Mud And Meat

The water’s been rolling down the side of the mountain, taking everything with it, and I’ve watched with intense scrutiny, pleased with what I see.
I’ve been filling holes with mulch and meat, salt and mud, my days on a course all their own; the world a wisp of vapor, talking heads muffled to silence, the strains gorging me with blood while I vibrated and conjured, allowing the voices to blend and synthesize, round edges grown smooth and distinct under my tutelage, soft clay in between my fingers. And invariably when I encountered a hole, I scrambled to fill it with mud, with meat, to keep the road smooth while I hustled into the shadows to find my way. I didn’t have a clue on where I was headed, but I didn’t let anyone know for fear of complete mutiny. Our ship stayed its course. I didn’t rattle. I allowed the manna to spirit me away and the mud and the meat shouldered my weight.
Talking heads were sipping coffee and chatting amiably. The Mississippi mudfarmer let if fly while the white woman plucked her harp, and the simplicity escaped most, but I was moved, appreciating as I did the attention to detail. They cared not a flip what I thought, they just did it. I drank some cold milk and I jiggled to the beat. Around me, talking heads acted like they were intelligent, but I knew they were faking it. I wanted to talk, but not a sound left my mouth and I felt teeny tiny, but Mississippi mudfarmer man only smiled more, understanding as he did my inability to function in the presence of greatness. Life is strange...
A lungful of sticky psychosis, a zoo of noise escaped from his fingers; from a lover’s howl to a deafening jet engine, jagged screels and excitable monkey chatter. The white woman sat on the couch in a pretzel, a look of abject terror masking her visage, both confused and troubled by the assault. I was moved to tears. Only later did she admit to being soothed by the savageness. By the look in her eyes at the end of the evening, she appeared liberated, sexually satisfied. Tribal beats swam in and out of the room, demanding our attention, rendering the fear of the unknown into a glop of foolishness and folly.
The mirror ball spun and turned the room into swimming slow motion. She adjusted her glasses and warbled and squeaked, her drummer doing his best to turn the movement sideways, upside down, while the crowd tapped their feet and bopped. She turned a gallon jug up and suckled the sweetness down her goose neck while the talking heads smacked their hands together in approval, gobbling like turkeys. The girl in the glasses -who strummed the guitar inside out- spoke her piece in a language all her own, and we were all the better for it. My hands were sore, my soul nourished
Potato chip bags littered the floor, candy wrappers scuttled from room to room. Guitars were dusted and in alignment, feng shui like a mushroom cloud spilling over the couch, over the woman sitting in the flowers, over the instruments perfectly placed in accord with the grand design. Little quiet white man was The Odd Couple, all wrapped up into one J C Penney package. Big muff Bootsy stomped like Godzilla, tearing the roof off the sucker. Wham bam backwoods stomp made the tourists all nervous like. Made my ass all pointy. Little quiet white man with the smelly feet shouted the world down. The talking heads ordered some tacos and beer and tittered nervously.
The girls with the black fur coats made themselves at home in the dark and the quiet. Lights were blinking, meters were fluctuating, and the white woman caressed the keys, letting her madness escape for a while into binary code. Another quiet white man conducted and captured the melodies. Hunched over and inflexible, she trusted her instincts and gave forth the effort needed and as she did so I watched her body relax, her composure at once fluid and endemic, knowing we were in her heart, giving her the years of experience we’d absorbed to let the flower blossom. She smiled. She giggled. She snarled. The hills were alive.
A chorus of holes filled with mud and meat littered the road behind me, glistening and bubbling, adjusting to the Texas heat.
My gals flexed their paws and spoke their mind. To a woman in another state who could understand them. The headless bodiless woman told me the girls are a Greek chorus, telling her of the uniqueness, their specialness, and how other talking heads knew, too. The gals told her of their fan club, of their fondness for the river, of their sadness over the short woman who’s gone, of the angels who watch over us, while they teach me about life, and I listen, and they know this. They’re delighted we travel as a trio, and are supplanted by understanding, by love, and nothing will stand in our way. The headless bodiless woman existed on another plane, and she met us in the clouds. We were a banana fudgesickle licked by a most exquisite woman who wielded a velvet tongue
I’ve diligently filled the holes with mulch and meat, salt and mud. I’ve not procrastinated, nor delayed. Hair is growing on the pulsating flesh. Blood oozes from the holes’ edges. I walk on. Music is the wind beneath my wings while meat drips from my soles onto the faces of onlookers; the talking heads who are too afraid to walk to the edge and look over into the abyss, only watching me from a safe distance, hoping I will plunge to my death so they can talk about me in the past tense. But I fly. Take that.
Tomorrow is another day. I want to take you higher.
Boomshakalakalaka Boomshakalakalaka.

