“Oh, hey, man. Howzit? Need anything?”
“Doses? Dabs? Flakka?”
I’m all set, Lamppost.
Can you stop being terrible?
“Sure, sure. What’s up, man?”
Dead are in town! Exciting, right?
“Yeah, okay. Better than Kenny Chesney, I’ll tell you that.”
“Well, first off: imagine you’re shitheaded enough to enjoy the fungal glop that closeted midget Charlie Brown-looking motherfucker tries to pretend is music.”
I cannot imagine that.
“And then imagine being proactive in that enjoyment. You don’t just turn up the Ches King when he comes the country station, no: you purchased tickets and got your cousin who isn’t in jail for touching kids to watch the kids and drove out here. That’s fucking stupid humans right there, son.”
And the drinking.
“These folks have relationships with ethanol that must be judged minute-to-minute. Each beer is a non sequitur, if you dig me.”
Not predictable drunks.
“Well, the larger themes can be predicted: the soiling of the trousers, the tackling of the cop, screaming the N-word. From these finite phonemes and the power of recursion and Coors Lite, an infinite amount of stupid can be created.”
You’re pretty smart for a lamppost, Lamppost.
“Oh, I’m not a lamppost: that’s just my name. Gary Lamppost. I’m a DoD Sniffer checking for radiation or chemical attacks on the populace.”
“Remember when you were a kid and you thought about the future?”