Quid Pro Quo


Quid pro quo Clarice.  The money is gone up your nose. Pip pop tip-top running rabid sideways on the sidewalks singing kill kill kill the poor along with Biafra. Paint them taking tainted terror and feeding the pretty demons.  Gift the shift of religion to the little lambs you are recounting the sordid legend of political Zelda for.  See the whites of their eyes and frown down upon the frailty.  My finger gun blasts a hole in your understanding as you sit shaking out the burnings we’re too cowardly to give a name to. Ascertain the relevant odd job backlog push file you didn’t know you needed. Needless to needle the maggots of Disneyland with low brow humour as we have to ask ourselves what in the actual fuck is wrong with this place. It’s the slow simmer of the devil’s sommelier hosting a tasting of Hell’s finest Cabernet. If you still don’t believe the fallen walk with human faces just watch the thrice damned news. Judas is laughing somewhere at our unfortunate comeuppance.  I’m screaming foment at the snakes that have struck the screws in my tongue.  Dripping venom into my jawbone, enabling me to speak to the underside of the dark.  The conversations we have run in real-time across the bottom of ESPN and CNN.  We tell you what you need to know.  Even if you didn’t want to know what we tell you, it still seeps in like black gum molasses and pollutes the corners of your withering souls in sin bathed chatter.  The former and the latter, the ladder to heaven is rotting and every step up could send you plummeting to your end.  They smear the tree of life with the stink of death and laugh about it over beers at the country club.  I sneer at the need to know why.  It doesn’t fucking matter why.  Some things man was never meant to know, and the vastness of entropy will never show its hand.  SO you live with it.  It is what you decide to do next that will be the genesis.  There is always an alpha and an omega.  I shudder under the implications and hit my Puffco, thinking about Mike Muir thinking about everything and then again thinking about nothing.  I know nothing ’cause I am nothing but maybe, just maybe, my nothing means something.  I hate Pepsi.  But I love Mike.

tiny tiny cracks, crunch crunch munch munch, cracking our minds oozing down spine, snapping and sapping the sulking time we need to cling to….

Quid pro quo motherfuckers.


image courtesy of silent-musing on Tumblr

35 thoughts on “Quid Pro Quo

  1. Drinking coffee or reading lies… sonata arctica-shy… it’s sad news or facts is not facts but yellower -you know what with… drip drip… zip! – with sensation. Do remember dan? Oh man how he tried and went swiftly to pasture… do you remember the Rivera chair coming back swingin’? Laugh at how you still see him in the hurricanes but that gangster safe left him empty! Donahue became oprah. Cavette stood no chance against johnny and ed but remember I was not quite here yet. The jungle or that sixties spring honestly ever read them to see just how slanted not wrong. BiAsed… they are? I ain’t even red but it is a miracle two storms left so few dead… yet how many line up demanding his head? Do you get the news at all or peter crying wolf?
    Quid pro quo

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    1. Bacon is the answer. I know that I know very little, but I can tell a rose from a turd. Who comes in third you may ask? IDK yet but it’s very true that we were quite lucky to lose so few to those monsters. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, unless it is digital, in which case it’s just not capable of doing the job at all, which kind of makes it persona non grata
      Peter crying about wild canines is another matter entirely. Quid pro quo Mr. Jones 😁

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Aren’t you just a England dan and john ford coley rewrite! “Love (bacon) is the answer”. Apples relate to both you know, roses and turds… thus are you so very sure this is not just catching the sinister or dexterous (left or right) meaning? 😉 how nice of you to allude to the log pun on poop analogue clock versus digital… I know it’s confusing the issue and so do you but why is it digitalis doesn’t refer to fingers but a poisonous salvation? (The correct amount of poison is almost always beneficial… oops… still right). And speaking of the dog the new stray is an escape artist cattle dog so we spend a lot of time crying wolf… so to speak… I have some Sprite Zero and some boullard calvados if I need some hair of…! Quid pro quo

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  2. This is amazing! And, all through it I was thinking, along side of it, of this passage in George Bernard Shaw’s “Don Juan In Hell”:
    THE DEVIL [mortified] senor DON JUAN: you are uncivil to my friends.

    DON JUAN Pooh! why should I be civil to them or to you? In this Palace of Lies a truth or two will not hurt you. Your friends are all the dullest dogs I know. They are not beautiful: they are only decorated. They are not clean: they are only shaved and starched. They are not dignified: they are only fashionably dressed. They are not educated: they are only college passmen. They are not religious: they are only pewrenters. They are not moral: they are only conventional. They are not virtuous: they are only cowardly. They are not even vicious: they are only “frail.” They are not artistic: they are only lascivious. They are not prosperous: they are only rich. They are not loyal, they are only servile; not dutiful, only sheepish; not public spirited, only patriotic; not courageous, only quarrelsome; not determined, only obstinate; not masterful, only domineering; not self-controlled, only obtuse; not self-respecting, only vain; not kind, only sentimental; not social, only gregarious; not considerate, only polite; not intelligent, only opinionated; not progressive, only factious; not imaginative, only superstitious; not just, only vindictive; not generous, only propitiatory; not disciplined, only cowed; and not truthful at all: liars every one of them, to the very backbone of their souls.
    To be clear, that puts you in most excellent company.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. You remind us that we are not worthy! You do things with words that sends chills down my spine and blow my mind. ” It’s the slow simmer of the devil’s sommelier hosting a tasting of Hell’s finest Cabernet.” Damn Dennis! The whole piece is a water gun full of acid waking us from complacency.

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