Swing and a miss

Suburbia hole-up tea chug, Stooges on repeat, half oblivion to the FA Cup on the tube & the usual too, the page dirtied by shit verse #752 = ¡Viva la Revolución!

Because I'm easily amused and that trumps one more try yet again at a half of a half-decent post

Fuck off and die

Spending spring break at home, the scribbling of my stupid paper and watching stupid footie sandwiching the stupid ham of stupid darkthroning. Sorry, ladies, this hunk of burning excitement's unavailable, though my wife wishes I wasn't. Zing. Thank you thank you, enjoy the veal, because if you saw the kitchen, you'd know it was your last meal. Badoomboom.

Bonus!



Fenriz freaky channels Sean Harris and Bruce Dickinson. 

Dead Early like 1982 early, Cirith Ungol, Diamond Head, Manilla Road. Ain't black, ain't crust, is Heavy Fucking Metal, all the influences us near-, at-, over-forty-somethings scarfed with greasy gusto, The Ones You Left Behind leaving a heaping plate of end rhymes like 22, Acacia Avenue was whoring its rhythm out to every Norwegian hesher.

Six tracks of classic filtered through the warped skulls of Ted and Gylve, but oh so special mention must be made of thirteen-plus minute closer Leave No Cross Unturned, King Diamond Satanic magic carpeting over boundless epic, dynamic speed, and Oxford commafuls of tempos shifting pitch. What the fuck just happened, Darkthrone just fucking happened. If only I could bellow joy like Kim Bendix Petersen and only you could hear.

Axiom grease

If something's going good, give it twenty-four hours.

Every three months, The Blizzard rages.*

Here's some metal, 'cause monkeys dance.



*not exactly axiomatic, but what is the internet but lies and porn?

The League of (the same ole) Nations

♪ Predictions, predictions, roly poly predictions, eat them up, yum ♫

The first week of the fall semester: nothing is a finer reminder of just how much I really loathe other humans man you fuckers are annoying. How about doing something for yourself, disorganized space cadets. Now, on to more important things, namely humans I don't have to interact with, ever.

Disclaimer: if you're looking for analysis with depth, I'm sure there's an expert who shacks up with the devil in the deep blue Marianas Trench.

A: Anyone-But-PSG, & all former Yugos suck, thus Porto & Dynamo Kiev.
B: ARSENE! &, since Giroud's gone, a Raul-less Schalke, I guess.
C: Milan is lucky. Them & Zenit, especially if Hulk bixbys over.
D: HA HA CITY HA HA. Fucking Madrid & Borussia.
E: Fucking Chelsea & a sack of cheaters (everyone in the Oakland Raiders of footie leagues cheats)
F: FC Hollywood & Valencia.
G: Celtic, you're fucked. Enjoy the cash. B & B.
H: If Man U fucks this up, time to toss SAF in a peat bog.

This year's APOEL: bet there ain't one.

Blah v aw yiss, or, is this thing on?

Ye Olde Ænglisc footie starts in the morn [ed. note: en plus, the Slab is closed, not permanently, sadly, not that my bank account heralds future world traveler], a boon for this bane of sociability. I should just fatten up & grow a mountainous beard already. No peaks 'round here, though plenty of valleys badoomboom, & since I can't swing that local abode graced with a Wizard Tower, murky meditation 'tis twixt ventures midst sky & wilderness masquerading as steel & glass. If I play my sorcery right, perhaps a foray into grass.

No, I'll wait for the obligatory pot jokes though I don't mean that at all.

Done? Good. Title tip: don't lay any quatloos on West Ham. Mmmm, ham.

I'm gonna send you back to old schoolin'

Jesus Hernandez Cthulhu, the Big Cup's Pointless Phase Shift has already begun with shocking! lack o' brass, too bad Dudelange dude lange lagrange a pow pow pow not a fan, but 1963 since a Luxembourgeois squad has, nevermind. Fuck this sack- & vagina-less league shit. See what I did there, genitalia genius. Man, that riff smokes water, fires skies, plus you could churn it out in a lute shoppe without getting a half stack in the kneecap. My copy of this disappeared ages ago, but working in a library has its benefits beyond oscillation twixt hanging ten & spacing out with the occasional sprinkles-on-top of ranting to no one/suckers in the immediate radius as we anathematize all those who oppose us. Guess that reference, win a prize. Hint: 'tis actually post-1980, the year of Women and Children First & joyous Saturnalia receipt of the Alpha-1 Rocket Base. I swear on this book of carpet samples.

