MAN, HAT, TAN and SUMMER

By Johnny Transistor on Tue, Jun 30, 2009 11:28 am

Summer is supposed to hang out in the still of shadowless heat, a still as calm as the still of bloodless hung meat. Meat hung to cure, having the sun devour its rotting stench in one bite, the hungry bastard that it is, before engines seize, dropping NYC dead in the stench sweating tracks of its own sight. The NYC coroner having to give his cause of death statement to a freaked press via cell phone, from a speeding car on his way outta town, driving stop-only for gas, a piss, a Coke and Doritos to Manhattan Beach. As those left standing sweat tomorrows sweat with every step. That stinking hot. I mean so fucking hot that rats die, trapped in molten asphalt while crossing the streets at night. But what do I get? This............ 
I was walking through the Village the other day in the pissing rain, without an umbrella. For one thing, I don't like umbrella's and for another, getting wet usually doesn't bother me. I was expecting summer to come knocking any time soon. Bringing with it its power, the still of the hunted down and the heat that comes with it. Summer still.......that shot in the head at close range, then hoisted to a desert cactus to hang the dead man, summer still. The sheriff and his deputy too dry to spit before reloading and heading out to hunt the fucker's partner, their dust being the only words said on behalf the deceased. That still. With that kind of power too............. justice, which tells all in the territory they are safe while at the same time describing in rotting detail what becomes of rapists and child killers. That is the kind of summer I have been expecting, a summer equal in brutality to the harshest winter in (75 year) recent memory but more relentless. I mean one long hot summer night summer. Has Al Gore been bullshitting us? Planting fear in the hearts of every sucker from here to Environmental Hell and back just so he can hop scotch around the world in a private jet to deliver his plagiarized global warming treatise to an over paying audience in awe of his self proclaimed grandeur. His wife Tipper flying on ahead in her own private jet, just to make sure that their $25,000 a night hotel suite has matching his and her towels in each of its 7 bathrooms and each kitchen is stocked with only the finest cuts of aged NYC beef. Probably, because so far this summer is making a mockery of winter. But nothing sells like bullshit, especially when fear is involved, which should make insurance Al's next big crusade once his environmental bender has run its course. Unless of course, he decides to call himself Noah and starts selling time shares on the Arc he has his designers working on, its raining that much. He and Tipper should get at least another 10 years of good flying time out of that one before it falls apart like South Florida's condo market and they have to move. They can retire to California and their French vineyards, to pass off the fermented run off from  raisins, water and yeast as Merlot from France's Bordeaux region to the tune of wine greats singing psalms, praising the pair's vintages and genius. Collectively deciding,they so overcome with awe, there being no words to describe the most sacred wine's unique bouquet. When all along any kid could tell them that there is only one word which could adequately describe what the wine scribes were smelling and that one word is bullshit. And right under their whiney noses to boot. Therefore, officially making this summer's song "Bullshit Makes the Grass Grow Green" by The Ex Tipper.

Johnny Transistor,
June 27,2009 

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