Yes she is. Yes they did.
I am now gonna talk about something important. Being a crack of dawner (sort of), I come across the occasional municipal road sweeper each morning on my way to work. But of late there's been one particular dude who attends to our stretch of the public pathway each morning. This guy uses the same tiny broom everyday and ties a piece of old flannel around his muzzle to protect himself from the silicosis. He looks about mid-20s, small built, almost malnourished, but he sweeps a 100 metre stretch of concrete road in under 30 minutes (I asked him how long he takes, so that's how i know, fuck off). Well the guy has forearms like popeye, which look really odd on his tiny frame. Almost orangutan like. I bet he can climb water pipes like a mofo. I don't think he'd ever attack a widow and her daughter though (The murders in the Rue Morgue). And that's awesome. Sweepers, busboys, waiters, truck drivers and masons are all examples of people who should enlist for the world arm wrestling contests. Forearm strength is the shit. Sometimes i wonder whether he realizes his power. He probably goes to parks and challenges kids on the monkey bars. Makes sure his people was there to see him shame children. These are typical thoughts i have about Manohar Pawar while driving to work.
It gets better once i reach work. work is one place that allows a complete and utter decimation of the english language, with impunity. i'm talking about general fucking conversation. today for example, a room was being painted and the fumes were a bastard. 2 colleagues were discussing the merits of upper body strength for a job like painting walls. as i began tuning out, i distinctly heard the word "handjob". needless to say, my inner bastard took over. and yes, again i heard that magic word, only this time in a sentence:
sucker1: "actually handjobs needs a skeel (skill). you and i can't do like this kind of work".
sucker2: ya but we are more use to deskjob than handjob.
me: sorry guys but don't handjobs take practice? don't tell me you've never given a handjob.
sucker1: boss, plz, at my house i am doing all type of handjob.
sucker2: i also, but we learned at early age in my home.
me: what? u mean handjobs right? ur folks taught u?
sucker2: no, my brother. he is quite expert.
me: my brothers know jackshit about handjobs as far as i'm aware.
sucker1: yea but u must be knowing right, as u are production engineer.
me: look man, i don't want that image in my head. it was a bad experience.
sucker1: oh, sorry.
me: ya i just hated touching tools.
sucker2: why man? i laove tools.
sucker1: yea, me also.
me: you're both tools, right?
guys: of course.
i left it at that and awaited eternal damnation.
Another example of sheer butt clenchery that confronts me several times a day is any time i visit the men's room. I suffer from what is known as Paruresis or Shy bladder. First of all that's a stupid name cuz there's nothing shy about my bladder. It's the lack of privacy. I need solitude. Like a joey comin' outta his mama's pouch for the first time: Oh hello, is it safe? AAAAHH, strange fuckers abound with their offensive appendages in my airspace. Fuck you, i'm going back in. That's pretty much how it is. Freud says it's cuz i hate my mother. Actually i hate Freud's mother.
Let us end now with a gentle ode to that great ecrivant. I present to you, a tribute to Poe:
Tribute to Poe
All odd stanzas (1, 3,5...) are Poe-speak, even stanzas (2, 4, 6...) are gutterspeak:
The moors were dank under blackest skies
I reeled with the rattle of her festering lies
Ne'er such a day had i beared in vain
Ne'er such a night would i see ever again
I left kalamazoo in heat of gorilla
It refused my peanuts, i returned to my villa
Heart-broken, this butcher must return to his shop
The goats always beckon, this meat i must chop
The waters lap soundless through grains of sand
Should I awake by mine own hand
My knife knows not the richness of blood
My heart cries out in morbid flood
The PETA fights against the animal offers
Come you cutters, come bring your choppers
Bakar Kasai fights for the mutton galla
Uncle daddy wants the "badey ka nalla"
As black as the waters, my heart bleeds no more
I wept when the doors closed like hell's own maw
I now see the axe falling painfully low
I languish in life but death follows tow
Municipality wants money from my mutton shop
I say i cannot, money was taken by a cop
He came last night in the pouring rain
He threaten to take my chopper again
The smooth silver edge slices through my veins
I smile as i see the blackness again
It envelops me to the darkest degree
No need for escape once we are truly free
Omar was arrested for raping the beast
He sold the remains to a travelling feast
He said he want donkey, but he cannot yet find
I say, see your life, but he say he is blind
Only blood-memories now can I ever trust
The pangs of death soften my blood lust
My soul sags in this physical seat
I transcend us now, I die in defeat
Raju told he was marrying once more
I said 3 is crowd, he said Sex life is poor
Donate me money, I make life brand new
I said I am gutter, he said he espew
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