Greenacres



Technically a lifeline is also enough rope to hang yourself with. I am keeping that in mind now that things in my life seem to have developed a kind of upside. I am presently ensconced in the sunny Greenacres Estate outside of the sunny state of Shitsville (TX) having absconded from Shitsville Ranch in the dead of night with my hefty Sinatra sympathy cheque.  Some jerk has made a TV show called “Shitsville Express” and I don’t want any of those sad fucks in support hosiery who go on bus tours to the “Neighbour’s” street in sunny Vermont South feeling ‘with it’ or ‘on-trend’ enough to jump into a ricketty charablanc and hightail it up the hill to peep at me and my splendid mid-century split-level Ranch and to leave their rubbish and empty Coke bottles in my hedges as such people are always wont to do.

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The precise reason that I live high up in the hills on Shitsville Ranch is because I would like at every moment of my life to be mathematically or geographically and geopolitically as far removed from other people — those vile, vile, vile half-wits and mongoloids who call themselves ‘human beings’ — as it is possible to be. Every day they — the vile, vile people — say “we are getting better and better” and “technology is changing our lives” while reverting to the pre-evolutionary state of great apes who use simple tools and frogs’ mouths to masturbate with.

I figured that by the time  Nancy Sinatra and cousin Frankie and my father Archie Shitsville awoke from their comas and worked out precisely who and what was still alive, (“Oh Nancy, dear Nancy, I did not mean to deceive you, it was a requiem for my heart which is dead,”) I would be far far away, sunning by the calm waters of a blue tiled pool, watching the fringe on the sun umbrella playing in the breeze. It is a return to God’s green and pleasant land, the endless blue days that one knew in one’s youth. There is a coral pink telephone here (unconnected) and the postman always rings twice as a warning.

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