I Love My Neighborhood - #52
Hello Friends!
I ordered off Amazon some canned Cod Liver imported from Iceland. Seeing its consistency that it’s a spreadable fish, à la paste, and have nothing to put said paste on, I was forced to do a CVS run for crispy crackers — fuck bread — came back and with an apartment stinking like an episode of Deadliest Catch, I quickly became sick after eating it and sunk that can where it belonged — the trash. Ukraine, why did you not tell me how to properly eat this thing? I have 5 more cans to sink my teeth into. And morsels. And cockles. And octopus. ME NEED TO MAKE PAELLA. “But you can’t eat rice? Ain’t that a carb?” Don’t tell me what I can and cannot eat! I’m a full-grown macho male! Even though my brain won’t be fully matured till I’m 25, by society’s standards, I’m an adult.
I am self-aware that this week’s writing is quite… “aggressive”. Or as they call it — “transgressive” (another source).
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Enjoy my bullshit.
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NSFW!
3min read || Photo source.
Oh, what is this I see?
A beautiful day in the neighborhood?
A beautiful day to meet a neighbor?
Hey! FUCKFACE! SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Yeah? Shut your fucking pie-hole,
We’re all waiting for your grandma with the face tattoo to be pushing on daisies,
Take your shit offspring and not-so-cool vibes somewhere else, dickhole!
See that, little blonde Charlie? That’s called eviction!
Trickle Down Economics made right!
Sometimes that’s the only solution to living here,
They litter the streets like cattle, spewing their guts all over the asphalt,
It’s radioactive waste that looks like a bastard’s Burning Man:
Hobos, hookers, and Hot Singles Near You dripping in STDs,
Their doggies dressed like midget lumberjacks.
Eww! Poor people! Get a job, poor people!
Fuck! I can’t wait till my fellow collar poppers swing into high-priced rentals,
With dumb names like Palm Breeze Heights,
With their Labradoodles and Lululemons,
And overpriced, overrated gyms titled with Xs and Qs and silent Es,
Yes! Yes! This is called Lifestyle, according to my Christian counselor,
She (maybe He) would murmur phrases into my ear like,
“Swipe right on trans men, you might like it!”
No! No! I’m into specific situations that involve multi-colored hair,
And FILA sneakers dipped in Supreme consumerism,
Casual sex with Range Rover chicks who say,
“Let’s get brunch! Oh my God!
Do you love drowning your depression with Jägermeister?”
I wouldn’t know the answer to that age-old question, but I do tell her,
Dirty lip piercings have been my thing since college,
Late-night rib cage beatings are nice to watch from my balcony,
And that my Mailman calls me the N-word now after I once said,
“That’s what’s up,” upon receiving my mail-order penis pills.
She goes, “Cool,” and starts yelling for chic pastries with avocados,
We leave without tipping because relying on tips is for commie cocksuckers,
Who live with their nine cousins in the ring of hell called Family,
Walking down city streets on foot, we see brick prisons,
Where during school hours you can witness,
A one-eyed broke lady hollering dirty talk toward preschoolers,
And teachers that have crippling anxiety and sugar daddies,
Why are we waiting for the acid rain to breed prions in children with low IQs?
That’ll save us some tax dollars in this godless concrete jungle,
And we’ll finally be able to put dollar bills toward the real things,
Like recruiting homeless people as samurais for my kid’s private academy,
And fixing potholes for stoners who can’t drive shit,
And plastic surgery for the repulsive with unearned confidence,
You forget who you are with if you stare at the clouds hard enough,
“I’m hangry,” she moans with a rate of thirty CPM:
“#CuisinesPerMinute,” according to my sister who visits never,
Tons of tiny tin cans serving hot shit on a styrofoam plate,
With cute signs in their windows denoting Bs and Cs,
We could go for a Happy Meal that smells like a cockroach’s armpit,
Or go for Local Food riddled with herpes and served by underpaid thespians,
Cajun rolls? Ramen? Pad thai? Kimchi? Sushi? Poke? Pokémon!
Pokemon Trading shop with a Danny Devito shrine? I’m not going to buy anything!
“Shut the front door! Because we ain’t open past five PM,
(Please come back tomorrow at three PM),”
Says the Armenian store owner smoking a crack pipe,
Wow, smoking crack? It’s not even 5pm yet!
Going to leave two stars for this unpleasant man on Facebook, Yelp, and my blog,
There’s plenty dinkier, kitschier shops to fuck my attention with,
“It’s called browsing!” I tell my dealer who doesn’t appreciate this skill,
We skip from corner to corner, yelling inane gibberish loud and proud,
(If they can do it, why can’t we?)
I have a hunch that the Topo Chico drinkers hate it when,
I walk their streets with Goodwill sweatpants and throw Kool-aid on their petunias,
Big Houses, Big Lawns, Big Cars, Big Attitudes,
All of it the next street over from my fabulous apartment,
I like wandering through them and imagining future problems,
With my future wife diagnosed with whatever I have as well,
Maybe someday I can have problems that matter; grabbing a shotgun shouting,
“Can you! Sorry...
May you please stop fucking on my front lawn? You’re ruining family game night!
I’m trying to sign divorce papers in front of my kids before the heroin kicks in,
So if you may, please fuck off!”
Getting back to my apartment at night,
Sometimes it sucks when you must explain to her the triple-locked gate entrance,
And the helicopters that fly above like an acapella group,
“There have been about forty carjackings in the area in the last four weeks,”
A Mister Policeman would say. “Now if you’ll excuse me,
There’s a lunatic in your back alley with an SG 550.”
To which I grab her close and whisper, “Babe,
My bedroom window overlooks the back alley!”
This is exciting shit! All the entertainment I need for tonight,
And it’s free! With game announcers shouting, “We have you surrounded,”
What a great night this’ll be! Boy, am I special!
I am so special!
Yes. I’m special.