How to win friends and influence people August 31, 2003, 23:59 (note: This entire entry is an exaggerated lie and It is all true.) {dawn} Enough of the liar’s desire’s; Never apologize, never explain. Breakfast in the land where the carbon dopplegangers lay Out and about in the dawn of the anesthetics; “Let In, romantic, come in and stay thin And we’ll add your name to the blacklist from heaven” {midday} The long road to the orient is paved in waves of pink lamae Electric envelopes descend over Collidascope City landmarks (suddenly, I am receiving a [Viennagram:] from A sleep pattern; I am amazed everytime this happens; but overall, this is an unrelated note to the topic at hand.) Pass a caravan of Gypsy’s selling moon flowers (only they blossom at night) Never knew a Gypsy to smile and wave. Like he meant it. Upon arrival, guests are lined up and branded with the hot coals of section inspectors. [BULLHORN:] Check your master. Check your master. Handed cue cards with postion no. send the salt of the earth to their life sentence [CLASSIFIED:] Immediately I realize that my time spent in Salvation City has, indeed, saved my soul from certain mass destruction. I was ushered towards the coliseum. The acclimated exhaust of stale urine hangs in the air. “We’re veal in the slaughter.” I whisper to one wide eyed toddler; “serious?” he whimpers and polishes his pool techniques: Back stroke, corner pocket. The speaker of the urine coliseum explains we are all “competing with other artists across the country” he goes into salivating detail about maiming aand gutting ones opponents and recalls his own back alley confrontation with basquiat; “two switch blades, one woman…well let’s just say I’m a little older and a little wiser” He then huffs a dirty handful of blow: “is this person technically brilliant?!?” He was, of course, a chronic case sufferer of the narcissistic venom that effects most artists. Or “artists” He concluded his rant with “You see! You need to think you’re an artist 24 hours a day; 365 days a year; if you want to be an artist.” Nonsense. It was like listening to a fawn surviving a night between the steel jaws of a hunter’s trap. It was good to breathe the urine free air again. Beside the swastika snack table, were the three muskeaters. They had grown beards since the last time I had seen them and their overbites told me they had been through many quarrels over male dominance. I slipped them a nuce; that flat smell of burning rope said “history will die” The phosphorescent lights hummed between the gallon drums of tarantula milk. The degenerate wagon loved to wait for such a reward. They licked each others lips. “BCC: the perfect place the benign” Bullets rang out and the crowd of rogues were summoned to the 'back fat banquet hall'. Clever power point productions; that would’ve made Mr. Courcier proud; show the drooling spectators what they should do with their lives. BLONDE MARS. MUSTACHE: “Why do you need to take aat history to be a fuckin teacha?” bleach drinking patriots consolled her tattered nerves. Appointment. Eligible. White form. Drink up. [BULLHORN:] “YOU CAN’T LOSE” The Outside perimeters were littered with the fresh droppings from Generic High. A picnic of gender rolls. And boy, could these kids EAT. I spotted some corpses of some old allies; fallen soldiers; but it turns out they hadn’t changed, only the screws holding their faces together had. GENERIC FEMALE: “She lost weight but she’s still busted” (The BCC Police sound the alarm and have her wrists slashed by The General) (The sergeant pours turpentine in the wounds) (GENERIC FEMALE screeches like a hairdryer in a bubble bath) SERGEANT: “god damn! I’m going to get a medal for this one!” Such deafening shadows in the colossal steps backward. I was swimming in lake superior; now I’m avoiding band aids in the swallow end of some gaudy/homicide motel. “Something tells me, I should’ve gone into accounting.” {sundown} “like oil in the fire” Lost in the valley of pleasure with The Skunk We look for the lost rubella pattern in the body odor office. NURSE: “OH! You mean the Doctor’s Trumpet!” 20 years of fashion? already? Just as we are about to throw darts into a mouth, a sovereign desert breeze blows us into The Forbidden Garden of Olives. The Skunk sprays in the flower beds. The roses of rumor try and melt the Vienna-gogs. Yeah, but, I’ve got the wild card. I’ll help decorate your room but I’m so sick of Alaska. The Baron: “Let Alaska burn” {dusk} gastro-intestinally evaded at the tape worm villa. [BULLHORN:] Take evasive action! War, war and peace in every trash receptacle; An ex-asthma agent, throws a filthy steaming diaper at my lower lip. Bless the karma capital for such, mrs. Viva! Viva! Vienna! The Duchess has outdone herself! I receive a fine, cow's nasal cavity; to store all of my keep sakes. Like a hallmark bloodbank. Hong Kong’s orphan chapter; what’s on the menu, tonight? “Revenge will be sweet; Free once again to pursue my dishonorable profession, If you try to play your hand against mine, you’ll find the joker is wild” Signed, Alex Vienna {twilight} I’ve got the key to the heart of pheramone. Why? Because the night belongs to Vienna [END VIENNAGRAM:]