So, I think I'm kind of over my whole "we're headed for a Mad Max Great Depression omigod
why didn't I buy a shotgun when they were on sale ack
it's just like Cyndi Lauper
said MONEY... MONEY CHANGES EVERYTHING!!!" hysterical 1950s-housewife freak out. I've taken a few deep, cleansing breaths. I've had a few glasses of cheap, satisfying vodka. I've enjoyed the season premier of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia
. I have, in other words, chilled the fuck out about the whole situation. Particularly after talking to my father, who reminded me that if my bank WERE to close it's doors forever in a spiral of market-crashing failure, I'd only be out like $50 or so. Which I guess means that being broke DOES in fact have it's advantages. While former-millionaire Wall Street execs are choking down their first meals of shoplifted Ramen
and a can of that scary-looking corned beef hash-esque substance
they sell in the ethnic aisle
of the grocery store (it's usually next to the sardines), I'll be all, "Oooh
, you going to finish that, Moneybags?" And he'll turn to me, sobbing, telling me how he lost everything he worked so hard for... how his kids are living at the YMCA and his wife joined on with a brothel in Chinatown and how he's never before experienced such depths of human misery. And THAT'S when I mug him for his shoes.
Shoes will be our new currency after the economy collapses, btw
. But anyway, yeah, I think I'm ready to ride this shit out. Got me a line on a good barrel, got me a pointy mugging stick all sharpened and ready to poke. Even bought a shitload of spray paint
so I can continue ZFS!
on the walls of buildings in and around the Five Burroughs. Oh yes, this blog will live on in the not-so-brave, same-old-shit world. ZFS!
don't die; ZFS! multiply
. If I may drop a little Ini Komoze
on all y'all domes. Here comes the hotstepper
... here comes the hotstepper
Crazy bible lady on the subway yesterday... nothing new there, particularly as they all think these are
the End Times and they need to get out and save a few souls to beef up their Heavenly batting average (mine is currently at a cool .119, which means I'm either an excellent pitcher or about to get sent down to the Minors, which in this scenario
is Hell). But anyway, she was on the R train, rantin
' n' ravin
', talking about Jesus and how he's the bee's knees and whatnot and it was about three stops in that I realized she was working off of notes
. Like, she had index cards with bullet points on them. Um, hi CHEATER!!! If God is taking up residence in your metaphorical tree like the world's holiest Keebler
Elf, and if you truly believe all the rhetoric you're spouting, shouldn't you be able to bust it out off the cuff? Having notes makes me think you don't really know what you're doing, that maybe you DON'T love the sweet baby Jesus, that maybe... just maybe... God never existed in the first place and we're all just some alien's 11th
-grade science fair experiment. Crazy bible lady, seriously, get your shit together. You're never going to fight Satan with index cards; dude's made of fire and paper burns! Commit it to memory or the Devil will own your ass like a delicious batch of EL Fudge sandwich cookies.
I guess my point here is that I could really go for some Keebler
treats like in a big way. Mmmm
... So tasty, those little Elvin
I've been reading Vincent Patrick's excellent crime novel The Pope of Greenwich Village
(it was also a movie, but I haven't seen it) and goddamn holy shit for fuck's
sake I want to be in the Mob. Or the pop-culture myth version of the Mob, at any rate. All shady backrooms and guys with clever, atmospheric
nicknames, and leather satchels full of cash slid under the table of an Italian restaurant where we "know a guy" who'll fix us up some nice eats before we go "take care of a little problem" out by the docks. FUCK, that sounds like so much coolsy
fun!!! They could call me Fat Clinton (or possibly Clintasaurus
Rex, if they're down with dinosaur references) and I'll wear a lot of track suits and gold jewelry
and break knees with a lead pipe, should there be knees that need a-breakin
'. I mean, granted, there's the possibility that I could get killed, particularly since I'd have no issue with screwing over all my fellow mobsters for extra cash... with Clintasaurus
Rex, it's all about looking out for number one... but you know, whatever, I could handle it. I'm tough. I'm streetwise. Plus, I've got my pointy mugging stick and... HEY... that could be like "my thing." I could be the mobster who pokes people with a pointy stick! Oh yeah, I am TOTALLY joining the Mob today after work. Does anyone know where I can fill out an application or whatever? Probably down in Little
Italy, right? Well, I'll just ask around...