Death From Above

they say 3 percent of the people use 5 to 6 percent of their brain
97 percent use 3 percent and the rest goes down the drain
I'll never know which one I am but I'll bet you my last dime
99 percent think we're 3 percent 100 percent of the time"

-Todd Snider




The sun is bright, but the day is cold- like a fools gold paradise while staring out the window with a frosty coca cola in your hand, thinking that's is as cold as it's gonna get.

There are brutes and monsters surrounding your every movement- they cackle and taunt you with 'your mom' jokes, spitting tortillas in your face while they coax you with shallow dreams of a monster called margarita.

Then you find yourself a regular in a Mexican restaurant frequented by whitey and whitey only, having your hand shaken by a Hispanic who rolls his shirt in knots and uses too much hair gel and speaks with a lisp.

After that, You look around the room, find recovering alcoholics with their noses buried in their self help books stuffing their faces with iced tea and salsa, using their only distraction as a tool to conceal their deliberate attempt to spy on lovers, to spy on rock and roll slug heads, happy couples giving each other orgasms under the table while they stare into the reflection of each other in the sunglasses that loopily mangled for decoration yet are not prescription but at the same time they refuse to take off.

Yuppies that like to imitate Harvey Keitel with their worn leather jacket to make up for the beer gut and muscles. Children that run amok like wild Indians on the plains of carpet and tile. Native workers that stop in stride and allow the young blonde new species of human to at first step on their toes and in ten years, to finally walk all over them.

I found this monster margarita sitting in front of me, a hollow globe with a mere glass stem holding it up, "I thought I asked for a not so small one", I happily complained. Then I wished I had a diving board and my swimming trunks. Or at least a goldfish with whom I could share with this joyous blessing on a Sunday afternoon, golden with laughs and blessed with friends that threaten to kill you every other minute. In other words, a good fucking day.

Halfway into my cheese burrito a band of happy go lucky whores of God asked us if there was alcohol in those gargantuan things.

Yes.

"Which one of you is driving?"

Heads were shaken, faces uprooted to a maroon tinge due to the spawn of last minute conscience.

What did it matter we thought, we lived over the hill and down the street, This band of merry pranksters we are, we aren't out to be lectured by a simpleton who is too weak to not only be lassoed into life not only by the vague image of the American dream, but also by God, he who has taunted and harassed us all at one point or another. This spiritual snitch was bludgeoning a good day into something to think about. In other words, he was ruining the good times, and now in reflection, I suppose our actions were doing the same to his. Then this fuck, this cretin, this marvel of spirituality, stood up in his trench coat, squinted through his coke bottle glasses, rubbing his bald head, said he wanted to give us a bible, and out of the three of us, he said, "How many of you are there? Three?" Answering his own question.

Then Like beaten and wounded savage captives, we all eye each other, thinking that we are yes, too drawn in by realities pleasures and Satan's fruitful gifts, he's counting more of us or we're too dumb or drunk to notice one of us is either dead or a dumb brute, manifested with human like qualities and a similar name of that we might call our pet, if we were responsible enough to care for it.

God's Whore meets Gods accidents.

Unlike him though, thank God, (ironically enough) We have restraint. It could have gone:

"Which one of you is driving?"

"Your Mom."

"Your Boss"

"Don't worry I have a plastic Jesus on my Dashboard."

Then of course this whimsical pastor, this stunning spiritual STD handed us TWO cards for the three of us, apparently it was me who was handing them away as soon as they touched my sinful fingers. I've often surmised that I was truly damned and only the truly blessed could see this and figure it out. It gave me a Grinch like smile to know that this hypothesis was not a waste for all of those sleepless nights.

Watch what you say to someone with nothing, It's almost like having it all…

Fifteen minutes later, the Grand tale of the monstrous margarita was over, the goldfish would be dead, swamped in ice cubes and salt- Then all eyes fall on the rascal, the loon, the deedless Orton that puts his hand and picks up my burrito like a lonesome traveler crossing a barbed wire fence- taking a large bite out of it—Scattering it's innards on the table and his shirt. I was nothing but giggles.

Now on my laptop, on it sits a card, entitled, "A BOOK FOR OUR TIME" call this number or visit this website to receive your free copy of this new no nonsense bible, free of charge…

I only would have to sacrifice my name, my email, my sanity and my friends to find solace in losing everything physically to gain it all spiritually, to be sad now for however many years this old ticker has is to be happy for eternity, should eternity exist. Why not sacrifice it all? Especially for a popular myth, a solid dream of 'if'?

I declined. Loneliness is part of the game. Im not sure of life's rules, nor do I care, so long as I wake up and aspirin takes care of the headache, that's fine with me, cus I know a thought like God will not take care of Heartache- Im not sure of much, I don't know if God or the Devil exists, but I know that Misery Loves Company- So Im sure the Devil is my comrade 24 hours a day- So I assume that God is alive out there, somewhere, straddling the horizon, pleasing the peasants like Pastor Bob, the rapist of my reality.

But the only reason now that God exists is because we were created from him-God Loves a sinner, He must love me- 'Those without sin, shall cast the first stone' Those blokes must be boring- God doesn't thrive on those Pastor Bobs that pass out pamphlets at 2:30 in the afternoon, wheres the fun in that? Gods not with them, God is with the ones that put the baby in the microwave, the ones that watch too much TV and then reenact in a crowded school or shopping mall. God Loves fuck ups and Pastor Bob proved it. God was thanking us for our Deviancy personally on his Day, Sunday, while we pounded drinks larger than our heads and spoke lavishly about each other's moms and God himself because without bastards like us, God would not have his daily chuckle. We are the black sheep of reality, but the spoiled children of Jehovah. Godless our Brethren consider us. Blessed are we, those of us who bounce off the retarded morals of common man- we are the gleam in God's eyes, keeping up what is alive. Not only do we hate it, We revel in it.

Six Beers, one Red Bull and a snippet of rum later, I turned the card over, the card that pastor Bob Gave us, if we call the Number on the back or visit the website, we can get our copy of the Bible.

THE RECOVERY VERSION it says is brilliant text.

Maybe, I thought, Since God and my boys, we're all tight like that, It's him, the Man, God, Himself telling us to slow down? I mean, buckets of Margaritas on a Sunday afternoon? Since he loves us so much more than Pastor Bob, he's using ole Bob the Whore to tell us to slow down. But then again, Chaos is more acceptable than mythical planning. It's probably just a reflection from Plato or some Goddamned Everclear song.

I might be under criticism from my fellow creatures and alien peers, but if God is our ringleader, then I must remind you, remind him and all of us of Proverbs 31, 6/7: "Give beer to those who are perishing, wine to those who are in anguish; let them drink and forget their poverty and remember their misery no more."

Yeah, God's listening, and he's naked playing the bongos, thankful, finally of some form of understanding. Satan? He's just a guy that I live with. And yeah, The Man loves him too.