How Long Is The Doomy Waiting List? The Muppets From Hell, Reconsidered

THE MISAPPROPRIATION OF LITTLE WHITE LIES CAN MAIM AND EVEN KILL ~ Jonathan Swift

Sometimes, when I'm troubled over a perished future, I try not to imagine possibilities that, in a worry, I'll be killed for simply being alive at the supposedly wrong time in my life.  I'll be rolled into a ditch full of nightmares, sidled like buzzard meat on the cold shoulder of a dead-end street, and then, in the nightmare, I rebel as if rebellion is the only alternative left for people left to starve their assess off in the snowy fields of polluted selfishness.  

How long does that crap-on-him garbage have to last?  I suppose I should be asking friends.  Many of them have been launched--with help from family and interested parties who believe in caring.

Back in college, a couple of dead-end buddies used to laugh about "Pete and Repeat" as if it was hilarious to expose ideas they clearly did not understand.  Starvation Peak, in New Mexico, is a place where Native Americans chased conquistadors up a a mountain that looks like a sugar loaf, surrounded it, and then starved the Spanish rat-bastards all the way to the Holy See.  

Fuck "fate".  In the ass with a running chainsaw.  

That's what the 13 colonies told the godforsaken RFK Jr. forerunner, King George III, whose dumb claim is that he is a representative of "divine will", and thus gets to own every little thing on planet Earth.  

Remember when Theodore Roosevelt told his detractors and critics, and all the lunkheads trying to beat him down?

BULLY!!!!

As my grandfather, who lived before the age of political correctness, as told to me by my own mother, not the fake Moother, used to express short-tempered exasperation like this: 

THOSE BOLSHEVIKS!!!!

I agree.  There are actual leftists, and then there are mimics.  Can mass media geniuses make out the difference?  

I have my doubts.  Think of Dostyoeveky's "The Double", one of his early novellas.  Gasp!  He nailed it!  Before he was imprisoned for the crime of owning a printing press.

St. Peter's Berg is an iceberg.  

Yet, how is it I remain happy?  I'll sit back and watch the wolves in sheep's clothing knock-off.  Like this morning, I noted, as I opened the curtains at a little after sunrise: Look!  Look!  A gangsta marching up the walk!  Whozit?  

Who's the zit this time?  

But this story is not about any of the nastiness seemingly intent upon ruining the lives of honorable people--for this: $$$

Maybe it is.  In 1984, as I've mentioned before, The Summer of My First Act of Total Rebellion", my summer vacation (not to mimic those vast poets who are rewarded for their collections involving riding around the Mediterranean in glass-bottom boats), involved in riding herd on Texas, New Mexico, and ultimately, Colorado.  

Good times!  After so many years of the previous oppressions, it was fun to stay drunk, get high, ride fast, take risks, feel the wind in my hair as we sped up I 70 uphill out of Denver while one of us four leaned halfway out the window and let out a war whoop.  

You know: for old time's sake.  

How fast?  Around 85 mph.  At night.  A straight shot up the mountain--to Jay's family cabin in Evergreen, only a few doors down from where Willie Nelson kept his vacation home.  

Up there, drunk, I tried demanding we park the car--so I could go up and knock on the door, play ring and run.  

Vetoed.  Laughter ensued.  Sarcasm is for real though damned by those who think they're the ones who are for real.  

I already wrote how I lost my tan sweat-jack when a big bumble bee got inside the car.  Ah, yes!  prophesy!  Bees and barbells, especially four-armed tire changers.  Made of silvery steel.  Just last week, I found a nice, steely tire double-square bit.  I left it in the grass.  Whoever that belongs to will likely find it, not on the concrete but in the taller grass.  

I already mentioned how the four of us came across an empty-but-sealed Coors beer can in a twelve-pack we'd bought after leaving the Long's Peak campground as we had passed Nederland on the way to that Evergreen cabin.  It was sealed with what? 

Mountain air? I should have brought it back to my bomb shelter of an apartment (103, on McKinney, how quaint) and put it in a valued perch on my bookshelf.  But nah.  We returned it to Coors in Golden, Colorado, demanded an entirely new 12-pack and an audience with the ironically-named Peter Coors, the big boss.  

We were in the Coors bar.  Free beer.  Within limits. We asked the bartender if we could spend the night there.  He said, "NO!"  

I think that's when I asked if we could find Peter on the loading docks.  

Then we scrammed.  We did score some free Coors.  Remember the Coors "Silver Bullet" lite beer?  That was kewl.  

So, what about either the Lone Ranger's?  What about Barney Fife's.  What about the dreaded Kiefer Sutherland in "The Lost Boys"?  Kids hang out on Malibu cliffs, become monstrous, can only be perished with silver.  

