LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, MR. SALINGER.
By William D. Tucker
Copyright 2007-2008. All Rights Reserved.
I will relate to you some information about getting your Driver's License in the state of Florida:
I was asleep the morning of my sixteenth birthday. I'd spent the night drinking massive quantities of X-Tro Fellatio, my own particular/peculiar homeblend, playing Super Metroid and Chrono Trigger simultaneously (I'd been given two Super Nintendos for my fifteenth birthday, along with a locked room filled with winos and a custom made seven shot revolver in my right hand), getting wicked Martian hot sauce splashed rimjobs from two 77 year old synthetic hookers, and to top it off my Mum and Da set me loose in a locked room filled with trans-galactic capital speculators and their wives and children and dogs and parakeets and a turbinium modified fifty caliber Thompson sub-machine gun in my right hand and a Darryl F. Gates Limited Edition Fully Automatic Peace-tur-bator -Over-Under-Inside-Out-Shotgun with variable Giuliani Homeless Redistributor Switches in its side.
There's a tapping at my steel-hearted door.
"Fling this shit," I say, throwing a wad of crunchy, crustulated briefs at the blast door.
"Son?" a falsetto voice inquired.
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" I said, farting vociferously, aerosol shit taste filling my sanctum. "No wakey fucky!"
"Son? This is your Dad."
"Bllllleeerrraaggghh!" The vomit did flow like urine.
"Son? I was just thinking, it being the morning of your sixteenth birthday and all-well, I was thinking we'd go down and get your Driver's License and everything!"
An evil gerbil whispered in my ear, "Master, methinks this bodes well!"
"Who's shitting?!"
"Master! Try to regain some semblance of coherence! If you can but get out of bed, and join with yonder Fatherite, then you'll be on your way to Driving Land, and all the chaos which that amplifies!"
"Who do you shit? Eh? Fuckrack!"
"If you can drive a car then you can get around on your own! Make trouble in different parts of town on the same day! Nay, hit a pedestrian on Omega Drive, and escape to Cervantes Road in mere minutes!"
I vomited again, and my mind suddenly cleared and began to click forthwith: Driver's License. Driver's License. Any way I cut it, access to a vehicle would no doubt increase the width, and unbreakability, not to mention sanctity, of my dick.
"Breakfast," I grunted, and grabbed the gerbil and stuffed it into my mouth.
"I live to serve," the gerbil said before my jaws bit through its neck. I tossed the body. When eating of gerbil kind, the eyes and brains are easily the best and most nutritious parts. The large mouthed roaches, who of late had taken up co-residency with me in my chambers, swarmed over the gerbil's body.
The human faced leader of the roaches, Kefka, cried, "RRRRRRZZZZZZT! SPLLLLTZ!"
I saluted Kefka and threw open, with a single mighty thumb, the blast doors.
My Father followed me out into the living room where we waded through the corpses of my party companions from some hours ago, and I asked, "Where's the bitch?"
"Oh, heh," Father Flunky demurred, "she's out sport-shitting with Daphne and Ellie, heh."
I put some steel into my eyes, stared down Father, and then put some steel into my dick.
I said, "The house is dirty. I have made it dirty. Summon the bitch forthwith. That the house might be made clean today, that I might make it dirty by the 'morrow."
"Yes, Son. Anything, my Son."
"But, for the nonce, Father Flunky, you can warm up the Wanker Wagon. No doubt you can dial up the bitch through thorough utilization of the Automobile Telephone."
"Yes, my Son."
"Let us to it. The Driving Li censure Event then!"
We got into the Wanker Wagon, Father Flunky at the wheel, our own August Personage in the passenger's side seating area. We backed out of the driveway.
It was slow.
"Less caution, more haste!" I intoned.
"But-"
"No butts, dickbreath!" I rejoindered. "There will be no butts but those fit for shitting and fucking and you, sir, are not getting off that easy!" And with those beatific words declare-said, I produced, from my leftmost ear canal, a formidable adamantine rod which I did use to bash Father Flunky acrost the knee helmets with, and he did scream and beg, and I did guffaw.
"The more's where that came from, fuckstick!" and I whizzacked him againmost, and we were, at long finalicious last, backing at speed into the rear end of our neighbors' mini-van across the street.
"Forward, fuckface," I said, "with the quickness!"
And I whacked him acrost the knee bumps twicely, said, "To the Driver's Licensing Dispensary, post-hastings!"
We cruised along at the venerable speed of one-hundred-sixty-nine miles per hour. The smell of fearful urine and feces, Father's, filled the cab. I composed oratorios on my TI-69 calculator.
"Sublime," I said, a little bored, a lot unsurprised, and tossed the calculator out the window. Let some piece of random-walking streetscum partake of it. I was beyond it before I was ever near it. I contented myself with my own idle imaginings for some millennium or so as we drove onwards towards receiving my Driving Permit, and visions of the legendarily dreaded DMV pole-danced through my head.
