Doppelgangers from Outer Inner Space

Given that I'm not going to be at work for the next two days -- motherfucking hell yes praise Cthulhu with riffery, boobs and booze -- I'm having an extremely tumultuous noodle battle over posting. The half of me that wishes to put no effort into them is upset that the other half that wishes to put negative effort into them via empty electric hellfire club goateed templates currently has the upper hand and I'm no good at poker, "that's what she said," go to hell you old bastard. At least the weeds have been disinterred and the grass has been slashed and fuck I even did the goddamn laundry. Including the folding. Domesticated is sexy. C'mon ladies, back me up here.















Speaking of the weeds --

"Lemme guess. You're going to post a picture of your favorite dealer now."

Duh.











Tell me a story, Mary Louise, pretty, pretty please.

"Finish yours first, lazy dreamer."

-- the front lawn was pockmarked with these devilish little buggers that looked suspiciously like marijuana if one had just taken a long drag of marijuana. Being an enemy of the sun, whose malice is directed towards me in spades and the other three suits as well, I said to myself under the influence of a nefarious tractor beam of light, 'you're a fan of medicine,' so 1)I smoked one whereby
2)I got a monstrous migraine and then 3)projectile vomited.

Only one of those three things actually happened. Guess which one and win a year's supply of projectile vomit. Hang on, I'm involuntarily imagining that the sometimes-better-half is chastising me for something that I cannot audibly discern through the torrential scowling. Yeah, yeah, I'll be right there dear. No, not tonight dear, I have to think naughty thoughts about you-don't-know-who a headache.

No one wants the prize? Fine. You all get the prize:












That'll learn ya, smartasses.

Near beer

"Yes, we are derailing the public option, but in exchange, one lucky winner gets an all-expense paid trip to the White House for a beer with yours truly."

You're special

You're so special you could be a Presidents Day sale hawking leprosy with success. And unique. You're so unique, you could be one of those porcelain dolls on HSN that old ladies waste their "fixed income" on. My income ain't going up either, bluehair, but you don't see me buying worthless dust collectors. And exceptional. You're so exceptional, you jump rope with loopholes and never trip due to your superhero dexterity. And uncommon. You're so uncommon, the genius love children of Newton and Ptolemy are as ubiquitous and welcome as the mosquito in August, so smash them, smash them with your specially unique and uncommon exceptionalism!

This unworthy pond scum completely understands that the burden of being a special, uncommon, uniquely exceptional paragon of extraordinaryosity would keep you, enlightened and unparalleled guru of singularity, from brushing your fucking teeth.

But as for the rest of you?

Second fellow public transportationista? Brush your fucking teeth.

Old patron? Brush your fucking teeth you should know better.

Young patron? Brush your fucking teeth and get off my lawn.

Seriously, there's gotta be some TARP scratch left over to buy 300 million toothbrushes and tubes of Crest to curb this ever-widening tide of plaque and halitosis that will surely kill us all before the zombie apocalypse even has a chance of biting into one measly skull. That would be extraordinary. Perhaps, in time, even special.

Goldman Sachs just ate the rest?

Fine. Enjoy your new smile, smelly fuck.













If you need me, I'll be vomiting in the corner.

Spatial relationship*

When winter's heart is speared, hours are spared
to carry pastel skin far, and I, far,
only to depart. Fallow limbs follow
yearning's gravity, sink in porphyry.

Slender bloom gifts that noble radiance,
disappearing before touching my lips.
I am left to taste most prosperous chains;
stasis bursts forth heretical distance.

Imprisoned image on occulted walls
comes and goes through prophesied ports and roads
whose provenance I dream. Far, far away
you seem; outremer veiled, vanishing.

For the love of conviction, joy appears
near, by exegesis of what you see,
say. Speak with delight, undress charms between
until I awake for the thousandth time.

Under plague's watchful gaze, heat befalls me
only to curse once, twice. Only to be
traveling far, far past pen, ink, be drunk,
be stricken by blushing, blustery rose.

