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SLAM! BOOM! CRASH!
SLAM! BOOM! CRASH!
By
Wolf Larsen
I walk into the big m------------ supermarket. I work here. Florescent lights, giant whiteness.
I am given groceries to sort. I am happy. this little task gets me away from the petty manager standing like a huge shadow over me.
Aisles long aisles. Anonymous rows of canned this and that. I still haven’t the faintest where half this g------ s--- goes. I don’t care. I’m paid s--- wages so basically I don’t give a s---.
Straight lines of cans - burp! Straight long aisles. It all looks so orderly - whoops! It fills me with the urge to knock everything down - ahem! You’re out of order What? To just run along these aisles with my arms outstretched and knock everything down. “If you say so.” Chaos! Disorder!
I’m all over the store. Here, there, everywhere - cause I can’t like figure out where half the fuck this g------ s--- goes. Or maybe I can but I don’t care enough to. Maybe I should just dump it here in the middle of the g------ floor. Why not? I certainly don’t give a s---. I don’t get pa-id enough to give a s---. I said that already but there are some things in this life you just can’t say enough.
Fluorescent “music” comes from the speaker. MuZak. Elevator Muzak. God, that s--- is annoying. I’d like to just BASH the f--- out of that speaker.
And I’d also like to SMASH a tremendously large hole into that ceiling! Let the BLUE SKY into this place!
The “muzak” - it lacks the JUICE! - sends awkward soft little penises into the air. Bleak safe non-colorous is the sound it emits.
The walls are just like the school walls - painted white with black trim - it’s like the whole world today is non-colors.
And this place needs music - real music - LIVE music! Brazilian Samba and Latino Salsa, Pavorati and some loud punk rock band - all playin at the same time - THAT would add some LIFE to this place!
LIFE! life life life life life!
oh sweeeeeett life! live it! breath it! taste it! smell it! embrace it! oh life! And Meat ! MEAT! I want some MEAT! And we could all cook up some of those thick juicy meaty m------------ STEAKS over the grill and have a BIG BARBrabacue for all us carnivores!
manager: “HEY READER!”
“Huh?”
- whoops (!) oh s--- (!) it’s the manager (!) -
manager: “How many times have I told you about daydreaming on the job?”
- I shrug my shoulders -
- and he takes me off the sorting job and puts somebody else even more incompetent on it. He sends me to the front end to bag groceries, where he can keep an e-y-e-watch on me.
The manager is a xiphsuran or perhaps a zoosporangium - a pain? - is not the word. He’s got a wimpy attempt at facial hair he should shave off. He looks like the only physical labor he’s had in his life is lifting a knife and fork.
So I’m put baggin’ groceries in the check out line. You’re startin’ to see WILD CIRCLES of COLORS dancing swirling through the air and stripes of wild raspberry and tropical green and passionate hot pinks and -
Then the manager starts Breath-ing down my back. Breath-ing down my back! Breath-ing down my back! And my back gets rigid. My shoulders tight. Bubble burn nervous in my stomach. And some other emotion entirely different I’M ANGRY LASH-ING OUT AT THEM WITH GIANT CLAWS!! Claws (?) I don’t have any claws(!) but so what(?) that’s how U feel. And my insides are BASH-ing THRASH-ing around -
I’m caught between these two WILD con-flicting emotions of docile nervous-s-s-s-snous and unrighteous ANGER! My heart beats - beating-beating-beats the overflowing emotion of a semi-civilized savage.
ChaAAAARGE! THESE are the crazed pas-sions - passion! and emo-tions - emotion! buil-ding Up within me like a VOLCANO about to BURST Open! On the surface - my mere body is en-gaged in bag-gin groceries - the vio-lent cha-os remains hidden - for now.
And remember now - Jack is a Manboy with terribly “confusing” changes goin’ on inside my body my mind secreting all these naturally - oh wow - hormones of all different kinds and all the endless layers of multitudes of complexities in growing into an adult in a world such as this and THESE TWO MANAGERS - MR. ------ AND MR. ------ - are the two sparks that are about to ignite a VOLCANIC eERUUUPT-ion of all my confused conflicting Manboy semi-post adolescence and nearbutnotquiteadultcomplexities if they don’t just LEAVE ME ALONE!
