Chix, hix, flix bix quix, Netflix!

Far be it from me, a great American patriot, to turn down the request of another great American patriot in revealing some of my deepest personal information to you, the unwashed hippie masses, namely, the last ten flicks in my rental queue -- or, if you prefer, those that are heathen luddites, the last ten rented the old fashioned way, absorbing scowls and thinly-veiled insults from one of your fellow minimum-wage food stamp junkies behind the counter.

Oh, relax. As I once famously remarked, "I would hope that a wise white male with the richness of his experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn't lived that life."

Touchez Pas au Grisbi
Priceless
Martha Argerich: Evening Talks
Hellsing Ultimate vol. 1
Hellsing Ultimate vol. 2
Hellsing Ultimate vol. 3
Hellsing Ultimate vol. 4
Them!
Suspiria
Leif Ove Andsnes: Ballad for Edvard Greig

Most would assume that Priceless was the choice of my sometimes-better-half. Not so, for I haven't drooled over Audrey Tatou in awhile. The Hellsing Ultimate is some vampire anime gig for my lunatic offspring, the rest being a mix of frog gangster that for some inexplicable reason I've never seen so very sorry Sarkozy, old man music, giant radioactive ants and eye-talian horror from one of the masters whose best work is probably his daughter.












Ne vous inquiétez pas, mademoiselle, I'll save you from the rampaging zombie horde.

"After you finish drooling, tag someone."

Oh yeah, you, you and you.

The Sporting Life (yes, this post contains more sports you whiny wankers)

Delaying the inevitable bombast of simmering disappointment, or the start of a tastelicious comeback worthy of saucy thick beef stew and fresh blueberry muffins with a laudanum chaser? Fuck if I know.















Detroit vs. Pittsburgh: one team is beat up and injured -- which is akin to saying one is [insert famous windbag of your choice] and stupid, thus apologies for the repetition -- and will likely be missing key guys; the other has the two best players on the planet still on skates instead of wasting precious time doing something pointless and boring such as that game of skill which is not a sport at all, just like darts, which isn't a sport either dammit but is enjoyable unlike the aforementioned but unnamed game of skill but not a sport known to the washed and well-coiffed cracker masses as golf. Of course, the Red Wings could conjure up some 60s old man castoff Maple Leaf in like flinty übergrit and pull it off, but the odds are likely going to die. Penguins in six.












Speaking of über, no poetical panegyric for you since your drunken Blackhawks lost, muahahahaha, etc.

Oh, alright.

Sure, your team is a collective goober
but don't worry, you're still über.

There once was a man named Enis

Distraught to the point of even more thee ole boozeroony over my latest month-long inability -- man, this is getting fucking wrinkly and decrepit with a side of walker and cataracts -- to pen a single line of worthwhile verse and shut up brain because I know exactly what you were going to say, I was heartened by an omen, a portent, a message from the gods themselves:

Barcelona 2, Manchester United 0.

What does the Champions League final have to do with my writer's block? Simple.

The loser,











unfettered capitalistic hubris, contra the victor,












always thinking of the children.

Isn't that beautiful? Sniff.

I won't give up, Zombie Jesus, I won't ever give up!

Things I learned this long weekend

1. Having The Best Player On The Planet® is no detriment to the awesome cosmic power wielded by Cleveland's Black Hole of Athletics that on a molecular level simply strips electrons from their orbits but on a B-movie level (except for The Black Hole where those fuckers inexplicably survived, not so tough now, are you, Maximilian Schell) tears skin and muscle and tendons off of disintegrating bone, a flash of red that vanishes in a third-quarter olé-defense nanosecond, inaudible screams, the most violent of ends over before you can say Jack Robinson vacuum cleaner. Kudos, miserable town of nightmare and deceit, you have no peer in this space-time continuum.













2. Completely disconnecting from flesh world in order to connect with pulp world is refreshing. Except when you have to call the cops four times over the course of three days on your redneck grease monkey neighbor who refuses to graduate adolescence and won't shut the hell up at 11pm. Do you really want me to blare my stuff? You listen to Toby Keith and play-by-play NASCAR. I listen to Slayer and Mayhem. My money's on me, but unlike you, I'm not a complete dick. Too bad pouring the contents of an oil pan on someone and then setting said person on fire before dousing said person with water then repeating the process until they're nice n' crispy is illegal. Damn oligarchy with your "laws."


