The Bestest of the Best and The Worstest of the Worstester

The Very Best

His reaction to what I’d conjured was the best compliment that I could ever ask for. Ever.
As I sat on the couch listening to the playback, a strange noise came from over my shoulder. When I turned there the singer/songwriter sat, boo hooing like a baby; big crocodile tears flowing down his face.
Told me all I needed to know.
The best.

The Absolute Worst

I’d made a decision a few days ago to never leave the den, the relative safety of the couch, as over the course of a few days we’d managed to keep all of Mercury at bay while we remained secluded and safe, joy filled even.
I made a terrible error in judgment. I ventured outside. Snarls of traffic. Horrific spaghetti knots. No exit. No turnaround. Miles and miles of hateful non.Turmoil. Waste. Filleted to the gills and left to rot.
The worst.

In Totem

All up in it. Neck deep. Within a short time span, I’d experienced both sides of today’s coin. The bestest of the best, and the worstest of the worstester.
I am a better man for it. I am a lucky man.

Tales from the Couch

I am on the couch again. Some rather peculiar guttural utterances are creeping from under the door, tantalizing me. I’m delighted.
As I tap my foot and snack on some salted peanuts, I look out the window and watch three black birds in formation, on the hunt in the front yard. They are walking across the green grass, three abreast. Steadily. Assuredly. As they walk insects rise up from the jungle depths only to be plucked from mid-air by one of the three black birds. It’s feeding time. The three black birds are taking care of business.
Caterwauling, shaky jeebie snake charmers continue to whisk me away.
Life is as it should.
Black birds are hunting and eating. I have a mouthful of salted peanuts and I am open. I am seated on the couch, where life has taken on new meaning and purpose. I am jubilant. I am wimby womby. I am dizzy.
I will never be the same.
Hornets lift me up on the strength of their wings, at once their savior, as well as their villainous intruder.
I quiver in anticipation their sting.

Go Dog Go

Outside the world writhes and trembles, groaning under its own weight. I keep the door shut. I sit on the end of the couch which is pushed up against the wall. I sit there. Comfortable. Happy. Content. Waves of music wash over me. Cleansing me. A shared energy shimmers and placates, bursting through the ground like new growth, intent upon finding its voice.
And I sit there. Quiet. Allowing it. Subject to it. Along for the ride.
When all was said and done, the carnage still attracting flies, she looked at me with those black eyes and said, “Well, that was impressive. Amazing. You even kept the beat.”
Amazing to her, yes. To me, perfunctory, banal, my soul diminished.
But I did it. And I fled, dodging blank-eyed, goggle-headed, misshapen lives stumbling about without any reason or purpose -the night of the stumbling dead- only thinking they are alive, but they are far from it.
Today I will walk in and shut the door. I will sit in the corner of the couch, the one pushed up against the wall. When I am ready I will lay down and gaze out the window, through the juxtaposition of glass panes, through the eclipse of the shutters at the roof line, and marvel at the way it’s angled against the agate sky, the phosphorescent lime leaves an appendage in perfect harmony, shivering in deserts’ breath. I will breathe. And again, music will wash over me. And I will be happy, while outside the world writhes and trembles and groans.
More and more everyday, I feel alien.
But today, it will be just me and the couch. And music will light my torch. And I will be happy.

