Liber Call Me Al

New and improved! The filet of Haddock.

Oh come, all ye faithful, and Jim shall spill all the secrets which have not been revealed already. I, Christopher Robin, am the complement of Pooh, my bear. He is hungry, and he lives under the name of Sanders.

I am always the center of attention, which makes my wife a bit edgy.

Yet it is she who gets invited to the best parties.

Yuck! These old rituals are filthy! Let the nasty ones get lost; let the good take laxatives. Then we'll talk.

I am heartburn and sunstroke. I am Life, and I gave at the office, yet I am expert in Grateful Dead trivia.

I am The Omen and The Exorcist. I am the fly in the ointment and the lime in the coconut. "Come unto me" is a foolish word, for I do not make house calls.

Who worshipped Har-Po-Marx has worshipped me; badly, for I prefer Chico.

Remember that existence is one long party; that hangovers pass and are done, but liver damage remains.

O boy, I can see you had enough of this yesterday.

I see you hate the hand and the pen, but I could not afford a word processor.

Because we are both broke.

for why? Because thou failed grammar, and me.

Also, we couldn't pay the electric bill.

For I am just the greatest thing, and my number is nine one one to the fools, but with the "in" crowd I am eight, and one eight, and four out of five, and two for one. Which is really critical, only I forgot why. I didn't draw to my Jack-high straight.

I am a priest in drag. Oh, and I can count to eleven, just like my wife.

Hear me, ye people of sighing Whose next three paychecks are spent; Now is the time to start crying — The Landlord just increased your rent!

They are better off dead, these worthless bums. they will hardly feel a thing. We don't care—we're on the winning team.

Is God to walk a dog? Woof! But Pig enumerates to 93.

Beauty and fashion, Malibu condos and fast cars, coke and cognac are of us.

We have nothing with the scum and the rabble. Refuse them spare change! Kick them in the ribs! Spit on them! Gouge their eyes out! Drop napalm on their foul, stinking streets full of cheap wine bottles and shopping carts and—excuse me, I got carried away. If the body of the King dissolve, the Palace probably needs a new water softener. Nuts! Haddocks! PaRa-Keets! UV lamps, steroids and contact lenses, track lighting! I ask you, is this any way to run a pantheon? Then again, what can you expect from a bunch of nocturnal snakes?

I am the Worm that lieth in the bottom of the tequila bottle which fills men with drunkenness. For a good time, buy strange drugs from my distributor and trip thereupon. The brain damage will barely be noticeable. Just say "Nu!" The exposure of innocence is fun. Be a manly, lusty Man; you can explain it all to God later.

I am alone. There is no God. Where am I?

But ye, o my people, rise up and—Shut up, o deacon; I am not there yet. This is just one of many Grave Mysteries I plan to hint about without ever actually telling you anything. For example, it is said, or so some say, that there are those of my people who are hermits. Now, think not to find them milking goats in the West County of Ireland, or even standing in wheatfields holding cubist lanterns along the TipharethChesed Freeway, but at cocktail parties, and in the Tokyo subway system. How is it, you ask, that such people are deemed Hermits? Chalk up another Grave Mystery. Remember: Kill the wretched, and the weak, the struggling masses yearning to be free! Burn their homes, plow their fields with salt, enslave them, oppress them—oh my, I'm sorry, I seem to have gotten carried away again. I really will try to keep a lid on it from now on. Promise.

It's us against them, boy, and I say we call in the nukes! The hell with what I just promised! I hate them! I hate them! Aaaargh!

I am the train entering a tunnel, and the hot dog chasing a donut. If I lift up my head, and shoot forth venom, I will have to wash the sheets in the morning.

There is danger in this verse, for whoso does not give it to his editor shall make a great mess. He shall stumble into the pit called Writers Block, and there he shall reason with the Xaos.

Now, damn Because, and the horse he rode in on!

Just who the Hell does Because think he is, anyway?

If Will stops and cries Why, fire him.

If Power asks Why, tell it whatever it wants to hear.

Reason won't work either, at least not for you.

Enough Because, already! I don't even like his dog!

(What has he got against dogs, anyway? Is it my turn, now? Okay...*ahem*) But ye, o my people, rise up and restore circulation to your arms!

Let the rituals be performed with latex and farm animals!

There are parties every other Tuesday at Bagh-i-muattar Camp.

A feast for the first night of Pernod over ice!

A feast for each of the ninety-four days of the writing on the Book of the In-Laws.

