Where Am I Now?

As I usually do Saturday mornings at work before yokeldom starts streaming in with their electro-gadgetry and questions about how to operate a copier -- yes, you push the green button embossed with the word Start -- causing me to go into apoplectic fits, and if I don't already have anything special planned --

"As if anything at this dump could ever be qualified as special."















Well, isn't that special.

-- see, even the holy rollers are on my side -- I scour the intertubes looking for something to post about because what else am I going to do? Try reading and get interrupted every 38 seconds right in the middle of a long paragraph when you know damn well that my bibliographic biorhythm isn't like others because I try to shut off, even more so than normal, the ambient dumbassery of my immediate surroundings (this is the world's loudest library; it's in Guinness, look it up. Anyone have a Guinness?) which only gives the appearance of being rude to the customers and as everyone knows, I live only to serve you, the public thirsting for knowledge, I, your master of ceremonies at the traveling freak show just passing by on your mystical journey towards enlightenment.

"You could do some work."

In this top hat and tails?

"You could study for your Monday midterm."

Pourquoi ? Je suis le maître du Français, idiot. So after scrubbing for a bit with some Spic N Span (do they still make that?) I ran across this shot from this story --














-- and contemplated making a not-even-remotely comical Where Are They Now about how one day you're playing sold-out arena shows laying down a ponderously dull bottom end for Ratt, and the next you're providing material support to Al-Qaeda, having been driven there via the rib cook off circuit, apparently one harsh mistress.

"...."

Yeah, I know. Anyway, there was also this picture:














-- and I suppose I could have gone for a Joaquin Phoenix angle, but that's dead and I don't care because I honestly couldn't tell you what he's done outside of Gladiator and I would have to draw sunglasses using Paint and that would take a far steadier hand than I possess, but then I thought, hey, Rasputin, everyone loves the Mad Monk! but then I couldn't think of even a bad joke so I decided to say hell with it and here you go, today's post, but then.

Wait, what's this? Why, it's the legend himself! Rasputin! We're all so glad you could find time out of your busy schedule to visit us!








Мое удовольствие. Я никогда нет к блогу.

And might I add, that's a wonderfully full and manly beard, much more impressive than the pubescent stubble of those ineffectual mullahs.








Вы делаете потеху меня?

Making fun? Perish the thought, I have nothing but the utmost respect for someone able to help bring down the entrenched power structure that does nothing but enrich their coffers upon the broken backs of the people.








Вы оскорбляли неправильное монах, ленивую сволочь.

Lazy? Bum? That hurts, Grigori.

Is everyone fucking stupid today?

Minions, bring me one of these --



"Holy fuck, that album came out twenty years ago. And you, of all people, certainly wouldn't have minions."

Shut up, brain, I'm trying to make an important point. Yes, one of those for all of you below.













Do you have, like, books?
What's, like, the something something? I need it for class.
Are there, like, computers?

Huff n' puff, sure, I'll be more than ecstatic to gird my loins and suffer the twenty-seven agonizing minutes of you, O vigorous recusant, conducting Her Majesty's Business with that most continental iImplant MySpace Robot Phone, knowing the sweet, sweet bounty of your perfumed queries awaits this humble soul. No, please, I beg of thee, complete your final 738 keystrokes, each one of far more import than anything I could possibly imagine in my feeble mind, as I'm still getting paid, undeserving as I am, by the shilling, though the other nobles behind you in line might succumb to a particularly robust case of the blood boils. Oh, they're also with the Borg delegation? Uh, yeah, RIFF RIFF RIFF like, um, like you see, BEAT BEAT BEAT like, hey man, like BASS BASS BASS where are hang on a sec GLOSSY HOOK GLOSSY HOOK GLOSSY HOOK oh yeah um your PROCESSED VOCALS PROCESSED VOCALS PROCESSED VOCALS those word things, books?

Sorry, the shiny object distracted me from giving a damn.

"You're really enjoying your ascent into curmudgeon-hood."

Oh, hell yeah.

Two things wrong with that picture: 1) I'm not a chick and 2) I don't smile.

