Flashsmith

I apologize for the Spectacular Crap that is this post's title, as more often than not, it's far more clever (which admittedly isn't saying much) than the body of work you masochists stop by to read. AnywaySSSSS, using this fine cache of lexemes, I present to you the companion piece in verse form, also worthy of the appellation Spectacular Crap. There's a story in there somewhere, trust me.

Don't panic, catalept;
stuff catastrophes in your pocket,
you'll move soon. Delusion's only
picketing that & it. What?
No hypomania this manic grandeur,
you disconnect from all but whom.
To who, to whom, she's never in the room.
Oh, but she is, look: a book, organic fruit &
discarded stops & starts. Those letters never sent?
Those bibelots, penned in obscurant penmanship,
unshipped, composed on a futon, so futile.
But there she lives. Where? There & here.
You wish.
I did.
I tried, I tried, circulating beautiful fakes.
What of unseemly veracity? You let me stabilize &
look what that got me: a non-
corrosive letdown, a dance around
four on the floor; guessed that was in store
but I deserved oh so much more.

Tick tock

More joyful music, you say?
For sure, I say.
Why? Blogging à la mode, c'est le way.
Franglish, don't scoff, 'tis no roll in the hay.
Bit by puritan work ethic insect;
poesy magazine measuring
could use such a rocking interject
you clock-beats-takes-one-too bastards.
This intricate curdling weighs, oh,
five hundred tons gabba gabba hey
(least the pen's bleeding, whee)
thus, more jubilant music, I say.

Cali-phat

Oh. Your. God. Look at the way a young Hetfield is hunched over the mic.

Bet you suddenly feel like blowing something up in the name of Allah, too.

Spare me your tired accusations of illicit drug use, for you know exactly what I'm talking about, and more important, know my observation to be true. Doubt such subliminal chicanery? Check this out, nonbelievers:


















And let's not forget this chap:


















Nor the band's secret homage to Islam's holiest site:


















One of the most egregious offenders:

















I count at least ten crescents!

But nothing is more diabolical than using our unhealthy fascination with pornography against us:

















This proves it: rock and roll has been co-opted by those within appeasement-minded Western governments and their corporate puppetmasters as a cheap, effective gateway to radical Islam.

ترقد في سلام, Cliff Burton!

He who dies with the moat, toys wins

The fact that there's going to be a moat stoically guarding the new American embassy in London isn't comical -- oceans didn't protect us from radical Islamic shadow caliphates, rampaging vikings, job-stealing Mexicans and fire-breathing dragons, what makes you think a thin ring of water will do the trick? -- but this is:

The new embassy, on a former industrial site behind Battersea power station known for its gay clubs, will be designed by Kieran Timberlake, the Philadelphia architect.

At least we know why Lindsey Graham will be the next to quit the Senate.

Two-bit carnie act

Sweet corn dog, I had the weirdest, most hallucinatory dream that I've had in many an age last night, perhaps spanning the entire recorded history of the Land of Nod over the last week. You were there, and you were there and you were there and so was a transmogrified Dirk Benedict











before he got blown up by a Predator drone guffaw chortle wheeze but thankfully you all escaped unscathed thanks to your Afghan wedding party shields being up, Captain, and then Y happened nearly simultaneously -- in more than four dimensions!

Behold ye scoffers, our limited biology be damned, for it felt not quite right as if the cotton candy you were chewing on was composed of sawdust and string theory runoff, and then it got really crazy when MX+Plan B -- yes, B -- oh, and then this parabola made of sighs tied with guitar string came screaming out of thin air, crashing upon the road paved with nougat and bits of said exploded mad scientist experiment and try driving over that when your tires are made of a patented marshmallow and human entrails mixture akin to drying cement, only more gooey. Denouement and advice: I wouldn't recommend haruspicy and driving because I also had to avoid an AK-47-wielding Philip Glass skipping across the yellow line and you lunatics flipping me the bird because I wouldn't give you a ride to McDonald's. Talk to the John Yoo. No babes in hot pants though, which sucked.

