First prayer

I vaguely recall that back in the doggy days of August, a lot of you fine humans were hitting the proverbial wall inscribed with various proverbs, one of which was, verily the man that cannot think of shit to post should give it up give it up give it up now.

I don't know anyone named Jack but I do know I still can't think of shit to post, which normally wouldn't be a problem since I'd be stretched out on the couch watching my Cavs fuck up yet another opponent, but I remain nattily-clad at work -- only four hours left! -- the evening before National Heart Attack Day and thus have to do something besides stare at the walls --

"You could begin working on your final paper for class."

-- so here's an aural photograph I took of my brain:



"You bastard, I'm not that weird. You are."

Since you no doubt didn't enjoy that one bit if you dared endure the entire piece -- congratulations if you did, you win nothing -- though it was a prayer, you fundie Jesus wackos; if done by a black metal band -- Satan! -- from France -- I sincerely hope you meat eaters enjoy instead the charred flesh of the traditional egg-laying vertebrate tomorrow; you weirdo vegetarians your tofu-based products; or human muscle, those of you that are closet cannibals, all while celebrating our nation's genocidal foundation through gravy, stuffing and televised images of Jerry Jones' plastic surgery. God Bless America.

As for me, I'll be off to see the in-laws who originally hail from West Virginia yet are staunch lie-bruls, then my side of the family who grew up in a blue county yet love them some Ronnie Raygun.

With all that confusion, maybe I'll just stay home.

Quel dilemme ! This is quite a stern test of my faith, weary as it is from countless trials and tribulations, both tangibly overt and stealthily hidden the way devious abstractions often conceal themselves, but I understand what I must do, and it certainly doesn't include --

"Get on with it already."

O Great Old One, I pray to thy interstellar tentacles that my internets are no longer broken, that my tubular pals don't rupture their collective gut from too much chowing down and that none of them are arrested on charges of first degree murder for the assassination of any out-of-state wingnut relatives because they might not get to blog all that much while in jail. Amen! Cthulhu Fhtagn!

Put a sock in it, bub. You may scoff at the Great and Powerful Oz Cthulhu, but I'll be treading the earth via my triumphant stride long after you've become nothing but a dusty memory. Don't believe me? Just ask these scienticians.

Almost forgot. I wanted to close with a shot that encapsulated everything bloody and gluttonous about tomorrow, so I typed dead turkey into The Google and unsurprisingly, this was the first hit:















Happy Thanksgiving you loons.