Two things right with this post: 1) It kept me from having to lay more bad verse on you folks and 2) I like complaining about work because it often inspires others to complain about their jobs and if America is in short supply of anything, it's jobs courtesy complaining.














Being inspirational is my calling. Amen.

Never forget

I know with Chimpy out the door and hawking hammers and nails with that low-IQ grin of his, many of you have already forgotten about Poland.

Not I.

The Importance of Being Rockin'

The ruthless takeover of human society by Facebook and its army of Terms of Service continues unabated for I've been tagged not with a standard, blogtastic meme, but one that originated on that heinous creation that destroys minds and reaps souls!

Oh, Betty C., why must you treat me this way?
But, since the thing's music, I'll let it slide.
For what can brighten the blackest day
like notes? No, not even the electric slide.

See how I rhymed slide with slide? Clever.

Also, as my tagger said,

Anyway, I like this list concept because it's not a list of "My Favorite Albums." There's a big difference between favorite and significant.

Exactly. And don't offer any alternate suggestions because unless you were the possessor of my life, you cannot know the confluence of a particular album and the emotional trap door I had just fallen through. And if you were, O, Mighty Beelzebub, I swear I'll get around to that human sacrifice as soon as I'm finished here.

Yeah, I was thinking of starting with that one, too.

Oh, and this is limited to rock and/or roll. Why? Laziness.

1. Let's go chronological and begin with my vinyl copy of The Muppet Show from the late 70s. No, I ain't joking. Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem's rendition of Tenderly that opened side two was the kernel of all things rocking in my heart and soul. That was heavy shit for a four-year old.

2. Like about 47 billion other snot-nosed, Lego-playing punks from those days, when I first heard Eruption off of Van Halen's Van Halen, I was floored, walled, ceilinged, you name it, but it was one of those old Warner Bros. 'Nice Price' cassettes that was the real stimulus package. Women and Children First on side one, Fair Warning, their darkest, finest hour, on side two. This is where I truly started my love affair with the power chord. Just don't tell my wife about my secret ménages à trois.

"I think the constant wearing of headphones gives that away."

3. My uncle was a rockin' dude from the late 60s and early 70s with quite an extensive collection of vinyl, and though more into stuff like Hendrix, CSNY, the Grateful Dead and the Incredible String Band, he did own a copy of Black Sabbath's Black Sabbath. I loved the cover and the song titles so had to borrow it. Lo, behold, hark and herald, music can sound evil! All of you uncounted one-man bedroom n' basement black metal bands still cannot muster the same effect as the obscenely simple and effective riff of that first track, but nice try, chumps.

4. When I first heard Metallica's Ride the Lightning, I was mildly disappointed, which only goes to show that reviewing records, especially after a mere few spins, are nothing but masturbatory exercises in self-congratulation on one's faux erudite prose.

"Like a blog."

Like a blog. Anyway, the leap from Kill 'Em All to this was expansive, and this was the soundtrack to my angry youth's formative years. The descending progression in the title track? I still have to crank that fucker. Genius.

5. I'm going to cheat and say 1986 where three albums, Slayer's Reign In Blood, Metallica's Master of Puppets and Megadeth's Peace Sells...But Who's Buying? were released, all of which contributed heavily to the growth of my cynicism and disdain for humanity and its institutions. Certainly nothing new, for that's what happened during the 60s and 70s, but, for a young dude in the 80s, the former's music just wasn't loud enough and the 70s was too drugged out (only with the wisdom gained from age would I appreciate the import of illegal substances on tunesmithing) and the punkers, for all of their frustration and social commentary, WERE NOT LOUD ENOUGH TURN IT THE FUCK UP MORE DISTORTION YOU WIMPS BANG YOUR HEAD.

6. I went through at least two cassette copies of Metallica's ...And Justice For All via hours-long bike rides and was thrilled to get a CD player that Xmas so I could avoid that painfully necessary expense. This is probably my favorite album on most days, a cornerstone for all that came after, and there hasn't been any decent-sized block of time since where I haven't listened to it.

