I don’t like them.
All of them are for the war.
All of them want my kind and me dead.
The dirty mongrels!
I notice that Tasha is wearing a sexy skirt.
I get the urge to fuck her.
Or punch her in the face.
I’m not sure which.
I get up and get another BV and Coke.
I walk around bumping into people screaming, “STOP THE WAR MOTHERFUCKERS!”
Everybody just stares and laughs.
But I’m fucking serious.
It’s not that I don’t think the causes for the war are just or unjust.
I just don’t want fucking war.
I tumble into Jimmy.
I grab him by his shirt.
“STOP THE FUCKING WAR JIMMY, STOP THE GODDAMN WAR!”
“I can’t Mark, this is beyond our control,” Jimmy says.
“NO, STOP THE FUCKING WAR!”
Then I stumble away.
I keep gulping my BV and Coke through the straw.
I can no longer control myself.
I have to find a ride home.
I walk over to a really stupid hot girl and whisper, “Can you help me?”
“Yeah, what do you need?”
“I need to stop the war.”
“I can’t help.”
“No one can,” I say pathetically.
I stumble on.
I go back to the bar and get another BV and Coke.
The war has started in my mind.
Bombs are crashing into my neurotransmitters.
George W. Bush is talking in my mind.
Spitting beautiful lies.
I’m so tired of lies.
I seek truth.
But there is none to be had.
I want to go to sleep.
Humans are such vile creatures.
They deserve this war.
They deserve to die.
They deserve to have their family members die in the sands of the Middle East.
They don’t care about anyone, not even themselves.
I no longer want to be human.
I walk amongst them like they’re animals.
Because they are.
Animals.
Complete and total mongrels.
Mongrels.
All of them.
I will wage a personal war against them all.
And they’ll love it.
Humans love humans who hate other humans.
Like Kurt Cobain.
He made a living off of hating people.
I sit in my cushioned seat, drunk, staring at the people in the bar.
It’s their fault this is happening.
It’s everyone’s fault.
We are all part of America and its world domination.
We have no choice but to take part in it.
We don’t know any better.
Like a dog who shits on the carpet.
Oh no.
The world and its madness.
Music is blasting.
A thousand bad conversations are taking place.
I’m stuck in the middle taking it all in.
Drunk.
Wanting to be dead.
America.
I lay back my head and close my eyes.
The room is spinning.
The dead walk among me.
Poetry is heard in the distance.
I think I might die tonight.
Here in this seat.
I don’t see why not.
What do I have to live for?
Fifty years of being a drunken loser.
Fuck it.
I’ll die.
Fuck!
I can’t die.
What’s happening?
I’m surrounded by humans.
The filthy monkeys.
I notice Tasha’s friend Nicole sitting near me.
She’s cute.
With pink hair in pigtails.
Pierced eyebrow, nose, and tongue rings.
She turns me on.
She begins talking to me.
I don’t understand what she’s saying.
I want her to shut up.
She says the phrase, “Will you fuck me?”
I don’t know what to do with that phrase.
It sounds inviting.
I hesitate for a moment.
I’ve never fucked during a war.
I say, “Yes, but I don’t know if I can get it up.”
She says, “All right.”
“Can you drive me home? I’m drunk,” I say.
“Yeah, Emily will drive you home, and then I’ll bring you back to my house.”
“That sounds great,” I say.
We stop talking.
Now I have to fuck someone.
That sounds terrifying.
This night is madness.
I think I have to go to the bathroom.
I stand up and wobble a little.
Then I slowly move toward the bathroom.
There are a lot of mongrels in the way.
I can’t stand these people.
What are they doing in my way?
They shouldn’t be there.
I finally make it to the bathroom.
I lock the door and crawl to the toilet.
I put my face in front of the bowl.
And then.
Vomit!
It comes out easy.
The world is collapsing down on me.
I can’t stand the weight.
I don’t need this.
I did this to myself, but I was compelled.
The last chunks of vomit come out pretty rough.
I think I might die in this bathroom.
And no one will ever find me.
Until I start stinking.
Then they’ll open the door.
And find my dead body.
Rotting.
I stand up and head back out.
The people are still there making noise.
I can’t stand noise at this point.
I think I’m blacking out.
I probably won’t remember this.
I sit back down.
And pass out.
There is silence in my mind.
I’m at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.
There are pretty clouds hovering in the sky.
The sun is out.
It’s seventy degrees.
I’m sitting with two Tijuana prostitutes.
We’re drinking margaritas.
I’m happy.
There’s no war.
Everyone is at peace.
God loves us.
There’s real hope here.
America doesn’t exist.
Saddam Hussein went to counseling, and he’s a good person now.
George W. Bush got a tutor and learned the alphabet.
I put my feet into the Colorado River.
It’s cold, but peaceful.
I feel at home here at the bottom of the canyon with my two prostitutes.
I wake up fifteen minutes later.
Noise!
The universe is a bloody cunt.
I feel less drunk.
Which is good.
I go to the bathroom again.
In there.
I shit.
It’s hard shitting while you’re drunk.
Trying to wipe is really hard.
My reality is mangled and distorted.
And there’s no way out of it.
I go outside.
And sit on the grass cross-legged.
I light a cigarette.
And stare at the stars in the sky.
But they give me no solace.
The really hot girl comes out for a breath of fresh air.
She says, “Are you all right.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, just a little drunk.”
She sits down next to me.
“You look like you are going to cry, what’s wrong?” she says.
“The war, it’s tearing me up inside.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“It is?” I say.
“Yeah, I hope we get Saddam.”
“What?”
“I want this war. Saddam is a horrible person. And Iraqis need to know what freedom feels like. It’s pretty selfish for America to keep freedom to themselves, don’t you think?”
“I guess.”
“Well, I have to go back in. See ya.”
I sit there confounded.
I don’t know what to make of this war.
I don’t know what I should do.
I’ll just be drunk.
The Doomed
In the local mental ward sat two humans.
Each lying on his bed.