Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Garbage Day

Tuesday is garbage day in my neighborhood. Time to take out the weekly accumulation of coffee grounds, cat shit, dog fur, and rancid food from the back of the fridge. Time to haul three 50-gallon plastic drums choked to the rim with wilted celery, discarded junk mail, used syringes, empty pill bottles, bags of severed fingers, popsicle sticks and plastic wrapping. God, how I love garbage day — a day of cleansing and atonement. The day we bury the evidence.

Time for you to read some filth.

Start with Coyotelaw, wherein we read of computer hacking, working lunches and S&M in an unnamed Western town that can only be described as a malignant version of Lake Wobegon for lawyers and their self-destructive clients.

Then, move on to this WMA file, wherein we hear a 5-minute string of vile of phone messages left by Pat O'Brien, the nasally obnoxious host of "Insider Hollywood" and other banal atrocities.

If you are so inspired, you might read this story about Biblical porn and a camp counselor with a grudge to bear.

And finally, purge your soul here. Confess. Vent. Write a rough draft of an angry letter to God. Spew your venom. To wit:
It makes me sick at how infrequently you bathe. Sometimes I see you go weeks without a shower, and I wonder how you can stand to even lay naked with yourself. You have to smell worse than anyone I've ever met, or dated at least. And then you expect to touch my face with your hands after they've been digging around in your ass crack, or under your smelly balls? God you have got to be one really self centered cock to think that your stench is something that everyone (especially the person you expect to fuck you and suck your nasty cock) should have to deal with while still worshipping the ground you walk on. News flash for ya, that ground smells better than you do. Wash your fucking hands, wash your nasty fucking ass. But come to think of it, even when you do shower, you still smell like shit. I think you spend so long building up that rotten stench that the only way it's ever going to come off is by sitting in a bath of bleach, salt and lemons - with a grill brush scrubbing away at your lower torso. God you make me gag when I smell you. And then you smile at me thinking I'm going to smile back at you or think lovingly toward you. God damn. I don't even want to be with you anymore over this.
Garbage day is strange and beautiful.