01/02/01

Of course Porch Rot’s story— or, as I should say, Porch Rot’s stupidity— made the news ‘round the world. Wasn’t a person this side of Hong Kong who heard the pathetic story of the lousy fucker’s passed up treasure who didn’t shake their head and wonder how in hell he could have been so fucking unimpressed about such a wondrous thing. How damn fucked-up do you have to be anyway when a stray piece of the planetary system wailing down on your place barely impresses you as out-of-the-ordinary? Says something, I’d say. Says something indeed. It was after that day, Ascension Thursday 1999, as I recall, that the scant clues regarding the disappearance of Porch Rot’s putative son, Clean Phil— the great Michael Stipe impersonator— finally began making sense. For a kid who believed so much in alien abductions, UFOs and other crazy, fucked-up, galactic what-not, maybe it was only fitting that a crashing meteorite ultimately led the way— in combination, of course, with my Asshole Redneck Detective Work— to finally uncovering the mystery of Clean Phil’s whereabouts. . .

Yes, my name is Joe Thoreau and I count myself an Asshole Redneck--- though the more polite phrase for us nowadays may be Asshole Woodchuck. Not that there’s anything that can be done about my assholeness at this late stage in the game. All bark and no bite though, like so many Asshole Woodchucks you'll find. I’m really just a wussy when you get right down to it. All this obscenity-laced bluster is just pathetic bravado really--- an indictment of my own deep-seated insecurities. Nazi I am not. And just why can’t I make myself feel better at someone else’s expense once in a while when I’m really the most pitiful creature there is to be found on the land?

I actually think of myself as a lot smarter than most people give me credit for, but maybe still not smart enough to be classified beyond the high end of idiocy. . .

If you’re a white male in rural America you’re not suppose to ask for anybody’s understanding— and you’re certainly not supposed to whine about anything— but damn if it doesn’t seem like the world has run out of room for the likes of me. Some days I feel like one of our fucking illustrious Orange County mastodons of yore left standing out on a sinking island with nothing much around to sustain me. Why can’t the cocksuckers caught up in all this Political Correctness shit take some damn time and try to come to some understanding of my kind for once before we’re all fucking gone? Where the hell is the cry for the endangered Asshole Rednecks, er, I mean, Asshole Woodchucks of the world?