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John Knewstub’s Hard, Cold, Spiritual Facts

August 11, 2015 Leave a comment
With John Knew

By John Knewstub

Sorry, shit for brains, but it ain’t that easy! Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: I’m such a miserable bladder of ass, I’m such a pestilent hole piss-puffed with “life,” I feel so bad, so b—b—boo hoo. That’s right, you mask, you blood pad, boo fucking hoo! But damn it if you didn’t hit the nail on the head! Don’t ask me how, but you blathered and crawled your mucus-trailed way, and fell into a single correct apperception. Of course leave it to you to grasp this one true thought with your deformed, gnarled hand, and twist it into a signature of your disease; for no sooner do you recognize the hopeless abyss, you run for a rainbow-colored parachute. You think, “I’m of the race of men. Maybe Dr. Kevin Thurston can help me with my feelings.” You rolling log of shit! Dr. Thurston can’t help you! The man is about as spiritual as a pair of cow anuses –oh, I’m sorry, those are your puckered little eyes devoid of light –but I think you understand me, son –do you understand me?

Now you say, ‘But John, Dr. Kevin sold me a dozen cans of smoked oysters and a piano bench for $150 + s/h. And to that I say: shut it! Shut that herpes-studded mouth of yours. I didn’t say Dr. Thurston doesn’t offer tremendous discounts on merchandise. Why, just last month I bought a case of waterproof dog beds myself – came out under twenty a pop –top notch. But you think your feelings matter!? What do you think you are, a centipede pattering your thousand sensitive feet upon the filthy rug, sweeping your spelean antennae across its decomposing fibers, sliding in and out of shadow until your jaws possess your carnivorous feast? If that sounds like the way to enlightenment, then by all means sneak in through your grandmother’s window and pilfer her pathetic purse so you can slap a wad of blood-money into that charlatan’s palm. Go ahead! Steal from everyone you know so you can tithe that charlatan; in return, you’ll be led further along the brutal path of your narcissism and all-consuming obsession with your claustrophobic inner world.

Your problem, you rancid discharge, is the cosmic law and order which regulates and coordinates the harmonious operation of the universe and everything within it. Denial of the will? Eusebeia? What do they mean to you, you wannabe invertebrate? You’re too busy playing pocket pool with your emotions to cultivate a reverent attitude toward all life and uphold moral law. So do yourself and all of us a favor: next time you and Dr. Feelings commune over a cup of tea, peer through the steam and see in your wavering reflection the insubstantial nature of your existence, you leaking urethra, and admit that it’s not ephemeral enough, and ask that snake-oil salesman if he has any deals on a shot gun with a string tied to the trigger, or a goddam noose, and excuse yourself to the restroom to molt the last of your feelings like a leprous skin and be revealed, you pock, you bloated tick.

John Knewstub’s Hard, Cold, Spiritual Facts

March 11, 2015 1 comment
With John Knew

With John Knewstub

Sorry, shit for brains, but it ain’t that easy! Now I know what you’re thinking. Of course you wish you’d never been born. Of course you want to rid the planet of every last trace of your worthless existence. But you’re such a miserable piece of shit you don’t have what it takes to murder your parents, much less rack up the body count necessary to ensure perfect extirpation of your memory. Let’s not kid ourselves here.

Now, hold on, okay, I hear what you’re saying. Or I at least smell what you’re saying, Christ Almighty, your mouth reeks like a miscarriage, your tongue’s a rank abortion, but okay, I hear you. Let’s just pretend for a moment you possessed enough energy to take out every member of your graduating class –you don’t have enough energy to wash your stinking behind, but let’s pretend. Let’s say you wiped out every relative, every co-worker, every neighbor, every celebrity unfortunate enough to receive one of your deranged letters. You think that would do it? No, of course not –you’re not capable of thinking with that puking shit-pile in your skull, but trust me when I tell you: you’d still be all too present.

But alright I’m a’give you the benefit of the doubt. Let’s say you mustered the ingenuity to erase your name from all public records –utility bills, library registers –you even manage to unlaminate your membership cards to all those sad little clubs you thought would provide you with meaning and community and shopping discounts. Well, even then, you’d still be as far from this goal as from all your others, you awful, agonizing misallocation of flesh.

What if one of your murdered acquaintances mentioned you to someone? You ever think of that, you pus-souled, fungus-tongued waste? What if you were held up as an emphatic example of cowardice and talentlessness and a luckless, loser life? What if the story of your cerebral and sexual futility passed mouth to mouth like some inverse fairy tale/respiratory disease?

Your problem, you stench, is the interconnectedness of life. You don’t get this whole thing is a tapestry whose intricacy dizzies even divinity. That’s right, you fecal ache, the very spiritual truth which you recognize on some primitive level because you recognize you are a contaminant whose pollution extends infinitely for eternity – this very spiritual truth means you are inextricable. You cannot be uprooted even as you rot the earth around you. You are destined to fester forever and to emit your foul air like an ever-blowing wind which curses the wasted places of this suffering planet. Suffering because of you, you eternal cancer.

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