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Hope, you've got to have it. Um, actually it won't do any good. Dr, Seuss fans out there?
Xavier Cockroachal Damon

“Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one.” Theodor Geisel, A.K.A Dr. Seuss

I stepped from the glorious joyful wonderment of my lovely abode into the gentle early morning air, greeted by the warming caress of the early sun, raising once again to embrace the gorgeous, blessed world of splendor, as it always did, but it goes without saying, with an ear to ear beaming smile, a sweet welcome, hope, beautiful, blessed hope with every ray it caressed the land itself and all upon it. Oh yes, there was no doubt. This would be the day. A day of unbridled pure happiness and joy. Happiness and joy, yeah, kind of the same I know but who cares, for that was all this miracle could possibly bring, led down that path of pure ecstasy by that ever present instinct. Hope, wondrous, deliverer of euphoria undeniable. Nay! For hope suggests that something might, possibly not go completely and in every way right but this was hope without any possibility of not being rendered fulfilled by the day’s proceedings.
I looked out upon this magnificent world and knew, knew without question, this, this would be it. This was going to be the best day of my life. Oh yes, but who amongst you could ever possibly deny, that statement, unquestionably a thought and sentiment so immensely deserving. Nay! The most deserving of thoughts that should give rise to musical creation, for tis not that what music. Nay! All “art” should do, it’s only possible reason for its creation, hope.

Oh hope, oh hope you, how could one not carry you always within their mind, heart, and soul. Hope. It’s what keeps us going and so going I got, walking out into the world, no need for a jacket, warm embrace of the sun more than enough, out to see how many blessed miracles the day would grant me. All the people smiled as I trotted by, and back I smiled till all wanted to cry, tears of joy, man, woman, girl and boy. Oh, um, hoy, hoy, hoy, ah, yoy, yoy. Onto a field I walked. Oh most gorgeous of days. Flowers abound and surround, sweet smell and sight, me maneuvering around, them parting when I couldn’t, cohesive dance from partners who knew each other’s steps before ever being taken. Into the exquisite sky I gazed as I walked, the sun, a wink and smile, wordless comment to me of “Hey you, you wonderful, perfect presentation of the glory of life. Thank you, you just made my day!” To which I returned with my own wordless comment of “You made mine as well, thank you more than you are thanking me. Nay! Let us both just say we thank each other the same so that we run not the risk of any seeming contest of thankishdumb, that way both have won, oh glorious, blessed, wondrous sun!” Um, admittedly it was quite the wordless glance.

Oh sunny you, how you glanced back as if to say “Oh you, as you always are, genius, wise, could never do wrong, so together let us sing together a blessed happy song!” And so across the field I began to skip, the most divine of rainbows caressing the sweet, blessed air and sky, but there had been no rain, how could there possibly be on a day such as this. And so out into that field I skipped, me and my dearest of friends, the sun, signal of another wondrous day, singing together, out loud both this time, as I skipped “Life it is a wonderful thing. Makes you happy, makes you laugh, makes you sing. Life it is a wonderful thing. Ding a ling, ding a ling, ding a ling! La, la, la, la, la. La, la, la, la, la.” An acoustic guitar magically appeared in my arms and on it I began to strum “Kumbaya my lord, kumbaya, kumb--”. Oh motherfuckin fuck this motherfuckin, fuck off motherfuckers, are you motherfuckin kidding me motherfuckers because if you motherfuckers aren’t motherfuckin kidding me, well then, you’re motherfuckin kidding me motherfuckers! Oh Jesus Ganesh! Modicum of negativity I might, occasionally, and at times transmit so try something a bit more optimistic I figured, powered by that benevolent juggernaut, hope. But so help me, that shit was by far, no measurement needed, the motherfuckin biggest amount of pure bullshit ever created within the history of this spinning speck of dust and dung, and that unarguable statement of fact is made, even taking into account, the 263 year life of Mortis the Tortoise who lived forty thousand years ago, um, admittedly poorly named for Mortis was in fact an actual bull. Rather large bull, 945,622 pounds to be exact and you want to see bullshit, um, but why in hell would you want to see bullshit? Um, well, trust me with Mortis you would indeed see bullshit, yet that bullshit, all 263 years of it combined, was really like the one time gnatshit of a newborn gnat, oh fuck this, and fuck that, and, um, yeah, fuck this shit as well. There is also the quite close resemblance of Mortis the Tortoise to Dr. Seuss’ Yertle the Turtle name wise, but considering Mortis was there 40,000 years before the story of Yertle was penned, who exactly copied and plagiarized whom? And so fuck you Dr. Seuss! Motherfuckin right. It was that kind of day, as all days were, the kind of day that made you want to say “Fuck you Dr. Seuss!”, screaming it to the sky as I was then doing, standing in a field of weeds, crab brush, rotten soil, flowers black and wilted, petals dropping to the cold soil, remembering as they fell to their death, that dream they once had, when life still presented color, “Maybe life will be happy and good and go well.” A dream never realized. But back to you Doc. You dumbass cock motherfucker! And so to the sky I let loose, “Fuck you Seuss you motherfuckin motherfucker! You dumbass motherfucker, motherfucker! Fuck you motherfucker! A doctor, motherfucker? You must be motherfuckin kidding me motherfucker because if you’re not motherfuckin kidding me motherfucker you’re motherfuckin kidding me motherfuckin motherfucker. Fuck you motherfucker you dumbass motherfucker, motherfuckin motherfucker you dumbass motherfucker, Seuss you “Dr.” motherfucker because dumbass motherfucker, sure doctors really do generally write really crappy children’s books don’t they. So fuck you motherfucker, motherfuckin motherfucker dumbass motherfucker Seuss!”

