Clap your hands say fuck yeah that's over

Sitting on the can early [read: early] Friday morning feverishly watching the brine bubble up out of pore after pore, my body's tubing behaving as if I had just downed a fifth and a box of prunes, c'est-à-dire, the Compleat St. Patrick's Day, but without all that pesky socialization.

To celebrate my victory, some select pieces of delicious ear candy. To celebrate yours, that I didn't go into even more detail, feel free to suggest others.

365 364 more days of the same old crap

"Are you open on Saturday?"
"Nope!"

It's the little things. And it's the big things that counter them through a sledgehammer attack so surreptitious that you don't realize until after the fact that you've spent gobs of Time Oodles picking up powdered shards and put them back together, malformed like a post-Krazy Glue Humpty. Dance? Not even in the Burger King bathroom. Any further cusp-of-grunge requests? No?

Aw yiss.

Plus I've got that shiny new abstract bauble to distract for awhile.

The new year's already an improvement, though the day is young(ish).

They sent the same fucking card last year

'Twas the night before staycation, when all through the books
Not a patron was stirring, not even that crook,
She tried to hire a hitman without a care
In hopes that workers would soon be buried there;

Said peons were nestled blank in their internets
Exhausted from scowling like Plantagenets
at fools, middle management; how 'bout a night cap
Or five until I get home for an old man nap?

When out in the stacks there arose such a clatter,
We sprang from our chairs to see what was the matter.
Away to the mold we flew like Gordon, Flash;
Not the serial but the camp, trainwreck crash.

The fluorescent lights, yellow like dog-marked snow,
Gave a lustre of wise to bestsellers below,
When what to our wondering eyes did appear,
But a wizard van in a cosmic veneer!

With a stoned, greasy driver that was not Bear,
We wondered how the hell he got up the stair.
More rapid fire than Judas Priest they came,
Throwing horns, he shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Jimi! now, Ritchie! now Tony and Eddie!
On, Harris! on, Burton! on Pike and Ozzy!
To the top of the glass! through the concert hall!
Now smoke away! drink away! burn away all!"

As tokes that before the wild truncheon fly,
When they meet with the fuzz and riff to the sky;
So out of the speakers the music it flew
With the bong full of woo, and every bottle too—

And then, in disbelief, we heard on the roof
A thunderous chord like the fourth horseman's hoof.
As we drew in our heads, and were turning around,
Down the elevator he came with a bound.

He was dressed all in robes, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with opium soot;
A bundle of wands he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a smoker just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they frightened! his dimples, how scary!
His cheeks were like corpses, his wart like a Lemmy!
His marvelous spells he began to weave,
And the beard on his chin was as long as the eve;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his gums,
Whose acrid funk burned like a stomach sans Tums;
He had a gaunt face even Death could not curb
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of herb.

He was skeletal but alive, a right jolly burnout,
Whether corn chips or the arcane, had much clout;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Laying Marshall stacks that would curse every jerk.
And pushing the button, and wiping his nose,
Giving a nod, in the elevator he rose.

Turning the key, the stoner cranked the speakers loud,
And away he flew, barreling through the crowd.
But we heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and don't forget to light!”

666 rpm

In honor of the dark half, the most interesting half, of the human condition, I'm off to watch this for the billionth time once I escape the Slab. Whilst I'm stabbing my heart with knife-wielding doom, spookify your life with this fake radio show if I had a radio show which I don't, hence fake, the perfect apertif to your candy scarfing or your rage at having to wait to scarf due to Gaia's rage, that's like rage squared and one of 37 reasons the gods invented metal, another one being raging at certain forms of slackerdom that even slackers scowl at but mostly a righteous rage contra zombie bigwigs and their crumbled up cookie days.

ALWAYS REMEMBER

que c'est mon anniversaire!

I can't remember which star system he originally hails from, but at least he's not a Zeta Reticulan or a Hollow Earth Lizardman. Their love lyrics are all about getting us to put our guard down, then it's bye-bye bodily fluids. Wait.

