I forgot to tell you.
I am opening a commune.
It will be a commune for artists -- writers, painters, musicians, poets -- my kind of people.
I am not sure if my commune will have electricity or not.
Every night, just after our mystical barbecue ritual, we will sit around drinking Absinthe.
Some of us will probably smoke cigarettes.
You know what's funny?
I kind of like the smell of cigarettes.
I do not smoke. I do not need to smoke. I still hack up streaming wads of lung diarrhea from all those years of driving in the backseat of a Ford Falcon station wagon while my parents smoked like fucking chimneys with all the windows rolled up.
Yeah.
We used to have to "roll" windows.
Can I tell you? I came to an epiphany yesterday.
I am not afraid to admit that I am wrong. Here goes: After all these years, I realize I have been doing everything wrong, wrong, wrong!
Who knew?
That is why I am opening my artists' commune.
I am also not afraid to admit I am a socialist.
Except I am kind of anti-social.
I will do almost anything to avoid going to a "party."
Or a get-together.
I have already received applications for membership at my commune.
I put the applications onto a number-2-pencil Scantron matrix and feed it into my admissions computer.
So far, my computer keeps generating the same form letter response.
The response is this:
No. We regret to inform you that you may not join our artists' commune. You are too much of a douchebag.
The wonders of technology!
13 comments:
That would be an interesting rejection letter. However, it makes me wonder what the acceptance letter looks like.
It's not a letter.
It's a hat.
If you got high enough off second hand smoke, you could probably trick that scantron into accepting you. It would be like a Philip K. Dick novel.
By the way, finished Rotters last night. My god. Such prose. Thanks so much for the recommendation. Now I have to tear through Miss Peregrine's so I can buy Amy's new book.
I'm not big on joining, and I prefer to hang with the family pets at parties, and I don't smoke.
But I would apply for your commune.
I would commune with words and kindred spirits. And pets.
And I can contribute lots of Apocalypse supplies,
including a fine machete and a top-of-the-line axe for
defense against zombies.
I'm very social. My dad is too.
I'm also a homebody. So is my mom.
I'd like to join a commune with a garden.
Okay, so douchebags are not allowed at the commune. Good idea.
What about part-time commune, you know, just for the mystical barbecue and drinking of Absinthe?
I like pie.
Will there be baseball at the commune? And can my hat be a ballcap? Otherwise will you set up a silent video feed so if I feel like watching life in the commune I can, that way i dont have to socialize.
I'm guessing your "without balls" is metaphorical because I know I'd take a platoon of pissed-off women from the East Village with Kalashnikovs pretty seriously.
Ah, children of the fifties. Fighting off a lingering case of bronchitis thanks to 3-pack-a-day Camel-smoking parents who wouldn't roll down the windows of a Ford Fairlane station wagon.
I'm looking for a commune to retire to in about 15 years. Will c/e for food.
c/e?
c/e = "copy edit."
hellskitchen is one of the best copyeditors around.
I should have put two and two together, but alas, I was never good at math. Or context clues.
I'm in for the Absinthe and the socialism.
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