A Day In The Life Of An Earthworm

What’s punk without the soul of grunge and the spirit of funk? A heavier world includes blues-inspired grunge metal as the perfect sound for earth and dirt and worms. Nothing in the world could stop me from worming my way in. Flashback to a West Coast mid-summer’s night in 1994 after Kurt Cobain’s stupid death.

He was fondly remembered. I wrote him poems as a die-hard fan and I liked his music. I saw a few of his first gigs when I visited my aunt and uncle in Seattle. Across the street played my childhood idol slowly losing atoms to chaos amidst the indifferent mountains and hardcore punk rivals. Piece by piece he’d give his soul. Piece by piece I’d join him. And then I went back one last time. To say that I wasn’t part of the whole problem was like not believing Green Eggs and Ham and Fried Green Tomatoes could be made into cool rhythm and blues.

One memorable night in Seattle, I took a page out of the post-grunge post-death of Kurt Cobain. Tilting my head back, the glass of scotch had given me a huge buzz, slowly focusing my eyes at the vaulted ceiling, posters of The Doors and Black Sabbath, but Kurt Cobain was to-die-for. Freely visiting from Burlington, Ontario, Canada and I'd made it inside a rich penthouse in Seattle, Washington to join in on a party dedicated to Kurt’s sick memory. Courtney Love walked over to me and the black leather couch, beside the rustic bar area. She was pale. She wore a long black dress with gold beads draping down from her neck. I'd never forget her don’t-fuck-with-me attitude and sexy, bitchy, out-of-this-world, whore-like attraction almost as though she'd just come off the set of Casting Couch.

“Never-mind the suicide note,” she said.

            

“What?” I asked. I actually never saw the note.

         

“Kurt really wanted to go to Starbucks with you.” There was a tear in her eye.

            

“What? How do you know this?” I asked.

            

“I talked to him on the phone before he got stoned and took his life.”

            

“Seriously?”

            

“Kurt read Earthworms Squirming On A Fishhook and he liked it.”

            

“Thanks,” I said, “I wrote the poem after getting high on a fishing trip.”

            

“A lot of good that did,” she said sarcastically. “What difference does it make?”

            

“Earthworms breathe through the skin and they can’t stay outside in the light for more than hour or they will die. But they don’t feel pain.”

            

“Kurt was a worm,” she said.

            

“I know,” I said and sighed.        

            

“He needed help.”

            

“I’m sorry.” Holy shit, I thought to myself how suddenly I’d become a part of the whole fucking problem. I stared at her sad eyes and her freshly powdered nose.

"You're not sorry." 

Hole's troubled star singer turned away. Her bleached clothes, dyed-purple hair and watery eyes made me think maybe poets were Brothers In Arms and maybe I’d listened to enough Suicidal Tendencies mixed with a twinge of Nirvana. They opened the door to me, so I could join the party and I was grateful. My eyes were wide open watching everyone with drinks in their hands and stoned frowns like the world had ended. Sir Paul McCartney stood in a lonely corner.

Courtney rudely ended the conversation and went to the bathroom. Background music of The Doors whisked her away into another room where she closed the bathroom door. Roadhouse Blues got louder and louder.

The more I got drunk, the more I thought (and believed) how I was separated at birth with Kurt and owed him all apologies for not sitting down to talk over Zen Green Tea and a good old-fashioned orgy of poetry.

I shook my head (almost like I was listening to AC/DC) and just thought wow the whole night.

Is Vladimir Putin Celebrating Thanksgiving?

Nevermind if "Czar" Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin celebrates Thanksgiving, but he ought to be grateful this year. No leader on the planet has escaped as many fucking jams as buddy. But I’m getting hungrier than an abandoned baby in a Russian town Smelling Like Teen Spirit.

There is good Poutine and bad Putin. Poutine is a Canadian dish, originating in the province of Quebec, made with French Fries and cheese curds topped with a light brown gravy-like sauce and soon to be exported by Canadians. Fucking Putin has been the President of motherfucking Russia since 2012, succeeding Dmitry Medvedev. Western economic sanctions are clearly having an impact on motherfucking Russia, governments probably think the Russian people will rise up and demand change if countries create enough suffering for them. The problem with this fucking theory is that most cunt Russians don't mind suffering. They've successfully endured it for centuries.

I think another reason why I’m so fearful of Putin is that Vladimir is a motherfucking scary name. It reminds me of Vlad the Impaler also known as Count Dracula. Dracula’s favourite method of torture was to impale people and leave them to fucking writhe in agony, often for days. The media doesn't like Vladimir Putin or Vlad the Impaler and reported that they both would eat meals on a table set up outside amidst hundreds of impaled victims. On occasion, they were also reported to have eaten bread dipped in blood -- and that is motherfucking fact. From 1448 until his death in 1476, Dracula ruled Walachia and Transylvania. Although the Vatican City once praised Vlad for defending Christianity, it disapproved of his methods. But most religion often depends on my fucking mood. I praise Putin politics for sucking fucking blood for sport, but I disapprove of his lack of praise for Christianity.

The Pope’s 10-day trip to the United States and Cuba reminds Canadians how they’ve been snubbed. Native American lives matter and the Pope has more important things to do. He’s very busy bringing back exorcisms to the modern Catholic Church. The Roman Catholic Church’s chief exorcist said his recent exorcism caused superhuman strength in a woman and that the Pope’s efforts did not rid her of the hostile spirit. I loved The Exorcist and enjoyed watching the movie about 10 or 11 times. Father Guido Sarducci warns the Vatican about the dangerous threat of sexy vampires. The Pope, Putin, and Vlad the Impaler might have many dark secrets, but I want to fucking know the motherfucking dark secret emails from Hillary Clinton’s private server. I want to be Hillary Clinton’s personal IT department.

Hillary Clinton said in a recent speech that she wants a woman on the Bill. Bill Clinton is a very, very lucky guy. Americans need a woman president that wants to see some serious fucking around. I would offer my motherfucking services to edit a book on Hillary’s secret emails. And let it be fucking known that a wounded Hillary Clinton could limp through Democratic primaries and the Civil War and still survive. The GOP only got eleven percent of the nigger vote in the last presidential election. The Oregon State Beavers and Oregon Ducks have equal records in college football, but don’t be fooled. The Civil War is more important than politics or football. The Civil War is about fighting for fucking women’s rights. The Beaver is more important than the Duck. The Duck needs to be hunted and killed for Thanksgiving.

All I fucking care about is Oregon football and Halloween clown masturbation, but first I need to celebrate Thanksgiving with family. Thanksgiving is a holiday so nice that it happens fuckin' twice for somebody like me who has dual citizenship. It’s about football and not talking about religion or Vladimir Putin or Canadian media. It’s a joyous time to eat duck and give thanks. I want to give thanks for the blessing of the harvest, and fucking dust off my gorgeous HDTV set as I prepare for Civil War.

Happy Thanksgiving or Columbus Day!