We Always Die From Our Vices

by Nathan Urquhart

We Always Die From Our Vices

And heres the proof........

It was a gloomy Tuesday, and I had just been reminded that I was no longer aware. In a huff, I licked the confederate bone marrow tablet that had been surrendered to the barn bandits, cause the cemetery is full of people who tried to steal the beer from the big oaf and as big as he was, bending down and other simple tasks were sometimes more of a challenge than climbing onto his back without him getting his hands on your neck and squeezing it free of blood because then you start to feel dizzy like a medium conversing with ghosts of the executed conspirators of the deal behind the chairman's back to force him into a tu-tu form of retirement from the company that just wasn't the same since the greedy nephew took over in the mid 70's, driving sales to an all time low on the stock market and forcing layoffs and many disgruntled employee's who wouldn't go anywhere until they got their severance pay for beer money and headed down to the bottle shop while one of their wives, Beatrice, was giving birth to 14 apprentice electricians that went on to drill holes in cement for sex reasons and habits of perversion that took away their innocence before they were even doing finger painting in the back yard under the four giant sausage trees planted more than 120 years ago by a drunken weary traveler who never had such shady trees to rest under so he pulled out the sausage seeds and planted them using a method taught to him by another drunken weary traveler who too never had such trees back in the homeland of Balgorthia, the land of the triple beaked spider-pig hunting crew that would return from such hunts with box after box of 100% real beef patties for the Karaoke night that had been organized by the F.B.I to get the blood samples of the would-be killer of San Chukka, breather of milk, and gatherer of bees, to use it as an excuse to tell their wives why they were over the next door ladies house for 3 hours with all the doors and blinds shut and still failed to copulate a successful pregnancy apart from more electricians but this was not wanted because there was no longer any dignity in the trade since the antics of Karl and why would you need one when it's so easy to fix the power mains yourself to save money and spend it on alcohol at the local store in a meeting arranged by an anonymous card counter with a fake beard and a magic stick that could turn things into pudding like Grandma used to make every Christmas with custard and money for the kids which the parents later steal for the cigarettes and beer on the long trip home because Dad says you have to drive drunk at Christmas time to be able to put up with the screaming kids in the back seats of a bus that we borrowed off uncle Derek on the condition that in the event of a cyclone warning for the regions of Townsville, Dad would take bets at 20 to 1 whether or not uncle Derek's house would end up in the bay of "Can't we call it quits" or whether or not that cat licks itself more times than the dog over the back barks at the fabled mini-drag queens who were guests of the Harmi-Harmi Koobaslop's King's guard on their holidays from the rehab clinic where after three months free from crack they swapped the drug coupons for Novocain and started up the old "I'm only on the spirits now" cycle once more, sending Pop's anger level higher than his shadow at sunset on a downward slope in an African game park, when he screamed "That ain't traveling with me in that little bus all the way home to Beaverhampton, you can strap it to the roof if you want but I know that when I put on my Otis Vagabond tapes I need space to move and room to boogie to the grooves oozing out the newly bought speakers from Auto-Pro" and the only reason that lazy old fart went to Auto-Pro is because after the Bentley shootings he needed upholstery cleaner to clean up the blood and semen stains from the back seat only to get his in the end via the electric chair after 5 long minutes on death row he decided not to lodge an appeal and the judge was not Uncle Derek's friend as hoped for the speedy execution for a happy ending to the stench in the back garden that's been lingering like a brain tumor from the over indulgence in snorting petrol fumes as taught to him at an early age by Kenny of the Ruffinstein Mafia family's trained hit-men with drug habits since every time they bought the bulk amounts of crack-cocaine they had to test taste it before they handed over the large sums of cash to the unknown skanks and sly business men who act all nice and innocent during work hours but by-golly if you saw him after 10 beers and a couple of lines of coke you wouldn't recognize or even suspect it was the same drug freak since the first lesson they teach you is that you never deal drugs in the work place because you think that no ones watching and you feel calm and blasé until you make one fatal mistake and steal the customers of previous prostitutes who all say they only do it for the money but you know they'd break the law to go to jail for the free blow-jobs when they get too old to charge hard cash and sell their story to playboy magazine for an un-named price but you can bet your sweet ass it was a shit-load because how else would they be able to afford those flash cars and beautiful houses on top of hills looking down onto the peasants of Slumsville who all have some sort of habit and the greedy are always there to move in with their drugs and alcohol at prices that would make a billionaire's hair stand on end, not that they'd have to worry about paying for drugs because that's how his father made his fortune in the 60's acid spree by selling the brown acid at Woodstock and investing the money in brothels and that is probably how their sons gain a taste for multiple whore's in the bedroom of the 130 room mansion who the family had bought off an old retired Army Colonel who claimed to have forcefully tongue kissed General Patton's ear back in World War 2 and later had a threesome with Mussolini and his bodyguard on the banks of the Danube River while Hitler filmed it from behind a shrub for cover then fled back to the Eagles Nest to warn his old friend Winston Churchill about the lude conduct of his drug addict soldiers when all along it was them who distributed the drugs for battle but it all backfired badly as mumps set in and the spectators fled to their "I'm a part of it, I'd better hide" summer houses to wait out the soup trials and eat fish instead with after dinner crack for all even though it wasn't cheap because people said it can be recorded even 12 years later on an ECG monitor so it's recommended you obtain your domain of relaxation from exploration of adrenaline rushes by jumping off high things at least twice daily and this will bring