A Column of Sorts for Miss Tay

 (originally published in issue #12 of Tape Leak)

Do pardon my brain

I don’t know what to write,

I don’t know what to column.

I don’t know what to Roman,

or how to Christ until I’ve fallen

but fuck it, here I am, so deal with that shit or flip the God damn page. I’ll just pop up again. Like a mushroom. You ever write and find your mind tryna lead you down a path you don’t really wanna go? It’d be easier being a Sumo, just sitting, stretching, pounding fist and palm to hot sand and slapping man titties like they were rebellious hot cakes. Pound cakes. Mmmm, round cakes. So here I am in a laundromat, mere feet away from sheets I haven’t washed in months, mainly because I know I’m almost out of briefs. Lies! Scrubs* That show always ends the same way, reflection and tryna touch hearts, like there are no days that ever end in just farts. Fair flatulence. Which, of course, brings me to Lil Tay. For the uninitiated, those fortunate souls who have never heard of Lil Tay, she’s the whore of Babylon’s neglected daughter forced to gorge on Youtube views, comments, and general vitriol for sustenance.

                My natural monkey response, primed by millions of years of Primate Evolution, was to want to spank her. No, no, not in a sexual who’s your daddy, bitch, kind of way, but in a Aw fuck it I’ll speak the truth: I wanted to corner her ass and slap her til she cries and realizes her lambos and penthouse views can’t stop my Cap’n Pimp power move. Lil Tay is 9. BUT, smacking around a little 9-year-old girl as though she’s a ho is surely not godly, and in case you can’t tell by now I’m a Christian. Anyways, bitch is mad annoying, and as I watch her stunt on all our daddies I can’t help but wayne wonder- What if I were stuck in an elevator with this unholy troglodyte as she yapped and triped about her dead Benjamins and suicide-door Diablos? What would I do?


Jeesh, calm your fucking tits Voice in my Brain. Besides, I think it entirely depends on what Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, ate that day. Let us paint the setting:

Jamaica. The Messiah hasn’t eaten in 40 days, and after a long night of torrential downpour and raindrops thick as beetles smacking his weakened frame, he wakes and opens eyes to find the face of Damian Marley rising from the horizon, Gongzilla’s flaming dreads scorching his face. Things look bleak for the Chosen One, despite the youngest Marley’s gnarly rhymes floating through the air, and so he falls to his knees and raises his palms to the sky, begging the Heavenly Father for guidance.

All of a sudden, a flash of light blinds Jesus!

“Oh, shit!” Jesus says as he feels around the ground for glasses or something. What’s this? he wonders as he grasps something too good to be true. He blinks, and the world slowly comes to focus once more. His suspicions were true, for in his hands are a precious substance miraculously sprouted in his moment of most need, a heavenly food for more than the body, an angel’s delight that warms soul and mind alike—Spicy Hot Jamaican beef patties.

“Oh, Lawd, these patties are loud!” Jesus would surely exclaim, sinking his teeth into the crispy yet soft golden skin of the heavenly treat, traversing the delicate crunch to meet the moist, hot, biting succulence of whatever it is those things are made of. He would stand anew, strong, emboldened, the heavy cross of hunger finally lifted from his belly’s back. And so he continues his trek, bending over periodically to pick the blooming patties from the ground.

                Belly full and satiated, Jesus makes it to the Sandals Royal Plantation to liberate the minds of the luxury resort’s kitchen staff. He steps into the elevator and to find an angelic face, chubby as a cherubim’s, looking at him. She’s not even five feet tall and decked out designer, Gucci down to the socks, in her hand fat stacks, green bricks. She eyes Jesus Christ up and down. He’s dressed in humble attire: hand-me-down torn jeans, old as fuck Sperry flip-flops, and a borrowed Bob Marley shirt with the quote “Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet” on the back. With honest eyes the Son of God smiles at the little girl.

                *The following are actual quotes spawned from her mouth and lord knows who’s infested mind. For the most part.*

                “What the fuck you looking at? Don’t you know who I am? I’m Lil Tay, youngest flexer of the century!” she yells, her voice like a prepubescent soprano’s, hoping to bait JC, who, with eternal wisdom and patience responds with but a smile.

                The silence is met with recoil by the cute, small, beast.

                “Bitch, didn’t you hear me? It’s Lil Tay, youngest flexer of the century! I just copped a brand new Ferrari, and I’m flexing on all you haters! Y’all just broke and jealous!”