3. North Korea is threatening the nukyuler option on Queen of the Reconquista (or whatever Lou Dobbs is calling that shit -- look! A mexcan!) Sotomayer? Wow, they're more hardcore than the wingnuts except for Spray-On 'cause he'll drown you in his briny tears.
















4. Aside from probably being necessary, I think another Black Death would be funny. The last one gave us Ring Around the Rosie. (hey, just go with it) Who knows what catchy rhymes a fresh catastrophe would bring!

Ring around the cadaver!
Look at what I discover!
Rotting flesh!
Rotting flesh!
We stink in the sun!

Now you try!

Hitler's Brain-In-A-Jar Ate My Zombie Circulatory System!

Jawohl mein comrades, as you'll see -- if you're stupid enough to read through to the end, yeah I called you stupid but relax beacuse I'm stupid for writing this is a match made in a one-star hotel bar with the you're stupid for reading this so we're all stupid let's have a drink, no it's not on me I'm cheap like floozy -- the title is unquestionably the finest part of this post (except for the miraculous finish) which is admittedly not saying much because I've mastered the art of bar lowering to new heights (speaking of heights, how about that miraculous finish?) which is nearly an antithèse worthy of the strung out drunk in the corner, I did say let's have a drink, this rambling statement also proving that I'd be either a bad retail minion or industrial capitalist or both.

"But you'd make one hell of a zombie."

Huh?

Huh. Um. Sure.

To demonstrate how out of touch I am with flesh world, upon having the late Dr. Marvin Monroe's bit about sexaholism pop into my brain in between the unyielding cavalcade, nay, flood, of filthy perversion during this morning's Magic Bus trip, I figured why not fire up The Google and and type that in.

Apparently, it's a real disorder, at least among the filthy pervert crowd.



Thankfully, sexlexia is not. Or sadly, because there are two Xs and since they're spaced apart, nay, spread, unlike in sexx or xxx, there's a whiff of the sultry yet naughty as opposed to overt, body thumping porn fucking.

Forgive me, Cheesus.












Jesus as Cheeto? Jonah Goldberg just had an orgasm, you betcha.

Personally, I think he -- sorry, He. I've had my fill of smiting by lightning bolt. Static cling sure does mute the sexlexia -- looks like these guys:













The Ghostest, nay, Hostest with the Mostest. The RCC should hire me.

Since we're already on the subject of the implausible, both natural and phantasmal, did the spectre of the secretly dead 1980 Browns possess the collective soul of the 2009 Cavs?



Stop with the miraculous finishes, gents.

Ow, my ticker!

No blood, no foul

Los Angeles Times: Obama and Cheney in a duel for hearts and minds
New York Daily News: President Obama, ex-Vice President Cheney battle over who has better vision for protecting America
Seattle Times: President, Cheney duel over how to fight terror


Dear entertainment wing of the military/industrial complex,

This isn't a duel.

This is.













Or this.


Or, in Unka Dick's megalomaniacal noodle, this.










Wankers. Don't make me return to jihad.

I Have No Mouth And I Must Vomit

Since the Cavs handed that goddamn game to the Magic, I'm not in a good mood and before any smartass comes here and says that it's only a game and that there are more important things to worry about, conveniently forgetting that I have as much control over the actions of those inexorably potatoing on the couches of power as I do over bricklaying backcourts because I lost my telekinesis back in Albuquerque, let me preempt such an expression by telling you, in the manner of the man currently running America's political discourse, to go fuck yourself.

Luckily for you, gentle reader, this morning a colleague pointed me towards something else born in the blackest pit of the flesh-gnawingest abyss besides gift giving to undeserving basketball teams, a worthy balm against my pain, the truly awful verse of Tom Zart Most Published Poet On The Web©. Look, if you wanna get Jesusified in a non-child raping way I'm damn glad to hear it as long as I don't have to experience such creative banality -- does anyone (of you) remember laughter Milton? Or Dante? Or Donne? -- but fuck, this is just terrible, the poetical equivalent of Thomas Kinkade Painter of Light©. Thus, I present, for your edification in all things offensive to discerning taste, God's Most Humble Poet, Patent Pending.

