You don't know vitriol

I'm full of wrath and hatred. Having the kind of day where I hope everyone who's wronged me is rounded up and placed in a small, hot elevator that homeless people have pissed in three times a day, every day for the last twenty-eight or so years that is stuck in a ghetto building. I hope they end up pissing, shitting and vomiting all over each other, disgusted with their surroundings and each other . . . as most of my enemies are obese, smelly and hairy . . . it's easy to imagine, no? Then, the elevator becomes unstuck and there's a freefall of at least 30 floors.

One hopes, hell, not one, me . .I hope that, I pray at night, I wish during the day, that my enemies are failures. That their relationships have gone to shit, they've lost their jobs, they've gained even more weight, they've lost an eye in a fight with a wiry Mexican and that there's a constant cloud of rank badshitness ever floating above them and a myopic parrot sitting on their shoulders saying repeatedly "you're a tool! you're a tool! you're a tool!" and "nobody will ever love you. nobody will ever love you. nobody will ever love you." I hope someone takes them down. Assholes should get what they deserve. And it's not success, fame, kindness or money.

Now that I've purged a bit, a more pressing matter is my fear of shitting in bed. That's right. I drink a lot of beer, smoke some cigarettes and eat weird food and I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of my own ass ripping one out and I'm terrified that the heat underneath my ass is more than gaseous fumes. I'm not sure when the farting in bed developed into a problem but it has me a bit worried, as I often share my bed with a loved one, Mr. Brown, who does not tolerate such behavior, being a very refined poodle.