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Sum Total by Fred Fagbag
Sum Total
by
Fred Fagbag
I don't like paragraphs. So I don't use them. If you want paragraphs
then find yourself a copy of Reader's Digest. I don't like punctuation
much either so if you don't like mine go fuck yourself.
I will write about my balls I think. Or maybe your balls. Who cares, eh?
Well, if you had balls like mine you'd care. My balls are very special
to me and right now they aren't feeling as safe as they could. Seems
there's a bunch of fuckheads, dirtbags and general shitbrains around who
want to chop them off. Crackheads mostly. I've got better things to do
than concern myself with whether Willie Mojo down the street hasn't had
a rock in the past fifteen minutes, right? Well, he might just dust
my ass for the five dollars in my pocket (on a good day) so he can go buy
himself another rock. Do yourself a favor and waste the next crackhead
you run across. You'd be doing the whole world a favor for that matter.
I dream of bloody deaths. I see so many in my work. Car accidents,
shootings, bad drug deals, domestic violence. A madman's almanac of
events for each day, and I'm supposed to care about each one. Fuck that.
I have my own ass to worry about, right? I sing a song, give 'em the
finger and go about my merry way. I used to sing for money, now I just
do it to piss people off. Dopers love the music I write. I hate it. I
quit doing music for myself and made it for the dopers. Songs about
fucking your dog, raping your sister, chopping people into little pieces.
I used to listen to my own music when I was stoned. It sounded good then.
But what doesn't when you're stoned? I don't hate the people that listen
to my music. I just wonder why they do. It's hard to know if it matters
that I hate most people because they're dumber than I am. I do hate
them, but not too much. Most of them can't help the fact that they aren't
as smart as I am. It's the ignorant mother fuckers I really can't stand.
They have a choice. People act so stupid. They do so many things they
won't admit in public. Like look at the toilet paper when they're done
using it, either to wipe their ass or blow their nose. Or picking their
nose when they don't see any other cars around and rolling it into little
balls which they drop on the floormats. Have you ever taken a shower
and shoved an old toothbrush up your ass while you jerk off? Or used
your shaving mirror to watch you balls while you jack off? Have you
ever tasted your own sperm just to see what it's like? But I digress,
this is about me, not you. But am I really more interesting than you?
Chances are you wouldn't think so. So fuck you. How many times have
you ever said "Fuck you"? Ever thought about what it really means? Does
it mean that I would like to fuck you? Or maybe that I COULD fuck you if
I wanted. Ever write to Tim Leary? He does write back. He also sends
back an advertisement for his latest software. But then again, so do I.
Remember when you first started playing sex games with your cousin? How
you actually took his cock in your mouth and blew air around it? And how
after reading more about it you learned to suck? You didn't do it until
he came because you weren't good enough at it. And then you got the idea
to turn around so both of you could do it at the same time. But then he
got hair on his balls and his dick was almost too big to fit your mouth
around. The last time you did it you thought you were going to die if he
came in your mouth, because you knew more about that from playing with
yourself. You also couldn't stand the hair. So the only person you had
sex with for the next seven years was yourself. Remember your first
girl? Remember spending five minutes praying for a hard-on? And when
you finally got one, she was dry as a bone. You couldn't find the hole
and when she reached down to help it in you came across the lips of her
cunt. You still were kind of stiff when she did get it in so you pumped
her five or six times and then fell down on her chest puffing air. How
about your first crew cut? Remember then feel of the wind whistling
through the hairs on your head making them feel like the plucked strings
of a guitar? How about the time you beat off in your hand to see what
your sperm looked like? And the times you tried to lick your own dick,
almost breaking your back on the toilet? Remember the first blowjob you
got where you came in her mouth? You thought you would die, right? She
almost threw up on you near the end because you were pushing your dick in
so far. She looked up from your crotch with the sperm dribbling out her
mouth and then moved up to kiss you. You tasted your own salty, sticky
sperm on her lips. It almost made you sick. Why couldn't she drink
something before she kissed you? Was she mad because you said you
wouldn't come in her mouth? How about the first time you got your ass
beat in school? You came home with the split lip, crying, and your
mother told you everything was going to be alright. And you father
telling you that next time someone tried it again just to hurt the
other person in any way you could. That there was no such thing as a
fair fight. Remember how you trembled next time you saw the person
who beat your ass? Remember the time you tried to put your dick in your
dogs mouth? He would lick it once or twice and then try to move away.
What about the time you came home drunk and threw up again and again the
next morning. And your mother asked if you had been drinking. You lied
to her. Your father grinned and told you that in time you would learn
your lessons about how much you could drink and get away with. You
wanted to die and just stop trying to throw up on an empty stomach. You
did learn in time, although you threw up in a friend's car and made a
lot of people mad. Now you can't remember yesterday, but all these old
things stick out in your mind as clear as if they happened just minutes
ago. Old sights, smells and tastes come back to you in a rush just as
your head falls back onto the pillow and your last breath sighs out. All
those little things, the sum total of your personality, they are gone
forever, as surely as if they never happened. The history books may write
of the deeds that you have done in public, but they are only a fraction
of what made you. These secrets that you carry to the grave are all that
you strived so hard to obtain while you were growing up. As dear to you
as they all are they would mean nothing to another, who had his own set of
secrets. They would most likely even disgust another, just as their's
would you. And yet they all have one thing in common. They are all the
most important thing to the person they belong to.
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