The world’s going to Hell with Human Beings running the show

I swear to God it is.

Human Beings suck. I’m not being sarcastic. I’m not trying to shock. All I’m doing is looking around. Reading the news. I’m basing my opinion on seventy years of observing Human Beings. I think I’m making a logical assessment. Human Beings are a blight.

I don’t even like myself as a Human Being.

I’d rather be a Chicken.

Not one of those poor birds stuck for life in a cage and fattened for slaughter. I hear the chicken death merchants keep them in cages their whole lives. Poor little fuckers. I eat a lot of chicken. I oughta be ashamed of myself. I’m not gonna eat any more chicken. I’ll live on black beans and rice. Throw in some carrots. I’ll live on frozen shrimp before I eat another chicken. Because Chickens are better than people.

I won’t live in a cage. I’ll be a free range chicken. I’ll be like that little red rooster in the Willie Dixon song.

Forget about Elvis.

Howlin’ Wolf was the real King.

Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, Bo Diddly…these were good human beings.

If all you really want to do with your life is sing and play guitar, or write poems, or walk dogs, or teach kindergarten, or shit, I don’t know, sit on your ass all day feeding Pigeons, this is strong evidence you’re probably a good human being.

Those with lots of Ambition for making the world a better place…those are the bad human beings.

I’m sitting at the office

I’m sitting with my buddy Normal Guy. I call him Normal Guy because he’s a former Homeless Dude and current Boat Bum that looks like a Normal Guy. He’s well groomed. Looks like a cool breeze golfer. His appearance masks his real self. His real self is a dead broke part time shoplifter and basic lay-about who just wants to enjoy his life. He’s seven grand in the hole on his boat slip fees. Any day now he’ll be evicted. Normal guy is seventy three years old. He’s a good human being. He doesn’t want to be a chicken. He doesn’t think on that level. But he’s still a good human being.

Normal Guy bears a striking resemblance to Michael J. Fox

Say you’re one of the lucky few that read my novel. The Log Of The Yardbird. You already know about Normal Guy because he’s a character in my book. That’s right. Normal Guy is a real person. Kind of. He’s still around and going strong. Sort of…

Anyway, I’m sitting at my favorite end table at the office. I’m reading about the Speaker Of The House Mess. The Russian Mess. The Gaza Mess. The recurring Covid and Killer Flu Mess. The Oceans glutted with plastic junk Mess. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. All these messes like bubbles in a great vat of bubbling shit called the human race. I’m reading this shit when I oughta know better. My mind is already black from all this shit. I can’t think about anything to Blog about because my mind is so blackened. I’m thinking I could just as well blog on a wall with a spray can. I need a gang I can tag with. What would I call this gang of graffiti criminals? The Free Range Chickens. Or the Free Rangers for short.

If I was a kid I might be one of those dudes.

“I don’t like it here,” Normal Guy says.

“Why not?”

“It’s dark.”

“I love it here.”

“The Feng Shui is all wrong here. I don’t like it.”

“Feng Shui? Did I hear you correctly?”

He’s looking around. Staring at the walls. At his phone. He only stopped in here to drop off some Viagra. He gets a free script every month but he has no girlfriend currently. So he’s happy to supply me with a few pills now and then. I take them once in a while because…well, because I’m still alive, more or less…

One of these days I won’t need them because…well, because I’ll be dead.

“You gotta leave? Shit. Why don’t you hang around. I”ll buy you a coffee.”

“No, no. I’m fine.”

I don’t know why I want him to stay. I got my stash of Viagra. Now I need to get to work on my blog post. But my mind is so black. Maybe that’s why I want him to stay. He cheers me up. Normal guy is so positive about life. It’s really kind of strange that he’s so positive. A guy living on the brink of penury. Yet he remains cheerful. The British have a word for it. I don’t remember the word. Cheerful…

“What’s the noise?” he says.

“What noise?”

“Don’t you hear it?”

“Oh, you mean the hummer?”

The Lobotomy Dude’s Song

“He humms,” I explain.

“Why?”

“It’s a kind of meditation.”

“Sounds more like he’s clucking.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like a chicken.”

“Naw.”

No, really

The Lobotomy dude has sharp ears.

Soon as Normal Guy leaves I’m trying to start a blog post. But I get a wierd feeling. I look up and the Lobotomy Dude is glaring at me.

“I heard what you said about me being chicken.” he says.

“Wait a minute. I never said you were chicken. My friend said you sounded like a chicken.”

“That’s because I was dreaming.”

“I thought you were meditating.”

“No. I was dreaming. In my dream I became a chicken. It was a good life. Chickens love their lives. And I was loving my life. But I lived with a terrible foreboding.”

“Yeah?”

“One day she would come for me.”

“Who?”

“The Farmer’s wife. She would one day take me into her arms like a loving mother only to seize me by the throat and wring my neck.”

“No shit?”

“She had a method. Every sunday she took a chicken from the coup and she took the clucking chicken by the neck and with a twist of her wrist the chicken’s neck would snap. I was raised on a farm and I watched her wring the necks of the chickens.”

“Who was this woman?”

“My Grandmother. She brought me to church. Afterwards she made sunday dinner. We would always have baked chicken.”

“How did it taste?”

“It was like the taste of a martyred beast of prey.”

Okay, now I’m remembering he told me he was raised in San Francisco. He never lived on a farm.

“Where exactly was this farm you were raised on?”

He’s gone back to humming.

It could be a mediation this time around.

Anyway, I’m feeling better now. I could do some work on my blog post. Or do a little Free Ranging down on my dock. Or…I could listen to some good Human Beings sing.