The silver dagger in Stoker's Dracula.  The silver knives that kill werewolves.  Phil Silvers.  

As a young boy, with my father and his friend, and his friend's two boys, who were friends of mine, we stopped at a lovely spot on a backroad overlooking a sweet, columbine lathered valley.  Out came the shovels, and Daddy and Gene Minks filled a couple of bags with some of the richest loam I have ever seen.  We cleaned up, buried the hole, and then Gary Minks, Ronnie's big brother, discovered "silver": 

Gary brought back a tin bucketful of "silver" and we figured we were wealthy at last.  Nah.  Turned out to be pyrite.  Smelled ferrous.  We kept it anyway--along with the Isinglass or mica, a flat silicate sedentary "crystal" that in the old days was used to serve as oven windows.  

Years later, here in Dallas, as Earl Bills and I were rooting around in his against-the-home garden plot, we found...barite.  Amazing stuff.  Take a clearly translucent crystal of barite into your hand, and because it's limestone, a mineral we used to call "chalk rock", we could write our names on sidewalks all around the block.  

White rocks have value as a sort of private sign for the swinger lifestyle.  See the house surrounded by little white rocks?  Look for an upside down pineapple hung or nailed to the front porch.  If it's upside down, that means it's "party time".  

On Douglas, where I lived for 14 years in a truly weird apartment room that leaked to mildew the carpet whenever heavy rains allowed flooding.  The carpet?  Black.  And wet when water rose in my bedroom to ankle deep and no way to sleep.  

No oppression, no suppression, no repression, every little way of my life is inconsequential as is: No money for the truly wicket-bound without tickets.  

Let's play croquet with other people's heads! Can you knock yours through the silvery arch you plugged into the lawn?  

Never saw a golden wicket--until one painted the Oval Office with gold model airplane paint, the kind we kids used to buy (Testors) at the White Rock Shopping Center's TG&Y.  Don't sniff that stuff.  Huffing anything toxic as any oil-based fluid can be, and you lose half your brain.  Nothing like seeing a poor man reduced to bestial status while no longer capable of being either there or in the here-and-now.  

Who else has been "huffed" by lots of smelly wind?  

Oh.  So.  Irreverent.  What?  Isn't irreverence the tone-of-voice for a tale of irreverence?  Should we upbraid Hunter S. Thomas' irreverence about the GOP convention while fighting off black bats on the way to ever-fake Las Vegas, NV.  Now featuring an excessively dumb eye peering at the skies as if to say to all onlookers: 

We've got a bead on the greys!  Aliens!  Watch out!  The apocalyptic invaders may have flying saucers that speed through time!  

Reminds me of a friend in college: Laurie Grey.  My hoodwink of a friend, Carl Worsham, wanted to bed her (possibly did), wrote a dumb song called "Grey Day", his idea of a psychopathic "love" ode without any empathy at all.  

So clever.  Lust is not love.  Love may involve lust, but that's not necessarily mentionable.  

How low into "deep thoughts with factual bases" in order to feed oneself, or god forbid!, travel?  

No feedin' the animals of rich wad convenience!  

Zooed enough yet?  How much longer?  The slave girls sing by the lower banks of the Mississippi to this day.  

Rape rape rape.  Often times, the fact-free imagery eludes the fact-dependent.  Which is why finer writers skirt facticity and go for blood via connotation and some denotation.  Fools.  

Fact me to death.  Should I whisper, "Pretty please with sugar on it"???

The facts of life: Hold all property around the apple tree and then force a kiss from one of Epstein's girls.  

Bully see, bully do.  Bullying people by withholding all is one way to fact someone to death.  

That's like when that anarcho-capitalist guy I sometimes find arguably a target for commentary that speaks the truth to reductionist ideologies: "Hey, man, don't you think the private sector is so full of anti-libertarian coercion via economic "withholding" of love?  How about cultural coercion?  How about social coercion via ostracism and outright lying about honorable people?  Religious coercion equals: No gettee innee without being saved first.  How about sexual coercion?  How about the worst form of coercion, the social type that ends-around the legal system to plant silent and deadlies all over "the ENEMY!"

????

My real mother tried that as a last-ditch effort in lassoing my father into at the very least calling her before the end of the workday and asking for permission to have a few beers or way more--an example of his utter frustration for being corralled into a life he did not want.  

Why corral creative humans?  Do we need to show our papers like illegal immigrants do when confronted by another form of iciness?  

Oh look.  He doesn't have a title.  

Screw that one with a good angle-iron right in the kisser.  

Irreverence is the back-beat to help direct sodden pseudo-intellectuals into learning how to get a little rhythm in their lives.  

