The abyss also gazes into you

Face-eating Floridian zombies,
sartorial Seattle shoot-em-uppers,

necrophiliac Canuck porn actors on the run from Interpol,
politicians.

Oh, cosmos, so tricksy.
Necrophiliac Politician, the best grindcore* band you've never heard of.

The apocalypse, it ain't coming, you've been soaking in it since day one.
Pass the popcorn, hold the delicious yellow chemical sludge.

Ain't feeling wordy sans offline, & that ain't for you.
This counts as 54% of a post, 38% of an MFA poem.

*example of an oxymoron

Porn, pizza rolls, pulpy pages, penalty kicks & prestidigitation, parsimoniously.

O, Mighty Kasich, teach me how to slack whilst lifting loot just like you.

When you concretely know that carved in stone but with the skill of a free market disembodied hand not a haughty unionized (re: teachers, read: teachers, not the educational system itself, don't be daft diploma millerite. What DC United's angriest fan said, but cut the Tweedledums some slack. Tough to read polls when busy getting sexfully massaged by corporate, now back to your regularly scheduled pointless crap) jackhammer that collectively bargained lazy man vacation is on tap but not beer 'cause not a fan for a lazy man, yours truly in case you were wondering & whether you were or weren't I don't give a hoot, hard to give a hoot.

Diagram that sentence, correctly, & you can have one, one, pizza roll. Rumble, rumble, toil & misplaced essays from the library's lost & found! (I miss the worst ever piece on Miles Davis' Bitches Brew LP. What gloriously discordant putrescence that was. Sniff.) What's this, political turmoil in the canal kingdoms? Curses, slacking will have to wait! 

Hup Holland! 

So you thought the Netherlands was a democratic country? You thought human rights were being respected in that little Kingdom by the North Sea? You got it all wrong there. Don't you believe the Netherlands is a friendly constitutional monarchy with happy, loyal subjects tending their tulip fields and polishing their wooden shoes! Beatrix von Amsberg, the present queen, rules her realm like a medieval fiefdom, with an iron fist. Of course, there is a constitution, but in actual practice its lofty principles are not enforced.

Avengers, assemble!

In conclusion, Beatrix the Bilderberger has sound reasons to regard Mr. Lensink as a very dangerous man. His actions and contentions are a threat to the survival of the monarchy. Therefore, she had him locked up in her own version of the Bastille, the Vught Maximum Security Prison.

We must assault the Castle of Chortling Composition! I am prepared to lead the way with my +3 halberd of exclamation points! Sir-Mix-A-Lot, stop your crying! Beatrix the Bilderberger must be stopped! Don't scoff at being easily amused or your heads'll roll, too!



I - like - big riffs & I cannot lie. Tack, svenskar, for praising this glorious day.

Guess who's coming to dinner

At least the attendees won't have this gazing down upon them.*

On a far, far, far less frightening, though sad, note, this development.



I think hiring the TSA would've made a sexier evening for everyone, don't you?

*whatever happened to the Velvet Elvis? No one has any standards anymore.

Stupid human tricks: a visual essay

Inter's Maicon after scoring against Barcelona.

















Lenny and Squiggy.














Bayern's Arjen Robben after scoring against Lyon.


















Dr. Evil.

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.

Seriously?

America's number one export after fast food.

Don't ask me why, but while doing work yesterday at work -- I said don't ask, fucker -- I stopped in the midst of processing the newest issue of Barrow Street to peruse its offerings (some I wish I had written, you talented bastards; some satanawful stuff that makes my garbage seem delicious and nutritious), and eventually flipped through the Notes on Contributors where this caught my laughing eye:

...of two anthologies, including Starting Today: 100 Poems for Obama's First 100 Days.

Alright, fine. You want some political verse, you've got it.

Military/industrial complex,
you give me a complex.
Saint Ronnie or Hussein X,
Senator Diaper's wacky sex,
On this I don't wish to vex.
Corporate pontifex!
Your maximus deflects my hex.
Look at all that, so much X.
Where's Lovelace, 'tis triple triple X.
Oh yeah, dead.

Thank you, thank you, I won't be here all week.

Ron Popeil's Amazing Hypothesis Test-O-Matic!

As has been noted once -- and honestly, I'm not inclined to engage in auto de fé in revenge for my lack of disagreement -- the comment sections of certain blogs are often far more interesting and/or variable and/or eloquently opiate and/or more uncontrollably explosionary than the post itself. [Noun, a person of unusually keen foresight who ingests a miniature bomb or Taco Bell. This chimichanga is excellent/Doctor, you're a true explosionary. Adjective, the state of a futuristic, boundary-shattering interstellar journey that ends poorly. The first manned fusion voyage to Mars was quite explosionary.] That's certainly the case here at this festering pustule of sub par grotesquerie. Thus, a little test:

[something ridiculous]

"Your brain finally dribbled out, didn't it."

