August 30, 1997: Spent all last night writing shit. Smoked someones homegrown speef narkle. Drank Old Crow on ice. My father was a pimp. We lived in a converted airplane hanger and all the hookers were in the middle on beanbags. My first memory is of my babysitter stuffing weeblewobbles up her ass and shooting them into the jacuzee for the dog.
    I just went to the bathroom, I'm not wearing any underwear, some of the piss sprinkled my pants. Tonight I have to go out and get drunk and stare at all the beautiful girls in Santa Barbara. It feels good to know beautiful girls. No one can deny that.
    Anyfuck, I grew up with a bunch of druggees but I never did drugs or drank alcohol until my senior year in high school. I don't know why, but I made up some excuses that seemed to work in my head. My best friend at school was Bug Derff. We'd hang out at his house and play video games, ride skateboards, and he'd drink gallons of wine the whole time. And I didn't touch it. Once, I had a run in with some old guy that stopped by the curb and asked me where Bug Derff's house was. And since it was close by I pointed to it and described where it was. And then he asked me to get in and show him where. I think he was going to kidnap me.
    I'm about on my eighth or ninth cup of coffee and I have been smoking weed for a couple hours now. I'm making more coffee. I'm shaking like mad and frothing at the mouth.
    I crapped in my pants once when I was wearing pajymas, the one piece kind with the built in booties with the super slick plastic on the bottom of the feet, and it rolled under my feet so when I walked around I was stepping on my own shit.
    The hookers were into computers. We had this gigantic mainframe and all the hookers had terminals built into their bean bags. We even had terminals in the bathroom. Some pretty big name people knew my father very well, I didn't know who they were then but now I know. They really liked the idea of the FuckLoader. My dad had been working for years perfecting it.
    I like to drink orange juice. If only I could smoke soul music. Grow your marijuana with soul music constantly playing to it and then give me some. General Sherman leans slightly to my left.
    Driving home from her house crying, the pain straight in the gut, love songs on the radio, water drying behind the eyes, driving with the blurry vision. Or how about not being able to sleep. I don't know anything. Such focused daydreams about touching, smells, hair, analyzing, tightness of hug, impression of her boobs just below my chest, sometimes I find myself talking out loud but then I catch myself and look around to see if anyone heard.
    I need a haircut, I think about balding, it scares me, grow it long and do the lateral mat, a little super glue and who's going to know the difference? Spend a couple thousand on some sort of linament, take oatmeal baths, kiegel. I like dancing a lot. I do it a lot to my soul music. I also sing out loud a lot and my voice is shitty. I think its just habit. Hey that's not bad.
    In the back yard was a mound of dirt and I dug a hole in it and put some hookers in it. When the candyman came around I would reach in and get a couple and give them to the candyman and he would toss me candybars, and popsicles.
    First time I saw a good looking nude I wanted to blowgun her with the fuzzy ink sticks from my markers.

(Send this story out to everyone, make xerox copies of it)

-Reverend Speef Narkle

Flashback Enema