I Have Been Released

I truly felt as if I was going to die. I’ve never died before so the feelings couldn’t be adequately addressed, not really knowing the telltale signs of imminent death and all. My heart wasn’t racing. I was breathing normally. I wasn’t feeling any sharp or acute pains. Nothing that would indicate a passing from this life. But as I sat down to get down at a funky po-boy house, I could feel that something just wasn’t right, and death was surely on its way to keep me from enjoying the sumptuous repast that awaited me.
The first bite of the fried shrimp po-boy told me everything I needed to know. Even though far from its host origins, South Louisiana, here in Texas as I was, many miles from that palmetto filled border, that first bite let me know unequivocally that the chef was either taught by someone who’d grown up there, or he was the real thing, a dyed in the wool coon-ass. The potato salad that accompanied the meal was divine. And it is rather sacrilegious to not have a Barg’s Root Beer when diving into such fare, and much to the restaurants credit, that brand was available, and a cold one dripping with dew sat right in front of me.
Despite feeling as if I would keel over and depart this land at any second, needing to wash down a mouthful of home grown wonderfulness, I turned up my root beer and gulped like a thirsty goat.
As I sat there and listened to the tinkling of an old upright piano from the room around the corner, a most spectacular life changing event occurred.
Caught completely by surprise, unable to do anything about it, the most profound belch left me, and not in a hurry, either. A long sustained growl emerged from the depths of my guts and continued for what seemed like at least a minute or so. My eyes watered. My toes curled. All my nose hairs fell in a heap on the tiled floor
Luckily for me, the room was empty, leaving me without having to apologize to any who might be offended, as this burp was a sure-fire contest winner. And far from wanting to apologize for my expulsion, I wanted to stand up and cheer, for the nagging feeling of teetering on the brink of death was far removed. As a matter of fact, I felt sixteen again!
What noxious matter could have made me feel thus? Whatever the cause, a healthy slug of Barg’s Root Beer fixed me right up. I’d never felt better. Life was good again. I would live another day! Life and its many complexities, fixed with a simple solution: carbonation.
The rest of my meal didn’t stand a chance, screaming for mercy, even!
Having paid, I was drawn to the music like a rat enchanted by the pied piper. A legless black man tickled the ivories while I stood close by and slowly nibbled on a praline. That legless black man took me away from the world for a moment, traveling with those long gnarled fingers into worlds that beckoned, taking me with him; the ghosts of many who’d been entertained by this piano, ones who’d played this piano, long since gone, flew from the keys, around the room, dancing to the sweet music that echoed off the walls, through the ceiling, up into the sky to dance with God and all the angels on high; a joyous celebration.
A life worth living. Here on Earth.
Saved by a belch.

Drifting

Struggle is no more. I’ve let go. I’ve accepted.
A cloud is my bed and frosted blossoms cradle my weary head, freeze my eyelids shut. Cicadas zizz in a throbbing, undulating rhythm and a waterfall of chilled air lulls me into a tundra of sparkling white nothingness. Drifting, drifting on the breeze that carries the rush and throng of the world; the dull, sustained roar of cars and trucks racing down asphalt, the songs of birds in flight, the splashing laughter of children, the hiss of summer, the slow waltz of the ages. I’m drifting, alone. Here. A million miles away. There. I’m drifting, drifting to where I want to be. Where I need to be. Jolie warblin’. Dogs woofin’. Clear. Alone. Gone. I'm drifting...

Twisting The Night Away

Rhythm is everything.
The groove seduced me when I was barely old enough to recognize it, but seize upon me it did, courtesy of Earl Palmer and D. J. Fontana’s thick fatback, and the big beat seeped into my blood, my soul, eventually extending into every area of my existence, allowing -as I did- the rhythms to spirit me away, trusting the feeling that throbbed deep in my loins. And over time, being able to read the current, discerning the fabric of life -my confidence growing with each new beat encountered- was essential in my grasp of the knowing and unknowing; the key to negotiating the ever changing shoreline. And when in the midst of a perfect groove, giving way to the flow, sitting peacefully in the whitewater of the current, to be able to watch the pieces of the puzzle fall easily into place because of your timing gives way to a satisfaction of no equal; nothing more sublime on this Earth.
Patience. Without it, you don’t know when to escape into the next section or whether to refrain. And the choice to hold back or diving into the fray can be the difference between success or failure, lift or fall, your composition coming to full realization with the right choice. And the understanding of the ever changing rhythm, the acceptance of its complexities, feeling it reverberate in your bones, extolling your muscles, filling your heart and inspiring your soul, will naturally impart to you when to react and how. And the more you trust, the more intuitive the response.
Lately I’ve grown to trust and accept the retards life brings. Those confusing times when the groove tacits to a slow burn. While most would flail and thrash against such an easing of the torque, I’ve learned to wallow in it, to recapture my breath, to ready myself for the next frenzy. It’s during these often grandiose retards that you’re able to see where the composition’s heading, and you can prepare as the tempo speeds up, adjusting your step, timing your next moves, giving way, suspending thought.
Life isn’t difficult. Life is a tango. How better to be able to sustain the duel, tantalize your partner, than to embrace the fluidity and step and swing with confidence, ease, and grace? To have access to that primal force, you must persevere, you must practice, you must study and apply. To have not that pocket at your beck and call, your instantaneous command, is to walk blind in a driving snowstorm.
Rhythm provides the dance of life. Every step you take, every move you make will be made better if you feel the pulse. A heartbeat sets your course. The current is never ending, only awaiting your participation.
Like James Brown said, “Get on the good foot”. Dance to your own rhythm. Twist and shout with utter abandon. Shake that ass with all you got! The world is feeding you, holding out its hand to you, the best partner you could ever ask for.