Hoorah! Second place in the race for Guinness record just achieved! Most times the word motherfucker used in a paragraph. Owner of the top spot. Well. Me as well. That paragraph was just the word motherfucker repeated over and over for thirty pages. That work was not well received. But. It was taken out of context. Context of the previous paragraph is, of course “Fuck you Dr. Seuss you motherfuckin motherfucker!”

Yeah, it was that kind of day, but weren’t they all.

As for the day, back to the start. As for the sun’s gentle warming embrace. Not really there. Many hour solar eclipse occurring, darkness slowly eating light till light was darkness itself. Gentle breeze? Fuckin hurricane. Didn’t need a jacket? Really fuckin needed a jacket. That’s what I was thinking, now laying on the ground, having collapsed from vodka downed that sent me down, Seuss abuse having taken my final ounce of strength, sending me to the ground, falling upon glass from broken bottles. Me drinking from my own bottle, smoking a cigarette, looking up into the sky.

There was actually a rainbow though. A rainbow of black, dark red, dark purple that had shot from hell, piercing the sky like an arrow, tearing it open, within hurricane winds and rain, pulling from the bowels of heaven, snow. Hurricane. Snow. Put together one could probably assume there would be a lot of snow. But there I lay upon the broken glass upon the field. Drinking my vodka, smoking cigarettes because I was far too way too fuckin drunk to possibly move. That last straw. That event that had sent me to the ground, eyes starting to close, pass out coming on, to be awaken from, or not, beneath what the good lord knows not however many fuckin feet of snow? The argument with Dr. Seuss. And so. As I struggled to keep my eyes open, knowing I would lose the battle I sang to myself, voice but a whisper, what I did every night, words repeated every time, in the moments before sleep, prior to slipping from light into blackness deep, my bedtime story, lullaby, “Fuck you Seuss. How I wish you would die. You dumbass motherfuckin dumbass motherfucker douche. Wait, is he already dead? Shit. Should probably check that out tomorrow. Nighty might you fuckin prick. Um, him, but also me. We’re both pricks you see, because...” I would always fall asleep at that same point and I never actually ever did find out if he was dead any of the times, the morning after. But it was with this I was laid not so gently down to sleep this day. This, actually my day’s start.

Ah yes thank the lord, another day had begun.

Certain to be endless fun.

Was there any way to deny that...

This was going to be the best day of my life.

Again, Tis not that the meaningful statement that needs to be made about life. That needs to give rise to “artistic” creation. The story that must be told? Powered, of course, by ever present hope and joy. Um, actually the night before, in truth, I was actually powered by Hope and Joy. Um, but, Hope and Joy being two prostitutes I had hired for a threesome. And, o.k., powered, that might not actually be the right word because we didn’t actually have sex. But it wasn’t because I was too drunk to do it, though I was indeed extremely inebriated, truth is, all I really wanted to do that night is talk. Which they did. Admittedly, not bad conversationalists. Of course, when conversation ended with me passing out they did steal all my money and other belongings, as they were at times apt to do. Suppose, one might consider there was no contender to the throne the night prior, to suggest that though makes me a liar, for many and all race to the line, photos in the many thousands, but dare I declare, maybe. Nay! Definitely, this is going to be the best day of my life.

You’ve got to have hope. You have to have Hope.

Um, only because Joy thinks you’re a douche and won’t ever actually have sex with you even after you’ve paid her.

But dis ba da best guh da ba life. More meaningful words. Lyrics demanding to be penned. Never before had there been.

“Ooh look, snowflakes.” And so another day had begun...

