Dear New/Old Owner of (Formerly) Ravenheart Coffee,
You are cute, sir. I mean it. I like your glasses and your attention to detail and how you play Ella Fitzgerald throughout the day instead of the "I hate my parents" emo pop regulars of of last year's play list—that talent-free, purple headed slut from Paramore, and her buddy, the pussy from Florida who wrote that song about 'your hair' and how it's 'eeeeeeehveryyyywhere'—you're a man; grow a dick.
I like how clean your coffee shop is. I like the hours. I like how nobody is screwing minors in the stock room. I like the new furniture and how the tables are separated, and not all lumped together, because that makes it easier for me to be the dark, scary loner I am, and I'm gonna be honest with you—when I'm fresh from my stop at the Safeway sandwich shop, and I've only just eaten my nosh with my Sugar Free Monster Energy drink, I'm absolutely in need of personal space to freely burp and fart within the confines of, and no, I don't want to have to deal with anybody being up in my grill with their crystals/aliens talk when cometh the gas.
Also...deodorant. Nobody in Sedona seems to know what that shit is and I'm not wearing a nose plug while I work.
That said, I have to ask if it would be possible for you not to give me a dirty look every time I come in, buy things from you, spend money in your establishment, and stay on your wi-fi for more than an hour. I realize you'd prefer that your customers come in, drop money and get the eff out, and that you refer to such behavior as "sociable," which totes makes it nice and not all what it really is, which is usery or insensitivity or blatant disregard for what it is that people do in coffee shops, and I realize you have rent to pay, rent that can only be paid if people buy things from you, but guess what: you own and run something called a coffee shop. That's a place that people go to for coffee and also a table to work on.
I know that upsets you. Maybe you could open a McDonalds or something?
Oh wait. McDonalds offers free wi-fi.
Humbly,
E. Rider
PS—And for the love of God, man, swap out the "art" for some art. Please. I'm pretty sure that piece on the way to the shitter is just scrap metal hit with a belt sander, and the remainder is either one of two things: Basha's produce section decoration, or Freshman year Photoshop 101 at Art Institute of Detroit, circa '95 (minus the guy who does the colorful portraits of the smiling ladies—dude's good.) Chris Spheeris is only smoking hot, not smoking hot and good at art, and when you mix your assessment of his work up with your appreciation for his loins, you get...the inside of your coffee shop.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Dear Sedona: RE a shocking rumor!
Dearest Sedona,
1) Pulling over people for making left turns,
2) Illegally searching vehicles,
3) Ticketing upstanding vacationers for driving at 29 miles per hour in 25 miles per hour speed limit zones,
4) Harassing vacationers at trailheads and vortexes,
5) Ensuring by means of cocksuckery and douchebaggery that any vacationer who dares to come here and make a left turn, or do two to three miles over the speed limit, or make a lane change without signaling will never spend another dollar here again,
6) Looking the other way while drug deals are made ON THE BAR at local bars,
7) ...While simultaneously ignoring the epidemic use of prescription drugs by our older populace for their "Restless Leg Syndromes," "Bulging Discs," and "Fibromy-givemedrugs-a,"
8) Following kids home from head shops in which they buy pipes in order to smoke a medicinal plant that doctors prescribe--because it is both more effective and less corrosive to the body than the "Fibromy-givemedrugs-a" type drugs. (FYI--Studies also show this plant is significantly less dangerous than alcohol, so way to go, guys. Oh, screw science! That shit is useless, right?)
9) Writing down the addresses and license plates of these kids so that they may return to the address or vehicle of the "scene of no crime" a day later with the narcotic sniffing dog they've trained to be obsessive about or full-on addicted to drugs, and that abused creature may pick up the scent of the almost totally harmless plant, earning the cop a bust, an ego-boost, some props, a picture in the paper, and good press. A kid's life is ruined, of course, because he had in his possession a plant that's also referred to as a medicine, but whatever. It's good press and props, and men with small penises need props as much as miffed lesbians.