"And I thought your stuff was bad."

No shit. Despite the tingly-skin magic of RUSH LMBAL POEM, the effervescent joy of CHARLTON HESTON, my favorite line has to be the opener from FORMIDABLE FOE (Dr. Zaius, you may want to grab a fork):

America is the birthday cake of earth

While you all discuss the pros and cons of cannibalism with frosting, I'm going to patiently wait for the expected cease and desist letter from some slick-haired Megachurch-O-Matic lawyer for unauthorized use of copyrighted material.

Lemme show you how it's done, son.

Oh, Tom Zart, your rhymes are like a wheel-less cart!
Your art is a poison dart to my heart,
Words with the stench of a pork n' beans fart.
I'd love to start a pie chart of just how tart
Your crap is when compared to sweet sweet verse!
'Tis time your lines depart in a shiny black hearse,
While I say with heathen breath, upchucking,
The power of Christ compels you to stop sucking!

The return of the grandson of Splotchy's Viral Theatre

Like sundialwork, Splotchy's The Beast With a Billion Tentacles (did we ever reach a billion entries?) is back to strangle us into sweet blogging oblivion. If you are unfamiliar with the rules, but are familiar with the English language, please read the following:

Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.

If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.

Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.

The ground crunched beneath my feet. Besides my noisy footsteps, I heard only the sound of the gentle crackling fire behind me. Its faint orange light lazily revealed my immediate surroundings. Beyond the glow, there was total blackness. I whistled. I took the small rock I had been carrying and whipped it away from me, expecting a thud, crack or plop -- but a soft yelp of a cry answered. [Splotchy]

Failing to leap tall buildings of uneaten Nestlé Crunch and Krackel bars in a single bound, I had waded through them instead, the crunchiness of the candy adding to the crunchiness of the drought-stricken, pebble-strewn soil, elevating the aural to a heretofore unknown level of crunchiness, as if Dick Cheney himself were trampling the defleshed bones of third world refugee children scattered about his clawed feet, the dried marrow spewing forth from between shards glistening in the wan moonlight.

I shivered.

Silently thanking the Old Ones that I had decided to stuff my backpack with packets of instant coffee instead of those mini boxes of Rice Krispies or stalks of celery because those things are far too crunchy in comparison to things that are not like packets of instant coffee and all that Xtreme! crunchiness would've only disoriented my delicate sense of hearing, therefore preventing me from ever hearing the creature amidst the cacophony. Sore feet and a diet of nothing but caffeine and sugar for days and days. No wonder I ended up lost in this haunted quail preserve.

That feeble sound, I soon found out, was made not by a hideous hellbeast bent on tricking me by deceptive vocal prestidigitation into becoming its next meal, but by a meek, mousy, nearly hairless creature no more than three feet tall, almost like a midget hobbit dwarf with skin more pale than a made-up Twilight extra who dwells in a sunless condo. As it entered the camp, illumined by the rustle and pop of burning wood, I saw through the curling smoke that it was visibly frightened. I calmly gestured towards it, quickly pulling back, trying to reassure it that I meant no harm.

"Do you understand me? Can you speak? Who are you?"

"My name -- my name is Dick Cheney." [Randal Graves]

Guess what, chumps listed below? Get fictionizing.

The Undisputed Lord and Master of Faber
Lemmy, no, not the leader of Motörhead
The Bicycle King

Halfway house

"Settle down *guffaw guffaw* Bibi, the check's in the mail."

Now, on to matters of far more import.

The Fucking Lakers vs. Denver: There are many who believe in the awesome power of the Super Magical Jesus Baby, Caliph Charlie or Jumpin' Jehovah, but one of the many altars I worship at is that of fancy, shmancy statisticalism, and such number crunching tells us that Denver has a much better chance that you think, David Stern, Generalissimo of Marketing. That said, The Fucking Lakers in seven because what would an NBA Finals be without mindless gushing like those squishy, goo-filled HFCS candy bites about the greatness of The Steak while failing to ever mention that the reason the chump even has a second shot at a fourth title is the same reason he got his first three: a big man. Sure, El Beardo ain't Shaq Fu, but betcha Kupchak hasn't even gotten so much as a card.


