7. The late summer and early autumn leading up my final year of high school was full of nothing but morning (soon to be afternoon) soccer practice, barely paying attention in class, oodles of Nintendo and albums such as Anthrax's Persistence of Time. I don't know how many cases of carbonated beverages I chugged while plowing through Final Fantasy, Dracula's Curse and Tecmo Bowl with this brilliant slab of masterful and socially aware thrash blaring out of the basement speakers. Bonus points for the Twilight Zone clip, dudes. Little did I know that I'd soon meet my future wife who was actually happy to accompany me to our first concert together in the summer of '91, Clash of the Titans, starring the aforementioned Anthrax, Slayer and Megadeth along with opener Alice In Chains. And you scoff at my romantic credentials.

8. While we were still dating and before our lives were ruined by the bun in the oven, I distinctly recall listening to Sepultura's Arise on the way back from her house during a lightning storm that to this day is still the most magnificent one I've seen. The boys from Brazil (no, not those kind) and their epic, sinewy Desperate Cry provided the perfect backdrop to such natural violence and beauty. Too bad they didn't have digital cameras in 1991 because it was like a goddamn gothic novel come to life. The lightning, not our subsequent marriage. Thank you, thank you.

9. The Summer of Bun saw Alice In Chains' Dirt spun more times than I can count. Fuck, I was 19 and she was 18, we didn't know what the hell we were doing and our communication skills sucked. We still don't, and they still do, but the stray greys in my fuzz at least lend a gravitas I didn't have back then. See, kids, it's your fault I'm no longer smiling and carefree.

10. Now here's a slab of utterly downbeat and seismically beautiful chords, My Dying Bride's Turn Loose the Swans. Hey, despite what you see on television sitcoms, marriage ain't all bliss -- not all of us are as handsome as Jim Belushi -- especially between two stubborn assholes such as my sometimes-better-half and I, and I needed my escape valves, my flights of fancy. Plus doom is cheaper than drugs. That's being a smart consumer.

11. Opeth's Morningrise blew me away because it has everything that keeps me throwing horns: long, emotional songs, multi-part structures, myraid time and tempo changes, loud riffs, lyrics that stray away from the standard fodder, a tenebrous sonic poetry. In other words, if I had musical ability, this is what I would want my band to sound like. I'm always listening to these guys.

12. This album came out just a bit after the Summer of Bun: The Sequel, but the wonderfully somber, neo-medieval folk strains of Unto Ashes' Moon Oppose Moon perfectly reflected my mood in its wake. What was it like to be twenty-five? I couldn't tell you. We were still young and stupid and most importantly, poor. Now we're older, generally less stupid and relatively less poor and our 16- and 10-year olds, though truly odd in lovely ways that mirror both their insane mother and completely rational and patriotic father --

"You honestly think they'll buy that?"

-- seem well-adjusted enough to eventually hold down a cubicle job without resorting to shooting up the office. Yay, us.

13. The White Stripes' De Stijl might not be their best, but so many of the tracks stuck in my craw, the hopefully sad chords of I'm Bound to Pack It Up exuding the same sonic sentiment as the old Van Halen track In a Simple Rhyme. Just a great fucking album.

14. Hold a gun to my head and I'll tell you that Katatonia's Last Fair Deal Gone Down is probably their finest hour I guess, but Viva Emptiness holds quite a special place for reasons that remain under wraps, no matter how juicy, tawdry and sordid the surrounding details may in fact be, carefully distilled into poorly-written verse that makes the crap I toss up here nowadays seem like Byron.

"It was bad."

15. Nicki Jaine's Of Pigeons and Other Curiosities. [continues zipping lips]

"You've gotta say something."

It's a fucking great, sardonic, bitterly romantic singer-songwriter album. Go buy it. I really should review the damn thing, because, having spun it probably hundreds of times, any such review would no longer qualify as masturbatory self-congratulation. En plus, she's finally coming out with a new album this year. Praise be unto the muses.

Alright, I've been indicted on mail fraud charges.

I'm required by law to tag people -- part of my plea deal with the feds -- so here are the victims:
Beach Bum
Übermilf
Bull
MRMacrum
La Belette Rouge (Sorry, no Morrissey allowed)
thatgirl
Anthony Cartouche

Eat it, Shakespeare

Tues-day is shrove with mutton and ryghte fatt.
Wonderfull merry-ment? Nay, deepest feares,
Fr the Ladye of Texyse speaketh at
Mee with Godly wrathe, callynge saddest teares.

