Life is short, you fuckers
Look After All the People And The Animals. Even The Fuckwits
My name is Frank T Bird, and today is my last day on earth
My Beautiful Friends
I know. Yer keep looking to self-improvement cauliflower-brained professors or pubic life coaches or the worst kind of rich gurus like Eckhart the Cunt for advice on how to truly waste yer life.
Cos every day yer wake up, and yer feel incomplete, like a fucking Monopoly board without GO — like a beaver without a dam clit — like some bastard knicked a part of yer soul. So yer spend yer days looking for it.
Yer look at $500 wireless Schoutzinger headphones, cheaply built houses that fit yer 2000 x paycheck budget, Nike Airs that Shaquille once took a piss in, or the fitness watch that tells yer when to spunk in yer wife.
And yer think yer improving yer ‘self’. But, yer not.
Yer looking for the missing piece.
Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase.
Yer wake up and do yer goblet squats at the gym. Then yer hammer yer fourteen grand a year seagull shit protein shake. Yer stare at yer tightly wound meat butt in the mirror and flex yer titties like Schwarshiniver.
Yer head to the beach and freeze yer goolies during yer ‘cold’ swim to extend yer life as an avatar at the Edgecliff retirement home in the Metta-verz — welcome to the age of virtual urine-stained pants.
And yer go to see yer favourite bands in concert and suck the cock n bolloks of the kiddy fiddling rockstars who bypass the beady cancel culture cos they are already bad, and it won’t sell papers.
And yer pretend that yer JIZZ LIKE JAMES JOYCE when yer read poetry cos yer just wanna fit in with the other pretentious dweeks even though yer find poetry duller than watching a snail having a wank.
Or yer join the armed forces to fight for capitalism and corporate domination, or yer get PTSD from joining the RAF after yer realise that RAF stands for Reciprocal Anal Fingering.
So yer scroll Tinder to find a mate to get yer pussy wet or yer cock wet or yer gob wet or someone to go to dinner with and comment on the saltbush garlic lobster cock or the yuzu-marinated monkey tits with a horseradish crisp, and yer think yer just dating. But yer not.
Yer looking for the missing piece.
Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase.
And yer write on Medium and check yer responses to see which of yer people will comment on yer story so yer can push them up a notch in yer life-o-meter.
And yer clap when future Bond Villains like Ethan Munsk fuck the night sky cos yer think they’re saving the world.
And yer drink coffee from beans shat out by monkeys but yer cant stand to eat carrots shat out by humans.
And yer judge the fickle fucks on Insta who do knobhead dances with filters on their faces and tits. But yer don’t get yer as fickle as them cos yer only like people based on wot they do for yer.
Yer don’t get it cos yer looking for the missing piece.
Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase.
And if it were yer last day on the planet, and yer woke up knowing that, what would yer do? Would yer go looking for the missing piece?
The moment before death is the truest of all moments, cos there’s nothing left worth the pretence.
It don’t matter if it’s you who is leaving or yer mum or dad or daughter or son or yer dog or yer lover.
Yer go into that room for the last time. And yer look at each other with that look that says,
‘This is it’.
And you’d give anything to stay together.
Feel it.
It’s the missing piece.
Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase.
