Intro for P-Fat
Hello all & real-large welcome. My friends are dead, gone but not quite gone
from me—like the clumps of hair clogging my shower drain.
But thank you all for coming. We can clog a shower together anytime with
all the interesting hair you shave off your own mind.
I’m so sad. I am so
ugly today.
I know this is an art show, but it’s also a funeral, for my
dear friend P-Fat. Show some goddamn
respect. He invented more ugliness than
Michael Lachowski or all the world’s fashion photographers combined so stop
being confused. We aren’t a collective
or Dadaists. O god, I want to cry. I think I will. But later, when you aren’t looking, for tears
of grief are too beautiful for a man as ugly as P-Fat and for the vision of the
world he had.
Right now, I want to speak mostly about my dead friend
Patrick, Fadely— who’s toenail clippings
are here with us today. We miss his
heinous face and his cheesy toes. I’m so
sad P-Fat couldn’t be here today, to see how many people need a little ugly in
their lives. He never could quite
believe people wanted to bump into his uglies.
But P-Fat is dead, dead to the world at large. Like all truly ugly people and their art, he
was dismissed as a hideous, talentless, stupid man. By people who felt guilty about dismissing
him, P-Fat was dismissed as a Dadaist.
He found himself referenced, all his venom categorized, just so someone
else wouldn’t feel the terror he embodied.
Take a swig o’drink for him right now & burp if you
can. P-Fat liked to hear people burp, especially
into his armpits, his armpits which smelled like the voicemail system of God.
2nite we have many things in store for you. A grab bag auction. Grab bags full of art, treats, smells,
tastes, and loves. Some of the bags even
have money in them, more money than you’ll spend on the grab bag, which means
that some of you will get lucky and even make a profit, which is of course a
great concern. Hey, if The Whigs can
make a profit traveling around the country doing the rock-n-roll mime show, I’m
sure we’re all gonna make it big—we’ll all mime playing poker. The chips won’t mean anything. We will risk nothing, but hey, we’ll feel
good about ourselves, especially after we do some yoga and go buy a sammie at
the Daily.
Alrite, listen up.
What I mean is—P-Fat is with me, like chronic Lyme disease. Cuz he’s my friend—and friends, friends
paralyze you with their politeness, like a bad aftertaste in the mouth from an
arsenic-laced diet-soda.
My face is hungry.
Let’s bow our heads in remembrance of P-Fat. Now shut your eyes, lean your head back, and
breathe. That’s good. Now touch yourself. Start touching yourself, a little
harder. Make the sound of the sigh. Some of you aren’t touching yourselves. Do you need a hand? GODDAMNIT START TOUCHING YOURSELVES! THIS IS FOR P-FAT!
Fuck it, I can’t make you enjoy everything about the
world. That’s ok. I know I’m ugly. Ok, let’s get the show on the road. You can ask me about the grab bags later. (make gross shitting sounds) Excuse me.
I just shat myself. Every time I
stifle my laughter, I shit myself with green, stinky betrayal. I was stifling
my laughter just then, cuz I was thinking about Young, Foxy & Free. It was just a little shit though, I already
shat 3 times earler, stifling my laughter.
Just before he died, P-Fat sent me a poem to read at his
funeral. He knew the time was nigh. This poem I am about to read was the last
message he sent to the world. I am
uncomfortable with the poem. It says
things that I don’t like. I’ve never
known P-Fat to be in the least homophobic, and I’m sure he wasn’t, unless the
drugs, the death pains made him delirious, but I want to warn you. Some of his words are not pretty. Let’s begin the poem:
I cry tuna salad on whole wheat.
My self-consciousness knows no bounds and runs over all the
little dogs.
We really have to get back to school.
My heart is ticking.
Don’t you want your first time to be with someone you really
love with all the cheapness in the wallet of yr heart.
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