The market's public restroom is not a relaxing place. It's large and spacious, and its sinks have hot water, and its motion-activated blow dryers are nice for warming your hands under on a cold, windy day, but its stall doors are flimsy and somewhat prone to becoming unlocked, rendering it very possible that one could be left visible and vulnerable in the middle of a bowel movement, which is a fear all people have, especially the Goon. He doesn't trust the hygienic integrity of the bathroom's toilet seats, and so when he is in dire need and absolutely has to take a shit, the Goon flexes his quads and gets in a half squat and sort of hovers a few inches above the seat, which is a little hard on his legs, but he ignores the burn and concentrates on evacuating his colon as quickly as possible. The homeless weave in and out of the bathroom, some taking up temporary residence in the stalls, and the Goon is always paralyzed into continence whenever one of the street folk staggers into the cubicle next to him, because they are always loud and snorting, and they throw their pants down with great vigor, and he can see their worn out shoes beneath the barrier, and he can smell what can only be described as the stench of death seeping out from their sodden clothes, their pores, and their insides. Sometimes they miss the toilet and shit all over the rim and floor; the Goon is always careful to enter a stall slowly lest he encounter something he really won't admit had to come out of a fellow human being. They leave paper sacks and empty bottles next to the toilet; they inscribe poems and curse words and lost phone numbers on the dividing walls. His greatest fear is that he'll open a stall door one day and find one of them lying in a pool of filth, expired, gone without ceremony or the least bit of dignity, and he'll have to run and tell someone and then go back to the shed to peddle his produce and wear his cheery smile while his brain churns over death again and again, till fear is oozing out of his ears like butter and corrupting his smile and interfering with his salesmanship. So his restroom visits are brief and infrequent and always accompanied by a looming sense of doom.
- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Saturday, February 15, 2014
I've had the principle riff of this song for ages, I just finally wrote lyrics for it. Kind of bluesy, kind of low-fi hard rock. I wish I could play the drums, but Reason and its infinite loops will have to suffice. Click here to go to Soundcloud.