Avalanche fallen from mountain most high, poured down from the gash in the sky. Beneath this is where I awoke, another day already starting to choke. Gag and retch as its throat is being torn, another delivery of another still born, all the patrons of the party saying to each other “I don’t know how to do the Heimlich, you know how to do the Heimlich?” “I don’t know how to do the Heimlich, you know how to do the Heimlich?” One of the patrons bravely stepping forward with the words “Well, I don’t know how to do the Heimlich but I’ll give it a try, if not he may very well die.” His name by the way, if interested, was Burt. So he gave it a try with the words “What could it hurt.” These words were immediately followed by the words “Oh shit, I just broke his ribs. That’s, probably not helping the situation. Oh shit I, oh fuck. I, probably shouldn’t have tried to do the Heimlich. Live and learn. Everyone, let this be a lesson to all, do not attempt to perform medical procedures on someone without knowledge of how to actually do so. You’ll just make matters worse. Oh, he’s kind of turning blue, wonder if he’s breathing. CPR? Well, no clue how to do it. But. Hell, I’ll give it a shot. What could it hurt?”

Hope. One must always have hope.

Sure, why the hell not, when you’re buried under 58 feet of snow, because it could be worse, snow actually tapered off within the final minutes of the blitzkrieg from the sky, all precipitation ending after about an hour. Um, but that’s only because it changed to freezing rain. Meaning topping off the 58 feet of snow was 6 feet of solid ice. Um, kind of thinking that is worse actually. ‘What the hell do I do if I ever reach it?’ I wondered to myself as I began my upwards climb through the snow. I just decided I would figure it out when I got there. Besides, mother nature had, apparently gone motherfuckin insane with her constant inconceivable weather fluctuations so by noon it would probably be ninety-four, me spilling to the ground in an impromptu water ride. Global warming, there’s also global warming, oh thank God for global warming. And so up I began my climb, up through the freezing mountain I lay beneath.

Temperature hit 102 degrees by 11AM and back to the ground, onto the broken glass I was poured. Look on the bright side one must always do. It could have been worse. I could have landed on the, um, dead flowers. But tis a sin most grievous to kill, um, well already dead, but to defile things such as flowers or trees, what could possibly be worse, so speaketh those with intact moral compass as they sit at a table, feasting on lobster, beef, and veal, dialing the police on their smartphone because that homeless person, sleeping in the alley outside the restaurant that he or she sees while eating is well, really being a downer they don’t want to have to see. But yes, by all means, save the trees because they are beautiful and poetic. Of course the animals that live on the trees, “Ah fuck it, let’s eat the fuckers! Or just fuckin shoot’em. Shot something, what did I just shoot, what was my kill? Oh that, fuck that, I aint eating that. Oh, another one. Got it! What is it? A Sloth. Cool, never gotten a Sloth before. Never eaten a fuckin Sloth, you want to eat the fuckin Sloth?

Yeah let’s eat the fuckin Sloth! You see, when Sloth hunting one must always remember to lead his shot so that the Sloth doesn’t get away.”

But, I mean, land on broken glass, I mean it’s already fuckin broken so, you know, who are you hurting, unlike, landing on, fuckin flowers. You see flowers and trees were put there by God to be a delight to our eyes, and so soothe the soul. Animals. They were just put there so we could kill them for whatever fuckin reason we have at that particular moment. Priorities.
And so I thought to myself as I tumbled down, end over end to the ground and broken glass below, ‘Oh broken glass how hath thou been? So fondly I do recall our first embrace so let us kiss once more. As I French kiss the earth’s floor. And know that I am carrying you with me even when not upon you, um, literally that is. Many of the pieces sort of lodged in my back. But oh broken glass soon you shall be whole again! Um, well, not literally whole so to be speak. You are, of course, broken, but, what I mean to say is you shall be wholly broken once again. Wonder if it’s going to hurt or do any major damage? Nay! I wonder not. Sure it won’t, how could it possibly? For this is going to be the best day of my life!”

Hope! Hope! You have to have hope!

Well, you know, Joy still thinks you’re a douche. Hope, by the way, she sort of contracted Syphilis and AIDS. Though, the Syphilis she actually has had for quite some time, you learned. Meaning she had it those several times you chose not to use a condom, and those times you went oral on her. Hmm. Might that possibly explain a few things? Who knows, can’t say That three year old carrying the severed head, standing with sockets where eyes should be, ordering you to slay all the maquishtadons, because they are trying to steal all the bones of your left foot, then right, so that they can surgically implant them back but in the opposite foot, who are standing before the army of quequilliaqueeshtadors, alien predecessors to the Templars, who, hmm, actually bear an uncanny resemblance to the odd looking woman on the cover of “Hooray For Diffendoofer Day” while Truffula Trees burn in the background, oh fuck thyself Seuss, thou art no Mother Goose, sort of commanded my attention at the moment as I fell down, ever down, to the hard earth below.

Hope. Thou musteth haveth itith.