Yes, you did. Ready, set, comment!

Les Mythologiques

What a hypocrite to the end. Not even using his own product, but that's them frogs for you, one minute they're kissing a woman's hand, next their chopping off their heads jeans.

"You know --"

Shut up, I'm hoping enough of them won't recognize that all of my best lines were pilfered with love from a certain animated teevee program. Makes this dump more mythique. Now where did I put that viking helmet and broadsword. Oh, bollocks to you, Thor, it's Roman orgy time. Not you, Burt Lancaster, no dudes. You don't need that toga, babe, pass those french fried frog legs.


















Speaking of orgies, though this one is less sex and more violence, kudos to you, Anthony Sowell, for two reasons: first, for placing Cleveland back firmly in the national consciousness (we're not just flaming rivers, a pustule of a football team and Elliot Ness' torso any longer, dammit) and second, for helping to dispel the myth that only cracker, clown-painting loners with talking dogs grow up to be serial killing wackos.













"Whaddya think's in the sausage?"

"Probably not sausage."

Speaking of murder and mayhem and crimson streams of misery swathed in musical mystique, Slayer, SLAYER, SLAYER, SLAYER, SLAYER!










World Painted Blood opens with the title track gleefully recalling that of Hell Awaits' turgid crawl up from the abyss, with a guitar harmony or three bleeding in the direction of, surprise surprise, NWOSDM. Speedfreak psalms to man's inhumanity to man are spattered throughout the platter: Snuff; the infamous Unit 731 -- silly Japan, atrocities aren't just for Nazis; Psychopathy Red's the Butcher of Rostov, balanced with the creeping slow burns of Beauty Through Order; the apocalyptic Human Strain -- get your flu shots!; the funeral parlor hijinks of Playing With Dolls; the punky, melodic dash of Americon; Public Display of Dismemberment's political puking; Hate Worldwide's and Not of This God's youthful blasphemy.

Ever since the landmark quartet that every headbanger worth his devil sacrifices blonde virgins to, the band has been plagued -- and plagued themselves -- by a classically poor mixing job, some stupid sonic choices, intermittently uninspired songwriting and trying too hard to recapture past fortune and glory. Shooting yourself in the foot is pretty metal, because a bloody wound is the gruesome result, but even moreso is stomping that torn appendage into the grimy filth and letting it get infected so that raging, uncontrollable violence birthed in excruciating pain returns tenfold. Slayer is long past spearheading musical rebellion, or even being included in the discussion of heaviest and/or fastest acts, but for the first time in a long time, one can shred some vocal cords and fucking mean it.



Humanity, you're so damaged.

Conceivable!

Can't see that --



-- without being reminded of that.















Managing to single-handedly ninja your way past the neverending WND-sponsored wingnut candlelight-n-moonshine vigil after Cheney's death to dig up the sinister corpse and salt and burn said putrefying remains before they have a chance to reanimate into an unstoppable flesh-eating ghoul? Inconceivable!



















Finding out that the Dums are indeed not hacktackular sellouts to the military/industrial complex that most assume, but are in fact actual spineless jellyfish creatures -- from beyond the stars! who crashed in New Mexico over 60 years ago and are kept upright and mobile through plutonium-powered nanotechnology gravity implants controlled via the radiowaves of a mother brain housed in the Nevada underground? Conceivable!
















Calling into work on Tuesday, February 9, 2010 to use eight of the billions of hours of sick time I've accumulated because I'm still vomiting my insides out because of the naked, drunken revelry in the wake of the Browns improbable Super Bowl victory over the two-week long Brett Favre love fest known in other circles as the Minnesota Vikings? Inconceivable!


















Continuing to redefine the term "shitty blog" day after day with such off-putting, unfunny tripe? Conceivable!

The power of pasta compels you!

Sure, he's a pointless buffoon, but if I'm about anything, it's being a champion of searching for pointless buffoonery to post about:

Catholic League President Bill Donohue presented a paranoid side of his personality to Fox News Monday morning, declaring that “militant, dogmatic” atheists are “out to get” Catholics

Just the naughty Catholic school girls, Billy Dee.

A few sly .45s. Works every time.

No, that's not spaghetti in my pocket, I really am happy to see you.


















Speaking of cans of RC, Ted Kennedy died? When did this happen? Did someone liveblog his funeral? I hope someone remembers to liveblog mine. I'll have a special brownies, looping DVDs chock full of Cleveland's finest sporting chokes and, to lighten the celebratory mood even further, the song stylings of Motörhead. I figure Lemmy is a member of the cockroach/Keith Richards family; they'll all outlive me and the inevitable zombie apocalypse.