I feel like JUMP-ing on the counter here and NOW and THROW-ing my clothes OFF(!) and run-ning NAKED (!) through the aisles SMASH-inG (!) down all the cans unto the floor. OH (!) , wouldn’t that be GREAT! It would be so much F-U-N! I feel myself goin half-MAaAD! I want to obliterate insanely intricate details. What?
I mean WHY NOT? Why not GO CRAaAZY?!? Why should I act so normal with such neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic managers hurling their shadows and staring their bulging eyes attacking me.
And do you think that I’m neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic? For wanting to strip rip off my clothes and dance and run around naked and smash the window and escape this miserable white fluorescent twisted fantasy? Because it’s no fantasy man - it’s a swirling NiGghT-MaArREe swallowing our tiny little lives.
And I ran away from the supermarket. I ran through barren landscapes colored entirely red, colored entirely black, colored entirely gray. I ran to the bathroom.
I close the bathroom door behind me and lock it -
- from the outside world. I piss-ss-ss into the urinal. At the end I of course shake-ake-ake it to get rid of all those last few drop-op-op-ops. Wouldn’t want those to come out in my underwear and making me sme-e -e -e -ell like pee.
I put a little green bud (dope, weed, marijuana) in my little pipe. It is the best. None of that brown-assed skuuunk for me! This is the best kind of HoliMariwanna. Grade Jack-inspected green bud.
I light it. I inhale. I hold the smoke in. I try not to cough.
One minute later I am back on the job. The best way to do a stupid menial job is to do it stoned off your a--.
Copyright 2004 by Wolf Larsen. All Rights Reserved.
I wrote SLAM! BOOM! CRASH! while living in the Bahia region of Brazil. The work is heavily influenced by the Afro-Brazilian music of that region. One college professor told me, “That’s wilder than a Nabokov novel!” and that’s how my web page got its name. If you would like to read more of SLAM! BOOM! CRASH! you may go to http://www.secretwebsites.com/Nabokov_novel.htm
Wolf Larsen
By
Wolf Larsen
I walk into the big m------------ supermarket. I work here. Florescent lights, giant whiteness.
I am given groceries to sort. I am happy. this little task gets me away from the petty manager standing like a huge shadow over me.
Aisles long aisles. Anonymous rows of canned this and that. I still haven’t the faintest where half this g------ s--- goes. I don’t care. I’m paid s--- wages so basically I don’t give a s---.
Straight lines of cans - burp! Straight long aisles. It all looks so orderly - whoops! It fills me with the urge to knock everything down - ahem! You’re out of order What? To just run along these aisles with my arms outstretched and knock everything down. “If you say so.” Chaos! Disorder!
I’m all over the store. Here, there, everywhere - cause I can’t like figure out where half the fuck this g------ s--- goes. Or maybe I can but I don’t care enough to. Maybe I should just dump it here in the middle of the g------ floor. Why not? I certainly don’t give a s---. I don’t get pa-id enough to give a s---. I said that already but there are some things in this life you just can’t say enough.
Fluorescent “music” comes from the speaker. MuZak. Elevator Muzak. God, that s--- is annoying. I’d like to just BASH the f--- out of that speaker.
And I’d also like to SMASH a tremendously large hole into that ceiling! Let the BLUE SKY into this place!
The “muzak” - it lacks the JUICE! - sends awkward soft little penises into the air. Bleak safe non-colorous is the sound it emits.
The walls are just like the school walls - painted white with black trim - it’s like the whole world today is non-colors.
And this place needs music - real music - LIVE music! Brazilian Samba and Latino Salsa, Pavorati and some loud punk rock band - all playin at the same time - THAT would add some LIFE to this place!
