For when the writer side of me is broken.
The near-extinct sprinting crocodile about to spring into a striking chasing pose. According to seasoned disfigured safari hunters, these creature will tear the living shit out of you. Image Source.
He had a very stupid name, Hoggy MacGoogan. Short story long, Hoggy’s “supposed” father was an Armenian prankster. His parents before him were greater pranksters and had their last name legally changed to something, anything Scottish. Literally translated, Hoggy meant disregard the following Scottish. His mother was completely oblivious. Not because she was American, but because she was more concerned with the greater priorities in life, like shooing away the persistent gorilla from the kitchen. One day, Dad disappeared, not sure if it was coincidence, but so did the badgering gorilla. Perhaps not coincidence, nine months later, Mom gave birth to the ugliest thing anyone has ever seen. At this precise moment, none of this mattered one bit. Hoggy MacGoogan was running for dear life.
I have an annual ceremony which began in 1985. I celebrate Memorial Day by playing the worst music I own. Songs like “Policeman” by Chicago and “Him” by Rupert Holmes. Somehow, this gives greater weight to the great, the greatest veterans, who fought for this country and especially for my right to listen to garbage. Let there be mash up!
I remember when days actually felt like 24 hours. Not like today, when they seem like 17 to 18. I’m almost sure it’s a conspiracy, where “the man” is taking away hours at a time while we sleep, so it’s easier to mind control us. I also remember when Sunday mornings seemed more purple. I have a feeling that when you’re famous, none of this matters.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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