The Misfits Songs

"There are paint smears on everything I own
The vapor rub is lying on a table of filth
Christmas cards to which I never reply
My eyeballs absorb only blue filtered light

Tv casualty, tv casualty
We're all right
Tv casualty, tv casualty

I wish they'd put prince namor on the tube
Hold on, I think I have to puke
There's a spot in the corner where I always go
I like to feed the flies that I know

But please don't feed my television screen
Please don't feed my television screen
Please don't feed my television screen
Please don't feed my television screen

Tv casualty, tv casualty
We're all right
Tv casualty, tv casualty

Babies in prison, they call it a womb
Nine month sentence, no parole
Slivers of steel stuck in your lungs
Breathe deep, we need a donor for blood

Jaguars at the cemetary
Cadillacs grazing at your grave
Zeniths grazing at your grave
Sonys grazing at your grave

Tv casualty, tv casualty
We're all right
Tv casualty, tv casualty
We're all right
Tv casualty, tv casualty"

-The Misfits

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I lie on the couch with paint smears colored red, stripped onto my chest. As I try to uncover the mystery of how that got on me and my beloved blue plaid couch, I bumped my head onto my giant telephone wire spool I use for a coffee table. My vapor rub was still there from last night’s “alone time,” watching Gilligan’s Island and seeing Ginger jiggle her well endowed rack at her distress.

I sat up and continued flipping through the channels absorbing the blue filtered light. This was just another T.V. casualty of mine.

All these shows suck to the point they blow. What a bunch of wasted film. I can write a better script with a pen shoved up my asshole. I wish Prince Namor was on the fucking tube. He’s stronger than any fucking whale, and can go flying through the damn air!

I rummage through the litter of Christmas cards on my table. Just a bunch of Botox infested cretin, with overly tight Christmas sweaters, that bunch up over their flabby, sickly bronzed necks. That was all that filled Lodi, New Jersey. Some of the pussy printed paper cards were covered with the generic picture of their beastly lookin’ children being held by Santa Claus, while pissing themselves to soak Santa’s lap. I looked through the abundant amount of beer cans that were left lying around from a couple of nights ago from drinking with Jerry and Doyle. I picked up a can of Ice House, took a sip, and reacted from its flat state by running to the corner spewing chunks onto a cat I didn’t know I had.

“Sorry, kitty…” I wiped my mouth with the hand that I jerked with last night. The sour scent gave me another reason to puke onto the wet mystery cat.

Familiar flies flew around the pile of newly created vomit. A proud grin lifted from my plastered face. I always like to feed the flies that I know.

I went back to my couch and sat. I spotted a card with my Mother holding my newly squeezed out sibling. She looks so happy for a used up old whore. It was my very first prison sentence while in her womb. While she smoked and drank, my little entity fetus body ate it up, while being stuck with no parole.

I turned up the volume while the heater cranked up, making the usual buzzing noise. Hell, I wasn’t going to fix shit.

An odd odor wafted into my nostrils. It made my eyes dilate, which it was used to doing.

“Glenn…” A faint mutter came rolling into the room.

I shot up from the couch in shock.

“Who the fuck’s there?!” My knees were starting to go limp.

“It is I, Zenith…you must cease my hunger….” My T.V.’s screen went into fuzz.

A face slowly appeared onto the glass surface. It had a face only a mother could love. An eye bulged out further than the other. It had an under bite that carried teeth that looked similar to daggers. Slime came oozing out from the T.V.’s dials.

“Holy shit! What do you want from me?!” I shouted, as the cat came back and continued to lick off my fermenting puke.

“I need substance, Glenn!” It screeched.

I fell back onto the couch. “Where am I going to get that?!”

“That looks tasty…” He beamed with his static filled eyes over to the cat.

“You want this?!” I lifted the cat as it tried to break out from my grasp. Its claws pierced into my arms creating thinly shaped welts. The screen nodded as it was in a trance from its hunger for kitty. I threw the cat right into its humongous, gaping black hole of a mouth. I hear the cat shriek its last call for desperation. Then it was lost into the darkness.

It slams its mouth shut, and it grumbled in satisfaction. But then a sudden rumble came from the monster screen. It burped back pools of blood into my finely trashed living room I worked so hard to get it to that state.

“MORE! MORE! I NEED MORE SUBSTANENCE!” He grew even larger in size.

I violently shook in freight. “Shit! No, I don’t want to feed you, you damn television screen!”

The monster television shook with rage. I crawled under my table while my last quote created into a repetition.

“Please, don’t feed the television screen. Please don’t feed the television screen. I’m not alright!” My body went into a fetal position by habit, rocking back and forth while the noise and vibration died down.

I pathetically poked my head out from underneath the table. Everything was back to normal. What the fuck had just happened? I stood up, while I noticed The Partridge Family formed from the static. Was I dreaming?

I shook off the thoughts and just continued with my daily T.V. casualty. A tickle was created in the back of my throat. A choking sensation came over me, while my hands grasped my neck. The pain was unreal. Wads of blood spouted out of my mouth, forming a puddle on the carpet. Violent coughs I sang, and there was no end. Things were getting dim. The feeling to my existence was slipping away. Then the carpets rolled out for me to join the vast grave.

I saw visions of Jaguars and Cadillac’s grazing at my grave, eating me alive with human eyes staring from the shadows, watching without humanity. Zeniths and Sony T.V.s join in to feast off my carcass. My horrific state of mind turned into pure insanity. The only words I could speak were “We’re all right…”
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Glenn Danzig did not see the light of day from what he had inhaled on that fateful night. Slivers of steel were pierced to his lungs from the broken heater that had resided in his apartment complex. To his bad luck, there was never a donor for blood to be near him at the time. It was too late when the ambulance had arrived from a neighbors call about a putrid stench drifting into the rest of the building. He was presumed dead on sight.