you more broken bones than Evil Keneval jumping 87.3 Kenworth Trucks in a rocket powered skateboard suit with 32,000 mouth-gaping onlookers who only paid the $5.50 to see some lunatic die in a blazing inferno while the Steve Miller Band's "Keep on Rockin' Me Baby" blared over the PA system of Funkyboy Stadium's southern grandstand where a group of regulars did the regular thing of shooting the gamblers to steal their winnings but it had been a day for the bookies and not much money was gathered by the muggers of Westlake county's prized Booger Flicking Team since the airport incident involving 2 pigs, an Irishman and a wheelbarrow entirely emptied of Camel shit so next time you try to avoid telephone charges, keep a record of the gross weight burnt in the fat furnace owned by an ex-carnival operator who had lost a testicle in a terrible accident aboard the H.M.A.S Canberra back in '87 when he was dragged into the air by a cruise missile after his collar got caught on one of the fins and his crewmates fell to the deck in hysterics until the captain ordered a rectal cavity search for heroin and several were caught for the drug, being condemned to a life of coffee in theaters watching old arty-farty plays acted out by a nerd, an Indian chief, and a man who was president of the Columbian Dick-Burning Club back in the days of the depression where they ate rat shit and bug soup for $600 per plate at the food kitchens organized by a persuasive colonist who had brought supplies of alcohol to help them deal with it, thus giving birth to the saying "How's ya father (is he sober)?" and sending the percentage of DUI charges through the roof compared to all previous years and as suicides went up, so did the price of coffins to the point where they were way out of your price range as the bodies piled up in the streets, bringing more bugs for the soup and more rats for the burgers but this only added to the diseases and forced the doctors into a struggle with time in a ceremony of final submission to the way of all things, screaming out "We give! We give!" and throwing their hands up in the air to the tune of `Jailhouse Rock' while the appalling conditions appealed to the Ziggy-Ziggy gang with their water-pistols filled with hydrochloric-acid under the arrangement that every third kitten be spared but the whole deal was built on distrust and they dare not spare anyone incase of allegations of racism by survivors of the melting's and people will always brag, like those who even manage to do it during totally unrelated conversation like "Yeah, I used to live near Wolverhampton, but I moved about...oh...maybe a year before I started teaching Karate", resulting in a mild strawberry flavored tensional conflict sprinkled with sherbet and cables but if you felt any animosity toward them over the years your arteries would harden and congest from stress, not to mention the stomach ulcers and it would be you who is worse off like those who gossip end up peeking thru curtains to see what the neighbors are doing as they stand in their empty living room on their 80th birthday, where they clutch at their chest and arch their back before falling to their knees as their heart fails and they're finally found eight days later with their favorite pooch licking the dead corpse, whining in sorrow for it's master and dodging the collected dog shit and the ghost as the coroner does his thing then tells the attending police to contact the next of kin, but they always scan the house for the good stuff before they let in the vultures to fight and pick over the deceased estate like humans as discovered by Peter Hardwell (Granddad's pool cleaner) after several experiments involving monkeys captured from the Monkey-Dude's cabin of lust and flashing lights to set you in a mood of relaxation, making it easier for them to spike your drink with chainsaw fuel and they're so small that you cant even see them with the naked eye so you don't know if or when they're going to do it or even perceive it as a threat from within and no matter what they say I'm not picking on you because why would I do that when I want to have sweaty sex with your Mum and her friends when they come over for tea and scones while the kids are sent out to play cricket on the highway for rabbits bringing an environmental catastrophe as the children learnt from the rabbits and began breeding, sending their numbers to plague proportions and beckoning at the hunters to shoot them before there were to many of them to fit in a death camp run by fascists and postmen wearing hats that had small bowls on top containing poisoned cat food to kill the bees and they also make good fans on hot days if you don't mind being splattered in cat food and bee-stings but just take 5 minutes a day to stop, take in the grandeur, and then steal the closest car for the bank robbery getaway down Woodbury Drive past the naughty underwear store before dumping it on the police doorstep as a contribution to the "Suck my Sausage and I'll let you off" fund, incase it came to fisticuffs behind the toilet block after school because you squeezed the left breast of Bruiser McKenzie's girlfriend after she fluttered her eyelids at you in English class and if you've ever had to deal with those sleazy drooling car salesman you'll know what I'm talking about because they come up to you rubbing their hands together and nearly bouncing out of their shoes like a jumping bean on speed while you're left feeling like a bundle of cash with legs as you fight to get out the words "We're only looking thanks" before they start on about the mileage and new tyres but you can take comfort from the fact they'll all be going to hell along with the lawyers and public servants, even though it's instrumental in the scheme of Jibby where five little ducks do a dance around each other to try and bring and end to the drought afflicting Booger Valley but even if there wasn't a drought they'd probably still dance because they were addicted to it, among other things, because everyone knows that they only dance after sucking on the crack-pipe and why do you think Raves are so popular when it gives society a place where you're wild prancings are inconspicuous amongst all the other drugged-up punters and like always someone steps in to reap the rewards through drug and ticket sales and you can be damn sure they wear a suit during business hours like those Japanese drunks who sleep in beehive capsules when they're too pissed to make it home to their wives who've adapted well to sex robots while the moon dancers in Peru snort Cocaine but if you work on an Oil-rig I wonder if you know that you're sitting on a potential time bomb, so if you want front row tickets, stay where you are or call that drugs/ticket guy I was talking about earlier on for all your needs and to gain hope from the stench of