With-out mine quest fr solitairie headd,
A saintlie offer, O, 'tis mine dutee!
The Devill cometh fr me, wretchydd deadd
who loseth. O, blacke woe; I know! Rudy!

Lord Mayor of York anew, I beseech
Thine aide fr th'import journie of morrowe!
A sword have I. The publick, it can reach,
Your Gown of Smiting + 1 to borrowe!

With sequins faire blindyng the poor-est foole,
Mine quest -- are not these fancie heeles coole?














Once in a dreame, we were damn hell ass kinges;
Or deuce queenes decked in finery to find.
O, swine, what sacrifyce a ryder bringes
When thy clothe I lift high, a headd in kinde,

Loppedd by the blade to roll as a wheele;
Prophesy filld, bus goeth rounde and rounde!
Dearest Ladye, I shant cop a feele
Up thy skirt, lyinge on Holy grounde,

'til, as high-lande kilts and London towne were,
Or factoree serfs, ower Naughtie unione doth Bee.
What of gyftes? This rottynge headd of a cur
Is all that lye on silvere plate fr thee.

Oh! pike yt, fr yon circus I shall joine
Fr there can slime as I earn some ryghte coine!


Postscripte:
O market, bless thou, best muffins that be!
Blueberry for me, banan'nut for thee!

Fantasies dead on arrival

No, not that kind.


















This kind. It was bad enough when I lost Michael Redd to a season-ending injury, and now Amare -- oops -- Amar'e. Don't want him to get pissed off and pummel me into a bloody pulp that'll dirty up his size 853 sneakers, thus causing more, um, blinding pain for yours truly.

"Dude, he can't see anymore, even you could evade him."

That's right! Take that, freakishly large man with the extensive bank account! Randal wins again!














Anyway, since my hoops team keeps on getting sledgehammered by the hardwood gods and my current third place will probably remain so only through this week as this is the last scrub team on my schedule, I figured it's time to set the Imaginary Sports Brain for the heart of the shining, crazy diamond. As I did with football, I've created a free Yahoo league hoping to gather all of my fellow sports-obsessed bloggers for merriment, whimsy and ample vulgarity. Send me an email or make your desire known in comments and I'll get you the password. BYOB.

First prize: nothing.
Second prize: nothing.
Third prize: nothing.

Bragging rights: priceless, for about an hour until you realize all the time you wasted debating over whether to pick up that speedy, backup middle infielder or the power-n-strikeout callup could have been better spent towards completing your version of the great American novel, you stupid bastard.

"May I have ten thousand marbles, please?"

"I hate those spammers."

Besides having to deal with punks, troublemakers, n'er-do-wells, never-will-bes and the rambunctious ghost of John Belushi, Dean Wormer is also saddled with the additional



















and not the kind that exotic Hawaiian Monty Python fans enjoy, but stringy, bland dishes cooked up by internets robots grilling in China or swilling in Russia whose culinary power is so effective, we're all but forced to buy things in mass quantities to fund the bulk purchase of WD-40 for said robots. No one wants a squeaky The Google.

Why should you buy things wholesale?
It's the discerning consumer's holy grail,
like a film crew avoiding Christian Bale.
Imagine a surplus stock for your lunch pail,
or when imitating Jesus, an extra nail --
carpentry, sheesh! Don't send me to jail
because of one very important detail
and that is lack of access to email.
Hey, Nigerian riches don't come via snail --
though it would be safer than hunting quail
with you-know-who. Remember that tale?
Wonder what passes for his white whale.
Probably not a gay romp o'er hill and dale,
but lady justice's big ole -- cover those up! -- scale.
One more thing, is it me, or is this bread stale?
That's what I get for buying wholesale.

Tornado of douchebaggery

In the grand scheme of things, a trifle,
but don't make me reach for my rifle --
"That's what you call the dead?
Please see a doctor for your afflicted head --"
You know damn well that's not what I meant;
neither of us can check what's heaven sent.
Funnels, cakes of ice are surely frightening,
but when one is struck by lightening,
'tis not an electrified action
but merely a step towards Michael Jackson.
Thus, I beg, AP, hire some competence
and end this flood of disturbing malfeasance.

