Buried Secrets

pigass      On the day that the bottom fell out, and mere money took it all the way up, up, and away into the rear view, and bowed down like a biatch to convertibles, comestibles, rare gems, raw deals, cooked data, L-dopa, and the inside track to a tantalizing sure thing that strayed not too far outside of the lines, I took a long time to wake up from a deep snooze. I maintained a safe distance from any mirrors, and spoke a good deal of shit into a listening device about need, denial, compensation, and the cost of naming names to unnamed enemies. Numbers of bitcoins were deployed like rockets. I tried to watch my back, which is never easy. I felt forced to leave my living soul behind in slumber. After that I had my hair cut more than moderately short, crammed a donut hole, and suffered a wound that required a colorful band-aid.

head wound

A certified agent of an insurance company cabal whispered, “Be on the lookout for signs of infection. We don’t cover any neglectful asses but our own.”

fat ass 2

Deep down, as the wound festered, I knew none of it could be willfully construed as my fault. The order of events was perilously jumbled. Dust swirled and clouded horizons. The one and only old ayatollah had to be in on it, along with rotund Kim Jong-un, and the fading specter of douche Putin. Pharmaceuticals helped, too. That very same day, addictions to oil, air-conditioning, happiness, fakes, facades, fraud, and fat, were not included in any version of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders for the sixty-third consecutive year. Details that remained to be ironed out behind the scenes became the sole providence of a sub-committee seminar featuring a full no host bar, stuffed canapes, pigs-in-blankets, assorted dips, and complementary whitish wine, at which minuscule forward progress was anticipated. The hearing was held at an airport Marriott that appeared in all important aspects to be identical to the next airport Marriott at which nominations were taken in secret the previous year. Many of the more important secrets were buried on a missing thirteenth floor in either Charlotte or Indianapolis, or invisibly, both.


During the sixty three years in which the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders achieved biblical eminence, money mattered more and dead souls mattered less. Memories turned to mush. Faking it became de rigueur. Middling schools churned manufactured numbers into lard. Cemeteries required road maps to locate the best spots for a rendezvous. Pharmacology grew big to fill the statistical void. The AARP got in on the conspiracy, too. Forget primal scream therapy by the hour, week, and eon. Time goes fastest in the best of ways when you don’t remember what happened. It’s also best not to ask why, always. Cover up with a little dirt. Then rub. You know where.


No one still credibly alive does not remember when money was not worth more. More meat, more cheese, more ass, more gas, more room, more zoom, more of that stuffed feeling for less. That was before the conspiratorial Twist appeared live on American Bandstand and employed greasy kid stuff and jiggling hips as an adjunct to mass hysteria.Those were the good old days of yesteryear. Before jiggling mass psychosis, too. Tonto took it stoically in the saddle from the Lone Ranger with a grunt. Hard earned dough went into bread that was still rising. Jangling coins burned holes in lucky side pockets. Hearty souls stayed put where they belonged, on hard Sunday benches prior to emancipating biscuits and gravy. Prancing about willy-nilly was strictly verboten. The best as well as the worst of memories lingered long after useless double negative were ignored and neglected. Think about all that mealy gruel you were fed from a plain beige bowl.  But, you ate it up raw, right? You betcha.

eating bone

But, do you really believe deep down in your stinking pits that your soul is that much of a fool and will continue to smile and take this weak shit for all of your bogus dipshit eternity?

Where there’s no beginning and no end, all there is is is.

If faking it is the best you have to offer, maybe the arrangement isn’t working with utmost satisfaction anymore.

fake orgasm

I asked another soul not even my own about the best of all heavens on earth and the soul said, “Fuck that shit.”  I recoiled and replied, “Whoa, fucking, whoa.” When I finally got around to facing the soul that was stationed right between the eyes in the center of my face, the answer was alarmingly much the same in meaningful spiritual content, along with an additional, extraneous, and in my opinion uncalled for, “Fuck off.”

I said in lame defense, “But I am you and you are me.”

“Fuck you.”

Do you remember when your skin turned ashen after your pappy’s daddy’s mammy came out of Africa twice or thrice removed? And bleach became a cure-all for dirty germs? Not likely after the whitewash went on so thick and droopy.


That’s how loud and long money used to talk before fancy emasculation pulled the tighty whities down under the transparent pantie lines.


pink tutu2

So what’s the next winning ticket going to be in the up and coming market of virtually tradeable values? How will you and/or you get to float above the fray on the surface of Mars in a vaporized capsule loaded with strands of colorful weed wafting, a game station with reclining masturbatory buckets, aqueous nutrition fulfillers, neuterizing lotions and ointments, self-esteem enhancing fluids, subliminal self servicers? Will you become ultimately content once adorned in the latest chic vest that contours to your ass so snugly, and contains a vital semblance of all of your deepest seated needs:  attitude, beat, moves, pose, intonation, atmosphere? What about that lifetime guarantee of no more performance anxiety over unrequited loss? Not too shabby, huh? What about no more loss at all? No more faking it, either. Guarantee by whom? Don’t ask. Ever? You betcha.


And yet, despite the potential for incurring perpetual wrath, I felt compelled to ask the spawn of my loins,  the teen twins, formerly the tween twins, who never need to believe a word I say, said, or will say again, in any number of pointless presentations, which makes it easy to forget right from the get-go, about which we can generally all agree, categorically, sort of, if they shared the majority opinion in the vital make or break area of faking it. Do or die?

In tandem, which was not as common as one might imagine, the yin and yang twin announced, “Don’t ask.”

I said, “But … ”

“And we won’t tell.”



About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in family, fiction, humor, spirituality, writing, wtf and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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