Flash fiction past. Not true at all. Fictional. Nonsense.

Flashbacks of Squares

You don't know who I am, the name I'm using is BS because my real one is dog shit, but I was a regular on the Hollywood Squares for a lucky seasonal run, not long after the Mi Lai massacre, which everyone got on the news along with their game shows. The late Wally Cox had a crush on me at the time, and I lost my spot because of quiz politics and the casting couch. That was the last time I was on television.

People were still wearing novelty sombreros and rustic straw sun hats with loose hanging reeds. Hawaiian shirts were popular then. We were important to the travel and leisure business. People saw themselves in us. Being a Hollywood Square was one of nine incarnations of Jesus in a neon light frame. I was the fright wig and sequin guiding light.

People have to confess to someone, for some thing. This is about lassitude. Alienation went out of style with modern mental health intervention, jeez you can't even look fucked up without a do-gooder turning you into the Psyche Brigade. I haven't done anything in decades. Nothing that distinguishes peon A from serf B. That's why I have this logorhea.  No ass, just thoughts.  Seems everyone is paralyzed and moaning. Me too. Moan with me. Let's dance.

A voting registered Democrat here. Maybe we should show some fucking due consideration.

Being diminutive and all, people don't seem to so much as pick their toes on my advice.   Maybe it's a case of charisma deficit disorder.   It's not likely voting Democrats will jump on this opportunity to sieze a plan for 2020.  Here it is, anyway, and I might be a jerk for bringing it up.

Trump's planning isn't all wrong, and if Hillary won 2016 Big Roll'o dice, maybe Dems would be cheering her on for doing some of the same things.   The plan to increase border security, beef up the nuke arsenal and reduce the scale of a standing army could be the best hope for greater world peace.    It's also about less globalized intercession, which is great for setting up the next military  invaision or internal insurrection.   Isalotionism is the better way to less boots on the ground.   Too, it is to focus on the US economy and to better serve those, here, who are distressed and in need. 

S'pose Dems fess up this is a viable, maybe beneficial strategy, and adopt it, with their grudging thanks.  The Dems haven't come forward with any long term strategy, only the short term one of keeping up with allegations, e.g racism, gender bias, fascism.     Just me warbling at home, but I think the US morphed into an oppressive corporate oligarchy long before 2016.  The Dems can continue with their humnaitarian agendas.  It's not mutually exclusive. 

 Globalism isn't working so great, and the Dems haven't offered much to correct it.  Maybe they can win in 2020 by fessing up and making some changes.   They want a Democrat in the White House.  This might be the ticket. 

Resolving

there are 95 degrees of separation
I got this dime store compass with dreadfully thin slide arm
my circles just don't meet so well at the point that fucking matters
we have wrongful co-ordinates
fucking GPS unit
fucking wheel well
bastards watch and don't chime in
throw you a bum steer
compile folders
they still have sheet steel furniture
just have to get it home
that creak when you pull out the drawer
it's Winston Fucking Churchill

Self pity need not be the crashing bore it often is.  People are too fucking lazy to jazz it up good.  That's where I differ from unter-mensch.   I'm a Nietzchian gloom factory.

I'm sweating about retirement planning.   At this point, much as I got is I plan to get Alzheimer's disease, and up the road a piece from there, cremation.  While still sadly lucid, the money situation here is deplorable.   People in Haiti live better than this.   The ruling elite is a very troubled minority down there.  It's hard to get decent caviar.   I can't get so much as a Marsh Wheeling stogie.   Strapped.  On a banana republic diet.  

A Very Wet Wakening
                                                  
                                AD 2035: The Fucking Future

We both aged well. I took life extension courses when they were popular. Most of the instructors croaked fairly young, dope fiends, catamites, fakers, but some of them were on the level, and I went to most of their lectures. The love of my old life, too, is remarkably agile for pushing fifty. I'm pushing one hundred, and people can hardly tell us apart. We both wear wigs. Bad hair. But our bodies are young beneath their time frames. I kept secret from her that I used to play lacross, because she hates violent sports, and she kept her youth mum, till last night. She has a past, and a cruel nick name to go with it. I would have married her, anyway. She's that great a gal. 

What difference does it make if someone resided in jail for a few years? No worse than wasting resources in a penthouse. Unfound moral lapses may be at least as heinous as what she did. As recent as 2024, people were calling her 'Tater Whiz.'

I believe her story. She was plastered at the time, and doesn't remember dropping jeans on the sly and pissing on potatoes at the West Miflin Walmart. It's an easy mistake to make, when you get blind toasted and need to whiz. People are much too fixated on locations. People forget themselves. 

What is a cardboard bin of spuds in the larger canon of produce? Had she pissed on broccoli, members of the esteemed Bush clan might have gotten her exonerated. GHW hated broccoli, and he pissed on a lot of innocent people. He got off scott free. Still, my wife feels bad about what happened. I'm just a modern old guy. I can still be creative about these problems.

Last night I got a half gallon of tequilla and a bag of lemons. First, I made like there was no reason for it, just a good time to tie one one. Once we were both high as Georgia pines, I invited her into the kitchen, opened the fridge, whipped out the old LBJ, and pissed all over the food. Next thing you know, she was pissing on my fishing tackle collection. After that we took a break, put down more booze, and celebrated our new understanding with golden showers on the front lawn, with the neighbors watching. The potatoes didn't know how lucky they were. It's a privilege.

medical advice

Literature. It can be safety instructions, if you break up the meaning of shit. It's something happening now, something hair raising, and it's some public health fuck-all.

I've been having espresso penis for the last month. Lots of whizzing. Ridiculously often. Comical labor squirting those last surviving drips and surges. Irritation. Thought I was gonna die. Might be alright.

I quit drinking super harsh budget espresso. It may take a lot of the hot, thick, dark-brewed ape urine, and two days into the program the thing seems to be clearing right up. I think I'm surviving espresso penis. I think the shit irritates my thoughtful, reliable and timid urethra. So if you drink dollar store espresso cowboy style, boiling in a little sauce pan, straining through a budget steel mesh strainer, and your sluices get jumpy, quit drinking it. It's horse piss. 

Talking The Bullshit To Guitar... a tradition in cowboy and primitive cultural folk idioms of music