Um, that would certainly seem quite the lengthy thought process for the fall but you see, I had actually made a hell of a lot of progress in a very short time, having already reached the layer of ice that I was already chipping through. It was an amazingly productive climb...Um, then the entire mountain was melted in a flash and I fell 60 feet to the ground, onto the broken glass.

Joy, hun, what the heck did I ever do to you baby?

The fall actually could have been worse because somehow I managed to land on my feet. Well, ankles actually. Both of which broke. The glass. Sort of severed both Achilles. For why have one weak spot when you can have two. I stood from the ground and hobbled out of the field, I firmly believing. Nay! Knowing, this was going to be the best day of my life.

Four letter word. I’m seeing a four letter word to best exemplify this day. What might that four letter word be? The one that will always save you from distress though certainly not the one that begins with an S. Leading you to, of course say, the word proving all will go my way. That word of course not the one that ends in a K. That word? Oh fuck this, no possibility things will go badly, shit. Hope. The word is hope.

I was determined to find something that was fun. For is not fun fun? I mean fun is fun that’s what fun is, fun. Fun is what fun is. Tis it not? “Fun is good” or so sayeth Seuss. Is anything more fun than fun because fun, when you are talking about fun, is fun, and that’s what fun--

Got hit by a truck while trying to cross the road, the impact sending me tumbling back down the tall hill I had just climbed.

Down at the bottom of the hill I lay for a while. Drinking more vodka. Smoking cigarettes. After around an hour a peculiar looking character appeared, walking up to me, then looking at me down on the ground. “Pardon me but would you like some green eggs and ham?” His name was Sam. Sam then said “Trust me, resisted them at first quite vehemently. But when I finally tried them, oh dear me, dear me, never a more tasty delicacy, best food ever tasted, to think so much time wasted, to not savor something so divine, now every day this dish is mine. So tell me, would you like to try some green eggs and ham?”

“I’m a vegan you douchebag, so damn, fuck your green eggs, more so ham. Green or not, does not mean a lot. It’s the thing itself, not the color we should see. Colors you don’t like still should be free. For life, love, and liberty. So as you stand and stare down at me. There’s only one thing that should be. Get hit by a truck you dumb motherfuck. I’m a vegan you Goddamned douchebag douche.”

“Hmm.” Uttered the peculiar looking person. “You’re really missing something. You’ll regret not trying them. But, regret you will not, for I’m sure one day them you will have got. Good day friend.” With that Sam was off. After another cigarette, some more vodka, I was as well.

I walked for a while, happening upon a beach, I hobbled onto it so that I might gaze out at the ocean. I walked up to the edge of the water, waves rolling over my feet onto the sand. I decided to step into the waters to see if they might teach me something with their supposed wisdom. I waded around the Olshan, which, by the way is a really shitty writer. But, duh, wait, of course the ocean can’t write. Though neither can the Olshan of course. I threw several stones into the waves. “Hey ocean go fuck thyself!” I screamed. Woops, sorry, typo, “Hey Olshan, go fuck thyself!” I screamed. At exactly that moment, very odd, a woman came up to me upon the sand. Her name was Clara. She was the type of person who wore their melodramatic, bullshit moping heart upon their Olshan, shit, hell of a typo, sleeve. This is what she said to me “You seem like a troubled child. Just look out at the Olshan. So soothing, so peaceful, if inner tranquility you so desire. For what better way to get there then to be an insipid, generic, textbook, bland douchebag, dick, pathetic weasel, meant figuratively, of course, for actual weasels should never be viewed unfavorably, but Olshan weasels, different story. Why a story written by the Olshan itself, a story with so much to teach, why teach that story about that supposedly troubled child to another teacher, accosted in a hall, by he who has not one single ball, because the Olshan is a meaningless, douche employee of the school of GO.F.U. Motherfuckin motherfuck you motherfuckin motherfuck.”

“Um, might I comment here. Of course I don’t actually know you, but still, that last line seems, what you said, somehow out of character for you.”

“Huh, what, wait.” mumbled Clara, shaking her head, darting her gaze around as if awaking from a trance. “Huh, who, what am I, who are you?”

“Do you fuckin care?” I responded.

“Um, no.” she answered.

“Then what the fuck.” I declared.

“What the fuck.” She parroted with a shriek. Then she was off. Slowly walking away, holding up and giving me the finger with both hands as she departed, her back facing me as she walked.
And then departed I did as well.

But where was I off to? That I did not know. For it twas a vast wide, wide, world with so many options. So many places to go.

