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Question of the Day! | by kickstart | 2006-11-19 12:23:33 |
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Old: Life sucks, and then you die. | by aDiPlOmAt | 2002-06-13 01:15:39 |
| Actually Life aint that fair as to let you die... |
by Mordeo |
2002-06-13 03:08:31 |
| you see, it's more like "Life sucks and then you get cancer..." (this is a tribute to Denis Leary by yours truly, may he smoke in peace and never get cancer) then you go into chemotherapy, feel like sh*t for several years, lose all your hair, your money, your girl, your dog, sell your car, computer and house to pay for the medical bills and end up on the street when you finally get out of the hospital with a clean bill of health. But at least you got your health. WRONG! Happy and lightheaded from the good news about your now absent cancer (and lack of food) you stroll over the street enjoying the beautiful sunny day and WHAM! - you get hit by a bus! So you are hospitalized yet again, carted into E.R. by a drunk bozo who found your body behind the dumpster where you landed after the meeting with the greyhound bus, your mouth still tasting "funny" after the old bugger gave you mouth-to-mouth - disregarding your fervent protests. But at least you've finally home again - in the hospital you have grown so used to. Safe. And delusional. Your E.R. doctor of the day has just had a fight with the missus over his long work-hours and has just taken "a little something" to brighten up his day (and melt away his brain) so he's leaning over the crushed bloody pulp you think of as your body, thinks he can see maggots crawling over you and bad-trips, throwing you with full force into the wall, proceeding to throw "holy water" (his canteen of moonshine) at your open wounds and reciting "the Holy Scriptures" (Jimi Hendrix lyrics) while jumping up and down on your head to "drive out the demons". After about 15 minutes of this joyous holy moment of exorcism he is finally dragged off by four nurses and given a week off with pay since he "seems to be a little overworked". So you lie there in the hall, bleeding and aching, with bad moonshine seeping into your bone marrow and a funny taste in your mouth, and reach for a cigarette to celebrate your happy day only to find that the bozo with the bad breath have nicked your lighter and your cigarettes are all broken and covered in cheap booze and nosebleed. And now my friend, on the hospital floor looking at your body fluids permeating the other stains of blood infected with even-God-doesn't-know-what, contracting everything the crappy hospital and the medical world in general has to offer in terms of diseases and infections, germs and bacteria having a feast on your already sickness-ridden under-nourished yet cancer-free body, you realize something.... You see the meaning of life! Or at least parts of it, in all it's filthy K-Mart glory, so you try to discern the big picture and pick up a still smoking cigarette butt on the floor, drawing deep while you try to place the pieces of the meaning of life in your head. South state, no filters, half smoked by a bonged crackbrother with a death wish - after some modifications called drugs of course. So smoke is rushing down your lungs screaming for lung tissue, and entering your bloodstream cheering, and while the overdose of crack big enough to wipe out the entire planet's population of elephants is rapidly dissolving your internal organs your brain says "Whoa!", heart says "Eep!", liver and kidneys says "Gaaaaargh", lungs says "SEE YA!" and leaves your body with your larynx and stomach to start a new and better life somewhere else. For instance in that waste basket down the hall where a drunk bozo with a funny breath is searching for his lunch. So the meaning of life eludes you yet again as King Cancer steps back up greetings you with a voilent smoker's cough and black phlegm, and you pass out to give room for more tumors in your no longer cancer-free body, moving in where your organs once were. And this is the time you die. If you're lucky! But rest assure that Life has more goodies in store for you, so you will probably live to see another day - only this time as a cancer-ridden brain in a jar on the shelf in a drunken bozo's cardboard home, where you'll be fed cigarette butts and moldy orios, and petted every night from nine to twelve. Cheers! |
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