Labor of love

In lieu of a gut spill on a thing that gnaweth both hart & soule that you & your children & your children's children don't need to ever read, for three months, here's a timely guffaw whose commie spirit embiggens the capitalist man.

вернуться к работе, ленивые задницы!

Dusty, musty, and poorly lit

What else would the playlist be whilst squaring secrets?

Don't be so shallow, circling sea, there's no incongruity.

[find a title, nothing too clever]

 





















Not pictured: the Towering Slab.

Mission accomplished. Nephew's getting his baptism on this Sunday, thankfully after footie 'cause I'm selfish like that, which would probably prompt vapors from certain faux Springsteenian working class technocrats who fear Pagans of Distinction catching the Jesus bug yeah I'm looking at you; 'tis about time for a new one-act demanded by no one save yours truly & the Duchess who, being out of towne, cannot assist said truly with working out said interior guffaws in the classroom we call the Slab; & a third thing, a Bloody, inexorable Thing of sepulchral blackness v. rapturous white so unmentionable & unkillable that I cannot mention it here, there, & everywhere except on a Saturnian satellite, probably not Titan because I can't skate.

On the other hand, tomorrow is a holy day of obligation, i.e. "free" food.
On the other other hand, Worldcat is a steaming fecal landfill.
On the other other other rapidly hydra'd hand, look outside. 



Rain! Gloom! Yippee!

Have your cake and choke on it, too

'tis her birthing day, start gifting, nothing from Ronco, thanks, but some reading comprehension for uploaders might be nice.

Stupid un-troo 80s hats, a shield wall against listening, though with Reflective Powers comes Spidey sense. Example: post-Tanya's the better material. Sorry kids, & better late than never, thanks, homie.

Issue number six: now available, the old leather comfort (& excuse, & crutch) of routine, now with a dash of oregano those pesky morals! Rumors of a purple lotus ring have been greatly exaggerated. Supplies are unlimited!

Normally, this is where I'd place the navel lint, but today's batch looks suspiciously like the last batch, all frazzled & silent screaming like a vine strangled charcoal.

At least the local sports teams still suck. Wait.

You win again, gravity!

Triskaidekaphilia

Sure, Laurie Strode's the final Final Girl -- brains + doobage = booklie discussions + The Wizard -- but Ginny Field's a close second 'cause duh.

Intensity for ten cities.

Hitchery, or, I try to get through to you, in my own special way

Wipe that smile off your mug.
 
Twenty years today. Huh. Pause. Here, a dozen half-ass semi-starts on the complexity of hex mapping low-maintenance rainbows' blood-drenched maws requiring a top-flight tool kit to finish pretend-devouring gleefully chucked philosophy never discussed, hour-long stares through right + wrong axes slope equaling consequence natch & into dry wall & brick, all whilst navigating drunken tidal currents but then I remembered my heritage to filter like a fancy English smoke, so I'm left with a nagging cough, ear-stuck buds, inkless demons, those crumbled-up cringe things, & being one of those where the fuck am I folks. I was promised an ulcer! 'tis nothing congratulatory, spambot acquaintance, merely an approximation spun out of this rock's orbit of a G-class star.

Humans sure love marking the miles before the dirt, which rules 'cause darkthroning is cool & refreshing, unless it's summer, then it's only refreshing.

It's never too stuck with a useless brain hot to post

Fenriz says "it's fuckin' diabolical."

Solstice-y!

Birds do it, bees do it, even holding midfielders do it

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Love buzz

Re: below; the new Van Halen, not Bleach, also a fine album.

Cast of characters
Miss Prunella Vulgaris, The Duchess of Hammer-on-Dulcimer, esteemed member of the Peonage
Juan, The Earl of Valdez, less esteemed member of the Peonage

The Towering Slab, interior.

