Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Broken Down

I'm worn down by optical night vision goggle dreams. Sig Sauer is hiring to build handguns and according to Bill Whittle I should be thankful that someone is polluting the oceans full of mercury because if they weren't then I would be forced to pollute it myself...and that would be hard. And if Steve Jobs is good then that would make Sir Wilfred Grenfell a fucking saint from heaven. Yep, I'll bet the CEO of BP stays up at nights worrying about people going without fuel for their cars. That's his main concern. "IF I don't do my job then who will deliver Dominos Pizza?" he asks as he stays overnight on his desk to ensure a steady supply of petroleum. hahaha.
The high I felt playing jazz and psuedo poetry set to music at the Press Room has been quashed by a day of ill feelings. It was 3am when I finally ate my last slice of cheese that I made by milking the pregnant rats who inhabit my van. And there is a crop of Labrador wheat growing in my seat that is set to harvest. So I slept late and the depression of masturbating to decade old blow job fantasies that I imagine I got from indifferent girlfriends has my conjunctivitis returning with a vengeance. Then I played guitar as I waited for the temp agent to call me back to confirm that I am not qualified to work the third shift calibrating night vision goggles so the police can better attack the occupy wall street folk. Nice.
And I got to watch all the rendezvous of hookers and affairs in the parking lot. One couple literally rocked the suspension on his truck as the tinted windows provided a cheap hotel room for fast noon time sex. And another couple fought with coffee in their hands. And one truck driver pissed in the field and then fell asleep in his truck while the truck next to him bounced up and down as the couple fucked in the sun. Hookers/escorts or affairs. Hard to tell. I wanted to play my guitar in peace with gloves on. Then it was a hunt for white gas because I've been using gasoline to cook my ramen noodles and it smokes like hell and when I spill it on the carpet I can hear my father saying, "That's dangerous." because I am obviously an idiot in his mind and I would normally drink gasoline if not for his sage advice. And I have adjusted my wood stove to allow for maximum wood consumption so that means sparks regularly fly on the gasoline soaked socks and rags on my filthy carpet.
I go get some glue for my Labrador Montage gift for my friend dying of cancer and get some camp fuel at Ace Hardware and some more wood at motobikes. Then a slice of pizza at Kens West End Pizza where I chat with Ken about his 14 years selling pizza and his decision to sell Brooklyn style because that's where he is from. and I tell him Kittery has a good wood fire slice joint that is competition and he is indifferent. I would've gone there but the bridge is closed.
And my neck hurts from crying in my ginger brew but the spam email song went over well.I am a better impersonator because I have no self-esteem.
I'm a few days away from taking the job hunt to Naples, Florida. I guess I am guilty of Oikophobia-a fear and hatred of ones own culture. But does that stem from my fugitive status in that culture? Hard to say. I'm not welcome and I don't want to be where I'm not welcome. But am I not welcome because I won't fit in? Or am I not welcome because fitting in means drinking whiskey and fucking a hooker in the C&J ride share parking lot while my kids are taught to hate gays and George Washington was a saint and Steve Jobs is no different than Thomas Edison. I'm not worthy to drink the same water as Steve Jobs.


Anonymous said...

where are the pics?

Anonymous said...

more cow bell

Oggy Bleacher said...

Here are your fucking pics and cowbells YOU BONEHEADS!

WeRo said...

Don't hate, participate.
Anonymous comments are often filtered as spam.

Are you hating?

Oggy Bleacher said...

not hating, merely pointing out that anonymous comments are sent to my spam folder automatically by google. I have no control over it because there's so many spam comments made daily by robots. So I have to go to my spam folder and decide if it's a real person and then approve it. I can't do anything about this and if anyone wants to help me out they will write something in the name field so the comment isn't sent to the spam box where I have to retrieve it. I LOVE EVERYBODY!

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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.