After two days of Contemplative Hindsite

I decided not to call my sister on her birthday, which of course, was two days ago. What a DICK! How could I make the decision to not call my sister--my dearest, most closest and only sister in the whole world sister--on her birthday? Well, actually, to be honest, forthright, and incomprehensible as per my M.O., I didn't really think about it to much after the two days went by... But before that time came, in between the long silent moments of conscious, mostly unconscious, and 100% Grade Double A thru Z anti-blaspheme rhetorical strategy, I gave it a thought or two, deep as they were, then I FORGOT! But not because I thought not to call, cause I did, in deed and in all intention, I did, in fact and without consideration to the ramifications to my own pontification, I did in fact think about calling her, but then thought not again of until the ultimate passing of the pre-selected, multiperplected, and surely over erected day in the Christian Calendar that says "Call your fuckin' Sister, it's her Birthday for Christ's Sake!) October 2, ___ (fill in the year of your alias age here)...

So, then, what comes immediately to mind is that I have the time right now, not later or before, but, now, in the current, current moment of time-space continuminimum to call my sister, what does one say? I mean and a minimumification of a proclamation in this proposed pontification, I would say ...(thinking)... uh... ...Uhmmm... ... Still Thinking... I would say, I would say "I LOVE YOU MAN!" That's what I would exclaim to some aplause to little acclaim, but all the same I would explain that "I LOVE YOU MAN!" but it still perhaps, not because it is the past, expect or lay claim to your Bud Light! Not the one in the garage or the one on the wall that you surely don't know about at all, nor the one in the dark recesses of that place we call "STORAGE" but the one in your hand, the one that is cold, the one that is not a light, but a full-strength, all the calories and twice the fat, more filling than fulfilling prophetic rants of so many ants in the pants dance rants, I say, "YO! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" But is that enough? Is in short, an almost close to practically meaningless gesture as to fulfill the somewhat burdensome (bordering on pathologically obligatory) telephone call to say "Hey... Sis... [insert lostforwords time lapse here] "I just called to say Happy Birthday!" call... That call, you know the one... the one with the uncomfortable silence that last too long; the one where you sing the song again that you sang the last time this time came around to sing the song we seem to always seem to get so wrong for so long as we can't sing it well anyway, as could Marilyn Monroe, we should have found a way to come up with the one, and only one and only UNO FINITE' limited edition, single sourced inspiration in the contemplation of this hive mind imagination in stead of regurgitation of anti-thinking congressional regulation, we think anew and do what few would ever do, and that is to somehow get hold of Marilyn Manson to get the fuckin' job done right!?! if ya know what i mean...

Just think "I just called to say I love you" performed for your birth anniversary honor, turns quickly, with all the expediency of small land mammal's attempting to escape the merciless gaze of a thousand omnivorous parana fish in the tank at the Tustin Tiller Days "Dunk Your Favorite Police Chief" tank... So, in other words, and to keep it short, as I fully realize the thoughts feelings and unsaid and often exclaimed in hideously vague detailed pros that some would say I tend to orate far beyond what might be considered in many circles of familial cliques beyond what is polite or even tolerable in the least sense of the term limited; I didn't call you on your birthday because I thought I could get hold of Marilyn Manson to call you for me, ya know, like a special kind of birthday gift, but I couldn't and still can't (although, honestly, I think the guy tries to give off the impression that he's sort of unapproachable... so, you know, people he's never met or heard of don't start calling him collect from jail at four in the fucking morning asking stupid fucking questions like "Hey dude! I love your musak, could you call my sister and sing "Happy Birthday" to her?...) Only as Happy Birthday is in fact a copywriter’s protected work of art that Marilyn Manson will not for no good nor poor excuse ever never ever consider paying royalties to sing to some fucking bitch he don't even fucking know! ya know? so to add insult reducing polity, I didn't get a hold of him, and so he didn't call. But the thought was there somewhere, I’m sure. So, then, to sum up and re-summarize... In short, I thought I might try to get Marilyn Manson to call you up on your birthday and sing "I Just Called to Say I Love You" to the tune of Happy Birthday, which I'm sure could, and perhaps only would, be possibly performable by his highness, Marilyn Manson himself. But I didn't actually get around to getting hold of him in time and so Marilyn Manson actually didn't call you on your birthday. Fucking ASS HOLE! That motherfucker!

I was so fucking counting on him! Ya know? So, please, try to understand that I didn’t call for slight of hand, but it was the fault of Marilyn Manson for giving me an unsaid, unjustifiable, and surely undeclared impression that he could not, nor or would not, be reachable to be asked as a personal favor to me to call you and deliver a singing telegram on my behalf with the message "I just Called To Say I Love You" sang to the tune of Happy Birthday in the style of Marilyn... Monroe that is... Marilyn Manson could not be reached to sing that song to you, so he didn't call., He surely would have, I know this for a fact! But, unfortunately the underlying truth is that he didn't see the immediate need nor did he really have the inclination to do so because no one actually got a hold of him, or I’m sure he would have, you know… as a personal favor to me... But, he didn't call you... Don't be to hard on the guy, though, ya know... I didn't either Love, Little Brother

Today my sister smoked a potato chip!

Today, in a fit of raging hormones, my sister picked up her crack bubbler and proceded to put some cookies into it. Next to the cookies, though, was a small pile of crushed up potato chips. She scraped them up onto her finger and stuck 'em in her bubbler alnong with the cookies.

I couldn't fuckin' believe it! She fired up her propane crack torch and sucked the whole motherfuckin' bowl of cookies and stale potato chips down in a single hit like a small town porn whore sucking a golf ball through a garden hose.

The funny thing was that after she sucked down her cookies and potato chips, her eyes began rolling around up into her head. After a few shots of Jack and a small bottle of grape cough syrup, she started mumbling some shit about a dark eyed angel in hot denim shorts dancing about in circles of swirling green and orange clouds floating around the astral plane above her tea light.

Then she started getting all pissed off, shouting obscenities at her Jim Morrison poster on the wall, yelling some shit about "this god damned godzila doll living in her belly button lint is gonna have to pay some fucking rent!"

After about fifteen minutes of trying to rationally justify why I should contiue enduring this delusional nonsense, I picked up my whiffle ball bat and knocked the bitch out with one determined swing. I think she'll be ok... She's been waking up about every two hours and asking for some kind of pills. Surely I would give her some, but she can't seem to figure out which kind she might want. All I got is Yellow ones, white ones and Blues too!

Fuckin' Stoners!