Tear Out Your Tongue

I’m tired of talking. To everyone. Friends, coworkers, neighbors, children – those little heathens don’t pay attention anyway.

The conversations we have are so goddamn mundane (25 cents word that I somehow remembered from SAT prep. I spent a lot of that class buzzed, trying to get into the pants of various Catholic school girls.)

Outside of meetings at work – which are a complete and total waste of time. Peter King will write a lucid, comprehensive, engaging article before you ever accomplish anything in a meeting. Unless there is some kind of pastry involved, then a meeting is slightly bearable. Fuck them, they suck ass.

Any conversation I have with adults becomes polarizing immediately. I avoid politics and religion exclusively, and if you do want to talk about either of those, I’m going to excuse myself and sit in the parking lot so I can turn you into ground chuck roast when you leave. Your offal will become fertilizer and grow poison roses in my Garden of Hatred.

What’s to talk about when it comes to either of those subjects? The presidential candidates should be dunked in hot lava, inch by inch. Swilling down a cocktail of bourbon, Black Flag bug repellant, and ammonia is better than either of those fuckwits running our country. Who will I vote for? Don’t know. Maybe Daffy Duck or Woody Woodpecker. I might write in Billy Martin in the hopes that I piss off someone in the vote counting department.

As for religion, fuck it. I respect your beliefs. I have my own. You’re an atheist? That’s great. If you begin a conversation about Muslims and how they’re all terrorists, you are immediately tagged as an ignorant douchebag in my brain. I will do my best to have an authentic morning star, that was recovered from the Battle of Agincourt shoved all the way up your ass.

I partly blame society and the media for this dearth (25 cent word, fuckwads!) of material for conversation. Let’s talk sports! Footbawl! This guy and that guy and we COULD WIN THE WHOLE FUCKING THING! Home runs make my pants tight! Mixed martial arts is a sport! And don’t forget golf! Kill yourself now.

How about television and “binge watching”? That term makes me want to embark on a blood binge that will never be satiated. Maybe, if there’s a documentary then it’s worthwhile, that discussion takes up 10 minutes. Next?

Movies eat all kinds of shit. However, as a codicil (25 cent word that you can shove down your dick) the following titles can be discussed at length: The Godfather Part II, Good Fellas, Caddyshack, and Requiem for a Dream. Anything else is Pablum passed off to the general public who already has consumed shit by the metric ton.

There is nothing to say or discuss. Intelligence in this country is at low tide, and there’s nothing out there but stinking mud, rotten fish, medical waste, and corpses that are slashed and torn from the hungry machinations (25 cent word #3 dickwads!) of sharks and members of the mob.

The biggest waste of time is the conversations you have with your mate. Talk about white noise. Sports schedules, family matters, shitsack neighbors, the weather, and what you said to the blonde lifeguard this past Saturday after slugging down bourbon and the August sun cooked your brains into a toxic Mulligan stew. Fuck those brain cells; they exist to torment you with the details of a sad, suburban life.

Finally, you can discuss your memories. Oh god, not those. The golden tinged snapshots of your salad days when life stretched in front of you, with promise of fame and glory. How about the bad memories? Yes! Let’s talk about those and open up the scars to see if there is any pus left over that can be squeezed out. Shit.

But Fozz, isn’t writing a form of conversation? It’s the best kind, because I don’t have to talk to you about what I write. Just read your snarky comments and laugh.

Oh shit! I have found a conversation subject that I like. Oh wait, it’s based on ME! Well done, you fucking GLOREEE BOY!

Keep it real, you buncha dick smacks.