Octopus streak

“ Hopefully you have a high octopus streak. Nobody would judge you if you didn't. But nobody would judge you if you did, either. And then you'd also have a high octopus streak on your hands. So that would be pretty good. ”

I never really found the meaning of life. Lord knows I tried. I searched in as many reflective ponds and strange men's pockets as I could before they kicked me out of the National Park. But that was then and now I'm homeless. Things could have been different. I could have really tried for a higher octopus streak. Back then my grandfather would tell me that a streak of around 600 was enough to get a good job and a family and a dog with two differently-colored eyes and a neighbor whose dad would come around sometimes to barbecue and drink Pepto-Bismol out of my navel. And you know, in his time that would have been true. But things have changed since then.

Nobody drinks Pepto out of their son's neighbor's navel anymore. When they do they use one of those lifestraw water filters the government gives to starving kids in Uganda, and that just makes them look stupid. Like mayonnaise emanating off a hot radiator right in the parking lot of the Nordstrom department store. I always told my grandfather that it was the least effective way to pick up chicks, but he loved the challenge. And, in the end, it's not like it was a coincidence that he had a new sexy maid every week.

Land Mines

He's capable of obliterating entire galaxies with a snap of his fingers, but he'd really prefer to forget all of that and just Netflix-and-chill with some fly honeys.

The beaches are loaded with them. And that's good because there's a primitive tribe living in a nearby cave that worship the things. I mean it sucks that they think the other humans they see walking around are some kind of alien race that will suck out their life essence and feed it to their mothership if they get too close. But at least they've got a good supply of land mines to pray to and rub on their nipples and all of that. You can say it's not right for them to be worshiping the land mines but I think it's beautiful that they've found some place where they can practice their Russian Roulette-style rituals in peace.

They couldn't find any of that in Staffordshire. Woken up at ungodly hours of the morning by the tortured wails of eldritch horrors covered in knobbly pustules oozing purple stink, eyes forever open and blank in sweet silent agony, spines contorted into the shapes of various letters of the Cyrillic alphabet in a devoted mating display for their dark Lord and Master, Henry Winkler. Not that Henry Winkler. The other one. Yeah, with the...yeah, the moles.

Anyway, you don't get to be the all-seeing sexual torture God of the Krill people of Saurus without a high octopus streak. That's right there at the top of the list of requirements. It's kind of like being Mormon God in a way except Mormon God doesn't drink the gritty synovia of his followers in a sick display of perverted hegemony, exhuming carnal discharge across the 5th physical dimension of his kingdom in order to drive his worshipers mad with screeching, horrid lust for the blood-boiling torment of having the skin slowly and methodically peeled from their tender subcutaneous tissue. No, Mormon God is much more fond of sandwiches and magazines than he is of all that.

Bacon sandwiches. With a little bit of mustard. Can't touch the mayonnaise ever since the incident at Nordstrom. It wasn't all bad though. It left me with a taste for the decadent art of autoerotic decapitation, and I can't say that about anything else I ever experienced in my wretched existence. It's really the thrill of all thrills. When the spine becomes severed is when the most cum shoots out, but it's oozing all over the place the entire time. You should really be standing in a bathtub or communal shower unless you're just trying to show off. If you are then by all means just do it out in the middle of the park. Or the beach, but be careful of the land mines.

And then there's my kids

Johnny's got the highest octopus streak in his graduating class. They named him Most Likely To Probably Not Succumb To The All-Engrossing Hunger Of The Dark Master Of Cosmic Rape, Henry Winkler (Not That One But The Other One...Yeah, With The Moles). I was so proud watching his commencement ceremony over pirated internet on a Samsung Centura in the dumpster of a Trader Joe's. The tetanus was worth every moment of it. Except that moment where a blighted rat that was hiding in a pizza box bit off a chunk of my penis and brought it back to his home to renovate his nest. I really don't miss the penis piece but his nest came out looking like a gaudy mess. And he says he's going to revisit it and make it more sleek but we both know that's never going to happen. He's too busy with work and the kids and the weird porn he's into.

Then there's Imhotep, my youngest. Not the Imhotep you're thinking of. This one's covered in moles. Just the most disgustingly bulbous, hairy brown moles you've ever seen. They're like little planets. Each one home to a larger octopus streak than the last. Also snakes. Impossibly tiny snakes living in the long-forgotten craters of the wretched, fleshy planetoids infesting my son Imhotep's putrid countenance. We're talking baseball-sized here. Not the snakes, but the moles. Ironically his scholarship is for ice hockey. I told him that ice hockey doesn't exist and he agreed with me but argued that reality shouldn't be grounds for throwing away a full-ride scholarship to the Sky Academy. I'm not sure yet whether I should tell him that the Sky Academy also doesn't exist. It might be too much for him. One of his moles could rupture, and then where would all those mole snakes be? Homeless. Just like Imhotep's old man. Also like me. I'm homeless too.

Personally, I blame Syria for this

Not the one you're thinking of with the moles. I'm talking about my wife, Syria. She doesn't have any moles. She ruined my life and fucked Henry Winkler though. Also the one without the moles. I don't blame him for it, mostly because he's The Fonz, but also because Syria raped him. Syria raped Henry Winkler and nobody ever said anything about it but that's why I'm transmitting this message in morse code directly through the underwater phone lines from an abandoned safehouse in the fallout district. I don't even know if I can do this anymore.

I'll make it, though. Henry said I could stay at his place, as long as I'm not bothered by the constant cacophonous drone of his steam-powered kidneys and the fact that all the furniture in the house is glued to the ceilings. I'm more concerned about his low octopus streak. And there's also the issue that Henry's house only exists on a one-dimensional plane. That's gotta cut down on fridge space as it is and now here I come with all of these bricks of tofu and liquid Flarf and I just know that's gonna be an awkward conversation.

I guess you could say I'm "Homeful" now

I never really got up-to-date on all the hip new slang the kids are using these days but Johnny had a chance to teach me that one before his conversion to the Blood Cult and subsequent renouncement of his mortal soul in exchange for eternal orgasmic suffering. I still get to visit him on the weekends sometimes, but he's just not the same kid. No matter how many rounds of horseshoes you play with someone, after they've been transmogrified into an acid-spitting pus-beast yearning for the sweet catharsis of genital mutilation, it becomes kind of difficult to score those rounds fairly. Satan bless 'im though, the boy still loves to share a beer with his old man. And me too. He also shares beer with me.

I never did have a chance to share a beer with my own father. I imagine it would've ended like most of our conversations. He'd remove the absurdly large dinner plates from each of his eyes, turn his head 360 degrees around on his neck, and stare at me for approximately 84 seconds. Then, the chirping would begin. Little chirps at first but then as his blind, mutilated eyes flitted around pretending to observe the potential grandeur of the world around him, it would slowly turn into more of a croaking. Once the blood started to seep from his fingernails and the sound escaping his throat resembled the expression of the pain of a thousand crucified redeemers, he would stop, stand, sit down again, stand up again, and kneel at my feet. It didn't take me long to memorize what he'd say after that:

“ Hopefully you have a high octopus streak. Nobody would judge you if you didn't. But nobody would judge you if you did, either. And then you'd also have a high octopus streak on your hands. So that would be pretty good... ”