Tarp off the crypt, mom is coming (The salts - # 24-25)
24)
Todd was the worst kind of dilapidated crack scum of them all. It was true, and nobody disagrees, others made the occasional scathing comment or unnecessary remark, but Todd's knack for defining ass-face on an hourly schedule was impeccable. His beady eyes and disproportionately small head made ignoring his presence all but impossible. His gaze was the pinnacle of annoyance and his demands of obedience were, at times, nearly combated with crude, violent acts that only the CIA knows about. To be frank, more often than not, his demands were met with simple refusal due to Todd's lack of any promising threats or any repertoire of effective attacks.
All of this aside, it shall be noted that Todd has some degree of trouble, let's say, sitting for any extended period of time. He has a strong sense of what it takes to be a powerful athlete and it's well known that he once was one. His wiry frame and clumsy gate may say otherwise, but indeed, as Todd will explain without being asked, it's in his blood. What's that, you ask? High-speed collision football, fast-flying basketball, face-melting hockey, stock car racing? None of the above. Try water polo. Ever heard of that shit head? Maybe not, but I can assure you that the wet and wild man-to-man contact that this sport offers can get violent and very hot at times. In a sincere way. Intense underwater rubbing, climbing, and vortexing are just a few of the techniques used by any adequate polo-er to exhaust opponents in long overtime matches. Todd, for example was an expert at the chopping vortex and was involved in many overtime matches. As far as one can tell, he lost every god damned one of them. He claimed to have been through hell-ride type weeks of practice, where little time was left to rest or evening discussions with close family. All for not I say. Getting you face mashed into rotten corned beef everyday for three consecutive weeks counts for nothing but embarrassment for you entire circle of potential friends and, at best, disownment from family. Todd couldn't admit any of this outright to us, of course, that his lack of strong and coordinated hand movements and abundance of facial deformities were indisputable evidence of his disgraceful lack of polo charm. Moreover, he appears to lack discipline. The truth was there, in the light of day (his story may have been more convincing fireside), with the strong, over-powering and almost nauseating smell of insecurity. Expelled into the air just the way those Chinese made plug-in scent devices were meant to work - with 110 volts of self-granted greatness. Todd: 41.3 years old, lives in a land of sausage and flowers, bright nebulas that guide his spirit. The sausage is for eating. His garnered respect is real in some circles, and his taste for sport is genuine. Live on good man, live on. See you in the pool. Good luck against me, a man with no divine power and very little in terms of self-respect. You're sure my challenge will be a waste of your time, but my attributes may be more powerful than you imagined.
25)
Beeson Tracks. The intersection of hell and here. A pool of diesel fuel reacts with my robotic energy. I feed and it feels good. Karmel's crack pipe: send a flame up my leg and cause eye tremors. I flip the heavy switch. Crushed. His legs remain. The tracks ain't no place to be for a crack head. A future remains in the past for those who can not, or will not, move on. They melt into the viscous wax known as today, and dry into religiously accepted shapes. A cloud receives them and prophecy has been fulfilled. Shine on?
Todd was the worst kind of dilapidated crack scum of them all. It was true, and nobody disagrees, others made the occasional scathing comment or unnecessary remark, but Todd's knack for defining ass-face on an hourly schedule was impeccable. His beady eyes and disproportionately small head made ignoring his presence all but impossible. His gaze was the pinnacle of annoyance and his demands of obedience were, at times, nearly combated with crude, violent acts that only the CIA knows about. To be frank, more often than not, his demands were met with simple refusal due to Todd's lack of any promising threats or any repertoire of effective attacks.
All of this aside, it shall be noted that Todd has some degree of trouble, let's say, sitting for any extended period of time. He has a strong sense of what it takes to be a powerful athlete and it's well known that he once was one. His wiry frame and clumsy gate may say otherwise, but indeed, as Todd will explain without being asked, it's in his blood. What's that, you ask? High-speed collision football, fast-flying basketball, face-melting hockey, stock car racing? None of the above. Try water polo. Ever heard of that shit head? Maybe not, but I can assure you that the wet and wild man-to-man contact that this sport offers can get violent and very hot at times. In a sincere way. Intense underwater rubbing, climbing, and vortexing are just a few of the techniques used by any adequate polo-er to exhaust opponents in long overtime matches. Todd, for example was an expert at the chopping vortex and was involved in many overtime matches. As far as one can tell, he lost every god damned one of them. He claimed to have been through hell-ride type weeks of practice, where little time was left to rest or evening discussions with close family. All for not I say. Getting you face mashed into rotten corned beef everyday for three consecutive weeks counts for nothing but embarrassment for you entire circle of potential friends and, at best, disownment from family. Todd couldn't admit any of this outright to us, of course, that his lack of strong and coordinated hand movements and abundance of facial deformities were indisputable evidence of his disgraceful lack of polo charm. Moreover, he appears to lack discipline. The truth was there, in the light of day (his story may have been more convincing fireside), with the strong, over-powering and almost nauseating smell of insecurity. Expelled into the air just the way those Chinese made plug-in scent devices were meant to work - with 110 volts of self-granted greatness. Todd: 41.3 years old, lives in a land of sausage and flowers, bright nebulas that guide his spirit. The sausage is for eating. His garnered respect is real in some circles, and his taste for sport is genuine. Live on good man, live on. See you in the pool. Good luck against me, a man with no divine power and very little in terms of self-respect. You're sure my challenge will be a waste of your time, but my attributes may be more powerful than you imagined.
25)
Beeson Tracks. The intersection of hell and here. A pool of diesel fuel reacts with my robotic energy. I feed and it feels good. Karmel's crack pipe: send a flame up my leg and cause eye tremors. I flip the heavy switch. Crushed. His legs remain. The tracks ain't no place to be for a crack head. A future remains in the past for those who can not, or will not, move on. They melt into the viscous wax known as today, and dry into religiously accepted shapes. A cloud receives them and prophecy has been fulfilled. Shine on?
Labels: delicate fish, drum lessons, horseradish special recipe, piano recital fuck ups
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