                The walls begin to warp, a gangrenous green, tiny deformed, leprous hands morphing from them, reaching towards Jesus as Lil Tay continues her sonic barrage, her voice as shrill as a raped banshee’s, her eyes a pure, shining black. For the second time today things look grim, and again Jesus raises his hands to sky, asking the Heavenly Father for a sign.

                In that instant a deep rumbling is felt. The tiny demon-spawn hands recoil back into the walls and Lil Tay looks around, suspicious, scared. The rumbles grow rumblier, and she struggles to drown the terrible noise with more of her rehearsed harpy screeching, but her words grow weaker with each passing breath, until she finally relents.

                “Jesus Christ! What is that noise?!” she asks, half despairingly.

                She looks at the man to whom she’s directed nothing but hate. Her little heart drops, for his face is one of kindness, and worse, sincere pity as he points to his gut.

                “I had too many patties, they be messing with my stomach.”

                The awful realization hits her like a freight train.

                “I’m only nine years old!” she wails as Jesus Christ, Redeemer of All Man and Sacred Lamb of God closes his eyes and lets it rip. It’s a weeping and a mourning and a gnashing of teeth as holy trumpets boom out the Almighty’s mighty ass. The air is thick and heavy, and maybe even green, the gases so noxious, the pain so real that Lil Tay has no recourse but to return to the memories of better times, of days not too long past when all she wanted to do was play in the sandbox with her Barbies and My Little Ponies with her friends, before she even knew what flexing on haters meant, before she was even the youngest flexer of the century at nine years old. As the toxic fumes invade her nostrils and lungs, leaving her throat parched and hot, she begins to hallucinate, and sees her mother’s hand reaching out to her as she reaches back, fat stacks in hand. But this time it’s different. There’s no camera being held to her nine-year-old face, there’s no look of consternation in her mother’s eyes. Her mother isn’t even yelling, not a minutiae of judgment as she takes the fat stacks of hundred dollar bills and tosses them to the sky.

                She smiles at her mother, but the love is too much for what lurks within. She retches and hurls until a tiny, hairy troll, skin gnarled like Gollum’s and eyes yellow as stank piss crawls gasping out her mouth, to fall, die and wither on the floor. The air is cleared now as she comes to in a daze, as though she’s just woken up from a dream. She looks at the man she once hated, scared he might be mad, but instead she’s greeted with a friendly laugh, angelic in its purity, as he with a golden smile on his face,

The elevator beeps and the doors open as she wipes a tear from her eye and nods, taking her savior’s hand as they step outside and onto a cloud, walking calmly together towards a heaven she’s never known but somehow remembers. She smiles at him and they look together at the baby blue sky and Damian Marley’s goofy smiling face, and she hears words she’s never heard before, words she never knew she always wanted to hear.

                “Would you like a Spicy Hot Jamaican beef patty?”


Sexual Jesus

so say i'm w a girl, we're in love, and she's into some really weird stuff i don't want to do. somehow. WWJD? well... he'd be selfless, right?  like, he'd probs be honest about it, if asked. "do you want to do this?" and Jesus would be thinking NO (and say so cus Jesus is honest), but fuck it if she likes toes, cigars, and strawberry jam that much then why not?? and he'd do something weird, just so that she doesn't feel awkward and unloved. i wonder what his limits would be. like, dirty butt-stuff?

i wonder what Sexual Judas would be like. probably some corrupt version of Shaggy's It wasn't Me. He'd be like, "It was him!"

Hmm. God's probs laughing at all this. why the fuck not? No judgments. hmm. 

I bet Jesus loved strippers. I love a stripper. Not in a Drake kinda way, but in a "I'll love you for who you are, sexy topless shaved lady, even if you're insecure of that mole on your butt." Not that the stripper I love has a mole in her butt. BUT I bet in a moment of tender intimacy between Jesus and the stripper named Mary, he would stare into her eyes, and slowly caress her face to her shoulders, breast, stomach, to the V on her waist, and trace his finger around her, and her heart would pound the closer and closer Jesus got to her ugly butt mole. She'd be so scared, insecure (What if Jesus won't love me bc of my hairy butt-mole?), but she would be too scared to move, or stop him, because deep down she wants to be touched there, to have her insecurities made known and accepted, and she thinks, NO, SHE FEELS, deep down beyond reason, where the truth lays waiting to be discovered, that Jesus will be different than all the men with the crumpled dollar bills and dirty boners. And staring into her eyes, Jesus would touch her insecurity, her eyes would furrow, but she can't break the gaze. it's too pure, too genuine. and as he touches her insecurity he smiles a beautiful smile, an honest expression of "everything is ok." And he would tell her "Deep down you know you're perfect just the way you are." and she believes him, because she always knew it. He just helped her see. And they would consummate this liberation with a physical connection, a union of bodies the only natural response to the resonance of souls and their Proclamation of Acceptance.

