Mister Tchaikovsky, Mister Friedman, Mister Jeff Young (a true Flat Earther?)

Note: In 2020, I’m writing 52 blog posts, one per week, released on Wednesdays or so…This is a placeholder entry for Wednesday August 26 and also a proper post for Wednesday September 2, and if you are confused, please ask my last two most recent psychiatrists at the same time and in the same respectacles

So in general if not in principle it is perhaps more or less understandable that I would like the novel The Violent Bear It Away by Flannery O’Connor so I can read it a second time. I caminé past a bookstore earlier today and exhaled asking for a pen and the guy shook his head no. So I still have their phone number memorized except I already forgot the last two digits which I believe makes 10 times 10 possible phone calls and another person has yesterday asked for a check-in by phone today that has not happened just yet.

Returning to the compost about book prices, try to figure this fuckin’ one out. There is a trade paperback from the ’70s that is both dirt cheap and incredible hard to find in used bookstores; simultaneously, not many people actually understand its relationship to one of Mister Halford’s magnum opeyes:

I also lack on hand a 1936-first-published book by William Faulkner, not that I’m stupid enough to try to memorize that one in every possible iron placement of a sentienCheaire, I just actually think it would be sort of interesting to have lying around in case I need to get annoyed back at people on the phone who give me those phone calls I caint refuse. Or somebody could buy me an LP of Sturgeon reading a particular story of his, confused, send me the fuckin’ email down there at the bottom regarding your own lice-ensu

Regarding two nights ago when I was playing my guitar on la playa, one of ’em anyway (kind of a lot of them around this particular Deeflatport), there was an gigantically tall man with skin of black. I am worried not about him, mind you, and not either the spider who left a few whiles ago chanting at me, but that fuckin’ egg sac of the thing that’s yet on one of my many ‘squares of schizophrenia’ (confused? then before you chicken out or ostrich pout or rant at me about this and that cliche regarding when you have to poop or scoop or dupe, sit your USian eyeball right here and then riddle yourself about tourettes and emFostex), and I am just looking at that seedpod-shaped sac and wondering, though I somehow knew shining a flashlight at it would be a bad idea prior to having it confirmed by someone else who also knew I had known, anyway, the really tall guy who had to watch some other conversations with those of similar skeinburgerpianos, wondered aloud if I smoked some weed and I was like no man, these augmented 3rds, and I alLOUdingly Erkle’d my way back to a vehículo, no harm, no fuckin’ ow.

In other news, much like Lupe Fiasco, I gotta pay these bills (exactly one cheque for which I have the envelope and the stamp and the destination address and the exact dollar amount and the chequebook itself is somewhere on this goddamned carpet), and, then, I have what might be considered a show to do eventually, so I’ve been curious what happens, not only how much the Robin Cook first edition paperback novel Coma costs (which may or may not be the trade paperback to which I referred earlier), if I put a thousand ones in here while you plunge your own septictanks

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Before checking that math, eat your own ass! There is a really simple word I like to call many people (in my mind or in all’y’all’s, idgaf, if you want some konji write it by other other hand or foot first second third you elementary nerds down there right the fuck under the sudukoans), it’s real simple: COWARDS

This blog post, Mister Tchaikovsky, Mister Friedman, Mister Jeff Young (a true Flat Earther?), by Douglas Lucas, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License (human-readable summary of license). The license is based on a work at this URL:
https://douglaslucas.com/blog/2020/09/03/mister-tchaikovsky-mister-friedman-mister-jeff-young-a-true-flat-earther/ Seeking enlightenment about infinite butthole theory, well, then, I’ll fill you in if you send: dal@riseup.net.

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