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"The Fall of the House of Douchebag" (Part Two), by Edgar Allan Poe, Cujo DeSockpuppet, and NancyGene
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NancyGene
Sep 26, 2023, 3:11:12 PM9/26/23
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The Fall of the House of Douchebag
by Edgar Allan Poe, Cujo DeSockpuppet, and NancyGene
https://imgur.com/gallery/OPzRCZD
Part Two
He said, however, that much of the gloom which lay so heavily on him was probably caused by something more plainly to be seen — by the long-continued illness — indeed, the coming death — of a dearly loved disability check for his brother, Sir Dirtnap — his only financial support. Except for himself, he was the last member of his family on earth, not counting the unsupported brats. “When he dies,” he said, with a sadness which I can never forget, “when he dies, I will be the last of the old, old family — the House of Douchebag.” While he spoke, Sir Dirtnap (for so he was called) passed slowly through a distant part of the room, and without seeing that I was there, went on. I looked at Dirtnap with a complete and wondering surprise and with some fear — and yet I found I could not explain to myself such feelings. My eyes followed his cigarette smoke. When he came to a door and it closed behind him, my eyes turned to the face of brother Douchebag — but he had put his face in his hands, and I could see only that the fat fingers through which his tears were flowing were whiter than ever before. The illness of Sir Dirtnap had long been beyond the help of doctors. He seemed to care about nothing. Slowly his body had grown thin and weak, and often for a short period he would fall into a sleep like the sleep of the dead. So far he had not been forced to stay in bed; but by the evening of the day I arrived at the house, the power of his destroyer (as Doucheweasel told me that night) was too strong for him. I learned that my one sight of Sir Dirtnap would probably be the last I would have.
I spotted a lead pipe nearby and the visage of the Town Drunk and suddenly understood. The power of the disability check was too tempting.
For several days following, Dirtnap’s name was not spoken by either Dreckweasel or myself; and during this period I was busy with efforts to get my friend to look for work. We painted and read together; or listened, as if in a dream, to the awful Conley Brothers music he played. And so, as a warmer and more passionate friendship grew between us, and he pulled my elbow and stared at me frequently, I saw more clearly the uselessness of all attempts to bring employment to a mind from which only comic books sprang, spreading upon all objects in the world abject stupidity and illiteracy. I shall always remember the hours I spent with the master of the House of Douchebag. Yet I would fail in any attempt to give an idea of the true character of the things we did together. “The love that dare not speak its name.”
There was a strange greasy film over everything. The crude paintings which he produced made me sick, and it was clear that he had no talent in any area. To recite any of his poems is beyond the power of written words and against God and Nature. If ever a man had no original ideas, that man was Douchebag Willie Dreckweasel.
I have spoken of that inbred condition of the senses, which made most music of Douchebag painful to hear. The notes he could sing were very few. It was this fact, perhaps, that made the music he performed so different from most music. But the putrid state of his playing could not be explained except by complete lack of talent.
The words of one of his songs, called “Zorro,” I have most tried to forget. In it I thought I saw, and for the first time, that Douchebag Willie knew very well that his lone neuron was gone forever. This travesty told of a something completely incoherent.
In it I thought I saw, and not for the first time, that Dreckweasel knew very well that his mind was completely shot. This song told of a caped and masked man who wore clown shoes — up on a smoke-filled stage — in a cross-dressing bar, where all was cheap and drunken, and the air was stale. In the bar were two whores and a Handy-Woman while people in that bar could hear awful music and screeching and could see up skirts — photographed — moving away from the masked man.
The bar door was of the cheapest materials, stained with urine and red and green taco sauce, through it came other pissbums whose only duty was to praise and bump the masked man. But a shoe polish bearded person came and said “One of your best,” the song continued, and now those who enter the bar see through the windows, in a red light, Sarah Donkeytits, huge boulder shapes that move to any dollar; while through the door, now colorless, a ghastly river of dirtymikes, laughing but drunk as skunks, passes out forever. Our talk of this song led to another strange idea in Dreckweasel’s mind—a cross-cultural project!
The chapbooks which, for years, had fed the sick man’s mind — were, as might be supposed, of this same wild set of delusions. Some of these books Dreckweasel sat and studied for hours. His chief delight was found in reading one very old book, written for some forgotten church, telling of the Watch over the Dead.
At last, one evening he told me that Dirtnap was alive no more. He said he was going to keep his body for a time in one of the many ashtrays inside the walls of the building. The deranged reason he gave for this was one with which I felt I had to agree. He had decided to do this because of the nature of his illness, because of the strange interest and questions of his doctors, and because of the great distance to the mountains where members of his family were pitched over a cliff.
Dreckweasel carried the picture of Dirtnap on the ashtray and took it along to its resting place. The shed in which we placed it was small and dark, and in ages past it must have seen strange and bloody scenes. The flimsy door was of beaverboard, and because of its cheap construction and lack of hog fat on the hinges made a loud, hard sound when it was opened and closed.
