The Smell of a Dead Mouse

I used to have a knack for smelling them out at my Mom's house. Move a few boxes in the linen closet and voila c'est ici, so I can tell you there's something rotten in Denmark. But how do you say to Society that the spinach or fennel stuck in its teeth makes you sick when it smiles, that it reeks?

You can offend it if you like (see below), but you cannot shock it. Its resilience and absorption surpass even the finest paper towels. The mediocre poet Baudelaire compared Society to a man bowing with flourish to an ass. Woe to he who tries to change it. Woe to you and me. And whoah! to you and the ass you rode in on, Jackie O.

You can do whatever you want. You can HAVE that decaf double cap with low-fat as a matter of fact. You can give yourself a Hitler moustache get high off the fumes and go goose-stepping around Safeway. But then some overzealous Zionist will throw blood on your lederhosen, which costs a fortune at the dry cleaners.

You can have sex with a dog, but remember the age of consent factors 10 and not 7, except in Alabama. You can say fuck. Lenny died for that right. Who's a sick comic? Who's sick? We're sick. And we keep killing the medicine men. Not the MDs of Marin, Over Insured Land Rover land. No, the guys with the cure we keep tacking up or shutting down. Why? Because your mind is real estate. Think of your mind as Cuba. A little, annoying fly-infested dungheap that just bothers the PTB.

Dig: Castro is your ego, and I guess that makes Kennedy your id. With your finger on the button, you go "Ten, nine, eight..." and the palms are sweaty, all ready for Armageddon "five, four, three..." Armistice! Fuck Armistice. Abort. Let's just leave it where you are under a sweaty palm tree, like Castro, smoking a cigar, prefer bicycles to cars. Havana good time. Wish you were here.