10) Abusing dogs, and yet, ticketing other people for allowing their dogs--dogs they probably don't hook on drugs--to bark twice when a stranger nears their property.
11) Bullying, harassing, narcissistically-annihilating, allowing rich, manslaughtering con-artists to leave the state, arresting people for DUI for sleeping in the passenger side seats of their parked cars, enforcing Hitleresque racial profiling policies, threatening, frightening, openly draining resources without justification, and just basically doing anything but serving the people of Sedona.
I mean, honestly. How could you throw things at them? And can you invite me to your next "toss-shit-at-the-cops" party? I'll bring some lead pipes. Can you make molotovs in empty sugar-free Monster Energy Drink cans? If so, I have about six thou. Hit me up with an invite and they're yours, free of charge.
I have heard a nasty—and I hope, fallacious—rumor about certain behaviors, outbursts and such directed at members of the Sedona Police Department, and I find these rumors, if true, to represent actions so scandalous I feel I must write to you and tell you how disappointed I am.
Did you...do anything naughty as of late? Did you...maybe throw some stuff at some people or something like that?
Wait, I'm beating around this bush, and I hate that. Everyone knows you can't beat around the bush because the clit is smack in the middle of the bush, and so, if you're going to beat around the bush, you're not going to bring her to orgasm and she won't be returning the favor. Therefore, I'm going to beat the bean in the middle of that bush.
Let me ask you this: Did you throw rocks at the Sedona PD? Did you verbally harass our boys and bulldykes in blue?
You did?
Shame. On. You.
Now let me humble you with another series of questions:
How could you possibly justify the maltreatment of our police men and women when you know they seek only to serve the community as best as possible in the following ways:
1) Pulling over people for making left turns,
2) Illegally searching vehicles,
3) Ticketing upstanding vacationers for driving at 29 miles per hour in 25 miles per hour speed limit zones,
4) Harassing vacationers at trailheads and vortexes,
5) Ensuring by means of cocksuckery and douchebaggery that any vacationer who dares to come here and make a left turn, or do two to three miles over the speed limit, or make a lane change without signaling will never spend another dollar here again,
6) Looking the other way while drug deals are made ON THE BAR at local bars,
7) ...While simultaneously ignoring the epidemic use of prescription drugs by our older populace for their "Restless Leg Syndromes," "Bulging Discs," and "Fibromy-givemedrugs-a,"
8) Following kids home from head shops in which they buy pipes in order to smoke a medicinal plant that doctors prescribe--because it is both more effective and less corrosive to the body than the "Fibromy-givemedrugs-a" type drugs. (FYI--Studies also show this plant is significantly less dangerous than alcohol, so way to go, guys. Oh, screw science! That shit is useless, right?)
9) Writing down the addresses and license plates of these kids so that they may return to the address or vehicle of the "scene of no crime" a day later with the narcotic sniffing dog they've trained to be obsessive about or full-on addicted to drugs, and that abused creature may pick up the scent of the almost totally harmless plant, earning the cop a bust, an ego-boost, some props, a picture in the paper, and good press. A kid's life is ruined, of course, because he had in his possession a plant that's also referred to as a medicine, but whatever. It's good press and props, and men with small penises need props as much as miffed lesbians.
10) Abusing dogs, and yet, ticketing other people for allowing their dogs--dogs they probably don't hook on drugs--to bark twice when a stranger nears their property.
11) Bullying, harassing, narcissistically-annihilating, allowing rich, manslaughtering con-artists to leave the state, arresting people for DUI for sleeping in the passenger side seats of their parked cars, enforcing Hitleresque racial profiling policies, threatening, frightening, openly draining resources without justification, and just basically doing anything but serving the people of Sedona.
I mean, honestly. How could you throw things at them? And can you invite me to your next "toss-shit-at-the-cops" party? I'll bring some lead pipes. Can you make molotovs in empty sugar-free Monster Energy Drink cans? If so, I have about six thou. Hit me up with an invite and they're yours, free of charge.