Or maybe I made that up and it was all babes in hot pants.

Guess you'll never know.

Hmm, I haven't written about the thrill of politics in a while.

Here ya go:


















I'm sorry, I didn't mean to angry up anyone's blood.

Yahooiana, yahooery, yahooism, yahooish, get your yahoos out, yahoo.

Dearest Yahoo fantasy league fellows,

Please cease and desist offering your desiccated pieces-parts and names flush with nothing but past glories for a package of Tim Duncan and Kevin Durant. It only proves my suspicions, that you are either stupid or a fool -- or, more disconcerting, suffer from a debilitating physical and/or psychological addiction to a Schedule I controlled substance. Seek clinical assistance immediately.

All the best,

Randal














Since our fearless leader is purposely lost in places unknown, no doubt sampling the local fare as he drinks in daytime teevee, there will be no sexy flashing this week for though Maine's favorite son has volunteered his services, I fear he remains stuck doing his impression of Tool Time.

Thus, let me take this golden ticket to address something that has churned and turned its gears within my brain, for I too have suffered from burnout and/or dreaming about global thermonuclear war's comical aftermath and/or gleefully decimating times ten an entire battalion of elected officials.

Us penmanshippers need to buck up. Instead of going for the tried-and-true seppuku when we're in a rage against machinery, we should learn to take it out, not on ourselves, but on others. That's what cubicle jockeys and governments do, right? If they, of all entities, can get away with it, why not us? Hell, I never signed the Rome Statute. Did you?

Now, everyone stand still. My eyesight's bad.

Oh alright, we'll save the not-entirely-random act of sensible violence for later. I'll cautiously admit, I'm a bit of a sap, so shall we close today's coagulation of encephalitic fluids with a confectionery verse?

Think that I shall never see
An internets lovely as a tree?
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against some hottie's heaving breast --
It's only a screen. Hey, 'tis HD --
A tree that looks at porn all day,
And lifts his tired arms to say:
Where's my fucking coffee, bub?
Don't make me drown you in the tub.
This is a library, dumbass. No one blogs for free: gas, grass or
Poems, made by fools like me,
But only Monsanto can genetically alter a tree.

If you stand far away and squint, this post looks like an oil puddle.

Don't call it a comeback

Yes, I had imaginary liaisons with multiple ladies. I regret that this happened and am looking towards a future being miserable. No further comment.

Je suis heureux

No, I'm not on any pharmaceuticals but I might be if this guy











helps us garner this Cthulhuforsaken burg's first championship in anything worth a damn since nineteen sixty-fucking-four. You lied, meteorological gestapo, it's February, so where's my cloud cover? The downside to such victorious basketballery that I had no hand in: I might have to rethink the automatic writing of 'filthy with lucre = scorn receptacle.'

As for scorn that I deserve as a woefully compensated library employee , be thankful, smiters of sport, for if there had been no trade of precious gladiatorial assets, you would all be saddled with riffery.

Under my thumb
The town who once had me down
Under my thumb
The teams who once pushed me around



Oops, wrong song. It was either that or original verse. Giddyup.

I've got the runnin' on empty 'til saved by spam blues

No time to chitchat. Why?



Sweep the blog, Johnny!

Groan and such, but I already scoured YouTube, failing to find a video of that gig where you flip your finger over your flapping gums and make that idiotic child noise. Does anyone remember those yellow sticks from the early Reagans that would force out a sound akin to a dying furry animal filtered through mid-70s production tricks whenever you flipped it up and down?

"No, but this'll do, won't it?"



Close enough.

Flasher XXI the Great

Λυπάμαι in taking this go-anywhere sentence and going nowhere coherent with it, but hey, all that Sabbathy weed smoke messes something fierce with a man's rhubarb.

