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| June/July 1998 |
Big Bill C. on the T.V. set, which, I'm happy to say, I don't watch that much of (instead spending my preciously rare free time enjoying the things one can do w/o technology - bird watching, singing, canasta, whistling, etc.), hoping to prepare myself for the inevitable day when the Stock Market crashes, IBM and Microsoft and AT&T and Disney and Starbucks and Barnes & Nobles and Must See TV simultaneously close-up, fold-up shop and die (all due to satellite malfunction from meteor exhaust, the massive thing shot into our toilet bowl universe like a gigantic piece of Martian shit), everyone then thrown into a world of second-best, second-rate: Apple, ABC, Sprint, Monopoly money, etc. Despite government efforts to prepare everyone for the wide-spread mediocrity by jamming it into the cultural vein (Leno, Hootie, Hanson, Grisham), people still freaked out and miserable, one day it all coming to a head when a band of crazed computer geeks on dope and digital Dungeons and Dragons hack into the mainframe, broadcasting Tommy and Pammy live-action-sex screen savers across the land (not to mention wiping out most live-action people's bank accounts); everyone up-in-arms and running through the streets with old-school wooden bats with bleeding stamped signatures of Jackie Robinson running down the sides, rioting, robbing, maiming and killing, beating, bleeding and stamping each other with signature Schwartzenegger/Schwartzkoff moves; neighborhoods burned, cities razed, countries ruined (please Lord soon, soon).....but back to Bill, now dominating the blinking, flickering screen, defending his right to fondle, filch and fuck, claiming he's just like everyone else, except, of course, with a bizarre fetish for big-haired, fugly females with oral fixations and Electra complexes.
But no intended disrespect; I love the man, really, and only wish I could help him out a little; only wish I was there with my 35mm when K.Starr tried to sodomize that temp at the office party Arbor day celebration; he drunk on sherri and Cosmopolitans, she named Sherri and reading Cosmo when boom! From behind a large tubby, pasty thing (not Clinton) bumping and grinding into her like a demonic dirty dancer, 1/3 Patrick Swayze, 1/3 Pat Buchanan, 1/3 "Pat" from SNL. Poor girl was thrust against the fax machine like a Malibu Barbie doll - hard, plastic, frigid - trying to escape with a vast array of wild contortions (picked up from her grandparents, the beared lady and strong man, respecitvely, from a nomadic Romanian circus side show), finally escaping by some masterful stapling.
And if KS looks pissed when he's up there, spouting his crazy MCarthyisms, ordering book stores to reveal what the Big Haired Sucker was READING (like anybody reads anymore), now you know why.
