The Gonzo Journals
May 10th, 2023
On a side note, I awoke to a new Starving Zoe audiobook review. The guy was gifted a free copy by the narrator and absolutely raved about how good of a job he did and how funny my material was. Then…he gave it three stars. Three? Dude, that’s easily a four or five! You got it for free, you loved the narration, and you got a ton of laughs. Three stars? I feel sorry for this dude’s wife.
“Wow, honey! I didn’t feel any teeth, I blew like a wildcat after fifteen seconds, and you made eye contact with me the whole time. Best blowjob ever! Two stars.”
I’ve preached for so long about writing reviews, but now I take it all back. Society obviously doesn’t know how the “star” system works. I always thought it was pretty self-explanatory but, since no one truly knows who they are anymore, I can see where the confusion sets in.
Also, what was it about sucking on a chili covered wiener behind the Tastee Freez that made Jack want to screw Dianne in the woods? I think old Jackie may be in a bit of denial. You be you, Jack. Dianne will move on eventually. The closet is no place for a man with such chili sucking skills.
Let’s move on, shall we?
My stepson attends a magnet gifted and talented school here in Dallas. Basically, DISD found the most forward-thinking organization, slapped them in a dilapidated old high school in the most rundown neighborhood imaginable, and wished them luck. They’re doing the best they can do with the tools provided but I can’t help but feel the school system just patted them on the butt and pushed them away. Out of sight, out of mind?
Every morning, he and I are treated to some of the most interesting sights modern society has to offer. It’s not a strange occurrence when a scantily clad lady will pull down her pants, bend over, and spread apart those lips as though she’s about to sing opera. I mean, I appreciate the potential explosion of culture, but I damn near confuse it for an exit from time to time. I wasn’t aware my neighborhood had a tunnel but I’m too scared to see where it leads. The last thing I want is for my truck to look as though someone sneezed on it.
There are so many people wasting away on drugs that the street stumbling no longer catches my eye. I blame eleven seasons of The Walking Dead, to be honest. After about year three, everyone in the survivor group learned how to penetrate skulls with blades of grass no longer making the undead a threatening ordeal. Let’s not even discuss how every single person ended up being a perfect, flawless marksman.
You get where I’m coming from, right? The train stations are drug-deal-central, yet flooded with children who are waiting on the bus at the same time. There are always two transit police vehicles in the parking lot but they’re too busy Tweeting about “cop life” to even notice. Either that, or they’re making change for the street consumers who had the gall to show up with nothing smaller than a one-hundred-dollar bill. If National Geographic would come do a documentary on this neighborhood, that show would be a hit after the pilot. I can see it now…
A camouflaged photographer under a blanket, snapping photos incognito as Carl the Crack House Crooner – teeth not included – dodges dragons disguised as trains, screaming to the heavens he’s found Excalibur laying at the bottom of a piss puddle. That’s King Carl to all of you! Give credit where credit is due, peasants!
Today’s conundrum involves a dead possum and a hair weave I found together in the street. The details of this obviously epic battle are unknown. I can’t stop thinking about it, which is highly unhealthy for a guy with a brain like mine. Stories involving the demise of such gallant warriors should be spread to the people by song or sonnet. This is where I come in…
The Battle of Moore Street by C. Derick Miller
Twas Perry the Possum who started the fight
With Sheena the crack whore, one sultry May night
She readied her braid like Jones of the Indie
And taunted poor Perry with gaping rear end-ie
Old Perry did taunt her, like possums are known
And quickly translated by Sheena’s iPhone
Offensive and naughty the message did read
So Sheena did mount her noblest of steed
The steed, it turned out, was a cash paying drifter
Who soon changed his mind on the moment he sniffed her
That same evil scent was the end of our Perry
Who inserted his snout into Sheena’s muff hairy
Our hero stopped breathing because of the stench
Which peeled off the paint from a nearby bus bench
But quickly he snatched a brave trophy ‘fore death
A wad of fake hair which she’d traded for Meth
Yes, gallant, poor Perry lay dead in the street
And stay there, he would, to become stray dog meat
Dear Sheena, the victor, limped back to her den
Till the horsehair provider’s store opened again
The moral of Sheena and Perry shall teach
The crackheads and hookers forever will preach
A conflict so epic, all others shall pale
Our mighty, burnt Sheena with more epic smell…
My work here is finished.
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