decaying overdose victims with the needle still hanging out of their arms if they were empty (they don't last long when there's still traces of heroin) as the commuters have their steps memorized to avoid stepping on them without having to look down because they still had the bats to contend with during mating season in the western suburbs under the belief that if you're addicted to cuddles like Maryann Macarthur, who was smothered by her frustrated husband, you'll end up in a similar predicament trying to decode your neighbors brain on the back yard picnic table after eating his kidney's as "We've got you surrounded!" comes blaring over the police megaphone from out front where digital Dorothy explains to them that she was the one who called them and showing a bit of tit out the top of her dressing gown, much to the amusement of the attending corrupt police sergeants who warned her to get back and that they'll attend to her sexual needs after they complete their shifts of protecting and serving the citizens of Oak Creek from the bad eggs and Mum's duckling soup, even though I don't know how many times I've heard someone say "It wasn't that bad" as they're hanging over the back railing and vomiting all over Chirpy's bird cage when Dad comes in and reaches for the beer and TV remote for his evening of sloth amongst the bread crumbs and ceiling fans and screaming "keep on punching because the face will split soon enough", bringing new found color if you are a bull but if you are a Boogey Man put on your spur boots for the 18th Annual Head Kicking Competition live from Montego Bay where imaginations give way and testosterone takes over, making you impartial to slipperiness and orgasm under the pier on Sludge Beach amongst the half nude Italians and when you finally make it back to the highway to search for a gas station to call the police about the axe-man that's been stalking you for your cigarettes since Thursday night at the "Yes, I like Carpet" convention at the Hawksbury Center in South Crumpville and every time you light one up he starts rubbing his fingertips down the axe blade and licking his lips while his beady little eyes stare like a rodent before it moves in for the kill but this guy just hung back and kept his distance, just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on you like his father had taught him in the cigarette wars of 1935, 7 years before the great auctioning of the laser-gun-mounted space-helmet where as always it fell into the wrong hands, this time being the hands/claws of the evil Lobster-Boy and he walked out into the street and started doing the Macarena and destroying everything with the laser guns every time the dance changed direction while the fleeing civilians dodged the dead bodies and airborne debris and dragging their screaming children away from the lasers but you know what kids are like when it comes to evil lobsters and laser lights, always wanting to stop and gawk at the spectacle because they only listen to dad but it would be a cold day in hell before you would find him anywhere else but in the strip-club next to the headquarters of the "Peoples Freedom From Oxygen Party" on Kent St in the dirty smelly suburb of midgets who only want a place where they can feel normal and not have to worry about dogs bigger than them and ready to mate, so you can see why it was convenient for them to have their own dictator but you can also see just how these things start out for the good of man then quickly turn sour when someone's in power of a people who know how to revolt against oppression and it doesn't really matter whether you're "hoisting the black flag and slitting throats" (King Henry) or just making them pay taxes because power is oppression when it comes down to it, so it's best to set up a fake opposition party to just say the opposite of you but promising more throat slashing or taxes and you're bound to win any election but there's always someone right behind you waiting for their chance to jump in your seat, more hungry for power and it will eventually end in a civil uprising lead from within your own party where if you're lucky enough to escape the beheadings, you'll only ever be remembered as "the bloke who scratched his knee too much" or "that Idiot who had a funny mole on his neck" or some other blemish or bad habit, even if you didn't start any military operations and eventually all the survivors of the great wars will die off, along with all of those to whom they told their story and we'll loose the lesson of the pain of war, giving way once again to aggression and curiosity until it explodes again like it has done so for millennia, crushing regimes and civilizations at their peak so grab a a beer and get comfortable on the toilet with your favorite magazine because anything you do will all end in ashes anyway when the shit comes down or it might be something as minor as a faulty wire in your toaster when one day as your wife's toast pops out of it, the wire finally earths out on its internal framework and it'll be just your luck that it's you who uses the toaster next and not your kids, so you'll end up fried on your kitchen floor in your underwear with your testicles halfway up your throat when you're found by your wife and the lady from next door as they come home from a morning at Mario's Coffee Lounge with the milkman, who the two women quickly call now that you're well and truly out of the picture, leaving you with the final question of "to haunt.....or not to haunt" but if you don't like toast, why don't you try sticking your head in a Super "Ninja Suction" Vacuum cleaner until your face peels off then turn the machine off and open the dust bag and search around for your face so you can dust it off and place it in a microwave safe dish and cook on High for 3 minutes (settings based on 700 watt models), opening periodically to drain out the blood that has collected in the bottom of the dish into a cup so that you've got something to wash down your lunch if you're not in Jakes boat like every other public holiday but I know a bloke who told me he knows a fellow who overheard that it only costs $70 to hire an ex-navy seal that will place bombs on boat hulls but the catch is he kills you too because he says he doesn't like witnesses and I'd bet there'd be a few around if it weren't for his adopted policy but naturally he says that works been slow and in his ignorance he blames the government and their rise in interest rates to cover their rise in wages to pay for their antique South American bug collections and while he was only half right, he silently systematically stabbed and clubbed his local council members, claiming that he did it in the name of aggregates and watered down beer while his father giggled up the back of the court because he knew his plan had worked and he had finally got