VULGARDOTE
If life gives you lemons, make a banana split! Common sense, piss of cake! Yellow banana in, brown banana out, you are the Banana Republic, dear Lord, stinks! All Trump supporters, 75M, will donate!
VULGARDOTE oscillates between an absurd drama and a so absolutely crazy comedy. It is an energetic, raw, richly textured, emotional story told in a most unique fashion by an author who has much to say on many different subjects managing to convey much of his compelling personality through the means of irony and satire he chooses to relay it. In other words, non-traditional word choices, unusual outlooks and perspectives lend him an open book that writes itself a certain roughness and character, its ultimate charms.
It portrays a responsible world citizen, from his "abnormal" birth to his "kool" death, who has been through all of the following and naturally much much more: a hero, a zero, the butt of the worst joke in history, a lock without a key, a monosylabic word, a shot bird, a wink, a nod, a shiver, a show without a score, a prayer without faith, an untold story, a forgotten memory, sex without fury, a trap without a spring, a temple with no god, a broken promise, a sucker, an unmailed letter, a jack without an ace, fame with disgrace, and on and on and on.
His name is Lou and his priority objective, as he puts it, is to survive with some shame in a world of sad debris. Boozed by quixotic reveries of ownership, Lou races through a life of tragic wastage, experiencing the contagious loss of innocence and immunity in the almost wonderfully billowing cyclone of time and the universe. The very ancient western treadmill of deception, derision, accretion, progress, freedom, justice, estrangement, heroin, and bullshit also works its subtle effect on him. To afford all this, he has to work very hard. By the way, his full time job is sanity. Lou's qualifications are beyond description.
However, the only secret wish twisting deep inside him, the impossible perverse dream, is to crash, just crash, as difficult as that, as he races like crazy.
Overall, Lou is an average ordinary person in a hocuspocus-bogus society, living a boring life, suffering just about six trillion major disorders, such as love, trust, honesty, orgasm, non-depression, etc. = no big deal, big time !
But one of his distinctions, his great interest in any kind of communication and misunderstanding (he speaks quite a few languages), makes it all happen. Lou prefers that of the common people when yelling to some President in his white house in a friendly and undramatic manner, with a bit of language nuance:
"Obamgutan, yeah, you Frican Merrycon, No b what Peas Prize whiner, shut the fuck up you fucken asshole of a forked bitch and a phooked cocksucker frantically screwed up in this whole fecking magic dimension I won't give a flying shit about what you're saying or your freaking colors I love my house naturally black and am proud of it hell this fucken President makes me pissed so frigging pissed off you know what I mean fooking guerrilla fag?"
After this little scene Lou loses his job right away. He feels like a twitch before dying. He just does not know why or misunderstands anything. Nothing makes sense, no nothing seems to fit, he would hit out if only he knew who to hit. Anyway he believes he is approaching a climax, the peak of his damn career, yearning, looking forward to what it will be like.
Doctors, drowning in a pornographic sea, do their best, sort of embarrassed at Lou as a naked obsession. Yet there is no cure. Making friends, Lou shakes hands with an individual called Nope Nuttin Never, giving him a fuck-you smile, begging Saint Alex 666 not to bet on him leaving the Freak Parade with one more no-charity-no-faith-no-hope, though the Right collision is really unavoidable, though he hates the Left, being a naive commie, a die-hard revolutionary, a deep luminary of the erotic dark. This can't be wrong, Lou says excited, knowing he has never been good at screwing up.
BANG! BANG! Lou is dead at once, and damn happy. Finally. The impossible explodes, Lou is gone like an atom bomb without a mushroom cloud. His dream has come true. He has crashed, fortunately.
Bad mourning, deep apathy, a deserted funeral, a drunk priest, a broken record of the Grave Dancers Union, an obituary. A hummingbird in silence like a hand generator suddenly turned off with a God-you-must-be-joking, a see-ya, and one last message to this world, before going humbly back to his God-bless bananas, sigh, wiping a tear or two, thank God for the suffering:
" To give consistency to our ideas, we must take the earth as it is, examine its different parts with minuteness, and, by induction, judge the future from what at present exists. " (Buffon, Natural History, 1749)
2023 A.D. Jungle bound, happier, more hopeful than ever, I type, one-armed, amidst constant blackouts, with the slowest internet connection on Earth, on my sporadically working 15 year-old computer, only to be heard on Substack, big deal. This may be not a sorry scene, after all.
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