Stop swashing your fucking buckle, or, Mr. Sandman bring me a dream hold the police

Don't you hate stanzas. 
Why I sport shorts. 
I'm the walking dude.
No gasoline. Bath salts, light these.
It's a teeth grinder.   
I can see all the world in pulp battles.
Rhymes are crimes. 
I vomit tomato soup in your general direction.  
Juiblex is a vomiting möbius.
Oh where oh where have those fish crackers GONE.
Danno, murder one. 
Anti-pachycephalosaurs --
Midnight mountain handclapping I will be.
Clap or clap not, there is always your rotten core.
-- welcome to thunderdome.
We're gonna need a bigger bowl. 
That's what I'm talkin' 'bout. 
Fried arterial shocks, yum. 
I am Albino, you wish to see me inquisition your Spain.
Your eyes are anticlimactic as your brain --
Tra la la la, yawn.
-- the discouerie of a supernaut's frozen bravado fifty proxies too late.
Fifty shots, none on target.
Matthew Hopkins, in the library, with the red-hot thought.  

We now return you to your regularly scheduled Peanuts reruns, pentagrams of blood holding the jackal's truth, Frost & Fire, booze, & the letter Q.

P.S. Go wish Zizou bon anniversaire before he cracks your chest open.

Old Euro

Club football's where it's at? I don't care, whispering sweet nothings to the big R over post-whatever as I swoon over a knightly tournament between the rich man's borders mapped in corpses, at least until 2016 when future FIFA Pretzeldent-for-life (you used to be cool, man) porks the Euro out like a North American everyone's-a-winner playoff. Hungary, there's hope for your very own group stage failure. I'm hungry. While I make me some chow, i.e. buy salt from the vending machine because this heart won't attack itself, learn who'll advance & hoist a trophy far less useful than Lord Stanley's Cup & bet accordingly opposite.

Group A: Easiest quartet, possibly. Hardest to predict, certainly. Russia (Zenit), like Spain (Barcelona), has a core familiar with each other, but keep your ushanka on. For now, having no dog but four cats, I have decided to use my mutt heritage to uncover a temporary rooting interest. Scotland's too awful to qualify for anything these days (thus their hope in joint-landing 2020's bloat), Germany's the Fucking Yankees, Merrie Ole's that annoying brat who won't shut the fuck up, thus I'm leaving my kielbasa in Krakow. [ed. note: Parmastan's Polish Village, smartly tapping the zeitgeist, rerevisited the garage days, JP2's wrinkly mug once again decorating Via Popeorosa, though perhaps Jan Tomaszewski's would be more appropriate] Sure, solitary threat Lewandowski's feeds are gonna be marked into the turf, but at least Szczęsny [ed. note: no i? Decadent West, pshaw] won't always be suckered into cleaning up a Wengerian back four disaster. Right? Furthermore, Nergal told leukemia to fuck off somewhere near the Baltic, worth at least one game winner.



Solidarność! Cech's punchless Czechs grind out the other spot. Unlikely, though 'tis a convenient excuse to type Pooty garrotting someone in a dark alley. This Greece ain't as greasy as 2004, but bottles tend to break on the second bolt.

Group of Death: Since Bert van Marwijk's pragmatism incorporates the presence of Sensei Nigel's Withering Touch, I don't see how the Netherlands don't advance unless Arjen didn't waste all his misfires against Fucksea. Not opening against the Germans, who are really fucking good going forward, helps & then there are the hard-luck Danes. Someone's gotta finish last whilst a preening Ronaldo whines for another foul. Wow, that's a lot of negativity, but what's life but parking the bus so the 0-1 doesn't become 0-5?

Group C: Oh, Yugoslavia, dicked by nationalist dickheads, what might have been. Croatia may have the sniffles, such as a few greying scalps & an kinda-sorta out-of-form Modric, but the champs don't. Or do they? Too much mileage, plus no Napalm Death & no David Villa means Prandelli's house brand Baresis perhaps dash past. Speaking of the boot, Trap's Irish are tenacious D & little else; score early, & lollygag.

Group D: Each write-up is smaller than the last. Maybe I'm tired. France is back less of an epic clusterfuck than in South Africa, but the egadsly Gourcuff's ostensible "replacement" M'Vila is hurt, so maybe they're not, though Benzema's on fire, so maybe they are, look at that word count climb, Sweden is Sweden only in reverse, Ukraine Nation digs techno too much, & a well-coiffed England would win the MLS.

Quarterfinals: The Dutch cash the Czechs [read: Russia], groan, Sweden expects the Spanish Inquisition, groaner, Germany bests Poland (insert your own witty world war punchline, I'm at my Gleiwitz end), groanest, & the eye-talians cheese the inconsistent surrender monkeys, weak like an Uwe Boll flick.

Semifinals: In a rematch of Bladder's ugly final, the Spaniards huff one more time. 2/1 on someone receiving an unprofessional foul. Easy picking the obvious, which is, when there's a scandal (Totonero, Calciopoli), Italy flourishes. Does Serie B criminality banish such bathroom theories? They're going down in the group stage, aren't they. Naw, here. Maybe.

Final: The third time's charmless. Sorry, mushroom man. Germany 2, Spain 1.

