The Blissful Idiot – Volume I / Episode Four: The Case of the Super Filthy Hospitality Tent

Catch up:





Matthew A. Cremer reporting  = 0 )

It was Saturday afternoon and I’d just awoken from one hot doozy of an epic catnap. As I was lying within the odd dimensions of what appeared to be a glowing pink neon tent, I felt like I’d been thoroughly deloused all over my precious insides. To make matters even worse, my clothes were on backwards and everything surrounding me was disheveled as all get out. This neon dungeon must’ve been littered with a potpourri assortment of fascinating lil knick-knacky poo’s: hopelessly cheap glowsticks, a can of cheese whiz, a boofing kit, space rocks, kaleidoscope eyes, a sequined pleasure stick, one of those tube thingies that shoots out t-shirts and what may or may not be a saddle. A saddle? Indeed, a non-sequitur of the tallest order! Good lord, just whose half-ass Studio 54 debauchery shack was I stranded in anyways? So this was your idea of a good time then, Gratifly? Ya silly, sick bastard. Needless to say, my total lack of coherence for whatever unraveled the night before was a tad disturbing. My quest for the truth must’ve taken me farrrrrrrrrrr off the beaten path into the nether regions of a dark abyss. One way or another, if ever there was one cheap disco strobe-light of shining truth, it was this: whomever the vile temptress was that took up residence in this filth pit – she went hard and she most definitely went super freaking duper golly ass big. Oh boy did she ever!

As if that wasn’t enough to deal with, panic really set in upon discovering my magic genie phone had been entirely depleted of its beloved battery semen. Without having any form of connection to the outside, real world that I had come to know and cling to, hope of survival was leaning much more so on the side of Slim Pickens. It most definitely didn’t help that I couldn’t decipher with any semblance of absolute certainty just what I’d experienced within the last 24 hours. As unsettling as this filthy dreamscape of surreal garbage was, there still existed an outside chance the entire shit-show charade had transpired before my waking eyes. Sweet Jesus, I don’t even know where to begin.

Well ok… ya see… here goes nothing: apparently I was recruited to join some extra-terrestrial mail-order bride pyramid scheme cult where they’re determined to de-program you of your highly questionable fashion choices, stellar public school education, marginal street smarts and compulsion to just go out and buy random shit. Now why would you want to do a thing like that? Practically stripping one’s soul clean right down to its core for everyone to gawk at and thoroughly rub their sweaty bodies up against. And it was while I’d been navigating through this spookiest of nightmares; I’d been put through quite the gauntlet wringer of decrepitly loathsome ooze. It was almost way too much for this private dick to fathom in one hot pink tent sitting. Between sharing frappucinos with a talking marshmallow on a golf cart, gazing at a sex pendulum, a farm trailer debacle through somebody’s wormhole, a mysterious creature in a winged bathrobe and Carlos freakin’ Santana (of all people) waxing poetic about vibrating geometrical nonsense filth – I’d been drowning mightily in the deep end of my own consciousness or complete lack thereof. It was just horrible, I tell ya. Horrible! Where’s my designer latex catatonic throw blankey when I need it? As much as I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry myself to sleep listening to hormonal whale calls, this was most certainly no time to be overcome by the willies, jimmies or Stan Van Gundy’s (aka the Bermuda Triangle of fear). I was either going to sink or swim from here on out. Opting to triumphantly backstroke my way straight out of this cosmic fruitcake of a mess, there was no doubt in my mind: the shit-show must go on. Fucking-A Right!

Alright, pull it together now. Baby steps. Breeeeeeeathe. Roll the glutes around a lil bit. Ok, ok…I think I’m ready. First off, I’m going to chug this lukewarm can of Bud Light Lime sitting next to me, put my clothes back on straight and then borrow a pair of this creeper chick’s underwear so I’ll have a scarf to wear for the day. Check, check and double check mark plus with extra sprinkles on top!

And with those strokes of genius, I was finally prepared to erect myself from the complex shadows of this pink love-cavern. Would I emerge a new man? I dunno. Was I still the same ole hot private investigator dick? No question. Were my shorts still on backwards? You’re goddamn right. So how did this exit hole business work anyways? This looked like one of those do-it-yourself kinda jobs. Ahhhh, I see now – one of those zipper inventions. Well that’s a new one. Crafty 22nd century marvels. Ok, ok, I think I got it. Soooooo maybe if I just put one hand here and then my right foot over here and then my elbow over there I can maneuver this beast right along. I mean, it can’t be that difficult, right? Wait just a darn minute now. Why won’t you freaking move? C’mon, you know you want to. Ohhhh for cryin’ out loud, the son of a bitch was caught already! Damn it, you despicable zipper bastard!

