Status Updates From Vol. 13

“Now I guess you’ll have to tell ‘em / that you’ve got no cerebellum,” he said erroneously. (He quoted the song correctly, but it was medically inaccurate. While Douglas Glenn Colvin may have been an excellent lyricist, he was not a medical doctor. In a leukotomy, the metal prod actually slices through a prefrontal lobe of the cerebrum, not the area around the brainstem. Still a great tune, though.)

The amateur radiologist squirted a pint of cold ultrasound transmission gel on my stomach. It felt like icy jism, a slippery, frothy load of aqueous conductor. “Doppler transmission of the gods, the wrath of sound and fury. Won’t hurt one bit...”

"What’s your problem with the Beats? Did you find out Alfred Ginsburg was a card-carrying NAMBLA member?"
"Not the beats — beets. Two e’s. I mean, fuck Ginsburg, but more importantly, fuck beets!"

He hung out at the Eagles lodge, ran through some losing pull-tab tickets and drank Manhattans made with Gem Clear and Heinz cocktail sauce, complaining about how the Mexicans blew up Tower 7 and women’s lib was responsible for the Brylcreem shortage.

I woke up later in the back of a Quizno’s sandwich shop, throwing up straight mayonnaise and chunks of half-digested bacon. My discman and 72-minute CD-R of GG Allin slow jams was missing, and I couldn’t find one of my shoes.

"We’re all fucked, and none of this matters. It’s the Titanic, and there’s no redheaded bitches to fuck in steerage. Get over it."

I didn’t know what “neck” meant, but I looked it up on Urban Dictionary, and it either means when you kiss someone without any further sexual relations, or when you cut off their head and fuck their throat tubes.

“Seriously, that chick in the Weight Watchers ad is so hot, I would kill every one of my childhood pets five times just to hear her fart through a Speak and Spell. If she was the head of a human centipede and I was the tail segment, I’d still pay extra.”

I want to go to Target and buy every Pizza Hut Personal Pan they have baking under the lights there. I don’t care when the best-by date is — those are bullshit anyway, those pizzas will last ten years under ideal temperatures. I would blow five guys nine times for some breadsticks. And yes, math-impaired readers, that means I would suck a total of 45 dicks for those breadsticks.

Johnny Monoxide knew no fear. He ate three Lunchables and was Ready to Fuck.

They weren’t sure if they were serial collisions, or if a guy was trying to fuck a deer and got hit by a car. They don’t have rape kits for deer, and if they did, the state would make the deer pay for it. The deer was asking for it. Maybe it shouldn’t have dressed like a deer slut.

I had no idea how many miles, days, weeks until my destination. Maybe the journey was the destination. Maybe I was already dead.

“You shouldn’t make rape jokes about prison. A lot of prison gangs don’t use forced anal sex as a domination tactic anymore. Now that they can get Facebook in there, it’s all about trolling and cyber-bullying.”

She wore a halter top, exposing her muffin-top midriff with a tramp stamp that said “daddy’s little whore” in faded ink across her stretch-marked skin. I had no interest in an eighteen-year-old girl with four kids and eight abortions, but I also couldn’t not look, because I’m a horrible human being.

I got home, filled my freezer with food, then immediately regretted every purchase and left the house to get some pizza. There was a place down the street that had a decent pie at a cheap price, so I ducked in for a few slices. Their sign said “Pizza As Thick As Your Dick!” in Comic Sans, with a bunch of Minions characters around the edges. But they served cold Corona in bottles, so what the hell.

I imagined her talking me into paying $900 to go to a conference at a fungus-infested convention center south of the airport to brave a sea of neckbeard dorks lined up to see a guy who wrote Star Trek fan fiction and watched Wil Wheaton take a shit back in 1996.

A portly woman in a throwback basketball jersey hate-fucked a three-layer sheet cake in the express checkout line of the Fred Meyer, throwing packs of gum on the floor, screaming about the Cavaliers losing four games to the Pacers and how she allegedly had Shawn Kemp’s abortion.

The syrup gave me horrific nightmares, like analingus-with-Ronald-Reagan-at-Red-Lobster horrific.

“Hey man, isn’t that the chick who jerked you off in the parking lot of TGI Friday’s back in 1994? Man, she looks fuckin’ brutal now.”
“Shut up. Make it go away. And it was Olive Garden. Free breadsticks and reluctant handjobs. It almost made up for the fact that every single thing on that menu makes me shit blood.”