A N O T H E R  D A Y  A N O T H E R  D O L L A R 

Another day, another dollar. Literally. I'm not kidding. I'm taking the term low-budget" to a whole new level. I don't mind, I eat for free, I DRINK for free, it's just the little things. For example, I usually rotate breakfast choices: 

--Doritos, snack bar, and Diet Coke 
--Doritos, beef jerky, and iced tea 
--Doritos, mechanically separated and reconstituted chicken sandwich 

followed by full bowel colonic. 

I don't question the "chicken" in these chicken sandwiches; maybe I should. The fact that they "Braveheart" the screeching beast and reassemble it into bite-sizes pucks disturbs me. But I do love them with onions. I've also been seeing a shitload of cows on this trip, thousand of them grazing their little asses off. Then I think about the abattoir and all the Slim Jims I've been consuming. I suppose any old piece of cow could graduate to the Slim Jim status, as long as it could be made "Slim" enuf. You know, before this road trip, I was psychologically leaning towards vegetarianism, 4 weeks later, I'm almost wielding the bloody cleaver myself, tearing through the 7-11 with my Freddy Kruger claw and shrieking like a mad druid. 

I could blame it on necessity, lack of time between drives, or just plain carnivorous lust; I don't know. Showers are also a thing to be treasured. Ordinarily, there are no showers at these clubs I'm playing and the showers that are there look like something from a Stephen King novel. So you shower when you can. A lot of times, you end up sleeping in your gig clothes so the funk gets to really sink in. You know it's bad when you wake up with the decal of your shirt transferred to your chest. 

People lost things on the road. Cordell's glasses have been broken so many times he looks like Colonel Klink with a monocle. I freak out when I lose shit; I'm real paranoid about losing money or my driver's license. All it takes is one drunken moment of stupidity and you're fucked forever. People also bring unnecessary things on the road. Acoustic guitars with no carrying case that just screamed to get stepped on, unnecessary musical equipment you're too tired to plug in, useless shit that you have to lug like a Neanderthal from hotel to hotel. I know it sounds funny, but I end up wearing the same fucking clothes every day; black sweatpants, black T-shirt. Anybody who goes to the show is only gonna see me THAT day anyway, so what the fuck. Same thing every day until the meteor hits and we're all wiped out. Then it REALLY won't matter. 

I was hoping the news would change a little while I was gone, no such luck, I turn on the TV today and they're STILL talking about this Monica Lewinsky shit. Does anyone give a flying fuck if she blew anybody, much less Clinton? Oh, but he LIED about it, isn't that what's troubling you? Imagine that, a married may lying about an illicit affair, who'd believe THAT could ever happen? India and Pakistan are gearing up for thermo-nuclear war and they're debating on TV about Paula Jones and fucking Lewinsky, like this is crucial to world peace or world ANYTHING. I've never seen a more complete and utter waste of money, time, and dialogue, ever. I don't care if Clinton fucked her in the ass, I'd like to move on, please. Next order of business, my cock. How come I'M not getting blown? Why isn't CNN talking about MY DICK? Sam Donaldson and Cokie Roberts should debate the lack of head on this DIO tour and the consequences to national security. If they can jabber about Clinton's dick for months, why can't they at least MENTION mine? It's a good dick . . . no warts, no drip. I'm circumcised so no annoying smegma to deal with. One ball hangs a little lower than the other but I don't see that as a problem. Well . . . . I'm just offering it. It's there if you need it. 

I'm sitting in a hotel room, in Springfield, VA. I got one movie channel and it's giving me shit to watch. Motel 6's are funny in that a tattooed mohawk guy with rings up the ying-yang can walk right up to the front desk and not even faze them. I go there to get some coffee and they just yawn. On the other hand, I go into an Arby's and I'm the Elephant Man, people gawking, kids pointing. I'm trying to order and the clerk's nervously looking from side to side like I'm going to go for the knives or something. Yes, give me all your boiled beef or I'll kill everybody. I'll even kill the cow and make my own sandwich, wouldn't that be cool? Arby's could really distinguish themselves from the other fast food outlets if they added a slaughterhouse wing. Once a week you get to slaughter your own cow, your choice of weapon, knife, buzzsaw, machete, and cut yourself up a big ol' stinking pile of Arby's roastbeef with all the fixin's. 

On that note, I wonder how many people would still eat meat if they had to kill it themselves; my vote would be zero. Drenched in entrails and gore and sinew and gall bladders and urethras and big blue veins pumping life's blood. Then you take a sharp knife or even better a hatchet and start hacking off chunks of meat and throwing them sizzling on the fire. Anything too gross to eat you make into Slim Jims or Spam or Scrapple or Sam's Tasty Hog Slurry. For dessert, we grind up cow's hooves and make a bloody Jell-o treat, let's call it Cranberry surprise. Don't mind the chunky bits, let's call those cranberries. Then we can relax and watch TV and think about Monica Lewinsky and war and the meteor and all the shit it takes to get thru the day.