Hark

Yesterday I faced a mirror, one that was quite unexpected. And what I saw took my breath away...
All my adult life I’ve been a drinker. Firstly, I grew up in South Louisiana and secondly, when I began my musical career I chanced to hook up with an Englishman and together we became successful on the global stage. Given all those sets of confluences and ancient fates is it any wonder I became a most functional, sensationally gleeful alcoholic?
My love of alcohol never affected my family, my work, my friendships. Drink always had its place and I am, by nature, a happy drunk, and most of the time people couldn’t even tell the degree of my intoxication on any given night. There were exceptions, naturally. Lots. But despite a few close calls my record remains clean, allowed as I was to continue on my merry, drunken way, and I did, double bourbon by double bourbon, by magnum, by fifth, by shot, by another double bourbon and more. Barkeep? One more round.
The world and all the bars contained therein were my own personal oyster.
As Sir Winston Churchill once said, “I’ve taken much more from alcohol than alcohol has taken of me.” I can only surmise that there are some people for whom alcohol is an ally of sorts. It was mine. Not for everyone though... hardly. Churchill was a notorious drinker and yet a great statesman, an even better human being. Could Charles Bukowski have written what he did had he been sober? Hemingway? Lee Marvin, Warren Oates, Harry Dean Stanton, W. C. Fields, all warhorses on a barstool, drew strength from alcohol, too. I say better to have dangled out over the edge and felt the terrors and seen the horror than to never have dared and never known. And I count myself in that oft misunderstood group, able to use alcohol to my advantage, dangling right out there on the edge of the abyss and living another day to tell about it, a better, stronger man for it.
But, several years ago -and subtly- something in me changed. Unlike the daring do of the past, drinking became a boring routine, not the stuffed dog winning, careening tilt-a-whirl ride it once was. And knowing I was about to head over another cliff’s edge for deeper purposes, a tighter belt was necessary, health issues needed improving, and clarity and long-term focus began to figure large. And even though never suffering hangovers, even fuzzy-headedness became unacceptable, so I adjusted, preferring to stay on top of the wave, to be able to see the shoreline, see where I was headed.
Over time -not an overnight fix- I managed to put drinking into a box and one day I simply put that box up on a shelf, to take down only when I felt like it. I must admit there is still a time and a place for drinking in my life; red wine suits me fine, it does. One must twist the light fantastic every now and then, maintain that balance. So I do. And at this stage, I feel in tune, and it feels damn good as I ride this wave for all it’s worth.
Having just pulled the curtains to greet the sunshine and given the gals their morning snack, I was sorting through my mail, listening to some tunes, getting the day cranked up, when I heard a soft knock at my door, one I wasn’t expecting.
When I opened the door, there stood my mirror, my already quite infamous neighbor of the last two weeks who was constantly knocking back beer after beer, usually shitfaced before noon and hittin’ on all the teenage girls... well, any age of the female species was in this man’s cross hairs -it didn’t matter- doing his utmost to be eighteen again, and generally stirring up shit wherever he went. That typical old and lost and sad, drunk in public animal that doesn’t get much sympathy anywhere from anyone anytime. And there he stood in my doorway wearing a most forlorn expression. He tried to smile but he couldn’t, his face pale and gaunt, his skin a powdery bark that clung to hollow bones, his eyes full of blood, and with a varicosed and calloused hand -which shook badly- he reached out, his voice trembling, too, and he said, , “Neighbor, them bitches done kicked me out of here. ... I’m so down, I never been so low... can I come in and talk to you for a few minutes... I just need someone to talk to man...”
How can you turn from a situation that presents itself like that?! Knowing this man’s probably alone in the world -and a bottle more than likely taking everything from him- and now here he is at my door, wanting to talk to me, of all people?!
God is an interestin’ supreme being.
I told the man to get himself inside and quick and we took our seats and I made him a glass of iced tea, southern gent I am. As we sat and appraised the other there was that tiny sliver of time where the world stands still, the whole world taking a deep breath, an eerie, uncomfortable vacuum.
He looked at me with those hangdog moon faced cow eyes, ones that announce guilt before a word is said, and then he hit me with it in a rambling stream of semi consciousness; drinking, car wrecks, lung cancer, amputation, afro puffs, more drinking, hot jewelry, death, mineral rights, horse races, dog races, cheap drinks, free drinks, steaks, pussy, hell, heaven, all of it.
And then, as he sat there completely empty, my gun already cocked, I looked him in the eye and leveled with him. I mean, I could actually level with this man some twenty years or so my senior! I could fucking relate! I could commiserate! I could actually shine a light! I knew him. I’ve smelt it. I’ve tasted it I’ve has my ass kicked by it. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve learned from it. So, I flicked a switch and the light went to blinking.
After my cup was empty, with tears streaming down his face, the man stood and shook my hand, thanking me as he departed -I’m sure to go run down the street and get a triple shot of something, but maybe... just maybe one day he’ll think about what I told him and maybe, just maybe, he’ll make a choice- a better choice. One that will bring a greater appreciation of this life. Pull himself from this slavery of his own volition, at the least, one drink at a time.
And to think, I, of all people, might’ve helped.
God is an interestin’ supreme being.
The sun was vicious that morning, the water in the pool was even warm. Kids were splashing and laughing as if this was the greatest day of their lives.

