Allegory, or, unexpectation sucks

One goddamn piece?

For the last three months, that's it, & a half-scribbled-in-class one at that. Even a serious post-witching hour carcass pick didn't salvage such poemetrick shit.

Perhaps a revisitation, a reghosting, a reapparitioning. Let's go with reghosting; the latter sounds too fiscally gerrymeandering to which Jake says ewww.

If only marrow was recyclable & nothing more than a quick snack for the ghoul on the go or a key ingredient in either compost or barbarian stew.


I do know what happens when I mix acids & bases, the same thing that happens when blood & brain aren't siphoned off by stanza & paragraph.

If only spontaneous combustion was a contest.

First prize is $500 & a year's supply of melodrama.

$500, you say?

Melodrama, you say?

If only an if only.

Yeah, these guys again, this time with some old Oldham. It's cold [ed. note: slightly cooler that it has been, but I'm ever th'eternal optimist], overcast [ed. note: shit, that's the sun, innit], & nothing's better than these dour Swedes for hoodie weather, but I'm certainly open to suggestions that I'll immediately ignore.

Put that in your pipe & mope it.

People get ready, there's a new semester

Thirty days of suck XV: but you love silhouette night

Supposing I could have, should have, fabricated my own silhouette out of the skeletal remains piled in the basement & a torch, but then how huh? would have been the inevitable bitching about the episode from which the below finds its origin story, the distant early warning of the beginning of the zombification of The Simpsons. All one needs is the first ten, none of that base six crap.

Tomorrow, indecently long exposure, officially, but since my camera comes from the Quick Stop, you'll get whatever I damn well post, hate like it, & be glad it's not you-know-what.

Awesome, totally awesome! Alright Hamilton!

Whatcha gonna do when your neighbor comes for you!

If it's the chick across the street & down a way, yes, well, hrm, once again, the Sword of Austerity™ plays its cards right 'cause once we're all laid off, it's either be rehired at minimum wage into the university's nonexistent-but-its-time-is-a-coming See Something, Say Something Badge Patrol Brigade, or flip grease at Mickey D's which is at least within walking distance of Chez Randal joke's on you, security state.

Unwinding only leads to being unwound

Tucked in the stack of to-be-processed periodicals, the new Poets & Writers cover surreptitiously screams like Van Gogh post-ear something about where O where can my inspiration be the KKK took my inspiration away. Fuck if I know, I usually just steal obscurities then quietly rage eight seconds after that the page contains naught but awful. I haven't decided if 'writer's block sucks' is indeed an axiom or actually a blessing in a Groucho nose n' stache because my stuff does suck (the secret word!), the two sucks canceling each other out, thus taking the title of Suckiest Bunch of Sucks That Ever Sucked from black notebook poems & returning it to it's rightful owner, that bowling team the Cadavaliers & leaving me with nothing but saccharine gunk.

Someone pick a word already & I'll write around it & never show it, my synapses are blocked, or drunk.

Speaking of drunkards, only explanation for the lack of Kiss Kommenters. NE Ohio, you too, suck.

There's verse in them thar turgids!

I'm going to start stealing from myself. The Poetics of Onanism. Add 'Marxist' & we've got a postgrad bestseller on our hands.

Another famous person has kicked the bucket

I worked long and hard on that tribute. Sniff.

Surprise! You're Dead!

Hey, appear on The Simpsons, and you die. Your own fault,














Ed,













Jacko.

Farrah throws a monkey wrench in said theory, but I'm sure someone even lazier than I can Kevin Baconize her.

Barney says 'sharing means caring!'

"I said start sharing, you sonofabitch."

One of my favoritest things in the whole entire wide expansive colossal gigantic world of continental drift that will eventually crash and reform into a brand new über-landmass of Cyclopean proportion long after we've managed to eradicate ourselves via nuclear or biological weaponry or mass Darwinism is being tagged by someone with a meme because it keeps me from having to put any thought into the next post, thereby saving precious joules of brain power for my stupendously horrid offline writing. So, thanks, La Belette Rouge, despite the strangeness of the tag itself. Pastries? I don't think anyone has ever asked me that. Oh, and having the tag accompanied by a wink was completely unnecessary as I already got one from my BFF Sarah last week. Nyah nyah nyah!

Okay, eleven things you may or may not know about yours truly:


















1. Clothes shop: *laughs uncontrollably until head bursts* Anyone have any Krazy Glue? Contrary to popular fact, I actually do own a few shirts that aren't T and also a suit -- not pictured -- for that one time every 7 or 8 years when my wife and I can go somewhere in public without the goddamn offspring that isn't a heavy metal concert. Almost makes me glad they aren't big fans of dad's old man music.

2. Furniture shop: *puzzled* I don't remember where we got our stuff. They're nothing fancy, I can tell you that much. I'll buy something swanky when the kids are out of the house unless we're living in a cardboard box by then or have been eradicated via nuclear or biological weaponry.


















No Darwinism for me!

