Monday, January 31, 2005
Jackson Pollock vs. David Koresh
I got drunk last Thursday. Alone, to protect the innocent. I drank a twelver of beer and six or seven whiskey shots. I stubbed my toe on a coffee table. A sizable portion of the toenail on my middle right toe cracked and shot off like shrapnel. I didn't notice until the next day when I realized that I'd left blood blossoms all over the carpet. Normally I'd approve of this naturally occuring abstract art improvement of my carpet. Not so this time. It wasn't my carpet. So I cleaned it up. Since I didn't notice the injury right away I never got to soak another band-aid for my bloodstain collection. Just kidding. About the collection. Sort of. I only keep them when they qualify as art. Eventually I will display them, framed for classiness, within the walls of my mammoth monolithic compound.
What compound? Well....
Insert a rant about consumer culture and the idiocy of television here. More of the same, this time about the ubiquity of advertising. Cool. Next imagine an angry diatribe about the evil necessity of revolving credit here. Great. We're on our way. Finally, let's add something unprovable but likely true about the government. Excellent. Now we can skip straight to the part where I start a cult.
I will need the following people. Apply within the comments area.
Munitions expert. You must be missing a digit. This way I'll know you've learned the hard way to take proper precautions. Facial tics are a plus.
Heart remover. You get to rip still-beating hearts from the chests of screaming infidels. Chant composition skills are a plus. Bulging eyes, long fingernails, and bad teeth required.
Religious freak. You quote scripture to suit my devious ends. Hypnotism is required for brainwashing purposes. You also get to pick out the kool-aid flavor. I am partial to grape. Hopefully you are, too.
Pimp. Any good cult needs nubile virgins. Or approximations of them. This is your job. Promise cocaine and Jagermeister to female recruits. I will gladly supply these staples of cult consumption.
Blacksmith. As we grow my compound may need bars on the windows. You will also make crowbars for our roaming packs of hooligans.
Union contractor: As we grow my compound may need the windows sealed up with masonry. You are also responsible for maintenance of any secret underground chambers I decide upon, regardless of architectural prudence or village ordinance.
Politician. You know the deal. We don't have to discuss it here, right?
Now we all get to pick new names for ourselves. I got dibs on Jesus.
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