The writings of Oddpoet

So I’m in Afghanistan right? I’m not sure how I got here it’s all kinda fuzzy. I remem­ber pop­ping five Dilau­dids and I woke up on the air­port run­way in Kabul, Afghanistan. I check my pock­ets and my wal­let and drugs are still there and my bag was next to me, Cool, I wasn’t rolled.

So I stag­ger to my feet and head for the ter­mi­nal hop­ing no one notices how fucked up I am and that I have no idea why I was in this shit hole.

As I try to regain my drug legs I notice how poor most peo­ple look and how rich a few peo­ple look. I’m a reporter I can tell that shit. It didn’t take me long to get the lay of the land; appar­ently, in Afghanistan if you have a lot of goats you are con­sid­ered a rich fucker. And the rich fuck­ers get to kill the poor fuckers.

This one guy had about fif­teen goats teth­ered to his wrist and he was cap­ping the fuck­ers who had no goats.
I’m like “What the fuck?” So I cold cock this sheet that had two goats and I take his goats. I wasn’t in the mood to get capped in this cesspool. If I wanted to get capped, I could do that in any US city.

It was kind of like Amer­ica, only the rich don’t cap the poor they get cops to do it and they value money instead of goats. Same difference.

So I make the dreaded phone call to Trevor my fag yup­pie assign­ment edi­tor at Schizoid Magazine.

Ring… … …
“Hello”
“Put Trevor on”
I hear a muf­fled voice say
“It’s Odd­poet”
“Hello Odd­poet?”
“Trevor you yup­pie fuck, what am I doing in Afghanistan?”
“Don’t you remem­ber Odd­poet?”
“Fuck no! I took five Dilau­dids, you gave them to me!”

Now you have to under­stand that Schizoid Mag­a­zine houses the cheap­est peo­ple on Earth. Sure they give me an expense account while on assign­ment, which enables me to sleep in cheap seedy hotels and eat maybe two candy bars a day but I don’t make any salary. They pay in drugs, hence the Dilau­did. When you think of it, who needs money when you have drugs. And if they did pay me a salary? I would wind up buy­ing drugs anyway.

“What am I cov­er­ing?”
“You have an inter­view with the war­lord, Hasid Mor­bis Ali Ama Ah la Smegma”
“Who?”
“Some guy with a beard and a sheet.”
“What’s his claim to fame?”
“He’s a war­lord and he kills peo­ple. Give it the old Odd­poet edge.”

I hate when he tries to but­ter me up. I hang up and make a men­tal note to fuck him up if I ever get back.

There is a guy with a card­board sign with “Odd­poet” writ­ten on it. I fol­low him out the ter­mi­nal and he leads me to a cart with a don­key attached to it. I hate those cheap fucks at Schizoid. He speaks bro­ken Eng­lish and he tells me we are going to the Mosque hotel where I would meet the warlord.

As we were rid­ing through the streets of Kabul I notice I was in the Cadil­lac of vehi­cles. Being poor really sucks, I know, I’m poor. . There are carts that have lit­tle kids attached to them pulling the cart and these jerk off are whip­ping them. I wanted to get off and kill the fucks. Instead, I won­der, if I get home, maybe I could steal some poor inner city kids to pull me around. You can’t beat the gas mileage.

We stop and in front of the Mosque hotel and I pop three more Dilau­did. I enter the shit hole and start get­ting Psy­ched. I never fucked with a war­lord before.

Unfor­tu­nately, to be continued.

Odd­poet report­ing live from Afghanistan