Ok, ok, ok – so before I could either sink or swim off this freakshow castaway island, I would first have to private dick my way out of this tent contraption somehow. Stupid, annoying first world exit strategy problems. I knew the best route to penetrate my way out was some good old-fashioned sleuthing ingenuity of lubricating proportions. That’s right – I would lube my way right out of this neon dungeon. If Nickelodeon had taught me nothing else (other than how to successfully throw paper airplanes through a hula hoop), it was that dang near any conceivable situation could be overcome with the right amount of lubrication application. Reaching around inside my short pockets, I was able to extract one of the most fundamentally important items a hot investigative truth-banger should never leave the truth lab without: FDA non-approved, heat-seeking, industrial strength body sanitizer. The black market, experimental lab rat, Bunsen burner kinda shit. I actually got the inside scoop connection through a guy Carmen Sandiego knows. You know – “a guy.” No, not that guy, the one behind him. Shhhh…that’s yours and my little secret though. Don’t you dare go fucking tell anyone now!

Fitted with a high flow nozzle, I meticulously made my way down to that fuckhead zipper and gave the little bastard an extra squirt for good measure. Grabbing ahold of it by the reins, I began rocking my body steadily back and forth, feeling that metal son of a bitch loosening ever so slightly with each passing thrust. That goo-ey hand sanitizer juice was really working its zipper magic now! Yeaaaaah, that’s the stuff. Get all in there you dirty lube you. Ohhh yeah, especially right in that spot. Sure, that spot too. Oh my, you’re really good at this! Ooooo, that kinda tickles. Ok, ok… now you’re just making me giggle. Stop it already! Wait a minute, DON’T STOP NOW YA BIG SILLY! Almost there… almost there… ALLLLLLLMOST THERE… Getting closer… so very, very CLOSER… OH-SO-CLOSER…… kind of oh-so-closer……… not really getting closer anymore….. motherfucker……. what’s taking so long already?…… What do you mean “Is it even in yet??!?!”… Yes, I know this is only our first date… LOOK, I don’t want to meet your parents already! You know what, on second thought, I think I’ll just cut my way out of this goddamn mess already. Stupid, emotional high-maintenance tent zipper! Why does it always come down to this?

Upon realizing things were not exactly going as according to plan, I made a bold power play by whipping out my custom-made sleuther pocketknife instead. Yeah, that’s right. I’d show that tent fucker who’s in charge! Opting to forgo small talk and heavy petting this time around, I took out the blade and just went for it. There was no separating me from the truth anymore! Born again, I finally was going to emerge from the clutches of that hot pink death trap!

Looking back upon the chaos, apparently some silly fucker had put a miniature pad-lock on the outside of it. Now why would you do a thing like that? Nevertheless, that imprisonment device was clearly no match for my Herculean detective force. That’s right, private dick moves for weeks, beeeotch. Clearly I had just entered the pantheon of great detective sleuther achievements. Some real Smithsonian kinda shit. Apparently while I was in the thick of my epic tussle with that scandalous adventure tent, a mangled piece of paper had fallen from one of my pockets. After taking a closer look, it appeared to be a garbled, cryptic note I had written sometime in the middle of the previous night’s filthy quandary:

Ωµe∑f √ Tipi ≈∂∆ø^∞ / Nachos

Damn it, I must’ve invented another quantum physics MacGuffin in my sleep again! I really hate it when that happens. But what could it mean? Had the aliens finally gotten to me? WTF is this square root of tipi anyways??? They got Native Americans here too? Did they happen to bring a gift shop with them? Wait a minute, is that a “Q” or an omega symbol? And what’s this divided by “Nachos” business? Nachos? I want some nachos! Who be selling nachos out here? I demand the truth!

