No one was supposed to get hurt. Real criminals never say that or even think it. I would not base my evaluation of any dire progression of chaotic events on Ridley Scott's approximation of human behavior under such conditions. And who the hell says tarmac anymore? There's no rubber on the tarmac; that's out at the airfield at what used to be the south edge of town, where the Koren War era fighter from north of the border skittered down three-zero and slammed into the ice cream parlor sometime between the summer of love and the age of disco.
This is a parking lot and those marks are burned on blacktop or asphalt or pavement. A guy once got shot near this place and I had to look at his distal innards as they tried to slither out the colander that used to be his belly and those things were still squeezing and trying to move the mail. I tried my best to keep them inside. You don't forget a thing like that.
© Pseudocognitive
I don’t give a damn about Charlie Sheen. For all I care, he can drop in on Chuck Manson at Corcoran and commiserate about the effects of lost influence—Manson will ratchet his glinting shrike’s eye over Sheen’s adam’s apple and wish for a pair of pinking shears. Charlie Sheen can stare at timorous apprentice chefs through night vision goggles as they prepare organic thimerosal-free potato pancakes for Jenny McCarthy. Jenny ought to be locked up in a deep cover North Korean maggot-gruel joint, not some soft Martha Stewart resort like the one Gibbs calls “Camp Cupcake.” Charlie can paddle a dinghy out past the 200 mile limit and cast his powder keg mindscape along the herring gull’s path and peer intently at the anemic krill below. He can enter a convenience store with a note and leave on a stretcher after an elderly woman decides she’s had enough self-infatuated putty-minded tough-guy-with-the-ladies stupidity for one day. Those purses are loaded with Eisenhower dollars.
Charlie can enhance his home rehab with sandpaper self-abuse, he can form a Dixie Mafia wannabe club with Gibson and Busey, he might kidnap mini schnauzers and lose money on the Cowboys-Vikings game and maybe go up against George Kennedy and stick his head up after getting fooled by a bad turkey imitation. Or he can have Don Meredith smear peanut butter on his license and eat it. I don’t care what the hell he does, as long as I don’t have to see his smarmy ass (or face) on a news update in the middle of a TV show I'm enjoying. Fade away, Charlie. Become as insensate as you are insensitive to the rights of others. Either that, or grow a pair and demonstrate a conscience. Eleven Mary Six, call the station.
© Pseudocognitive
