Monday, April 13, 2015

Doppelganger Fiction For Desperados

Harvey's resemblance to the guy he was about to crash into made this doppelganger drivel he'd been exposed to return to cognition. It's peek-a-boo. A lot of unsolicited vignettes. Planned surprise. Unplanned surprises, too.

People had been pestering him about something they all claim he'd been doing since Genesis. His shopping habits came under fire during the first Bush administration, and people had been saying he was a junky. His resemblance to at least one other person, maybe a load, had been rolling, with his shirts and lost buttons, in the Great Laundromat Dryer for years. He had been accused of being some type of personality in a hoi-poloi food store, located right where attractive vegans abounded. Eurotrash, en mass, were especially critical. Most damaging, some one who looked like Harvey had been booted out of a popular local vegetarian rock and roll band.

Harvey's bicycle was his enemy's bike's doppelganger. His black slotted pointy helmet with red piques was just like Harvey's twin's horrid acetate hat. For safety. Squeezing the brakes on his doomed bike (it got a flat tire, later on) and damn near coming to a stop, Harvey realized that he was crashing into his doppelganger, in the mirror effect, on which a glass bus enclosure was doing a wild trompe l'eye Frenchy fake out thing. Another fucking mirror. The things had been making Harvey weasel for ever.

The disgruntled vegetarian guitarist who looked like some one special was a pinhead whose behavior had devolved following ejection from snotty music. This proximity Molotov cocktail connected Harvey to the stupidest yuppie Dead heads and We Are The World swooners that swarmed under a better class of music fans. Worms, worms every one of them. The only good music fans were wealthy enough to evade mass snot.

The guitarist regressed like a serial killer who lost his mountain man favorite uncle. Even Harvey's reflection in the bus shelter knows that certain people act like sixteen year old brats when their cloacal dream gets crapped out. Harvey had been carrying the sins of a peckerhead for ages.

Recalling that the name....

...Sadam means 'one who confronts,' Harvey was confronted about buying food in the way common homely people are hated for, buying bologna and proletariat store brand white bread, bleached out and raped as Blanche DuBois, reminding everyone how stupidly common people eat. That calumny was nearest the truth, but Harvey didn't buy bologna. It was some other type of lunch meat, and the store doted on this shit. It was defensible Dutch loaf.

Recalling Brian Jones floating in a pool,

the musician who looked nerd-o on stage and had a low integer of riffs killed Harvey's reputation. Harvey had never fouled music, nor had he soiled stage presence by being someone who reverts to surly insults when dejected. He'd become the Alfred Dreyfus of poor sound and vision.

Nearness provokes doppelganger furies into wild-thing reproduction. You get this orgy of some other bastard's immaturity, compounded with that of everyone who still thinks Harvey played a nerd ass hollow body electric guitar that only real deals look good playing. Keith Richards looked cool playing a hollow body electric. So did Brian Jones. But that's another mirror on the glass bus enclosure.

then the toxic coincidence...

The two men had worked at the same restaurant. Harvey was a half decent waiter, and the soon to be out of music doppelganger was piss poor. For four months, people confused the two men, causing a food service embrolio, while Harvey's presence converted to guilt by association with the clumsy and snot-nosed.

Saul Alinsky scholars ...  

...might get a chubby knowing that there are bastards out there who confuse their victim's identity on purpose. If someone ask's "How's Harvey doing," the creep will make a point of saying, "You mean the guy who got kicked out of Lettuce Stud?

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Semantic Screwings

The term 'midget' came under fire some years ago for being, so people said, denigrating, bigoted, size-ist(?), heightist, but was,  anyhow,  just a resented word used by those  who aren't  sensitive to the  best interest of men and women who stand less than four feet.   I've decided to try to rehabilitate the word 'midget' because it's a fun word, and the substitutes for the word 'midget' aren't funny.  And people don't get taller by another name.

There are two midgets who matter a great deal to me, and I can't discuss them in terms other than midgets who made the world a better place for many.  One of the two distinguished short-stuffs hosted a popular vagrant and mutual friend, Dennis H, who sponged off the  man, 3 foot eight, a multi-talented midget who  had appeared in over a dozen mainsteam movies.  The midget was a member in good standing of the Screen Actors Guild.   Dennis had a certificate from a non-acredited school in East Kabuttfuck.  Dennis went down a decade ago from a bad case of cirrhosis, while his sponsor is gratefully still kicking.  This says something about short statured tenacity.

The other midget worked in an auto parts store in Mount Oliver, had been on television early in his career, and he once sold me a headlight.  I stopped at the store on the way to work, he waited on me, and later that night, I learned more about the life of that midget than I had ever learned about any other person, irrespective of height, in a wild, fun crash course.   Tales of the midgets are in the works.