My Name Is Eugene

Today, I bought a book from Zoinks!

I removed the dust jacket. I can rarely abide dust jackets.
The point is though, I am quite happy.
I often pick up Vonnegut books that say:

by the best-selling author of Hocus Pocus,

but I never get to buy Hocus Pocus.
Instead, I just end up buying whatever Oprah tells me to buy.
Because really, if she says it is the Summer of Faulkner,
then I believe her.

It is better than re-living the Summer of George.

Sure, I could just pre-order Hocus Pocus from Chapters,
but such thoughts hold little appeal to me.
I mean, why settle for scheduled gratification?

Used book shops are like my thrill of the hunt.
If I were ever a survivor from Oceanic flight 815,
my unique island-skill would be my ability
to mysteriously obtain worthwhile books
from a perpetually shirtless Sawyer.

Or at the very least, I could take out a patent
for my own brand of coconut skeeball; Perpetually Topless, Coconut Skeeball.

Anyhow, back to the Vonnegut book which, according to the NY Times is 'purportedly written in prison on scraps of paper, each scrap a thought, story or digression unto itself.'

So here are some scraps of writing that I have not yet been able to do anything with, & I would be greatly honoured if you would steal these from me & write something with them:

1) He was a master of bunnies.
2) You are the sexiest, one-armed go-go dancer to ever baby sit me.
3) Bully belly, rumbly numb.
4) The hoof prints punched through the black paper sky.
5) Jake was with the wine when the blade struck noon.