Lucky Pierre: noun 1.) The luckiest botter in a three-man bum chain. 2.) Occasional joint posts arising from the physical confluence of Canadian Tuxedo and Pheewrap at a moment in time. 3.) A delicious poached-egg breakfast dish served only by three hundred year old fine dining establishments.
It was Desperate Pickle's written wish, a night spent as the tender, yielding eggy receptor wedged between the heaving sherry-soaked loins of large friends. Born of this notion, Lucky Pierre arrives to capture the stream of conscious thought between two Centaurs over the course of exactly thirty minutes. It might not be pretty, it might not be cohesive, but it will be real.
And it begins.......now:
9:47: Sherried crab meat. Sherry bomb. Crabs. You filthy botter, there are crabs all over my english muffin. So it seems as such exists a single sole solution for such a saturated sundry: MAKE ME FEEL PRETTY, MAKE ME FEEL GOOD.
9:54: I have spent the last five days with one single piece of inspiration driving my fitness endeavours. The inspiration comes in the form of a recently consumed double-bacon cheeseburger with sauteed onions, mushrooms, pickles, ketchup, mayo, lettuce, and tomato. A pint of fries accompanied the burger. Within twenty minutes of completion I hated myself. I mean, sit-in-a-bathroom-stall-burp-weakly-and-mash-your-loathsome-belly-folds-together-with-both-hands hate yourself. Now, when I run and there is pain, I see the burger. I feel the burger, I speak to the burger, I hate the burger. The burger was my friend when it was just a set of words on a board above a cash register, but once inside me, the burger became the incubus. Fuck you, burger.
10:01: Dear Diary,
I don't know how long I can go on like this. I feel like maybe I should say something to the other crew members, but I think that if I brought up the deterioration of Smits it would be penultimate to mutiny. I know Smits has maintained loyalties within the senior staff, but yesterday's outburst put everyone in danger- needlessly so. Even these loyalties must remain connected by the most tenuous of threads...much like our captain's grasp on the necessary. I checked with Krueger and we have enough power and supplies to make it back to the waystation, but if a decision is to be made, it must be made immediately. Only one mistake, one misguided delay rests between the crew entire and oblivion. I am left with the following question, and the semantic solution required in response. "When one must do what is necessary?" The answer, of course, is that one must always do the necessary, for it would be named otherwise should a choice exist at all.
10:09: As life's odometer continues to roll, confusion mounts. As a youth, the things I didn't understand amounted to girls, my body, why I was in trouble all the time, God, dinner, and how to stay off the bottom step. I have grown. The umbrella of my comprehension is broad in scope, so much so that only a select few items remain outside my cerebral grasp. I offer this list to you in full confidence and in the spirit of non-judgment:
10:16: We're raping everybody out here. Link.
Fin. See you October 16th.