revenge for the day when his son was only a boy and was sleeping above his father in a double-decker hammock bed and urinated in his sleep all over his father below as his Dad's mates stood back laughing and teased him about it for years because you know how funny it is when someone's in distress and even the memories can bring a smirk to your face but how's it going to feel when you're starring on "Funniest Home Videos" getting your head crushed by a fully loaded milk-truck after the tape was sent in by your widowed wife in the hope of winning some electrical appliances for the new kitchen she bought with the life insurance money to prepare the fine food for her naked carpet parties that romped on into the wee hours of the night when the police finally arrive and join in but Mr. Jameson had had enough and when he saw that the police were doing nothing to shut up the noise he loaded his sawn-off shotgun and filled the pockets of his bed robe with cartridges and headed across the road to ever so quietly climb into the police car and quickly hot wired it to go on his usual Friday night run of pulling people over and shooting them until returning the car before the police noticed it missing from the street and put out an APB to find the thief among thieves while they should develop a system of priority and change the laws on what determines you as "A Criminal" because we've all partaken in a a little police impersonation at one time or other (nudge nudge, wink wink) and bed-room role playing can be a healthy release so pretend you're a fat looser who sits on their ass all day watching TV and patting your dog with your feet or someone who dresses up as a bald beaver that plays the banjo on the cottage porch but either way, use whatever keeps you sane from all the mirrors, magnets and various card tricks of the business world and kindergarten teachers sons that grow up to be boxers that do paid radio commercials for various products in an attempt to render newspapers obsolete and make way for hologram projection disks to be developed for porn, just like the internet, television, and magazines but it would be bad luck to be dead as you're handed the $40 million dollar check for winning the lottery and good luck for your next of kin who'll no doubt blow it all on smack because you don't know you've got a habit until you've got money, or until you can get your hands on money via guns on Daddy's credit card and robbery of mail vans and the local banks until you're caught and promise to go to rehab until you're clean as long as you're little sister can do the urine tests for you since she's not on drugs yet even though knowing her it wouldn't be long because she's getting closer to age 7 by the day and she'll be hitting the school yards to gain more customers for Dad before you know it's time to feed Grandpa his viagra and drive him into town as he tells you how many petticoats he's taken off over the years with his teeth and how great it was in the navy before handing him his heart medication and waving goodbye as the other hand wipes the tears of pride from your eyes then heading off for your night of fun but as you get to the lonely stretch of road between Holmead and Warners Flat, the aliens were back as promised and beam your car up into the air, leaving you thumping the steering wheel in anger because you know old Busty Loraine would have put out tonight after you wiped her out with vodka and I swear they do it on purpose because they told me they can listen in on telephone conversations and they have quite an amusing time watching "Bay Watch" so they must know what I'm up to and next time I'd like to see them catch me when I'm hitting 220km/h and hook it left into Harrison Street where the gum trees branch out over the road all the way back to the "Don't worry, Aliens aren't allowed here" sector of chirping birds and pretty flowers until it's safe but they always get you eventually because no matter how much you think you are in control of your destiny, there's always someone with alternate plans like mechanics when they try and screw you over and say "You've got a problem with the bearing on your air conditioner" as they secretly cut one of the hoses, letting all the gas out then continuing with "it should be o.k. as long as you leave the air conditioner on at all times while driving to loosen the pressure on the bearing" and when it explodes 2 weeks later he says "Yeah, you're not supposed to use your air conditioner when there's no gas in it" but he also says he can easily fix it for $850 and re-gas it for $250 after a leak test that only costs $180 when there was nothing wrong in the first place but my neighbor hid a small spy camera underneath his bonnet and single-handedly brought down 37 automobile service centers after catching a whole lot more on tape than mere dodgy business practices and the odd secretary gang-bang, he filmed and documented enough evidence to convict 42 people in a major "Stolen car parts for Crack" ring operated by the local Mechanical Shops before he turned up with his balls in his mouth and floating dead down the Brisbane river, obviously the victim of a disgruntled local Junkie who now had to search for a new dealer that would take stolen articles or American Express and he knew it wasn't going to be easy since the new law of "If you get convicted for drugs then you have to lick a pigs ass" got passed through the senate after much lobbying by Senator John Rude who openly stated on live television that he didn't really have a problem with drugs, he just thought that his job was getting boring and since you're not allowed in parliament when you're drunk it might spruce his days up a bit to see people licking pigs bottoms and his fellow politicians agreed, striking fear into the hearts of the local addicts who already had enough to deal with when you take into account the fact that they spend half their days sucking sexual organs for crack money and the other half looking for crack when all they really want is for the government to pay for it (the sucking) and if it weren't for their so called reputations, I'm sure the politicians would agree because not only would they be getting the free blow-jobs at the taxpayers expense, they would also gain contacts for scoring heroin for themselves and their high-class friends in back rooms at Bernice's dinner parties where they shoot the shit in more ways than one behind locked door, while Bernice tells her more distinguished guests that those rooms are the children's bedrooms but if they looked in through the keyhole they would probably die of a heart attack cause if that was a child's room then I'm a pink elephant because I'm stuffed if I've seen so much smack, cocaine, and debauchery in all my days, except for the time with those 5 brunets from Columbia but that's another story