Week of August 28
Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.
Week of August 21
It's a small world - but I'd hate to have to paint it.
Week of August 14
The only problem
with haiku is that you just
get started and then
Week of August 7
Doctor: You have
a brain cloud.
Joe: Brain cloud?
Doctor: There... a black fog of tissue running
right down the center of your brain. It's very rare. It'll spread at a regular
rate. It's very destructive.
Joe: And it's incurable...
Joe: How long?
Doctor: Six months. You can pretty much count that
being about that. It's not painful. Your brain will simply fail, followed
abruptly by your body.
Joe: I don't
Mr. Waturi. You look like a bag of shit stuffed in a cheap suit. Not that
anybody could look good under these zombie lights. I can feel them sucking the
juice out of my eyeballs. Suck suck suck suck suck -- [slurp] -- Three hundred
bucks a week, that's the news, for three hundred bucks a week I lived in this
sink, this used rubber.
Mr. Waturi: So what! You think I feel good? Nobody
feels good. After childhood it's a fact of life. I feel rotten. So what! I don't
let it bother me. I don't let it interfere with my job.
Mr. Waturi: Watch it mister, there's a woman here.
Joe: Don't you think I know that Frank? Don't you
think I'm aware that there is a woman here. I can smell her, like, like a
flower. I can taste her like sugar on my tongue. When I'm twenty feet away I can
hear the fabric of her dress when she moves in her chair. Not that I've done
anything about it. I've gone all day, every day, not doing, not saying, not
taking the chance, for three hundred dollars a week. And Frank, the coffee, it
stinks. It tastes like arsenic. These lights give me a headache. If they don't
give you a headache you must be dead. So let's arrange the funeral.
Mr. Waturi: You better get out of here. I'm telling
Joe: You're not telling me nothing.
Mr. Waturi: I'm telling you!
Joe: Why? I ask myself why have I put up with you.
I can't imagine. But I know it's fear. Yellow freakin' fear. I've been too
chicken shit afraid to live my life so I sold it to you for three hundred
freakin' dollars a week. You are lucky I don't kill you! You're lucky I don't
rip your freakin' throat out! But I'm not going to! Maybe you're not so lucky at
that. 'Cause I'm going to leave you here, Mr. Wahu Watusi. What could be worse
vs. the Volcano