This is what it feels like, when doves take a vacation day

Thanks to a comrade-in-armed-conflict, I will get to sit on my ass watching footie & consuming pizza rolls for the day [ed. note: can it, Columbus, or I'll live blog] which, to be sure, isn't as swanktacular as a chance at low-interruption creation & immersing within a painted apocalypse, but I've low no ambition beyond the occasional piece of occasionally not-sucky verse, a failure in progress; pretending to re-learn what little guitar I once pretended to learn; mock turtle penance for a multitude of sins; & moderately pleasant diversions before the inevitable myocardial infarction turns me into the material component for necromantic spellwork, verbal & somatic sold separately.

Beware the Ides of May

On everything, I've nothing to say. On some things, everything.

See, just like Joey Barton* Byron, minus the expensive threads, faraway sightseeing, freak personal issues & twitter poetick skille duh. En plus, that should totally be on a bumper sticker, ten bucks a pack, no COD or personal checks, put it right next to your Frogger 2012 or I brake for eukaryotes.

*dude, your drunken gifting of Fergie Time to City cost me first place thanks to Diego's fucking s-i-l, you fucking fuck go eat a gangrenous corpse



Look over the horizon, man, chuck city's closer every day, but till then, fun with puritans! 'tis exactly like a trip to Chuck E. Cheese only with grease & tabletop Space Invaders [ed. note: always wanted one of those, hint, hint] replaced by the über-straitlaced laced with hallucinatory ergotism.

Who knew they were such naughty minxes.

Stellar classification

Waiting in the sun, brain & blood churning out a phrase that rhymes with tree, pen blurting out oh, be a fine girl, kiss me, the end, never, the means, yes, oh yes. I loathe a parade but 70°'s now (mildly) groovy, less armageddon than it used to be.

Sure, bunch of stuff labeled 'fuckery' is still going on, still will, rancid butter n' splattered guts, son, you ain't wrenching the gears no matter what, so go play in the street, have fun, & watch out for rampaging Wheelie Buses, run by Skynet or not.

Even Fucking Chelsea victories canst derail thee.

I give this mood until about ten, then, the return of troo kvlt, baby.

Little lost lambs

If ordered by confidence, sure, Arsène's Arseholes would have been the runt crushed at the bottom (still not giving up on Give 'Em Hell APOEL only down one & damn right they'll get in at least two home cracks at goal before halftime) not 'cause this Milan is Capellonian, but 'cause of boogers but sweet merciful crap that was Keystonian why did I go home early for that & add to that that the that of not brewing a third thus alerting either the Duchess or myself or a third thing that the pot ist kaput, ja, not knowing till now

♪ this is what it feels like, when Vermaelen cries ♫

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

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

Every day is one of those days, or, posting as rote

What I had almost written was almost interesting, almost swear. Almost.

Fiddle-dee-dee, that will require a tetanus shot or eleven for 'tis only the month of the two-faced

It's not me, it's you. 

After a Sammy Hagar unplugged weekend, still unpacking The Google readership [ed. note: I really do try & check out everyone's shit & shit-to-be-clicked 'cause beats the alternative of "work," what a ringing endorsement, you say, relax, I say, your place will never be as useless as this holder, be proud], & I conclude, verily, this: silly season means jack, homes. The Year of Quetzalcoatl is l'année de nouveau tuneage [ed. note: & some choice remasters that were probably released last year, but I'm slow], as are all previous & future years.

Coronary corollary: The wisdom of crowds as oxymoron: the crowd is a toxin-wrapped package of flawed sausage links, as are thee, as is me, & if member-shaped members of this collective were to replace the current PTBs, same shit, different names, more or less panache TBD. Any gang above a baker's dozen is doomed to shiv spines various & sundry. Go do something better with your time, as will I after I finish this negative iota contribution to learned discourse, such as delving into necromancy in order to resurrect Zombie Harry Clarke so he can pen a fresh line of graphic novels.



I know 'tis not new. I don't care. Thanks for trying. 

Cheap laughs beats trenchant commentary beats scissors beats cheap laughs

 
 


Well that's settled.

Return to the mushroom kingdom

In light of errand running, chauffeuring the lunatic offspring to/from pretend learning, & copious amounts of grass cutting both foreign & domestic, I felt it was a stroke of mad genius to counter heart attack-inducing footie* couch potatoing with a morning stroll through the fungus.

*funny how Chelsea wasn't so staid whilst certain players johnterryfranklampard mostly rotted on the bench (if only Bayer could finish). That said, fuck Chelsea.

One of the nineteenth century's most famous courtesans wuz here.

Someday I'll be a real boy photographer. This was orange.

The village of jack o' lanterns has a new mayor.

Chez Randal.

Ditto.

A day in the life of a gentle hippie

ACT I
Gathering in the mushrooms.

 

ACT II
The village of jack o' lanterns.

ACT III
The fairy feller's master six-stroke divebomb & flyover.

ACT IV
Deep meditation & frisky composition,
i.e. verse, you're perilously close to becoming a basketball,
here, a death cap meal or embrace this destroying angel

[NOT PICTURED]

ACT V
The last notes of ink ring out in the rusty Jeep




in harmony with yon lovely song of Trees.

ACT VI
Euro 2012 qualifiers on the AV computation box.

Peace & long life.
Live long & prosper.