Are the Voices in My Head Bothering You?

A gypsy cursed me with second sight and it broke my glasses.

By Tony Sokol

The other day I came onto a strange interlude at a midtown intersection. It seemed a person I passed on 29th Street caught my train of thought and immediately retired to the bar car. It was only a moment, but it felt like a second. Maybe not even a second and then the train pulled out, leaving this person, through whom I tread so leisurely, with the ticket.

It’s been happening to me since I was a kid and got sucked out of my carriage into the eyes of a passing gypsy who then sold me back to my own mother at a very cut rate. Mom made a counter-offer that the gypsy find some wolves to raise me or stick me under the bronze fickle finger of fate. The gypsy gave me back and threw in the eye of her uncle Horace and a couple of kilos of deadly nightshade, which she urged me to finish in one night.

But I heard her voice and she knew I heard it and it happens every now and then, especially when I imagine it. Oh, I pass everything off to coincidence, which I firmly believe in. In many ways, I’ve made it a religion. But isn’t that all religions? Making sense out of nonsense or order out of chaos or lamb chops out of sand when it’s all coincidental, no matter what any self-loathing satanic 500 club flagellant might tell you. When the teabagging bible thumpers talk about Jesus and his pet dinosaurs, Mindy and Simkin, they have a belief that pines the shallowest depths of human understanding and finds god in the splinters. That belief is not to be taken lightly, no matter how much ridicule it deserves. There is no coincidence with them and there is no irony.

You see, it’s not a coincidence that Moses parted the red sea and sent the dinosaurs to Japan to await the Godzilla craze, because none of it really happened. But there are people, well, maybe not people, but politicians, humanoid creatures who decide the fates of their constituents at the whim of their campaign financiers, who will tell you this is possible, probable and a sin not to believe in. They are all about sin and I gotta say, I’ve always been a big fan of sin. It’s gotten me where I am today. Which may look like nowhere in particular, but is far more removed than even that.

But this gypsy thing that the old lady gave me when I was a kid, it’s been the cause of a lot of coincidences. Haphazard misadventure is probably the closest thing to faith I’ve had besides happily believing George Carlin when he said when we die our souls go to a garage in Buffalo. I got that. It’s on the back burner in the event this nihilist thing I got going doesn’t pan out. If I’m a ghost, I’m going to head to Buffalo. But while I’m here this gypsy curse, spell, whatever thing has me understanding the wherefores of the whatnots and it’s makes me want to squinch my ass muscles up until it all goes away.

I’ve sat with people, and again I use that word liberally, who spout notions of god and country and I’ve seen their belief leak through their eyes onto napkins of very fine dive bars. I know I can make heads explode with the mere mention of my most rational of irrationalities. The next time you hear a patriot arguing about the Constitution, gently inform that fine upstanding landed gentry of a tricorn buttplug that the Constitution is a piece of paper and paper burns real easy. Italy rewrites their constitution every couple weeks, sometimes they don’t even wait that long and they’ve been around since some wolves took in Romulus and Remus from a broke gypsy.

That’s just one sentence. I had a lady’s head bouncing up and down in a jingoistic loop of bile for three days by calling Clinton the greatest Republican president I’d seen in my lifetime. It was like saying “Dr. Spock” to a Trekkie. The voices deeper in my head about what a political landscape might look like, from the outside, about a block away, would cause her to lunge at me with a steak knife. Luckily it was a bar and all she could find was a bamboo umbrella. I still have it to remember her by. It is lodged in my shoulder.

I know what people want to hear and it’s really that they don’t want to listen. They don’t want to listen to anyone. They don’t want to wax up their ears with anything anyone has to say, especially people who are talking. Everyone is fed up and sick of being told what’s what and even the people they agree with can blow them, or they can shoot them between the eyes like the anti-Obama protesters in Texas this week who shot each other because they were arguing over who had the better guns or something.

The voices in my head tell me we might have to get used to Nurse Bloomberg taking America’s pulse to the White House. I also see Ted Cruz winning a lifetime appointment in the Canadian government, which he will rule like a tyrant until he is banished to breakfast meals with lumberjacks. But it’s my spidey senses that tells me that there’s something going on with Hill and Don, the original Everly sisters. Donald stuck up for New York last week just when most New Yorkers were getting ready to float him in the Hudson.

But it’s the religiously inspired voters who scare me the most. Anyone gullible enough to buy the bullshit about some imaginary friend fixing the dice of life or follow a stairway to heaven from a guy with a private jet will gladly pay for a politician’s super PACman platform that eats the flesh of Christians. It’s not that these politicians don’t believe whatever gospel they’re vomiting, which they don’t, it’s that the faithful believe the backwash is more than pious puke.

Believers would let Carly Fiorina declare unborn babies her constituency and let Mike Hucklesby feed then to Iowa voters in their loose meat sandwiches, lazy hamburglars that they are. The faithful will let Seventh Day Adventist misadventurer Ben Carson declare the eighth day a holy apocalypse. The only thing the faithful believers won’t do is turn the other cheek. They are armed and the only thing worse than an armed believer is an army of armed believers.

Believers will give money to Pat Robinson and take to the curbs outside gay funerals for the Westboro Baptist Ministry. There is a special place in hell for these usurpers of the faith. Robinson said Bowie is burning in hell right now because of his gay junkie lifestyle and the voices in my head are telling me I should very much like to sexually torture the guy with exactly what he’s looking for. I want to teach him how to use a broomstick like a dildo until he’s got splinters in his eyesballs. Feckless faithful say Pat Robertson is a righteous man, a pious man. They promise that Pat Robertson is good. The voices in my head say Pat Robertson is not just good, but sphincter licking good.


Published January 21st, 2016

Tony Sokol is a writer, playwright and musician. He writes for Den of GeekThe Chiseler, and wrote for Altvariety,, Daily Offbeat. Dark Media Press, Wicked Mystic and other magazines. He has had over 20 plays produced in NYC, including Vampyr Theatre and the rock opera "AssassiNation: We Killed JFK." He appeared on the Joan Rivers (TV) Show, Strange Universe and Britain's "The Girlie Show."