defectivejunk

Is this guy laughing on the train reading a really funny book, or is he demented? I haven't decided. Maybe he's a serial killer. Maybe he has your wife stashed in his basement right now, next to the bones of his fifty other victims. Maybe she won't stop screaming, so he's going to have a little ... fun with her.

Or maybe Tom Clancy writes really hilarious novels.

I always hated my name. "Meat VanHousen". That's the dumbest name I've ever heard. Never mind the fact that some ancestor changed it from Van-Hauser or Van-Heusen or whatever to escape being a war criminal. I'm named after a damned dead animal carcass.

My name right now is "Hickory Accordion". I saw it in a music shop.

I'm just screwing with you. I made it up.

Last year, my name was "Motorbike St. Francis". Two years before that, it was "Armistread Hossennfeffer". The extra n is silent.

You see, I've changed my name on my birthday every year since I was eighteen. I decided that I was finally an adult, and it was finally time that I could decide how to live my life. And, so, I could decide what my own name would be. The problem is, everyone that knew me before then always refused to call me anything but "Meat".

He has a blue duffel bag with him. Blue duffel bags are always bad news. They've always got bloody knives or bloody clothes or time bombs in them. Bloody time bombs. Maybe some kid's hands in there ... maybe even a copy of some right wing political humor rag ... maybe some clothes from the gym. Or a melon-baller. A book detailing every event in my life so far ... "2PM: Hickory wakes up. 2:01PM: Hickory uses the restroom. 2:02-2:04PM: Hickory explores himself sexually" ...

Two years ago, on a dare from my friends - who paid me 1000 dollars after I went through with it - I changed my name to "Dingleberry Gaylord Bunghole". That was the dirtiest name the judge would let me use. A couple of weeks later, I got a job as a helpdesk monkey. Telling idiots to turn on their monitors, plug the printer in instead of hitting it, that sort of thing.

But I always had to answer the phone "This is Dingleberry". So everyone started calling me "D" at work. Except for a few salesmen (aka assholes) who liked to call me "Dingle" - or "Dingle-dogg" - and the old lady in payroll who never realized the word she was saying ("Good morning, Dingleberry, quite hot outside isn't it"), and my family, who kept calling me Meat.

For a while now, I try to think of good rules to live by. The world is pretty stupid sometimes - most times actually - and so I pretend that I can make up rules for good living. The trick is, there can never be such things. Sometimes I try to come up with an opinion I have about a subject, and I decide that I'm both for and against it. That both sides are equally good, and it just depends who asks whether I say I like it or I don't. It never works though, because no one ever asks.

But despite any of that, and despite not living or abiding by most of my rules, I still have a rule list. I'm not going to show it to you.

Rule #1: No one but me can ever see the whole Rule List.

This is the most important rule, because if anyone were to read the entire list, they might go crazy. More importantly, they would be able to see how I live my life, and I can't have that happening. It has to remain a mystery, or somebody could figure me out.

Rule #2: The Rule List is an original creation, copyright Meat VanHousen aka Hickory Accordion, etc.

Those two are the only rules I never break.

Rule #58: If I'm not horizontal, I'm not happy.

If I'm asleep, I don't have to deal with the world. That's the only time I'm ever happy: when the world doesn't exist. Armageddon is a beautiful concept. But in practice, it wouldn't work out. Some assholes would still be able to keep going, and squirting out new monsters. Somehow. Assholes would find a way.

Assholes are humanity's cockroaches. Except they don't scurry when you turn the lights on.

Roaches are cool like that.

Rule #47: Wal-Mart is forbidden. None shall enter.

I break this rule about once a week. Sometimes twice if I forget something, or I run out of cookies.

I'm tired.

The crazy kid that shot all those people - he wrote a horrible story about a horrible guy that had the personality and the name of some horrible Guns ‘n Roses song. It was like he transcribed it. I find that to be pretty messed up. He wasn't original enough to even make up an asshole out of thin air. He had to steal one from somebody else.

Right now, in the back of my mind. I have like fifty, maybe sixty ideas for brand new assholes. Sure some would be amalgamations of real life assholes that I've met over the years. Probably a couple of salesmen squished together. But I wouldn't copy them from anybody. That would make me an asshole.

I hate destiny. Fate. Whatever. I don't believe in it, but it keeps trying to get me to believe in it. Offers to take me out for ice cream, buy me a new dollhouse, that kind of shit. I keep wondering if there's a song somewhere about a guy named Meat. Maybe the song ends with him getting stabbed to death on a train. I hope that song doesn't exist. And I hope no one ever writes it.

In fact, I'm adding a new rule.

Rule #133: No one shall ever be allowed to write a song that ends with my horrific death

I would go to sleep on the train, but I don't trust the guy that keeps laughing. Actually, I don't trust much of anyone. I trusted Shelley for a while. But she ended up breaking up with me and .. well, let's not get into that. Let's just say I don't trust anyone. Especially here on the train. I don't think I can fall asleep here.

I'll never be happy if I have to ride the train. I'll never be happy on the train.

Labels: A Book for Oprah's Book Club