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Will You Join Me Way Out?

Will you resist the burning urge to burn?
It certainly seemed as if the Pope was dead. We were all sure that he was dying; not that it really affected us in any way. Mitch Hedberg dying was a bigger deal. All those times Sam and Gabby went to the Improv, I now regret being like “fuck that, two ITEM minimum, fuck nah, call an escort.”
Been talking about what being dead really is; you know what the Shiavo smiling “smell ya’ later”. Who cares. Fuck these Christian parents whoring their kids out so the cameras can capture how they pretend to care. Who’s really dead? Who isn’t already dead? It seems like no band is really broken up. It’s only a matter of time before I get my MBV fix.
The bells at the Cathedral were going nuts. No rhythm, not at any real time.
Man, for whom the bell tolls?
That is a question right. That was.
I stood outside, chilling with the top buttons of my brutal pearl snap plaid shirt unbutton several notches; enough notches to impress my father, which is quite a few notches, but it felt good with the (now) April breeze blowing through as I put some time in to this poorly crafted chocolate soft serve in one of them “biscuit cones”. Bells gone crazy. What, church? Is there a fire? Is the Pope dead? Shomer Fuckin’ Shabbos? I don’t know what’s going on?
Where are those filthy Mormons that were in cafeteria. I saw you fuckers, with your jalapeno poppers, tell me about these bells.
No.
I’m not buying your fucking book, so don’t hand it to me. You don’t even look like you need the money. At least the Krishnas got that going for ‘em.
Look thumper, tell me about the bells.
Fuck these Mormons.
Okay. I’m going to deduce that the church bells are going crazy these Friday evening because The Pope, “il Papa” himself is dead. So what’s next? Theme song? There’s the obvious blasphemy metal song, but that’s over done. So no Deicide.
Hmmmmmmm,
The Kinks – “Death of Clown”?
I mean it refers to the Pope as a clown, which I guess it’s insulting, and not really appropriate, he was more of a puppet than a clown. As far as the whole the whole death thing goes, the song has some sweet haunting vocals that come and go. Also, like most British bands, the song gives those who need a reason to drink, a proclamation to drink to the death of a clown.
I watched a short autistic black man who works at the cafeteria mount himself on his blue Lambretta and speed down the sidewalk honking his horn. I tried to remember how “Death of a Clown’ actually went and all I came up with was The Kinks’ song “Autumn Almanac” which is probably a better song, or at least I’ve listened to it more lately. Damnit. That Pope dead yet?
This brings back memories from 4th grade; Will Dizard and I were drafting one of the all time classics of elementary print “Crud”; he showed me an ad for a shirt he wanted to get; “I Like the Pope Because the Pope Smokes Dope”. With the Pope smoking a blunt.
Dope, what a terrible word.
Fourth grade, what was he thinking?
The Pope seems like alright guy.
Dizard’s an alright guy.

So there’s been this girl in my writing class, my “advanced” writing class who’s kind of had my eye this whole semester, partially because she reminds me a lot someone else, and also because she’s got real kick ass voice, its something real intense. Girl looks good in denim but not bitchy in denim. Of course, filthy me don’t got no chance, I’m just hoping to get a laugh and look at some point, which I think I got, something about North Korean “hussies” got a laugh out of the class on the teachers. I didn’t know much about this girl, since I, well, never spoke to her directly, despite my liking for her voice, so I did most quasi-stalkers on your American college campuses do these days; I “facebooked” her to no avail. In the class we shared, a couple kids each class would read their 5-13-page “creative nonfiction” piece, a chance for all of us kids to judge the other kids about what they chose to write about. A couple of the dudes in my class wrote about their dogs, or their WOLF DOGS. Lots of high-school trauma, lots of girls being called fat. Some girls lost the weight; others are empowered by their fat. Most of the papers bored me. I too wrote about junior high, but I was very blunt and admitted the paper a failure but made sure to say that all young teenagers are dumb and unaware. This one dude, one skinny clean cut, Catholic schoolboy lacrosse fucker; my opposite and nemesis wrote some absurd story about his senior trip to Canada where one of his friends got processed. Fuck that motherfucker. He got offended when my comment was “wait. . . what the hell happened? Are you trying to say this actually happened?” This was of course a creative non-fiction class. I followed his retort with something about the decriminalization of weed in Canada, which got some giggles from the teacher and the class. But fuck that motherfucker. Clean khakis and sandal-wearing motherfucker. It’s all a joke about the joke. I’m the arrogant homeless guy who “knows” how much better I am, but never played the game.
Back to the girl, always about the girl.
I got learn about her when she read her paper. She repeated the phrase “all men are predators” a lot in the first half, which is about her in third grade. Her fourth grade fear of rape and so forth. Guys in junior high grabbing her ass. I could see where this was going, and the twinkling intro of Weezer’s “Pink Triangle” seemed more than appropriate. I thought, finally, I too can relate to the classic American struggle of the dude who falls for the lesbian. “I thought I had found the one”. Like this time it was for real; this time the girl was actually a lesbian, not one of those girls who digs guys just not this guy (points thumbs at myself).
I was soon bored her story, her once sexy voice said hate-filled things about men, which were true about a lot of dudes, a lot of your beer pong playing fratboys, but not about your record collecting, filthy haired softies like I. I found myself drawing some sweet ass spirals on my notebook. “Damn that’d make a sweet lo-fi brutal-prog tape cover”.
I was waiting for her story to climax. I wondered if she actually did get raped. She hadn’t yet come out as a lesbian.
Alright, she’s on her last page, this where all the crucial shit is.
She doesn’t let boys get her down ever since . . .

She embraced Jesus as her savior.

Ah! A monkey is tearing my stomach apart.
She’s a Christian? But she’s hot and I thought she was smart. Bible thumper, not a lesbian? Ah damnit.
I didn’t think she could worse than a lesbian.
I understand like going to church because your parents make you, and maybe they take you out for a sweet ass lunch (or brunch).
And I can understand being a Baptist because that rules.
I can even understand doing the church if you’re in jail, if only because of “Greystone Chapel” and the tattoos.
But, come on, college girl, I’d much rather you be a crazy man-hating lesbian than a Christian reading group girl.
At least she’s big on denim and not the monkey suit the boys all wear.

I don’t care that you’re a monk, you gave me this fucking gold-leafed book of wisdom, you said I could have it. Fuck you, I don’t want to donate.
Why’d you give me the book?
I don’t usually pay for books at street corners when bald dudes hand them to me.
Pope actually dead yet?
Cochran.