“Ooh baby it’s a wide world. Hard to get by just upon a smile girl”...Um, dude, eyesight check time. I’m not actually a girl. Nor a woman. Gender completely fucked up by you. I am a little boy, walking around, playing on his drum. Gunter, dude, really, how fuckin lame is that to just throw him momentarily into your other books. You turned the little dude into, like a heroin addict, porn star doing whatever movie for his next fix. “Do not whore out thy own, you pimp, cow milking, literary wise, bastard douche! Jesus Christ I need a drink.” So said a seven year old, really fuckin drunk child, smoking a cigarette, stumbling upon the scene, then stumbling off, out of sight, mumbling something about cigars, crying tears about people named Anna and Maria. Gunter, dude, don’t do it. It’s so fuckin wrong. Only a complete asshole would do such a thing.

Where to now?

So many places it could be. So many choices but which to choose. Whatever the decision, know I, thou cannot lose. For these words cut in no way like a knife. This is going to be the best day of my life.
Hope! Hope! “Ah, what do you mean you can’t come over? You know I’m kinda, you know, really kinda, you know. Tomorrow maybe? But tomorrow I may not be kinda, you know really kinda...Oh shit. What about Joy, can Joy come over? You know, think I’m kind of developing a thing for Joy so...Joy says I’m a douche you say. O.k”....

I continued walking with my broken limbs for several miles, until I was hit by another truck. Driver of that truck. It was Sam. Him screaming at me as I lay there on the ground. “I told you to eat your green eggs and ham didn’t I motherfuckeduckeder? But did you eat your green eggs and ham motherfuckeduckeder? No you didn’t motherfucker. Because you’re a motherfucker motherfucker! So says Sam cause Sam I am!” The truck then sped off, Clara stretching from the passenger seat to give both fingers out the window, screeching “You’re a motherfucker, motherfucker!” laughing wildly as she did.

Might it be. Nay! No question could there be, newly anointed king upon the throne, for though still quite early, already abundantly clear. This was going to be the best day of my life.

I lay in a ditch, spitting out blood ever so often from my ruptured spleen, in between sips of vodka, each stabbing like a knife, while vodka’s wife, cigs, smoked galore like a whore...Um, wait, cigarettes as the wife, then saying a whore, um, oral connotation...Could that be the worst fuckin analogy ever written? Who knows. But Joy, yes Joy, she won’t smoke me. Um, I’m referring to shot with a gun wise, not sexual connotation wise, though certain she wouldn’t possibly ever do that, never have asked her to. But, “Joy, babe, you won’t fuckin sleep with me. Then just fuckin shoot me please.”

“No.” she responded coldly, dismissively.

“Why the fuck not babe?”

“Because then I won’t be able to take more money from you then not have sex with you.”

“Oh, I see. Thy logic is both shrewd and sound wise woman that thou art.”

“So, wanna do it.” she asked without hint of attempted seduction.

“Um, yeah.” I eagerly replied.

“My rate’s gone up. 200 now.”

“O.k. sure. Oh man, gonna get some.”

“Who are you, are you the who I Horton hear, a who who as I latch my teg, pustlewhistle upon my egg as I shreg, but do not beg, weg, heg, leg, dishfillilwiggleheg.”

“Dude, what the hell are you talking about?” I asked the elephant looking down at me.

“Fishkickakillawicki hoo, I went to the land of hooky doo! Where all are happy poopy doo, smiling wicky dicky doo. Oh shlicky, dicky, hicky koo, wuthulish, mumphkish, “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish”. coolicky dicky doo, icky cricky, dicky, what if I ran the zoo? Dicka wicka, sticka moo. Dicky, hicky, dicky hoo.”

“Where the fuck is the land of hooky doo? Please tell so I can stay the fuck away. And, o.k., several other points, kindly refrain from your gibberish so I might make them, please.”

“Eh, why not. Horton will hear what words hatch from this who, this who being you.” replied Horton.

“Thank you.” I sipped from my vodka. “O.k. first and foremost, please stop using so many words that contain the word dick. It’s really kind of freaking me out.”

“Hmm. I see your point. A ricky, licky, hicky, tricky, sticky, quicky point indeed.”

“Um. Licky, tricky, sticky, quicky. Better, but improvements I would say are still possible considering how all those words might appear in conjunction with the word I’m requesting you refrain from using.”
“Well as a mind masseuse named Seuss once bore “Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store.”

“O.k. That is a total non-sequitur. Dude.” I drank again from my bottle.

“These words from Seuss himself. “Whenever things go a bit sour in a job I’m doing, I always tell myself, You can do better than this”. Icky, wicky, dicky, pissy, dicky piss. Iicky, dicky.”

“Hey. Great improvement on the non-sequitur front, but, Horton, dude, the dick thing.”

“Oh shit, forgot.” Said Horton, shaking his head. “To quote again he called Seuss. “Well, step with care and tact, and remember that life’s a great balancing act.” Dicky, dicky. Dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky. Dicky, dicky.”