In matters of life and death, one could not forever rely on the judgment of his fellow man. Which is why Theodosius always consults not the bishop of Milan nor the author of the Vulgate nor the acid-tongued demagogue, but his trusty Magic 8-ball that was unearthed in a ceremony of eloquent surprise and electric -- oh, forget I said that -- shock one fine Anno Domini day out of what his court physician termed a αντίστροφη κάψουλα του χρόνου. We've secretly replaced his Magic 8-ball with a Magic Cheney-ball. Let's see if he notices.

Shall I fiercely campaign against Eugenius?
Better not tell you now.

Shall I ban sacrifice?
Without a doubt.

Shall I have my lackeys tear down the Serapeum?
You may rely on it.

Shall I extinguish the eternal fire?
Ask again later.

Shall I take the Vestal Virgins and devestalize them?
Outlook not so good.

Shall Homer feel like St. Augustine of Hippo after his conversion by Ambrose of Milan?
It is decidedly so.

Shall he shut Flanders' ugly face?
Concentrate and ask again.

Shall I force conversion of the heathen unto Prestidigitarianism?
My sources say no.

Shall you explain what is this heresy?
Go fuck yourself.

Locked in vehement rage, Theodosius smashes the Magic Cheney-ball and finds that the best part of waking up, is mandrake in your cup, not smarmy, deceptive trinkets from the future.

Lordy, lordy, look who's (almost) forty.

On Friday, February 13th, 1970, heavy metal was born kicking and screaming and ready to claw your miserable flesh off your worthless skull.



Go on, find a better statement of intent. Oh that's right, you can't, you filthy hippie dippie glass half full optimist jerkoffs.













Now that la présentation orale est terminée and I've dropped off that awful manuscript, time to kick back, drink some beers, smoke some weed and listen to some Black Fucking Sabbath.

Olaf, metal!

Time-Life Mysteries of the Unknown

"The weed of crime bears bitter fruit, you old hag! Crime does not pay except when it does, which is quite often if you have well-placed connections or a lifetime supply of arsenic that you can pin on little old ladies because what self-respecting underworld mastermind is going to use arsenic and everyone knows what little old lace is capable of! The Shadow knows something but he's not telling!"
















"Burp!"












"Do you need a pepperoni pizza chaser?
Does neurochemistry seem worthwhile to you?
Does Prestidigitarianism have quite an effect on you?
Do you recognize the mysteries tipping your fingers if you give me some of your money I'm very hungry today I'd like a burger and some onion rings?"

Nobody's home

Randal's not home in this version.
No, he's not speaking in the third person;
you have reached his answering machine.
After scrubby dubby nice n' clean,
encephalitic noodlery ensued:
read his Frenchie presentation and booed,
the same for poesie script and chewed
on the fat that was self-inflicted destructive criticism, due soon.
So for today, no Prestidigitarianism --
what? 'tis my new religion. Come join, start tithing. Beep.

Oscar-worthy

"Please don't tell the Ayatollah I love Avatar of the Great Satan."

The Big Book of British Flashes

Alright, England, you win -- this time, muahahahaha, etc.

His life would have been a lot simpler if he'd just said no. Trois morceaux then the F minor waltz, ten mazurkas, vingt quatre préludes, promptly two impromptus, then two more. The notes and staves quickly transformed into swarming gnats and a bug-catcher's net, as familiar as impossibly late rent checks and an impeccably clean-shaven face to this entomologist seated before les noirs et les blancs bearing an expression that would make Walter Mitty blush. But who was he to argue with the half-mad Russian constantly appearing in his daydreams as if speaking directly to him from the other side? Wait, he thought, Hrabosky was the Mad Hungarian, though both did share an affinity for unorthodox soup strainers. Taking a short breath, he regained his bearings.

More than once the entomologist tried to stop these préludes presaging sonatas and poèmes, both tragique and satanique, but a cataract of acetylcholine always flowed, harmonic divinity soon leading to chromatic ecstasy and a lucky call to 911 by the old man in the apartment above who, despite his advancing age, managed to pluck out a plea for help amidst the eerily triumphant buzz, barely saving the amateur pianist after his heart had stopped midst the tumescent din.

