Dear Bicycle Thief...

Do you want my helmet and bike rack to go along with it? Here they are, sitting on the staircase next to the broken lock which you perverted with your shitty bolt-cutters. How about that? To buy a pair of bolt-cutters with the sole purpose of stealing bikes.

I am not a violent person, but with the range of emotion that comes with learning that your stuff has been filched, it’s easy to wonder how fast you can punch someone in the Adam’s apple before he can react. If you have any plans of riding my bike within five miles of my home over the next few weeks, be sure to ride with one eyeball glancing over your shoulder, bitch. You penniless, gutless loser. You swine.

…After the knee-jerk response to being personally violated by theft resides, it becomes easier to rationalize that the thief must have needed (whatever was stolen) more than its actual owner. Except that I purchased that bike with my own money, that I earned legitimately. You didn’t. I bought it from a local shop owner who later was killed crossing the street because he had gout and couldn’t walk fast enough. One time, on a drunken ride home in the dark, I hit a curb and went head-over-handlebars with a face-plant on the sidewalk. No concussion. I envision you not being so lucky. And get a load of this: I farted on that bicycle seat more times than I can count.

Now that you know some history of my bike that you stole, how will your head feel after my rusty axle bearing fails? Will you find yourself speeding down the dip on Parker when the wheel blows because I over-inflated the tires and your fat ass caused a puncture? When you land on the street, will your head crack open like a cantaloupe? In a state of shock, will you scoop up your grey matter—which looks like fresh ground beef when it’s newly spilled—and try to put it back in?  

You are an embarrassment to humanity. A waste of space, an asshole casserole with the soulless objective of stealing peoples’ shit because you couldn’t earn the scratch to buy your own shit. Thereby, I cannot let it rest: I tried, but you’re just too goddamn irredeemable.

Justice, for me, is a very complicated matter. But certain things are black and white. I would have given you $20 dollars if you’d just sold me on why you can’t afford a bus pass because you’re jobless, living off your whore of a girlfriend and hating it. But now I can only ask if you’re ready for the axe to fall, whence your hands will be cut off.

Fuck you.

F L O G

November 1, 2010: Just farted myself awake—arguably into a higher plane of consciousness. This overture was easily six seconds long, full-bodied, and delivered in a lusty, rich baritone that you'd sooner have singing you to sleep than making you rise and shine. But rise and shine it did and, despite its passionate crescendo, it concluded with a clean finish and minimal aftertaste. I will never forget this day.

November 5, 2010: This morning, my farts took on a life all their own. They emerged with the ferocity of a badgered hornets' nest, causing my cat to dash away in terror. Their bouquet imparted a spicy, smoked hickory musk, while evoking the drowsy sensation of riding in the back of a pick-up truck from Lubbock to El Paso wearing a sombrero and chanclas, with a piece of straw in your mouth.

November 11-teenth, 2010: This next installment, the product of an unfiltered wheat distillation process from 2010, was a great complement to fish, game hen, and even roadside carrion. Despite its throaty body reminiscent of the mead halls in Hrothgar’s pastoral countryside, this bubbler emerged with a fine, buttery nose, a complex cedar and blackberry finish, and a few select chunks of pork nestled into its beard.

November 13, 2010: When my butthole woke me up today, it reminded me that it's good to be alive. I've had my ear to the ground for years in search of a product as dynamic and fleshy as this one. Weighty yet supple, this aggressive blast was sincere in its viscosity, but delivered only a trace of particulate matter. The mouthfeel was unparalleled, except that in this case it is sphincterfeel. A must with ramen noodles and mustard-covered Saltines. Garnish with a sprig of blueberry kush. Also, if your birthday happens to be on this day, then Happy Birthday.

November 16, 2010: This report is from my friend named Bill. He claimed that, on a park bench in Washington DC, he laid a nice one and expected it would be fluvial, smooth, harmless. But it must have packed a punch because the lady at the other end of the bench evidently sensed the vibrations. She swiftly got up and left. He added that earlier in the day he had eaten a peanut from an airline packet of peanuts. He ate one single peanut, he said, and it was the only peanut he had eaten in weeks. And when he farted on the park bench in Washington DC, the peanut came out.

November 35, 2010: Today at yoga class I queefed when I was going into the Goddess pose. As with most queefs, there isn't much to report in terms of texture or gustatory considerations. Paul the Dog Groomer, however, was within ear-shot, so surely he shared with me that exciting moment of mortifying vulnerability that comes with letting one fly that wasn't on today's schedule. Namaste.

Email to Officemate after Raucous Night, 2 a.m. Visit to La Bamba

Jude, you were wise to call in sick today. The flatulence phase of my hangover is epic. You would have swooned right out of your swivel chair.

Each fart ranges from 4 to 10 seconds long (and up to ~6.8 microns in girth). Think about that. In 10 seconds, Usain Bolt can run the full length of a football field.

If Bill or Carol walk into this room, they're in for a big surprise. It's like someone is burning a Yankee Candle called "Dead Gerbil" and nobody can extinguish the flame. I confess that I'm proud of the sounds my dead gerbil is making but, Jesus, the bouquet in here is abominable. I have cracked a window, and suspect I'm in violation of the Clean Air Act.

 

Was it the Jaeger shots? The Car Bombs? Didn’t we do a shot of Patron? The beef, bean, and cheese burrito as big as my fucking head... That concoction rivals even Carter’s Infamous Recipe for Ass—from that night in Joe’s basement.

At any moment, I expect Mr. Hankey from South Park to show up on my shoulder, like the Shit Fairy. 

 

My own Mr. Hankey—my gerbil corpse—has been possessed by the ghost of Shitmas Past, and he is growling like a chainsaw, spewing forth his fetid turd-breath. 

The air in this room is so unutterably rotten, that an entire can of Glade wouldn't quash this villainy. Maybe I can find some matches and set my desk on fire.  

If you call and I don’t answer, that’s because I’m in the bathroom shitting my lungs out.