God was Murdered

FBI Warning: No vodka, marijuana, dairy products or chicken was consumed during the production of this gourmet article. This article does not promise any communal violence, if any occurs, will be purely coincidental. It does contain overdoses of insensitivity & India-bashing, which may result in my bashing & my house being pelted with assorted cheap vegetables & worn flip-flops. And I’m really hoping for such a result. A broken bone & vandalized walls are the price I’m glad to pay to become famous. The Beatles song: A Day in the Life (No. 26 on all-time greatest songs). The opening lyrics go like this: “I read the news today, oh boy, about a lucky man who made the grade And though the news was rather sad, well I just had to laugh I saw the photograph; he blew his mind out in a car (shot himself dead)” I had a similar reaction to the BREAKING NEWS of a man being killed by a white tiger in a Delhi zoo. I chuckled. I have no sympathy for the deceased. On t

I roll out of the cab through the window. Al Pacino is thinking if he should’ve dropped me at the mental institute instead. He helps me with the baggage out of the boot. He wants to get rid of me. He zooms off as soon as the last bag is out. I’m standing under this old tree. Tree’s eyes have seen it all, he’s been here a while. I say hello to him via wink-&-nod. I rotate & suck in the surroundings. I take a deep breath & make some weird throaty noise. ‘So this is what freedom smells like.’ I whisper to myself. I’m usually not so frenzied. I tell you there’s something in this wind. When I’m normal I lift my hand bag & head towards the block that reads: Monash Residential Services. As I enter the room I notice the girl sitting behind the desk. Her name plate reads Tamika-Holly S Faulkner. She has two official first names, hyphenated, plus middle initial. And Al Pacino thought I was crazy. ‘I’m here to pick my keys’ I say clearly distracted by the holist

You know what’s the greatest tragedy in a 19-year-old teenage boy’s life? Ya! I know what you sons of bitches are thinking: Being gay (god hate homos), divorced parents, bitch-of-a-step-mom, girlfriend hooking up with best friend & all that crap. That shit’s nothing.   I’ll tell ya the real tragedy. The real fucking tragedy. Is when you find out you’re the only loser in your family of 6 who isn’t getting laid. Your sister, brother, mother, father & holy jesus, everybody is getting laid. Oh it’s a catastrophé. To add insult to injury you’ve taken the longest to get laid & still a virgin. Holy cow! In about a month you’re gonna be 20. No more a teen & still a fucking-virgin (spot the oxymoron). My dire condition gave me nightmares. My bed, the nights scared the living daylights outta me. Oh you don’t wanna know unless you’ve suffered like I’ve then you’d know it already. Hurts. When you’re a teenager the greatest agenda of your life is to get rid of the dr