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| Dead Beat Society |
Jodric Plinth.
Who is he you may ask?
He's a character that has been around since the '60s.
He wrote a column, espousing his sense of awakening.
Whenever I read Plinth's early work, the angry, I-don't-know-where-I-am dark poetry totally consumed me.
This is a guy who looked at himself in the mirror and practiced inflecting John Lennon's accent, every day of the year.
I can also hear him saying, 'I'm better looking, better educated, and can put on the BBC accent if I try.'
This kind of adolescent writing may have cut the grade at the local Manchester Art College, but it never really caught on in certain intellectual groups that counted.
You could also see in his early writings a yearning to take up arms.
He admits, in his autobiography, 'To All The Girls I've Fucked,' that 'I use to be a street sweeper, janitor and worked in a steel mill cleaning the lady's toilets.'
'Not exactly like going underground and taking out coal, piece by piece,' said Max, who had enough of this prick who kept on popping up like a fucking Jack-In-The-Box.
A friend of mine said $200 bucks was excessive to pay for replacing of duromine to gropamine (read the article here.)
'He really ripped you off.'
I said it all began on a Messenger call.
Wasn't he happy to hear from me?
This is where the grooming began.
And that I could call him anytime.
Things went a bit sour when his wife got on the horn.
I could speak better Thai than Jodric, his Thai was non-existing, and I was chatting her up right in front of him. She said she was wet and that next time I was in Bangkok, we could fuck at a love hotel down the road.'
Jodric couldn't understand what was said but felt it.
'I knew the Italian grease ball wanted to fuck my wife, who is about as old as my granddaughter,' said Jodric who is 85 - his daughter is 63 and his granddaughter is 42.
He said that's why he covered up the camera eye on his laptop, 'so the sleazy cunt can't eye up my woman.'
After I wired Jodric the money, I was encouraged not to call him.
And when I did call him, he'd say, 'what the fuck do you want?'
I said I had just wired him $500 and said wouldn't it be good to talk about the editing of The Gropamine Diaries.'
'Don't you worry about that,' he said, 'let's let the book simmer for a few more weeks while I get back to my poetry.'
Seriously, folks, you can't make this shit up.
And the guy is bitching why I'm exposing him on the internet.
Because you are a fucking asshole, that's why Jodric.
And even if you could sing, you wouldn't make it.
'What you mean? I've got quite a distinguished voice.'
'Because you don't have a fucking mic. You don't even have a pot to piss in. You sad pathetic little poet.'
'Now that was a bit harsh.'
What was harsh was you saying I was going to buy you a microphone and take you whoring, after I asked for my cashback.
'Implying what?'
That I was cashed up and on top of your pension, you'd get more cash from your newly discovered retirement fund.
I did offer him a microphone and a trip whoring.
I felt sorry for him.
He said he was so poor he couldn't afford coffee.
But a gentleman would never do that, I added.
Especially a poet versed in Yates, Wordsworth, and Byron.
'Had you fooled,' said the Jack-In-The-Box poet, 'now who are those poets you are talking about?'
You pathetic piece of scum who can't even afford a microphone to record your poetry.
Doesn't' that say something, Jodric?
'It worked, didn't it, I got the cash off you.'
If he went any lower, he'd be an ankle, two feet under a cunt.
