'tis the only plausible explanation for this so-called serendipitous return of winter in light of the impending holy service to be held this Saturday evening.
Oh, a bunch of crazy crap happened yesterday & is likely happening now. I'm sure someone somewhere is raging about it & I'd wager some of them are right on. For those about to type, we salute you.
Two days till catharsis woo!
Speaking of death, bah & humbug. Sure, the library's "vault" is a not-that-underground, asbestos-infested rathole, but I'm not that blind, so yours truly wins the dystopia, triumphant hardee har har.
Keeping it real. ONE @HosniMoobie Sulei da man!!!! Go army!!! http://tinyurl.haha #OMGsuckers #torturepartytonite
TWO New metal's decibelling (one L or two? Curse ye, imaginary words) eardrums into oblivion, I know you're all jonesing for a review. Soon, sharpen those barbs, that snark.
THREE Weekend with football @ weekend with no football: a classic mismatch of such unmatched misses, I'd be remiss in mocking making a mockery of this un-bliss. Weekend with football, 529 to negative 7 through three, but, lo, a Unitarian Unitasian comeback of potential meatworld literosity/gatekeepers-guard-this-bird with fellow yokels gives me a non-oh-baby happy, so enjoying the Pyrrhic victory.
Ronnie, I blogged about Vladimir Putin, I knew things about Vladimir Putin that I read somewhere, Vladimir Putin was a friend of other ex-KGB agents until he garroted them in a dark alley. Ronnie, you're no Vladimir Putin.
No, no, today's entry isn't the latest in a long line of examples proving the maxim gorky that all posts can be improved with Putin. If you're in the moniker market for your brand new hip rock &/or roll combo -- apologies that the coolest one is probably already taken & by the way, translating isn't a job, it's an art form don't any of you fucking 'professional' douchebags understand the poetry inherent in language? -- help me help you by choosing from among the following:
Summer Entropy Commandos
Morning Sabotage Group
Conspiracists for the realization of insecurity
Immoral City De-Structuralists
Organizers of Night Entertainment
The rest found here. Sure, a bit creaky in this instantly gratifying coffee, what have you done for me tomorrow, ADHD-addled age, but I rarely crawl out of my Bat Cave & it's still better than anything you could come up with, I'd wager.
When bakedhungoverstruggling without repose against the nefarious forces of destiny whose unholy web of deceit, this tangible darkness, has been carefully woven over countless eons for the sole purpose of enacting my demise stricken with slack, I, of course, seek out that oracle which cannot possibly let me down, Crappy Blog® post template 2.0.
No dice, but my desk does hold a deck of cards.
Hey, can't surf for porn all day.
Ten of diamonds? Wikipedia it is.
241 BC: First Punic War: Battle of the Aegates Islands. The Romans sink the Carthaginian fleet bringing the First Punic War to an end. Epic.
1735: An agreement between Nadir Shah and Russia is signed near Ganja and Russian troops are withdrawn from Baku. Insert own marijuana joke here.
famous birthdays: Osama bin Laden, Chuck Norris. Insert own the former needs airplanes to take down buildings whereas the latter only needs his fist joke here.
Hopping like a frog never works, trust me.
I distinctly recall as a wee NES adolescent being involved in nearly a carbon copy of this fantastic goal during a snowy November day in Oberlin. Before you inquire, yes, I was one of the defenders. Sure, the dude scored, but I did manage to get a sharp shot on his shin later in the match. Dishes out for revenge, etc, etc.
Would've had video, but UEFA's as hardcore as George Lucas.
To depression? Duh. Except for, you know, those ubiquitous potential sources that actually stunt creation: work, school, home, the rest of you jerkoffs and a bunch of other junk that must remain secret for reasons of national security.
"Wow, that's, like, everything."
Like, I know, like, you know? Sorry, was busy assisting the future leaders of, like, America this morning. It's the seventh week of the semester and you don't know the name of your professor, your class, the class number, the textbook or any combination of the previous?
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
Of course, all this theorizing and rampant psychological speculation is rendered meaningless the second (if if if) LeBron says au revoir, suckers. Number one miserable city? Try negative one, or two or even *gasp* negative i.
What do I do? I don't know. Is there anyone who knows?
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.
'Cause I'm Pooty Poot, yes I'm the real Poot All you other Pooty Poots are eating gulag roots So won't the real Pooty Poot please kung fu, please kung fu, please kung fu?
