Monday, July 5, 2010

You're The Reason God Made Jupiter

 Magic Mushroom story #1--FICTION

by Misti Rainwater-Lites

Warm rain dripped down like snot from God's titty baby nose. We were naked in the garden because we were on top of a mountain in California and there was a fence and even if somebody saw us they wouldn't give a flying fuck. Ebullient self-expression free from censorship flows like exceptionally spicy pinot noir in that part of the universe. "Crazy Love" by Van Morrison played. Then "Wild Horses" by the Rolling Stones. Then "Brass Buttons" by Gram Parsons. Then "I Feel You" by Depeche Mode. Then "Go Insane" by Lindsey Buckingham. Finally, my breath fresh green onion powerful, I looked into his numinous sea monkey aquarium eyes and told him what I had wanted to tell him for several years.

"There are two kinds of people in this world. We're the same kind of retard, darlin'...we're the kind who pine for the sea while delirious on top of a mountain and dream of the desert while sippin' cognac and smokin' cigars on the deck of a boat big enough for two on the glassy onyx sea. We've lost our powers in this world because we have forgotten how to use them," I murmured, sliding my arms around his neck like babyish anacondas.

"Baby, what the hell are you talking about? Do you think the pizza rolls are ready?"

"They're ready when you can smell them. We are spiritual kin. You do realize that, don't you? When I'm lost at sea...I hear your voice and it carries me. E.T. phone home. Mr. Webster could never define this communion."

"I'm discombobulated, too. Let's try to keep our booties cool."

"We are in agreement, boo. Our booties need coolin'...let's go eat some Cracker Jacks and play with your toys."

"No sex, right?"

"Absolutely not. Sex is out of the question. I've brought enough trouble to your tacos. You don't need that."

We laughed as we munched on the sticky popcorn and peanuts and watched some stupid horror movie made in 1970something. Giant killer rabbits on the loose, men in cowboy hats philosophizing about the casual carnage in dipshit monotones.

"Even with magic mushrooms this couldn't be any funnier," he said.

"I couldn't be any higher than I am right now, man. I'm on top of a Venusian skyscraper lickin' pink clouds," I said in between snorts of laughter.

There was some weed in his Japanese jewelry box but we didn't need that, either. "To Ramona" by Bob Dylan was in heavy rotation.

Misti Rainwater-Lites writes like her ass is on fire. Misti's ass is not on fire. Misti's booty is tres cool. This week Misti is proud of herself for riding BART alone like a big girl.

No comments:

Post a Comment