"That was horrible."

Truly, but not as offensive as finding irrefutable evidence of a creature once thought to be a figment of a whiskey-and-weed sodden imagination: the Track-Suited Elder!











"I'm seventy years young, punk!"

A coworker was regaling me this morning with tales of these inhuman monsters and their faux testosterone-fueled lifestyle, a midlife crisis that keeps on eating and regurgitating itself far beyond impulse sports car purchasing and judicious applications of Just For Men, settling at last in Golden Buckeye Card perpetuity.

Lo, believed her I did not, but soon that pound of doubt was smashed into a tasteless pancake when such a creature managed to create an obscene amount of jamming in our hydraulic Raw Power Stapler® that even a six year-old can operate without too much effort, but MAXIMUM ZONE BUSTING AND PUSHING THE ENVELOPE IS WHAT I LIVE FOR BLEAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH! FLEX FLEX FLEX I READ FIFTY-SEVEN PERIODICALS AT ONCE GET OFF MY LAWN

So, with the timely aide of a hammer, I was able to unjam about 17 staples from the chamber. Je vous remercie, unholy combination of Chuck Norris, Jack Lalane and Matlock, you are a douchebag.












"Look what you did to my stapler when you pushed too hard on my stapler and you jammed it because it's not a Swingline it's my stapler look what you did to it my stapler."

Damn hell ass kings

Having an extra day away from work and purposely cutting oneself off from the world, including the internets, is quite liberating and solitary in the richest, most joyful sense of the word because most everything and everyone is full of shit, except you of course, you're the best, you bastards. Aside from the missing regalia, the purple trappings of empire, and actual power over the miserable lives of your subjects, I'm sure it's quite similar to being royalty.

Which got me thinking on the bus this morning on multiple things, two of which carried great import, the rest being the daily dose of silent aspersions and barbs thrown at various and sundry, required for the upkeep of my sanity: I had, as on most days, no post at the ready and no access to livestock, thus haruspicy as an aide was out of the question. Plus, they'd probably make me clean up all the blood and subsequent vomit from the other passengers. Secondly, are we denizens of the internets not already royalty? Within the legendary, mythic cycles of all the great civilizations, must not the hero make a perilous descent into and through the underworld, the ineffable darkness, a hell that cleanses the soul of fear and guilt, preparing it for the monumental tasks that loom ahead, its shadow consuming every step?

Do we not, crawling into the Stevens Tubes, mimic Odysseus and Beowulf and Frodo and Bill Kristol as we trudge through the murky depths of hardcore pornography and RSS feeds? Are we not mythic heroes?

So embrace your destiny, grab your sword, and chop someone's head off.

Happy Valentine's Day, chumps

Macrocosm

Burst without, clues once within draw edges,
cut tongues from mouths crawling down rabbit holes
hidden in blood. Above, weeping spangles
carve malediction upon broken limbs.

Weak balancing act, equilibrium
draining out, splits apart a searching eye
electrified. Slow burn apocalypse
throned by idle words falling like idols.

A shed temple lords smiles somewhere,
spit out by a copper throat tasting third,
fourth, a further second death. A flesh
retraces trails that circumscribe nous.

Stinging flakes rebuke all my speechless love
that fails to choose. Constellations speak,
ignore, reflect no more, choose! I ignore
and descend into fervent certitude.


Invocation

Touch lies on surfaces of elegance,
in castings high and low. A coup-d'oeil
with strange geometry burns away ink.
O, witness the decline of illusion.

Steps spiral cold, spin a darker measure.
Blind and silent, tips print a hex on glass,
sure that sin such as this is deserving.
O, affirm your drifting complicity.

Waters brought you to curiosities;
I can still hear their splendid forgeries
of sovereign calm in delirium.
O, condemn absence of tranquility.

One-ring circus with the bitterest bread
offers nothing save a kindred poison.
Trudge through crimes of rust, leave this shore behind.
O, flee, allow me to be tried alone.