Don't get me wrong, I fully support cougar-dom. If consenting adults of any age want to get their proverbial freak on without freaking me into straitjacket madness by making me shell out $9.95 on pay-per-view, yay. But it strikes me as odd to see a chick obviously pushing blue hair status via flecks, nay, clumps, of grey perusing a copy of, all things, Details. I assume dudes check out Cosmo in order to theoretically increase their score quotient, thus Occam's close shave: this lady figured the feminine version could help her land a young buck. Godspeed, granny, godspeed.
While at work, and before the mass of unwashed masses stomped in to bleat and bellow and blaspheme, a coworker, a former coworker/fellow civil servant clown and myself waxed stupid genius on potential band names.
Us latter two have been for years championing Frescoes of the Skull, swiped from this book about Beckett. Pretty fucking metal, huh.
But I think my coworker won the day with this tasty triumvirate: the recently posted Dr. Dre and the Drano Bombs -- if Andre Young ever decided to stop hawking carbonated beverages and instead give his best Lemmy impersonation, that is; Glass Grapes, for the tragically mellow artiste; and last, but certainly not least, Macrame Owls, for the über-ironic hipster indie rocker. Feel free to chime in with your own wondrous suggestions, the loonier/more putrescent, the better.
Red and blue flash, the Fourth of July out of time, in miniature. The bus moves closer. Perhaps a water main break, a semi-annual sales event along the burning river. Or is it the thin white line, the splattered pink and crimson of a corpse crisscrossing yellow chessboard patterns. No, the northbound lane is still open. Elephants. There are elephants strolling down E. 9th. No, not Limbaugh and Beck and Spray-On, but actual honest-to-Cthulhu elephants that almost made me late this morning. That speedwalking correspondence course really paid off.
I don't have any particular memories of the circus, or even clowns, save the fact that some people are terrified, or, at the very least, greatly unnerved, by the latter, which always brings a diabolical smirk to my mug.
What also brings a diabolical smirk to my mug is loud music about stuff blowing up. Part of the fabric of growing up Brady Reagan. Sure, there were dozens upon dozens of tunes about global thermonuclear war, but one of my absolute favorites has remained so because 1)it crushes and irradiates like a motherfucker and 2)these were the pre-internets days, so the discovery of underground acts was a much more labor-intensive, therefore satisfying, process, word-of-mouth, leafing zine after zine from the big shining cities on the hill, even from the limeys and the krauts, you spoiled whipper snappers with your The Google and MySpaceTravel, this is my space. Hard to believe it's been twenty years. Fuck, I'm getting dessicated. Anyway, for your listening displeasure, Brazil's second-greatest export:
Don't worry, my lovely, you'll always be number one.
"Ahem, I was pretty good, too, or have you forgotten the Cosmos?"
Sorry, Edison, you're not a babe, and as far as I know, you never wrote any spine-melting riffs. Good job in the World Cup, though. Oh yeah, the tune.
Pretty noose Pretty vacant Pretty tied up Pretty woman Pretty please Pretty in pink Pretty tired Pretty dead
Know what wouldn't make me feel pretty? The gravel sonic boom voiced by a lab-grown larynx whose DNA was spliced from strands of Louie Armstrong, Lou Rawls and Tom Waits and subsequently implanted in my neck. But I'd be able to scare the fuck out of trick or treaters. Or I can simply hire the kid of these attention whores:
"I'll take that one. 10 million Kroner's a lotta scratch."
Lighten up, Xtreme filthy hippies, don't you think you should first wipe the blood and brain matter of a million wingnut explosions off your hands before wringing them? Anyway, relax, I have the perfect solution to everyone's philosophical dilemma:
Instead of Predatoring and Raptoring Afghans to death, we round up a fleet of C-5s and airlift crates of this:
Much more humane -- at least until the searing pain of the cardiac event, but how long does that ever last -- don't you think? And tastier!
Gasp! I hate when things are unsanctioned by The Man. I'm sure there's an Eiger Sanction joke in there, but I can't find it, and if I did, I doubt it would be as much of a non-stop knee-slapper as Escape From Alcatraz.
Sigh. I just hope no one finds out about my secret underground nuclear facility. Don't worry, I'm not looking to blow anyone up, I merely want some atomic zombies to do my bidding, 'cause I think that'd be cool.
Frightening, aren't they?
Anyone want to write my flash fiction this weekend?
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.
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.
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, notthatone, 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.
