15.1.08

Smoking is the New Banjo Pickin'

A lazy man approached me the other day and he asked me to walk with him, he had a story for me. So we walked a little ways and then he got tired and had to sit down. He never did get around to his story. He made me buy him a root beer instead. Maybe that was the point.

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The next thing I knew I had a new car tucked under my pillow like the mother-father tooth fairy forgot his wallet.

You know, that is just the thing. Why does the tooth fairy always have to be portrayed as a woman? Why does it have to be anything at all? Do fairies even have genders? Who gives a carp?

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Stay out of the car pool lane! I don't swim in your passing lane.

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There are certain familial obligations you are obligated to attend to. Your birth for instance. Even if your father is the mechanic who changed the oil in your mother's car while your other father was in 'nam or the Legion or some other such place I'll simply refer to as elsewhere, and even if your mother conspires with your uncle to have you whacked, and even if every one of your relates is a miserable sack of carp (imagine the fish smelt on that one?) you are obligated to attend your birth. A real pain in the neck that is.

Especially them forceps.

Bitches!

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Mother and Father paid their visits. Here, there (q.c.), everywhere (ott.). I forgot to take them to main street, or the other main street, just main street, and the other main street. This galdamned town has too many galdamned main streets. What happened to the 1 main street per town rule? Where I come from you honour that rule. You fight the unwinnable fight against time and progress and the steady maddening maglomaniacal march of technology. Where I come from Main Street has been main street since it was two muddy wagon ruts wobbling through a clear-cut patch of foothill backwoods. And after decades there shows no signs of any of the other three streets or the other three avenues in town over taking Main Streets prominance as the most prominant of all streets, avenues, or general road ways. Except for maybe that one dirt alley where the town kids deal drugs to the farm kids at recess. That is a pretty busy throrofair. How the hell do you spell that? What the carp? (Thoroughfare?)

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So I was thinking about home the other day. I was thinking about it a lot. It's because I was there. It's because I was wearing a leather hat, a leather jacket, a leather belt, a pair of leather shoes and sitting on a leather chesterfield. All the leathers were the same flavour. I was completely camouflaged. A larger than life relative laid right down on top of me and had a 4 hour nap. It was very discomforting and slightly awkward. I was going to say something but I would have blown my cover.

Some familial obligations you are obligated to attend to.

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So I was thinking about home the other day. I was thinking about it a lot. So before I got there I wrote about a pig trapped in the trunk of a car. It came true. When I got back from there I wrote about all the fist fights and bruhaha's there are there. Those come true all the time. When I think of home I can taste the taste of rusty nails in my mouth. Good to know I am not anemic.

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I've been thinking of making amends. Or whatever the lesser grave form of the exact same action might be considered. Considering I'd hate to have to consider myself inconsiderate for any considerable amount of time. So I will call it catching up with old friends. Old friends who have conspired with my uncle and mother to have me whacked before I even knew them as new friends. Who knew?

Thinking and doing, he taught me as he sipped his root beer, still out of breath from our walk, are two completely different things. One is the enemy of the other. One must die so that the other can die. That and your pride.

I will keep you posted.

I will post at a frequency of once every four months.

Just to see if you are paying attention.

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I called a man a smoker behind his back, as his ashes burnt my eye lashes, and he took exception to it.

I apologize.

You are not a smoker.

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Smoking is the new banjo pickin'.

You are a banjo picker.

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I need to come with a disclaimer. I need to come with a disclaimer emblazened on a t-shirt which I will never change and will never wear a sweater, jacket, coat, parka, or garbage bag with neck and arm holes to resist torrential rains over top of it. I need to come with a disclaimer tattooed on my forehead.

DISCLAIMER
If you so much as breeze through my life in a roller coaster backpack rocket jet pack, my perception of you becomes my property and any lavishly exaggerated retelling of our encounters, regardless the length or manner of either, will be told and retold ad nauseaum to anyone else I might encounter. It may be sold at a profit. It may be sold at a loss. It may be dressed as a girl and paraded around town for the men and construction workers to hoot and holler and throw doughnuts at. It may be half forgotten, it may be confused with television or movies or made for television movie stories or stories my Old Man tells or bad dreams not involving go karts or neighbours I never had. It may be told all wrong and in the wrong order and the size of mine will be exaggerated as to diminish yours and build me up to be more of a man. Even though you totally caught more air off that jump than I did. Except for the time I caught rad air and hurt my back. In which case my back was broken and I was not expected to ever walk again save for some miracle of sheer will power and huge air (at least 8 or 10, maybe even 16 feet of it). If you are uneasy about any of this, take issue with any of this, are kept up into the wee hours sharpening your harpoon over any of this, please go to great lengths to avoid me. If you do, however, make sure I don't find out. Because the one thing I might not have mentioned is the almighty "or lack thereof" which you can tack on to the end of every sentence above, even if it doesn't make sense.

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Lady finger's used to be my favourite cookies until I realized they weren't really cookies, then they were my favourite not really cookies until I got a nail in one. It's put me off finger nails for good. I don't care if the doctor said this one was fake and fake nails don't scratch at the chalk board outline at the back of your throat the same way as real old smoker (sorry, banjo picker) nails do.

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I've decided doctors, as a general rule, are full of shit--and fake finger nails.

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It will sound silly and contrived for effect in light of every word that has ever come out of my mouth or the tips of my finger nails, but doctors actually make you drink nail polish remover to counter act (or remove, if you will) the effect of inadvertently eating a finger nail amongst your lady fingers. Chalk that one up under "Who knew?"

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Doctors say my feet will grow back after the oven cleaner incident.

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It's been a while. A whole year. I realize this. I have been meaning to catch up on what I am behind on for a long time now. A real long time now. It doesn't mean I don't love you. I just means I love root beer more.

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How many mail model suns does a farmer need?

Stay sober!
Most photos were done one purpose, some photos were not. Most were done by Caroline Area Man or a close relative thereof, therefore there is nothing you can do to get them away from me, we are family and some family obligations you are obligated to attend to. Some, however, are created by skilled hands for various miscellaneous purposes including splashing Caroline Area Man beauty all about the face of the earth for career and monetary gain. Which is cool. If you don't like me using my own face you can ask me to deface it and I will. Except for the one where I am blowing up two blower-upper things at once, that is pretty bad ass and the picture makes me happy.

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