Read a Book, Motherfucker, Read a Book

I have been reading little parts of books lately, which I haven’t messed with in a while. Mostly this comes from electronic paranoia, thinking too much internets and cell phones have made me a whole lot stupider. Like sometimes I don’t use CAPs when I’m supposed to, nor proper punctuation, because the internets have taughted me this. Actually, I just then put CAPs intead of typing out the word because I have been made so stupid I don’t remember which way is the right way to spell that type of capital/capitol. I guess I did read on in the internets too, but it was mostly quick blurbs of news stories or penthouse forum letters where I pretended I was fucking my biology teacher from ninth grade. I should probably aim for something better with my stupid brain than busting nuts into pink washcloths and then thinking “LOLOLOLOL” at people convinced Obama’s gonna win the election, as if it was as easy as organizing a martini party in a gentrified American neighborhood where everybody has to wear a funny hat.
One of the things I read this week was the dead David Foster Wallace’s (who I’d never read before he died, at least I don’t remember it) thing from Rolling Stone about John McCain’s campaign in 2000, where he was basically doing the Obama thing, just less photogenically. It helped me realize politics is stupid and for faggots, or hardcore Christians, who are just repressed faggots anyways. I love it when people say, “If you don’t vote, you can’t complain.” I had worked up in my mind a good response where I would go, in self-important douchey way, “Well, that’s like saying I have to get shot in a leg and if I don’t pick which one then I don’t get to complain about it. What if I don’t want to get shot in the leg?” And that works once or twice, but mostly it gets boring if you hear it more than that, which no one else would except for me, but I try to live my life in a way so as to entertain myself, and that wouldn’t be entertaining. So I dug out this little BB pistol I had, and keep it in my truck, and try to remember to carry it when I’m around people who tend to proselytize on the political tip, and if that comes up, which it has twice now, I pull it out and point it at them (I put a piece of bright green duct tape on it so they know, sort of, it’s not a real gun) and ask them “Which leg you want to get shot in?” Both times - a 30-something dude who gets arrested over living wages, and an older 50-something woman who gets reiki attunements regularly - they look confused. So I would repeat the question. Second time around would get stammering, and I shot them, dude in the left leg, woman in her right thigh because she’s chunky and was wearing a big ass dress, so I hoped it wouldn’t hurt her too much, and I said, “You’ve got no right to complain if you didn’t pick which leg,” and walked off. The dude fell down, as I hit him on the knee, and I felt bad just walking off like that, but I felt the point needed to be made.