I've been lapse.

I know it's been a while since I've posted, but I've been reading a lot of Hunter Thompson recently, listening to a lot of The Might Be Giants and Tom Waits, and also acting very much my age, which I had been avoiding like the plague for the last 12 months.

That, combined with a few perspective changing moments has exuded itself in my psyche as a fictional account of our early Thanksgiving celebration of last night. I'd like to present to you, my accounting of: Obscene Porcine*

*I apologize for the wall of text, but it's been an acting my age kind of night.

She'd spent the whole night puking and shitting that putrid porcine virus all about the third story half bathroom in our rented row home in South Philadelphia.It'd been Orphan Thanksgiving around the Jury Box, and the twelve very angry people enjoyed a secretly bitter cornucopia. When it came time to cut the bird, no earlier than 10 PM, because God Damned Jonny had decided to slow cook the bird at a temperature slightly warmer than an hour old turd. This is of no concequence, though, because the culprit was clear. That low down H1N1 had struck the first of us. We neglected piles of tissues on the table, ignored the sneezing chef. We'd turned a blind eye to what was obviously the Genesis of the Zombie Holocaust. There's got to be a latent connection between how we view zombies and how we view flu sufferers. We implore them to leave us be, we ignore the symptoms of the obviously infected until it's just too late, and then we eventually emerge from the terror in a world that will never be the same. Ignorant of that impending situation, we carried on our merriment as if we preferred to be culled. We wanted to absorb the beautiful glory of catching the virus of the century. We wanted it like designer luggage and self-actualization. But now we've learned the folly of our ways. Here we all sit, taking shifts, five minute rotations on the two taxed and frustrated toilet bowls in our home. They are so unhappy with their collective station in life; they understand their destiny and accept it as the signal that the end of days has arrived. We attack them with fierosity as yet unknown. The world spins outside the arena, for the combatants waiting in the wings are primed for their chance to do battle. The world outside the arena is plumed in cigarette smoke and tightly clenched sphincters, but inside, the battle over takes all and the contenders fall into a lull of respect for eachother. If you squint your eyes tightly enough...it resembles a dance.