We’re not ignoring Big Billy Chuckface anymore. He’s so overjoyed and free of regret we just don’t feel we have to fuck with him. He’s towering over a pier, knocking it down with the edge of his hand. He’s got amnesia. He loves us. He loves us still. Drunken, we hit him with a hammer while he slept and he didn’t see any tragedy in that. His fortune is pure, liberated from worry about art and production. His death is not fearful to him. He is sixty feet tall. He is about welcoming, about feeling messianic towards us, about being beneficent and illogical, shining a sweet happy gift-giving light on all little sisters, kids and oldies. Look at the way his face beams. Old Billy. Old and Sweet and intestinally packed with nutritious gala events, we bow to him. We are The Eggs, We are The Cornbread. We rode all the rides at the Abusement Park and Unchuckable Billy nurtured us, salved our blistering bruises. Flies gather at the corner of our eyes and he knocks them away, harmoniously, without anger. He is the Jim-Dandy Crisis, the Apotheosis of Image. An apocalypse of voice, his Omega pops our dogma boil. We met him in the city. He took us to his country of Unloathing. Next to him, in him, we become an Us, an I. He makes us feel capital, just tops. Bueno. Biggo. Guillermo. Guillaume. He’s taking us into his food tube. We become His stuff.
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