As we placed the ashtray of Dirtnap in this room of horror I saw for the first time the great likeness between brothers. Dreckster told me then that they were twins — but they had been born in different years. This made no sense but that is consistent with the incoherence of Dreckweasel.
by Edgar Allan Poe, Cujo DeSockpuppet, and NancyGene
https://imgur.com/gallery/OPzRCZD
Part Two
He said, however, that much of the gloom which lay so heavily on him was probably caused by something more plainly to be seen — by the long-continued illness — indeed, the coming death — of a dearly loved disability check for his brother, Sir Dirtnap — his only financial support. Except for himself, he was the last member of his family on earth, not counting the unsupported brats. “When he dies,” he said, with a sadness which I can never forget, “when he dies, I will be the last of the old, old family — the House of Douchebag.” While he spoke, Sir Dirtnap (for so he was called) passed slowly through a distant part of the room, and without seeing that I was there, went on. I looked at Dirtnap with a complete and wondering surprise and with some fear — and yet I found I could not explain to myself such feelings. My eyes followed his cigarette smoke. When he came to a door and it closed behind him, my eyes turned to the face of brother Douchebag — but he had put his face in his hands, and I could see only that the fat fingers through which his tears were flowing were whiter than ever before. The illness of Sir Dirtnap had long been beyond the help of doctors. He seemed to care about nothing. Slowly his body had grown thin and weak, and often for a short period he would fall into a sleep like the sleep of the dead. So far he had not been forced to stay in bed; but by the evening of the day I arrived at the house, the power of his destroyer (as Doucheweasel told me that night) was too strong for him. I learned that my one sight of Sir Dirtnap would probably be the last I would have.
I spotted a lead pipe nearby and the visage of the Town Drunk and suddenly understood. The power of the disability check was too tempting.
For several days following, Dirtnap’s name was not spoken by either Dreckweasel or myself; and during this period I was busy with efforts to get my friend to look for work. We painted and read together; or listened, as if in a dream, to the awful Conley Brothers music he played. And so, as a warmer and more passionate friendship grew between us, and he pulled my elbow and stared at me frequently, I saw more clearly the uselessness of all attempts to bring employment to a mind from which only comic books sprang, spreading upon all objects in the world abject stupidity and illiteracy. I shall always remember the hours I spent with the master of the House of Douchebag. Yet I would fail in any attempt to give an idea of the true character of the things we did together. “The love that dare not speak its name.”
There was a strange greasy film over everything. The crude paintings which he produced made me sick, and it was clear that he had no talent in any area. To recite any of his poems is beyond the power of written words and against God and Nature. If ever a man had no original ideas, that man was Douchebag Willie Dreckweasel.
I have spoken of that inbred condition of the senses, which made most music of Douchebag painful to hear. The notes he could sing were very few. It was this fact, perhaps, that made the music he performed so different from most music. But the putrid state of his playing could not be explained except by complete lack of talent.
The words of one of his songs, called “Zorro,” I have most tried to forget. In it I thought I saw, and for the first time, that Douchebag Willie knew very well that his lone neuron was gone forever. This travesty told of a something completely incoherent.
In it I thought I saw, and not for the first time, that Dreckweasel knew very well that his mind was completely shot. This song told of a caped and masked man who wore clown shoes — up on a smoke-filled stage — in a cross-dressing bar, where all was cheap and drunken, and the air was stale. In the bar were two whores and a Handy-Woman while people in that bar could hear awful music and screeching and could see up skirts — photographed — moving away from the masked man.
The bar door was of the cheapest materials, stained with urine and red and green taco sauce, through it came other pissbums whose only duty was to praise and bump the masked man. But a shoe polish bearded person came and said “One of your best,” the song continued, and now those who enter the bar see through the windows, in a red light, Sarah Donkeytits, huge boulder shapes that move to any dollar; while through the door, now colorless, a ghastly river of dirtymikes, laughing but drunk as skunks, passes out forever. Our talk of this song led to another strange idea in Dreckweasel’s mind—a cross-cultural project!
The chapbooks which, for years, had fed the sick man’s mind — were, as might be supposed, of this same wild set of delusions. Some of these books Dreckweasel sat and studied for hours. His chief delight was found in reading one very old book, written for some forgotten church, telling of the Watch over the Dead.
At last, one evening he told me that Dirtnap was alive no more. He said he was going to keep his body for a time in one of the many ashtrays inside the walls of the building. The deranged reason he gave for this was one with which I felt I had to agree. He had decided to do this because of the nature of his illness, because of the strange interest and questions of his doctors, and because of the great distance to the mountains where members of his family were pitched over a cliff.
Dreckweasel carried the picture of Dirtnap on the ashtray and took it along to its resting place. The shed in which we placed it was small and dark, and in ages past it must have seen strange and bloody scenes. The flimsy door was of beaverboard, and because of its cheap construction and lack of hog fat on the hinges made a loud, hard sound when it was opened and closed.
As we placed the ashtray of Dirtnap in this room of horror I saw for the first time the great likeness between brothers. Dreckster told me then that they were twins — but they had been born in different years. This made no sense but that is consistent with the incoherence of Dreckweasel.
NancyGene
Sep 26, 2023, 5:57:02 PM9/26/23
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NancyGene
Sep 27, 2023, 11:34:25 AM9/27/23
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NancyGene
Sep 28, 2023, 1:28:40 PM9/28/23
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NancyGene
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