3. Sweet: Yes I am, merci beaucoup ! Oh, you meant a confectionery type item. Well, I am sweet, you fuckers. Watch.

How do I love thee, let me count the ways.
I only need one hand, for these endless days
give me nothing but a head full of greys.
Wife, you're nuts. Kids, you're insane
and all three break synapses, my brain --
I can't think of a rhyme -- shit -- Spanish main.

Sniff.

Honestly, I love the maple candy you can get at the Chardon Maple Festival. Sure, the hokey, countrified atmosphere is about 180° from my personality, and generally makes me want to go all Ass-Kickin' Levi Fuckin' Redneck on 'em after about five minutes, which is all the time you need to buy the stuff and get the hell out, but dammit, I could eat boxes of that stuff until my stomach exploded and you needed hydrochloric acid to get the stains of splattered entrails off the wall. It's that good.














4. City: Why, Cleveland, of course! [this is asking me where I am and not where I want to be, right?]

5. Drink: If I don't say le vin, then the ghosts of a million failed French writers will transcend the boundary between here and the afterlife, materializing in our four dimensions to collectively kick my soon-to-be ectoplasmic ass.

6. Music: I can headbang with the best of them, but if we're talking desert island, there's really only one possible answer.



No, I'm not crying, I've got something in my eye. Fuck off.

7. TV series: Oh, there are so many to choose from --










"This is what'll happen if you don't pick us!"

8. Film: Oh, there are so many to choose from --














What, no Darth Vader or Satan or Crown Prince or Sauron or Michael Myers or Raymond Burr or terrible quirk of fate to threaten me with violence?

Saw me flexing, huh. Cowards.

9. Workout: Channel surfing certainly does goddamn count. Thumbs of steel. Oh, I walk to and from the bus stop not five, but six, days a week.

Near my house and downtown.









"You're gonna crap crap, Graves!"

10. Pastries: Picking just one is nigh impossible, but I suppose a danish with some kind of fruit: blueberry, apricot, raspberry. And don't ever forget to serve it with a steaming hot cup of --


















11. Coffee: Given the fact that the cups of specialty beans sold where I work cost 42 billion in adjusted dollars -- what is that, a few dozen Euros? -- we brew and since we have to deal with jokers for hour after hour of living hell, quantity is the order of the day, so whatever vaguely tasty, reasonably strong yet affordable junk we can find, we have. Hey, it's either a few pots of that or I come to work angry and plastered. Take your pick, administration.

Oh shit, almost forgot the next batch of victims: the boss, the Pope of Beer, Donuts and Irrational Hockey Hatred, DCup, Non, je ne regrette rien, Utah Savage.

An Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence

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

The Folly of War Joint Partnerships

Each morning and afternoon on the way to and from work, I pass by the outdoor reading garden situated next to the main branch of the Cleveland Public Library.














With plenty of shade, it's quite calming and thus very easy to get lost in the pages of the tome resting upon your lap. Well, yesterday afternoon, after an arduous yet rewarding day of helping my fellow humans to the best of my meager yet eager ability, I witnessed a young couple accompanied by an entourage of friends and relatives, everyone celebrating the momentous occasion of their wedding by taking photographs within this picturesque garden, precious and eternal memorials to their undying love.

The first thought that popped into my head as I strolled through the sharply-dressed crowd filing out onto the sidewalk was this:



Surprisingly, my sometimes-better-half didn't laugh when I told her.

Wanker.

Hair Superiority

"Air show? Buzz-cut Alabamians Ohioans spewing colored smoke from their whiz jets to the strains of Rock You Like A Hurricane? What kind of countrified rube is still impressed by that?"


















We've got the Cleveland National Airshow flying over our heads this weekend and if one takes a leisurely stroll downtown, one can see -- and hear -- various whiz jets practicing for the next war.

Being the archetype of patriotism made flesh that I am -- don't believe me? Look it up, pinkos -- I feel conflicted, for the harsh noise of screaming General Electric turbofans constantly interrupts my smooth, efficient paradigm shifting, yet without these planes, I'd be speaking Algonquian French German Russian Arabic. Furthermore, while completely understanding the utility of this weekend given its extended length -- settle down, Dole -- further confusion arises from the fact that we are celebrating our freedom-spreading capabilities around a day that remains a heinous affront to hardworking capitalists, the lamentable creation of lazy and corrupt unions still slacking on the effete, lie-brul East Coast.

Guess I'll do what any good American would do if he or she was in my shoes.

Nothing.












"Randal, worked for me for eight years, heh heh."











Oh, happy birthday, Johnny, you fucking lunatic.















I'd say get to the huffin' and puffin', but, that's like breathing for you.

Lou Dobbs just had an orgasm

"Oooh yeah, that's it baby, speaka de English!"

Concerned about its appeal to sponsors, the women’s professional golf tour, which in recent years has been dominated by foreign-born players, has warned its members that they must become conversant in English by 2009 or face suspension.