LIFE! life life life life life!
oh sweeeeeett life! live it! breath it! taste it! smell it! embrace it! oh life! And Meat ! MEAT! I want some MEAT! And we could all cook up some of those thick juicy meaty m------------ STEAKS over the grill and have a BIG BARBrabacue for all us carnivores!
manager: “HEY READER!”
“Huh?”
- whoops (!) oh s--- (!) it’s the manager (!) -
manager: “How many times have I told you about daydreaming on the job?”
- I shrug my shoulders -
- and he takes me off the sorting job and puts somebody else even more incompetent on it. He sends me to the front end to bag groceries, where he can keep an e-y-e-watch on me.
The manager is a xiphsuran or perhaps a zoosporangium - a pain? - is not the word. He’s got a wimpy attempt at facial hair he should shave off. He looks like the only physical labor he’s had in his life is lifting a knife and fork.
So I’m put baggin’ groceries in the check out line. You’re startin’ to see WILD CIRCLES of COLORS dancing swirling through the air and stripes of wild raspberry and tropical green and passionate hot pinks and -
Then the manager starts Breath-ing down my back. Breath-ing down my back! Breath-ing down my back! And my back gets rigid. My shoulders tight. Bubble burn nervous in my stomach. And some other emotion entirely different I’M ANGRY LASH-ING OUT AT THEM WITH GIANT CLAWS!! Claws (?) I don’t have any claws(!) but so what(?) that’s how U feel. And my insides are BASH-ing THRASH-ing around -
SCREEEEEAAAAA-A-A A-A-A-A-M!!
BOOm - boom - boom - boom - Boom!
boom. boom. boom.
BOOm - boom - boom - boom - Boom!
boom. boom. boom.
BOOm - boom - boom - boom - Boom!
boom. boom. boom.
And remember now - Jack is a Manboy with terribly “confusing” changes goin’ on inside my body my mind secreting all these naturally - oh wow - hormones of all different kinds and all the endless layers of multitudes of complexities in growing into an adult in a world such as this and THESE TWO MANAGERS - MR. ------ AND MR. ------ - are the two sparks that are about to ignite a VOLCANIC eERUUUPT-ion of all my confused conflicting Manboy semi-post adolescence and nearbutnotquiteadultcomplexities if they don’t just LEAVE ME ALONE!
I feel like JUMP-ing on the counter here and NOW and THROW-ing my clothes OFF(!) and run-ning NAKED (!) through the aisles SMASH-inG (!) down all the cans unto the floor. OH (!) , wouldn’t that be GREAT! It would be so much F-U-N! I feel myself goin half-MAaAD! I want to obliterate insanely intricate details. What?
I mean WHY NOT? Why not GO CRAaAZY?!? Why should I act so normal with such neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic managers hurling their shadows and staring their bulging eyes attacking me.
And do you think that I’m neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic neuro-tic? For wanting to strip rip off my clothes and dance and run around naked and smash the window and escape this miserable white fluorescent twisted fantasy? Because it’s no fantasy man - it’s a swirling NiGghT-MaArREe swallowing our tiny little lives.
And I ran away from the supermarket. I ran through barren landscapes colored entirely red, colored entirely black, colored entirely gray. I ran to the bathroom.
I close the bathroom door behind me and lock it -
click!
I put a little green bud (dope, weed, marijuana) in my little pipe. It is the best. None of that brown-assed skuuunk for me! This is the best kind of HoliMariwanna. Grade Jack-inspected green bud.
I light it. I inhale. I hold the smoke in. I try not to cough.
One minute later I am back on the job. The best way to do a stupid menial job is to do it stoned off your a--.
Copyright 2004 by Wolf Larsen. All Rights Reserved.
I wrote SLAM! BOOM! CRASH! while living in the Bahia region of Brazil. The work is heavily influenced by the Afro-Brazilian music of that region. One college professor told me, “That’s wilder than a Nabokov novel!” and that’s how my web page got its name. If you would like to read more of SLAM! BOOM! CRASH! you may go to http://www.secretwebsites.com/Nabokov_novel.htm
Wolf Larsen
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