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.