Four dead in O-hi-o!
E. Rider
Friday, April 30, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Oh, Sedona
In all seriousness, way to go.
You used your beans. You cared for yourselves. You don't like lights, and you fucking said so with your votes, didn't you? I'm so proud.
I agree. Something smells funny, and it's not me. I just got tested. No, there's a five million dollar sewer no one is using. Follow that snail trail of excrement-scented incentives back to the shady Shaderton who shat it out, and well...you've got corruption. Good to see your noses are still sharp beneath that many colored Hopi Earth Afghan you've swaddled your neocortexes and various other important brain parts with in order to keep out tricky, collective mentality ruining things like logic or reason. Or evidence. Or truth. Or...you get my point. I think we can agree blankets make things comfy. What's comfier is to take the blanket off, and also take the dick out of your ass.
Can we get along now? I like to take drugs, often and in large quantities, and I don't like being harassed about it. Tell your pigs.
Hugs,
E. Rider
You used your beans. You cared for yourselves. You don't like lights, and you fucking said so with your votes, didn't you? I'm so proud.
I agree. Something smells funny, and it's not me. I just got tested. No, there's a five million dollar sewer no one is using. Follow that snail trail of excrement-scented incentives back to the shady Shaderton who shat it out, and well...you've got corruption. Good to see your noses are still sharp beneath that many colored Hopi Earth Afghan you've swaddled your neocortexes and various other important brain parts with in order to keep out tricky, collective mentality ruining things like logic or reason. Or evidence. Or truth. Or...you get my point. I think we can agree blankets make things comfy. What's comfier is to take the blanket off, and also take the dick out of your ass.
Can we get along now? I like to take drugs, often and in large quantities, and I don't like being harassed about it. Tell your pigs.
Hugs,
E. Rider
Sunday, February 28, 2010
To Sedona, in General
Dear Sedona,
I have grown so fond of you. I think you remain unable to process just exactly what I am and where I come from, and I don't blame you for that. Its a collectivist's dream, this post 911 world we're living in. If I'm crazy, I've got to be woo-woo. Except I like logic, and don't see fairies. If I were of your ilk, I'd wear turquoise with khaki, listen to Chris Spheeris and have a McCain sticker on the back of my not-so-woo-woo spanking new car. Maybe my bumper remains void of any McCainery because I'm not fond of spoiled psychopaths.
Why can't I play? Huh? I may already be worthy of membership, you don't know. If I weren't a member of your club, I wouldn't have enjoyed when you snapped up the remotes and chose for all of us working out at Snap Fitness Fox News' psychotic treasure of a Glenn Beck, and you know what? I did enjoy it. I did. I laughed my nuts off.
I like your stuff. I do. And in an effort to endear myself to you, I'm going to do you a solid.
You don't like lights.
You really don't, and I get why. Sure, I once thought this whole lights vs. no lights thingy was racism in action, but I've since come around to your side of this issue. Our sky, at night, is a treasure, and I can understand why the only lights you're in favor of are the kind made of burning balls of hydrogen and helium. They're so very pretty. They twinkle. Twinkle, twinkle. Sparkle, sparkle.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but these street lights Ms. Nancy Scagnelli is intent upon putting up, they're butt fuggin ugly, aren't they? Like War of the World type lights. They're going to ruin the starscape. Pretty much everybody loses, then, except for: 1) people who like to do jigs in the middle of dimly lit highways when intoxicated, 2) whoever is cutting Nancy Scagnelli in on the considerable construction cost of erecting these fuckers, and 3) that lovely schizophrenic dude who does calisthenics at dawn on Airport Mesa with his nuts hanging out of his running shorts; the one who thinks every light in the sky is a UFO. That's like, what? Maybe ten or fifteen people who win? And the rest of you lose.
