thehefner | this is a weird one

Last night, I had half a bottle of Yellow Tail Cabernet Sauvingnon, during which I watched SESSION 9 with Mom (who kept bemoaning why, why in God's name did they tear down this building?! It's such a crime!) and then proceeding to watch STAR WARS: REVENGE OF THE SITH in Spanish on HBO. It's actually better that way.

When I woke up this morning, in that strange half-sleep between hits of the snooze button, my rambling imagination was going a mile a minute. Maybe it was a touch of wine hangover, or maybe my exhaustion was not yet exhausted, but in any case, my logic-free dream-brain just kept going consciously. I decided to pull up my laptop and just write out stream of consciousness while I still could.

The result is... well, not to make it sound like it's any good, I can't stress enough that this is just a morning brain drain of randomness... but to me,

This was atime when a man couldn’t be expected to lift his car into the stratosphere, where purple monkeys couldn’t play the ukelele, calling it base and obtuse and altogether unruly. This was the time of the White Dot, when clustrers of maggots and red rocks would sweep up into the sky, crumble, and rain down hot dog shaped sponges and flyers promising a better life with better times and better things to own and share and horde. Mostly horde. Everyone had their little stashes, their little good luck charms, and oh, their weapons, yes, weapons. Rifles that could melt steel and plastic and cannons that shot acid foam, hardly applicable nor practical, but oh, what a glorious mess of bone and flesh they made when applied just right. Who knows what places we’ve ventured since we colonized Pluto, that non-planet, and declared it a worthy spot for a truck stop, an interstellar hang-out for space roughnecks and hooligans, the kind of place you wouldn’t trust your kid to spend a weekend, if you catch my drift. That was when I invented the pogo nightstick, which would allow you to bounce right off your enemy one to next. A melee weapon, you understand, not one one-time use, but when you wanted to become a hyperactive buzzball of power and hate, looking abjectly silly in the process, no doubt, but no one would be laughing for long. And so I showed them, you see, I showed them all of what I was capable all those centuries ago, which is what brings us to this moment, this particular moment, and I wonder if I’m the last man on earth… which in of itself isn’t much, as Earth is now the abandoned derelict warehouse of the universe, mountainsides covered with graffiti from nogoodnik races passing through, its brown, diseased waters mostly dried up, save for a few puddles and sludge, and boxes upon boxes (futuristic boxes, of course, of unbelievable metals, nuclear locks, and flashing lights that don’t do much but cost extra anyway) piled all throughout. I sometimes think of myself as the great space bum, other times the cosmic janitor, the universal Nick Nolte, whoever he is, was or would be, but the fact is that I’m just, in plainest terms, a jerk. And so I come here to peddle my wares even though there’s no one around, which is damn stupid, as I could easily hop on over to the Gassy Bitch (formerly Venus), Old Reddy (formerly Mars), Great Big Gassy Fuckwad (formerly Jupiter, and also formerly New Disney World before the massive gravity crushed Space Mountain into the side a gold leaf dust mite), and of course, Uranus. That last one’s been declared a Universal Treasure by the board of Simon and Fuck You. I remember the day I first applied for a job with Michelangelo Fuck You, a man the size of eight heads, which is strange consisting he’s only made up of seven. The heads used to be members of some interstellar corporation dedicated to wiping out nitrous oxide, but for what reasons, no one’s frankly interested anymore. Maybe they were a coalition of sadistic dentists, but I really couldn’t say. Why don’t we know anything? Why don’t we care? Do we just drift through on our Pogo Nightsticks (also a source of transportation, and why wouldn’t it be, otherwise what’s the point of it being Pogo at all!), bane of all that I created, and wonder where it all went wrong, or are we just content to fuck and eat and shit and piss our way through until there’s nothing left? Of it, them, or ourselves? We burn ourselves out, but no, even that’s not right; we eat ourselves up, piece by piece, bit by bit, microt by frelling microt, and all for nothing. I have to piss. My bladder is singing the 1812 overture, which is strange, because I always would have accredited such musical talents to my asshole, but life is surprising even now, with all diseases conquered, all barriers brought down socially and economically, and all of us so damn bored because we have nothing left to fight about. Are you even there? Am I just ranting to myself again? It happens, you know. I lose time. Maybe it don’t matter. Maybe all that matters is what I think that matters, if that makes any sense. Sure, of course it does. Makes perfect sense to me. So now what? Do I just continue along my way, plodding along and singing those old hymns “If It Be Your Will” and “Tom Traubert’s Blues” to the rocks and mutie horny toads and schools of land-kraken that live in the hallowed-out remains of Applebees and Bennigans temples and monasteries? I don’t know. Really, I don’t. But life has a way of bringing something new, something unexpected, that’s for sure. We’ll just see, won’t we? Yes, sir. That’s for damn sure.

It may not make any sense, but I bet if Warren Ellis wrote that on his blog, his fans would be hailing it as a work of genius.

The bad news is that I'm still kinda in this mindset right now, as if I haven't fully woken up. This could well prove to be an interesting day at the comic shop for ol' Heffie.

Dad wants me to bring him some orange sherbert. He won't be able to swallow it, but at least he'll be able to swish it around his mouth a bit.