because I've just got to tell you about the argument I had with the local drunk over the reason we were arguing and reckoned it was about chewing gum on his pavement/bed and blaming it on my kids when I didn't even know that I had any kids let alone the fact they were stealing money out of my wallet for chewing gum when they should be in school learning how to earn me some money since someone's got to pay for my scotch when I'm too drunk to work and if I've learnt anything from television it's that if you want to be a normal father then you have to be an alcoholic, drive a pick-up truck, and yearn for a boat while you bitch about your job to your mates until it's time to go home for dinner and watch the nightly news for the weather report to see what the water would be like if you had that 160 horsepower outboard Sea Fairer but would settle for some aphrodisiac's to get the show on the road with the ex-wife for now until you win the money on the horse races and curiosity may have killed the cat but only the curious can say "I know what shit tastes like" as the producer asks you to say it again because he wants to get a tracking shot of you as you run from the toilet with brown stains on your face and a happy little jingle playing in the background to try and make the viewers more involved and maybe spark some forgotten childhood memory in an attempt to burn their product on your brain so you'll either buy it or at least tell your friends about it because only one person may have an idea but everyone else wants their slice of the pie thru marketing, legal fees, storage, distribution and anything else they can think off, and that's if you're lucky enough not to invent something that will piss off the powerful like an engine that runs on water would surely attract the attention of oil company hit-men because that would be their cheapest option and I'm not sure how to take these blank check stories of good will because it's totally out of character, lacking spine and kahoolies at the other end of the Fushni spectrum where they're grouped together with the Dupont's and Banking institutions in the false hope that they would start ripping each other off instead but it's like they have some sort of secret handshake because they never seem to steal off each other, instead it always backfires when banks get word of money since they lend it to big corporations and ask for shares as collateral so that when the corporations secretly buy out all of their competition with their new found money, their profits go up along with their stock market share prices, leaving the banks with the paid back capitol, with short term high yield interest, plus thousands of stock shares that have increased in value by up to 600% and allowing the cycle to start again but this time to a higher degree and that money has to come from somewhere and you can bet your left testicle it will be through your bank fees, consumer prices, and raised fat levels in food with MSG and carcinogenic food dyes with genetic timers that trigger once you've hit retirement age because it's just like when ants eat their geriatric workers in a system of recycling as long as your arteries don't clog with their crap in the meantime or you get a job using chemical based glues and primers when all you feel at first is the pains in the armpits and after 15 years or so you develop pinkness of the fingers and can't even remember your own name and when you continue to ignore your families pleas to go to a doctor, partly because your hearing comes and goes and when you do manage to hear them you reply "John Wayne never went to a doctor", you'll eventually find yourself chained to a large rock getting periodic visits by your bruised and scarred family who push a plate of food over to you with a long stick as they stand back out of range of your thrashing fists and kicking legs while charging $5 for the neighbors to come and see you because people are always in search of entertainment, be it happy movies or tales of misfortune and I don't know why people seem shocked when they hear that 5 times the amount of people claim to have gone to either Vietnam or Woodstock than records actually indicate, leaving you wondering if those legends of ancient battles really contained legions of metal-clad soldiers or were they just two over-imaginative villagers engaging in a drunken argument on a top of a hill because it's all about ego and maybe people should stop and think before they post warning signs such as "Do Not Leave Your Boat - Crocodile Infested Waters" or "No Entry - MINEFIELD!" because (and this is especially if females are around) people will always play the hero and signs such as these are just asking for trouble but we can use their bodies to boil their fat for soap when we've got enough fertilizer until the signs are taken down, thus removing the danger and then you can tell Ken it's o.k. to let the kids outside again since humans have rendered all sharp-teethed animals extinct while you still have to keep your eye out for the bees because they've become immune to our poisons thanks to the followers of William Shatner and their crusade to personally inoculate each individual insect against everything from pesticide to the common cold without so much as a thought towards the children, only giving them some foul smelling oil but lets face it, no one wants to be known as "the user of bum-cream" because reputations stick and once a nose-picker, always a nose-picker, even if you were to cut off all their fingers they'd still find a way to pry those boogers because snot can be more addictive than heroin (especially when driving) and certain children have to be taken to rehab where they're introduced to crack-heads and finally gain a decent role model for once in their pathetic little lives, leaving the parents to concentrate on their own habits of intoxicated perversion with their neighbors and pets until Monday morning when they call in sick with hangovers and rashes in their nether regions, sending the boss wild with threats of termination if they didn't get their ass to work by 10 o'clock, even if the are smacked off their faces because he says he ain't making money with all his employees either "Drying out" or "Strung out" and he doesn't care if they cut their hands off in the metal press because it will stop them doing drugs but still allow them to push buttons (if they're big enough buttons and widely spaced, because if they wore an artificial pointer they would still be able to pick their nose) and if they complain he'll just crush their heads in the garbage compactor of blood and use their bones to complete the construction of his bone-throne just like every other boss in these "equal opportunity" slave labor camps posing as shoe companies who use the money saved on wages to buy-off sporting superstars who promote