All law crumbles but that which makes brittle
the great harper's lament. Wailing stones fall,
torn by gardens planted with your blessing,
ancient as palatial song, blissful sleep.

Covetous of unmapped harmonies, depths,
I strive for the far, far side of glass. You,
ab astra, compass across divisions,
declare that our repentance melt away.

*a stripped-apart, translated, mutated and poorly reassembled Lanquand li jorn son lonc en mai by Jaufré Rudel (fl. 12th c.).

Bedtime stories

No, there's nothing sexual about this post despite me remaining ever sexy in that 'get away from me you creep' kind of way, though, as is my wont, there might be a photo of a scantily-clad lady in good time if I'm not too lazy to use The Google.

"The title is misleading. It's not the evening, dumbass."

Then pretend the bedtime story is a soap opera.

"But your life is boring."














Why must you be so -- so -- cruel?

Am I the only one that hears the cheesy organ? Probably tinnitus from decades of HEAVY FUCKING METAL SATAN BLEAAAAAARRRRRRGGGHHH.

Speaking of instruments with keys, cruelty might be giving this slice of Alkan to some unsuspecting yokel at their first lesson:








Looks as coherent and legible as the shit I pen when I'm drunk. Of course, mine remains waste whereas, in the hands of a master, the above rightfully earns accolades such as 'fucking hell, that's good."



Hussein X is in town today, ostensibly to sell Dr. Obama's Universal Tincture -- my advice: a top hat, twirly moustache, bikini babes and fire-breathing midgets -- but thankfully he's on the east side of Thieveland so the motorcade of sunglassed earpieces won't fuck up this afternoon's Tales From the Wheelie Bus. En plus, a Dum circus is never as entertaining as a wingnut one.

"Maybe Vader's kid will show up, leading a moran of birthers."

A man can dream, brain, a man can dream.

"You promised scantily-clad ladies."


















Here's a shot from a recent blood sacrifice. What, you thought I was relying on my charm to achieve world nation household domination? I tried that, and ended up at the library, which speaks voluminously.

The Getaway

When you're on your third start/stop post march of the day, 'tis better to cut your losses, stroll off into the sunset and gain anywhere but here. Thus, some getaway music I dig.

Beedeebeedeebeedeebeedeebee

The above was a haphazard attempt at phonetically spelling out the sound you make when flipping your index finger over your flapper in an aural demonstration of the currently numb state of the psyche, not an imitation of the robot from Buck Rogers.














"WhatchutalkinboutRandal?"

Imtalkinboutnopostmotherfucker but fits and starts of alternating bouts of ink and blank parries; DVD fishing; and pen-stabbing-paper flurries thankfully not all the way through into my leg, being the water boiling my noodle. I'm sure a bunch of other crap happened in the world but I just can't seem to care: the Indians remain submerged below Ted Williams circa 1941, the prospects of Healthcare By The Man® will continue to be watered down by billions of Tricky Dick Funbills used as bedding by Congressional closet pervs and thinned you know it will be like pre-Rogaine pasty midlife crisis-ticians don't be a doofus and Choose Your Own Adventure By The Google.

Oh, and kudos to California for trying really hard to fall into the sea without the crutch of a mamby pamby überquake.

You know, I enjoyed doing nothing for two days but avoiding my wife and kids writing and excising and wracking my brain for that one more or one less syllable to slip in, or over, a line even though I suck, but I don't have title, land, pantaloons or barrels of guineas to fund shoving food and drink down my gullet or undertake a Grand Tour through Kentucky, Tennessee and Arkansas. Anyone wanna send me some scratch? You'd only spend it on booze then hookers then Jesus, anyway.













Yeah, I hate coming back to work, too, but at least now I've got something to think about.

What the fucking fuck is this fuckery, you fucks?