Listening to Benjamin Britten's solo cello concertos this morning (am not a pop-head all the time), I couldn't help but almost cry in sympathy for his gestures of a songbird plagued by duplicates with big deep voices.  The angle iron is deserved for the Great Big Men who need to advertise Great Big Toxic Masculinity in cheap barrooms or at one-or-two-or-three boy home parties on Super Bowl Sunday. . . . 

It apparently is quite needy to admit I have an abiding love for classical music that managed to pull away from all the sordid Romanticism that so plagued the 19th Century.  Not the 20th.  Not even the 21st.  But try telling that to Highland Park biddies who feel all heroic in the Benz on the way to Northpark Mall--wearing pale and tan mink stoles in 103 degree weather.  

Heroism!  In a hermetically-sealed.....war machine.  

Whatever is it like to be surrounded on all sides by a laugh-track called reality? 

"Hahaha!  Can't win a prize because he was forbidden to pee due to meds--for 32 years!" 

Joke of the century.  In the public library, my manager, Frances Bell, used to tell us, jokingly, that here in Dallas, if one needs to go pee, one needs a pee-slip.  Otherwise a tiny slip of paper to document your request for a flippin' book in limited access, where all good rarities are kept out of the greasy hands of book thieves for Christ.  

How does one practice in order to find the right way up?  Takes money, honey.  Who holds those car keys this time?  Look out Belo!  

Hence, the Muppets From Hell, a sort of political action designed to "be just like the big boys!", drinkin' cussin' fightin' fuckin' destroyin'  

"Hey!  If you gimme, I'll get you 20 barrels of the black stuff!"

Humans, on the other hand, humans who live with Bipolar as if it's an albatross around their necks at the hands of the truly shallow "self-made men", yes, we live with our own laugh tracks.  High society around here seems to believe that congenital illness is absurd, ridiculous, idiotic.  

Too bad they can't try Bipolar on for a test drive up the mountain at 85 mph.  Then, to make it, for real, how about plowin' down the mountain at 85 and then telling ride-alongs that the brakes went out? 

Broken English: the Texas way to twang all out of existence.  Works quite well for C&W stars who demonstrate they speak the language.  Nothin' wrong with that: business world homosexuality is brought to mind.  Right.  About.  Here.  

"Hey, boys, let's have sex!  I bid $23,000 take it or leave it!" 

"Sell it!" 

Bidness as usual.  

On Thursday afternoon, on the way to a busted blood draw, I spotted another whore.  Unhappy.  Pasty.  A little dizzy in the eyes.  She boarded the train--on orders of her pimp.  Got off the train at Mockingbird Station.  As if that's the sales point for students at Southern Methodist University, "jes' across the damned road" from the Dallas-Highland Park borderline.  

Or last evening.  Almost dark at the Audelia-Forest bus stop, a tallish man with what looked like a cod piece in his shorts asked me when the bus was "gonna come".  I told him the correct time.  Two young women, Nigerians or Central Africans, also waited for the bus.  They weren't whores.  But one had a big plastic gold chain embellishing her sandal.  Plastic gold.  

Got that message.  

Everyone in the 'hood is now wearing tan and yellow.  Everyone in the 'hood seems terrified, ready to fight them down.  The Latin Americans?  Begging for assistance from Anywhere, USA, a place that right now seems doom-ready to suicide democracy cuz big bidness wantee no obstructions to $$$.  

Way to go: Kill the host to get to the greenback canoli.  

Muppets From Hell: Little, cartoonish characters super-structured on upside-down pineapple--no upside down gloves.  Hand's up!  It's time for fuzzy little tails.  This time--as seen in the very unreal of the real world of bidness.  

Ungranted or granted, I do not object to honorable businessmen.  The world holds plenty of fine business owners.  The bad apples want to spoil honor itself--all so as to cash-in for some $$$

So bigtime, I almost forgot to laugh.  

How long, oh Muppets From Hell?  How long?  Rape victims want to know when how long is over, Mike Johnson.  

A buddy and I had a telephone conversation last night.  He seeks to spread terror all across his network of friends, terror because he's apparently afraid of Nazis.  He should know: Us artists and poets saw that coming as long ago as 1981: Hey Nineteen, eight-eighty-eight loves itself.  

Political masturbation is now featured in almost every newspaper in the US.  

Why is that?  Inspired by Buchwald, Royko and Anderson, I convinced myself that is an arguably honest means of conveyance and transport.  Who wants to be dunned so seriously all the live-long day?  

Laughworthy is: boring the living shit out of readers with pseudo-conservative navel gazers who believe themselves embody homo economicicus.  Then, once accused of such, they'll disobediently deny all charges.  Don't speak, don't smile, don't think, don't feel, don't anything that sidles away from the need for: 

$$$

Not that money is evil.  Money is an apt means of honest trade.  When is trade dishonest?  Without stop signs and traffic lights, every driver gets killed at the intersection.  Which almost always forms a cross: four lanes.  Four shots in the night.  All over the 'hood.  

