Diary of a Drabman

Dear Diary,

Nothing much happened today in the great wide world. Some folks got whacked in, what was it, Sudan, Libya, Syria, Somalia, Palestine, something like that who can tell the difference with those people always blowing up cars with themselves in them cause this or that god told ’em to do it. Heathens. If they’d just turned Christian like the missionaries told’em they wouldn’t be in this mess.

Also, some kind of fighting broke out or ‘situation deteriorated’ as the newsguy said, in — where else? — Iraq. Serves ’em right for…uh…what was it
again? Something about Saddam threw a donut or a sponge-cake — yeah, that’s it, it was a yellow cake — at Colin Powell or something like that.


All I know is that Saddam guy looked a helluva lot like Adolf Hitler. Well, not in actual face or body type. But he did have a mustache and those beedy eyes Hitler had. Also, the Russians are at it again — some things never change — messing up our freedom fighters in the Ukraine. The shit hasn’t hit the fan yet, but it’s been staring at it menacingly, and scowling.

Meanwhile, Neflix finally sent me Groundhog Day and the goddamned DVD was cracked I couldn’t play it. Can you believe that shit? Second time that happened to me. I should just download from Amazon. Also, as I suspected, that e-cig/vaporizor I ordered works only for nicotine. You need a special kind of battery and a clearomizer to vaporize hash and get any kind of buzz off it. Real bummer. I don’t have real hash, but I found out how to make a kind of sticky, hash-like goo from soaking herb in grain alcohol and letting it evaporate, and I spent a lot of time on this batch and was looking forward to vaping with my Sweet Petunia this week-end.

Speaking of which, my Sweet Petunia found out who it was went murdering and dismembering all those eight-year-old kids around the neighborhood before it was even on the news — I don’t have a kid, just my dog, Alphie, but imagine if some maniac slit his throat and dismembered and disembowled poor Alphie!

The brutal psycho-killer maniac was none other than my Sweet Petunia’s own twelve-year-old daughter, Laura-Beth…really freaked me out.

I always kinda liked that kid. Strange about her doing all that stuff to squirrels and cats and all, around the neighborhood, but it really wasn’t my
place to say anything. So long as she swore she’d keep her meat-hooks — literally — off Alphie, which she did swear.

“So,” I asked my Sweet Petunia. “What’re you gonna do?”

“Let her stew in there — some kind of holding cell or something — and think good and hard about what she did and what kind of punishment she thinks she deserves for getting caught.”

“Tough love. But it’s the right thing to do. Honestly, she’s almost a teenager, she can’t off a bunch of second-graders without raising a fuss?”

“Exactly. Then of course I’ll have to get her a lawyer. Got a call from that hot-shot attorney who gets kids off on the Adderall defence?”

“What, these kids are so stoked on speed they don’t know what they’re doing?”

“No, just the opposite. I had a script from her pediatrician, she wasn’t abusing the stuff or anything, but when I called all my main connections — Walgreens, Duane Reade, CVS, Rite Aid — to make sure they had generic Aderall so I could score as quickly and conveniently as possible — they’re just plain old aphmetamine salts, really — they all told me the same thing: they cannot divulge that information over the phone. What the fuck? So I had to run all over town, going from place to place and of course every pharmacy was out of stock — you know how that stuff flies off the shelves.”

“Oh. I get it. She needed her medically prescribed medication, but because of some law or insurance thing, poor Laura-Beth got cut off cold. Cf course she went over-the-top with pent-up rage, withdrawl, and whatever.”


“Anything else?”

“Nope. Kinda boring day, all things considered. You?”

“Same. We might have to smoke, not vape, this week-end, after all. I ordered the wrong gadget.”

“Told you. Well, no matter. So long as we can just smoke a bit, chill out, and watch the movie….”

I was gonna break the news about the movie, but figured it could wait till she’s less stressed-out. Whatever. I guess that’s all for today.

Hope tomorrow something happens. Not to me, of course. But really I’m so damned bored I wanna see some kind of action, know what I mean, Diary?

Adam Engel lived for your sins -- and he lived well! -- in Fear-and-Trembling, Brooklyn, one of the last gangrenous toes of NYC not yet severed and replaced with a prosthetic gentrification device. Engel has traveled the farthest regions of cyberspace, where Dark-matter meets Doesn't-matter; and Anti-matter, despite its negative connotation and dour point-of-view, excercises rights of expression protected by Richard Stallman's GNU/Free Software Foundation and CopyLeft agreement, if nobody and nothing else. Having spent many years studying Boobus Americanus (Summum Ignoramus), allegedly the most intelligent mammal on earth -- after its distant relative, Homo Sapiens -- in various natural habitats (couch, cubicle, bar-stool, ball-game -- televised or 'real-time') -- Engel has thus far related his observations of and experiences with this most dangerous of predators in three books -- Topiary, Cella Fantastik, and I Hope My Corpse Gives You the Plague (the combined international sales of which have reached literally dozens, perhaps as many as seventy, with projected revenue to top three digits by decade's end! Truly a publishing phenomenon). Engel is Associate Editor of Time Capsule Books, a division of Oliver Arts & Open Press, published in limited editions for a tiny, highly specified, though eclectic, target-audience: people who actually read books. He can be reached at adam@new.dissidentvoice.org Read other articles by Adam, or visit Adam's website.