It’s pretty fly. I got spinners and treble on that bass, son. Hydraulics to hit that 3 wheel motion on the corners, I don’t be ticklin or nothin.
If that makes absolutely no sense, good. It shouldn’t. It’s just a bunch of references to things I’ve seen that I keep to myself. My hideout is in plain sight, something I can go to at any time yet no one else could ever enter. The lair where I sit idly staring out of a mountainside window overlooking a volcano while stroking my hairless cat and twisting the ends of my moustache in as diabolical a manner as I could ever hope to.
It’s where Island in the Sun plays on an endless loop as the same time as Miasma, converging on the more comical notes. Where Bozo the Clown is forced against the wall and shot in the head repeatedly while his body endlessly convulses because clowns are super fuckin creepy and anyone who says otherwise is a goddamn bald faced fucking liar.
It’s the place I go to swing back and forth with the coming breeze on sunny days under the shade of palm trees. Where tall sexy white women with bikini thongs smoke weed out of bongs while arguing what their favorite Tupac song is. Where everything is super funny and nothing is impossible.
When I close my eyes and take in a deep breath, counting to ten so I don’t jump up and throttle the living shit out of whomever is standing in front of me. The small little laugh that bubbles up like a fart in a bathtub when you’re stuck in the oh so shitty Seattle rush hour because the goddamn VA hospital acts like there’s never any traffic at 8 am on a weekday.
Where everyone floats on clouds and I’ve got a six pack and everything tastes like you’re super baked and it feels exactly like when you’re wading in the warm ocean and pissing everywhere. I gotta get away before I go, cah-raaaaazy.