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Day Well, that was ... edifying. Brought to the surface a really nice, nasty little xxx from my junior hight school daze: DOUSHBAG! It's rare that a woman is rude enough or offends me so that myu ego-defense system puls the douschbag from beneath the dank bathroom sink of my subconcious mind. But, yep, Ms. whatever yer-namessss-is down the road withthe horses, you have just sunk to the family of ungonzo douschbagdom. You stanky asshole, you. Sorry babe, but nobody treats me as you just did and gets off scott free. All I aked was the small favor of taking me along next time you drive the six miles to the nearest store, as I am maorroned up here in your bumfuck biting-fly paradise without car or bicycle, anything. Your reply (among other things): my husband would have a fit. Okay, we now know who wears the pants in your family, 9if only the scapegoat pants) and if only I'd had the agility and speed of retort to throw my head around to see the invisible man behind me and say to you "I'm sorry, Did I miss something? Did I not hire your two teenage sons the other day, paying them $50 bucks each after you, smiling, had offered them to me for FREE just to get them out of the house for a day? And have i not greeted you daily since as you ride by on horsebak, addressing you by name as congenially as can be? And was I not good to the boys and kind to your husband, complimenting him on his speedy fence installation? So fuck you very much and thank you very little for treating me like a threatening stranger, for making me feel like pond scum on this the first day of lmy fifth week alone, friendless, without electricity, running ater (think toilet) of any means of escape except through pen, paper and my imangination deep, deep in the woods of Maine. I was supposed to be on and airplane today, right now in fact, for California.
I stayed to finish this tippy house job, to finish it right and unrushed,
and to help of Dan organize and auction on eBay some of the mountain of
antiques he has amassed. Thanks to you, you stank turtle shit toe-jam-eating
hillbilly, I'm now bummed out and wishing I had caught that big steel
bird OUTA HERE! -- RSM July 30 Night Yeah, I was raised right. Raised like all dogs in this world of rich master men, raised to stick my head in the sand and say yassah, yassah, massah! Raised with manners enough to LEAVE politely with my thorny-horny tail between my legs. QUICK, no, because you all hafta get up-n-go to watch the morning! No accounting for the silly stupid fact that the only reason I'm still HERE in your GOD FORSAKEN Stephen King raper Maine-line shootin and cooking up a spoon man-ayun-you-betcha-darn-fast-bark-beetle and maple syrup-eating savage ass forest of a state is because I'm working my ASS OFF too, and gotta get up in the morning, too, "clockin' in or me clockin in, you heartless swine! Baaaaaah-tender give me another raspberry Stohli and gingerale on ice pleaze! What? We've been kicked outa that joint, too? Okay, fine. Back to Dan's sticky ass trailer and that Swedish made propane fridge! Sweeeeeedish maid, give me .... um, uh .... how 'bouta Schlitz malt liquor? Mmmmmmm! Stankym yet satisfying! Thank-you. I'll never get the first (and I guess the last) time I got verbally slam-hammered and torn ass-under for speaking the truth in a newspaper. The so-called "newspaper" was the shining star of the soap-scum, bottom-of-the-university tub-sub-layer college newspaper system, Humbolt Uni's very own venerable "Lumberjack." The Jack's asshole uberfuhrer was one Harvard dingleberry-something. Harvard's favorite weekly activity was reviewing that week's paper for the student-staff's edification. And I will without a shred of modesty, bet-yer-bottom-dollar-that Harvey's
biggest weekly review hard-on (for the brief period of which I wrote for
said rag) was over my story that week. He just LOVED to libel me in the
quasi-public realm of the student newspaper staff meeting. Because every
time my byline appeared in the years 1990-1991 (almost without fail) I
was guilty of committing journalistic atrocities for which no one has
yet given names. I was a beautiful hack! I torqued and tweaked every fact
until it was no longer simply TRUTH, it was GONZO truth. And somewhere
in all that, on night on a Honda 750 street bike with friend John Mitchell
in-tow, I drank and Drank my way around Eureka, California, wrote about
our pub crawl, and got torn a new asshole by the head of advertising for
caller her father-in-law (allegedly one of our lessor bartenders that
night) a curmudgeon. A totally fitting description of that man ( to this
day I recall), but apparently not him, of so the alert people scrambled
to state. To this day I would not trust a bartender ... I mean "a
journalism professor" as far as I could throw their puny-ass paycheck
-- RSM
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