Mansion Blues: Pig
The following will be gross. Go down to the "+++++++" below to pass by this part if you have a queasy stomach. No harsh on you my friend.
When you have been away from eating copious amounts of fat laden foods, perhaps in a vision quest, or maybe from a hostibal stay, your insides will revolt against such intrusion.
You need to take it easy, and not be a pig.
Your guts do not like sudden changes, ever. Surgery, fasting, diet changes and such are to be done incrementally, and not all at once.
You will pay.
Sean lied on the floor with his pants around his ankles, from pooping, and then spinning around to vomit into the toilet.
When such an occurrence occurs, your bowels will release from both ends.
Yes, there was a line of shit spray on one side of the toilet and vomit on the other.
Indeed, food particles of a size and shape that indicated gulped bites without much chewing were in array on both sides, dripping down the lovely Italian mosaic fresco, which means “Masonic artistry.”
Sean had exploded from both ends, and it looked to be the same coloration and textures. His body had revolted from the sudden onslaught on heavy, rich food, in large amounts, and simply pushed it all out.
The red salsa made it look like a murder scene.
I saw actual whole slices of jalapenos stuck to the walls on both sides of the stall area.
Sean needed an ambulance, in case he had hurt himself on the inside. But as Minacca and I went to his side, slipping in the mess, he said, “I beed to blow a burbig chuck outta by bose.”
He blew a snot rocket, and yes indeed, a slice of jalapeno hit the waste basket.
That must have burned like a muthafucka.
His eyes were red, his nose was dripping red salsa, and he climbed over and got into the bathtub. He was wallowed in his own filth, along with all the food he had eaten and wasted.
Minacca was losing it. “Sean! We need to get you to the hospital!”
Sean looked up at her and said, “Just ribse me off. I’b cool. Eberytig’s fibe.”
She looked at me, and I shrugged. “He looks perfectly fine to me.”
Her eyes said, “Fuck You.”
Minacca got a Neti Pot ready and brought it to him. She showed him how to rinse out his nose. Why is it that rich people know about such worldly shit? It’s stuff the rest of us only find out by accident.
To her credit, Minacca did not ask the staff to clean up Sean’s mess. She did it herself. Dayam girl, I think you loved that man.
Check this shit out, here:
Minacca used her phone to call down to the servants' quarters to tell them that she was entertaining guests, and not to worry.
It was like living in a fucking hotel. Except, the maintenance room on the third floor did not have a lock on the door. She came back from it with a mop, bucket, cleaning accoutrement, and rubber gloves.
She cleaned her own bathroom, God Help Her.
Sean’s eyes were bloodshot, and his nose glowed fire engine red, complete with water dripping out of it. He stuffed cotton balls up into his nostrils. He wore her father’s plaid golf shorts that went below his knees and some old Birkenstock sandals from the hippie days, found on the bottom row at the rear of the shoes section in her father’s closet.
Minacca followed him down the rear stairwell and I followed suit. The stairwell opened to a hallway that led to several servants’ quarters on one end, and a large galley on the other. It looked like a kitchen built for a restaurant, probably due to the popular dinner parties that Minacca’s folks always held.
None of the rest of we mere poor folks ever new about such wondrous delicacies that were cooked and tasted in the offskirts of Fuckno as those rich bastards enjoyed.
Here is when Sean began a dance with a demon that would haunt him to the day he died. His belly was empty, and he was hungry, all over again.
Imagine that; enjoying food and then puking it back up in order to enjoy more. He would do this at my house, he would do it everywhere, once he got into smokaang. He would also learn that he could maintain his trim weight, even after he got physically huge from weight lifting, and then began to dump steroids into his body.
This would not end well for him. Binge and Purge is a devastating syndrome that knows no difference between gender in welcoming its newcomers into its deathly grip.
Sean carried loads of food out of the walk-in fridge. Minacca sat across from me at the breakfast table in the familial section of the kitchen, which opened up to a communal entertainment area beyond. She was frowning at me.
I sipped my RC Cola and looked around at all the shit everywhere that spoke of money. I felt her eyes piercing my face, drilling into my skull. Fuck it. “What you got to say, Minacca?”
I turned back to her and her mouth opened. But she was quiet. She didn’t know what to say, I figured. I was wrong. She had plenty to say. She just didn’t know where to begin.
Yeah, Minacca was smart. But she wasn’t going to save the world with a few well chosen words, or even a stomach full of them. She wasn’t going to fix what she saw as broken, because nothing was indeed broken. It was more like a slow descent into chaos, a sort of entropy that was happening.
“Will. I wish I knew you before you lost your way.”
I thought about that. She and I had met just after Lorelei and I parted ways. She was there that night when we had gone figgin, when we had crashed. She was there when Sean’s mom verbally attacked me and called my mom names. And she was there when I learned about what had happened to Lorelei. It kinda seemed like Minacca was a harbinger of doom or someshit. Omen lady. Crow.
“Minacca, you have brought me nothing but misery.”
Well, that was sorta mean. She had been there all those awful times, but so had I. So had Sean. We three were an odd recipe, really.
Minacca’s kind intentions and any good will towards me that might have been left over, well, it then dissipated. No anger in her eyes. Only impassive disgust.
She stood up, and so did I. She did not reach out to slap my face in sudden, reactive anger, nor did she say anything. She didn’t have to.
Sean was in the walk-in. I followed Minacca through the entertainment area and down a long, walnut-paneled hallway with several closed doors in the high walls, past a larger hall, like a sort of ballroom from what I could see through high double doors.
I had no desire to check out her curvy hips and buttocks anymore, but I did anyway.
We entered into the foyer that could fit my duplex inside. She stopped at the end of the curved, gilded rail of the grand staircase and watched me as I kept walking, over the marble tiles toward the immense entry doors.
In my car, I flipped off her grotesque mansion, and said, “Fuck bitches.” I wouldn’t be back there ever again.
Fuck that place.
I didn’t even squeal my tires. Save my rubber for traveling back east. Leave this high desert shit hole behind, with it’s rich bastards who lived on the off-skirts of the city but did not engage with it.
They were fucking Pigs.
A Pig is greedy. A Pig will grab all the food and eat it, waste it, and then go back for more. A person who has power, or money, or political influence, or a combination of these tools, who will take it all for themselves and then say Fuck You to the rest of us is a Pig.
Fuck the Pig.
I would leave the smell of fertilizer, say goodbye to all the gawd-damned dust and the fucking rattlesnakes, scorpions, and vultures.
No more scary punk assholes, no more broken-hearted memories of what might have been but could never again be.
I’d be just fine. Of course I would.
From my son Gabriel.
Haunted dolls. Yup, we just got done watching Insidious, which is exactly how you write a solid horror movie, and he said he was going into his apartment and saw this on the stairs to the attic.
Very funny, son.
Google+++ Circles you might need.
The Three Little Pigs, as read by Christopher Walken.
Zombo, the game. Kill zombies.
Funny cartoon for your Saturday. Something Of That Ilk. Explore.
Girls making faces. So he says. I think he likes their tongues.
Stay young, if you like. Here’s a Watchumentary, so to speak.
Dioramas. Remember when you were told to make some tiny scene shit as a kid? This dude just kept going. If I was a creepy old man, I’d place an emoticon like this:
But I’m not THAT creepy.
If I was to choose someone to play my role in life onscreen, I’d choose someone more attractive.
Same three cartoon blocks, but different dialogue each time. Damn, dude, you might have painted yourself into a corner?
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
OK, One More For Ya.