Shaky plans for sleeping in pushed through a sausage grinder. I cannot re-iterate how important and fortunate it is for all degrees of spanky seperation that I do not own a rifle. Would have aimed for an intestinal shot, with a rusty bullet, scored at the head to cause the greatest possiblity for infirming agonising trench gut infection. Dead in the deep belly button of that simian grease stain that was jackhammering at eight in the hemorrhoidal morning on a Sunday. Probably would have put an additional one in his foot or kneecap for longlasting crippling.

Sis just called to let me know they had to put Brassie down. Poor old girl was suffering with canine cancer. I'll miss her graying ghost face. She was a fucking sweetheart that one. Didn't even get a goodbye lick on my face. I'd cry into my lager if I had one frosting in my palm.

YEAR EIGHTEEN: Why should the ghettofication end for low livin spankyman? Pushed passed the kids released from jeuvie hall and the middle aged high school drop outs registering for their GED classes, and signed myself up for enrollment in St. Louis Community College at Forest Park.

The archetectural thematic scheme of the campus felt like Neo Communist Spartan Revival. No-frills pile of bricks. One big boring basic geometry of dusted maroon. It sparked no interest or inspiration. Walking up the steps you knew you were the "almost ran"'s of the career path pagent.

The instructors of the classes were actually often smart and genuinely dedicated to offereing up a valid education to disenfranchised people. Course, many of them were just there for a measly paycheck or on some wierd educational witness protection program. At least I could pick and choose, seperating the mouth breathers from the action stars. I learned stuff.

I took the art path. Only time I felt snug in my own cone of silent confidence was when I was drawing. Pencils were my noble steeds, my sharpest weapons, and most faithful friends. Unfortunately, out of influence from Pop, I took on graphic arts for advertising. Bitter tasting responsibilty syrup. Tainted my creativity all up in it's ass.

Still, a few classes were pure fine art for fine art sake. Like figure drawing. Remember the first day this sandy frocked kid whose overactive ball juice factory had seized control of all reasoning, was hopped up on his own glands waiting for the naked chicks. Alarm! Alarm! Prepare ego halted at sixth grade for brutal reality, all hands on deck! Must admit, I was asking the ether to not support my cynicism and actually put some skin in front of me I could wax my lance to in the midnight blue. Mostly I was amped cause I got to draw six hours out of the day, or even more with all the different art classes I was taking. Still, when leather boy Walter sacheted up to the platform and flung his robe to the side with a musical theater twirl, complete body wax job, I allowed myself to get a brief gasface out my system from behind my easel.

Some of the models appeared to be hastily plucked out of their corrugated cardboard mansions on Dried Piss Street early that morning. One disheveled guy was shaped exactly like a golfball on a tee. Plump roundness up top, spindly toothpicks underneath. Once, when his back was to me, I saw a fart flappily escape his fluffy fanny. The skin rippling flatulence aftermath haunted me in slow motion replay for days. Another lady, who, was extremely proud of her anthropological proto human museum display hairy legs, had an extra ornament for us. Seated chair pose, knees spread eagle, nice tampon ripcord dangling from beneath her poonfro. Sometimes focusing on being an enlightened serious artist was difficult.

Ditched the mozarella encrusted apron for a wrinkled shirt and tie. Eighteen allows for a wider range of employment opportunities in the States. You go from manure caste to compost caste. Became a "host" at the Rigatoni Hut. ( The faithful will recall that the actual name of the midlevel chain restaurant has been changed to preserve the current appearance and position of my body parts ) The new jobby job paid better and I didn't smell like a used mop head at the end of a shift.

It was through this new gig that I was honored special accomodation at numerous drinking establishments in the St. Louis metropolitain area. Wound up tagging along with the manager and some of the other crew to bars. Became a made guy. Bouncers recognised my face after a while and just assumed I was legit. Sweet sweet underage firewater.

One favorite spot was The Powerhouse. Old factory downtown next to Union Station turned into a huge pool hall. The cocktail waitresses wore tight spandex outfits with cleavage pushed up right under their chins. Being restaurant hacks we knew how to tip. We became favorite sons soon. We even formed a team and played in the league. Nothing like plowing through half a dozen double Jack and Cokes, getting blunted in the bathroom, and running the table on some chump.

If calculations are correct, I was probably exercising my liver five nights out of the week. Started forming the modern freak mind you now see plastered in front of you. Oh shit, I also finally got my dick wet again due to The Powerhouse and Roxy's, a strip club I was also given a golden ticket to due to my association of industry men. Course that was the following year when I was nineteen. And you know what that means.

Fade to black.