"The best wine comes from destroyed fruit." -- Deepak, Jr.

 

One time, my college buddies and I picked a pickup truck bed load of marijuana out of a local dairy pasture and ferried it home, taking all of the back roads, fearing we would all go to prison at any moment.  The leaves were thick and green and beautiful.  We envisioned wealth, great parties and girls.  Tenderly, we strung up the stalks in an old abandoned barn, so that the sap would gravitate toward the heads.  When the shit was dry, a couple of weeks later, we lit up cigar-sized doobies and choked on Paraquat-laced organic debris for hours, without so much as a single giggle.  I’m not sure what this has to do with wine.  Just sayin’.

 

"It's all about eggs." -- Deepak, Jr.

 

It really doesn’t matter what you do in a day, or how much you accomplish in your life.  You can go to parties and eat lots of chocolate.  You can climb every bump on the face of the planet or dive into caves to look at blind fish.  You can invent phones that burn out brains and cause divorces.  You can feed birds, cut grass, pour concrete, pet dogs, throw empty bottles out of your car window, talk in a loud voice at inappropriate times, collect tomato soup cans…whatever.  Everything you think, do, taste, smell, touch, hear or care about -- it’s all about eggs.

 

‎"If lobsters were intended to rule the planet, we'd all have claws." -- Deepak, Jr.

 

And this, my friends, is why I eat the little bastards.  They have been around for a few zillion years, so they have this superiority complex that just galls me.  Longevity is nothing if you have a brain the size of a neuron that goes from your eyes to your gonads.  There is a good reason why these tasty things have major booty.  I’ll eat one of those tails anyday.  Better than some women…oh, sorry, I digress.  If you had to flip away from your enemies and snap at them with vise grips, for 40 million years, you’d be tasty, too.

"There is nothing quite like a spam & cheese sandwich." --- Deepak, Jr.

 

So what if you can fix French cuisine, thin slices of black truffles on fennel and rice, lobster crepes, butterflied veal with brie and bacon, potatoes au gratin, sautéed brussel sprouts…puke, puke, puke.  It’s what fills the gut that matters.  And, if you’re looking at a corn boiler full of PBR’s, and the mud-wrestling competition is just about to start, on cable, and… you get the picture.  It’s about soul food, sex, filth, beating the dog outside the cave, pissing on the burning bush.

 

"Today is the first day of every other first day of the beginning of the first day of the rest of the first days of your first life." -- Deepak, Jr.

 

Did you need someone to tell you that you are an absolute loser?  Isn’t it comforting to realize that you’ve wasted every damned day of your life and that you have an opportunity to start that destructive process all over again?  Just go to Gap, try on some pants that are too tight, and stare at yourself in the three-way mirrors.  Now, isn’t that fun?

‎"There is not enough room in the world for two hippopotamus bitches." -- Deepak, Jr.

 

You’ve seen them at Walmart.  You know what I’m talkin’ about.  This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco.  Have you seen their teeth?  Pretty fucking scary underbites, if you ask me.  There just isn’t anything more guaranteed to ruin an erection for life.  Thing that amazes me is that they just don’t seem to get it.  They are munching on pond vegetation, smackin’ their lips and their husbands and their little kids and their thighs.  There’s not a pair of running tights that would stretch that far.  And, talk about an ugly disposition!  Have you ever seen these things in the wild?  You smash that much flesh together and you could almost re-create Nagasaki.  Oh, yeah, I know; it’s all genetic.

 

‎"Going back to bed never makes the motel coffee taste better." -- Deepak, Jr.

 

You get those little fucking two-cup pots with a packet of some woody material inside of it that is billed as coffee.  You plug the pot in and fill it full of reinvented water that came out of the sewage plant down the street, and put the packet in the top, then push the little button at the bottom of the coffee maker.  A red light goes on.  You climb back into the bed and drift off, dreaming of Arabica beans in thick broth in street side cafes in Turkey.  You wake up, 15 minutes later, as the small water heater in the otherwise silent room gurgles the last drop of recycled piss into the two-cup pot, exhaling a last laborious puff of steam into the room.  You walk to the pot.  The color in it is suspicious; the odor is not quite what your nose was hoping for.  But…the allure of caffeine is like a magnet directed at the soul.  Against your better instincts, you pour the thin elixir into the Styrofoam container on the table.  It is sort of brown in color.  There is a hint of battery acid in the air.  Nevertheless, your trembling hands lift the cup to your lips.  The hot liquid flows down your throat, killing everything its path.  You smile.