Cleveland vs. Orlando: Pick against the Cavs? After all my not-so-subtle virtual chest-thumping on the bitter heels of forty-plus years of choking and failure that, like Prometheus' bird, eats my innards every night? Pshaw. Cavs in five, unless Dwight Howard learns his first actual post move today, then Cavs in six.

Inhale 'em if you got 'em

Get used to the smell, kid, you'll be running on fumes someday, I gar-on-tee, cayonne, on-yon, bowtie haw haw. Did we fix Afghan Land yet?

But before I go away for the weekend to my couch sandwiched around the experience of the always tingly Art of Grass Cutting and something even more archaic, that deepest of mysteries hidden beyond the shadows of existence, obtainable only by climbing the most profound heights on the very roof of the world to speak with beings able to warp time and space itself for purposes we dare not know, the ancient practice of -- shhh! -- Weed Pull-Fu, the time has come to talk of many things, not of sneakers, nor ships, nor Turtle Wax, rutabagas or the Los Angeles Kings, but these skating chumps:

Pittsburgh vs. Carolina: Oh, I get it, pencil in the fucking Hurricanes for the playoffs year after year since they won the whole fucking chalupa in 2006, give up on them at last, then they decide to not lose 89,364 man-games to injury? Won't matter. Crosby is a fucking lunatic. Penguins in six.

Detroit vs. Chicago: Alright, so Robbie the Robot had circuit failure at the worst possible time. I'm still going to play the better odds and declare the country of old men (and a few key young dudes; how about Helm on that breakaway, huh?) stave off the still-teething drunkards from Chi-cah-go. Red Wings in seven bloody games.

As a parting gift, I offer you, gentle reader, a veritable cornucopia of musical joy for your weekend listening pleasure caressing your newest batch of cheap Chinese trinkets while we all wait for one of those Association scrubs to emerge, ready for their sacrifice on the altar of The Mighty Cavs. Please, select from the following bouncy tunes:



Just for you, Tengrain, I know how much you adore the death metal.


For those contemplative moments sans the banging of heads.

A Musical Journey, or, More Complaining Part MCMXVIII

An enchanting tale full of magic pixie dust and funny talking animals and strangely effervescent elixirs and pots bubbling over with gold and silver and platinum and six-ring circuses (don't forget the bread n' butter n' raspberry jam) and dreamy adventures in faraway drug-addled cosmoslocked dimensions and artfully conceived pickup lines of a sexfully erotic nature was what I had in store for you all today but I changed my mind for national security reasons so now I will tell you about the weirdness that is Windows Media Player.

Why have I reverted to using that MICROSOFT CAN HAZ SATAN! product instead of iTunes? Because Apple, who make the Hippest Commercials Around, also make a product that, in addition to other carefully documented problems, at least 15-20% of the time [ed. note: compared to a measly 5-10% of the time with WMP, all of this proving why I prefer physical CDs to this technocrap because unless they've been horribly axe-murdered, CDs never fucking skip] leaves the freshly ripped sound files with randomly placed scratchy noises and various other sonic fuckeries regardless of how pristine the disc is or isn't without rhyming reasons for I've had early generation, visibly gouged albums from 1985 be smooth as Smoove B and brand spanking fetish new stuff go rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat.

"That's what the shit you dig sounds like anyway."

So, after the work computer got infected with a virus originating from online porn sites the swine flu, I decided, in anticipation of The Great Re-Rip of 2009, to tell the Book of Jobs to go to hell so now I will tell you about the weirdness that is hell.

Dear Windows Media Player,

A CD that conjures up images of this


















really shouldn't be labeled 'World.'


















That's what happens when you outsource your programming to countries that don't even have rock and/or roll.

Love, Randal

Hand of Doom

Semester after semester of the final nail hammered into le cercueil français being the big ole Dissertation of Workmanlike Bullshittery, I wasn't prepared for writing for nearly two straight hours for the first time in ages. No, writing offline for creative purposes doesn't count. Academia is a less rewarding mistress.

Kind of like a wife.

Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week or until my sometimes-better-half assassinates me, whichever comes first, the chicken egg smushed by the stiletto.