So what's the deal, kids? You go to this Scagnelli lady and say, honestly, you don't want lights, and she says, "Oh, you want lights? I can do that. How many?" And then you say, Uh, Nancy, we don't want any lights, and she says, "Yes, lights! I can get you some lights!" And you say, No, no. We don't want any god damn lights, and she says, "I got an idea...let's put up some lights, and while we're at it, let's hire more mentally ill cops with daddy issues."
What will she do next? Appoint your mayor for you? Oh, wait...
I suppose this is none of my business, since I'm the newbie and not really in the club, per se. I suppose I should keep my mouth shut about people I don't know, but I'm not going to do that for many self-indulgent reasons, chief among them the fact that I post these words on the internet, the last bastion of true truth, justice and American narcissism, and in the interest of honoring those three wonderful things I've got to pose this question: if you don't like lights en masse, why would you vote for someone intent upon ignoring your wishes and putting them the fuck up anyway? And furthermore, why would you vote for anyone associated with such a jackass (cough: Jerry Frey: cough)? Because he rides horses? Sure, he may be married to the sort of lady who would verily eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti (slurp, slurp, slurp), but!...he rides horses. Why question his associations? Keep it down, you silly little lambs. He's a horse-riding guy; that makes him the right guy.
I'll tell you what, if there was a ballot I could check guaranteeing I'd never again have to drive down Culp's Hill and say, "Oh, look. A bird!" only to come to the bleak realization that it is just that nylon bastard who flies above the gas station in figure eights of trickery and deceit, and I've been duped yet again, for perhaps the seven hundredth time, I would check that ballot till my pen tore the paper.
You have to honor your own wishes in this world, and honor the leaders who will listen to them and act accordingly, whether they belong to your club or not, or else you'll find yourself paddleless, up shit creek, having to put the lotion in the basket at the risk of getting the hose again. No one wants the hose. Don't vote for the hose.
Sloppy kisses on your faces,
E. Rider
I have grown so fond of you. I think you remain unable to process just exactly what I am and where I come from, and I don't blame you for that. Its a collectivist's dream, this post 911 world we're living in. If I'm crazy, I've got to be woo-woo. Except I like logic, and don't see fairies. If I were of your ilk, I'd wear turquoise with khaki, listen to Chris Spheeris and have a McCain sticker on the back of my not-so-woo-woo spanking new car. Maybe my bumper remains void of any McCainery because I'm not fond of spoiled psychopaths.
Why can't I play? Huh? I may already be worthy of membership, you don't know. If I weren't a member of your club, I wouldn't have enjoyed when you snapped up the remotes and chose for all of us working out at Snap Fitness Fox News' psychotic treasure of a Glenn Beck, and you know what? I did enjoy it. I did. I laughed my nuts off.
I like your stuff. I do. And in an effort to endear myself to you, I'm going to do you a solid.
You don't like lights.
You really don't, and I get why. Sure, I once thought this whole lights vs. no lights thingy was racism in action, but I've since come around to your side of this issue. Our sky, at night, is a treasure, and I can understand why the only lights you're in favor of are the kind made of burning balls of hydrogen and helium. They're so very pretty. They twinkle. Twinkle, twinkle. Sparkle, sparkle.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but these street lights Ms. Nancy Scagnelli is intent upon putting up, they're butt fuggin ugly, aren't they? Like War of the World type lights. They're going to ruin the starscape. Pretty much everybody loses, then, except for: 1) people who like to do jigs in the middle of dimly lit highways when intoxicated, 2) whoever is cutting Nancy Scagnelli in on the considerable construction cost of erecting these fuckers, and 3) that lovely schizophrenic dude who does calisthenics at dawn on Airport Mesa with his nuts hanging out of his running shorts; the one who thinks every light in the sky is a UFO. That's like, what? Maybe ten or fifteen people who win? And the rest of you lose.