Finally. Overcast, rainy, unseasonably cool (vers 55° when I left for work this morning), Mortuus' De contemplanda morte -- get cracking on the next full-length you lazy bums -- a cavernous, slow-burn maelstrom of insidious blackened misery, so appropriate for this unexpected yet wholly welcome meteorological event, rattling my ever-weakening eardrums, guiding me happily towards contemplating contemplation in a deathly morbid kind of way, layering even more appropriate-isms given my inappropriate foray into narrating blank verse myth, of which I can't even contemplate creating Wordsworthian length.

"Or quality."

Listen, he didn't have the sparkly allure of online pornography derailing his calling. Nature, au natural, same thing.

"Typical. Blame naked ladies for your shortcomings."

Chuckle. Anyway, but lo, behold the hark of the internets newsies:












Oh, that kind of fuckery.

"I was wondering when you were getting to the punchline."

Now that's deathly and morbid.

What rough beast dare transcend such limitations?















You're on your own!

What the fuck. Your pop smote a whole fuckload of goatherders on a daily basis. What's a few Fox executives, huh? Even their kids won't miss them. What do you think trust funds are for?

Just close your eyes and pretend that they're gay, potsmoking illegal aliens on the way to the annual Congressional Black Caucus abortion party. It'll be our little secret. Cronkite's dead, so relax.

Naughty naughty

Just one of the periodicals I process for maximum readability. Alas, they've altered the print version so the above message of love no longer appears on the cover, but I for one am glad to see that they still appeal to the internets perv. Kudos, BJ.

THIS? THIS IS A VENDING MACHINE.

YOU PUT YOUR MONEY IN AND PRESS THE BUTTONS THAT CORRESPOND TO THE PRODUCT YOU WANT THEN STICK YOUR HAND IN THE SLOT WHEREBY IT GETS BITTEN OFF LEAVING YOU TO BLEED TO DEATH ON THE CARPET AS I STAND MAJESTICALLY ABOVE LAUGHING BECAUSE I NEVER TOLD YOU IT WAS A MONSTER VENDING MACHINE HA HA HA.

Hump(ty) Dump(ty)

Clever, huh. Though not too clever, I suppose, given that nothing worthy of public consumption fell out. You can peruse my scintillating memoirs after they're posthumously published.

In the meantime, take a gander at this discreetly-filmed and politically explosive footage from yesterday's Judiciary Committee hearing. Not for children under 18.











"Oh, yeah, that's it baby, work it."













"That's right, Orrin, not a single shot of little boys."
"Someone better break the news to poor Lindsey."













"No, you can't borrow my camera, asshole."

Life is like a box of angry

No, I'm not all that angry, relatively speaking, though I am back to work after a generally quiet weekend -- thank you, Redneck Neighbor, for doing your beerdrinkin' n' hellraisin' at the weekly Cracker Twelve Step, thereby permitting me to do gay homersexual commie pinko stuff like writing poetry and italicizing half the text in peace. I simply thought this was a cool pic. C'mon, like you all don't miss Unka Dick a wee bit, you fucking liars.

Speaking of fucking liars, I was one when I lied to myself last night as I lied down in my bed, lying awake, dreaming of naked

REDACTED

Marge

my wife, that I was on the right track with the latest offline versification campaign. Alas, no. Maybe. I am, after all, a noted liar, but my pants remain inferno free. No, that's not a Freudian slip, they're actually not on fire, but the drawing board is.

"Which you're holding."

Ouch!











What's frustrating, beyond stinking, charred flesh, is how physically draining writing and/or composing is-ing as you're finding through reeling and teetering hours that you're not capturing yet again-ing the feeling flowing out, an invisible bloodletting, bloody hell it's tiring, resulting in naught but this stultifying lining. Too much melodrama? Fuck off, hipster detachment farmers.

Oh well, I have earned this divine punishment for not spending my time with the important matters of the age like protesting episode #763A of Something Vile That Will Remain Vile And In Power Until The End Of Time® or watching one set of honkey yokels Freudian slip their way through the Sotomayor hearing -- that's a fiction-worthy last name, no? I am Sotomayor. You killed my father. Prepare to die -- while another set of honkey yokels computerizes about just how yokel the first pair of Goldman sacks were. Sorry, Freud, but they don't have the biggest balls of them all, shitass motherfucker.



