“What do you want to do, Chantilly?”
“It’s up to you. What’s your pleasure?”
“I want to celebrate and have a good time.”
“Okay, Chuck. Let’s do that, then.”
“For an appetizer I’d like to fuck your ass.”
“That’s fine. That can happen.”
“For the main course I will cum inside your cunt then eat it out.”
“You will eat your cum out of my cunt?”
“Very well. What do you want for dessert? Blueberry muffins?”
“No. For dessert I would like to watch you swing without any panties on.”
“Okay, William Randolph Hearst.”
“I love you, rosebud.”
She’s dead she was nothing she tried she strove she did she lived she existed she was. Her eyes her hair her breasts her neck her shoulders her arms her legs her toes her words her books her art her songs her aching gallop her insane whirl. And could have more and should have never and no she did not go there and no she did not do that and that’s a lie and this is the truth and starve and weak and fragile and mouse. Lady never always girl but woman maybe with uterus gone and invisible scars. Love she did she had she gave she took and put on knick knack shelf. Was there ever trace or proof or absolute yes? Piracy lovely cheating taunting grains of sand. Measure in grams measure in gold measure in sea and storm and heavy and sky. Oh there was this cave and then this tower and prison deeper than coal mine cough. Now she is out and there is soar beyond and all the clowns and scientists know. Yes she was and still she is.
Someone just said Happy Birthday, John Cheever. John Cheever is fucking dead. When you’re dead you don’t get any more birthdays. You aren’t growing older. Your corpse is decomposing unless it was incinerated. Do corpses have birthdays? They do not, except perhaps within the confines of those terribly thrilling terribly popular zombie novels that make some asshole shitloads of money unless of course the novel was self-published or published by a small press. This sort of thing happens a lot and I’ve been quiet about it because I thought maybe I was wrong and everybody else was right. No. I am right, motherfuckers, and you are wrong. Don’t say…Oh! Today is Elvis Presley’s Birthday! Happy Birthday, Elvis! on January 8th because Elvis Presley is dead. His spirit might be in a Better Place. They do not celebrate birthdays in a Better Place because age does not exist there. He might just be altogether gone. If he is in fact altogether gone he won’t be blowing out any candles and making any wishes. People need to get the fuck off the dead birthday horse. It smells really fucking bad.
The chocolate milkshake was thick but the self-loathing was thicker. Now Alberto’s dick…nothing was as thick as that. And the sky was sullen and had something against them sitting at Sonic discussing mediocrity with the boy, who was only four.
“Gwyneth Paltrow. Madonna. Sexy vampires. Katy Perry. The latest Adam Sandler movie. Every Adam Sandler movie, sorry. Jay Leno. Ellen DeGeneres. Tom Cruise. The Kardashian clan. The latest Oprah approved sitcom. The latest Women’s Christian Coalition approved book. Everything Courtney Love did after Live Through This. Sonic. Wal-Mart. Ross Dress For Less. Arby’s. Velveeta. Victoria’s Secret. Cruise to the Bahamas. Anything Disney. Miley Cyrus. Justin Bieber. Nine West shoes. Faded Glory jeans. The American flag. The American zombie. Mediocrity flourishes. Mediocrity is rewarded, especially in the United States of America and Canada. Listen, baby, Bill Hicks is dead and nobody knows who he was. Ben Stiller is alive and everyone loves him. He’s more popular than Jesus although not as popular as the Beatles. Don’t be great if you want to get ahead fast. Be mediocre,” Abigail said.
“Mommy knows what she’s talking about, mijo,” Alberto said with a burp.
“I want some more cheese sticks,” the boy said.
“Exactly,” Abigail said.
The air conditioner didn’t work but the radio did. Twisted Sister ain’t gonna take it.