Anthologies of Awesome

I’ve been giving the dead a lot of room in my thoughts the last few days. Probably too much, but they’re dead, so I figure cutting them a break on mental real estate can’t hurt anybody but the suburban developers trying to turn cranial farm land into Oak Place Terraces and Deer Meadow Glen Towne Place Courts. And fuck those guys. And fuck suburbs in general. They make me murdery.

Though making me murdery lately has taken little. There is a mile wide current of black hate up past flood stage washing away the topsoil of my goddamn troubled mind. I don’t know what that even means. Probably something bad. I assume it’s bad. Generally flood stage hate is bad. It might add valuable nutrients into downstream overbank deposits, though, which may not be bad.

I hate the gray rainy days. I hate when they correspond to hatefulness already established and/or flooding.

The EPA defines pollution as “any resource out of place.” That seems like a good way to drum up some job security if your job is pollution. That would be like me having a government mandate to octify the holdiquars. My first job would be to define octifying and my second job would be to identify holdiquars. Of course, I would be retarded not to find a holdiquar needing octification behind every nullruth. I’d be like that chick that wrote ‘Harry Potter.’ With a badge. And a gun. And a helicopter. Correction: helicopters. Aerial Octification is the best octification. Obviously.

And a decade later, sitting in my goddamn living room after too long a night where I had nightmares about my dead holdiquar octifying friends (octification is dangerous), the ones who never made it back, or the ones who made it back from That Goddamned Place, saw the rest of their lives on Deer Meadow Glen Place Court flash before their eyes, put their M9 holdiquar octificators in their mouth and left their brainstem all over the wall of their garage in a crimson and clover splayed out Rorschach lithograph, like the final stamp of holdiquarino approval prior to Relocation Efforts in the capital of Choloidistan. The history books never got around to that one.

Jesus Christ, there isn’t enough whiskey on this goddamn earth to make all that go away. When Octification first started, the whole damn country was behind us. The media embedded their best journalists to bring Octification home to Oak Place Terrace Run Quail Acres. Then people saw too much. Octification is dirty business. Holdiquars look a whole lot like us when they’ve been octified roughly (is there any other way?). Then everybody just wanted it over. Unless they were those sycophantic fucksticks who root for the home team, even when the home team is composed entirely of the people they would not invite to attend the First Fellowship Church Congregation of Deer Meadow Quail Run Excitement Christian Center. It’s tough being a lamb when your only communion is the blood of Holdiquarino. But holdiquar blood tastes good. Obviously.

And so those dead, holy saints called above in their white robes washed clean in the blood of the martyrs or some such nonsense get a prime zoned multifamily tract of previously flood damaged real estate right there on the banks of The Hate River. And they dug in quick. Like the goddamn suburban pieces of shit the dead always are.