Indeed, my struggle for the filthy truth was gonna be in full tilt mode again. I’d be forced to spring back into action along the private dick detective trail. I was gonna have to press on through the tidal waves of filth that would surely try to penetrate everything I knew to be decent and true. As much as a remote viewing session/pep talk from a freshly laid Kanye West shart could’ve easily been the aroma of morally redeeming reassurance I oh-so-very-much needed, no intensity of psychic bandwidth could prepare me for what was in store on this action-packed day.


copyright of test subject

After zig-zagging my way back onto the main festival field of freak show splendor, my quest for the tipi and a steaming pile of nachos led me to a rather odd gathering space behind the main stage. Upon closer evaluation, apparently it was the super filthy hospitality and media tent. Ohhhh, so this is where they’ve been hiding this damn ill conceived internet portal to nowhere! Gee-thanks for the memo guys. Poking my head underneath its outstretched awning wings, I soon realized this was some rather rarified air space. Fortunately, from the looks of things, no one was being sodomized or branded with a hot iron – not yet at least. Maybe it’s just me, but I had a strange feeling this was where the breeding ground for the new, advanced species took place.

Carefully surveying the lay of the land, it soon became apparent this was a real “Who’s Who” of Transformational guru hotshot types and stuffs. The place was crawling with a bunch of scantily clad, pirate-looking nancy’s who were body flowing and acro-yogaing all over one another. The entire spectacle gave me a case of the willies, a lil bit of the jimmies and a smidge of the Stan Van Gundy’s. Oh boy, it sure was a good thing I had my panty scarf to clutch onto for safety. Indeed, it was only a matter of time before some putrid waft of highly evolved, scholarly funk tried to monopolize my senses. Sure enough, only a few hazardous feet away was that Michael Garfield dinosaur whisperer man I keep hearing about. He was arguing profusely with Alf about the merits of “Transhuman techno-cratic high fashion reptile civilizations” or something wildly bizarre along those lines. And what a crusade of a saga to behold it twas! In fact, I was so enthralled by Garfield’s cerebral agility and candor that I absent-mindedly double fisted some filthy-ass organic Chiquita bananas from the ever-nifty craft services table. It’s just so goddamn nifty too! Much to my chagrin, I became so caught up in the bludgeoning melee of enlightenment that yours truly had dubiously inhaled both of those fruit-wads with the peels still intact! Damn you Garfield! But as prolific as the dinosaur whisperer was in action, one can only hold their own so long against the beefy brilliance and gravitas of Alf (aka Gordon Shumway). C’mon people, it’s just common outer space guru knowledge here.

The more I inspected the scene, the more I realized the big top was bursting at the seams with every pop idol celebrity sensation imaginable. Oh my, I’m getting all worked up just writing about it! On one ginormous fluffy couch you had that “Wildlight” duo (not to be confused with those ever-seductive Twilight wolf movies) in the middle of an epic tag-team tickle contest with the Olsen twins. It’s like, “Wow Mr. Big Boy Pants Gratifly, from the looks of it, you really outdid yourself here. Gosh, I sure hope you have enough money saved up underneath your pillow to compensate everyone you brought out here. You know, as in whatever’s left over after you pay off Jesus, the Tooth fairy, the Easter Bunny, creditors, loan sharks and Satan himself.” But hey, what do I know?

If all that arousal overload wasn’t enough for ya, away from both of those battle royale rumpuses things got really confusing in a jiffy. And when I say confusing I mean, “Just what in the golly gosh darn heck’s going on over here?” Because that warlock-looking soothsayer they call “Erothyme” (whatever that means) and some charlatan dressed in a Cosmic Giggle mascot suit were over in the corner dry spooning together while the Bhagavad Gita peered on in splendid delight. Boy, I sure hope that Erothyme guy packed a sack lunch for this adventure! Before I could react, the two noticed my presence. Going all indecent proposal on me out of the filthy gate, they started frolic-motioning for me to come over and join in. Oh Jesus – the filth. Fortunately enough, I was recovered ever so slyly by throwing the panty scarf over my face, scarf phantoming the shit out of the whole scene before its rapid descent into all-out hedonism could consume me. Due to the enormity of defilement on display, I decided to throw in a secondary stealth tactic for good measure. Yanking a page straight out of my private dick manual, I acted as if they were actually motioning to the dread-locked weirdo beast standing behind me shamelessly mouth-fucking a bundle of grapes. Sure enough, it didn’t take much convincing whatsoever to get the poor bastard behind to go over there and pinch hit for me. What a weirdo! The look on their faces when he brought the grapes along for the ride was just gangbusters, I tell ya! Gangbusters! That super juicy, plump fruit would surely be the wild card for this twisted, ménage of a spoon-a-thon that’d make even Caligula blush. It’s like, “While you silly bandits are off doing whatever the sam-hell that you’re doing, I’ll just be over here inhaling secondhand palo santo carbon monoxide fumes.” I mean, just what kinda free-for-all floozy do those sickos take me for anyways??? Little known fact: that Cosmic Giggle character was really, really into neck biting and Cleveland steamers – in that order. (You know, just an observation in case you ever wondered. C’mon, you know you likey. I can see that lil smirk starting to peak out allllllll over your face. Your curiosity is rather palpable indeed.)