Microcosm

Play at a blade, outstretched beyond my neck;
watch me escape, time and forever more.
A starry step, my boldest yet, curses
at winds that wither with a parched whisper.

Subtlety, their deceit, murders with pride.
Gale force ghost caresses the railing,
keeping me upright, keeping me from where
always rests in the tidiest of beds.

Next, and deep, a forge to blacken all hearts
with reddest bluster, with crestfallen heat.
Mine eyes lose sight of carcasses in line,
memories being readied for the dirt.

I stumble and fall, again as before,
where each new glare is but a plea reborn.
I know, thus cannot forgive this trespass
on a past never permitted to sleep.

Another post about love and laziness

I'm off to look for my brain,
likely circling down the drain.
Since push is pushing shove,
another YouTube about love.

Night of the Living Post

Bonjour, all you fancy glitterati --
captain, o my captain, what rhymes with that?
"Enjoy the spinach cheese manicotti."
Away your frets, arsenic laces not --
or -- dramatic pause -- does it? I kid, kid,
for why would I wish you forever rot
seventy-two below this milquetoast earth,
dining fresh on mercurial toxins,
thus to mutant undead you shall give birth!
"What the fuck are you going on about?"
Up north in Canuckland, that's aboot,
as, 'I'm aboot to kick you with a boot.'
"Strainin' to do some postin', ain't ya, bub."
Rub 'a dub dub, alone in my old tub
stormin' cranial waves, fishin' for bits --
"Always Plan B, a picture of some --" cough!
Huge tracts of land is the preferred term, pig.
"That hurts, Dr. Frankie. Now do you see
what happens with a monster-making gig?"
Oh, sob and sackcloth, I've learned my lesson!
Nevermore will I create, nor stimulate --
"Yeah, right." Do you mind, brain? I mean, really.
-- with these needles, threads my TARP scratch bought.
Lightning will be harnessed only for good
such as frying eggs, a slab of bacon,
mayhap some Congressfuckers in their house.
"Not concerned 'bout these violent tendencies?"
Merely fun n' games; look! eyes all around.
But a plea, good sir, how to end this verse?
Something terse, funny, voluptuary?
"Nay, something tried n' true, brimming with blue."
Ah! Supreme melancholy, the rich -- "No!
Like your ideas, big bangs that whimper,
sparks that burst, fizzle, then dull the senses
as Cosmic Candy: flashy then stale --"
What was that bluster about monstrous gigs?
Three reckonings as to what always dies.
"With thanks, so does this post." Amen to that.

Might as well face it, you're addicted to addictive stuff that's addicting

Revenge is dish best served cold, apparently.














Not exactly what I had in mind. Though I am hungry.

Alright Noo Yawk, I tag you, you tag me, blood is shed weeks later or whenever the tag was I can't remember, someone calls the cops and soon the internets ends up on one of those Investigation: Discovery shows as a suspect spoken about in hushed tones by an informant hidden in the shade spewing forth a bad Peter Frampton outtake. I see how the game is played. Well, my corpse does.

The deceased is required to talk about five items that he was addicted to before he shuffled off this mortal coil, then tag five others. We're assuming his wife has run off to Europe with Randal's vast wealth, so we can only guess at his vices.

"Do corpses always talk in the third person?"

The corpse is glad you asked.

"...."

Five addictions:

1. Music. The most interstellar brobdingnagian of duhs. If given the choice of forsaking their hearing or their sight, most would likely retain the latter because of its everyday usefulness, especially when it comes to safety issues such as pushing little old ladies out of the way to cross the street and going hunting with Dick Cheney. I, on the other hand, would have to think about it. Music, whether alternately intricate and propulsive chamber, depressive and downbeat neo-folkery, soaring symphonic epics or strings of skullcrushing divebomb riffs forged in Tartarus, is worse than crack. I have never had crack, but I am listening to music right now.

2. Writing. I'm being vaguely misleading here because there are days where I don't physically write, which is apparently some kind of art-collar crime punishable by 3-5 years of reading books on deconstructionist theory, but I'm almost always mentally writing, at least in a non-bloggy sense, especially while at work drinking unhealthy amounts of coffee and avoiding helping others to the best of my ability which is also what I am doing right now because the monolith of interruption is lethal to flights of fancy you lazy and annoying patrons.

