October 29, 2007

Bukowski’s Dream

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The dirty old man dreamed he woke up in a GODDAMN fairytale. Keith Richards was passed out next to him with his pants down at his ankles. The French fag Jean Cocteau could have decorated the place. That’s how creepy it was. There were recliners that looked like giant cats, sculptures and light fixtures it turned out were actually real people, and in this particular kingdom the servants, horses, and the décor in general had a distinct red theme. Everything was painted red. It was like Salvador Dali’s fake description of his meeting with Harpo Marx: “I met Harpo for the first time in his garden. He was naked, crowned with roses, and in the center of a veritable forest of harps (he was surrounded by at least five hundred harps). He was caressing, like a new Leda, a dazzling white swan, and feeding it a statue of the Venus de Milo made of cheese, which he grated against the strings of the nearest harp. An almost springlike breeze drew a curious murmur from the harp forest.” Only, it wasn’t the regular kind of fantasy where Catherine Denueve is the beautiful princess who must disguise herself as the scullion, Donkey Skin, to escape her lecherous father. There wasn’t a fancy old castle, no handsome prince, no donkey that shit jewels, and no fairy godmother who was probably more famous for her role as the Countess Bathory in the movie Daughter’s of Darkness (1971). Bukowski peeled his eyelids apart and looked around the place. It was a disaster. There was nothing but empty beer bottles and cans, empty wine and liquor bottles, and ashtrays piled high with spent butts. He sat up and squinted out the window. He had a bad hangover and the light made him sick. As far as he could figure out he was in a trailer park. Where it was, he wasn’t sure, and to make things worse, he woke up as the FUCKING Decider-in-Crook. He felt sore, but he thought, “You can choose between Nixon, Humphrey or Christ and be fucked anyway you turn.” The important thing was it didn’t change his opinion of William Faulkner or Bill Burroughs. They were still both lousy writers. Everything about the surreal kingdom was a bit off. The Decider had to drop a loaf. He tried to lift himself off the shag carpet. His suit was rumpled. He felt for his inside pocket and found what he was looking for, knocked back the rest of the fifth he stashed there, and made his way to the back room where he figured the John was. There were plenty of fairies and angels in the apartment, but they didn’t exactly have wings. More like crack whores who would suck your cock for five bucks. The king was a dwarf, played by Hervé Villechaize who is probably best known as Tattoo on Fantasy Island, Queen Doris of the Sixth Dimension was a real witch, and the extremely sexy and nubile princess walked around half naked the whole time. In one room a bunch of Catholic schoolgirls sat around Iggy Pop. It was quiet. The girls giggled and sighed wide-eyed when the wiry monkey blew his nose into his hands and ate his own snot. The bedposts weren’t stags, and the blanket wasn’t made of moss. No fir-lined magic chariot waited to save these young urchins. The Decider opened the door to the room across the way and as he fell inside he tried to make it look purposeful, like he was some kind of brilliant comedian, and it was a pratfall. It smelled like pot, ass, and sperm, funky, sweaty, and rancid, like a Skull and Bones after-party. The naked boys all looked shiny and brand new the way rich kids did. The President raised himself up on his haunches and tried to ignore the goings-on. One of them grabbed his junk. He played it off and simply said, “Later, baby,” as he backed his way out. It wasn’t his kind of scene. No way. There was a ruckus in the hallway when he finally turned around and got his back to the wall to steady himself. Condi Rice had ripped the wig of the long-lashed Tammy Faye Bakker, and they were going after each other. They tore each other’s dresses so their tits were hanging out. Their makeup was running and their nylons were ripped. The Decider edged along the wall until he got passed them. He had the wet shits. Getting to the can as fast as he could was the only thing on his mind. There were a couple of guys already in there. One of them was foaming up the other’s pubes with shaving cream. The Decider didn’t care. He dropped his drawers, planted his ass firmly on the porcelain goddess, and let loose. After he squeezed it all out he looked up and these two one-eyed monsters were staring at him. “Fuck off,” he said, and flushed. COCKS! Back in the living room, the Decider patted his jacket, found the other fifth in his back pocket, drained it, and tossed the bottle on the floor. He was ready to leave. The whole place swayed so much he felt seasick. He was making his way for the front door of the trailer when he noticed a woman kind of leaning against the far wall. She had her legs open but seemed rather dazed. He stumbled over and gave her a closer look. It was Condi. Her ass was as wide as a bus stop bench. The butt-man came out of him. He had always had a big crush on her, and dropped his pants and shorts. She looked real, real good. As he went in he stroked his wood in anticipation, and put the thing in, the little he had. Condi was cooing “Oooh,” about how good it felt, and the Decider was really getting going, when something RAMMED in between his butt cheeks. “What the HELL!” the President shouted and reached behind to pull the thing out. When he turned around he realized he was holding Darth Cheney’s flaccid undersized thing in his hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” he says to the Vice President. As Bukowski writes in one of his short pieces the other guy answers: “Listen, friend, this whole game is just one big deck of cards. If you want to get in the game you have to take whatever comes up in the shuffle.”

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October 12, 2007

Osama’s Dream


Osama bin Laden dreamed that the evil Count Zarth Arn from Starcrash (1979) was the reincarnation of Rummy. The Emperor of the First Circle of the Universe was about to destroy the Count by crashing a floating city into his claw-shaped space fortress. If the forces of good prevailed, it would spell doom for his plans of total galactic domination. Count Zarth Arn searched his memory and tried to figure out where everything went wrong. Since he was the reincarnation of the Bushevik Secretary of Defense, it naturally struck him that ever since the United States of America won The War on Terror by capturing the hearts and minds of people the world over after his failed administration all those many centuries ago things had gone badly for the dark side. This victory by his enemies was simply the final blow to the radical right wing, following a long chain of defeats that began all the way back in the 21st century when the democratically led peace dividend had prevailed once and for all over war profiteering on the planet Earth, and his forefathers were expelled into outer space. If he could only turn back time, he thought, perhaps he could change the course of history and save himself. The nefarious Count’s diabolical scientists had already made much headway where time-travel was concerned, and without delay they put together a beta-version for him to inspect. His villainous henchman, the green skinned Thor, would make the first trip, and if it was successful Zarth Arn could set his newly hatched plan to work. After disguising Thor to fool the earthlings they sent him on his way. He saluted the count with a stiff arm held forward at an upward angle and got in the pod. Zarth Arn paced back and forth in his long cape awaiting word from his trusty sidekick. As the Emperor of the First Circle of the Universe’s floating armada approached he prayed to his dark forces for the success of the mission before Stella Star and Prince Simon, played by David Hasselhoff, could overtake his space fortress. Moments later the time machine lit up like a Christmas tree and when they opened the hatch to look inside they found a holographic recording of Thor. “Fuck yeh, bring it on!” was all he needed to say. Count Zarth Arn’s plan was simple. He rubbed his black-gloved hands together in anticipation. He would send back a small commando unit with a shipment of ray guns and light sabers. His soldiers could train Al-Qaeda members and Taliban fighters how to use the space age weapons, and then, surely, they could turn The War on Terror around. Positive reports came back daily. The Terrorists were winning! The Bushevic Administration had cart-blanch. Every single one of their Neocon policies was green-lighted. If they wanted more money for the war Congress rubber-stamped it no questions asked. If they wanted to round people up indiscriminately and torture them, no problem. If they wanted to spy on U.S. citizens, make big business impervious to the law, or otherwise spank our Constitution, the Supreme Court bent over and said, “Thank you sir, may I have another.” The Decider-in-Chief couldn’t have been happier. Osama couldn’t have been happier. Count Zarth Arn was proudly informed by a lieutenant that they were popping Champaign to celebrate the victory of the dark side back on 21st century Earth. He looked out the giant portal of his command center for signs of the approaching armada of good guys. There were already clear indications that it was dwindling. As it came nearer large chunks of the floating city would start glowing and disappear. Hardly anything was left. Zarth Arn’s plan was working! “Adios, Stella Star,” he said and laughed maniacally. “Asta la bye-bye, Prince Simon and the Emperor of the First Circle of the Universe. Mission accomplished!” he declared before his delirious legions of black guard. “Nothing can stop us now. We will rule the galaxy!” Just then, the time machine lit back up again, and as the cheering men turned to see what was up Taliban and Al-Qaeda fighters jumped out and opened fire on them with their laser guns. They activated their light sabers, and screamed “Jehad on the space demon!” It had never occurred to Zarth Arn that they could come back through the time portal, but there they were, pouring out of the machine two and three at a time. Before he knew it his space fortress was crawling with angry zip gun wielding Islamic invaders. They vaporized his soldiers left and right. It was a bloodbath. Finally, Osama himself stepped through the open hatch of the time machine. Count Zarth Arn’s men lay pulverized around him. There was no escape. His back was pressed against a massive steel beam in the center of the room. Osama parted the gauntlet of ray guns trained on the Count’s chest, and admired the vast command center of the space fortress. “We have awaited patiently your reincarnation,” he said as he turned back to the Count. “We knew you would come back and not abandon us as did your democratic predecessors. We knew you would eventually deliver to Allah this greatest of all victories!” Zarth Arn squirmed. “Why is it,” he wondered to himself, “Every one of my master-plans just makes things worse?” As Osama took some menacing practice swings the acid green blade of his light saber arced closer and closer to Zarth Arn’s head. The Count wished everything could be like it was before. His last words were: “Where are you now, Stella Star?”

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