picking your nose and flicking the boogers. Leaving your used chewing gum on park benches. These are the prayers of a new major world religion, and it’s all my fault. My goal was just to reunite my little family, albeit in Hell. I told my parents to double-park and say the F-bomb and discard cigarette butts on the ground because I knew those acts would surely send them to Hell. And because they couldn’t keep their mouths shut, now they’ve doomed a thousand million souls to eternal misery.
Gentle Tweeter, what I told my folks,
I was only kidding
. All I wanted to do was cheer them up.
Why do the impulsive notions of a would-be do-gooder always translate into the ideals of the next civilization? It’s possible that Jesus and Buddha and Mohammed were just ordinary dead guys who simply wanted to say “howdy” and offer some comfort to their living-alive friends. This, this is why the dead don’t talk to the future dead. Predead folks always misconstrue every message. Here I was only fooling around, and my mom’s founded an entire theology on my practical joke.
Ye gods. Now we have “Boorism,” an entire international religious movement founded on potty humor and rude behavior.
What can I do? I can try to set my parents straight. That, that’s what I’ve got to do. As Mr. Crescent City drags himself to his feet, I resolve to follow him back to my deranged mother and set straight the flatulent, earthly world.
DECEMBER 21, 8:44 A . M . EST
A World of Boors
Posted by [email protected]
Gentle Tweeter,
Imagine a world where everyone goes about their daily lives with the absolute certainty that he or she is going to Heaven. Everyone has guaranteed salvation. This is the Earth to which I have returned. From room 6314 of the Rhinelander, I follow my derelict guide. Mr. Crescent City, he carries no luggage. With his every shambling footfall crumbs of shattered glass drop from his clothes, but he doesn’t appear to have a cut or scratch after crushing the coffee table. As the elevator arrives at the lobby and the doors slide open, a waiting guest stands aside for us to exit. Nodding politely, this stranger says, “Eat shit, asswipe.”
In response Crescent makes a little bow and says, “A merry faggot, cunt, nigger to you, too.” And he spits a great wad of saliva on the stranger’s shoes.
This is all my parents’ doing! I should’ve known they couldn’t keep their big traps shut. I’m willing to bet that the moment my mom was off the long-distance call with me she was telling her publicist to announce a press conference. No doubt she and my dad have been tirelessly disseminating the advice I gave them for getting to “Heaven.” The Rhinelander lobby, once a sanctuary of reserved conduct and politely hushed discourse, has become a reeking locker room of stale vapors and toilet talk.
In jarring contrast, everyone’s beaming. You’ve never seen so many people so happy. The guests, the concierges, the doormen, they wear the faces of joyous potty-mouthed children. As they glance at one another, theirs are the guileless, loving eyes of Renaissance cherubs gazing in adoration upon the Christ child. The desk clerk greets us with a smile so broad it suggests she’s paid by the tooth. Her eyes shine with genuine rapture as she says, “How was your butt-fucking, dick-sucking stay, Mr. City?”
Crescent returns the rapturous smile, saying, “Fucking great, fuck you, you cunt lapper.”
The clerk confirms that his room is being billed to Camille and Antonio Spencer. She accepts his room key and pleasantly asks, “It looks like your shit-eating car and jungle-bunny driver are waiting. Can I help you with any bullshit fucking, queer-bait thing else?”
“No, thank you,” says Crescent. He shoves a hand into the front pocket of his
DECEMBER 21, 8:40 A . M . EST
A Rude Redemption
Posted by [email protected]
Gentle Tweeter,
Passing gas. Belching. Picking your nose and flicking the boogers. Leaving your used chewing gum on park benches. These are the prayers of a new major world religion, and it’s all my fault. My goal was just to reunite my little family, albeit in Hell. I told my parents to double-park and say the F-bomb and discard cigarette butts on the ground because I knew those acts would surely send them to Hell. And because they couldn’t keep their mouths shut, now they’ve doomed a thousand million souls to eternal misery.
Gentle Tweeter, what I told my folks,
I was only kidding
. All I wanted to do was cheer them up.
Why do the impulsive notions of a would-be do-gooder always translate into the ideals of the next civilization? It’s possible that Jesus and Buddha and Mohammed were just ordinary dead guys who simply wanted to say “howdy” and offer some comfort to their living-alive friends. This, this is why the dead don’t talk to the future dead. Predead folks always misconstrue every message. Here I was only fooling around, and my mom’s founded an entire theology on my practical joke.
Ye gods. Now we have “Boorism,” an entire international religious movement founded on potty humor and rude behavior.
What can I do? I can try to set my parents straight. That, that’s what I’ve got to do. As Mr. Crescent City drags himself to his feet, I resolve to follow him back to my deranged mother and set straight the flatulent, earthly world.
DECEMBER 21, 8:44 A . M . EST
A World of Boors
Posted by [email protected]
Gentle Tweeter,
Imagine a world where everyone goes about their daily lives with the absolute certainty that he or she is going to Heaven. Everyone has guaranteed salvation. This is the Earth to which I have returned. From room 6314 of the Rhinelander, I follow my derelict guide. Mr. Crescent City, he carries no luggage. With his every shambling footfall crumbs of shattered glass drop from his clothes, but he doesn’t appear to have a cut or scratch after crushing the coffee table. As the elevator arrives at the lobby and the doors slide open, a waiting guest stands aside for us to exit. Nodding politely, this stranger says, “Eat shit, asswipe.”
In response Crescent makes a little bow and says, “A merry faggot, cunt, nigger to you, too.” And he spits a great wad of saliva on the stranger’s shoes.
This is all my parents’ doing! I should’ve known they couldn’t keep their big traps shut. I’m willing to bet that the moment my mom was off the long-distance call with me she was telling her publicist to announce a press conference. No doubt she and my dad have been tirelessly disseminating the advice I gave them for getting to “Heaven.” The Rhinelander lobby, once a sanctuary of reserved conduct and politely hushed discourse, has become a reeking locker room of stale vapors and toilet talk.
In jarring contrast, everyone’s beaming. You’ve never seen so many people so happy. The guests, the concierges, the doormen, they wear the faces of joyous potty-mouthed children. As they glance at one another, theirs are the guileless, loving eyes of Renaissance cherubs gazing in adoration upon the Christ child. The desk clerk greets us with a smile so broad it suggests she’s paid by the tooth. Her eyes shine with genuine rapture as she says, “How was your butt-fucking, dick-sucking stay, Mr. City?”
Crescent returns the rapturous smile, saying, “Fucking great, fuck you, you cunt lapper.”
The clerk confirms that his room is being billed to Camille and Antonio Spencer. She accepts his room key and pleasantly asks, “It looks like your shit-eating car and jungle-bunny driver are waiting. Can I help you with any bullshit fucking, queer-bait thing else?”
“No, thank you,” says Crescent. He shoves a hand into the front pocket of his
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