Is this freaking out?

I think perhaps it is.

I don’t believe in Bibley gobbledy gook. What kind of God tells old Abrahambone, “Kill me a son?” And what kind watches his only begotten and supremely hip get nailed? Even I ain’t so eenie meanie. Oh, he is so mysterious in his waywardly ways and it is all so beyond my browly so lowly, don’t hardly knowly, comprehension so slowly, but it isn’t mine to wonder why, only mine to doodley die.

Don’t need no test no test no test, lacking the testes and testosterone for trial by tribulation.

All is nada
nada
nada
so Hemingway blew out 62 candles with a 20 gauge.

Politically and corporately incorrect, this America. Darwinism ism ism and no other ism, indeed it’s the most. Our god is Mammon. But I don’t want to worship, though I do dig the mammary, only wishing to be a goodly world citizenry and nothing more morally, that be my wish for me and my country.

Put on a mask and try to get rich. Put on a mask and try to get rich. Rattle round your bones with your hands on your hips.

Ain’t got no ambition, boom, boom, boom, I’m just disillusioned…

John Elway is outside the lines. He wins the Superbowl, then he wins the Superbowl, then he throws in the towel. Then his father dies, and then his twin sister dies, and then splitsville with his wife of eighteen golden molden years. John says God is testing (testes to) him, and John gots the testosterone, but I say I wish this God would get off this no good old testament punishment trip he has been on for far too too long, God knows, and I think John needs a new God that don‘t squeeze the testes. (and so does Jorge W., who is really a Jorge’s ass)

and Jorge is George and W is W and Jorge is pronounced whore-hay because I habla Español, so in a round-about way I have called the president a horse’s ass. See? Sí.

And the customers at the K and W Cafeteria are so slowly motion with their wobbly walkers and fog noggin all freshly poked and patched from the nearby hospitable. They are rude and stupid to workers who try so hard to keep the line moving. And they reach in and handle/reject the pie plates with their nose wipe hands and I can tell from their geezer rottenness that they have learned next to nothing in all their years here. Who’s test is this? Are all the Whos in Whoville screwed (ville)?

And at work, there are many, many departments, and the departments are like people, and the client is like a beautiful baby, and the people pass around this beautiful baby until he craps himself, and then they hand him to me, and I clean him up and hand him back, but he craps himself over and over and the sorry people keep handing him back to me over and over, and my brain is shrinking as happens in one’s declining years and my patience is thinning and thinning and it was Babaloo who did the thinning round here and I want to toss the crapping baby right out through the window. See? Sí.

and my serenity prayer, it ain't no good, it just don’t work, it ain't no good.

And I don’t believe in Loch Ness lizards, or Yetis or ghosites or ET’s or any of the assorted and so called mysteries that seem such nonsequential to me. (please shoot me)

And I don’t believe in invisible beings though I believe in microscopic organisms that are invisible to me which seems contradictory.

I am huge! Jumbo Super! when compared to these microbes, and just maybe, relatively speakily, my sorry
ass view of the cosmos is every bit as equally weakqually.

And I say,
50 odd years and I aint’ got a clue
rinse
50 odd years and I ain’t got a clue
repeat
50 odd years and I ain’t got a clue

And yes indeedy, my little chickadeedy (how geezer of me)… this is freaking out.

02/07/2007

Author's Note: This trailer park trash prose poem piece done gone crazy! Sho nough. So forgive it, its aspirations are dirty low down.

Posted on 02/08/2007
Copyright © 2026 David Hill