Book of Jim: Agnostic Parables and Dick Jokes From Lucifer's Paradise by Adam Spielman

Author:Adam Spielman [Spielman, Adam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Humor & Entertainment, Humor, Satire, Literature & Fiction, Humor & Satire, Humorous, General Humor
Amazon: B00VO575YO
Goodreads: 25311608
Published: 2015-04-02T17:00:00+00:00

4

So Jim climbed up the Stupid Fucking Mountain. It was also a big fucking mountain, and he climbed for many months. His shoes wore out and his feet became hard. His jeans and his T-shirt withered and his skin become rough. His hands became strong.

He thought, Man this sucks.

Then a sound from the bleakness came to him. He searched for it. He found a young man who sat in a shallow cave and played a haggard guitar. Blonde hair hid the edges of his face as he strummed with brutal sincerity.

The young man looked up and moved the hair from his eyes. Jim knew his eyes, just as he knew his sound.

“Hi,” Cobain said.

“Hey,” Jim said. He stepped with caution, for he felt like a gazelle coming upon a lion. “I, uh, heard you playing.”

Cobain ran his fingers over the haggard body of the guitar. “I never thought I’d play again,” he said. “Everything got so fucked up the first time around. But there’s something about this place. The bleakness. Like, this guitar, I hacked the wood for the body out of a tree with a sharp rock. The tuning pegs are hawk bones. The strings are guts. It’s the best guitar I ever played.”

Jim sat down on a bare rock in the shallow cave. Cobain strummed his guitar. The cave reverberated the imperfections of the sound and the bleakness hid in the cracks of the mountain.

“It’s raw,” Jim said.

Cobain moved the hair from his eyes. “It’s strange. When you get everything you’ve got nothing. I had everything once, and then paradise was just everything all over again. It took somebody to come along and take it all away, and now I’ve got something again.” He played a single chord. “I got raw again.”

“Can I ask you something? I guess it’s kind of personal.”

“That’s alright.”

“Why did you kill yourself?”

A smile played between Cobain’s teeth. “It seemed important at the time,” he said. “And there was a lot of pain. The useless kind of pain, the kind that just sits in your head and makes you heavy and takes the color out of everything. It makes you ugly. I guess the worst part is being able to see how ugly you’ve gotten, and not being able to do anything about it. So I did something about it.” He turned a hawk-bone peg and the tone of the deepest gut-string fell. “I didn’t kill myself for any special reason. I killed myself because I wanted to die.”

Jim tried to think of something to say. He couldn’t. Then Cobain said,

“It was crazy to see it. I just expected darkness. Then I was standing there over my body, looking at the chunks of my brain mashed into the ceiling. Like, the mess never occurred to me. The pain was all cerebral. Metaphysical. Seeing your metaphysics splattered around the room, gushing out of the back of your head, it’s a pretty harsh trip.

“But what really fucked with me was when the angel popped up next to me.

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