Anyway, the hand certainly cramps up faster when proseifying instead of masturbating, let me tell you. Hairy palms I can live with, but this, this....noooooo! NOOOOOOO!















Hey, if you get killed, don't say I didn't warn you.

Is that a keyword on your screen, or are you just happy to see me?

Oh, CHUDs of the internets, it's been so long since we last danced and drank too much cheap hooch and threw up on each others shoes and got into a fist fight over who was going to clean it up and crashed into a telephone pole on the way to the hospital to tend to our non-fatal injuries because we were still throwing punches but luckily it was a telephone pole adjacent to the hospital so we didn't die from our near-fatal ones.

Sure, it's no Smeckler's Powder, but a balsam specific often does the trick.

What is this ploober that brought you here? Surprisingly, The Urban Dictionary wasn't helpful. Alright, The Google, help a honky out. Type, type, type. Ah, it's apparently some tech geek shit of some sort. Do I look like that kind of geek?

















And I certainly don't look like a sadism tube mood pictures.com kind of geek either. I'm married, so my fetish is obviously masochistic in nature. Duh.

What kind of loser sinks to "writing loveletters imaginary"? All mine are real. I just haven't sent them yet.

As far as I know, Carl Sagan's hair was legit, so astronomy and man and toupee and television is quite a roundabout way of searching for Shatner®, don't you think?










rosenkranz and guildenstern are undead would kick so much ass.

"Something is rotten in Denmark. No, really, Horatio, Hamlet's a zombie."

"la chevelure vol d'une flamme à l'extrême" explanation Don't ask me, ask the guy who wrote it. I know he's dead, but maybe you'll get lucky and find out that he's a zombie, too.

Many have come to share my belief that this blog is french for you fool.

my love for you is like a truck berserker Given who you likely are, Sorcerer of Cheetohs, I would not like some making fuck. Now, if you're a Sorceress, call me.


















Betcha Rhett Butler would've given a whole moustache full of damn if there had been a bunch of antebellum lesbian babes in his midst.


















I can honestly say that I rarely, if ever, see a PDA on the bus, let alone a fuck in public transportation.

And you all scoffed at l'ennui hot scene.

Never underestimate the power of a sexy monocle.

Don't you know this is the private library of the Satan's Helpers?

Wherein I'm reduced to bitching about work.
"Hello?"
Satan's Book Depository, can I help you?
"I need two books pulled."
I'm the only one here ma'am --
"You're the only one there?"
Yes, ma'am, and therefore cannot leave the desk, but I'd be more than happy to place holds on them, preventing anyone else on the Lord's Good Earth from interrupting your fascinating intellectual journey, tra la la la la.
"Why can't you pull them nooooow?"
I'm the only one here ma'am.
"But I don't have time to go looking for them. I need the books right now."
I'm sorry, but as I said, I can place holds on them for you --
"Are you telling me that you're the only one there?"
I'm the only one here ma'am.
"Exaggerated, melodramatic sigh. When will someone else be there?"
At 10 am.
"Fine. I'll call back then, subterranean breath muttering. I need the books right now. I don't have time. Click."
Quite alright ma'am. Continue your self-flagellation, I'll be busy myself.
Fire hot.

Phantasmagoria

Vacuum empty head:
slow, torturous, dead.
Yesterdays still rain.
And today? My brain,
wriggling forth midst sheep.
On skin it doth creep,
in flesh, burrow deep.
At last, time to sleep.

Whole Lotta Nothin'

It was a dark and stormy midday. The windows were spattered with the patter of an inebriated, sickly sound, a R&B/pop pap smeared on the glass via the entrails of a Now That's What I Call Vomit 37 disc except it was in French so I guess its title would be Maintenant qu'est ce que j'appelle vomi trente-sept but I'm not sure because I'm terrible at French which is why I couldn't tell whether the singer was praising or castigating me. Everybody sing! Castigation station, what's your obfuscation! Hooking up hookahs with lungs and nearby roads and thoroughfares where plying her trade might be a hooker! I know, where's the hook.









Anyway, the other day, my sometimes-better-half and I --

"Dumbass, turn the self-filter on!"

Oops.