And before you say anything, brain, my kind of lazy is charming.

3. Coffee. Morning fuel of the gods and of slacker library employees.

4. Tea. Evening fuel of the gods and slacker fathers and husbands.

5. Stroking the ego.

"I thought this was a family-friendly blog."

Of course it is, Mr. Jump-To-Conclusions, but you know my wife hates me, so it's not like I can list 'show me your id, and I'll show you mine.'

"You like onion rings."

But I don't have them every day like I do the others which is the subject of an entirely different rant because it's my Office of the Pretzeldent-given right to kill Ay-Rabs, kiss Is-reel's ass, wag a finger at the Reds and banana republics not named the United States, all your money are belong to us, and stuff my face with onion rings.

"Complaining?"

Such as this morning. Look, fellow public transportationistas, have your fucking fare in the form of cash or a card ready when you step on the fucking bus because many drivers will wait until you are seated before moving the fucking thing so while you're playing pocket pool and I'm wishing I could stick my headphones directly against your eardrums and turn it up to eleven thereby shattering them to pieces and leaving you in a bloody, writhing agony to ooze down the steps onto the curb, that coffee ain't getting brewed because I'm the first fucking person at work, you fuck. And don't come on the bus with a wallet full of tens and twenties asking anyone and everyone for change then get all pissy when no one has any because the economy sucks, you stupid fuck.

Apparently, someone else from that state tagged me -- is this combined assault because I hate The Fucking Yankees? -- but since I'm a nice guy, I'm only tagging zero, because I can't remember who has or hasn't done this. Here's your chance to be like a bank and steal something without fear of reprisal.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

"Great Satan! Just you wait 'til mine fills out!"

Plus ça change, les saisons changent

KBR, the perpetrator in the electrocution deaths of American soldiers in Iraq, gets another contract? Check.

"I'm sure they learned their lesson."

Businesses self-regulating proving once again to be a laughingstock? Check.

"A quick buck'll always trump."

You're quite the poet, brain. A kinder, gentler Jack Bauer-ization of the intelligence community continuing unabated? Check.

"Iron Law of Institutions, baby."

Speaking of laws, will the underlings, like the architects, get off easy as pie? Check.

"Oh, and Karl Rove still hasn't appeared before Congress."

But my absolute favorite has to be, in order to stave off the obvious lunacy of an above $900 billion stimulus bill (ostensibly to be spent here in Murka) which would be akin to a serrated, rusty knife twisting in the flabby gut of the American taxpayer unlike the trillion-plus visit to the massage parlor with deluxe Wall Street benefits if you catch my drift wink wink nudge nudge that was the last eight years highlighted by romantic adventuring in Iraq -- we permitted thieves and malcontents to rip off, what, $1 billion every 8 seconds? -- thanks to the serious, forthright, honorable philosophers in that most august and cautious of deliberative bodies, the United States Senate and their lopping off of stark wastes of money such as $1 billion for Head Start and $20 billion for school construction, the bill's reduction to a far more svelte and palatable $780 billion.

Whew!

Kids and their sloppy joes and fancy book learnin'. The only thing they stimulate is my patience. Go get 'em, Congress.

Once all the greenback brouhaha exits the 38-second Murkan attention span, at least we have the inevitable sabre rattling against Iran to look forw -- hey, Dancing With the Stars is on. Go Hollywood has-been!

"What does all that have to do with the seasons, or did you fail in your attempt at being clever?"

As usual, the latter, but for the first time in quite awhile, it's sadly not cold outside, as it's already around 40° this morning. Now, summer can certainly go to hell and rot as all good corpses do, but spring is fine in small doses, and any nudge of the spirit away from the inexorable bullshit of humanity to the terrifying and beautiful grandeur of nature is alright with me.



That's better.

Love is for suckers

As I tried and failed last year, and tried and failed many years before that, I plan on trying and failing to win fabulous prizes via the local classical radio station's Valentine's Day poetry contest again this year.

Think the following has a shot?

"No."

Did you even read it?

"Why? I know you wrote it."

Ouch.

