Can’t Wait for Fame

I’m awaiting the day I’ll be famous, I’ll probably be dead.  Found ages hence via some random hashtag I’d originated like #hillyfootlilliputians or #jartoxichoneybees or even my two posts under #rellrickedrudeorsnedickyslew

Sned Icky Slew was an impressionable young man of a story about a journalistic integrity to toilets, a biopic of sorts on pissing stationary, poop logging and washroom entries.  It was a hit in elementary schools and my Peewee Hermanesque poetry warmed waves of parents until Rell Ricked Rude, an expansionary tale of Wanderlustful Fuck You’s, bag of dicks memoirs and space monkey adventures that were round about the time pigs began flying and we found out where Hell was because the Earth froze over.  I was sadly prophetic as the Christian Right thought it was the Apocalypse and the newly formed sect of RellRickedRudians began enacting the Book of Revelations on Tape as Read by Morgan Freeman.  It was a relic, I know, but Freeman’s voice became one of the first popular voice captures and had remained classic throughout the ages, enough so to withstand loss of so much of the Human Library.  Someone had written different script throughout the recordings history and augmented or added odd, contradictory and at times even non-sequitor sections.  Allegedly it had grown by a power of 10 from it’s original version.  Including 389502 consecutive ampersand characters, 3 rejected constitutional ammendment’s, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’s Novel “Good Omens”, and all 600 pages of the California State Department of Transportation Rigging Manual.  They were overly dramatic, dangerous and altogether safe.  Everyone always seems to forget the space monkeys and remember the scatological humor.

#JarToxicHoneyBees was an article I wrote about a band of the same name, who, for whatever reason, instantly changed their name in order to snub my hashtag for a drubbing of a review of their less than caddy-like demeanor on the golf course, on which they played their guerrilla concerts in an act of musical terrorism.  We remained good friends until Ted died, and I fought a crushing legal battle with the rest of the band for Ted’s air guitar.  I won in the end thanks to the NSA providing footage of our lovemaking, in which Ted had said he’d leave me his air guitar, on his deathbed.  I thought we’d deleted that.  We had, but it’s never really gone is it?  Anyhow it’s on display in the pantry.  I keep all my music there, it’s all I ever eat.

#Hillyfootlilliputians now there was a one for the ages!  Probably my only regret in life, after selling my LeBaron.  The greatest poem I’ve ever written.  It was a love poem I wrote for a woman I didn’t love, yet always wished I did.  It stank of fire, and sweat, tears and sex, and love, above all things love.  I’ve only read it to three others in my life, and they all were awash with tears, and dogs don’t have tear ducts.  I buried it under a secrettree, and it was never found, save it’s only living remnant- a silly little hashtag I once made, drunk, posting a picture of my son.  It seemed to make sense at the time, only distantly a memory of a word then.  Anyhow it was a sitcom in the future, about, unfortunately what it sounds like- Hobbits.  Hilly Foot was part of the Foot Clan but always loved spending her time with the Underhills, a ragtag bunch of ninja halflings from the wrong side of the track.  They go on all sorts of adventures, including one episode when a space monkey comes down and of course his name is Ted!  No one made the connection time and it wasn’t until 3 years later that three people simultaneously found it and it made Buzzfeed’s “6 Easter Eggs that will Blow Your Mind”.

It was all very subreddit worthy, and eventually my moniker was shouted from the rooftops, in homage to a childhood memory of mine, and where’ever my name was heard each would bellow in response my name again, and the world became a battle cry of my name.  So they cloned me from all the samples of myself I had taken over the years in preparation of my eventual resurrection.  Some called me a prophet.  The Rell Ricked Rudians thought I was Jesus and asked me if I would help them raise an army of skeletons.  But I’d like just been resurrected so I’d had just about enough necromancy shit for one lifetime. Yeah it was cool and all being so popular.  But I wasn’t the same.  Being famous really gets to a man, especially if you’re a clone, so eventually I just dipped out and went back to 2002 and was just myself again.  Time travel really gets to a man, especially if you’re a clone.  But yeah…  that’s how I got famous.

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