their products at world class events but if you watch TV then you'll know that there's always a sniper somewhere in the crowd and unfortunately there's always someone there to foil his plan because heroes only die when they're to old to make it into the studio or the ratings drop below the competition in the allocated time slot unless they drop to their knees and start gobbling the little fireman, as all heroes do in the end, before they finally give up and start writing their memoirs (like anyone gives half a shit) and sit on the porch sipping scotch and going on and on about the old days when everybody loved them while their relatives wished they would just shut up and die so they can get their greedy teeth into the fortunes but the elderly never tell you that they blew all of their money years ago on sex romps through the seedy areas of Thailand and by the time they die they've mortgaged the house and living off welfare payments so all your ass kissing was a complete and utter waste of time as you're stuck with a stuffed parrot, 2 rolls of some weird 70's wallpaper, and a funeral bill of $8,750 dollars, payable within 3 days or resulting in immediate eviction and subsequent fees as the coffin waits on the loading dock to be collected while you try to hire a truck big enough to haul the obese corpse when you would have been better off moving to the other side of the country so you would at least have an excuse not to visit and if you have enough beef to get you through the winter then you wont even need a telephone, giving the government one less way to bug you for surveillance and they'll have to resort to swapping your wife with a radio controlled cyborg containing a built in tape recorder and microphone that ejects the tapes out the bedroom window thru a self sealing slot in her back as you climb into bed every night for programmed sex rejections because any prodding would damage the intricate government circuit boards and you roll over in disgust as the secret stealth agents with their night vision goggles retrieve the days surveillance tapes from the front lawn and upload it to the "Another reason to kill them" section of your growing file and when you're asleep they break in and swap the soap in your shower with one that contains poison and shaving cream that makes you rub micro-radio transmitters into the pores of your skin so they can track you and study the effects of the poison and how long it takes to either kill you or put you in one of their mental institutions where you're forced to sign over the contents of your brain and your bank accounts or they'll kill your family via genetic poison cists in chicken meat given to them by the neighbors who are really government agents disguised as a mechanic and kindergarten teacher from Sydney that meditate on a bed of knives and broken glass in between their peeking and note taking as they read your brain thru radio waves and pass it via satellite to the governments underground mutant complex where the two evil directors smile deviously at each other and thump the "TO BE EXECUTED" stamp down on your file with a maniacal laugh and they know they'll find someway to do it legally because they are the ones who write the laws via their puppets, just like when Mum says "Ask your father" when she knows he'll say "NO!" but she still looks like the good guy with the shinny cape and secretly calling the shots because if Dad doesn't do what she wants, it'll be no-nooky-for-naughty until he complies and she says it's about time he quit that Janitor job because although it may have been a sustainable wage during the 60's, he couldn't speak German to tell his boss about inflation and the minimum wages of the 90's (set by the two evil directors) but if you budget, live in your car, and don't eat, anybody can live on $37 per week according to your stock broker who says his advice is worth it's weight in gold when really it's just worth it's weight in fish heads because he tells you he got word of a big deal going down involving a merger of two companies that will send it's relatively cheap share prices through the roof and he urges you to buy, but he got word of a deal alright, and he wants to offload his dodgy shares onto you for a profit before the company goes bust from the barrage of it's contract-stealing cut-throat competitor and still have the audacity to demand his sales commission of 50% before walking off into the sunset with the light rays reflecting off his gold chains and no one can blame you for wanting to run up and punch him in the back of the neck and squeeze his ears but be careful because they're waiting for an excuse to arrest you and throw your sorry ass in jail since their secret plan failed last time when the judge said he would let you out on $3000 bail if you promised to stop eating people and you nodded your head in reluctant agreement but little did they know you had your fingers crossed behind your back, except Dad because he always knows when you're lying and he gives you a stern look as he pays the bail money in a tantrum complaining that he was using the money that he had saved for buying-off the alien invaders when they arrived next Thursday night as he had predicted more than twenty years ago (with the exact day changing from week to week) in a drunken revelation after hitting his head on a steel chair when he did his famous stage dive at the Barry Manilow concert while "Wizard", Dads monster of a German Shepard, tore apart the first 3 front rows of the audience at the sight of the blood as the SWAT Team burst into the theater singing "Copacabana" and firing tear gas at Barry Manilow but he ducked so quick that he put his neck out of place for three weeks and he was put in the hospital bed next to Dad who hassled and video taped him 24 hours a day, even during the rectal examinations so every time someone new comes over Dad leaps from his chair and puts on his "My Hospital Stay With Barry Manilow" video with full commentary and raving on about the glories of modern technology when realistically, how much faith can you place in technology when you hear that Aeronautical Engineers discovered (after 2 years of study) that technically, bees can't fly but I guess those little inoculated buzzers know something we don't yet, even after constant interrogation and threats to kill the queen, all they managed to get was the numerous bee stings on their faces before they "FLEW" off into the ventilation system with a smug look on their faces but since they left their hearts attached to the stingers protruding from the researchers eyeballs, they make it about as far as a single legged dehydrated dingo thru the desert of broken glass while one of the bystanders keeps repeating "Oh, gee's, I cant see him making it" and then turns to you like a teacher glaring at a naughty student and starts