Pimp My Lent/Day 32
From evil pimpmaster Ken Jones…
Ken Jones, I cursed your name today. How to write about this, how to write about this….hmmm…. What to write…?
When all else fails, go for bawd and lunacy.
Me and Gerald Ford had a pact. Until his death we were not to speak about the affair, or the love-child that cut its own way out of me. Sixteen months of labor. I died from it. This was long before he went into the service, long long before he become a politician, and long long long after Dwight Eisenhower went mad as mad as mad after I unzipped from my body the love-child that was brung to be during what became known as Our Affair in Polalamwaheyhuh which you will not find on no map nowhere nowdays because Dwight had the bombs dropped on that perfect little Polynesian atoll as punishment to me. He knew it would slay my ripening heart to think of all those little Polalamwaheyhuhians turned red as hot links and going up poof like hot ash. My ripening heart died that day, and thus was never mature as it could have been otherwise.
You can’t ask me not one thing about RR because he is dead and married to an alien and she is wiry wired and can kill by tilting her head forward until you are on your knees and she is 18 feet tall and one foot wide and the color of arctic char. I know this because she has killed me before and it was not easy, believe me. It was Nixon was who done me real dirty. The man took everything I give him, took it, turned around, and give it to that ice blond woman with the hair swirled up like a lightbulb. There was rats she kept in the center of it, that hair. Check the history books. You’ll see it there. Rats in her hair. She fed them little pieces of cheese. Notice in her pictures, how many of them her head is all tilted and her hair is bigger on one side. She touched that hair 50 times if she touched it once a day. Checking up on her tenants. She charged them rats $35 a pop.
I set my sights forward on to Bush I, but his wife is a mad transvestite with the real name of Herman and s/he was of such strong a proportion that it was not altogether human. One sad night I was getting out of the presidential limousine at the back door and Herman run down the walkway, bib collar flapping, rummy eyes lasering me like yellow marbles with flashlights behind shining through them, collapsed chins jostling and slapping, pearls clacking. I was just putting out my leg from the limousine – I know how to enter and exit a limousine and my legs always had a vavvoom shape – and there is Herman leaping up out of the rose garden, arms and legs streaked bloody mad, grabbing holt of my foot and pulling and twisting until my knee was upside down and my buttocks slammed to the pavement. My skeleton was shattered. I died from the pain, and then Jesus brought me back to save the world. He’s not going to do it anymore. He’s so awful tired. You-all about worn him out. Now let me get back to my shouting.