Last week the trees on a stretch of sidewalk near work sprouted their leaves, their shed buds a hard, bright yellow-green carpet laid upon the mute grey of the stone. After being trampled under foot while talkin' about love, they now radiate the distinct hue of vomit. No, that's not the theme but mere coincidence. I suppose one could infer that this is the theme of this apparent brain dump, but this isn't a brain dump proper -- should I be saying "time for a number two?" -- but more of a brain fizzle like when a garden hose nuzzles a bunch of gunk and the water doesn't come out full 3-2-1 blast off, the nozzle exhaling nothing but a trifling piffle. Ever see that shot of young Jimmy Page doing skiffle on Limey teevee?



Don't tell Crowley's ghost or there'll be a Whole Lotta Hex.

Perhaps starting with you, "private property owners." In the War On Islamojihadfascistocommiepinkoism®, or, The Convenient Other -- that sounds like the title of a bad postmodern novel just dying to be praised by 386 MFA critics and read by the 12 of them that aren't out bohoing in Soho until 3am or whatever it is those fuckers do. Damn you, self, if only I enjoyed metal ironically and owned multiple pairs of skinny jeans -- there's no such thing as private. Unless it's for national security purposes. Jesus says so. Look it up. Hubris, ostentatious extremism, three-piece suits, holy books, large beards, people blowed up real good which we, unlike those nihilists, are deeply, deeply sorry for, colossal imperialist displays of concrete and steel, cette guerre has it all. No quarter!

"It's not a brain dump if you pull something out of the newsies."

The gallows pole for you, socialist. I for one cannot wait for the Flight 93 Memorial Supersize Play Set, available only at Wal-Mart. Just look at these features!

• President Bush with removable codpiece and kung-fu grip!
• pull the string and hear the authentic "Let's Roll®!"
• large and larger American flag decals!
  
• complete set of boxcutters!
• not for children under 4!
• made in China!
• papier-mâché Congress sold separately!
  

Gonna be a sweet Xmas chez Randal this year. Dancing days!

I'm leaving the clowning business to all the other clowns in the clowning business.

Charles, my man, I agree.

Some people are experimenting way too much with clownery.

The wheels on the noggin go round and round

I'm glad there's no such thing as hell, because if there was, it wouldn't consist of Dante's malebranche poking my ass with red hot filthy pitchforks; dipping me and my flailing limbs in boiling seas of sulfur; covering my open, festering wounds with blankets of vermin ridden with the most virulent strains of disease; nor forcing me into horizontal bopping with a leather-clad Karl Rove, but something far more mundane, an abyss devoid of visceral, horrifying, sensation; c'est-à-dire, anything resembling, painful or not, life:

I am seated on a bus, a technogizmo chock full of soaring symphonies and flesh shredding metal in my pocket, my blessed shield against external distraction, yet my headphones, out of the blue, die over and over, the feeling of disappointment cycling fresh with each passing second, the vehicle populated with the vague stench of stale cigarettes, sweat and quotidian annoyances: a whining baby, a parent whose rising voice quickly reveals they can't handle it, someone talking too loud on their cell phone, an iPod on eleven blaring crap I loathe with all of my soul as I'm unable to drown its marching wail out, an old man sporting a toupee worthy of a bad TV comedy sketch carrying on the most banal conversations with anyone who'll listen while my bones are being pressed against the windowpane by some hulking behemoth formed of nothing but wifebeater-encased muscle, potato chip flab and the putrescent odors of the armpit with a side of garlic and salami halitosis as each stop along the endless road piles in more and more fleshy nuisances to where the rusty frame of the bus has to crack lest our bodies be violently pushed through the breaking glass of windows, soon-to-be gangrenous cuts and blinding self-amputation a small price to pay for sweet, sweet freedom. But the bus only expands, coiling its rancid, suffocating grip ever tighter as more and more people get on than the bus can seemingly hold, senses overwhelmed, vexation bubbling in my gut, wishing I could vomit until the stomach is emptied, sandpaper dry heaves, delirium, blood, unconsciousness, coma, death. Rest. But I remain awake. Forever.

Oh, I bet I'd have forgotten my coffee mug, too, and the only beverage available in hell is warm Busch Light, so it's a good thing there's no way I'm ever getting off the bus, huh.

One down, three to go

"Verily, good squire, did we not fucketh their shit up?"

