Nine Significant Shovels

Nine Significant Shovels               

They were diggin’ dirt in a garden by the church where the bereft were gonna say nice things about my dead prep school analytic geometry teacher, Hamayoun Hamayouni.   It was perfect.  Nine diggers in a row:  Khuh-chuh,  Kuh-chik.  Kuh-chuh,  Kuh-chik.  Kuh-chuh.

That shit was symbolic, for sure, but I didn’t know if it was ironic.  They tried to teach me about irony in high school, and they tried to teach me about it in college, too, but I never understood what the fuck irony was.

I studied English down there at old Georgetown U.  I read a million stories and poems that useless-brained PhD fuckhead professors said were meaningful and important, and I thought that shit was meaningful and important, too.  I thought that shit was genius.   Some fuck-fat professor of mine said irony was everywhere.  He said it was as common as toothpaste, but I didn’t give a fuck.  Why should anyone give a fuck about irony?

Inside the church, I heard they weren’t gonna bury old Mr. Hamayouni after all.  They had cremated him, and I was glad.  I wouldn’t have to see his corpse with stupid make-up on his face.  I wouldn’t have to see the poor bastard Hamayouni in a polyester suit that he was gonna wear underground to protect himself against the worms and maggots who were gonna chew through his cheap casket and then chew on his armpits. 

They burned him up real good, walked on over to Key Bridge, and puffed him out over the Potomac.  As far back as 1966, they said that they were gonna clean up that God-damned river, but they never did.  Five decades later, it would still give you diseases if you swam in it.  Maniac poets howl about this sort of thing—after pouring fifths of vodka into their brains and sticking AIDS needles in their arms, and then fucking whoever they could fuck, and I’m not happy about everything demented poets do, but at least they have the balls to do something different.  I hate normal people.  They are sheep-brained morons.

When the nice things were being said, I considered a statue of some saint.  “Well, it sure ain’t the good whore Mary Magdalene,” I thought, and I knew I needed a good whore.  Shit, I hadn’t been laid in 13 years.

Outside, I saw three people dressed in black.  They reminded me of good old God-damned Batman.  They were standin’ around smokin’ cigarettes, and I thought maybe they were symbolic and ironic, too, but I didn’t give a fuck.

I started wonderin’ why I wasted four years studying all that symbolic ironic shit, and then it hit me like a God-damned cinder block   I was a pathetic man.  For 39 years, I had tried to write a book better than Ernest Hemingway, but I couldn’t.  I was a fool and a failure.  I owed everybody money, and I owed Capital One Visa 16 grand.  Death was my only friend, and I didn’t know what the fuck irony was.


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