Speaking of rock and/or roll, in honor of the new Black Crowes album which I'll be snagging after work -- try and contain your excitement, youthful hipsters, you might rip a skinny jean and drop your iPod flush with crap down a sewer -- here's some old Crowe.

Cthulhu Bless America

Since we, the luckiest one percent of the one percent of all humans that have existed since The Lord God Smiter Of Heathen Nations first created Adam and his BBQ rib six millennia ago, are blessed to inhabit the Greatest Nation That Has Ever And Will Ever Exist And If You Disagree Unka Dick Will Come Out Of The REAL Undisclosed Location And Shoot You In The Face And Then Eat The Face Including The Buckshot Think Of It As Roughage Even Satan's Toady Wants To Be Regular, I felt it would behoove me to gallop through a celebratory list spurring on a frank and bean discussion of American Greatness and you can take that straight from the horse's mouth.

"What's with the cowboy theme? What happened to cosmic tentacles?"


















You got a problem with that, pilgrim pinko?



















1. Before I get started, I'd like to voice a mild public transportationista complaint. Years ago, when a driver employed by the Greater Cleveland RTA didn't show up for work for whatever reason -- sickness, oversleeping, broken alarm clock, hangover, post-freebase crash -- he or she was replaced for the day and ridership remained in sweet harmonic convergence with the road. Nowadays, that bus simply disappears off the map and you must wait for the next one. And to add insult to wounding, the fare is going up in the fall. Again.

"I hate to tell you, but it doesn't get much more American than that."

Increasingly crappy service with price hikes for the customer in this secular sleight-of-hand that will never get an influx of taxpayer cash because, well, duh, and therefore, Goldman Sachs, in its righteous indignation, would then unleash its extra-secret time machine in order to go back and purchase all of the stock actually worth anything these days before installing Barack Hussein Obama X, Thirteenth Baron of Kenya, as their Puppet King of this island earth and forcing us to round up the elderly for 1)utilizing their bodily fluids in a miracle program of unwashed mass mind control which could only lead to 2)post-haste soylent green production to fill warehouses with MREs ready to supply the soldiers of the as-yet-unannounced next war against tyrannical Tyrannosaurus tyranny?

"You bet."

USA! USA! USA!

2. Go fuck yourself, candy ass Norwegians. You think you've got the market cornered on fuzzy little bunny-destroying black metal? When's the last time you raped and pillaged and plundered, 1066?

Walk the talk. 2003, motherfuckers.



Frosty, rapid fire riffs, hammered downshift bludgeoning, brillo pad vocals.
'Tis a beautiful thing, sniff. Let's go kill something!

"You know no one will listen to that racket."

Are you now or have you ever been a discothequer?

USA! USA! USA!













3. Speaking of killing something, I will grudgingly admit to some disappointment in my fellow Real Americans®. Concerning all these health care town halls, pointing and shouting and heckling and moranizing as if you were in the front row at a Larry the Cable Guy show is fine and jim dandy, but if you truly want to get your point across,















make it hollow. Don't be like those Norwegians, and remember, guns don't kill people, health care kills people.

Except my Medicare!

That's right, gramps!

USA! USA! USA!











4. No, don't let me interrupt your flopping.

"But you like soccer."

Excusez-moi, effete Old European? I'll go through you like I go through goddamn coworkers.



Now that's a Man's sport, steroid flex, bulging head, myriad heath problems, disfigured flesh, death. Speaking of manly men of manliness (except for the Detroit Lions and Cleveland Browns), it's fantasy football time, you betcha. Send me an email and in return you receive the league ID and password, the key to future gridiron glory. The cheesehead must be dethroned!

Oh, go us and such.

The pen is mightier than the sword unless the hand holding the pen gets chopped off

It was a dark and stormy Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The teabaggers teabagged in torrents, for when the First Baron storms darkly 'cross the land it's with serious meteorological mojo, except at occasional obfuscatory oscillations between protesting with crudely-inked posters and posting on their blog and maybe a quick run to the sandwich shop exchanging money for goods and/or services such as sandwiches and sex perhaps the basis of all human civilization -- the sandwiches, not the sex because most wingnut CHUDs don't have sex except with family pets and masturbation doesn't count but if it did, I'd be getting laid daily, when it was checked by a violent gust of Congressional and corporate propaganda, sorry for the skipping needle, which swept up the streets like a giant Orick Oreck or a CEO's maid because the wife is too hopped up on goofballs and Mr. Gekko is banging the secretary (for it is in DC that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops like a rattlesnake's rattle or even a baby's, no, a rattlesnake's because that's scarier unless the baby is Damien with the shits at 3am, and fiercely agitating the scantily-clad flame of the lamp that is my imagination, yeah, that's it insert fantasy babe here, take it all off, hot damn, am I struggling against the darkness, Eddie, got a light, it's hard forging birth certificates in the dark, how about I just copy off of yours I've got sideburns, too, no one will know the difference.

