Somewhere in the twisted wrinkles and folds lodged between my ears there is a neuron holding specific electrical signals that telegraph memory shards of having at some point in the past splashed the following across the pixels of my blog but a quick search through my rantage produced a big goose egg. So, I present, in the full spirit in which it was originally broadcast,
The Duckman Philosophy
And when you think about it, isn’t that exactly the point?
And driving. And shopping. And eating. And working. Somewhere, somehow, they’re different now, none of ’em are the same, they all got chewed up and spit back out, and they don’t taste like living anymore! Don’t you see what it’s like in this deranged Whirring Blender of a world?! Every day is an agonizing ordeal, like balancing a pot of scalding water on your head while people whip your legs and butt … Aaaah, you never forget your senior prom … YOU think I’m “sick”?! Well the only disease I’ve got is “Modern Life,” a schnubusting gauntlet of inefficiency and misery that’s one long parade of let-downs, put-downs, trickle downs, shutouts, freeze outs, sell-outs, numb nuts, nincompoops and nimrods, all making every day as much fun as waxing a flaming Pontiac with your tongue, where even if you do luck into the possibility of some fleeting pleasure, like, say, if some nymphomaniac telephone operator with the muscle control of Romanian mat-slappers agree to a little strip air hockey, it’ll be over before it starts ‘cuz some vowel-lacking, feta-reeking cab-jockey slams his checker up your hatchback and the cab is owned by some pinata spanker from a Santeria cult in Xoacalpa who starts shaking chicken bones at you and gives you a boil on your neck so big all it needs is Michael Jordan’s autograph to make it complete, and even with all this, with ALL THIS, I still drag my sorry butt off the Sealy every morning and stick my face in the reaping machine for one more day, knowing when it’s time to flash the cosmic card key at those Pearly Gates, I won’t be in the coffin anyway ‘cuz some underhanded undertaker sold my heart, pancreas and other assorted Good ‘N’ Plenty to that same Santeria cult so does anybody really wonder why anybody is hanging onto sanity by the atoms on the tips of their fingernails while life dirty-dances on their digits, and is it really any wonder that I seem DERANGED???!!