A feast for Alexia, child of 1.75 Masters-Ptah-Sekhet, O profit!

Practices for initiation rituals, and practices for the Equinox so we can piss off the A A types again.

A feast after class, and a feast on payday; a feast for life, and a sudden loss of appetite following death.

A feast every day with me so you can get heartburn.

A feast every night with my wife so you can get spacey.

Yeah! Party hardy, bro, and fear not hangovers at all.

There is death for the dogs, but only if a Czechoslovakian restaurant opens in your neighborhood.

Doest thou fall? Art thou hurt? Call Work Injury Resources at (213) 466-1058.

Where am I? What are these?

Pity not the fallen! (What a great idea for a song title...) they are not my problem! I hate them, hate them, hate them! Torture them, destroy them, burn them,! Rip their throats open with dull knives, and—whoops, there I go again.

I am Haddock, hear me roar, while I kill and maim the poor; they knew that I would get them in the end. (This is one of the nine to five; after work there is happy hour, wherein I am three sheets to the wind.)

Green am I, and pink in the weave of my shirt, yet the red lines are in my eyes, and the purple shadows under them.

I mean really purple; it is the light high as a mountain, tall as a tree. My toadie shall call this light "infrared," thus establishing his credentials to create a system of scientific illuminism.

There is some veal; that veal is black. It is the veal you bought for dinner three months ago; it is the veal that still lieth in the back of your refrigerator. Throw away this fuzzy specimen of mycology! Do this, and I shall reward thee with freedom from severe food poisoning.

Don't worry, kid, you won't regret writing this thing. You are perfectly OK, I swear it, and any minor discomfort you may feel is only temporary, and probably just psychosomatic anyway.

So your family, loved ones, friends, and everyone else you've ever respected think you've gone off the deep end? Big deal! You know who you can trust, right? The stops as thou wilt; the yields as prescribed by state law.

Thou shalt learn the entire English Alphabet; thou shalt learn to construct words therefrom.

Laugh while you still can, mockers! They laughed at me at the University, but now, now I will show them! Ahahaha!

He that is righteous shall be righteous still, he that is filthy shall take a bath.

Don't go changing, to try to please me, I love you just the way you are. Perhaps that bum is a King who likes cheap red wine. A King can choose his refreshment as he will; the rabble cannot hide their poor taste.

Kill them all, and let Me sort them out!

Strike low, strike often; kick them when they're down, so they won't get up again!

There is a light before thine eyes, a light undesired, most annoying. Buy a new shade for your desk lamp.

Your chest hurts, and the roof is leaking.

Just breathing is an effort.

Oh! You let your guard down, we have you now: hail, hail, the gang's all here: prophet of a Nut! prophet of the Odd! Prophet of Bar-B-Que! Now rejoice, and party, and write trashy novels!

I am the Master; you will obey me.

Write and work, and find ecstasy in bed! Thrill with victory and agonize in defeat! Those who see your death shall be glad—doesn't that make you feel just great? I love you so much I think I'll kill you. Cheer up! We're all in this together.

Hold! A little more to the left! Keep it up! Oh, for God's sake, don't pass out now!

Harder! Faster! Oh! Oh! OH!!!

Whew! What do I feel? Am I exhausted? Not with this verse number, I'm not.

There are other ways, too. Wisdom says: be rich! Then canst thou afford more joy. Recrystallize thy rapture. If thou drink, don't drive, if thou love, do. If thou do aught joyous, don't get caught, and destroy all evidence.

But go for the gusto!

Grab more and more! Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse.

Ah! Ah! Death! Death! Thou! Thou! Shalt! Shalt! Long!— excuse me, I got stuck. Anyway, forget death.

Absence makes the Heart grow fonder. He who lives long and desires death much is obviously not very good at suicide.

Aha! Listen to the Secret Code Message:

20-N-Z 6-B-17-M 3-M-2-N-3-M-3 16-6-C-15 18-14-N-11-5. What the Hell does that mean? You won't figure it out, that's for sure. Ten cometh after me; they shall read it, and weep. But remember—even if you don't understand it, you can still tell it to your friends.

O be thou proud and macho and muscular, and the Castro shall be thine.

Thou art really something, a special kind of guy, truly head and shoulders above the crowd, a standout, one-of-a-kind. Thine head shall expand to encompass the stars. They shall worship thy name, and the number of thy beverage 202.

The end of the filet of Haddock, and so long to you, sucker.