The Story Of My Fucking Life


Posted by ilbebe on February 9, 2012

For a man born 8/23/30, this chapter was meant to be for you, Grampa.

The Chron’s old strategy of asking for less money has failed, and now it seeks to inform others that the banks are “pushing short sales”. Hmm…did the banks get too big too fast? Did things go horribly awry when they started being borrowers and lenders and fucking brown people and denying their new, mixed-race children? Did they get gayer than gay and start swapping shit and spit with their own kind? Did they stop eating pork, like an Aramain?

Forgiving Reagan – the 101 percenter? Once again, Joe Strummer. Jail Guitar Doors. Wayne and his deals of cocaine. Shit, if Reagan stuck to blow, and didn’t close the asylums and community health clinics, expand the CIA drug trade into crack with Freeway Rick Ross, and direct Ollie NoNo to broker the arms for cash Iran-Contra affair, maybe The Clash’s fourth album would have a fourth side and be called Sandinooooooosta. It could have come with a free can of what was then called Coca-Cola, not Coca-Cola Classic or (shudder) Diet Coke. Beware of things named DC. They name their airports after movie cowboys who forget who their wife and children are at the end of their life…

This is to forgive Reagan. My Grandfather loved Reagan, admired him, really appreciated what he did with the military and the civilian population. My grandfather is dead. Reagan is dead. That way of thinking is dead, and the only way to keep it dead, IMHO, is to keep talking about how flawed and, heh, uneconomical it was/is. TRICKLE THIS MOTHER FUCKERSSSS.

My Grandpa died a year ago today, and when I got the (??what is this world coming to??) text from my father upon waking up, I felt like I’d been told the panda at the zoo still hadn’t given birth. Basically, “Oh, well.” It was no surprise, he’d been diagnosed with lung cancer five months earlier and given an outlook of six to maybe less or more. The fact that he chose to die on the same day blah blah blah happened is of no small interest to a childless pinko faggot writer like myself.

Keith DeWayne Cunday was born in Kansas, but lived the greater portion of his life in the Southland. After his greatly abused wife shuffled off in 2001, he found a new constant companion in the widow of an old Marine buddy of his who happened to be a Buddhist. His heart changed immensely in the ten years before he died. He became an expert at claw machines, and won me a Spiderman a few years ago. That Spiderman hangs on the ceiling of my bedroom to this day. He became very, very close to my youngest sister. He gave me practically nothing but shit; a lot of shit about not having a job, a lot of shit about my haircut and appearance, and my failure to be a man and give him a “great-grand”.

So fuck you, KDC, and RRR. But I still love you, and always will. When they raise the flag on opening day in Anaheim, those sick duck fuckers will be saluting you two Angels in the infield.

Once again, fuck off, but I miss you, and am looking forward to seeing you again.

Here’s a slogan for the New Non-violent Military;

For the win, ye must fuck the old gods. Make a new nation of lovers founded on peace. Start immediately!

Put that on a yellow wristband and make pre-emptively disenfranchised immigrants, girl scouts, and orphans sell them to hedge fund managers. Gardeners get them for free, and carpenters do not need them. Men with coats of many colors shall be born with them, and these are the men who shall make the many scream in the modern agony of unexpected delight.


-8:34AM, 2/9/12, not home, in the outer upper haight near those Jittery Jesuits, thinking about coffee, thinking about how I’m gonna get it…

-Again at 9:24and8AM, 2/9/12, outside Sacred on Cole at Hayes. Coffee Obtained. Nice place. Thinking ‘bout Welfare Mothers, bumming out cigs and smoking them too…


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