James Joyce’s Fart Fetish
Shroom dust in a shisha pipe, bubbles in the dregs of a milkshake burning a hole in my carpet. School of Rock with a scabby angel, rusty but unrustic; too poor to tickle a hipster’s sweet spot. Do you need another? I think I’ll take one anyway. (Is this treating myself?) Jack Black is raving and retching out of the television like the little girl from the Ring. You know that’s Lilo, right? She never wants it to rain because her parents died there. … It’s true, Mozart loved getting his ass ate. No, I swear! I’ll look it up right now! See?—buttholes have tasteholes. Huh? Tastebuds, tastebuds. Like a Portrait of the Fartist as a Young— Stop, I’m not ready. I’m young. I’m too young. … Concept: a fleshlight in a boot, call it ‘Puss In’. All this innovation, and for what? A capricious fizzle as I’m sogged up and dredged out, trying to wash my hair like a commercial mirage selling an overlit dream. Give me the towel. Get out. I might be vulgar, but I don’t want this. No, I don’t. … I didn’t. … Hey, when can we catch up? Are you free? … Don’t fucking slip me the tongue and blame it on Freud. I may be stoned but I still hate this. … Oh, you want money for those drugs from like, a year ago? I offered at the time. Huh? I’m a pariah or a parasite, but I can’t be both. … Sure, you’re hung like a deceit-dowsed pendulum, the sexual charisma of flailing nunchunks into your own face— as if you’re the Man from Cranbourne getting his moment on A Current Affair. … I just want to go home, or anywhere else, even Cranbourne. Maybe.