flint rock party

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“But Jeremy crapped on the toilet seat mom. Jeremy did it mom.”

It seems that every time I churn out a good idea I am also ’bout to get simultaneously encouraged to absorb not any bad habits. Anything maybe. Habits that I never have thought of or thought to be essential. Jeremy should have his butt kicked for crappin on the seat. Crappin isn’t difficult.

“Jeremy, this mess was awful to clean up. You see, Lamar, how tense the whole house gets to when a thing like this has to be dealt with. You have to really know what’s what. Not everything needs to be thought of Lamar, but a bad habit like crappin on the seat should never be.”

I am Lamar. I dreamed a something once, in the evening as I layed in bed, and the excited dream stood me to my feet. By the time I was to the den to tell it, the neighbor’s dogs began barking so loud that the nighttime quietness was disturbed: “You would think that those neighbors dogs would be thoughtful enough not to bark into the evening quiet. Lamar they must be barking at you (laughing). Everything is all right – go on back to bed and leave quiet evenings as quiet as can be.” Like I have anything to do with the barks.

So many things are good and well. So many things are peaceful as hell. So many things happen when I wish they wouldn’t have. Only the dreams I churn out make me want to live. But there does every moment get added bad things to the churn.

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The streets had room for me to go walking. They were gloomy, reputedly poetically described, and gray. Chumps kept aggravating me. Not for any reason. Maybe I didn’t like the jersey they were wearing. But I needed to deconstruct one; my life has frustrated me.

I had started avoiding life’s people by waiting til dark when I can’t see them. The actual sun does feel good but it’s better if I wait til night. And of course in the sunlight flint rocks are so much less fun, but in the dark… now I’ve things to work with.

I did a combination of cuffed hand hoots and strikes of my flint rock. Friends of mine let me in the door. Overall the underground has a quiet existence in our city. Most at this party don’t even realize what they are attending. It’s just a party with clowns doing rain dances. Fraternity people laughed in their cumber buns and sang ‘houa houa ha hooray hey yeah whew’ and toasts flew as fast as flint rock lightening. We’ve made them pay money at the front door.

Then I saw a flint rock strike go off at the other end of the gallery and I gladdened. I struck mine and so did we all. The partygoers were amused at our neat lights. A boy with letters across his chest raised his beer and yelled. Stupid. He’s what we expected and were looking for. We festively greeted him and welcomed him and told him to find his friends: “Hey man, you get your buddies; we got the killer shit back in the back dude.” He was like yeah all right.

As the door to the back was still shuttin the skins kneed the fratty fellows hard in the stomachs and smashed their heads a little bit. These were acts uncalled for. However, the fraternity boys were grasping real life drama.

I had designed the guillotine. The chainsaw was strapped securely to the pole; it was cranked and ready. I put my head in the cinder block head strap; I took hold of the grip of the three legged table’s yank chord, and I prayed that they would one day come to understand.

chainsaw



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