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.

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.

Title of post

1) Eye-catching introductory paragraph so overflowing with witticisms that it'll feel like someone took a wizz on your Hush Puppies.

2) Series of tangentially related anecdotes that may or may not include Tales From The Wheelie Bus.


















3) Sublimely crafted conclusion that determines the current tide of insanity engulfing both here and abroad can only mean one thing: that our miserable species has been stricken with the triumphant mark of Satan! Woe is us and such.


















I eat imaginary entities for breakfast! And also eggs!

"I didn't know Cthulhu had vocal cords."

Oh sure, but he's a quiet kind of slime. Generally keeps to himself when not devouring civilizations.

"That's nice, but one of your posts just isn't complete without you know what."

A death metal YouTube?

"No, dumbass."












Ha ha, fooled you. Did we start bombing Iran yet? Like anyone gives a rat's ass about Afghanistan. We gotta bomb someone worthy of scorn. Revolutionizing is for Real Patriots, you effete Orientals. Speaking of Real Patriots --


















"Grrr. Brilliant idea. Why I not think that? Grrr. Three grand buy lunch of third world children. Grrr."

Great. Cheney's been reactivated. There goes my plans to hike the Appalachian trail without fear of buckshot.













"Go on and hike, filthy hippie, I'll be safe behind my hi-tech shield!"

I know that if I were truly serious about security, I'd see about attaching a rider to the next bill outfitting members of Congress with their own, personalized Popemobile. And when they're on the floor ranting and/or raving, or crying if they're John Boehner, they should have to don a suit of armor. Never know when some bomb-thrower will be in the stands.














Don't forget to take into account wind resistance and gravity, otherwise all you'll do is nuke the poor clerk.

Accident of Birth

Once again, sharp, timely commentary about current events was rattling 'bout my bus-travelin' head this morning, the necessary ingredients to skillfully bake comedic (and tasty) peanut butter cookies about our continuing Rock Star Energy Drink® Blowed Up Real Good tour skying its way through the wilds of Waziristan, whereby I smarmily point out that if you dozens of Afghan Wigs didn't want to be unmanned surveillance aircrafted to death, you should have been born a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Murkan cracker chick, but then I remembered that once upon a time, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Murkan cracker chick was abducted, which was like the greatest national tragedy since 9/11 according to the nice teevee man with well-coiffed noggin so I guess it does suck to be you after all, although I believe yesterday's attack did get Al-Qaeda #76, #77, you're up, what kind of lunch meat would you like we're out of maple ham I'm sorry, but I couldn't make said commentary rise to poorly-written, coherent invective, so you get poorly-written, incoherent invective instead, nothing honestly but weak justification to post some ever topical, skullcrushing (and wicked) riffwork because I know how much you all hate the metal.

Sorry to drone on.















Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week. Yeah, I know today's Friday. It takes me four days to come up with material this bad.

Speaking of bad, and despite my impeccable patriotic credentials, I must grudgingly give some credit to the Ayatollah of the Fourth Reich. I don't recall Chimpy and his Puppetmasters demanding that we stay off the street or we'd pay, don't think we won't pay, way back in 2000.

"That's because no one was on the street except the bums that were there the previous November."

Jawohl, but I don't remember state-sponsored armed thugs getting their gun on inside dorm rooms either. Now that's fucking hardcore. America, when did you turn into a nation of candyasses?


















See, this old lady is throwing the horns. What's your excuse, wuss? Well, off to apply for Froomkin's WaPo slot. Hope they permit swearing. Rock on.

Green onions, with a magic mushroom chaser

No, not those kind.














These kind.

Dear Fellow Public Transportationistas,

After a tastelicious breakfast of garlic mushrooms with a side of green onionized scrambled eggs -- and tastelicious it is, for I made some myself just yesterday, would you look at that, I said look, goddammit, yum! -- it would be to the benefit of all humans, especially those of us seated nearby, if you would kindly support good personal hygiene with all of your cold, rancid heart by cleaning your noisehole with an ADA-approved paste and brush combo. I did, and that's why my sometimes-better-half cringed a bit less than she normally would when I asked her to pucker up.













The Halitosis Clinic thanks you for your concern.

Sincerely,

Randal

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!

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!

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.