For the record, golf is not a sport but a game of skill, akin to lawn darts and permutations of various drinking games. Hitting a round ball then walking to where it landed while someone carries the heavy stuff is not an athletic endeavor.

Let us compare this to actual sports, with actual physical exertion:

Major League Baseball, which has a high percentage of foreign-born athletes, said it had not seen the need to establish a language guideline. Pat Courtney, a spokesman for M.L.B., said baseball had not considered such a policy because it wanted its players to be comfortable in interviews and wanted to respect their cultures.

"Given the diverse nature of our sport, we don't require that players speak English," he said. "It's all about a comfort level."

The National Hockey League, which is based in Canada where English and French are the official languages, also places no such requirements on its players, although several clubs provide players with tutors if they express a desire to learn English.

The National Basketball Association, which had 76 international players from 31 countries and territories last season, follows a similar approach to the N.H.L.

"This is not something we have contemplated," said Maureen Coyle, the N.B.A.'s vice president for basketball communications.

What, you thought I'd waste time talking about the Dumbass National Convention? Don't be silly. On second thought, be a wee bit silly, mischievous, even. Some might go so far as to say elfin. Listen to the elf man who would require the least amount of nose-holding in November.

Unless, of course, Kodos were running and Diva/Nunly had been abducted by said creature from outer space:



Oh, Dennis, if only you didn't have a bad haircut. I feel your pain, my brother.

Brainstormcalm

Je suis triste. Because all of my energies, all 0.042 joules of them, are focused on (re)working on that goddamn rambling tale of epically droning proportion -- I find it akin to a giant prog-rock number; cover up the glaring compositional weaknesses with oodles and oodles of noodling -- I can't come up with anything good today.

"How is that different than any other day?"

Go to hell, you bastards. Oh, woe is me, I need some help. Who can I call on in this darkest hour? What judicious wizard, what sartorial sorcerer, what flag-pinned prestidigitator, what sapient practitioner of the blackest arts can lift the ever-present veil of distress and take this deep-seated malady of ennui away from me?

Mukasey the Magician!

















"I can help you, young Randal. Here, lie down on this board and cover your mouth with this wet towel. Oh, fret not, child, I cannot divulge my deepest secrets, but what I can tell you is that this is merely a simple and necessary part of the arcane ritual I must perform in order to locate your posting powers aimlessly lost in the nebulous ether."

Just in case I croak -- you know how these magical deals can end up, not that I don't have the utmost faith in Mukasey the Magician -- here's a perhaps posthumous YouTube for your musical edification. Oh what the hell, find another overused trope, a Simpsons reference, at the end.



See, Flying Nunly, I never forget about The Man.
It's Pastoral, so get with the frolicking, mes amis.













"Oh, Homer J., how do you keep your hair so rich and full?"
"Lather, rinse, and repeat. Always repeat."
"Homer J., will you teach us to make love?"

What a revoltin' development!

"Joey, do you like wild-card games about Gladiators?"

What? No one is talking about the exciting, three-point victory by the Cleveland Gladiators in the Arena Football League playoffs last night? Really?

Yeah, I'm not either. Though I just did. I'm sure that would seem extra paradoxical if I was nice and plastered, and after not having turned on the computer yesterday because I was busy pretending to be a writer -- checking fantasy baseball lineups doesn't count -- I wish I was nice and plastered.

And before any proprietors of proper propriety pop up, I'm fully aware that the odds of Wes Clark responding in such a way would be nil or below if he had been the Democratic nominee, offering instead a heaping plate of variations on respecting blah diddy blah, and that all politicians on campaign have to eat up that gooey, nougat center because there's simply no possible way, no how, uh uh, forget it, fucking hell no, at all ever for them to be victorious if they don't choke on that fructose and sucrose product and the only way to foist illusory happiness upon people is to be a winner.














"Oh, look at me! I'm making people happy! I'm the Magical Man from Happy-Land, in a gumdrop house on Lollipop Lane!

Oh, by the way, I was being sarcastic."
"Well, duh!"

As for moron talking hairpieces, I'm not even going there.

America, for all its hot air blathering about how manly and macho and tough we are, is quite the nation of candy asses. And not the hard and resilient kind of sugary treat, like Gobstoppers.

America is like gum. Soft and malleable and sticks to the bottom of your shoe, and don't try scraping it off because you'll only make it worse.

Let us never forget Bartcop's Law #1: don't ever tell the truth in a political campaign. People want to be lied to.

Hey, can I throw up in your bathroom? I'll buy something!

Which Character on The Simpsons Are You?

Created by BuddyTV

Replace beer with wine
and thus no surprise.
Well, I don't burp
or make a single flick,
just waste paper
with a stroke of my Bic.


H/T to Mathman.

If I lived in Springfield, USA

Idea shamelessly stolen from Waveflux who shamelessly stole it from someone else. I rarely check out movie promo sites, but this killed some downtime at work, so it was worth it. Plus, it is The Simpsons.