04-14-2004, 09:27 PM
VAs I lay around, wallowing in my filthy mess, I fondly think back on the days when I was high every minute of every day. I remember staggering around my apartment with a half wiped ass and a jizz crust enameled on my right hand from beating-off, imagining that I was surrounded by naked women whose sole purpose was to fulfill all of my perverse sexual wishes. I remember the dryness in my mouth, and my vampiric eyes and pimply complexion, again with fondness, and I remember laughing with a laugh to end all laughs when I hit the dope pipe and was watching the smurfs when I had a massive gas-attack and visualized the back of my shorts blowing-out as if my ass was a signal flare. I remember thinking that I was on the deck of a sinking ship, and that the captain’s daughter wanted nothing but sex, but I first had to save the ship. You see, I was so high that I imagined I was a cartoon superhero who every girl wanted to have sex with, and at night I was a rock star who had nothing but sex and was constantly drunk and on drugs as everyone praised me like I was a living god and I was so rich I owned people who complimented my genius and girth and threw drug-fueled orgies in my honor. A contemporary Caligula, the apotheosis of the dope daydreamer, me of course, when I was high. Being high was like being in love, with myself when I was so stoned I actually believed that I could read people’s minds, as I scarfed cheeseburgers and cheese fries, and gorged myself on bowls of Fritos dipped in cheese sauce and funneled cherry Coke down my gullet to tone-down the dryness, to dissipate the paste of cheese, and beef, and Fritos, and meat. I remember shuffling off to the john to re-wipe, and then coming back out looking as if I’d been kicked in the back by a horse because I couldn’t really tell when my butt hole was clean. It still felt slimy and the hairs felt as if they’d been coated with some type of oil, a grooming oil. I remember laughing at the word “grooming” wondering why I associated it with my ass hole hair and laughing even harder when I tried to reason why we have hair around our stinking ass holes, I couldn’t come up with it, all my theories pooped out. I ran around with that one for a while until my friend Don came over and proclaimed that he was “rolling dude! oh god give me a hug!” He had the look of a man possessed, his eyes were like fishbowls filled with jigsaw puzzle pieces, and he was sweating so profusely, it seemed to me that he had put pats of butter in his armpits and then dumped a wok filled with grease over his head to fry the olive in his navel. He may have been soaked, but I’ll tell you, he was as happy as Humpty Dumpty, telling me that he loved me and asking if I was high, and then congratulating me after I said that I was. He asked me if it would be o.k. if he put on a dust mask to increase his almost hideous high, and I said, “Sure man, do it now!” So he puts on this dust mask that’s got lips and barred teeth drawn on the front of it. The sight of something so obscure and unsettling made my bowels slip and I had a high pitched squawk come barreling out of my ass, frightening Don. I patted him on the head like a pet lizard and told him that it felt good to fart, and to remind him again that I was high. He said, “Man I feel good! Oh so good! Ahhiiigghhoohh.” I could tell that he was losing his grip on things pretty quickly; he was so fucked up brah! He was grinding his teeth so badly that it sounded like he was chewing on clam shells, his eyes gazed at me like slot machine cogs, racing toward the jackpot of triple cherries, the smell of Vicks saturated the air, thick in constitution, as Don uttered nonsensical grunts and rasps, gesticulating at unseen globes of light and fauna, the animals one only sees on the ecstasy coaster, pink and purple and fuzzy with soft holes to let you wander around in and let the jubilation wash over your crippled mind as you gasp and choke while your heart is near exploding, it’s never experienced so much love. He took off his dust mask an inserted a pink pacifier rimmed with stars, and began to slurp the latex nipple with a vigor I associated with a teething wolverine. I asked him if he might like to put on a plastic saddle that I had in my closet from some unremembered fiasco where I remembered that I was high and feeling all loosey-goosey. He said sure, so I set up the third act of befoulment. In this act we see Don on all fours with the pony saddle on his back, there’s a rubber chicken in his mouth to substitute the pacifier, (at my behest) and he’s braying like a rabid hyena. I mounted this strange, sweating hulks and he began to buck and leap like a servo controlled potato gun loaded with corn husks and elbow grease. I tried to stay on, but was thrown eight feet, crashing into a tensor lamp laughing fit to die. I looked back at Don and was utterly horrified. He’d bitten the rubber chicken in two and his mouth was foaming as if he’d tried to swallow a whole can of Barbasol at one stroke, but failed. He keeled over and made a sputtering noise as his heart finally caved-in, and then died writhing in his own diarrhea like a disemboweled fish having an epileptic fit. I was stunned to the point of catatonia, my mind a slab of granite, reflecting water and synapse and logic, stoned.