I will go to any length to avoid another human being.
If I am walking toward a door, to a store, to a bank, whatever the fuck ever, I will adjust the speed with which I walk so I do not arrive at the same time as someone else. I will fake a phone call into a phone I am not even holding, it’s just my goddamn hand. I will stop and check my empty pockets for imagination. I have stopped and stared at the fucking sun to avoid making small talk with someone.
If you are a stranger and you are talking to me about the weather, I am thinking about merrily thrashing you to death with a rusty bicycle chain. I am considering what nearby objects I could stab you or myself with, anything to end the conversation.
Weather is the usual icebreaker people use. When you talk to me about the weather, what you are really saying to me is that you cannot think of anything more original to talk about that a dead end subject that I can discover everything about by simply looking out the fucking window.
I don't even have to look. I could just guess, or not give a fuck at all.
I would readily accept you saying "My bowel movement this morning was frightfully loose and ill-tempered." At least you would be talking about something more interesting than rain. Water from ass beats water from sky, conversationally speaking.
This same asshole talks to me over and over again about how much his garden is going to love all this rain we're having. I have seen this imbecile of a fucking moron of a man almost every other day for six months. Every day since day one, I have wished for his death.
Yes. That is fucked up. That I would rather another human being die than have to endure their pointless banalities and observations. Small talk is murderous. I never initiate a conversation. I never ask him shit, but every other day this happens.
Him : How's it going today? (He doesn't even give me time to respond, just leans back in his chair and keeps talking, like we are just two dudes tickling our balls on a porch, not a care in the world) It looks like rain out there today. (Yes, it does you stupid fuckface, because it's already fucking raining.
Me: My cat died. Well, not my cat, just some pussy I know is dead. It's your wife's pussy. It died. It is totally dry and dusty and dead. And it has bugs. You should make it rain pesticide on her crusty muff.
Him: My garden sure is going to love all this rain, and my grass sure is thirsty. It could use a drink...and so could I. (He laughs hysterically at that shit, something he has likely said countless times. No one ever laughs at it. Ever. If no one laughs and you laugh, you fuck dirty donut holes into piles of old cow shit.)
Me: This one time, this guy had a wet garden and a monster fucked him to death. That's how Cabbage Patch kids are made. When monsters attack....and fuck boring gardeners.
Him: I am growing some cabbage myself. Weatherman said it's going to rain all day, maybe even rain some tomorrow. Yep. I don't think we need that much rain. (Sometimes I think he is going to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider to me, possibly as he fists his own anus to wash the spider out.)
Me: I have to go now. I prayed for diarrhea and it's here. In my sock.
And the curtain closes.
It is always pure agonizing hell and the conversation lasts less than a minute. I feel like screaming two inches from his face that I hope everything in his garden dies of aids and syphilis and that I hope he gets fucked by the monster and gets aids from a cucumber and is buried beneath his stupid fucking boring garden and no one ever talks about the garden ever again because it is too sad and painful to think about how he got cucumber aids and how he got horribly fucked by the monster.
Nine months after he was buried in the garden, dozens of dead eyed boring Cabbage Patch dolls sprouted from the ground and they learned to talk. Everything they said was boring. They looked at the sky all day and talked about the rain, even when it didn't rain, so the monster came and fucked them all to death. Then the next gardener down the street got cucumber aids and died with a giant crispy pickle sprouting from his dirty ass because the monster got him as well.
These are the gardens I want to hear stories about. The gardens that a giant fuck monster attacked. There are probably hundreds of gardeners that the monster plowed. He spends his glorious monstery life roaming the furrowed earth, spreading his seed and violently fucking boring gardeners to death. The monster knows that you are talking to people about dirt and water and plants, and he fucking hates that boring shit.
Maybe that is why all the crops are dying. People always blame this shit on the weather. It's too hot, too wet, for too long. That is how it starts, the longer the boring chatter goes on makes the monster grow angrier. The dust bowl and resulting westward migration could have been the direct result of the fuck monster's fury. The monster who so hates being bored by stories of weather and gardens.
Once upon a time, it didn't rain for a while. People kept talking about how it didn't rain. The monster became enraged and fucked the corn to death. It doesn't always fuck people.
He stalked the corn and then he fucked it cobby.
That makes perfect sense. Picture The Jolly Green Giant, only nothing like that at all. Half that size, flesh colored and mean as shit. A real hard pissin' grit eatin' cob fucker.
I know that the guy talking about his garden is the normal one. Normal people talk about shit like gardens and thirsty grass and weather and what they had for dinner. Normal people are friendly.
Normal people don't want other people to die from cucumber aids. Normal people pop corn, they don't fuck it all cobby.
But normal people don't know shit about monsters.
Hellwagon.
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