12 Oct 2011

hotel newfoundland

looks like a club, as seen on tv, with shots of pretty people laughing, and two or three visible minorities during the race-related routines - there's an eye-straining cathode ray glow lighting the corner of a fifth floor liquor-bottle littered sheraton hotel room - it sounds like the registered guest is laughing a little, just a bit aloft, a little above the booze-induced depression, cause that was a clever bit, a reference he got, and he feels like one of the patrons of the fake tv comedy club, fifty-four or some number, one of the just-drunk-enough patrons, perennially moderate

smells like vodka and mentos, and halls lozenges in case the freshmaker won't cover enough - the void needs entertainment, he hasn't run out of references yet, there's still shallow ditches to plumb, there's something somewhere that hasn't been made fun of yet

comedy lives in fiber-optic cables like blood cells, constituents of maximal entertainment, abused endorphins - if it could talk, it would tell the registered guest in room 513, hey, nevermind this sorry situation, nevermind you got kicked out of your home, homes are for old folks and retards, it's all a lot of bullshit, did you hear the one about the drunk, the cabin, and the dildo?

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