There is a fetid, rotting, festering stench emanating from popcult central, and it's leaking into the collective brain pan, infecting and affecting my dream state, maybe yours.I just wanna sleep and conjure up normal guy images of money, food, breasts,or my face on Mt. Rushmore, but instead it's pea brained Britney and her train wreck keep-a-rollin'act, shaving off her hair and getting double-inked a mere month or so after flashing her twat all over the Internet, a bit after Manikin Nicole Smith did her Marilyn OD imitation, in between the soft parade of American Idol rejects, retards, psychopaths, pantie-eaters, back door men, pederasts, bunny-fuckers, toe-lickers, and transvestite grannies trotting out their paleface MC Hammer moves and Mariah Carey death yelps, a year after Tommy Boy Cruise did the kindergarten bop on Oprah's couch, sometime past Flavor Flav (a strange celebrity mutation of Uncle Remus, Leon Spinks and Huggy Bear) has spawned not one, but three reality TV delights, when every hammer head from Hulk Hogan to to Gene Simmons to Diaperboy Danny Bonaduce (Where's Patrick Swayze when you need him?) gets their 23 minutes of mean screen time, when Mickey Mouse Grad Justin Timberlikeme slaps his skinny white cartoon paw over Janet Jackson's implant, when they hold auditions for everything from cable sports anchor to wife-swapping and crappy house-switching (my pitch--Do You Want To Assassinate the President with judges Chuck Barris, Jack Abrahmoff,the RZA and Mark David Chapman), before Michael Richards choked on his own long-necked bile and Mel Gibson did the anti-semitic version of Road Warrior.(Remember that the simple unseen mental picture of Robert Downey all bombed out in the random neighbor's bed is still better than any one given scene he's ever done up in an actual movie.) As jumbled and feverish as my nightly dreams are I can still see some of the more stark, fearsome images clearly-- like an acidic, industrial fog settling all over the wide foreheads of the townspeople in Des Moines Iowa, where even the lonely meter maid knows how much Nicole Richie's ass weighs, where the town councilmen hover in a backroom downing shots of Drambuie and getting strangely excited watching mole-like Paris Hilton spreading her legs in some scuzzy video, where the head librarian dreams of the day she gets to wrestle her chubby, harelipped, pedophile cousin on Jerry Springer's just-waxed floor, where the day care provider sets up the Dancing with the Stars tape loop featuring new competitors Heather Mills, the porky ugly guy from 'N Synch, and Stephen Hawkins in order to lull the pre-schoolers to sleep, where the guys in the firehouse place bets on possible bone breakage next time Ellie Wiesel gets roughed up, where the porcelain skinned cheerleaders spend inordinate amounts of time in huge, full length mirrors, transfixed and zen-like, trying to remake their tawny visages to some close approximation of the rag-doll,Skeletor, horror-film waif looks of Ashlee Simpson, where the rabid, ranting ghost of Strom Thurmond leans over the shoulder of the middle-aged Presbyterian accountants giggling over stale popcorn, cheap vodka, and the latest episode of Survivor, where the Little Leaguers collectively count down Barry Bond's march to obliterate Hammerin' Henry Aaron, where the drive-in never stops featuring the collected works Rob Schneider, Johnny Knoxville, and any kinda movie with a midget, where, if you gulp down just the right mix of booze, perfume, and cough syrup and squint yer eyes Eastwood-like, the putrid gray clouds that hover over the airfield at night remarkably resemble a painterly frame of OJ Simpson sporting a beatific smile while caressing a pair of gloves. Geez, with dreams like these, who needs reality?
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