I cackled, said, "I'll give them something to legendarily dread, the fucksnuffs!"
And then I vomited again, just for my own amusement. Father Fuckface had recently installed new upholstery, so it was, really, the only appropriate thing.
"We're here," Father minced. I vomited in his face, debarked from the Wanker Wagon, and a loathsome Dollar General store sullied my vision.
"Come on," said Father, waving me over with his hand.
My disgust was so monumental that my bodily functions utterly reversed: shit sprayed from my mouth, nose, tear ducts, and ears, peppered with sperm buckshot, whilst ambrosial vomit shotgunned from my ever-living asshole.
Father Flounce had already gone inside the wretched place, so I deigned to follow, though, in truth, I follow no such paltry scum. I only appear to follow. And so much of the world's inner eye is filmed with deception . . .
Inside, I continued to yell poop, and squeeze vomit. My Father stood some aisles away, waving at me to come to him. I let the excrement be my harbinger, and, at (penis)length, I arrived where my parental unit, on leaden legs, did stand.
The shelves were filled with Cracker Jack boxes, three/four deep.
Father took one down, put it in my hands. I shat in his face.
"Now," he minced, "if we just make our winding way to the cash registrar . . ."
I shat in his face again, tore open the box of Jacking Crackers, breathed in the caramel corn with mine nostrils. The box was empty, but for a single, solitaryistic piece of rectangular plastic sticking to the bottom of the now empty box. I grabbed this piece of plastic. It was a wrapper. With something inside it. A primordial, pussy-popping excitability manifested itself in all regions of my being, setting off alarms, making teapots whistle, volcanoes choke, the dead to rise, and bricks to burn. I used telekinesis to tear open the wrapper.
Between my unclean thumb and forefinger was my Driver's License for the Benighted State of Florida.
And my picture, with nary a hint of digital retouching of airbrushing, leering with divine arrogance. And in that moment, I almost perpetrated a Passion of the Narcissus, but, as always, a remembrance of my purpose did brace my will with lava moistened rods of ebon steel.
"Keys," I said with a freshly balls-dropped ripeness to my bass vocal stylings.
Father Flounder handed me the keys, said, "Drive safe, Son."
"Feh," I recombinated, "I've no time for Father Fuckbarfs." I shat in his face again, and the Dad went running out into the cold light of day. Moments later, machine gun fire sounded, and I said, "All the better. No doubt the scum were starved for good, classical Father shooting material."
I turned on one precise heel to march out of that foul palace of discounts when a strange feeling sloshed over me. I turned back 'round, faced the shelves with their rows-deep boxes of Cracker Jacks. Some eldritch exhumation of instinct guided my vicelike hands. I tore open another of the boxes, not even bothering to snort the caramelized contents, desiring only the wrapper and its prize. Sure enough, it was some other fool's permit to drive.
I tore into another box, found another license. Another box: driver's license, and the same for half a dozen more after that. And then the boxes were filled with Social Security cards, stern admonitions not to laminate printed on their backsides.
"Where's the sense?" I boomed. "So easy to tear . . ."
I wadded up all the unlaminated Social Security cards that I found. My mind filled with the shrill cries of souls-to-be, yet unborn. My steel-corded dick popped spearshaft erect, demolishing the front of my custom-built slacks, still crusted with blood and vomit from the party earlier that night/morning. I bit into the ball of Social Security cards, chewed, swallowed, digested, and spat more soul-shit all over boxes of Imitation-Os.
There was only one box of Cracker Jacks left. I opened it. Inside was a copy of The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. The entire book, covers front and back, each and every single page . . . was laminated. The view-seeing of this artifact produced whoops of shit-tinted laughter from my newly enlargened soul-stuff. A fart escaped my trachea.
"Ah, Salinger," I said, "ah, humanity."
As I walked out of the store, the Cash Registrar glared at me as though I did not possess Genetic Morality. I tossed him the book.
"Partake of this trifle," I decreed. "It should be suitable for your level of mental attainment." I shat upon the minimum-wager's visage and marched into the cold light of day.
As I slid behind the wheel of the Wanker Wagon, I thought, Of all the things to laminate . . .
I vomited. It made the seat warm, liquid, nice. I squirm-settled into my lovely sickness before peeling out into the scum-clotted streets. Targets were acquired. I leaned my face out the window into the lacerating wind, spoke shit and curses of non-existence upon all I saw. Sirens blared in my wake, but I did not fear, waver, or surrender. A Wagnerian stillness swelled in me, beginning in my balls and spreading to my mind and soul. No force in all the Spheres can revoke the license we make for ourselves.
. . .So, yes. That's what it was like for me to get my Driver's License from the Benighted State of Florida.