So what's the deal, kids? You go to this Scagnelli lady and say, honestly, you don't want lights, and she says, "Oh, you want lights? I can do that. How many?" And then you say, Uh, Nancy, we don't want any lights, and she says, "Yes, lights! I can get you some lights!" And you say, No, no. We don't want any god damn lights, and she says, "I got an idea...let's put up some lights, and while we're at it, let's hire more mentally ill cops with daddy issues."
What will she do next? Appoint your mayor for you? Oh, wait...
I suppose this is none of my business, since I'm the newbie and not really in the club, per se. I suppose I should keep my mouth shut about people I don't know, but I'm not going to do that for many self-indulgent reasons, chief among them the fact that I post these words on the internet, the last bastion of true truth, justice and American narcissism, and in the interest of honoring those three wonderful things I've got to pose this question: if you don't like lights en masse, why would you vote for someone intent upon ignoring your wishes and putting them the fuck up anyway? And furthermore, why would you vote for anyone associated with such a jackass (cough: Jerry Frey: cough)? Because he rides horses? Sure, he may be married to the sort of lady who would verily eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti (slurp, slurp, slurp), but!...he rides horses. Why question his associations? Keep it down, you silly little lambs. He's a horse-riding guy; that makes him the right guy.
I'll tell you what, if there was a ballot I could check guaranteeing I'd never again have to drive down Culp's Hill and say, "Oh, look. A bird!" only to come to the bleak realization that it is just that nylon bastard who flies above the gas station in figure eights of trickery and deceit, and I've been duped yet again, for perhaps the seven hundredth time, I would check that ballot till my pen tore the paper.
You have to honor your own wishes in this world, and honor the leaders who will listen to them and act accordingly, whether they belong to your club or not, or else you'll find yourself paddleless, up shit creek, having to put the lotion in the basket at the risk of getting the hose again. No one wants the hose. Don't vote for the hose.
Sloppy kisses on your faces,
E. Rider
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
To the Judgmental Woman who Sold me a Skull
Dear JWwSmaS,
You’re selling skulls, okay. What’s with the ‘tude?
Granted, it was the skull of a cow I was buying from you, which is the skull of an animal we humans verily eat and skin and use in any way we please, and score 1 for you, because the dead cow skull is a clichéd piece of southwester décor--along with those rusted antique appliances and hole-punched pieces of tin—but I don’t think it was necessary to so unceremoniously balk at my suggestion.
If I so choose to adorn my cow skull with rhinestones and feathers, I so choose, and this is free country, dammit! And if I so choose to ask you how I can further add to my skull and war weapon collection with the skull of a human (an animal we other humans—in a way—verily use) it is my right to ask. Maybe I was just joking (I wasn’t), and you didn’t get my unique sense of humor. Maybe YOU’RE the problem, judgmental skull seller. Yeah.
You see, we all get to choose. It was your choice to grow that grizzled mane of old lady hair and eschew any of the helpful products in the beauty aisle of your grocery store, growing hair and doing nothing attractive with it. I didn’t roll my eyes at your frizz. Inwardly, perhaps, but I’d never let you know I find your decisions in life—like the decision to never, and I mean never, wear sunscreen at any point during your tenure on this planet--to be foolish. These decisions are yours. You want to look like one of your saddles? Okay then.
What I mean to say is, you don’t get to tell me what to collect, missy. You don’t get to tell me what to do with what I collect. You know what? I’m off to the craft store. Oh, yeah. The craft store. You know what I’m going to buy there? Glitter. Lots and lots of glitter, and I’m gonna whore that cow head up till its as gay as a Technicolor Dreamcoat in a lube factory!
Sincerely,
E. Rider
You’re selling skulls, okay. What’s with the ‘tude?
Granted, it was the skull of a cow I was buying from you, which is the skull of an animal we humans verily eat and skin and use in any way we please, and score 1 for you, because the dead cow skull is a clichéd piece of southwester décor--along with those rusted antique appliances and hole-punched pieces of tin—but I don’t think it was necessary to so unceremoniously balk at my suggestion.
