Cocroach Mil

"The voice of reason is in us all...and everyone can recognize it because it makes sense, and everyone benefits from it equally."

― Bill Hicks

The fridge rumbled at a fluctuating 52 degrees. Any less, and the cockroach milk would be too cold.

Scraping the innards of the icebox, I latched onto a tepid quart, and popped the lid off the container. Throwing my head back, I chugged.

"Y'know what would make this meal complete?" I asked myself. "A hearty bucketful of 3D-printed chicken nuggets from KFC."

Smiling — luscious liquid trickling down my cheeks — I lost myself in the lunacy.

"Top it off with an insect protein bar, and I've got one happy tummy."

From a TV in the apartment below, Tucker Carlson gorged on government groin.

"Afterwards, I'll just stumble into my darkened bathroom — complete with toiletbowl nightlight — and shit it all out, anyway," I surmised.

"So, it's good to be here...wherever I am."

— Bill Hicks

Next door, she was screaming again.

Who the hell was she?

Ostensibly, my neighbor, even though we'd never met. I mean, I'd seen her in the hallway outside, but she didn't speak, no matter how many times I said, "Hello."

Every night, she'd scream, and either launch herself into walls, or throw things around her hovel.

She was troubled, but by what, I wasn't sure.

In an overarching context, she was obviously anxious, due to her choice to quarantine. After all, we were in the midst of a "pandemic."

Hiding from a "virus" the CDC admits doesn't exist, we were bumbling through a species-wide "catastrophe," minus the pathogen.

This obviously plagued — pun intended — folks everywhere, but what personal dilemma destroyed her, I wasn't unsure.

And now, the WHO — who willfully scared the shit outta the populace in 2009, over the swine flu "cataclysm" that wasn't — rolled out its "panacea." A "vaccine" produced by trusted friend Pfizer — who'd been sued for all manner of insidious duplicity and malfeasance.

"I was always 'awake'...

Some part of me clamoring for new insights and new ways to make the world a better place."

― Bill Hicks

So yeah, I guess the prospect of being injected with anathema might've been on her mind.

I didn't know. Moreover, I didn't care.

I'd just finished Smedley Darlington Butler's classic War is a Racket — for the fifth time — and thought I'd sit down and recall a fond memory. A recollection from years past, that went a little somethin' like...

The dreaded roommate returned home early.

I heard the front door unlatch, as I stood in the kitchen, completely nude.

The woman bequeathing me a handjob at the time — a recent Internet acquaintance — became frightened, and ran for her room, locking the door behind her.

More dead than the career of Milli Vanilli, and stiff as an Everclear cocktail, I was trapped.

As soon as diminutive, dorky guys are back in style, I'm golden! Clothed, I'm quite often asked, "What grade are you in, little girl?" Sans pants, things are a bit different. There's usually:

A) a moment of shock, followed by

B) a sly smile, which accompanies

C) fifteen minutes envisioning General Norman Schwarzkopf nude, so I don't demonstrate a textbook example of premature ejaculation.

Today, I'd hoped the roommate in question would exhibit "A" and "B" — while I dealt with "C" — as she reached for Mr. Happy.

Unfortunately, had a one-armed juggler been between my legs, manipulating 37 balls, the Bible-thumping roomie would've failed to be impressed.

C'mon, lady. I don't have any inherent skills, nor a dime to my name, but 9-plus inches on a guy who's shorter than the life span of the average housefly has gotta be worth somethin'. Granted, I've no clue how to use it, but that's why I drink.

Unfortunately, I was met with utter revulsion, and a promise to call 9-1-1, if I didn't don my clothes — which were, of course, locked in the room with the chick who'd gone AWOL.

By a miracle granted via Adrian Zmed — the man who actually created this Universe in his backyard with 30¢, a caulking gun, and a vision — I made it outta said situation, only to find myself...

Drowning my sorrows at a local hooch hole, cleverly named...the Hooch Hole.

As usual, hitting on the female clientele went as far as a car with no wheels.

After my third Myers' and Coke, I began to realize — to my horror — a bulk of the customers around me were missing body parts. A finger here; an arm there; the leg that time forgot.

Not one to judge a person by the amount of limbs they possess, my experience in Hell's Apartment had left me shaken. I envisioned a sequence from The Wicker Man, in which all in attendance sacrificed limbs to some dead, rotting cult leader buried within the pool table.

As such, I departed, slept off my buzz in a local park, returned later that evening for my truck, and raced for the safety of familiar surroundings.

Not exactly a memory for the family photo album, it was still mine. I was replayin' a lot of those lately, as I ran empty streets.

Zombified citizens self-induced mass hypoxia, for absolutely no reason. "Keep wearin' those masks, guys, cause oxygen is bad, and we should never inhale it!"

Yeah, shit was weird. That said, I couldn't recall it being anything but. After all, a species that slaughters itself has gotta be as smart as checking to see if you're wearing a parachute, after jumping from a plane.

― authored by Hugh Mungus