Watch out for the crayfish. They look angry.

I apologize in advance for the lameness of the following post (not really)

I'm here to plug *clap* you up.

Jabbering Wacky

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did something or other, I guess.
Tweedledee, Tweedledum, my brain
is awful mum, and awful, yes.

"Beware! Blocks writing epitaphs,
biting, clawing, 'tis quite bullish!
Bandersnatch! Run, snitch, 'fore it lops
your noodle into fancy dish!"

Jus' put that vorpal blade away,
gladly I'll serve me on a plate
here to catch the putrid runoff,
tulgy bits of, oh, wretched state.

Boiling thought bubbled in trouble,
for the Jabbering Wacky came
with an eye of schadenfreude,
at bumbling, fumbling prose so tame!

One, two! Buckle my shoe! Three, four,
lopped his head and grabbed a quick snack.
'Tis dead? Oh, too tired to check,
and I've really got to get back.

"The Jabbering Wacky's shit is
right and truly fucked up? Let's drink!
A glass, a bottle, a case, more!
Get sick; 'tis toilet or the sink!"

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did something or other, I guess.
Tweedledee, Tweedledum, my brain
is awful mum, and awful, yes.

Tales From the Wheelie Bus and Other Assorted Indifference Songs

As always, we thank you old man electrified scooting machine driver and public transportationista regular for your maddeningly beautiful toupee that's so classically faux there's no need for a neon sign screaming TOUPEE LIVE NUDE GIRLS XXX but we must also thank the stranger who we may never see again for his maddeningly beautiful toupee and for the two midlife crisis gentlemen who got on at distinctly different stops for sprouting archetypal porn moustaches that would make John Holmes blush and for the lady sporting a lemon yellow and vomit green top that given its overt sheen could only be polyester for gifting to your fellow passengers our very own That 70s Show but next time bring Laura Prepon and Mila Kunis merci.


















Et merci to scienticians who have developed an anti-aging pill from Easter Island gunk. Sure, if I get to live forever I might finally compose some quality verse, but with the side effect of my head becoming a giant rock, is it really worth it?

















Et merci to Danny Boy and Sideshow Bob for curing your previous bout with yokelry and collecting autographs in July instead of October. 7+ million should be enough, even with your vast debit of hair care purchases.


















Et merci to The King for proving that even the greatest player on planet earth can be a fan of paranoid national security douchebaggery. Even us nonathletic sub-six foot white guys get dunked on. Happens to the best of us, pal.













Et merci to another King, Steve -- no, not that one, that one-- for your truly inspirational act. In order to safeguard my Innsmouth heritage, I'm voting no in the future. Try and chisel references to the Old Ones now, filthy hippies. Well, off to erect a plaque to onion rings.











One last thing, I hope none of you are still wishing you could be an Oscar Mayer wiener because they had to do something with his corpse, although I suppose not even the discerning gourmand could tell the difference.

Moscow Tea Party

Everyone knows Putin prefers two lumps and now, so does Obama.

Broken world

Go on, capitalist proprietors,
go on and shatter my precious worldview
with merchandising clatter battering
this disturbed noodle with cold cuts of doom!

COOKE HAM is now -- COOKED HAM? No! No! No! No!
Forgive cheating verse, but this proves a terse
warning: no, not pretzeldential dung of
Palin/Queztlcoatl 2012,

Mac the Knife's napalm dreams lining hell's shelf,
Jacko's corpse rotting in the LA sun;
no, none of that grisly fun -- something worse,
far, far worse than such a devilish curse.

Conjure six billion hearses, still too few!
Origin of that quick change, businessman,
I know all too well -- as should you! The return
of the Old Ones (at least not Cheney, whew)!