"You should slow down, my ssssszzzzz."

"You were lucky thissssszzzzzz."

"Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

Despite cold, clinical warnings from the paramedics and a warm, hearty one from the old man that soon flitted away as apis mellifera does when finished arranging its floral visitation, he immediately went back to work, plunging deep within the profundity of Theosophical chords, searching for some Promethean pleroma, a state beyond the humming freshet of passing cars; the clop of soles on weary planks; the din of garbled, pointless transactions, always, always vers la flamme.

Voiced dissonance circled upon itself with haste, eating masses white and black, devouring any tonal or atonal notions, biting off screaming phalanges for the insects trés lent, contemplatif, to pick clean.

The inhuman wailing permeated the apartment complex, diffused shouts of 'murder! murder!' peeling the greasy wallpaper. The old man banged on the locked door, as much as his meager strength would permit.

"They come, hang on little bit more, please!"

When the police arrived after what had felt to be hours, they barged through the deafened crowd to batter down the portal, shocked to find the man softly lingering over a pastoral, welcoming F major. Sternly caterwauling a harsh warning to keep the noise to a small roar or face arrest, they exited, leaving the man at his piano, gently playing, a smile painted below the exaggerated twirls of an elongated moustache that undulated as his head bobbed up and down in joy.

Superball

The Bill Polians vs. The Dancing Toms: Rooting interest aside, on paper, which is where games are played unless you're firing up a copy of Madden, this is one fucking close matchup. Which means, given the statistical disparity of, say, last year, we'll probably have a rout one way or the other, possibly, it may seem to be, coming down to the deft over and/or underuse of, indubitably, commas, that most magical, some say, of punctuational markings. Oh, the game, I suppose, Colts, thirty-one, to, twenty, oh, seven, I guess.

Comma comma comma comma comma chameleon
You come, and go, you come, and, go,


















Hey, you two, you're fucking everything, um, up.

Does anyone remember orthography?

Why do you think we had a revolution?

A certain furriner (oh, did you all forget that America Land of the Consumer and Home of the Bedwetter owns the internets, too?*) penned typed this acid diatribe yesterday:

If you can write 500 or 1000 words on your blogs telling readers that you can't do this and you can't do that, surely you can turn those words into your ideas.

Okay, smart guy, you're on.















USA 2, British Isles 0, 3-0 if you count this.




















We're number one! (in debt. Wars ain't cheap.)

*technically, China probably does, but why quibble over details

[Crappy Blog® post template 2.0]

[Roll 2d6, as if playing Monopoly. No, I won't sell Pointless Avenue.]

2. Olaf, metal!

3. Super duper extra deathy spooky evil Satanic metal bleorg!

4. Music played with sheep guts

5. Doggerel

6. Plotless chunks of scattershot verbiage

7. Fun with captions

8. Yelling obscenities at passers-by who can't hear

"That's not a post."

Fuck off.

9. Beat head against monitor until bleeding, then ask the tech folks for a new keyboard, explaining that that's only melted crayon because it's so gooey

10. Scour Wikipedia

11. Drunk post

12. reroll

The Comicman Cometh

I've decided to display this strip at the front desk for the high school tour coming through this afternoon:









I never thought I'd thank the rag of this one-newspaper town, but they saved you all from reading about a Tales From the Wheelie Bus spearheaded by too much perfume, too much cologne, too many cigarettes and a token or three of weed, the combination of which would have made an more-than-adequate backup weapon within the Ypres Salient, all with a lovely, overheard conversational denouement featuring the evils of gaydom, 144k in rapturous witnessing and Jeebus spewed forth from unwashed masses sans connection to any money and/or national influence.

Good luck with that whole future gig, America.

Read this brand new interview with Bill Watterson, then get outta here.