To Beer or Not to Beer

Until I began writing in public you probably did not know who Mr. Beer N. Hockey was. Same thing goes for my dog and the recurring characters that join us from time to time. Not unless you are one of the very few people I know personally who actually read this. Most of the people I know who have a computer in their house rarely get a chance to get on it because their teenagers are too busy communicating with their bfs, gfs and dds on it. When they do get on the computer they mostly watch porn or wish they were.

In a sense Mr. Beer N. Hockey and the Hammer did not exist, then they did, and if I stop writing in public they will cease to exist once again. A mediated life is a ghost-like life. Boo! Sort of like Charlie Brown and Snoopy: except Beer drinks like Harold Snepts in his prime instead of chasing Peppermint Patti and his dog likes to eat homeless people's shit and pokes her nose into people's crotches and other smelly places instead of pretending she is the Red Baron.

That woman who wants to be vice-President of America the Beautiful did not exist for most of us until very recently. Then she is everywhere and her family is everywhere and she is so everywhere everybody wants to vomit except for the people who share her Jimmy Swaggart point of view or want to stick their dick in her.

I do not think there is anything wrong with letting the world know you are alive. I do it with sentences because I can make them. I like to do it by saying things people would never say in places they would especially not say them. Like the other day in the Dutch cheese shop when I was watching an enthusiastic mother pulling a half-price Holland football jersey over her pencil-neck boy. I asked the mother, after she had forced her boy's greasy, oversized head into the jersey, "You aren't going to make your boy wear that Dutch shit are you?" You can do it any which way you can.

(dds, by the way, stands for dope dealers.)