144 – SILLYSAURUS ON PSYCHEDELICS 6

“Should I ever forget” Margot said to Daisy, “remind me to never play cards with you.”

“The funny thing is that I don’t play cards. I played some, when I was a kid, crazy 8s, and go fish, and what not, but I lost interest in cards by the time I became a teenager. But now, after that hallucination, or whatever it was, I’m kinda interested in playing cards again.”

“What I find most interesting about that hallucination, or whatever it was,” Margot said, “was your ability to know who was bluffing. There’s a similarity in that and you calling the old Holy Shit guys a bunch of phony baloneys, in the other trip you took. Obviously, they’re both rooted in your ability to read people in real life. You have never had any time for insincere, disingenuous people.”

“Fucking bullshitters, is what they are, pardon my French. And, no, I ain’t never had no time for none of ‘em, and I can usually smell ‘em a mile away, even if they’re wearing a gallon of toilet water, pardon my French.”

“That will stead you well in life, girl, especially if you can apply it to your love life.”

“Good golly, Miss Margot, does that ever get anmy easier? ‘cause that was another trip I was on, and even in a God damn acid trip, I still got it all bass ackwards ‘bout a boy.”

Margot laughed out loud, “I don’t know if it gets any easier. I guess it gets easier to spot trouble in someone, but that makes it harder to fall in love. But never mind that, ‘cause everyone has to find out for themselves, so tell me about your psychedelic love affair.”

“God damn, he was pretty, Miss Margot. Pretty smart, and pretty stupid, too, if you know what I’m saying.

“He was an artist. Not really an artsy fartsy artiste, ‘cause I don’t know how much I could take of one of them, no matter how pretty he is. But he was real creative. He could paint, and write, and sing and dance and do most anything creative, I suppose.

“And he was weird, like me. Like me but weirder. Not is  the good way, weirder, but in the bad way weirder., if you take my meaning.”

Margot silently signaled that she kinda did, but kinda didn’t, so Daisy explained.

“If a weirdo is too weird, it don’t matter how brilliant they may be, they can never stop being weird long enough to get their shit together to do the things they need to do to accomplish anything in life.”

“Oh, yeah, I have known a couple of them,” Margot said.

“I suppose they been around forever, and lucky me, I even found one in hallucination!”

“Tell me,” Margot said, with great expectations.

“I don’t even know if this one had a name. he may have been too weird to have a name. His parents may have known it from the second he was born. They just looked at him and said, ‘Oh, fuck it. He‘s a fucking weirdo. It don’t matter what we call him, he ain’t gonna listen to no one who ain’t him,’ so they didn’t bother naming him. But I guess iot will make the story easier if he has a name, so let’s just call him Art, ‘cause that he said about himself, anyways. He said he was art, as if he, and only he, was art. As if everyone else isn’t art. Pretentious twat. How the fuck did I ever fall in love with him?”

“Because he was pretty?”

“Yeah, that’s usually how it starts, ain’t it?” That being a rhetorical question, Daisy continued without waiting for a reply. “But this one was so, so pretty. I swear, when he passed gas, Beethoven’s Ode to Joy came outta his ass.” Daisy laughed, then pressed her point, and the joke, by plugging her index fingers into her ears, mocking Beethoven’s deafness, and humming the chorus, with great comic enthusiasm, which left Margot in hysterics.

The girl concluded her brief musical interlude, and moved back to her story. “So, Halloween was coming, and he didn’t have no money to buy no candy for the kids. And I wouldn’t give him no money, ‘cause I knew he would either spend it on drugs, or buy candy and eat it all himself.

“So, he got kinda snarky. But then he got all artsy weirdo. He said he had ten cans of black spray paint, so he was gonna round up all the neighbourhood cats, and spray paint ‘em black, and hand ‘em out to the kids on Halloween, ‘cause what could be more Halloween than getting a black cat?”

“There’s a Monty Python kinda logic to that,” Margot said, chuckling.

“Well, sure there is, if you’re making a funny film, but he was gonna do it for real, the God damn weirdo. Until I told him he can’t do that, ‘cause he’ll get in trouble with the cops, and the animal rigts people, who I’m friends with already, ‘cause I’m a vegan, and will tell ‘em all about it.

“And he got all artsy fartsy pissy, saying I didn’t understand the genius of it, ‘cause I ain’t no artsy fartsy artiste like him.

“But then just as fast as summer lightning, he changed his mood. He was laughing, and laughing. I asked him what the Hell he was laughing about, ‘cause he was laughing so hard, and so loud, and for so long, that I was starting to laugh along with him, and I wanted to know what the Hell I was laughing about, otherwise they’d be coming to take me away, haha.

“So, he says he has a better idea. He says instead of giving away black cats, he would just invite the kids inside, and they can pick one of the cats, and spray paint them theirselves. That way, he said, if anyone got in any trouble, it would be the kids. And, he said, he could call it an art workshop for kids, and an art experiment for him, and no one nowhere ain’t never done any art anything like it before.

“I didn’t feel like fighting with him, so I just said, ‘Yeah, sure, whatever,’ ‘cause I know he’s a lazy assed weirdo, and ain’t gonna get his shit together long enough to actually do it, anyways.

“So, I just told him he was losing his shit, going insane, and he said, ‘What’s wrong with going insane? If you go the rigt kinda insane, it can be a lotta fun. So, don’t fight it, baby, work it!’

“Then I realized even that didn’t matter anyway, ‘cause it didn’t matter where the fuck he was going in life, he wasn’t getting anywhere, so he can’t even go insane without fucking up and getting lost.

“And sure ‘nuff, he got lost when we was going on vacation. We was flying somewhere, and were supposed to meet at the airport. But he got caught in traffic, or so he said, but I knew he was getting high, or gettin’ some from some jizz guzzling floozy groupie. So, I said fuck it, and got on the plane without him.

“So, I’m sitting in my seat, ready for take off, when the stewardess comes and asks me to come with her. Well, Hell, I know he’d done something retarded and it was gonna fuck up my vacation. Sure nuff, they took me off the plane, and said they wanted to talk to me.

“First they stick me in a room, and a minute later in comes Art, grinning like a short-busser who’s been huffing gas. Then a cop comes in rigt behind him, and start asking ‘bout my religious convictions. I told him I ain;lt got none, and ask why the Hell he’s asking me, anyways.

“Well, it turns out Art had spray painted the words ALLAH FUCKIN’ AKBAR on the outside of his suitcase in big yellow letters.

“So, I ask him WTF he done that for, and he says it was to make it easier to find on the carousels, ‘cause everyone’s got a cheap black suitcase, so his was gonna stick out.

“And as he’s explaining this, I’m watching our plane taxi out onto the runway, and I just wanna strange the idiot, ‘specially cause he’s still laughing, and saying he ain’t done nothing illegal, ‘cause it’s just art, and art ain’t illegal.

“And rigt them I knew that he was gonna spend the rest of his life raking his hand through the underwear of the couch, looking for change, and half sucked jawbreakrs to finish off, so just just sighed, and left him there.”

Clapping and laughing, Margot said, “I guess you’ll be staying away from artists, from now on, then, huh?”

Daisy dodged the question, because she knew better than to make a commitment like that.

Shaking her head, she said, “God damn artists. They just spew nonsense, and leave it out there for people to figure out WTF it means. Sooner or later someone does figure it out, then someone else figures something else out about it, then they fight about it, and the artists says fuck all, and then everyone proclaims the artist  a genius, a sage, a visionary, and still ain’t no one knows what the fuck any of it’s about.”

145 – OLD LEATHER PUSSY 6

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