Wednesday, September 03, 2008

The hiv is fine; beware the aids

I seen a death tent at the cemetery just the other day and I was wondering at what point they decide to do the death tents.  Used to be when you died they just stood around and there you were dead and under the sun or in the cold and now they have the death tents and everyone jams into them and it's more civil.

Why can't I be a member in good standing on the death committees and the death business.  I wonder if there's a catalog.  I wonder what it's called.

Those undertakers are soberly taking the money and they talk about the humanity of the death tent.

I should be an undertaker.

I should make the death tents.

Should I die, don't you put me under a death tent and also give my body to science and when they send back my brain and skull cause who wants that then mount it on a naked mannequin (like from that movie) and tape some hair to the chest and strap a monkeys tail on my dong area and say, look, here lies a once proud man, now just head, chest hair and massive donkey dong.

I went to the DMV.

People are ugly at the DMV, that's fact.  (This includes the scab faced helpers (I'm sorry to say that but they did have the scab faces and that's a cold fact.))

I think the rich people hire the poor and ugly or just the ugly to go stand for them in DMV.

I seen some fellas who was young and in the wife beater shirts and hats and when the hats came off for pictures they had buzz or crewcuts and they was mostly unwashed.

Also was the old geezers and they stood there like they had somewhere to go but they didn't have nowhere to go.  You could see it in their eyes, the panic and despair.  There so early.  Standing in line avoiding eye contact of the Mexicans.  All the old ones.

And the big gals there, too.  Tanks and the bra strap showing with the fat rolling over the denim shorts and a tat on the breast, maybe it's the baby name or a cosmos or star system or seahorse or a snake.  Maybe it's a heart with an arrow, it's all the same right there on the boob and you can see it plain enough, or part of it and you have to wonder if she has Wild Ride in fancy cursive in the inner thigh to the gateway of delight.

Not that I look down on that, but maybe it could be in Latin or Greek, some kind of translation.  Maybe it could be an honest promise, too, not some dim translation from Latin to lies.

Maybe it's on the panties or just at the top of them and you see it and your Latin floods back.

But not at the DMV.

Furthermore, I have discovered the source of aging, it's music.  It pulls you along into death.

I was at Disneyland and they played classic rock and it was songs from when I was a teenager and it was then that I understood that death came wearing a Terry Bozio outfit.  Jelly bracelets and net shirts.

If I could cut that part of my brain I think I might get through.