VICELAND AD #805
We deal in grotesque circumstances, all told. Shielded eyes. Rubbed averted. You’re driving a cab named Henry. And now some 2nd-story moocher’s going to tell me that these aren’t quite an innocent man’s clothes I’m wearing? Got it. Just so nothing rings a bell with me. I’d give a Crown Tip for my memories back. Like the gun moll who screamed at the cop, “This land ain’t your land! It’s Indian land!” Just another hundred-dollar handshake away from the right-side of the tracks, far from the night-soil stench of another forgotten labor. Chilled to the muscle. A Pulitzer for your worst timing. By the way, there’s a solid S-trap under your most craven misgivings, so don’t forget to flush and be done with it. And then there’s that old Molotov-cocktail connoisseur: a jet-black bob and the boots to match, chevrons slimming her down to the dropped waist. Somehow just a wisp of conjecture: “There’s another ice age coming, so won’t you hold me in your arms?” Nothing so desperate as to reek of a selfish racket. Closing time for ennui and envy. We’re living in the last days of prelapsarian bliss, the purgatory before hucksterism becomes the rule of the multitudes by the charmed few. Falsehood and injustice? Nothing but the silence of chicken shits from sea to beleaguered sea. Where’s left to be coming from? A comatose nation, like some ex-weightlifter asleep on a ruined couch left out on the sidewalk in the rain, we croak about the weather and endure, oblivious to what the elements are constantly constructing against us. Don’t just wait around to be taken in. There are pertinent ambulance sirens to attend to, and a bed of rhododendrons to fall into, dead drunk, at two in the afternoon. Don’t hesitate until you have to, and, as the cruel blameless mob of civilization dashers circles, let your fingers do the talking at (646) 851–0347.