You know what this makes me think of? Them bags that fill up with blood when you give blood. I like watchin them fill up with blood. I like blood. I like it so much I give blood even though my present medical condition suggests I may be carrying Hepatitis A & C, I don’t know, I wasn’t listenin to the doctor because I was reading a magazine called “Woman’s Day” and had found the recipe that would change my life, the best SW Tangy Vegetable Dip recipe that was succulent, so succulent, and even though it was responsible for the end of my marriage I loved it more than sex.
Anyway, them blood bags make me think of my colostomy bag, which I throw at people like a water balloon and this is amusing to me. Bacon bits.
I took that dog and I put a rope round his neck and tied him to a tree so’s he couldn’t get away, until about late that afternoon he commenced to howl and stir up such a ruckus that I put a couple crabapples in a sock and commenced to beat him with it. That shut ‘im up for awhile, but then after I went back inside and finished eatin my fishsticks, it occurs to me that he ain’t had no food or water since Thursday. I go bak out and try to feed ‘im the crabapples, but he’s still unconscious, and even when I bust one of them smellin’ salts under his head and wake ‘im up, he don’t want no crabapples. So I hike on down to old Mr. Matzko’s house and axe ‘im if I can borrow a can of dog food or somethin, and he tell me he ain’t got no dogfood on account of some wild board kilt his dog about a month ago. That musta been what the smell was comin from under his porch and all. Old Mr. Matzko give me a can of anchovies and I hoof it back home, where the dog is sittin there under the tree with his tongue hangin out. I open up the can of anchovies, but he don’t want nothin to do with them, either, so’s I eat one or two to show him they ain’t all fulla poison or nothin like that. Well the dog just looks at me like he don’t know what to make of watchin some guy eat anchovies, so’s I start shovin ’em into his mouth and all, and wouldn’t ya know it but the sonuvabitch bit me. I got mad then, and went and called the state game warden, who says I aughtn’t to call him concerning my pets, only wild animals. So I tell him I found the dog when it was a stray and don’t that make it wild? He says no and I should call the pound and stop axin’ him stupid questions. So I call the pound and the guy at the pound drives out in his dogwagon and loads the dog into the back of it, and then hands me a bill. I axe him what the hell I gotta pay for, on account of they’re just gonna up and sell the dog to somebody else, and he says he don’t make the rules, so stop breakin his balls about it. So I go get a empty peanut butter jar and fill it up with quarters and he says he can’t take money with peanut butter all over it, so’s I conked him in the head with the jar and down he goes into the mud, knocked out. Next thing I know I’m sittin there watchin TV and eatin the last of the anchovies, and here come the cops and they wanna know why the hell I conked the dogcatcher in the head with a jar fulla quarters. I say I don’t know, and they drag me on off to jail in the back of the paddywagon. But as it turns out, they load me into the back of the dogcatcher van by mistake, and the dog still don’t like me very much, and he’s even more mad on account of he’s been locked in the back of the dogcatcher van for about six hours. He starts bitin’ me all over the place, and by the time the police get me back out, I got chunks of meat ripped outta my ass and one of my fingers is gone. They take me to the hospital and the doctor wants to know what happened, and as I’m tellin him he gets this peculiar look on his face and he walks off and comes back with another doctor. The other doctor asks me what happened and I start tellin him, and next thing I know they’re takin’ me to the psych ward and showin’ me pictures of shit askin’ me what I think it is. I tell ’em I’m tired, and can I go home yet, and they say, Son, you’s either goin’ to jail or to the state hospital, dependin’ on our findings here, and I ask which one’s got better food and lets you watch TV and all and the doctor says probably the state hospital, so right then and there I start makin’ up weird shit whenever they axe me any questions, like for example I tell the guy I use the sink when I take a dump on account of I have four or five goldfish that live in my commode, and that I when I get lonely I dig up graves at the pet cemetery down the street. He looks at me real strange and next thing I know I’m on the bus to the state hospital. I get there and everyone is real nice and the food is good and they let me watch TV, but I keep on wonderin’, whatever happened to the dog?
Bergle was this big fat stupid goon son of a bitch who lived over by the dairy farm outside of town and carried a smurfs lunchbox until I stole it and chucked it out the school bus window and it landed in a ditch. Every day when Bergle came into school, six-foot-twenty and stinking of carrion and mothballs with big gray nerd glasses and a Loverboy t-shirt and purple sweatpants, the whole class started right in:
“Hey, Bergle, where’d you get that coat, the dump?”
“Hey Bergle, I can smell that fart a mile away. What’d you eat for breakfast, beans?”
“What were ya doin in the bathroom, Bergle, jackin off?”
And Bergle just sat there all day starin at the floor like a fat old worthless retard.
But we had the most fun at recess. Somehow, despite being a big fat clumsy gorilla, Bergle could run faster than just about anyone, and that was good for him, because just about every day twenty or thirty kids chased him all around the playground just for the hell of it. Most of the time he ended up falling in the mud and getting all shitty. Other times we caught him and stomped on him and kicked him and mashed him into the mud. Once he tried to run back into the school and me and the school fatkid and about fifty other kids caught his leg in the door and we leaned on it with all our weight and he screamed and screamed and nobody came to help him because nobody gave a shit and we busted his ankle and lay there in a heap cryin and screamin in the hallway and we danced around screaming “Bergle’s cryin! Bergle’s cryin!”
That was the best day of my life.
I gotta take a dump.
There used to be this guy who lived down the street from me who looked like Kirk Cameron. One day I went over and talked to him and invited him over for dinner. So he came over for dinner and I made toast.
“Why are we eating toast for dinner?” said Kirk Cameron.
So I said, “You don’t like this fuckin toast, I’ll stick it up your fuckin ass, you goddamn cuntface whoremaster!” And I grabbed him by the hair and drug him across the room and mashed his face down onto the waffle iron.
“AAARRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGG!” said Kirk Cameron. Then I threw him down the steps and he broke his back.
You can bet next time he didn’t bitch about my toast.
This guy once came to a barbecue with his dog, which was dead. He kicked me in the balls and I fell on the ground and started vomiting and everyone laughed at me, even my grandmother. My grandmother was toothless and now she is dead, which is worse. I have dinosaurs in my bed.
Anyway, I got back up off the ground and went down to this little restaurant but I had puke all over my pants and people kept staring at me. I saw this midget, which was gross, because midgets are animals and it’s disgusting and immoral to bring a filthy midget into a restaurant. I grabbed the manager by the wrist and told him i couldn’t eat with that hideously deformed monstrosity at the next table or I would puke, and he said I already puked anyway, so nobody gave a shit. I said it wasn’t my fault I got kicked in the balls at a church picnic and go get me a hamburger.
He got me a hamburger and I threw it against the wall and I called the pound and they came and collected the midget and put it in a cage. I hope they shot it.
One time I went to a coffee shop to write and the guy said i couldn’t come in on account of I didn’t have no shoes on so I went outside and bashed up a newspaper machine and put newspaper on my feet and the guy said I still couldn’t come inside so I went around the corner where this hobo was sitting there talking about something and I conked him over the head with a garbage can lid and stoled his shoes. They stunk. Then I went back in the coffee shop and the guy said I could come in if i left everybody alone and I sat down and I wrote the best story in the history of American literature and Canada and then I went home and jacked off.