“Oh crap.” I sipped again from my bottle. “Let’s move on shall we?”

“Dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky. “The Pocket Book Of Boners”, “There’s A Wocket In My Pocket”. Dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky.”

I sighed heavily, drank a large gulp from my bottle then lit a cigarette. “Look. Horton dude, please. I beg of you. Stop doing that. Please.”

“Eh, sure. Why the hell not. You were saying?”

“Thanks dude.” I sipped from my bottle. “If you ran the zoo. Hey, why shouldn’t you run the zoo. I mean does anybody come to the zoo to see the human workers, no. And please, let’s be honest here, those tour guides or the douchebags doing presentations, nobody actually wants to interact with them or listen to them, they’re just doing it because they have to, to see the animals, not those human douchebag losers.”

Horton nodded his head. “Yeah, you’re right, they are douchebag losers.”

“And so many zoos, give me a fuckin break, the way the animals are treated, go fuck thyselves motherfuckers. Pure abuse for human gain, causing animals only pain.”

“Oh motherfucker how I want to stomp on their motherfuckin heads motherfucker!” declared Horton.

“Um, that’s sort of, not your usual style.”

“Hicky, dicky, ricky, shwicky, dickylickyunmethlicky, wasshlickitickydicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky.”

“O.k. that is more you, but again, please stop.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot again. Sorry.” responded Horton apologetically.

“No problem. But there are some zoos, you must admit, where their ultimate goal does seem to be for the welfare of the animals. Usually not called zoos, conservation societies I believe they’re usually called.”

“Yeah, Bronx Zoo not so bad.”

“Not so bad, you’re right. But the problem is, look at what this fuckin, fucked up world does to animal species. I mean, sure all should be able to roam free in a utopia but is that really better than preserving them so they are not obliterated into extinction, but doing so in a facility where they are cared for by those who actually care for them.”

“Hmm, certainly a point to ponder.” observed Horton, nodding his head in thought.

“Cause Horty--“

“Please don’t call me Horty.”

“Oh soory.”

“Drive a lorry.”

“My that would be a story.”

“One that ends in glory?” Asked Horty, um, sorty, Horton.

“Um, no. One that would undoubtedly end with me, drunk off my ass, crashing into a fuckin wall, tree, though hopefully not some other car, carrying a family of four. My rule, stay the fuck away from the steering wheel when drunk off your ass.”

“My philosophy as well I assure you. Did you know I’m the president of EADD?”

“Did not know that. EADD. Elephants Against Drunk Driving?”

“No, it’s Elephants Against Drunken Dicks.”

“Horton, dude, stop with the dick talk. Dude, please, no more dick talk, please!” I pleaded.

“I keep forgetting, very sorry, very sorry.” spoke Horton sincerely.

“I mean look at what happens to every species in Africa.”

“Think I don’t know, ivory tusks dicky.”

“Oh crap Horton.” I took a large swig. “I mean, if a dime can be made from those that are slayed, the price will be payed by lives that are played for fortunes not their own, as that life is literally stripped to the bone.”

“Haphushaquillilumpadump. In the land quaqshishalumpydumpyqump.”

“Exactly Horton, you see you get it. You, get, it.” I declared.

“Get it, I must admit, with elephant wit, I see that shit.”

“And dude, it is shit isn’t it Horton?”

“Oh dicky it is shit.”

“Christ, Horton, try saying dude. Want to call me something that starts with a D, call me dude, dude.”

“That can do dicky dude.”

“Oh fuck.” I drank from my bottle and sighed. “My point is Hortster--”

“Really, please, if it’s o.k., don’t call me Hortster.”

“Um, dude, fine, but will you please stop calling me dicky?”

“No problem dicky dude.”

“Oh crap.” Another sigh, another drink. “My point is.” Sigh, drink, sigh, drink, sigh. Drink, drink, drink. “My point is that in a utopia, zoos would not be needed, but, the world being what it is, aren’t they, if run humanely, not assholishly, sort of, well, needed. And aren’t idealistic views against any and all, sort of missing the point, because they are, always spouted as thinking of the animals. All fine and good in a perfect world, but Horton, dude a perfect world it is not. Tis it not, Horton, dude, said sarcastically by me, “What A Wonderful World?”

“Plug it dicky, plug it, plug that shit.”

“Horton, plug it and dicky, then the word shit. You are really freaking me out by this point dude.”

“Aphashamashapullapumpaqauasatasckaquillataclump. Dicky, dicky, dicky, do.”

“Ah, oh fuck it.” Horton makes a douchebag take many drinks. “Anyway. That’s my stance. That’s how I see it.”

“Food for thought indeed. One must ultimately think of the animal’s need. Not petty, selfish, human greed. Not sure exactly what to do. But this Horton hears this who.”

