I was ragged and ravaged after 4 shows in New York and Montreal, 1 BiLines Book Award, 1 Canadian border “detainment”, 2 NYC Mike Bloomberg style stop-and-frisks and a roadside interrogation in some generic DC suburb by a babbling steroid freak in a souped-up Dodge Charger cop car. I know when I’m not wanted. So I buy a ticket to return to my lovely and notorious “Whore of the East,” home sweet’n’sleazy home. Clearly, it’s where I belong.
I’d actually been naïve enough to think I could live in the US again. As if. Not after running around southeast Asia like a wild dog for the past few years. Other than a few neighborhoods on either coast, America is in nationwide lockdown. Lots of big talk about decadence and moral decline but the place is now about as radical and way-out as a Facebag meme. It’s only the bullshit media that makes anyone think the place is happening. ie: It’s only happening on that two-dimensional facsimile of life called the Internet.
Far as I could tell, you better get on your knees and suck the wang of the holy and righteous post 9-11 security apparatus or you’re gonna get jacked and become raw material for the private prison biz. A nation of cockswallowing subs have become too meek to mention the Military Fascist Complex has built a high tech security industry right inside their own country.
Enemies needed: Apply within.
When cops are all trussed up in full combat SWAT gear to go on suburban street patrols, you know the goose-stepping ain’t far off. Talk about the mainstreaming of fetish.
Maybe it’s the brutal effect of the racist Mormon right having bought out and de-Jewed and de-balled Hollywood, turned it into mass “Family Oriented” Cineplex jackoffery. Combined with a carcinogenic dose of poisonous Fox News dog food, it’s mental McDonald’s for the sports, celebrity shithead and popularized stupidity of the once functional American brain. Or maybe it’s just the long-term effect of constantly being fucked over by a herd of stinking rich, tax avoiding psychopaths in DC and NY who clink glasses and laugh heartily at the moronic middle classes for believing in “traditional American values.” Rebelling in Americorp these days means not much more than getting a tattoo just like Kanye or Kimmy. Christ. Off with their pretty little heads.
Anyway, I was at Atlanta airport, at the tail end of a 70-hour booze and benzo run, trying to make my escape from The Great Satan. I had to take the Toy Train over to Terminal F to the Korean Airways gangplank. Y'know, I've been on a lotta planes in the past couple years and I can never figure out why people line up beforehand, a long snaking collection of anxious looking fools. Your seat is reserved, asswipe!Nobody else can have it!
Here’s a fun thing to do: Lay down in the empty lounge and wait for the Final Boarding Call when they announce your name several times in urgent tones. It’s a gas to show up at the last possible second like some dissolute rock star, shades on your nose, stand at the head of the first class section and say in a loud voice to the chief stewardess: “Hey, baby, you can tell the pilot I’m ready to take off now.”
A dry-cunted factotum of some stripe touched my arm as went toward my utterly reserved aisle seat.
“Excuse me, but that isn’t very funny.”
“Take it up with my union leader, Bill Hicks.”
“And what union is that?” she said with a thin-lipped sneer.
“International Ass Whippers of the World. I’m a shop steward in Bangkok. On my way to a toady conference in the fleshpots of Pompeii. Wanna come along? Good subs are hard to find.”
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The righteous hag gawked up at me and her bony little hand snapped back as if she felt warm snot.
Actually, Korean Airways hostesses - or whatever the latest politically correct moniker is for flying waitresses - they are some smokin’ hot young pussy. They wear really tight cream-colored pencil skirts, and these fetching garments have the added feature of being sewn with a kind of half-oval panel that goes just above their ass and sort of pulls up their butt-cheeks. That's complimented by a body-hugging silk blouse in robin's egg blue. Their hair is up in a bun, held in place with a couple chopstick looking things. Overall, it's what my sadly missed old Stalinist pal Moe Finkelstein would have condemned as "a sickeningly glamorized version of their native Korean dress."
Could be Korean Airways has some kinda pervert committee that picks their stewardesses cuz every last one of them has a face like an 11 year-old nun and they've all got great bods. I've been on about dozen of their flights in the past couple years and believe me, you’d happily wack off to any of them. They also wear these very sexy sheer white stockings and counter-balance the whole effect with their shoes – demure, low-heeled black pumps a librarian would wear for a wild night out.
It took me about 5 seconds during my first ever Korean Airways flight to realize if I was loudly American and aggressively friendly they’d ply me with lots of free booze to shut me up. They even pushed me up to business class a couple times. This last flight I had three of these virginal young babes practically kneeling in the aisle, they looked ready to put on the ball-gag, all cute ‘n’ worried even though I was doing nothing untoward, just exuding that special kind of jocular unpredictability, saying hilarious shit that does not translate in the least: “Hey, you wanna kill that crying baby for me, honey? Hardy-har-har!”
Well, it’s a good thing they’re hot and submissive and provoke enjoyable fantasies of putting nice leases on them and spanking their hot little pussies while they squeal and giggle cuz they have no clue what the fuck they’re doing. The food is garbage, the wine would make a bum puke, and their in-flight computer games are like something Jobs invented in his garage in 1976.
So after about a hundred hours and a half dozen connections on the flying mule-trains of the Pacific, I’m back in Bangtown, sitting in one of the sleaziest ladyboy bars in one of the sleaziest streets on earth and it is awesome and comforting and deeply humane.
“Welcome home, Mista Baz. You wanting usual?”
“Yeah, a pair of barely legal ladyboys, a pitcher of methadone and a full pipe.”
“On yo tab, Mista Baz?”
“You know it, Kwang, honey. Hey, did I ever mention you have very beautiful eyes?”
“Many time.”
“No wonder…”
And I marvel at this endless sleepless guiltless sublime and contradictory metropolis, it’s serene surface never betraying its churning black heart, and I realize I am the luckiest asshole on the planet.
So sorry, Amerikkka. I could not put the collar back on, couldn’t pussy down for you again. Well, at least this time I didn’t end up in jail!