Let them cover up hidden agendas
of the planet's end, their holy grail.
These horrors need help now! Why? I'm sorry,
but Cthulhu is too big to fail.

Easy, like Sunday morning

As usual -- officially measured at 76% of the time by the American Statistical Association -- I've got nothing. That other 24%? Merely the illusory ramblings of a brain-dead cracker. Upon realizing this realization, I realized that I had to decide to steal a bit from Splotchy, but instead of offering a 60-second doodle of the first commenter's suggestion, I would offer instead to wax stupid poetic on the first commenter's topic of choice. Then I remembered that we're closed tomorrow and Saturday so I wouldn't get to it until Tuesday at the earliest, then I decided that that's a stupid reason financially speaking in these difficult financial times and I further decided -- who's the real Decider, italics, motherfucker -- to steal from the WaPo.

$25k to create a post advancing YOUR personal agenda!

Take advantage of my vast resources!

Nearly a dozen readers daily!

No personal checks! Canned goods are fine! No creamed corn!

When you're off patriotically blowing stuff up, make sure your fingers aren't part of the carnage. I can't keep the internets pointless all by myself.


















Dammit, Canucklehead Day was yesterday.













Hmmm, Captain America doesn't look too happy. Oh well, if I get patriotically blowed up, it's been nice knowing you. Fight Whitey.

Feeling Merovingian

You know, long haired, grimy, ready to lop someone's head off.

Show 'em what I mean, granny.


















"Go on, privatize my Social Security, motherfuckers."

Don't forget government cheese. Mmm, government cheese. My grandpa, before he succumbed to smokes and booze, used to get monthly deliveries of those vaguely daffodil-hued bricks, part of his WW2 Pacific theatre anti-sub pension one presumes.















I can't recall my grandpa ever saying 'motherfucker.' Said goddamn a lot, though. And I mean a lot. A cigarette, a can of Goebel(!) and a goddamn was the omnipresent three-course when my sister and I came to visit. We got the processed milk product which actually wasn't that bad, made a decent grilled cheese sandwich. No, I'm not going to paint -- oops, Microsoft Paint® -- up more moldy bread, even though it seems my brain is currently suffering the debilitating effects of such a deviously pervasive colony of spores, after having first been run through a toxic maze of slime, vomit and machine gun abominations, all without the benefit of a roll of string.

I hope the ever-present minotaur doesn't eat my skull -- what a fine bit of English language that is, skull, a syllable of ultimately unknown but decidedly foreign origin, unless the OED was written by a bunch of liars, deceiving us ignorant fools with an initially soft sound before aurally cracking hard and fierce with a whiff of the esoteric, skull, sssskull, SKULL! -- because, speaking to the vast army of my fellow headbanger types out there -- Tom -- here's some new Alice In Chains, a sinewy, overcast monolith that's slowly growing on me like a deviously pervasive colony of spores, just the way it should be motherfuckers; the new dude ain't the eerie Layne, but who is, his rotting corpse notwithstanding?


















A query, ladies and gents: who would win in a fight, Zombie Layne or Zombie Reagan?

"Those are zombie babes."

Those are Zombie Layne and Zombie Reagan, brain.

"Oh, really?"

Yes, really.















"Those are Zombie Layne and Zombie Reagan."

That's what I said. And sure, the former bag o' bones will be dehydrated and lethargic from all that smack, but I figure if he can successfully fend off the latter's perverse pincer assault of strips of decomposing flesh screaming in the melodramatic breeze and volleys of gooey, Brylcreemed clumps of hair -- which he should, in theory, be able to do since the Saint was on the wrong side of 90 when he signed up with the They Always Die In Three! fanclub -- he can stab the former pretzeldent in the marrow with one of the needles strapped around his waste like an old school heavy metal bullet belt.

And as long as Zombie Billy Mays has a ready supply of Orange Glow and Kaboom! to sell, I say let the blood flow, the putrescent flesh quiver and may the best dead, deceased corpse win.