Bipolar Shamans and Jimi Hendrix

What's the difference between people with bipolar and old-school spiritual tribal leaders? Not a thing. Word? Yes, word! That's right, back in the day us crazy folk would have been kickass Shamans, according to Phil Borges, noted documentarian who spent months observing indigenous tribes. If videos are too slow for your tastes, what the pro says is people suffering from mood disorders (sound familiar?) were more likely to be the leaders and mediators within their community, that psychotic/manic episodes are really the start of a spiritual awakening, of a new life, being able to reach "Out There" where mere mortals can't swim. He's got tons more info over hurr: CRAZYWISE.

So, bipolar: Ill or Awesome? The way I see it some people evolved to be a little more crazy back in the nitty gritty days, when it was an evolutionary advantage. That hypomanic rush and confidence would have been a major boon during a hunt, where focus and drive are of utmost importance, especially during the summer and spring when prey was more readily available, and also when our ancestors were more likely to procreate (hypersexual, anyone?). And what of that depression?  That could have evolved as a way to force our bodies and minds to rest during the slow low draining winters. This would have been a neat way for women impregnated earlier in the year to find comfort by caring for their newborns and being with their mates, increasing the chances of survival for the entire family. 

It's nice to know we rocked so hard way back when, but what advantage is there for us in the 21st century? It's not like we have to chase mammoths and fend off sabre-tooth tigers anymore... Well, here are just a few badass people you may have heard of, who made use of that HypoFocusManicDrive in a holy-tits-this-rocks type of way: HendrixEminem, Rihanna ("Feels like I'm going insane"), Kurt CobainKid Cudi, and those Matchbox Twenty dudes.

You know, we don't just rock hard, we can act the part, too. See, we also excel in drama, and not just in our daily lives. Why do you think those theater masks represent our highs and lows so perfectly, hmm?  Russel Brand feels itBen Stiller had something to say about it, too, and he's a great example of someone who can cope with the angry moods-wings and bring laughter into people's lives. I got a feeling Heath Ledger knew about those peaks and valleys, judging by the insomnia and racing thoughts he experienced before his overdose. Maybe Jack Nicholson, too. I don't think it's possible to play the Joker without being a little cooky  P:

Here's some first hand experience on the the advantages of bipolar from comedian Joshua Walters, who shares how he uses his innate craziness for good, not evil. He talks about how it helps to be a little Mad, though he admits full on I'm-Jesus-Manic-Mode is a bit too much. For you data-heads craving straight facts and numbers, check out bearded homie, AKA Dr Terrence Ketter, who among other things, shows that architects, poets, musicians, actors and actresses, writers, really artists of any sort are more likely to suffer (I say benefit) from a mood disorder than a dude in a cubicle. Here! More famous bros and sisters like you and I. Yeah, that's right, Hemingway, Edgar Allan Poe, Van Gogh, Jackson Pollock.

Wait, what's this, CEOs are crazy, too? They're also driven, restless, unable to keep still?? Passion.

I admire those like us who turned what can be a major, even lethal, hindrance into a strength, who have learned to channel that energy into incredibly successful lives. I admire all of you who are still around, searching for that Thing that's out there but has been missing for God knows all our lives. It's here, somewhere, that beautiful place where we can just Be and Be Loved. Can you imagine what it feels like for Eminem to put all that crazy rage on a pad, not giving a fuck telling the world he's going to Kill You, and being loved for it? Or to be on a stage, showing the world EXACTLY how you feel, the Mad Happiness, the Beautiful Grief that only we know so well, and be applauded? Or shredding a guitar, making fingers bleed and forging music of everything you feel? It must be cathartic, feeling the coiled breath, galloping pulse and brimming arteries, pumping life onto canvas, capturing color and pain like melting crayons screaming.

"I am a miner. The light burns blue.   
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.   
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,   
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium   
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish—
Christ! they are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,   
A piranha   
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.   
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?   
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,   
Your crossed position.   
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.   
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses,   
With soft rugs—

The last of Victoriana.   
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric   
Atoms that cripple drip   
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.   
You are the baby in the barn."

Yeah, She knows.