DEAR PHILLY (SPOON MAN)

DEAR PHILLY: Why do I need a spoon to get my asshole clean? Your boy, SPOON MAN.

DEAR SPOON MAN: NOW we’re talking! Thank you, my friend! You see, most people would read your question and think it was no more than a little stab at some Wednesday morning butthole humor. Not me. Your question is actually a defiant stance against existence itself. To me it speaks volumes about the humiliation and futility of human life in this hateful modern world. Last night I finally summoned the strength to get my sorry ass off the couch and go to bed, but when I went to turn the tv off, I accidentally hit the channel change button and wound up sitting back down and watching a good 30 to 40 minutes of Good Will Hunting. Anyway, remember the scene where Robin Williams finally breaks Matt Damon?   

-It’s not your fault.

-Yeah, I know that. 

-Look at me son. It’s not your fault. 

-I know. 

-It’s not your fault.

-I know. 

-No, no you don’t. It’s not your fault. 

-I know. 

-It’s not your fault.

-All right. 

-It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. 

And so I say it to you, SPOON MAN: It’s not your fault. There is nothing natural about modern life. We are most certainly living in the end stages of human existence. A state of fibrillation if you will (yes, I sometimes watch Arrested Development). It actually astounds me that our bodies and our minds do as well as they do. It was years ago when I used to have to take the L train into the city from Brooklyn and I’d look around at all the creatures, their heads bobbing to rhythm of the train, and all I could think was, “You’d think they’d shit their pants more and bite each other’s noses off.” I have been saving that line, hoping to work it into some story somewhere, but I’m proud to simply spend it on you, SPOON MAN. The more I live, the more I feel we’re just too damn hard on ourselves and others. We all have our agendas and if you don’t fit in with a person’s agenda, well, then fuck you. One of my all time favorite quotes goes like this: "There is suffering and misery everywhere throughout this broad land. But there are kinds and degrees of suffering; the worst, in my opinion, is the sort one encounters in the very heart of progress.” That was Henry motherfuckin’ Miller of course, writing about America sometime in the 1940s. Look, man, my nerves were fried at birth. Throw in a healthy imagination and a mere trip to the grocery store feels like they’ve got the big guns blasting behind me, the shells exploding like thunder beyond the beach. The fucking waves, man, you should feel the waves. It feels like the goddamn boat’s gonna crack in half. The guy beside me buckles over and pukes. I look over at the driver. I see him nod to the Sergeant. I grip my rifle and try to swallow. You see, SPOON MAN, nothing works for me anymore. A good day for me still feels like a bad acid trip. What I’m trying to say is that I think you’re doing just fine. You’re body’s reacting appropriately. My advice would be to drink more water (fresh coconut water if you can get it), eat oatmeal every morning, and just be glad you didn’t throw a BBQ the other day where a few of the people you invited you barely know, and to your wife’s horror, you began telling everyone how you long to be failed, devastatingly, knock-you-on-your-ass failed, but then above that, perhaps your greatest desire in life would be to have the authority to be able to investigate any man’s penis at your discretion. I really don’t think that’s too much to ask. NEXT!!!