We heard something Anglo, unhinged, too human. We’d been hoping for Shrimp killing Cow or Cow killing Shrimp, but it was you, Bitcha, flailing and teetering about in the night sky. No surprise, really, as you, too, “live” in Bosch Gardens. Good evening, we say. Mother Fuckers! You scream at us in a whiny-baby sexy-sweetheart-gargoyle-like presentation, vomiting up so much unclaimed misery. Oh Bitcha, you’re somehow wily, we’ll give you that. You’ve got the others in Bully-Town holed up behind their windows, watching you contort-walk around the devastated commons like a rabid dog got hold of you, garbling out word salads of paranoia (if you understand the meaning, and, oh, yeah sure, we’re surveiling you, LOL).
Bitcha, we think of you as more than a cipher of the Eric-Trumpagandists—an avid fan of fat-white-man radio and torture-Pop. You’re a cat-5 hurricane of strutting-whore berserk. Your actions make it clear you despise any educated man (and there’s only one or two left), kitty-cats, and all beings of your own gender (your sex…women, okay, that’s what we mean). (By the way, we now belong to the Church of Misanthropy—and we’ll try and explain the word to you—you should join us! Expand your hate!)
The world needs you, we guess. (Too bad you’re too stupid for social media.) You’re a middle-aged fired-Denny’s-waitress. You’ve got your yellow-black-striped Camaro (a gift from an inmate, we’ve heard). If you’re broke, and can’t pay your Zanadon’t HOA fees, then sell your fuckin’ car! Or, surely, your ol’ witch-mommy can reach yet again into her (daughter, shut-up and suck some dick) fund and toss you another KFC bone to chew with your [meth?] dentures, the ones you bragged about in that minimally lucid tirade. We celebrate your spindly (drunken) legs in hot pants and teetering heels, your bulging breasts and slathered-slut makeup, applied as if by shotgun, your bottle-blond “hair-gather” erupting from the top of you.
Bitchita, hello, let’s bring you in. If we shall say what we think, you’re the millennial petite-babe of our purgatory sandwich (and good for you—we’ve heard you gals sharing Bitch screams!). Bitchita, this may come as a shock: we’re even more terrified of you. You’re a young and sexy office-worker (we’ve heard), and we’re reflexive weaklings, that’s true. We crumble in the path of your huffs-puffs, your “frankly, lack of time” to help or even talk. When you threaten us with our unimportance, we cringe and run to our tiny cars to scream at one another. Some jokin’, a little humor, might help corral the fury that so wants to escape your eyes, those reptilian jewels— Zap! (It’s a stretch to think you’ll ever have a sense of humor.) You do have perfect fake boobs and ass (?) in your Daisy Dukes (look it up).
We spy you sometimes, Bitchita-Cleopatra, your (grand)parent-patrons trimming your trees, reconstructing your fences, soon to keel over in the heat. Your men come and go and kick in your door, five versions this year (?) alone. Motorcycle/atomic-muffler/monster-truck dudes. Drive over the poop-tank why don’t you! Wake up the hood! Of course we don’t shout this, not wanting to provoke, but perhaps you should try a different type? They look the same: white dude, body-built, tattooed-beef-arms, cap-visor backwards, facsimiles of your gutted Ex. Your white-girl rap is turned up high inside your territory. (Oh, you must be on top!)
- $$$ -
Oh, Dronia (uhm, we mean you, the one who takes charge of the Zanadon’t HOA): You sit across from us in your teeny-bop-banshee hair, your mom-jeans. You whine and groan in your (drug-addled?) intolerance of initiative and efficiency. Oh, how you passive-aggress in your assumptive control, your back-stabs so stunningly deadpan, your unwavering belief in the Shrimp. You boggle our minds with your bittersweet face with the flattest of affects, the most minimal of vocabs. Oh how you exploit our cling-on need to believe that at least you’re a good person (and pardon our naiveté for buying “down-here”—saving our money for art-dreams, something beyond your “Achey-Breaky Heart” comprehension). Dronia, you’re special. You, alone, can address and enable the Shrimp (perhaps due to an ancient blow-job some thirty years prior when both of you were already here—where you both shall surely die).
Dear Shrimp-President (if we can hold you up by your chauffeur’s collar a minute to hear us out—quit kicking!): Perhaps due to your stature as the only-ever President of Zanadon’t, it takes months to stalk you down, though your palace is always in view. (We’ve sensed your wish that we really be invisible.) If, after exhaustive pursuit, we’re allowed an audience, we spend mere minutes in our niceties, our discreet un-scrambling of your speech, dysfunctional, narci-socio…whatever… then wait, here they come: your drunken seven-year-old-boy screamings! Only at us? You tell us to fuck off in various ways, backed always by your common-law Cow. Not sure in what universe she was given such authority. We can’t figure out her face. Clearly she’s hateful, weirded-out by those of us once raised in consciousness and graciousness. Her superiority is gonna crack open, her whole being about to deflate like a big-ass toadstool (‘cuz, one day, she may have a [self] conscious thought). The Kmart-Lady style does nothing for her bulk. You make such a lovely couple! Your miniature yappy dogs have really taken on the characteristics of their owners, particularly you—Shrimp: Small, loud, annoying and potentially squashable.
Oh, Shrimp-Pres: When you say a certain she “is crazy!” your eyeballs jump outta their sockets, your impish face oozing nicotine sweat. You (willfully?) un-see the truth—i.e., our disfigured bitch-sandwich building. It’s nothing to you (and your building looks fine), your imperial (waxy, dirty) ears deaf to the “legal issues” we’ve been hinting at. You’re more interested in a certain young babe. You tell us “she’s smokin,” your eyes in LaLaLand—like you could ever tap that, you tiny fucker!
To be cont’d…..