Nebulous Non

Has it all come down to this?! The big highlight of my day was shopping for groceries, for chrissakes! Life’s ebb and flow is so confusing. Some days haven’t enough hours minutes and seconds, jammed to the hilt with a wild assortment of pleasures and activities, the next is like today, a bunch of nebulous non.
I sent out scads of e-mails to which I got no replies. The phone didn’t ring. Cable t.v. is on the blink. I puttered and pittered, aimlessly. And I wonder...
I do have a neighbor of sorts who has, at the least, provided some color. An older man. A lech. A drunken lech. I go out to the pool to relax, unwind, clear my mind, leave humanity behind, and the old drunk fucker will sit on his fucking balcony and try to have the most inane conversations with me. I swear, if I had a gun I would not say a word, just clocking his ass in a heartbeat the second I hear him ask me if I want another beer. End of that story. Even though I’ve not accepted a beer from him -don’t drink the foul shit- he keeps offering. Over and over and over again. Lonely cuss. He invited some friends of his daughters over here the other night and they were leaping like monkeys after marshmallows, jumping off the roof three stories down into the pool. My girls thought it fun, barking as the monkey’s fell with a splash into the water. Today as I was bobbing on the waves, soaking up a bit too much sun, I struck up a conversation with three young ladies who were looking to move here from back East, asking me all sorts of questions about the town, and shortly, here comes the drunken lech -and it’s only a little past noon!- offering them beers, offering to take them to some silly ass horse races where you watch the horses run on television, and soon enough he was making lewd comments to them, calling them “beaches”, commenting on their water “chestnuts”, all really quite tacky, and the girls humored the old fuck best they could, but the old fart is really over the top, trying to be 18 again after his dead mother left him a bit of cash that he thinks can buy eternal youth or something. All quite sad, really. He even offered one of the maids $500 to fuck him. She thought it over and decided to take the money and run, leaving he shit job behind after bouncing on his pecker for a few minutes. Little does he know, but tomorrow when he goes to pay for another week, they’re gonna ask him to take it down the road and find another haven for his ribald itch. The excitement will die down momentarily, waiting for the next bunch to hit town, and then the carousel starts anew.
And to think, this dude is the only exciting thing in my life today...
What does it all mean? Is this my day for inner thought? Recharge the batteries? This do nothing, get nowhere day? Has it all been broken down to collecting edibles? And watching my dog get shampooed?
While my ex was shampooing the dog she was bent over just so, her sumptious ass hanging out of her bikini bottoms and I just had to inspect the wares. She didn’t mind. But I thought to myself, how bored are you?!?!
There are exciting projects looming on the horizon. Is this God’s way of giving me a breather? I mean, just last week I jetted to California where I produced the start of a really cool record with a long time friend of mine, and then there weren’t enough hours in the day. Waking up, dosing the body with fruit and yogurt, recording all the day and night, making some cool music, noshing on some great Italian or Mexican food while we thumped and clanged, dog ass tired by the end of the day, barely able to crawl into bed then waking in the morning and starting all over again. Shivering with excitement all the while, that palpable charge and exchange in full effect, now this... this nebulous non descending.
I have a hard time rectifying it, demanding constant thrills and chills as my life has been a most incredible roller coaster ride.
But today was a quiet day.
I managed to finally drag my ass outside to shop for some groceries. At least I was able to do that, grabbing some victuals that will fill my body with health and well being. But then I napped. All throughout the day, constant naps. And I didn’t even dream!
I hope tomorrow brings some action. As much as I desire time off when in the throes of activity, I get some down time then I’m stalled into sadness and boring tedium.
What a curious creature am I. Never satisfied.
I need a woman, a companion.
I need a reason.
I got the juice.