“A who who is not.”

“An is not who who might speak words that are true. Maybe sometimes you do need a zoo.”

“But you do know what is never needed. Fuckin Circuses.”

“Oh motherfuckin fuck fuckin circuses!” stated Horton.

“Motherfuckin fuck fuckin circuses indeed. All circuses. Every last fuckin fuckin one.” I declared.

“Every last motherfuckin, fuckin one.”

“Sure great for the kids, but for the animals fun?”

“Every fuckin circus should be motherfuckin done, as in undone, as in never done, but you know, motherfucker, that fucker is done type of done.” Horton has a problem with circuses for some reason as well. Why ever could that be?

“Um, one might be tempted to say that should not be true for circuses without animals, but
really Horton, fuck those motherfuckers too but for different reasons. I mean, oh Jesus Ganesh.”

“Jesus Ganesh. Never heard that phrase before. Find it kind of appealing though for reasons I don’t know why.”

“Those things are just fuckin freaky. So please allow me to say, no circus should ever see the light of day, even you fuckers at Cirque Du Soleil.”

“Oh fuck those fuckers at Cirque Du Soleil.” Horton shook his head. “So what are going to do today?”

“I don’t know exactly what the fuck. Probably get hit by another fuckin truck.”

“Hmm.” Horton nodded his head. “Well, very much hope you don’t. But, must be off, but, nice chat. Good chat.”

“Good chat it indeed was, be well Horton. Just gonna lie here and drink for a bit trying to figure out how to walk with two broken ankles, two severed Achilles, and two now broken legs. Later dude.”

“Goodbye, good luck.” Horton walked away a few steps then stopped and turned around, doing a happy dance as he spoke his next words. “Dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky, dicky!” He turned and off again he walked, this time till out of sight.

Hey Seuss try this one out for your next title “Horton turns an extremely heavy drinker into a motherfuckin morbidly obese, to the extent that Mortoise the Tortoise appears a new born calf motherfuckers of the world fuck you all motherfuckers motherfuckin heavy drinker!!! Fuckers!” ...Kind of catchy isn’t it? Of course you may actually be dead. Really should look that up shouldn’t I.

And so after a while of drinking and smoking I picked myself up and carried myself back up the hill, and, um, picked up and carried, actually fitting, for my arms were pretty much the only non-broken bones in my body at this point. I reached the top, glancing around, trying to determine if it was safe to cross. A truck veered from its lane onto the side of the road and struck me, sending me flying back down the hill. There I lay, somehow lifting my now broken arms to light a cigarette and take a drink, and then a drink, and then a drink, why Horton, why, a drink, then a drink, then a drink, then a drink. Mother nature in her padded cell, her mind once again had gone to hell, degrees dropped to ten below, and wo, big surprise, the forecast was for snow. And a hurricane. Another fuckin hurricane. By all means let's begin the process again. So much fun the first time. And so there I lay drinking and smoking, movement for this glorious, blessed episode of wonderment pretty much having reached its conclusion. But tune in tomorrow to see how it goes. Same batshit insane channel. Same batshit insane time. Darkness started to slowly engulf me as snowflakes began to fall. My pre-sleep lullaby rolling from my tongue "Fuck you Seuss how I wish you would--" But then a person happened upon the scene. Staring down at me with a peculiar look.

"Why hello” the man said, “Fun sort of day is it not."

"Um, hi dude, and you would be?"

"Why the name is Theodor Geisel though I'm sure that you already know."

"Um, who the fuck is Theodor Geisel?"

"Why it's me, and me is me and you are you. “And today you are you! That is truer than true! There is no one alive who is you-er than you.” He said with a self-satisfied smile.

"And you are obviously a douchebag who thinks quite highly of himself because if that inane, redundant, goes without saying, rambling attempted wisdom makes you smile at yourself then, well then you're a douchebag."

He smiled again. "Why do you not yourself inanely and redundantly ramble attempted wisdom?"

"Um, well, yeah." I took a drink. "But it doesn't make me fuckin smile, certainly not at myself, not even for the shortest while, because, apparently you do not know, myself I think of quite low."

“Are you then too a douchebag?"

"Um, Joy thinks so." I took a long drink.

"But is not Joy great!"

"Um, yeah, I do really like her actually. She does have a perverse hatred of me for some unknown reason, which is fine, no problem at all with that, an ideologically sound stance without doubt. It's just that she keeps taking my money and won't ever do anything. Even though she does take the money. Hmm, maybe I should keep that in mind next time. Learn from thy mistakes. Interesting concept." I took another drink. "Being evicted actually, don't have money for next month's rent. In my pursuit of Joy, all money burned, life lessons never are they learned. But I still have Hope. You've got to have hope. At least I still have hope." I took another drink. "Actually, no, I kind of don't have Hope anymore because now I'm kind of completely fuckin broke so it’s not like she would spend any time with me at all. So no Joy, no Hope either. What the fuck do I got. Not a lot."

