The musings of a madman...

     You’ve seen them in the news and on the internets.  People showing up to the airport with the damndest of animals; squirrels, peacocks, sugar gliders, children, hamsters/gerbils, untrained dogs and basically any other animal they probably shouldn’t be trying to bring into the passenger compartment in an airplane.  Laws are catching up with these silly-ass attempts at shirking an otherwise ill-defined system and I guess it is all for the better.      But did I tell y’all about my emotional support rooster? Stop laughing, it was a real thing.  I didn’t even bother giving him a name. As the great both of you may be aware, I LIVE for a good inappropriate double entendre, and there is no doubler of the doubles of being able to talk about my cock and not having it exist as a reference to my winky.  One could go as far as to say that my gymnastics with the English language is important to normal existence for me, so the existence of my pet rooster was an exercise in emotional s

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     Sometimes you don’t know what the fuck you want to write, you just know you want to write when you sit down to do so. My trick when I find myself in this spot?  A key word or phrase… What do I mean? Come back to August and September with me. Work Spouse : ALL I knew I wanted to include in that story was the “Pennsylvania into her Virginia” line and had been thinking about it for THREE WEEKS before the scribe. Quaaludes : I was talking about The Get Down with someone the day before I wrote this story and the only thing I could think of was “boogie oogie Disco Biscuits.” I wrapped ENTIRE stories around getting those words/phrases into the mix.      Sometimes, that is about all the spark you should need.  A “why” to your “what.”  Having one goal to write toward is what it took to get you typing, the real fun is making it JUST there. To me, that is the fun part; sitting down with NOTHING to go on and remembering some silly shit that happened in a text

1,023 Days

     So when I left you , I was king of a small village, if only because the people who lived there were enamored with my Americanized sense of humor.  It is worth mentioning that Muhammad Ali was dead right when he said “ain’t no Viet Cong ever called me n**ger!”      At home in America, I was a threat.  Too smart and too vocal for “them,” and too weird, too “them” for my own.  And best believe there weren’t enough Viet Congs to not call me that word back home.  Outside of the fact that most--…  fuck it, ALL of these guys had never even seen a black dude in their lives, they basically treated me like another dude.  Until, as I mentioned, they took my weirdness as commendable and made me their leader.      With all of that said, I didn’t wanna fuckin’ LEAVE the place!  They fed me first and best as their king.  As king, I didn’t have it in me to mistreat or even handle them unfairly at all and life inside of the village was never really that difficult.  The rest of the wor