screaming answers at you like you don't know but he hasn't even asked you the questions so you just huff and wave your arms in the air at him then pull out the trusty meat-cleaver and start break dancing up to him with the blade swinging wildly at throat height as he runs and jumps in the car and tears off down the track leaving you busting moves in a plume of dust which eventually clears allowing you to salute the horizon and commence the long trek back to the crack-house where your old retired High School Principal comes in for his nightly "Touching" and gives the junkies $100 to share while his wife thumps furiously on the horn, still waiting in the car out front and trying to settle down the crying complaining children in the back seat and screaming out the window "Lets go look for hitchhikers" because she was once a teacher too, and you know what they're like so sometimes it pays to be suspicious when your Physical Education teacher asks if you and a couple of other young boys want to come on a two day canoe trip up some back-woods creek with him and his "Flat mate" and sometimes it pays for them to make sure that it is a copy of "Gone with the Wind" on that video tape they're about to lend to their students and not that video of them masturbating in a superman costume because you'd be surprised how many copies can be made in a weekend (especially with the internet and all) and students are within their rights to cry "Conspiracy!" when teachers tint all the windows in the Staff Room and put signs next to the door saying "Knock 4 times, slowly, then do twenty star-jumps, recite the school creed, and finally, count to 10 before entering" because they need time to put their clothes back on and clean up the whipped cream and lubricant before putting their glasses back on and quickly sitting back down at their personal desks like they've been there all along but you can see them all looking at you out the corner of their eye when you walk in and I know they're wondering whether you've clicked on, even though I tell them every time "Don't mind me, get naked and messy" but still they roll their eyes and shake their heads at me, pretending not to know what I'm talking about and waving their hands as a signal to piss off, saying their too "Busy" but they'll all be lining up to kiss my ass when I stun the world with my announcement about my new intentions to relay a message about the letter containing the correspondence notes conveying telegrams of drafts of postal orders and carbon copies of checks forged in the name of someone called "Rupert J. Buncleshangster" as final proof of the existence of the universe because the receipt showed that Rupert had bought it in early '74 for the bargain price of $9.95 from a traveling bug trainer with a wooden head in a sleazy bar under the Parkinson's pig squeezing room where Rupert soon fled before 11pm when it turns into a neurological injury clinic for the deaf and addicted language translators of the speech code of "Chookoo" from the heart of the mud built prison with no toilets but the constant urinating on the walls soon dissolved large openings and the secrets were secret no longer and leaving the Jail Warden to handle the press with an "I'm possessed by a diabetic ferret" expression on his face as he explained that the construction of the prison was not his responsibility since he was in tranquillized therapy for his knife-wielding teddy bear hallucinations during the time it was built and the blame should fall with the man who bowed to the death threats and hired him in the first place but the man could not be located since the death threats had been carried through, regardless of his submission 2 months earlier, saying "You'd be perfect for the job" and the new Warden's response to his performance reviewers was "Even if I do manage to keep the goo from oozing out between my fingers (keep the prisoners from escaping) then how am I supposed to carry it all the way to the plasm factory (to the end of his employment contract) and even if I do make it, there aren't any doors and you have to climb a ladder to get in, making you drop all the goo (no matter what he does, they're all out to get him) and you'll always fail miserably", leaving th reviewers wondering what on earth he was talking about so they should have noticed a problem earlier but he was always so polite while he stabbed his victims that none of them even noticed that he was removing their internal organs as he casually chatted to them about the weather and on one occasion he even saw that his victim was getting a bit wobbly and feint from blood loss so he carefully helped the man lay down on the sidewalk, resting his rolled up jacket under his head for a pillow as he asked "Are you sure you're o.k., do you want me to call a doctor?" before continuing with the gentle butchery on a bustling street in broad daylight but Mrs. Shoemaker was watching from a distance too far to hear his pleasant words and immediately noticed the large knife being thrust into the victims rib cage and as she scrambled from the wooden seat at the bus stop, she tripped over the white-cane stick of the blind man (the Warden's disguised accomplice) sitting next to her and she fell out onto the road into the path of a delivery truck and while the bystanders rushed to investigate the squashed corpse, the Warden disappears in the confusion as planned, winking to the "blind" man who says to the gathered people "You know, she must have been drunk because her breath stank of gin" then he goes home to get rid of the fake blind man suit and put on his grave-digging suit to begin digging up the neighbors dead pets to set them up in that scene with the dogs playing billiards because he believes that "movement is electromagneticly balanced anti-sex" and to explain he uses an old photograph of an elderly Englishman wearing full protective clothing, holding a cricket bat in one hand and a reasonably large sized monkey's testicle in the other and saying something about cricket and gyroscopes being interlinked with the physics of dog throwing competitions but somewhere along the way he must have taken some crystal-meth while you had your back turned because now he's tensing up his neck muscles and undoing his trousers as you quickly turn out the door knowing full well that he'll be in the padded cells of Northgate Watch-house by midnight after being caught directing the people into the cubicle of his choice inside the central park toilet block, butt naked with a cardboard pointer arrow taped to his head and you can understand the police assuming he was some sort of pimp for the junkies who hung out there looking to earn some quick money but when they tell his father he was caught naked in a public toilet with a bunch of drug addict male prostitutes, I'd like to be there when he tries to talk