Thursday, May 3, 2012

Snoopy dancing with myself, or, double-barreled refusal


















Metaphor, or something.

Dumping the contents of my spent noodle in the Colander of the Technocrats that doubles as a helmet +1 vs. edged attacks, I find that 94% of my posts are about me, myself, I, & things that these three separate beings & their affiliated homies both flesh & electric hopefully find Pee-Wee's Big Adventure hilarious --
















I'm trying to use the phone but I don't get no respect zipzop bopzittybop.*

-- & that 99% of my offline writing (thus, inversely, synaptic warp & weft, too) is the same save that last gig because only about 23% gets interpreted by rods & cones bobbing in other skulls since I maybe fear awkward more than death [ed. note: not really, but being a perpetual optimist, I assume that I'll die when the Wheelie Bus flies off the Detroit-Superior bridge due to an explosion caused by a transit cop firing his grenade launcher wildly at a fare jumper & not whilst in a federal torture chamber or slowly torn to shreds by a basement Necronomicon experiment gone horribly wrong is there any other kind].

Being selfish -- & oh, I am, ask those who know -- this isn't a problem. Being wise -- & oh, I am, for I know that I know nothing about everything except that plus ça transmogrifie [ed.note: I just added a verb to French, go me] -- this is. The need to spill in order to start the change [ed. note: not that shit, fuck that shit, you know the shit I mean] & the aftermath are, well, cue the music already.



Even when I'm being serious, I resort to this blessing, this curse.

The pinball rattle is more complex than what's shown here [ed. note: how to avoid tough rooms: it takes two to lie; one to lie, & that same one to listen, & oh yeah that cold cut tray is all yours], more than a simple aesthetic desire to avoid uninformed artistic commentary &/or factual discourse on either the Satanic puppet army of late capitalism or any other exterior arctic molasses death spiral because 1)I'm kind of dumb & 2)yawn, so I choose to hermetically seal inside a combustible Erlenmeyer flask of cavernous low maintenance ECHO ECHO ECHO Echo echo, white noise routine, & the desire to shout until inky exhortation becomes the mimesis of a flamethrower-throated blues but that would mean guts everywhere & they're real messy & I'm too lazy to clean that up & I don't have any booze to soothe shredded cords fingers. At least some things never change chords, & I'm the poster boy for the reason(s) why. Told you I'm wise.

♪ Belly button
you're the one
you make complaining about slack, acceptance & the lack thereof lots of fun ♫

That's not very catchy. Storm of the Yeti, we hardly knew ye.

♪ wizard van
wizard van
haulin' ursanity
protoplasmic Jesus
Scythian axe in the back
next to the munchies
in the wizard van
wizard van
wizard van
yeah ♫

*there's your 80s nostalgia follow-up, tom. You're welcome.

14 comments:

ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

I know the ladies don't dig it as much, but I still say Kirk vs. the Gorn is better.
~

Randal Graves said...

For some, the hills are indeed alive with the sound of Gorn.

S.W. Anderson said...

Randal, don't ask why because it's beyond my powers of explanation, but reading this post brought to mind how much you might benefit from a commodious place to dine, crowd-watch and get centered. Alas, Horn & Hardart Automats are no longer in business. If I can find a reasonable facsimile, I'll let you know.

Jim H. said...

How dare you enjoy complaining about the Slack:
http://www.subgenius.com/ts/hos.html
or is it: http://www.subgenius.com/ts/hos.html

On your knees mofo. Beg for forgiveness from Bob. Worship the Subgenius.

Prunella Vulgaris said...

Jim,
As the Reverend Stang is a denizen of our fair city, it's always a bit surreal to hear that voice in real life when I'm at radio station meetings and he and his wife are sitting at the next table. Slack, indeed, is its own religion in Fair Clevelandia.

Randal,
Blogs are by nature all about me myself and I unless they're not. And you just got De La Soul stuck in my head, which is better than some things.

Also, the Wizard Van Song needs some references to Deep Purple and Outer Space.

BDR said...

Serendipity is awesome.

Beach Bum said...

...a transit cop firing his grenade launcher wildly at a fare jumper...



Cops do love all their neat new toys given to them by Homeland Security. Some town down here in Redneckistan got an armored personnel carrier.

Randal Graves said...

SWA, only a one-hour Fotomat, an oasis in a sea of yellowing asphalt, can help me now.

jim, I know Bob, I've worked with Bob, and he, sir, is no General Zod.

duchess, the blog's merely a convenient magnifying glass through which I can set ants alight. And don't worry, that's only the first verse, needs work.

BDR, when you gaze long into the navel, the navel gazes back into you.

BB, a cop in my sordid little burg asked a flying death robot manufacturer if indeed grenades (and/or shotguns) are an option.

Jim H. said...

Ha- ha- hallelujah! Have you touched his robe?

From the SLAQS:

">What exactly is this substance called slack?

What gets you cash, sex and happiness -- or at least, REASONABLY GOOD
SIMULACRA of them. That's a lie, too.

"Fuck 'Em If They Tell The Same Joke Over and Over Again With Minor
Variations That Rarely Make It Funnier And Frequently Just Make
It Quite Frankly Tedious" -- D.R. "Job" Bodds."

Randal Graves said...

Shit, man, thanks a lot for pointing out that this pony knows one trick and one trick only. I get the last brownie! Harrumph!

Demeur said...

If I didn't know better I'd say Chucky drilled a hole in the back of his head and the gray matter oozed out. Fear not he'll just scoop it up and return it to its' proper receptacle. What better things has he got to do today?

susan said...

I know you are but what am I?

S.W. Anderson said...

Asphalt yellows where you are? Clevelandistan must have beyond-extreme air pollution — or some very spaced out stripe painters. :)

Randal Graves said...

demeur, didn't he die in the last flick due to Warwick Davis' leprechaun dropping an Acme Pot O' Gold on his plastic head?

susan, no, I'm not, you are. And where's my bicycle?

SWA, hmm, not yellow per se, more like a vaguely grey-goldenrod with a splash of black. It's kind of pretty in a weird way if it's real hot or you're stoned.