If I so choose to adorn my cow skull with rhinestones and feathers, I so choose, and this is free country, dammit! And if I so choose to ask you how I can further add to my skull and war weapon collection with the skull of a human (an animal we other humans—in a way—verily use) it is my right to ask. Maybe I was just joking (I wasn’t), and you didn’t get my unique sense of humor. Maybe YOU’RE the problem, judgmental skull seller. Yeah.
You see, we all get to choose. It was your choice to grow that grizzled mane of old lady hair and eschew any of the helpful products in the beauty aisle of your grocery store, growing hair and doing nothing attractive with it. I didn’t roll my eyes at your frizz. Inwardly, perhaps, but I’d never let you know I find your decisions in life—like the decision to never, and I mean never, wear sunscreen at any point during your tenure on this planet--to be foolish. These decisions are yours. You want to look like one of your saddles? Okay then.
What I mean to say is, you don’t get to tell me what to collect, missy. You don’t get to tell me what to do with what I collect. You know what? I’m off to the craft store. Oh, yeah. The craft store. You know what I’m going to buy there? Glitter. Lots and lots of glitter, and I’m gonna whore that cow head up till its as gay as a Technicolor Dreamcoat in a lube factory!
Sincerely,
E. Rider
Sunday, January 17, 2010
To the Smoking-hot, Christ-worshipping, Homeless Terrorist
Dear SHCWHT,
You are so dreamy. Dude.
Even with the stench. Even with the several feet of dreadlocked, licey hair that festoons your schizophrenic noggin. Even with your love of all things Jesus and bathing with Ayurvedic soap in public park rivers. Even with those teeth. You are hot, my friend.
We met in a coffee shop. I was doing my job (oh, I’m such a materialist; such a godless drone!) You were attempting to color-correct photos of Aryan Jesus for some purpose. You smelled like an old gym sock. I wouldn’t have helped you if you didn’t have those eyes and that bod (oh, I’m a wanton whore!) You don’t believe in the concept of material ownership, but somehow had a laptop with Adobe brand photo-editing software. I taught you how to use it while breathing through my mouth. You informed me that casting off the burdens of material ownership was the only way to achieve the state of true and constant bliss you operate from within, and also that you’d also like to throw yourself off the tallest rock in Sedona.
We had a deep and extremely confusing discussion about the many simultaneous contradictions you presently hold in your pretty, pretty, bug-infested head region. You like Jesus, I’m totally sure of that. You like Jesus, and you like smoking weed. I was excited because, though I find his followers wholly repellent, I dig Jesus, and I think its also pretty apparent—if you’ve read this or any other of my missed connection type musings—that I enjoy smoking weed. A lot. We had a deep spiritual thingy going. Or rather, with a few minor changes to your person we could have made a deep spiritual connection, and by “few minor changes” I mean you would have had to shower with chemical soap and cut off the nest of hair, and by “deep spiritual connection” I mean two days worth of dirty fucking in every contortion in the Kama Sutra followed by you not calling me or coming to my house ever again.
If only you hadn’t also been a terrorist.
Yes, I understand that God and Jesus made the earth and that all things upon it (weed) are beautiful, and the many wonders of God and Jesus’ making (weed and mushrooms) are placed within our grasp as a people in order for us to both enjoy ours lives (by smoking weed and eating mushrooms) and to well-sustain these separate skin sacks our spirits inhabit. I understand that God's and Jesus' wonders include the rivers and streams you routinely bathe within without achieving any sort of cleanliness. I do not, however, think it’s a good idea to blow up dams in order to release reservoirs that support and sustain communities, irrigate farm land and keep the many people who live beneath them not dead so that wondrous chunks of water can flow in unimpeded, disastrous tsunamis through developed land to the oceans, in the process, murdering God's and Jesus' less wondrous creations: American citizens.
