Garnett Mims Ain't Got Shit On Me.

Dear Diary,

Last night before Morelandshire tucked me in, I found myself strangely stricken by a feral urge to hurl a shrieking newborn baby (a docile infant would do as well I suppose; as with most things I'm not very picky) into the corner of an unfurnished room.

This isn't strictly an anger thing (nb: it would moreso be a light toss than a throw), nor is it as simple as being a matter of wanting to satisfy reprehensible violent urges. I am, after all, the first to admit that my reptilian brain has gotten the upper hand on the mammalian from time to time, often in inappropriately sanitary and highly public contexts. But a bit of the hyperviolence does a body good I always say. And I do know when the RAGE is presenting itself, and this didn't seem to be one of those special moments.

The Freud Noid would posit that this is possibly a sexual thing, a matter of rePRESSion. They love to play that card, yeah? Maybe an urge stemming from formerly latent recollections of seeing interracial gangbang porn at a particularly perverted neighbor's apartment at the wee age of three? It's all connected somehow. Someway. That's what the leapfrogs say.

Whatever the igniter, the fire's been raging for no less than 12 hours now. So, as the great Warren G. Harding once said while fellating the French ambassador behind his solid oak desk: "Ain't nuttin' to it but to do it!"

Way I see it, it's a metaphysical thing more than anything else. Charity even. Let the little bastard child know from the jump that "the world is a cruel place" and that "life's a bitch and then you die." It'll thank me later.

I can see it now... 30 yrs down the road, I'll be laid up with a stoma in my throat, miserable, penniless and alone, about to fucking kick it and suddenly, a visitor. An eight foot tall, shirtless, buttfucking-werewolf-party-monster with stunna shades and 10 strippers in tow. He'll mumble his gratitude in between guzzles off his metal flask of engine degreaser, then he'll spit in my creased, Hep C-ravaged face, finger fuck one of the strippers on top of my respirator and ManDump all over an elderly nurse, just for good measure.

Practice. Theory. Practice. Theory.

Always willing to help, my equally sociopathic sister suggested that I consult a local unfit mother and, by dubious means, to be sure, procure her infant for said tossing, so as to insulate myself from the otherwise inevitable prosecution that fulfilling this deranged whimsy is sure to bring.

A good old-fashioned frame-up, yeah. Shouldn't be tough. Plenty of unfit mothers to go around. Like macadoni and cheez at olliday times.

Nothing like family to spur on a derelict. Nothing. Look for me in the news.

1 comment:

Daniel Cardona said...

When I was a youngin' my mother left me in the care of someone else.

My mother when she picked me up, found me wearing a sweater (it was summer). I couldn't even dress myself of take my clothing off (at that age).

Seems a child of the person she left me to care for me in that small time frame bit me. Sunk his teeth in my like a bear trap. That child's mother thought it'd be smart to cover it up by making me wear a sweater in f'n summer.

Seems I didn't cry, and I didn't care for the over heating I was enduring in that sweater.

That is when the world discovered a psychopath. I still don't show pain, and I like to hurt myself to calm my psychotic rages - because hurting people other than myself causes too much trouble after the madness.