Saturday, June 2, 2007

Strongly Worded Letter to Vincent Saint-Simon (p. 18)

Strongly Worded Letter to Vincent Saint-Simon
Smiling Fox Vincent,

you walking crotchet, i am beginning to get the feeling that you want something from me, but i cannot possibly begin to imagine what it is. you have the audacity to send me a comment on __Space, no less, about something that i know next to nothing about. i'm sorry that some people simply do not have the respect or consideration any more to keep in mind that some people such as myself are youth-impaired, and thus, memory impaired, and i feel it needless to mention—but i shall for some modicum of measure and the sake of some subtle satiation—that i can barely get up in the morning (which is somewhere around two o’clock) because my back doesn't seem to want me to get out of bed, and if it is not that, then it is my almost constantly palpating righteyeball, as if it is having a seizure. do you think that is pleasant? did you know that a piece of my right pinkie toenail is missing?? did you know that i wasn't at your little summit?? i am halfway tempted not to give the slightest fraction of a fuck—if i may be so vulgar (and i will)—about all these cute little things that are happening. 'Mm, yes, look at all of our lovely ideas, burning up our heads. What's that? What black guy?' exactly. how do all those rectums taste? hm? all those highfalutin flatulence factories, those bombastic butt-holes? do they taste like steam? literature? feminism? painting? goodness, i hope not. but there is an idea, since i know that i will have no emancipation from your interminable inconsequential intimidations and your perpetual provocations; why don't i simply collect all the faecal matter that is falling out of your maw, slather it on the interweb and call it, at the most fundamental plane, a commune of aesthetes and pseudowordsmiths reeling on the flipside of voyeurism and forsooth soforth and somethingorother. but listen to this old man ramble! let’s just do this, Vincent. i shall lie prostrate and naked on some canvass, and you find a feather, and i mean a good feather. then, you will proceed to spread my quote-unquote ghettoed booty and tickle my sphincter until a chunk of foetid prose to your liking slides out all on its own, and you can call it, oh i don’t know, an excerpt.

-Smiling Fox

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