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But to really throw a monkey wrench of a jolly, good time into the filthy equation,  the kid-genius festival promoters had flown in one of those highbrow, intellectual  love-fest headliners to thoroughly tickle everyone’s taint. The one and only:  Daniel Pinchbeck. Oh my. Word on the street was he’d just come from doing a  weeklong run at the Apollo Theater with that Cedric the Enchanter and a  hologram of Raja Ram. Talk about a triple play, family fun pack of  entertainment! Practically floating off the ground, Pinchbeck was over at another  nearby circus tent in front of a moderately sized crowd of crazy, foaming-at-the-  mouth worshipper banshees. Gee, I bet they follow him around on tour wherever  he goes! They were seated cross-legged sporting their own special neocortical  semi’s and three-quarter chubbies to boot. The level of laser beam enthrallment  across their faces was too much to ignore. Damn it, they’ve done it now – my  curiosity had been lured out of its fun bag yet again!

 Lo and behold, the Pinchbeck was in the middle of orchestrating a sprawling  song-and-interpretative dance medley of thought-provoking prowess. Well gosh  darnit poop – what’d I miss?!?! As I oh-so-very-cautiously absorbed more of this  unfolding scene from nearby, I soon realized I needed to put on a few more layers  of designer latex protection armor in addition to keeping scarf phantom mode  activated. For a hot truth juicer machine like myself had to remain vigilant when in the presence of such rarified rarities. Especially since he’d already been gliding right through a silky, smooth segue session of 2012 -> James and the Giant Peach -> The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test -> How the Grinch Stole Christmas -> “Dark Star” -> “Oye Como Va”-> “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” -> 2012 Reprise. Ahhhh yes, so this was the cosmic super-force I’m up against. (FYI, BTW – one of his revelers had actually written down the set list in fancy pants calligraphy. Just by the looks of it, I’d say it was definitely one of his stronger than average sets for sure. Maybe even full chub status. You know, just a little FYI. Ok, ok – with sprinkles on top too!) In fact, it was during this glorious Reading Rainbow fracas that his adoring spectators kept coming up oh-so-very carefully as if not to disturb his penetrating performance. Those silly creatures were offering all sorts of weird gifts along the lines of exotic fruit and caressing his legs while he was deep within the throes of this rousing intergalactic oration. It became apparent toward the back portion, perhaps somewhere within the chaotic quasi-denouement of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” à 2012 Reprise, things weren’t quite as they seemed. Ohhhhh golly heck no. I could sense that the Pinchinator was rearing back, about to release a two-headed monstrosity of intellectual virility and audacity. To make things even worse, a cloaked hippie person had emerged from the shadows, ready to translate the whole nonsensical spree in sign language. That’s right – two filthy tickets to the gun show indeed:

“I was speaking earlier about initiation and how it’s absolutely fundamentally necessary to create some context where people go into trans-personal or trans-egoic states of awareness…”

 Go on, go on…go the fuck on!

“… that those are actually understood and honored and validated by the community. Because at the moment we have an adolescent culture. We have people who are trapped in their egos and have no access point to anything beyond that.”

 Nu uh. Nu…freaking…uh. You shush it right now! Shush it!

“So what if that’s actually a foreshadowing of what Jose Arguelles talked about as a psycho-technic civilization…”

Ohhhhhhh yeah, here we go…

“… where we’ve shifted from material accumulation as a goal to quality of being/quality of relationship and the evolution of our spiritual and psychic capacities as one goal?”

(golf-clap applause from the crowd)

Ahhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiit! No he didn’t! No he fucking didn’t! Boom-shaka-laka! Woop! Woop!