I get your fervor. I love that you love, love, love Jesus and weed. Your eyes and your ass make my nether regions wet as your schizophrenic fantasy of a dam-less America, but what kind of patriot would I be if I fucked a terrorist? Not a good one, sir, and how can I disparage a country that continually tolerates--nay caters to--my wanton, drunken, drug-crazed, materialistic, narcissistic generation, which I love and cherish with all four chambers of my hard, black, slutty heart?
I say good day to you, sir!
Kisses,
E. Rider
PS—If I were going to throw myself off a Sedonian rock, I’d go with Coffeepot Rock, which is tall enough to get the job done, but also, politically speaking, carries with your suicide the dual message of “Dams are sacrilege,” AND “This rock doesn’t look like a Coffeepot any more.” I don’t know when Sedona is going to realize this.
You are so dreamy. Dude.
Even with the stench. Even with the several feet of dreadlocked, licey hair that festoons your schizophrenic noggin. Even with your love of all things Jesus and bathing with Ayurvedic soap in public park rivers. Even with those teeth. You are hot, my friend.
We met in a coffee shop. I was doing my job (oh, I’m such a materialist; such a godless drone!) You were attempting to color-correct photos of Aryan Jesus for some purpose. You smelled like an old gym sock. I wouldn’t have helped you if you didn’t have those eyes and that bod (oh, I’m a wanton whore!) You don’t believe in the concept of material ownership, but somehow had a laptop with Adobe brand photo-editing software. I taught you how to use it while breathing through my mouth. You informed me that casting off the burdens of material ownership was the only way to achieve the state of true and constant bliss you operate from within, and also that you’d also like to throw yourself off the tallest rock in Sedona.
We had a deep and extremely confusing discussion about the many simultaneous contradictions you presently hold in your pretty, pretty, bug-infested head region. You like Jesus, I’m totally sure of that. You like Jesus, and you like smoking weed. I was excited because, though I find his followers wholly repellent, I dig Jesus, and I think its also pretty apparent—if you’ve read this or any other of my missed connection type musings—that I enjoy smoking weed. A lot. We had a deep spiritual thingy going. Or rather, with a few minor changes to your person we could have made a deep spiritual connection, and by “few minor changes” I mean you would have had to shower with chemical soap and cut off the nest of hair, and by “deep spiritual connection” I mean two days worth of dirty fucking in every contortion in the Kama Sutra followed by you not calling me or coming to my house ever again.
If only you hadn’t also been a terrorist.
Yes, I understand that God and Jesus made the earth and that all things upon it (weed) are beautiful, and the many wonders of God and Jesus’ making (weed and mushrooms) are placed within our grasp as a people in order for us to both enjoy ours lives (by smoking weed and eating mushrooms) and to well-sustain these separate skin sacks our spirits inhabit. I understand that God's and Jesus' wonders include the rivers and streams you routinely bathe within without achieving any sort of cleanliness. I do not, however, think it’s a good idea to blow up dams in order to release reservoirs that support and sustain communities, irrigate farm land and keep the many people who live beneath them not dead so that wondrous chunks of water can flow in unimpeded, disastrous tsunamis through developed land to the oceans, in the process, murdering God's and Jesus' less wondrous creations: American citizens.
I get your fervor. I love that you love, love, love Jesus and weed. Your eyes and your ass make my nether regions wet as your schizophrenic fantasy of a dam-less America, but what kind of patriot would I be if I fucked a terrorist? Not a good one, sir, and how can I disparage a country that continually tolerates--nay caters to--my wanton, drunken, drug-crazed, materialistic, narcissistic generation, which I love and cherish with all four chambers of my hard, black, slutty heart?
I say good day to you, sir!
Kisses,
E. Rider
PS—If I were going to throw myself off a Sedonian rock, I’d go with Coffeepot Rock, which is tall enough to get the job done, but also, politically speaking, carries with your suicide the dual message of “Dams are sacrilege,” AND “This rock doesn’t look like a Coffeepot any more.” I don’t know when Sedona is going to realize this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
