atomic armstrong wants to lounge around in life for a while, put the grail's grace on his pale face, glitter with christian schlock, hack away at the gray day, bleeding the cup of christ for steel-girdered paradise
when sci-fi painted our retirement years radioactive, nuclear winters of mad max mutation, reagan still rasping on TV he's gonna beat the commies like clinton eastwood staring down the baddies, atomic armstrong stepped off the set of the moon landing, staggered out of studio 54 with the standard shaft still sticking broken off out his ass, stumbled back through the seventies and straight into the merry pranksters' movie ~ here he was hippie craque, a nip of nitrous reverie and a gritty hit off the pipe that frames life in stark duality, the dirtiest route to the purest euphoria, and only the rock, synthetic monstrosity of pharmaceutical humanity can get him to the hyperbliss he knows he can see - neat nirvana in a nutshell, clean and next to god, still rotting in the room of a speed freak commune. His comrades are building a bomb to kill the warpigs, but they'll blow themselves up before they get it out the door, so he'd better get out of history and back into the 21st century. You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows
that's one small step for a man, one giant leap for ratkind, and a book deal in 2005 cause the public will pay to know how he stayed alive, what moment he decided to fink out his red-blooded american terrorist cell, but he won't tell because his trophy for transcending history is spilling over with holy water like the fountain of youth and he's busy sipping, slurping, gripping the grail and chugging it down by the gallon, never asking where it comes from
Atomic Armstrong wants to lounge about in life for a while, wants to go off the deep end but he knows there's no end to the deep end when you're really into the dive, never more alive, plunging for new depths of death and death of depths, off the board, that's one small step for a man, one giant dive for ratkind, admission of full control to the reptilian brain
atomic armstrong wants to lounge about in life for a while, cause the good doctor told him there was no god, and betrand's bitter pills are working their way into his nervous system, so what can he get out of this reality? make lemons out of lemonade, gold out of ground, money from oil - step out of the hippie rags and into a well-cut suit, and realize why diamonds are a girl's best friend, and comprehend the status symbols, their gleaming raison d'etre, the truth of glittering gold and the thousand dollar dinner he discovers he won't turn down when offered, embracing the pragmatic route to success with its conventional luxuries of aged liquor and mafia buddies, associates, soprano swan song slur for the next eighty years of upper crust retirement in jersey's gated community, become like THEM, become the greatest THEM of them all, the quintessential THEM, lord of THEM, play for THEM while you play THEM like Tupu the Tiki Demon's cursed woodwind
lounge action, slackadaisical laxative action, loosen the belt and kurtz out the natives, provincial, terrestrial natives eating their cancer meal for breakfast in the five essential flavors and vitamins morning, seven secret herbs and spices, brought to you by Pfizer with fixed pharmaceutical prices - shaking frilly-hipped hula mirth at the last luau on earth before molten cauterization scorches this pre-pompeii cataclysm straight off the island to pave the obsidian way for business as usual - dirge of the turgid tiki turnover, let them eat mango
cause this is our lounge you see, and when we play a wrong note it ricochets off the fronds of the palm tree and transmutes to sublime harmony, pre-cognizant counterpoint cause i say so, k?
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