bellybutton lint

happy fourth

i hate 'eating with toes'. it was a send-up of 'running with scissors', which i read recently thanks to my good friend frogspond -- which, by the way, i highly recommend. the book's great; my send-up . . . not so much.

my dad loved the month of july, first day to the last. i dunno how he felt about it before i came along, but i was his twenty-third birthday present, born just four days shy of his. in a weird sort of ironic way, the man who would become my stepfather without the benefit of being married to my mother was also born in that month; his birthday was two days after mine. you can imagine what july was like in my house, regardless of where i was. i don't remember much for presents since we were poor even by yesterday's standards. but from about ten on, i felt pretty special in the middle of every year.

my dad liked fireworks. i don't know whether my mom did, but she didn't seem to not like'm. i liked'em too. they still mesmerize me. for just a few brief moments the nighttime sky is lit from below in a technicolor splendor replete with reds and blues and whites and greens. it's the only day that i consciously make the effort to love my country.

i don't hate my country. i can't hate that which i don't consciously love on a regular basis. what i hate is being discriminated against and being told that my spouse has to be their definition of a certain or other gender. funny, though. they think that because they can legislate where my money gets to go, they can control who i fuck and who i let fuck me. i am very married, if in no one else's eyes but the deity i can not slay and so, worship. his is the only one that counts, to me anyway.

i think sometimes about gathering all my friends, and all their friends, and all their friends and staging a mass resignation and application to freebie social services that drain the government dry. and telling my rich friends to import everything, to buy nothing american, not even green pea soup. to pay their bills but not the taxes added on. to set up offshore accounts and stop paying the irs. no taxation without representation, isn't that what boston was about? if this the best they can do with the shit they stole from the native clans, maybe it's time to stop payin'em to do it.

i don't wanna burn flags, bomb buildings, or even write vicious hate mail to that ape living in the house that will always be white regardless of who sits in the oral orifice. none of that stuff would get me what i want, which is for them to stop sayin niggerqueerredneckdyke like it's a bad thing. so i eat pussy; what's it to him? i'm not askin him to eat mine. if he doesn't like what goes on in my bedroom -- and in that veep's kid's room too, no doubt -- then he oughta quit thinkin about it. i most assuredly don't think about what goes on in his, though at his age, i doubt that there's much goin on besides the snooze button and the geritol'n'vodka shakes. i mean, look at'im. look at'em both. it's a cryin shame.

what if we boycotted the federal government en masse, started importing our foods, medicines, . . . just everything, and signed up for food stamps and medicaid cards? course, each person would have to pick one: welfare or importing goods. but just withdraw every cent we make out of the federal government's hands.

i sometimes think of a mass exodus to canada where universal healthcare is a reality and nobody cares what gender your spouse is, as long as you pay your taxes on time and are a productive citizen while you live there. i think his cronies would burn him at the stake til he was crisper than an alleged witch in the middle of a Salem town square.

i think that the trouble that would follow would be worth it, just so i could watch it all go down from up north.