DUCHESS: Is that all you've been listening to?
EARL: Yeah, until das Deutschlandenpackagen arrives.

fin

True story.* This imitation one-sixteenth act play was supposed to lead into something else not the next one-act play I'm in the midst of penning thanks for containing your enthusiasm ingrates, but I forgot what it was since I started typing this post. True story. Also true is me scouring my music files for preferably snarky songs about love, preferably en plus with the word 'love' in the title but that's not a requirement, 'cause said Duchess is in the midst of planning next Tuesday's radio gig & I'm all about homies helping homies & what's more worthy of nelsonmuntzing than naive melodramatics vs. vitriolic burned-agains, opposing civilizations locked in mortal kombat whose bloodshed drowns the feet of us, the charmingly innocent, in a sparkly, rhymed effluvia? 

Dammit, I can't (i.e. I can) believe I forgot what the other thing was which means it was probably the coolest part of this post which means it wasn't all that cool.

*the dialogue has been paraphrased to protect the guilty

Sometimes I feel like this year punched me in the face

Settle down, homie.

I'm sure I deserved it, but writer's block, here, in comments, on paper that none shall ever see, still? Is this because I lifted my pen from work, I lift all my pens from work, they're quite nice & not runny like my mucus-infused schnoz, though this Lepidoptera-flush stomack is the real scalawag, no, 'tis not due this time to the artes magicae of that, that's not my fault, that, some things are beyond control's skeletal grasp.

No, I don't use pens to comment, would only ruin this first world widescreen, I know that's tired, you gadget whores. I'm tired. Of a lot. Check that dramatic break, & I didn't even go to screenwriter camp.

See you soon, probably, for another 365 days of the same old crap, because what the hell else am I gonna do waiting for the lazy apocalypse to stop being lazy?

A Very Peonage Christmas

Merry Baby Jesus/Mithras/Giftmas/Sol Invictus/Saturnalia/Yule/Eggnog slash Lemmy's Birthday Bash Hangover from the only ornament we found on this tree.

Now, get out.

To the sea, to the sea

Only heavily-powdered powertrips gigging for the newest paper thrill, their caffeinated porn-surfing functionaries, & the feds populate the interwebs the week of Football Day, whilst the rest of us swim for the newest [read: the usual suspects] zone-out trick in the gutter that lieth twixt panels that might or might not be the previously mentioned kind of aw yeah baby, so, why am I here?

The end.

Halloweenie roast

Not in the spirit of much of anything nowadays,
but monkey dance at the keyboard:



I'll be watching this for at least one more October 31.

 

Here's some blood.





Here's some metal.

Guess Slayer would've been more appropriate --

oh, all right, you demanding dogs



-- but some Good News nonetheless:

Cleveland owns 12 cemeteries, 11 of them more than a century old. The cemeteries are home to about 400,000 departed.

Why is that good? Because

Census 2010 numbers released Wednesday show Cleveland's population has fallen to a 100-year low of 396,815.

Dawn of the dead, baby. Have a nice day.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

Christmas Krampus in July August?

Fuck, that's a lotta dust. 
 
Don't be silly, goose, 'tis Shelf Reading Day! The day where the Peonage, ostensibly with the help of our institutional betters, some of whom are Peonage at heart -- su nioj, like we pasty-faced teenagers joined Slayer once upon a blazing pit -- wander above the sea of must to order, in an orderly fashion, the Library of Congressional order of the vast repository of knowledge contained herein the Towering Slab, all whilst bribed with cream cheesed bagels & sugary treats & pizza, but what really happens, don't tell a soul, is a silent absorption by the harmonious world of eardrum rattling, everflowing Kynge's Brewe, & paging a particularly interesting tome; if one has followed the silver key of choosing anything but those eerily yellow signed working papers & horrors involving the heinously deceptive alchemy of economics because holy fuck that shit destroys minds, reaps souls, & is boring as this paragraph.

"In other words, you'll still be slacking, just in a new location."

Exactly.

Pink flamingos

Relax, I'll let you know if there's a Zombie Divine sighting.