Dearest wife! a gift, you crazy loon?
The money'll run out with a quickness, and soon,
for th'economy, yours n' mine, lies in shambles;
I feel like we've sprinted through brambles,
our skin slashed and torn open wide,
carried off on the blood-dimmed tide --
yeah, I thieved that bit, what's it to you?
Don't make me toss my tattered shoe
because, radiowaves, we're just about through.

Every year you wankers pick some chump
whose verse is worse than a thing that goes bump
in the bowl of my toilet after a pot of beans,
you goddamn weenies; it certainly seems
that you have no poesy in your bones.
Oh, I've tried melodrama, dulcet tones,
comedy and such -- grumble, I'm beside myself.
Might as well steal from that Ronsard on the shelf.
Sigh. Unka Dick, line? Go fuck yourself.

The Number of the Beast

In honor of this, my 666th post --

"You're just a walking cliché, ain't ya. No, wait, walking requires effort."

Touché. And in lieu of a YouTube that would sound, if you actually clicked on the damn thing, like nails on hell's chalkboard to you non-metalhead chumps poorly versed in the beauties of oppressively dissonant riffery, here's the Official Trailer® from one of the crappiest finest pieces of art ever filmed, a cosmic tour-de-force of good versus evil:



The moral of the special effects?

Not even Satan himself can deal with the awesome power of Shatner.

Ye Olde Clerkes

"Verily, our employ wuld be exceptionell if not fower these cusstomers of fuckerie."

Dearest jerkface patronnes, thou with thine face markede by vareed wrynkles, straines and scars of jerkerie, furtherest thou whine, bitche and moane as if a memberr of Parliament, lesse inclyned am I to helpeth thee. I say unto thee, rejoyce in the Ways of the Lord and shew unto Him thy gratitude, fower the King's Goode Lawe doth preventeth me from implementynge the racke, a garrotynge, impaylement on a pike, or strikynge thee with a cat o' nine tails in thy face of jerkerie itselfe.

"Sheesh. Should we send them to Guanatanamo?"

Why not. Like the video store, it'll be open for awhile.

Also open for business, Bolivia.

“We know that Bolivia can become the Saudi Arabia of lithium,” said Francisco Quisbert, 64, the leader of Frutcas, a group of salt gatherers and quinoa farmers on the edge of Salar de Uyuni, the world’s largest salt flat. “We are poor, but we are not stupid peasants. The lithium may be Bolivia’s, but it is also our property.”

Yours?

Nobody puts America in the corner!



Gotta go, Michael Vincent just found me a new job!

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Subpar Bowl?

"Just throw me the damn ball."

Thousands of column inches have been written about:
1. The Steelers' manly defense.
2. Troy Polamalu's wacky hair.
3. Whether 71-year old Dick Lebeau uses Grecian Formula or is a genetic mutant like Dick Clark.
4. The resurgence of the Cardinals because of
4a. Kurt Warner,
4b. Kurt Warner's love of Jesus,
4c. Ken Whisenhunt's magical inspirational speechery after one of the worst beatdowns in recorded history,
4d. dumb fucking luck.

Look, the NFL seeding system is stupid given the fact that there are 72 divisions when six was quite fine and though I have no problem with a division champ getting an automatic bid, I would certainly prefer that each conference then seed by record. For example, the NFC this season could have looked like this --

1. N.Y. Giants (12-4)
2. Carolina (12-4)
3. Atlanta (11-5)
4. Minnesota (10-6)
5. Philadelphia (9-6-1)
6. Arizona (9-7)

-- and the AFC like this:

1. Tennessee (13-3)
2. Indianapolis (12-4)
3. Pittsburgh (12-4)
4. Baltimore (11-5)
5. Miami (11-5)
6. San Diego (8-8)

Would the actual outcomes have been different? Only Odin knows because, unlike him, I cannot travel through time. But for all of you bitching about the Cardinals getting here as the flukiest fluke in the seven seas, the NFC had THREE chances to knock them off and failed. Against a defense that gave up over 400 points. Against an offense that for sixteen games couldn't run the fucking ball. In other words, shut the fuck up you fucking whiny fuckers. Go Cardinals. Steelers, 28-17.