I file this
dispatch to warn others.
These noder get-togethers are a particularly bad idea. I try to exercise
moderation in my life. In fact, that's become quite the little buzzword in my head, "Keep things in moderation,
dannye. Just stay on the path of moderation." Well, the concept of moderation got stuffed up a
goat's ass, pissed on by a crowd of
Philistines, set on fire, and then it got blowed up, real good. Real fuckin' good. Like a
cherry bomb in a toilet full of shit.
My warehouse hides my Arabian drums...
Should I leave them by the gate for you?
I see these happy shiny pictures from some of these other get-togethers. I wonder what a snapshot of this moment in Time, right now, would look like to someone on the outside? The bloody elevator in The Shining, just before Nicholson goes mad? The tooth found in the wall in The Tenant, just before Polanski goes insane? The guy standing in the corner of the basement in the Blair Witch movie, just before the girl gets gutted? The true nature of the evil around me now couldn't be captured on film. I've never been so ready to get the fuck out of any one spot in my entire life.
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it;
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it...
And I'm too fucked up to drive. I'm seeing myself walk into rooms and say shit . . . to me. It's me talking to me. And my döppleganger is speaking a language I don't understand. But I can tell he's scared shitless, too.
My right hand drawing back while my left hand advances,
Where the current is strong and the monkey dances
To the tune of a concertina . . .
These girls here don't like me. They don't like my stunt double, either. Ailie thinks I'm a mean old man. Jinmyo is whack, and it didn't take any damn mushrooms to make her that way. But the one who's worrying me right now is Knifegirl. I now know how she got that appellation, and I know what is going to happen next. She's got some sort of knife she calls Athame, some hippie incense and some dusty-ass chalk that's killing my allergies. And she's in some sort of rush to get all this into the kitchen. It wouldn't take a Muppet psychic to know that we won't all be leaving this goddamn cabin alive.
. . . insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
(From) Desolation Row.
My only hope at this point is Dem Bones. Out of all these nutsacks and paddywhacks, he is the only one who seems to understand the concept of moderation at all. He's been humming these Dylan tunes inside his head and I can . . ((hear)) . . them. He gave up on trying to corral the Fez about half an hour ago. In fact, I fear the Fucked Up Fez is going to hurt one of the girls. Or he may be off to find some other girl to drag in here. None of the girls here now want to have the least thing to do with him. Drool is not a turn-on, fellows. (Just a dating tip from your ol' pal, dannye.)
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun,
Crying like a fire in the sun.
Look out the saints are comin' through!
But Bones is connecting with my core brain and he seems to be saying, "It's OK. Don't worry. I've got a surprise, just for you. Later." Truth be told? This is all that's keeping me from seriously fucking some of these assholes up.
I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.
This dude from Hollywood is a control freak. I shoulda known, eh? These fuckwits from the Northeast think because I talk slow it means my brain's not working. And Lord Brawl . . . Oh, Canada, reclaim your Queen and get hir off my leg. Know what I mean?
Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing . . .