My baby left in peace with his usual smile and now is not the time to talk nonsense.
—Kay G. Hagler
I’ll be honest—I’m at a loss. I’ve thought about hanging it up here more times than I can remember but I never know if I’m only being a chump. So I always pushed through, wrote anyway, and got to the meaty and real stuff again somehow. I felt the urge to call it strongly last December as I’d just wrapped the design on a 10-year anthology of these posts and felt reflective enough to chalk it up to a learning experience. I’m never happy when I’m only meeting quota though I always find pleasure in writing about nothing. I never want to be cute or pithy. I don’t want to make anyone’s day or feel good about where we’re headed. I only wanted to tell it and tell it true, or as true as my blues would let me. Like a hostage note or smoke signal and sent out from the seat of what was bothering me at the desk by the window, with some birds or lizards out there maybe and definitely something irritating and dull happening no more perfectly demonstrated than with the neurotic pacing of the blower man. Truth is I’m sprung these days. I’m out from under a decades torpor. Gone the psychotic machinations of an ugly woman behind a small desk and free even of triples serving corporate lunch by day and captaining some rich folks’ horrible event at night. Almost everything that’s been bothering me my whole life is gone, or at least passes in smaller tremors I’ve been around the block enough times to know won’t take me down. I should be glad of it and I am but I don’t know what the fuck to write about. I should mention that I’m looking for work, I’m unemployed, so the pressure and release that worked so well at Going For the Throat has been relieved. Without the wearing down and quiet desperation of a day gig and never having to suffer anyone like my old bosses and lords, I’m free and easy and dread this column through the weekend and on Monday, if I don’t end up running the writer’s gamble of hoping for brilliance less than 24 hours before deadline on Thursday.
The big bosses are still scheming and screwing ain’t it, and their bootlicks and halfwit supporters rail on social platforms. The marvel of the new media is trumped by the shit-for-brains at the board and on the screen. David Harris Jr. has the most punchable face I’ve ever seen so I’m never surprised when what comes out of his fuck mouth is a love of God over government in a too-tight black tee on Instagram. Steven “Fuckface” Crowder’s about as funny as a frat boy on dollar pitcher night yet bills himself as a Christian comedian when he’s not fucking around and finding out in Austin. It used to be enough for me to only ruminate on their brand of small-dick energy and come up with something searing on my end about how everything these choads champion is soulless and cheap. But that’s only if I wanted to pit what they only half-thought against the brilliance of Dr. West or Noam Chomsky. It never should’ve been an argument and anyway it’s not. My hatred for these clowns is strictly personal and I’ll bet you a dollar they’ve no clue how to find a clitoris or listen to anything resembling rock and roll. That’s more like it ain’t it Good Reader but my point is I’m not satisfied only slagging these bros in print anymore. It’d be good to hurt them but only profoundly and where it counts. The kind of hate I have for that kind of slime isn’t good for anyone, I mean, who cares if it’s any good for them but that much craziness is too much pain. I have to walk back from the kind of confrontation these sour and sexless boychicks deserve because it’s bad for me. Gone the rails and torrent, the urgent spew inspired by dumbbell brains is remiss, and gladly as my days unwind easily with nothing to fear or doubt. My orbits are tighter now and I’m getting an education. I’m removing myself from the arena and taking a final bow. La corrida se terminó motherfucker.
Going for the Throat 