highway to the jager zone

It's a birthday drink - I'm actually craving it, now that you mention it - I was considering eating some codeine, but I opted for re-heated pasta instead. Four out of five doctors recommend it. The fifth one tells me I’m a pitiful neurotic using cheap and dirty intoxicants to bring a facsimile of excitement to my life, so I might as well go into full bore debauchery and die ASAP, so my socialist state doesn’t end up taking care of my failing lungs and brain well into middle age.

I’m getting sober and thinking a sip of jager would be nice – jager and red bull – stay alert, stay drunk (to a child safety jingle). I’ve got my new power jacket on, the bold black beauty that I picked up at a kansas thrift store. So I’m opportunating under the dangerous assumption that I’m Player One online, playing the game, the one that’ll take me to my end, waiting for the rain, to wash who I am (poorly translated entheogenic lyrics, infected mushroom goa trance, innocent teenage sound, when psychedelics are trippy dude, trippin ballz).

Ripper is a gangster. Even in death. My patron sinner. Forget those columbine fucks, ew, that’s so 1999. Gross. Ripper is a gangster in a glorified crew. There’s no scraps in his scrapbook. Ripper is my homie, I doused the pavement with robitussin in his memory.

What fun is getting fucked up, if you can’t post fucked up shit online? I can say anything I want, this space is Uncouth after all – so you can too. Reservation? No reservation here. Don’t be reserved. Second guesses are the first step toward third world perception. There’s no scraps in my scrapbook. Don’t be reserved. It’ll all be preserved, but omniscience is God, and God is good, right? So it’s all good. Just don’t fuck with me, fool. Be aloof, a backwards fool. Unless aloof is fucking with me, don’t give me no cold vibes when I don’t want them, you aloof muthafucka. Just don’t fall into what my definition of fucking is, at any given moment. Don’t fuck around on me. You’re my bitch now. Your soul belongs to Jesus, but your ass belongs to me.

So what do I do as Player One, Online? Pshhhh, I dunno. I get da honeys G. Livin like a star, drivin in my car, ice on my fingers and my toes and I’m a Taurus. Check check it. So near and so far. Glazed lust, eyes bugging out of my head, the words won’t do it, won’t substitute. So maybe we fucked the sky God, maybe that’s what we have in common. But it was no goddamned substitute. It’s HER city. Her city. Not my city. It’s the promised land, but it was never promised to me. It’s got a window online, but Player One Online can only do so much. He can be a voyeur I guess. Alpinistic heights of voyeurism.

It’s a Hoegaarden evening, I guess, this sickly side of the clock. No sun yet, just fine Belgian ale. All ma hoes be chillin in da garden. If I didn’t reference you, I apologize. You were referenced in spirit, anyway. Hey, I’m at your service. Any requests? Do you accept mastercard? The card that’s hard?

Here comes the headache. Damnit. Why can’t I be a high functioning alcoholic like Christopher Hitchens? A professional asshole? That would be nice.