Thursday, October 17, 2002

My bob's big boy bobble head doll is looking at me. What the fuk, bob? Chill dude! Ok, I'll do it! Shit! Just stop staring at me with those cold bloodless eyes veered to the left yet still boring through my dome like a craftmatic adjustable seesaw. You fukn bastard bobble head bitch! What the goddam shite? What did I ever do to you or to your frikken family restaurant to deserve this psychosomatic torture? Haven't I repped G-style all the way? Well haven't I?

Ok you little ronald reagan haircut having goatless mother, I'll go down the street, put my head in the standard gray and metallic blue lined mailbox that I KNOW that uncle jack left his octopus stew in overnite, and I'll fill it to the rim with pig snouts from Foodland, and I'll hang out by it and throw it at passersby like a modern day street urchin. I'll slip and slide and smear that shit on my shoulder blades in a ritual last seen in a fukn Danzig video, just for your kicks, word? Will that finish your sick sick little fantasy? will my public humiliation fill the gap in your soul? will my misery cure your inability to love yourself?

First you invent the double decker hamburger and then you think you have the fukn right to order around innocent glendaliens like you're some kind of fuckin god or something? Who the fuck do you think you are? Buddha? You're no fuckin buddha, you're just a chunky little cowlick impaired boy with a special sauce and cheese fetish. Ok, so Grimace and the McDonalds crew bit your style, took the credit for what SHOULD have made glendale the center of the fast food universe. Get over it goddammit!! I mean shit, you went the family diner restaurant coffee shop style, how could you have known? How could you have known that quality would be thrown out the window like yesterday's beans (thanks sai-lo) to be replaced by ever expanding americans stuffing their face at the drive-through, slamming fries in every orifice in an orgy of consumerism before they've even had a chance to savor the first sip of Mr. Pibb?

How could you have known you fat fuck? You couldn't have! So don't try to take your bitter salty tears and left over butter spray out on me and a whole generation of mass media-holics whose only crime has been to listen to the man and stare at the glowing box. Don't fukn do it bob, that ain't g-style. That is NOT g-style.

You're better than that bob. I know it. You know it. Goddamm fukn colonel sanders' rotting ass knows it and so does chuck E. cheeze. Those guys worship you. So you're not bling-blinging like the hamburgler. So you don't have the newest lexus coupe in your driveway like that bitch wendy. So jack is doing a sleestak on your ass. Deal! And don't persecute one of the only people that truly appreciates you. You've got the backwoods, you've got the heart, you've got america by the balls and you don't even know it. Rise, goddammit, rise and take the throne that a fukn clown kicked out from under you. Change the game, don't cry in your beer, slam that shit and order another one. Shit goddammit, bob, you are the ultimate player but you're face down in a bowl of minestrone. It don't have to be that way. The glass is half full. Half full you goddam bobble head piece of SHIT!!!

Ok. Big Boy is still looking at me. He's still smiling. But I don't think it's a sarcastic bitter smile borne of years and years of heartache and failure. I think it's a smile of true friendship, cameraderie and heroism.

You go, bob big boy bobble head. You fukn go, boy.