Congregation

Congregation

I’m all out of wack. Not much sleep and strange days lately, walking through the Mad Max desert junkyards and insane heat burning the top of my head and endless rows of trashed autos dying in the sun, begging for regeneration with one functioning part, one piece of glass, one good door, one more rev of the motor. Mad Max hates Jews now, I guess he’s drunk on the Passion of the Christ. Another conservative hero bites the dust, are there any suckers left? I posted a blog on the MilkSpace concerning recent MaM Van tragedies so we’ll just leave it at that and hope that August is a better month than the ones before it (if that link doesn’t work it’s because myspace sucks; try the home page). No, they’re not all bad it’s just what you remember most recently that sticks with you. Or me. The sun is getting closer to the earth and I’m sure that those who don’t want to believe will be the first to die anyway, so fuck ’em.

The poor cats are doing their summer best to stay upbeat, but all that fur must be torture. Right now three air conditioners are running and that can’t be good for the bills, but these are extreme times. The weather guessers say it will go down by the end of the week and hopefully just in time for Perry Farrell’s concert on the lakefront. I have shaved my chest in advance. No, actually just trimmed, to keep the heat down. I could warm a small nation with the excess hair, I know how the cats feel.

Ah, fuck it, I can’t even pretend to be in a good mood right now.

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