I had just begun the poem I wrote yesterday when Sonja told me Whitney Houston had died. Sonja had heard about Whitney dying on the radio on her way home from the liquor store. We turned on our television, poured ourself a few drinks and watched CNN for 75 minutes until we were bored fucking near to death ourselves.
"We out-lived another one," I said to Sonja after we had switched to the news.
"Another what?" Sonja asked.
"Another disco cunt," I clarified myself.
"That's not very nice," Sonja concluded.
Once the news was over the big telethon got going. There was a man with no arms asking us to donate money to fucking sick kids.
"How does that motherfucker wipe his ass?" I asked Sonja. Not that I figured she knew.
"Probably someone else has to do it."
"Not these days. He probably has a robot wipe his ass for him."
"Whitney could have bought herself a robot to wipe her ass for her."
"You would think a scientist would attach bionic arms to that guy so he could wipe his shit."
Then the first of many pre-taped performances came on to entertain us into giving the sick kids some of our money. Michael Buble. I have a lot of time for Buble. He is so much like the way we Dope City people like to see ourselves. Profane, hockey loving, funny and talented. Was not long before we were bored of him too. Who the fuck listens to that grandpa shit?
We switched to the Canucks game. The Flames beat them up pretty good.
We had a few more and then we went to bed.
I outlived another disco cunt.
Alright.
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