(spoken)
Personally, I'm more than a little disillusioned with
castration. I've used it numerous times as a literary
device, and it seems to have lost its punch.
I'm sure it isn't the last taboo; no doubt there are
endless avenues of violence and depravity for me to
explore. I've done child molestation,
president-fucking, golden showers – in fact,
I believe I helped popularize the phrase "I'd rather
be pissed on than pissed off"!
I've written about mass suicides,
mass murders, and God help me,
Christian masses. I have blasphemed heinously – although,
I admit, not nearly as heinously as any major religion,
try as I might. Some of the shit I've done with shit
would make your shit turn green.
I've played with and eaten my own vomit.
I have fucked your father's corpse in every available
orifice and have punched out a few new ones,
and there's not a fucking thing you can do about it,
and tomorrow I'll do it again.
I've done bad things with relish,
and good things with pickles.
I regret nothing, I apologize for nothing – but it
is all so appallingly pedestrian,
and none of it thrills or shocks me anymore.
It is so sad. So maybe I should just go back to the
flowers and the bunnies and the sunshine and whatnot.