(even more golf clapping)

And with that cleverly executed Julio Iglesias number, I couldn’t contain myself anymore. I was officially on the ground rolling hard and dirty in a wave of uproarious laughter. “Golly gee willickers, I have no effing clue what hell he’s riffing about, but boy-oh-boy what a real side-splitter!!!,” I bally-hood out loud to myself. Talk about comedy gold! Thank Peter, Paul and Mary he didn’t follow that gem up with the “Take my Wife” bit. Otherwise, I might’ve just crapped my pants right there on the spot. Hooooo-weeeeeee, it was gonna take me a minute after that show-stopper. Ohhhhh boy!

However, just as I was attempting to compose myself, I noticed members of his congregation were giving me strange, inquisitive looks. And no, not even “take me back to your water bed” eyes either. Damn it, but those are wayyy more fun too! In fact – I think they were onto me. No-good Transsexual Fruit Gatherer Sons of Bitches! I guess all the grass burns from spinning around on my side chuckling had disengaged phantom scarf mode and pulled my latex armor down to some ill-begotten degree. If I wasn’t super duper, extremely careful – I’d totally blow my cover altogether. Ohhhh sweet Jesus, no! Just thinking about such a caper brought on a wave of the Stan Van Gundy’s all over my innocent body. For the last thing I needed was Pinchbeck’s think-tank biker gang taking this hot sleuther out back and walloping me with tube socks packed full of Guatemalan biker bar soap. As a matter of fact, they might just end up strong-arming me into doing something even more ghastly – sitting down and Om-ing with them over hot herbal Chai tea. Oh God – now why would I want to do a thing like that? The thought of it just made my asshole pucker.

Speaking of good ole puckered assholes, apparently my “over-enthusiasm” had managed to thoroughly rile that Cosmic Giggle mascot character quite a bit. Before I knew it, the big hunk of burning awkward love had come over from the other tent, ready to cut right to the chase. No more creepy frolic-motioning from that ball of weird heat. That silly mascot had opted to forgo a traditional dinner and a movie date with this private dick. Not even a bed of roses?! In fact, it must’ve been while he/she/it was about to conduct yet another thrill ride of a steamer session that the Pinchbeck had telepathically summoned its services. And maybe I’m going out on a real dirty investigative limb here, but I think it was safe to say that when he/she/it wasn’t deflowering synthesizer wizards and roving around turning reality on its head, the Giggle moonlighted as none other than – a 22nd century bodyguard of the truth! Because from what I could gather, that beast was coming over to rough me up a little bit. Maybe teach me some kind of perversely futuristic hardball lesson. Well that’s what he/she/it thinks, you big stupid silly! Just as the Giggle was bearing right down on me, I knew things would go south in a jiffy if I didn’t pull a bold power stroke of my own. I wasn’t about to become another one of its filthy statistical anomalies. In order to out-maneuver a farce of this magnitude, I’d have to up the ante in the absurdity department. Indeed, this would require a diversion tactic. Although I had compiled quite the catalog of sleuther misdirection-ism in my days, this called for something quite daring. Just as the Giggle lunged to grab me, I ran back into the filthy media/hospitality tent and catapulted off a couple of acro-yoga nerds up onto the super nifty craft services table. It’s just so goddamn nifty! As tempting as it was to shout “Mooooortal Kooooombat” at the top of my lungs, I went for the jugular instead. Using every ounce of my projectile skills, I reared back and let everything fly as if standing high above glorious Machu Pikacchu. “Shaaaaaaaaart-yaaaaaaaaaaay!!!!!!!!” Every pirate-looking Nancy in the entire place stopped whatever the hell they were doing to direct their bewilderment straight at me. A collective wave of “Wait, whaaaaat?” had crashed upon as they were grossly perplexed by my seemingly nonsensical proclamation.