People are enraged at the loosy-goosy nonsense going on in the soon-to-be-named Washington AC/DC.  

AC/DC.  As kids we knew what that meant: Latent homos.  It was a dis.  We called it a cut.  No family?  Come here get outta here!  

What did Jesus Christ warn Bible thumpers about oppressing and hurting widows and orphans?  Whatever the punishment on earth may be for that, I suspect it is big, explosive, orangish, mushroomy, and very very strong like nothing you've seen before in all human history.  

I pray not.  I really do.  But you know: scammed as anti-American by pseudo-conservatives at "The News", once the pinko label is marked on your forehead and right hand, there is no walkin' free.  Stigma kills.  And is stupid.  

All those parkers playing Space Invaders with their hands in their own pockets. Muppets From Hell: 2025 World Tour.  

I'll never forget how we JV Muppets in the appropriately timed 1984 managed to pick up two lesbians at Elitches Amusement Park.  Talk about cadding around on the place's rickety Wild Mouse. . . 

We offered the ladies a party in Evergreen.  After we'd asked if they would take us to an "alternative entertainment spot", we landed at a truly ancient blue-collar bowling alley in far North Denver.  Hilarious.  Totally punk.  Those girls.  Maybe they did, maybe they didn't, believe they had one over on us.  Who else is disappointed with no neon lights pointing the way toward getting out of mind and reason  

On to Evergreen, the Muppets From Hell rose through the Rocky Mountains to Jay's family cabin.  Once there, we snorted even more nitrous oxide.  The ladies weren't loose at all.  Dead giveaway.  That's when I sort of leaned into Susan Degrafenried, tried to kiss her, and had her waving her arms wildly to be let up.  Then we all laughed.  It was funny.  Nothing the President of the United States of America didn't get all serious about doing, only when caught, defamed his accuser.  I did apologize.  She laughed because she knew she'd fooled me. This, my dementedly unruly behavior was what totally drunk punks do.  Just ask the boys who frequent The Mansion on Turtle Creek.  They know all about pile-ons. I had no ability to use the gaydar at the time.  Then Jay, once passed out in his mother's vacation bed, landed with all the stuffed animals in the cabin, little tiny muppet wannabes, surrounding him in his nursery bed.  He looked cute.  We left him a trash can by the side of his bed because we knew he'd eventually "call Irving", an old euphemism for projectile vomiting, perhaps a courtesy to Dick Armey and his dick army.  

He did.  We took pics. 

Or the time, Jay, so drunk he could not drive, unconsciously lost his car keys to Steve Benton, who attempted to drive us four boys from the Little Bear Saloon in Granby.  But when he was carefully negotiating hair-pin curves on a two-lane that skirts a brook, Jay, all of 350+ pounds, fell against his right shoulder and almost got us all wet and in a wrecked car.  Looking back, because Steve braked the old Ford Taurus until Jay could be re-secured, I still chuckle a little at the danger we all were in; before the incident where Jay, nearly unconscious, demanded to open his mother's cabin, leaned his head against the cabin's hollow door--which streaked wide open, causing our 350 lb host to literally land on his face.  

Bad boys, bad boys, what're you gonna do when whoever they think they are come for you?  

Outlaws!  Too outlaw for the poetry outlaws.  That's for certain.  And all regrets registered in my heart, mind, and my being.  Which seems stalled out: a life sentence for disobeying the local rule I turn right, not left.  

If a car continues to turn right, want to know what happens?  

You go around in circles.  As in, REVOLUTION NOW.  

Dummies.  

Propriety?  Naw.  Not at 29.  I had so much hurt in my life I needed to let it all out.  No one but those three men were listening.  Still aren't listening.  What is apparently wanted is a sort of pet jester for self-appointed kings and queens.  

I used to brace at "commanded roles for Dallas poets": 

"Yew's got two alternatives, buddy boy.  Either you're a beatnik that sits at the foot of royalty to entertain royalty--or you're a court jester dressed all up in green like Peter Pan, pointy slippers, one of those Alpine hats with a pheasant feather protruding from its brim-ribbon--OR ELSE FUCKER!" 

Not buying that garbage from the area's ever-corrupt Muppets From Hell.  The grand decorated gloves from below who want life to be all about entertaining children.  

None of those gimps could write a good poem that isn't about either business or sports.  I'm not wagering, but it seems those goofs are busy wagering that I'll never be allowed to document my poetry myself.  

What a choice.  Fuck "fate".