Second Wind

When I’d reached the fork in the road, against all common sense and rationale, not knowing exactly why, I took the road that extended an invitation, but one which was precarious and forbidding .
The world, including man, was summarily left behind and when I’d found the quiet the work began.
I cleared weeds and thorns from a plot of ground. I dug my hands beneath the surface to loosen the soil; dirt caked underneath my fingernails; blood clotting my palms. I planted seed. I planted seed in famished soil; the first quest to nourish the soil, to give the seed any hope for life. Years passed and slowly, with painstaking care, a dry crusty earth was made rich and moist.
Come spring when new blooms burst forth, the earth brimming with life, the air rippled and fragrant, tiny green sprigs broke the ground, born of my seed.
Providing the plants a drink of life a breeze swept across the plains, over the hills and through the valleys, taking away the still. As I trod the earth, the wind at my back, did the journey take on focus while scars born from a lifetime of struggle throbbed and burned, the memory of each reminding.

Enduring the trials and tribulations, I now have purpose.
My seeds beget seeds, providing life for others, my purpose manifest.
My second day has begun, and I’m fresh. Brimming with life.

Bovine Suspects

The realization came as quite a shock, but given my ‘lowering by the second’ opinion of most of the race humanus walkus erectus, I’m not at all surprised.
As I made my way around the foodmarket I was forced to negotiate a veritable obstacle course of people whose minds are not so slowly turning to glop and goo. It didn’t matter which type aisle I was searching, there were no shortage of bovine suspects in human suits who were wandering aimlessly, interrupting the natural flow. Some spun in circles confused. There were family groups who meandered without any rhyme or reason, like a moving pod, trodding in step, the blind leading the blind. But most were unmovable rogues, just standing there vacant without thought or spark. They may as well have been chewing cud and regurgitating lunch, only to swallow it again, licking flies off their backs, shitting and pissing as the need arose.
Like cattle, who’ve been domesticated by the hogs on high for thousands of years, effectively leaving the masses without any cognitive thought processes, unable to do any task outside of eat, shit, piss, procreate, and breathe, humans are beginning to resemble the early forms of domesticated cattle, slowly yielding to the grind of life that has been inflicted upon them; the hogs on high surreptitiously turning up the crushing, hammering pressure to keep the masses in line, without hope, without reason, and now, right before my very eyes, I watch you slowly devolve into a bovine state, right where the hogs on high want you to be. The realization was frightening, but there it was. Unquestionable...
As I made my way around the rogue beasts who couldn’t figure out who they were or why they were there, I fully expected an aberrant “moo” at any time. I wouldn’t have missed a step, if so.
The devolvement is taking hold. The hogs on high gotta be gearing up for the most heinous and ghastly of slaughters when the domestication is complete. By the time they bust out the finely sharpened cutlery, the bovine suspects will never know what hit them; body-slammin’ onto the the deck, legs twitching, shitting a blue streak, gutted and quartered, wondering what happened to that next plate of beans they fully expected to eat and what does it all mean?
When you least expect it, if you “MOO”! or piss in your pants, don’t be surprised. The devolvement is almost complete and you’ve allowed it to happen. You can even help accelerate the process. The hogs on high would very much appreciate your help. It’s simple. Watch more television. Believe everything you see or read. Buy everything you can, on credit if possible. Eat more than you should. Breed... a lot. Don’t get an education. Take lots of drugs, both legal and illegal. Shop incessantly. Don’t ask any questions. Don’t vote. Don’t love. Don’t respect. Don’t care. Don’t believe in God.
The hogs oh high are oinking and squealing like never before. Wallowing in their own shit. Impervious to your scrutiny. The gloves have come off, the facade has fallen. And they live large, consuming everything in sight. A fools paradise.
You’re almost there.. your purpose on Earth ground into meaningless, nitrated, phosphated sausage, carefully packaged, bargain priced, in a pile over on aisle three, right next to yesterday’s special going bad, right next to the flashing blue light. Cheapest meat in the store. Buy one, get one free.