The Terrorist’s Meth Lab on Sesame Street

I’m wearing a wet suit with a scuba mask in a crowded subway

Out of breath because Big Bird just chased me six city blocks

Screaming obscenities and brandishing a sawed off shotgun

He refused to tell me how to get to Sesame Street

In the kooky subway carriage, a doomsday cult of ventriloquists without dummies

Tell knock-knock jokes

and quote Ginsberg sporadically

Emphatically poking my ribs with used vibrators,

They attempt to sell me yesterday’s lottery tickets

I politely decline their solicitations but enjoy their unique interpretations of “Howl”

Nobody in the crazy car asks me for change or identification

Not even the homeless homophobic circus clown who keeps on farting

Or even the cross-eyed mime wearing a rainbow afro wig and only one shoe

When I get out at my superfluous stop,

I meet Martha Stewart on the pitch-black platform

Her head is revolving like the “Exorcist,” and she’s dressed in a 1920’s purple polka
doted bathing suit

She asks me how I am in Chinese street slang, vomits, and offers me stock tips

She tells me I should run sideways into oncoming traffic shouting korma recipes and

Quickly waves goodbye with a middle finger, dancing the “Running Man” out of the
revolving door

Too-da-loo!
See ya later, alligator!

Walking out into the suicidal street lacking empathy,

I see an eclectic electronics store with a large window display of TVs

24 hour news cycles are euphonic in fast moving imagery and perfect alignment

Talking impatiently in interruptions about missing white teenagers, sports scores,

and celebrity gossip

As brief crawls regarding the genocide in Congo pulsate, I try to remote control click
away pedestrians

Where’s a TV guide when you need it?

Walking past an asinine alley,

I hallucinate the Tooth Fairy holding up Cookie Monster at gunpoint

Cookie Monster incoherently mutters something in a Cuban accent about:

“I ain’t got yo money, mang!”

A commotion soon ensues as Paul Wolfowitz runs down the street on all fours, nude,
disoriented

He barks like a dog and bites random people; ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!
ERRRRRRRRR!!!!!!

Foaming from the mouth,

He squeals a profanity laced tirade against the liberal commies that want to take
away his

Alpaca farm full of Iraqi children chained to radiators in his basement

Whilst doing a partial handstand, he whispers like Brutus in my ear,

“Pūrṇam adaḥ pūrṇam idam

Pūrṇāt pūrṇam udacyate

Pūrṇasya pūrṇam ādāya

 Pūrṇam evāvasiṣyate.”

Nearby, in front of a foreclosed on church…

Seven Hooter’s waitresses gather for their weekly support group…

Though they aren’t there for personal reasons…

It’s all about the fire hose enemas, bad coffee, and “Mattlock” reruns

A group of German tourists walk up next to me

I yell “Fick Dich” to them so they feel welcome

When they ask me where I’m going,

I tell them I’m on my way to see the Terrorist

He lives in the Meth Lab on Sesame Street

It’s between Washington, DC

And New York City

Eerily east of Essex

North of Bangkok

West of Sydney

It used to be in Caracas

But now it’s just a few blocks away

The last time I went there, I drove home at 90 miles an hour in reverse on the
wrong side of the highway for seven hours straight blasting Celine Dion from my
distorted radio in a constant loop

This time I’ll come back on a Segway or a rickshaw instead!

Auf Wiedersehen! So long! Goodbye!

We part and exchange hostile text messages

[woleb rorrim eht nI

eotletsim eht rednU

stimrep tuohtiw stimreH

timreK dna yggiP sM kcajraC]

Walking to the spot, I enter the goofy ghetto sponsored by Bank of America

Pompous posses of gangly gangsta rappers on every street corner have gay sex

While smoking banal blunts rolled up from Florida 2000 butterfly ballots

They spit at me and throw gold chains and urinate in my direction

I thank them and perm my hair with pepper spray

This sure isn’t Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood!

On the next street hopscotch a pack of crack smoking girl scouts

They calmly riot, throwing Molotov cocktails and

Smashing windows and pumpkins, too

I ask one named “Betsy Lou,” why the upheaval? Why the evil?

She tells me that their jobs selling cookies have been outsourced

To coarse robots controlled by girl scouts in New Dehli

Like a jellyfish,

the little bitch

kicks me in the nuts, struts, and steals my subway ticket and runs away yodeling

Flailing her arms like a windmill, but still,

I thank her and brush my teeth in the sewer

CONTRA NATURAM
I finally arrive at the Meth Lab

To get in, I have to give the password to Oscar

He’s the grouch who lives in a garbage can out front

I noisely knock on his lid, da-dada-da-da-da-da!

He pops up reeking of cheap whiskey and the perfume of an Asian hooker

He belligerently inquires (in a voice that sounds like an angry Black Man), “What,
muthafucka?”

I tell him “Karl Rove’s Rectal Exam” (the password)

As he opens the door, I ask him why he is such a grouch

He says, “You’d be a grouch, too, if ya lived in a garbage can, bitch!”

I concur with him and walk inside backwards doing the “Moonwalk”

Inside, Elmo smokes a bong and collects money from a prostitute with three tits

Bert and Ernie watch “Will and Grace,” bake a quiche, and talk shit

Snuffaluffagus watches snuff films and sharpens his knife

Talking about how he’s gonna cut up Big Bird and make fried chicken outta his wife

I ask a psychotic 6 year old girl sorting powder like Scarface if I can see the Terrorist

She hands me a mirror