Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic ………………… All Of Fudd’s Children


There was Iron Butt, Dodger Crotchrot, Roderick Sexmaniac, Angry McHardon, Perri Coma, Styp, the Evil Dwarf, and a host of others – as in, a plague of hosts.
Patients in the Waiting Room of Life, as lived by another who was psychopathic.
Each felt themselves the best, more than any others. None would not stop to make fun of another whom they decided threatened their minor empire, like Styp and the girlfriend several other guys would fuck and discard, confident that even confronted with the oh-so-clever sarcasm they would not get punched out.

Which they confused with the one made aware of this as unknowing, or stupid.
Or with Booby Wasu (aka the Evil Dwarf), steal lines from someone, insert it in a song, look guiltily at them while they performed and then go stand by them so they could be told ‘hey that’s my shit’ as they said ‘oh yeh, sorry, will take it out.’ Shameless wankers.
And those who in earlier days had classified the entire lot as losers would come to play the elder statesman and talk about their Great talent when the place shut down temporarily.

Reputation fed on even the most minor conveyance of respect, absent of course of any greater talent in the world, so that there was a whole class of non-entities praising each other then and in later days.

The exceptions had a much keener eye for the fuel of hypocrisy,
and were usually busy getting into print, or being otherwise known elsewhere.
As long as the person pretended not to know who had value and who was merely acting as the city’s buttclench, they were left undisturbed by rumor or innuendo.
Those who had actual connections to greater artists, from friendship or simply introduction, were silently chastised and cursed. No surprise that they would be vilified as they had achieved something without the imprimatur of the crowd of angry villagers.

Well, some of us long for memory’s little death, especially after the continental stupidity of some SOB howling as though his cat was being dipped in hot water.
Howling at the bare moon. Of discovering there was an ass, and they are it.
Cracking up, or being sick with violins; until you’re as ill as they speak of these ghosts and those dead.

Of course this is more exorcism than festival, more pathology than curse, more forgetful patience than celebrated remembrance.
These knobs could steal the stink off shit.

Babies meeting, then turning vicious in their rosy-cheeked and full-pants appreciation of the world. Ignoring the obvious, the cold
superiority that only arises in familiar confrontation of gabble and gobble.

Back and forth, eye on the opening door; never mind the performer, forget the stage and reason.

This is the real, the old soft soap opera without a season.

©Dean Baker

 

 

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