his way out of it with some wild excuse but fathers know the truth because they have all been in the same situation during their hippy days in the sixties and still have the nerve to say you can't even smoke cigarettes while they guzzle themselves into oblivion and set you off on your paper route saying "We've all got to pitch in if we want to go to Disneyland" when you later hear through their bedroom keyhole that Dad really wants the money to get Mum some breast implants since she donated all of his dirty magazines to the sperm-bank on the condition that she was allowed to watch the other "Donors" thru a 2-way mirror in the cubicle wall with all the other female staff members that get drugged by their bosses at the Christmas party who give each other dirty little grins and high-fives as they watch the last woman join the unconscious heap on the dance floor leaving them to have their way until either the drugs wore off or they are sprung by the husbands who have come to pick up their wives, resulting in bloodshed and numerous court cases that just add to the tension within the international community and they know we're headed for war because why else would they encourage violent computer games other than the fact that they could either pay more than $1 million dollars to train each solider or just get the parents to pay for it under the disguise of video entertainment at a price that's cheaper that 1 years worth of Karate lessons from Uncle Derek and when it comes to the crunch they'll just reinstate mandatory military service to have a nation of fully trained killers and the Colonel can use the saved millions to develop his retirement moneymaker invention, the "Wipe-on-Fly-Spray" to abolish C.F.C's in aerosols and packaged in a pretty little bottle complete with built in brush lid and instructions that tell you its as easy as catching a fly in your hands, then asking someone nearby to open the bottle of poison for you and place the applicator brush in your mouth, taking care not to get any of the fluid into your mouth as it will cause cancer, when we all know that cancer is spread through airborne germ-spores that grow out the back of your ears and a cure can be something as simple as wiping it away with a wet sponge and sealing the holes with chewing gum but you may need a mirror so this might be your big chance to "accidentally" burst into your friends sisters bedroom and hopefully get a perve at her tits while you pull your best "I wasn't" face but it looks so much easier in the movies, like escaping from a maniac with a ray gun that disintegrates your nerves and boils your spinal fluid from a distance of up to 4 miles without even leaving so much as a bruise under your skin for the others to point at while they try and convince each other of their own theories as to how you died but as I found out a while back, it can be hard to convince people to believe you when I uncovered that scientists only invented electricity to fund the construction of the power grid and telephone poles because they needed something as a front and the poles and towers to prop up their invisible robotic conveyer belts for the mobile vacuum cleaners that suck up dead skin, scabs, and hair to build their prototype giant human, and even though this has been going on for over 1 hundred years, the project is still incomplete so you can only imagine the size of this giant they are building (or giants) while they still make money thru you're power bill but I quickly shut my yap when I was awakened in the night to find my arms, legs, and mouth bound in duct tape with a group of shadowy figures in balaclava's surrounding my bed who told me they knew I had unmasked their plan and with an indirect warning they said "Giants need brains too!" in a really menacing voice, deterring me from speaking about it until I constructed my Brain-Thief-Protection-Hat out of tin foil and rubber bands and was free again to roam and annoy the birds while so many others still have the jitters and are kept cooped up in their homes resorting to the installation of giant electronic rotating mirrors that reflect the night sky into their living rooms so they can still dance naked or painted in the moonlight without having to go outside the virtual fortress except to score crack and empty their bed-pans but don't feel sorry for them cause I offered to build them a protection hat and they just slammed the door in my face like NASA did to Uncle Derek when he offered to be an Astronaught for the Apollo moon landings free of charge, even after he promised not to play with the controls too much and showed them how much he had been practicing his "Roger, over and out", he came home in a huff saying that Astronaughts only got all the chicks because their dicks stretch from the G-forces as they're blasted out of the atmosphere to boldly go where you're not allowed to, driving him back to the bottle and when one starts they all get into it and end up having drunken sing-a-longs that keep you up half the night in a ploy to drive you mad but if you repeatedly bash your head on the bedpost you'll eventually knock yourself unconscious or at least make yourself dizzy enough to fall asleep until they stop singing and fighting over the last bottle of port like baboons and take it from me, baboons do drink because I lost my van with 14 cartons of beer, 4 bottles of scotch and 2 bottles of rum and when I asked the alcoholic prison-escapee next door if he had seen anything he said "YEP" and when I asked what he said a large group of sleazy baboons broke in and stole my van so I asked him why he didn't stop them and he replied that he didn't know that baboons could drive but I knew that government trained baboons could drive because how else would politicians get to work, leaving me with no doubts as to who was behind it all because once they've got you in their sights you have to keep moving or they pull the trigger and then wipe all the records on your files or they may just leave little sarcastic "How's the wife and kids" messages on your answering machine to break your mind and it's not just me, they're after my chickens and my Grandfather so summon all of your television bravery and as all the experts say, "BE PREPARED" or at least keep a set of fake breasts handy for a disguise because even if you know they're all out to get you, there's always something you forgot to think about like an electronic remote-controlled flame-thrower mounted on hydraulic stilts that pops up out of the head of that old porcelain frog next to your door step or miniature spies with little sodium-powered catapults that fire smack filled intravenous darts since it always ends with overdose because everything is in excess if you give it enough time, you know what I'm saying? I've come to the conclusion that we always die from our vices........