Chapter 2: Losing it

John sped off to the scummiest, filthiest parts of the metropolis, with a trash-bag full of food that, to be honest, he probably wouldn't feed a wounded dog. But the type of folks he was going to be feeding were lower than dogs. They had no loyalty. They existed simply as spinning tops bouncing off the good intentions--and sometimes cars--of whatever various trustees and social workers which were stuck in a Winston Churchill nether-childhood. He didn't blame crackheads for their behavior, everybody is free to choose what's important to them. But if your decisions make you a pain in the ass to everybody else, well then you deserve to eat flammable, un-decomposable sodium-balls of processed dye that would make good hors d'oeuvre over at the Texas-size garbage continent floating in the pacific.

He cried some more and considered swerving at most pedestrians he saw.

He didn't particularly like the effects of alprazolam. He only owned the pills because they eased his occasional bouts of furious panic that possessed him whenever he was clear-headed. He enjoyed moments of not-panicking, but he tried never to take the pills if he didn't absolutely have to because once his Gaba receptors were inhibited, he felt less concerned with things. Nothing seemed important. And one of the only things that kept him showing up at his fucking JOB every day was minor, bitter illusions that certain things were important. Well guess what, this post-slacker meals-on-wheels shit was fucking IMPORTANT because he would be damned if this food was gonna fill up landfills, packed up in plastic biodegredation-prophylactics so that fucking awful gulls could suffocate on them.

The whole world is a fucking nightmare.

Some days he didn't even give a shit about the environment or the homeless, he was just so sick of other people pretending to care, and then flailing through the world like obese infants waving their brutal pelican arms and living beyond their means in a cocoon of apathy and craft beer.

Normally xanax wouldn't make him think like this, but he was manic now after successfully expelling the lethal dose from his poorly conceived self-dispatchment. Who knows how much was still in his system but it wouldn't be enough to do him in, especially now that he was in the mood to plow his car through the first nursery he saw.

"FUCK THEM!" he screamed at an eleven year old waiting for a bus.

As he got deeper and deeper into the lousiest rat-hole of semi-city, he continued to look around.

"Jesus, aren't there ANY white people in this hell-hole?" he tried to yell over the radio, which was his iPod plugged into the car he was driving without a license.

He saw a young white woman with her hair in a bun walking on the left. He nodded with approval. As he continued to pass her, he saw her eight month pregnant tummy and rolled his eyes.

"Seriously? A pregnant lady? The LEAST SOPHISTICATED TYPE OF WHITE PERSON!!"

He made an ugly face as he absorbed a blow of instant karma, recognizing THE OFFICIAL: lousiest, least intelligent thing he's ever said out loud. She didn't hear him, nobody did. But the fact that he said it means that he thought it.

The amount of contemplation required to process a spoken-out-loud statement of that caliber was currently unavailable, because he had to start finding some homeless assholes fast and shoving his discarded 7-11 food down their ignorant mouths before he started running over every stray dog he could find.

Coincidentally, the first uber-pathetic looking person he came upon was chilling under a bridge.

He was white and he had a dog.

"How convenient, I can be eased into this process with someone whom I am automatically semi-comfortable with." His favorite part about mania is is that he could fuel it intentionally. He couldn't always kill it intentionally (once in a long while he could) but if it was already present he could feed it with type of thoughts and physical motions that would make him more manic (or, manic longer). Among them were alcohol (which was off limits for tonight thanks to his god-forsaken benzo's--which were already harshing on his mania as it was) and physical activity. Running in place was common while he was on a manic-trip, but the most potent thing to rile up his inner soul was drastic, sudden changes in scenery. A drive out to the asshole of town wasn't that sudden, since he obeyed the speed limit like a spineless asshole, but it sure was drastic enough. He got out, and stared at this white Rastafarian like a thanksgiving turkey ripe for the stuffing.

"Hiya, friend!" said John, with bitter, ecstatic tears in his eyes.

"Goin on..." said whitey without looking up.

"Boy I sure hope you're hungry, you fucking Argonaut!" This drew a slight bit of attention from the urchin.

"Uh... sup?"

"Look at you, ya Greek sailor, you're definitely ready to eat!" He wrestled the over-stuffed trash-bag from his passenger seat.

"You wanna know my favorite Rush Limbaugh quote?" yelled John at--unnecessarily--the top of his lungs.

"Hey man, I don't--"

"It's from his first book, The Way Things Ought To Be. I like this book, because a man who sees himself as fucking important, tells us about the way things OUGHT to be!!"

Rasta-man gulped and started to make a brief inventory of his few belongings which were scattered around him.

"I like to read Rush, because evil men are amongst the most effective mother-fuckers in history... Don't get me wrong..." he lugged this bag over to an arm's length from his mark, "I don't actually believe in evil..."

The former Spin Doctors singer began to realize this was going to be a long evening, and started to position himself for evacuation.

"Still... I believe that some men are not at all the type of men I would want share a sidewalk or a kidney with, ya dig? Anyway, I won't bore you, but the quote is this:
Now I want to make clear that when there is damage to the environment, there is no one who wants to fix it more than I do. However, I refuse to believe it is necessary to attack the American way of life or to punish the American people for simply being themselves.
"Isn't that just FUCKING MAGNIFICENT! Rush wants to fix the environment MORE THAN ANYBODY!" He reached into the bag and grabbed a foul piece of crumb cake. He threw it blunt at the dog.

"Woh, woh-" Alexi Lalas started to protest.

"Sorry Al Gore, NOBODY wants to fix THE ENVIRONMENT more than RUSH LIMBAUGH! Do you realize how truly profound that is! That's a real quote from his book! HOWEVER, he refuses to believe it's necessary to attack the American WAY OF FUCKING LIFE!"

He grabbed the dude by the shitty shirt collar and started shaking his face. "RUSH refuses to believe it's necessary to punish the American people for simply being themselves! Come-here, you fucking female eunuch!"

"Dude, get the--" he had already smacked John off of him. He would have head for the hills, but he was actually a tad interested in that monster sack of food.

John felt a sharp sting from the smack and was already half histerical, so he started crying like toddler. "He thinks th-the-the American way of life is gonna fix the environment... Why do people always thing they can have it both ways?"

"Yo, you got any of those fried toquito's?" asked the hungry dude.

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