"Tis true, m'lord, fucketh up their shit we did."

L.A. Lakers vs. Houston: Time to dig up the bones of Charles Nelson Reilly for this edition of Match Game. The Lakers have problems with Portland who got slapped around like a Sunni stepchild in a house of Shiites by Houston who routinely gets waxed by the aforementioned squadron from Los Angeles so you know who I'm picking, sorry China our corporate overlords. Charles, since you're broke, you being a corpse and all, the next round is on me. Can you pass me that bowl of pretzels? The Fucking Lakers in five.

Denver vs. Dallas: Either the Mavericks have greater depth than even they had previously assumed, thereby making an ass of themselves (or they're some kind of weird space void) or San Antonio really is two all-world talents surrounded by steaming piles of feces. Like all good politicians, I'm playing the cop out card and saying a little bit of both. What does that mean against Denver? Too thin air + bench not as thin as Nawlins = thicker chances of victory, but I prefer the vaguely lunatic intensity of Chauncey and Co. Nuggets in seven. (Yeah, I know this series started yesterday. Even with a Dallas win, I'd still pick Denver.)

Boston vs. Orlando: Gee, these two teams sure were impressively mediocre against mediocrity, weren't they. Boston is a sieve and Orlando is a steaming bowl of noodles. Who has home court? Boston? Fine, it's like buttah. Celtics in seven "epic" games. Let me know when someone plays defense, Boston, or can score out of a half-court set, Orlando. The winner is going to get waxed by The Mighty Cavs anyway.

Cleveland vs. Atlanta: It continues, with time out for a short nap along the way. Hey, even William the Conqueror took a siesta now and then. Cavs in five.

Serendipity

Why is there a picture of Salma Hayek?
Because she played Serendipity in Dogma. Duh.

The last couple of days I've had a mild cough that makes its presence known only rarely, yet when it does, it becomes an event, for there's a quiet, yet evident, raspy quality as if my throat, without my knowledge or blessing, has been subsisting on a diet of whiskey and cigarettes. Thanks to the paranoia generated by everyone's favorite military/industrial/entertainment apparatus, I get a gleeful kick out of those slightly askew glances whenever I force out an extra exhalation snug with the sound of gravel, a visage one sees whenever there is an unfamiliar person in their midst and they don't have the requisite information to navigate the waters of interaction, for even if said person was known to be an asshole, there are certain mechanisms at one's disposal to deal with such a dubious character. But the omnipresent fear of the unknown receiving the concrete projection of an newly existing dread, fueled by print media and television and grandmotherly concern? The inherent strength found in this primordial pit of despair is amplified into something beyond paralyzing. And I smile because they're in much more of a hurry to go away.

Of course, the cosmos, unconcerned as it is with our planet of dung-producing creatures, must cast a pall over my fun, such as this morning when I was crossing Chester Ave. and caught in the corner of my eye a white blob. From a distance, it appeared to be an exceedingly large package of mozzarella but turned out to be cotton, seemingly in the form of the innards of a stuffed animal. Lo and behold, a few paces further on there was the creature, sprawled out on the rain-dampened sidewalk next to a parked car, brutally sliced open, still smiling in its striped shirt, its tail still a curly fry, a poor, defenseless pig.

See what paranoia can do?

Between this scene and that of last Saturday where I passed, on the way to catch the bus home, St. John's Cathedral where, resting on the curb in front of the entrance was a bus plastered with beautiful ladies and ample cleavage not unlike the lovely and talented Miss Hayek above, a vehicle in the employ of Christie's Cabaret, ostensibly to shuffle patrons to and from their establishment and an air or carport. The parking lights were flashing, so I wasn't sure if it was pickup or delivery of a religious experience. What I am sure of is that I wish I had had a camera in order to document all this comedy.

Deep Thoughts

If I torture a wingnut for information that I believe may save lives, am I off the hook for my hate crime? [editor's note: I am not the president of anything, nor am I the holder of any state secrets as far as I know, so I'm not sure it's okay, that's why I'm asking you, gentle reader, for your legal opinion]

P.S. Supernaut has nothing to do with anything in this post to the best of my knowledge except that it's a great fucking tune and I was jonesing for some Sabbath, so go to hell.