Murder/Morality, OMG! (4/30)

One of these things is true, one of these is mostly true, and one is not true at all (in no order).  The last is directed at no one specifically, not beautiful you.

Something:

You warned me, anonymous probable daily reader of my blog.  Yes you. 

You warned me about her.  I wrote it off as jealous bullshit, and honestly, I’m not sure that was not your motivation.  I have no faith in human charity, so jealousy resides in the realm of logical motivation to me.  However, I owe it to you.  You were absolutely right, which is too bad.  Please don’t hold court in your head where commendations are awarded and promotions given for your intuition proving true.  It is a tragic truth, full of pain and regret.  Know simply that you, anonymous reader, were right all along.  Whatever the motivation may have been. 

It is a great discredit to humanity that so upstanding and outstanding a person as her was a moral failure, at least this time.  If she is that kind of person, it draws me into a world of suspicion and cynicism directed at all of humanity, especially your gender, and tragically, even you.  So, you were right.  And that is unfortunate.  I wish I had the naive bullshit philosphies to be truly shocked and dismayed.  Instead, it just reminds me of why I doubt every person’s honor and integrity (even yours) in the first place.

 Another:

I saw a 1960 half-ton Ford stand up on two wheels, screaming apocalyptic exhaust and blue flames shooting out the sides harrowing the fields of the holy fucking cool.  That was four hundred and sixty cubic inches, and then six more, roots supercharged, dual Demon love and death blowing away from it.  The famine of awe was halted and reversed in that quarter mile.  Anyone can build a tubular framed hundred thousand dollar beast that can scream out to 170 miles per hour at the hundred foot line.  It takes an artist to get an old piece of Detroit rolling iron up there. 

I saw the Last Supper eaten and expactorated and the Pieta hacked into mortar in that quarter mile run.  God loves us.

Another:

“Well, not exactly…”

Single. That’s what they left out.  Now I am that fucking guy.  I am become an asshole, destroyer of homes.  Merely the threat of two men wanting my blood, and I know–sweet, sweet experience–that they will, makes me worry.  See, that sort of male motivation is not the one that will make you call a man outside to slug it out like honorable Paranthropi.  That sort of male motivation will have you wating in the shadows with a sawed-off.  That motivation will run a man down in a crosswalk.  It’s not honor, it’s homocide.  I know.

That hot acid rush through your veins when the truth comes out makes a sane man a murderer and a duped man murdered.  Speak to any man every truly fucked over, somewhere in the story (when he’s honest) there is a hammer or a hatchet or, for the natural born Neandertal, a night black shotgun.  Nothing gives a man some moral superority like a shotgun.  The thunderous ratcheting and oily metal sliding true sound of a round jacking into the chamber makes my blood run cold and my hackles raise.  I just got chills.  In a good way, at least when I’m that kind of motivated. 

 

The last thing:

I pushed my hands into the cold ancient river today and ran my freezing fingers over my face and mourned everything I used to be.  Draw some blood and shed some tears over strangers, and you would too.  Then wish you could see an iPod, an LCD television, a pink cellphone, an Escalade, or a piece of steaming shit yuppy in Northface shorts getting out of their SUV and not see warm blood in the sand.  You will understand then.  You will wish you had never been the way America, and all her pathetic BFFs, afford their rock and roll lifestyle.  That’s why your consumption makes me want to vomit.

I have too many friends living in 2X2X6 metal boxes out on the ocean or in 2X2X6 wooden boxes buried in the dirt for me to see your tri-level square footage as anything but obscene.  

It makes me hate you.  It makes me want to plant some H6 in your three car garage and blast your eyesore bullshit castle back into the silica from which it was mined, you selfish fucking ass.  You are ugly, you with your modified and tucked and labored over body.  You disgust me.  I wish it was your blood I saw glowing spectral white on the field of black night.  You deserve it.  They sure as fuck did not.  I want to write on the sky that I hate you and what you have done to my Colorado.  And I want those words to rain down the steel and nitrate rain your lifestyle forced me to use on the mostly innocent.  

I want you to die.  I want the mountain lions to strip your flesh and the coyotes to eat the marrow out of your bones.