Good and fair citizens of Los Angeles I have been travelling, shitting and soaring abroad for a number of months. I have many tales to share: some good, some not so good. A few are downright dull. Such is life, I suppose. But at long last the autumn air, a sporadic lust for cheerios and the scent of Metro 217 diesel call me homeward, their songs growing louder by the day. Believe me when I say that I am now making my way down the coast, at my own pace: Back to the land of milk and honey. I have stopped for the night at truly a gravy of a find near an odd place known as Hearst Castle. The salt of the ocean breeze both flavors my nightly meal and cools the marble of this fortress which, might I add, is rife with tourists. It is here, then, that I recall a mere seven days ago in Golden Gate Park I did soar and shit over some 50,000 lovely burnouts. The Summer of Love, ’twere called. I recall now the meadow filled with wrinkles. Patchouli seared my (wee) eyes. I recall hare krishna, hare rama, the pees of tee, the corona car, the teller of destinies, the dead which many were, for reasons unknown to Chiliburger, grateful. Let us look now even as we prepare for my imminent return.

(Cousin! Take note and please have prepared and waiting upon my arrival a line of safflower seed, manure and lime sprinkled with pizza crumbs (here and there as available) as far as the eye can see. Shall we say 4th and Main? I bid you godspeed.)
»continue reading Let Us Now Hearken One Week Prior To The Day When I Did Soar And Shit Over Some 50,000 Lovely Burnouts

‘Twere a night unlike any other, lads. All Hallows Eve, they called it. Throughout the city the sounds coo! coo! bk coooo! were replaced by screeches most unholy-vile as to send shivers up and down wee-spine of Chiliburger. With but week-and-day until time-of-the-vote arriveth didst wonder aloud to self on more than one occasion, “‘Twouldst be able to vote this go ’round?”

Coo! Bk-Coooo! A-Cooooo! Coooo - Coooo. Coo! Coo, Cooooo, coooooooooo-Coo!
Bk-Coooo! A-Cooooo! Coooo - Coooo.

Screeches unholy moans and th’what-havst-yous interrupted said thoughts as abruptly as entered (wee) head. Didst finally then settle down and manage to carve self-portrait into large-girthed gourd a’fore setting out on town proper. Not wholly unflattering at that, if I may toot mine own horn but once, twice. Coo. Witness!:

Our city-streets, neighbours. I fly above. I take shit. Shit go down. People do-not like. But I take, anywa-y. I shit on streets daily. I shit on cars. Shit on people. Buildings. Schools. There is in fact no-thing I will not shit upon. We may never see eye-to-eye, you and I. Ever. My eye wee, at that. ‘Tis not important at end of day. We share city-streets.

Our city-streets: Where did the names origi-nate? Following be known facts as explained to Jeff Chiliburger long . . . long . . . long ago . . Brrrr-drrrr . . . . Drdrrrrdrrrrr. . .

Wil-shire Blvd
Jeff Wil-shire, youngest son of John Los Angeles, gunned steaming-train of eighty mules over peaceful tribe of indigenous Gabrielino Indians in 1679, simultaneously creating first major street, first public metro-politan trans-portation unit in (John) Los Angeles and, un-fortunately, first pedestrian fatality in (John) Los Angeles. All traffic problems begin and end with Jeff Wil-Shire. On ambitious and fruit-ful days I may take over four hundred shits along Wil-shire ‘twixt city-center and sea-land where pizza crumbs plentiful

Vermont
The fourteenth state of the union (“Vert-Mont”, green mountain) ’twere acquired in 1791. Young patriarch, Doug Vermont, was then dispatched to Great Yon West wherein swath of land was said to lie as part of same acqui-sition. He did then ride mighty pony fast, fast, a’crost yon plains. Upon arriving laid eyes on swath of land so vile (in his eye) whilst ’twas overheard whispering, “Ah. Fuck that” ‘afore surrendering land to Mexican farmer and post-haste acquiring newest-young-fast pony upon which wouldst cross greatland again, bound for mighty eastern home. Location of second pony shop: Vermont and Wil-shire

Western
Long straight row of native palm trees swayed for mile in unnatural bent, at unnatural height, with unnatural scent to be sure. Indigenous Gabrielinos believed edge of flat world to be mere feet beyond and as such dared not traverse west-ward be-yond nature’s demarcation line until 1811, when some hundred-dozen western wear facilities, without warning, began opening “up-and-down the line of death”

»continue reading Our city-streets: Where did the names origi-nate?

I had every intention of voting today, fellow denizens. June Gloom in full effect. Lunchtime. I pull up to the spot, only to discover my selfish cousins have eaten the entire row of cheerios before my arrival. Assholes! I came from the beach…for this?

With empty stomach I decided to vote. Voting would provide both an excuse to vacate the immediate area and a chance to fulfill my civic duty in the process. Win-win, to be sure. I had every intention of voting, friends, but fate, the babylon system and a few savage unscrupulites conspired to see that that act of patriotism did in fact not occur.

Why I Did Not Vote On Tues-Day

As I approached the polling place at a velocity of six knots from the southwest, I noticed a man in an apron outside a Jewish bakery. Said baker swatted air with broom, yelled something in Hebrew and fully disrupted my flight pattern. While I do not speak the Hebrew tongue, I do not believe he was flattering me.

I tried a second angle. Crested over a Shell station. Northwest. Dodged the 217. Scent of diesel in the air. Will I make it? Dipped six yards outside the door for a perfect landing. Took in my surroundings. Without warning I was nearly kicked in the head by a stumblebum. Said lech then flicked a spent Parlaiment filter-tip at my left wing, nearly burning the bejesus out of me in the process.

Things were not looking good to say the least.

“Chiliburger! What the hell are you doing here?”

I turn to face him. The guy looks familiar. How does he know my name?

“Bdrrrrt. Bdrrrrrrrr.”

“Come again.”

“Bdrrrrt. Bdrrrrrrrr. Brrddddddrrrrrr!”

“You’re not registered to vote you dumbass. Come on. I’m done here. I’ve just closed the book on forty-odd pounds of Abbe Land / Mike Feuer detritus. Let’s us have a beer.”

What could I do? Hopped into his car. Soon enough in we walked to Bar 107. The guy ordered a Schlitz. I ate popcorn. I had a few thimbles of beer. Soon enough the sting of defeat left my wings. Tomorrow…Tomorrow the cheerios are mine.

Bitches.