They're F'n With Our Freedoms

I have been locked up inside my house licking dollar bills ever since I found out that 90% of U. S. currency has cocaine on it. Picking at my scabby skull, plucking the hairs from my back- wearing the same beer advertisement tanned supermodel t-shirt the past ten days- occasionally going out, listening to the 'Lonesome Loser' on eight-track in my '68 Chevy Beater. Hanging with Puerto Rican Pete and Big Junior, their chihuahua named FEAR. Begging loitering, loitering begging. Doing a little bit of bird watching (double entendre). Peeing outside because nature loves the taste of my urine. Scratching 'Consumer Christmas is a Toilet' into all of the walls because it's so damn true. Passing out up against a light pole, sleeping one off in the D.M.V. Resting beneath a dangerous fire escape that looks as if it might plummet from its stanchions and crush everyone below. And I warn them- I tell them all- touch me and I'm nitroglycerin- a lycanthrope- justice shall truly be administered. Yet still I awaken to a bloodied, brutalized rectum. I could lead a better life. I could get a job working for the number one butt pump manufacturer in the galaxy. Buy a speedboat, a yacht- perhaps a Carmengia. Smoke cherry-flavored cigarillos, sip cognac and chambord from a brandy snifter. Put brilliantine in my hair, undergo a wretched facial reconstructive surgery. Wax my mustaches, manicure my hands- the stench of my eau de toilette wouldn't allow them to breathe. I'd go everywhere clad in mauve ascot and cufflinks, a double-breasted sharkskin jacket with lime green lapels and epaulets- tight teal trousers resulting in offensive pant protrusions, outlines from my veiny balls bulging through. Such success could reawaken my sexualities- the sound of my lovemaking would equal the noise of a thousand mangy mutts panting ponderously- I'd don purple prophylactics for no discernible reason. But then I remember- my aspirations are not of this world- I ask for no reward, no glimmering prize. And I don't mind dwelling amongst the vermin. Because for every winner in this world/desert there must be a loser, and I'm proud to be one of the failures.


- Dan Gleason