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You could tell the Pinchbeck was especially irate over how I’d so brazenly impeded all over his academic orgy-palooza without even a raise of the hand or formal introduction. How rude indeed! With that bold declaration, I had done the once unthinkable and utterly unfathomable – conjured a freshly laid, certified platinum Kanye West Shart on the spot. The one and only – “Shartye.” Holy awkward hip-hop sensation shit! Existing somewhere ever-so-dubiously in between the realms of the 9th wonder of the world and divine freaking intervention, this was a hopelessly inexplicable, reality-bending, voodoo-ish kind of act of the tallest order that I’d only heard about through careless whispers in the dark underbelly of Glitter Magazine headquarters. That’s right – the company steam room. Ohhhh, the synchronicity! Believed to be the ultimate “get out of jail free card”/momentary lapse of reason, its powers derived from a freakishly bizarre quasi-human science experiment gone wrong. Although the details are hotly debated to this day, word on the street was that the always-delightful Illuminati gang had attempted to harness Kanye’s embarrassing, yet all-too-real sharting plight into a secret weapon against the poor and disenfranchised. If nothing else, this “shartistry” was designed to be his go-to parachute escape plan whenever he said or did any bizarre acts onstage and needed a super duper quick getaway. Like that ever happens. However, this was such a devilishly unspeakable deed, that I’d never had the courage and brute chutzpah to wield it into action. Heck, for all I knew it was simply just a hokey-pokey urban legend and I was making quite the foolish spectacle of myself in a pirate tent of all places. Oh golly, I just love leaps of faith – don’t you?!

Nevertheless, the steamy lil Shart had made true on my grandiose intentions by pushing itself right through a doozey of obstacles to get here. You lil go-getter you! Not even a $10,000 pair of Kanye’s silk boxers woven out of Himalayan musk deer and broken dreams could hold back its potent willpower. Not even the brawny fabric of the time/space continuum could stifle it. In fact, the Shart didn’t fall far from the filthy proverbial tree. For it was so compactly forceful, so gangsta, so baller, sooo pretentious, soooooooo head-scratchingly stupid, sooooooooo literally and figuratively full of shit – that it magically displaced itself all the way from an obscenely filthy penthouse in the Upper East Side straight into the lower half of the Cosmic Giggle suit itself before you could even say “Shart-tastic.” Indubitable! And with such a slew of breathtaking accolades to accompany its instantaneous journey, it came as no surprise that its raw might commandingly froze even the Cosmic Giggle in its own tracks. Because only an absurd force of equal to or greater value could overtake such a colossally absurd farce of this magnitude. C’mon, it’s just common private sleuthing dick knowledge here, folks. Buying me just enough time to make a run for the border, I hopped off that nifty craft service table and hit the ground running! For bonus style points, I grabbed two peanut butter & jelly sandwiches and knocked over a couple of organic fruit bowls to boot. Yeahhh, take that you no good fruit bowl sons of bitches! The outrageous scene had stirred one heckuva commotion, as members of Pinchbeck’s worshipper squad frantically looked at one another, totally unsure how to handle the unfolding mess. Perhaps they were still groggy from the Pinchbeck’s sexy, hypnotic 2012 ways.

Futile cries along the lines of, “No one interrupts the and only Daniel Pinchbeck!” and “Hey, who invited the scarf bandit?” and “Where’s that guy’s media credential?” and “Oh wait, nevermind, we ran out of media credentials two hours into the festival” and “Hey, where do you think you’re going with those super nifty organic peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!” were bouncing throughout the melodramatic chaos. Indeed, those sillies were running around like pansy cage-free, grass-fed chickens with their heads cut off, alright. Still overwhelmed by the reverberations of my epic power play, the Giggle helplessly flailed its arms while unable to move even one freaking inch. Good golly, that Shart must’ve been the platinum standard in monumentally temporary paralysis. “Damn you Giggle, you’ve failed me again!” yelled someone just as I broke out into the open field. I can only imagine that it was none other than the Pinchinator himself. “Woooooo-eeeeeeeeeeee! Take that Pinchey! That’ll teach you to be super duper smart as fuck!” I exclaimed, joyfully breaking free into the fields of Avalon. Wow, did it sure feel good to be out in the clear away from that quagmire of utter debauchery. Aye Carumba man!

As I skipped my merry way into the steamy Appalachian sun, trying to wrap my head around the situation that had just unfolded would prove to be too tall of an order at this juncture. Whether reality had indeed just been turned on its side, I really have no golly heck clue. Come to think of it – I may never truly know. Everything out here was hitting my existence at a kind of hyper light-speed and apparently I was just along for the filthy ride. Wherever the sam-hell it was taking me, this I do know though: I’m going to double-fist the shit out of these PB&J sandwiches and no one’s gonna stop me. I’m gonna take what vestiges of common decency, wholesomeness, truth and everything else under the golly heck sun and hopefully be able to make something of myself. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But golly gee fuckin’ willickers – one day I might just figure out what had been taking place here. I couldn’t be too sure as to whether I was running away from something or about to run right into something greater than myself. One way or another, I was going to find that Godforsaken fake Indian gift shop…





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