It's like: hysterical history, laminating animals, this american life

just a matter of time before the bomb explodes

By dusty (June 4, 2009)

I am often asked what it was like to grow up in the bowels of the midwest. The answer, as you can probably imagine, is pretty simple: there was a lot of shit. Everywhere. That’s not a metaphor: there was shit — literally — everywhere. Cow shit, pig shit, dog shit (on our lawns), some bird shit (our cars, the sidewalk), and more cow shit (on top of other cow shit).

Driving to the ol’ workhouse with the windows down was always a surefire way to find out what the local farmers were up to for the week. Spreading cow shit on the fields! Positively delish!

Surprisingly, though, I’m not aversed to that shit-smell. I still love steak, still love bacon. Still love the midwest, love the flies and mosquitoes. The cow shit, the pig shit, it’s all just a part of the aura. Take that away and you might as well be in California, amidst the steaming piles of human shit, festering and rotting away like the dreams of passersby.

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It's like: ferocious and atrocious, laminating animals, this american life

probably more than enough ice skates and food for a thanksgiving day feast and hours of family fun

By dusty (May 1, 2008)

Imagine I am on an island with Dawson Leary (dreamy Dawson Leary, who was not dreamy at all when he was being a whiney, lovestricken bitch), and there is a fire behind us. The fire of a thousand suns (just one, though, technically). And I am telling Dawson Leary my deepest, darkest secrets. I am telling him this: That cockroaches are horrible, horrible dwellers of hell sent from Satan himself (or something worse than Satan, if such a creature of evil exists), and also that I am in love with The American Dream.

Neither of those are actually secrets, but nevertheless, I was telling those things to Dawson Leary in my dream this morning, that smug bastard, and now I am telling them to you because:

I FUCKING HATE COCKROACHES. I HATE THEM. I AM WRITHING AND PUKING MY INSIDES JUST THINKING ABOUT THE DEAD COCKROACHES I SAW IN MY KITCHEN AFTER THE EXTERMINATOR FINISHED EXTERMINATING. I HATE THEM, I HATE THEM. (I FUCKING HATE THEM.)

Those vile, hellion bastards-of-life have probably touched the things I have touched (not including my privates, hoping to God), licked things I have licked (the floor?), eaten things I have eaten. I will never watch Joe’s Apartment the same way again. In fact I will never watch Joe’s Apartment again, period.

“In about 10 days, they will all come out to die,” said the exterminator.

“I will be spending that weekend vomiting and pissing and shitting on myself and the floor in terror — likely an invitation for more cockroaches,” said I.

The American Dream does not include cockroaches. It includes mountains and The Wild West and probably drugs and girls and freedom and no-job and trains and ghost towns and tumbleweeds. But not cockroaches. Cockroaches are not in the list of possible things The American Dream is supposed to consist of. Cockroaches are what my ex-girlfriend is, or what Criss Angel and Dustin Diamond are. They are not welcome in my house, just as AIDS or cancer are not welcome in my house. In fact, I would rather share a nice dinner and a glass of wine — preferably Cab-Sauv or Pinot Noir, I’m a bitch — with AIDS, or play a friendly game of golf with cancer, than ever see another cockroach again for as long as I live.

Hey Satan: Hey…um…’sup? Yeah? Cool. Umm…not much, I’m good. I would like to live The American Dream sans-cockroaches, please. No seriously. Okay, thanks for understanding. Also fuck you.

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It's like: laminating animals, slow cancerous death rattle

quarantine summary in these united states, this century, taking bio-toxins into account

By dusty (April 25, 2008)

Somewhere, a cow wearing a cowbell is nearing a door wearing a doorbell, and an alternate universe is imploding.

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