I woke up this morning with the bitter aftertaste of regret in my mouth. How often these anger-induced dreams of mine cause the backwash of bile to rest threateningly at the back of my throat! If I dream one more dream about that fat grey slob, I'll spit this mouthful of bile in his direction! Ganesha, Ganesha, Ganesha...me on his elephantine back, traipsing through the sun-lit Universe...beckoning the errant hitchhiking bikers to climb aboard. Just what in the hell do these Goddamned dreams mean?
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Across America, I think my dreams have taken me! I will not speak of their quality...Somewhere between a Divine-John Waters movie and a lipstick sick, crimson and pink Hughes flick. Quality is for motorcycle mechanics to figure out. Isn't that what Robert Persig is here for? Zen maintenance, my ass!
At any rate, these dreams of mine are likened to waking up in a black and white world where everything attempts to make sense...Calpurnia is making my flapjacks, while that great whore of the unseen stage, Boo Radley, is whittling away my likeness from a chunk of white soap. All of this is happening while I'm bouncing around on the fat-ass of the God-like Elephant with his jewel-bedecked headdress!
Enough with this dream crap. Who am I, Freud? What do I know of dreamscapes?
I have other, more important things to bitch about today. I was down at the lake this morning, sitting by its pristine and opulent blue lapping shores...Cut the crap, Toby...You have to keep an eye on me or I will lie my ass off. I was down at the lake, at one of Toronto's many infamous E-Coli beaches. I was reading, yet again. The thing that pisses me off is that all the good first lines are taken. "I am a sick man...I am a wicked man." I mean, you must despise Dostoevsky for all his great-first-line thievery! I closed the damned book, I tell you, and I cursed, "To hell with you, sick man!"
I was walking down Yonge Street the other day. You know the street, massive-people-everywhere-you-look-street. Anyway, to make a short story even shorter, I was wondering why nobody reads "Too Loud A Solitude". I was thinking angrily to myself that they would really love the shit-flinging blond-haired braided lady, if only they would give the book half a chance. I mean, was she a hottie or was she a hottie! Anyone can dance, but to fling hot-shit on your fellow dancers! Now that's a feat worthy of kudos. That's my kind of date. So, anyway, I'm out there in my orange shorts, my Jesus Christ Super Sandals, and my Ignatius J. Reilly hunting cap, wandering up and down the freak-show boulevard.
No shirt, you say? Do you think that I'm looking for your approval or acceptance here! I was wearing a friggin' green hunting cap, for Christ's sake! Keep your no-shirt comments to yourself.
Anyway I was trying to promote the book, wishing that if only I could re-create the shit flying scene and show them its literary merit, that maybe I could convince even one person to read it. I would have had better luck explaining the garbage compacted by the main character and its colorful Van Gogh covered, dead-fly infested facades! There was no talking to these people! I couldn't believe that nobody was listening to my tirade.
Nobody reads anymore! I realized that I was wasting my time on these killers of the written word. So, I thought, "What the hell, I'm an unemployed waif...I might as well live the role." And I began to holler, "Penny, nickel, dime, quarter, dollar..." Yonge Street Bastards! A dollar thirty-five is all I received for that retched and idle little mantra. The insufferable, insignificant little ingrates! Imagine giving a future somebody like me a measly buck thirty-five of your hard-earned money! I am suspecting that they could not foresee my future greatness. Illiterate phonies! I'd like to pick one of them out of a crowd, my brothers...slice and dice.
Oh well. A dollar thirty-five is enough for a large double-double from Tim Horton's. So screw them, anyway! You won't see this lazy-ass lump squeegeeing those filthy Toronto windshields for the Big Buck Coins! I'm a low-life writer type bastard, but I'm not that low!
Speaking of low life bastards...damn Gloria Jones to hell forever for killing the last great dinosaur, the glorious T-Rex. Rest in peace, Mark. Though I know he isn't...resting in peace, that is! He'll be eternally floating in the perennial Freedom Harbor, probably in a Goddamned kayak, and within a stone's throw of the lovely Iron Lady Liberty. He will ask all those leaving the great Sodom & Gomorra City one single question..."Have you ever seen a woman comin' outta New York City with a frog in her hand?" I only wish that he were around to ask me that damned question. Because, my brothers, I have the only answer he wants to hear. "I did, don't you know! And don't it show?"
Anyway, I have to stop ranting like this. I mean, I really do. I don't even remember what I began to rant about. Ganesha is now at my doorstep, braying like a Goddamned cab at the curb. If I've learned anything over the years, it's that one should never keep a fat elephant waiting...And yet, I linger. I am the sole reason the bastards invented the word tangent. Know that above all else!
I just have one more thing to say. I need to get this off my chest. If ever I see that damn Ken Kesey bastard, I'm definitely gonna let him know that I, for one, am ON THE BUS! If he can do it, so can I! Don't you think that I should have been informed of the departure time? I mean, really. I'm Toby friggin' Gillard! These people and their damned acid tests...Come on, Ken. You know I'm on the bus!
Okay, Okay...God dammit! I'm coming, you ignorant pachyderm!
At the end of every short story the reader should feel like a cloud has lifted from the face of the moon.