"So what. You have yours, they have theirs’ and I'll have mine. And together we'll be fine. “I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, it's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, and that enables you to laugh at life's realities”. So said Theodor Geisel with a smile.

"O.k., different strokes for different folks I guess. Personally I think it's all mind fucked bloody nonsense that leads you through a perpetual descent into nightmarish inconceivable hell."

"From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere." so observed Theodor Geisel.

"Yeah, well then I must have really crappy eyesight because I don't see a single fuckin one in this horrid, evil, selfish, dumbfuck world." Another drink I took, non-ending procession by the book, but by which book, his quotes or mine, I wonder, I wonder.

"Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better, it's not." Words from Theodor Geisel.

"Um, dude, I do care an awful lot. That's sort of the problem though because all I'm capable of doing is fucking shit up." Words from me, accompanied by a drink.

"You make'em, I amuse'em.” So said a smiling Theodor Geisel.

"Um, no. Um, no. Really don't want to make'em. Pretty much the last thing I want. Pass onto a child my fucked up brain. It would pretty much amount to child abuse. Um, wait, that is what you're referring to right? You don't mean cookies or something do you? Really don't know how to bake. But, if I did make cookies, I guess, why not. Entertain the cookies if you want. Absolutely do not want to bring a child into this fucked up world, especially not with the first thought disadvantage from my fucked up mind. That thought almost certainly being 'Oh crap. Why'd you do this to me? Oh motherfuckin shit, I’m already fuckin sick to death of it.’ Um, don't really want to make cookies either to be perfectly honest."

Theodor Geisel then stated "But right now, when the Japs are planting hatchets in our skulls, it seems like a hell of a time for us to smile and warble: "Brothers!" It is a rather flabby battle cry. If we want to win, we've got to kill Japs, whether it depresses John Haynes or not. We can get Palsy Walsy afterward with those that are left.” He then went on to show me a World War II era political cartoon he had drawn of Japanese Americans lining up from all states to receive TNT from a Japanese man, all depicted with typical blatant stereotypes such as slanty eyes and the like. The caption at the top read “Waiting for the signal from home”. Gee, could such a thing ever possibly have played a hand in Japanese Americans interment? The hell you say, if saying that is what you are saying. Allow me to say what it is I have to say, saying it about the statement and cartoon just said in image and word to me.

I took a long drink. "O.k. douchebag motherfucker. No fuckin clue who you are but you're obviously someone who should be called a motherfucker so I'm calling you a motherfucker you douchebag motherfucker." I took another drink. "My first girlfriend, I always state it was someone coming much later in life, but in truth I would not say that was actually so. You see, where I grew up there were families from Japan, whose companies would send them to America for a few years to work. One of those families had a daughter. And, o.k., we were in the first grade, so as far as relationships go, it couldn't possibly be more innocent. She kissed me once, on the cheek. Family got sent back about a year later. But, truth is, she was actually my first girlfriend I would state, my first relationship. And, unlike every single fuckin one to follow, was not a complete fuckin train wreck disaster. Though." I took another drink. "She did leave the country after only a year and I never saw her again so…And it's really all been downhill since." I drank again from my bottle. "Point being you douche, you just insulted my first girlfriend motherfucker. You know, you're lucky I'm a pacifist you douchebag motherfucker otherwise I'd kick your motherfuckin ass." I drank again. "Though, um, if I wasn't a pacifist you'd still be lucky, because that would be sort of hard to do with two broken arms, two broken legs, two broken ankles, and two severed achilles. But I ask that you don't ever again go insulting her douchebag for though I won't kick your ass even then, I would consider it a grievous moral affront. And so with that now said, I will bid you sir, whoever the hell you are, good, not day, just bye.”

"The slumpadumpawompeteters gofinshkel tinkle wunshofeters!" he said with a smile.

"Shut the fuck up dude. Really douchebag shut the fuck up. And get the fuck out of here motherfucker. I have drinking to do you douche."

And with that Theodor Geisel, whoever the hell he was, happily walked away, uttering some sort of inane, incoherent idiocy. And there on the ground I lay, drinking and smoking, the pace of the snow greatly increasing, the wind starting to pick up, the first breaths of the hurricane's birth, as it marched onward to ravage the earth, entering the day already dissolving, for darkness was starting to crawl across the blackening sky. And on the ground, drinking I did there lie, thinking that maybe. Nay! Thinking that definitely. This was going to be the best day of my life.

Because you've got to have hope. You have to have hope.

The End
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