Last rites, or, metal up their ass

Yesterday, both Roboma & Obomney soiled our already not-that-fair center of this island universe. Today, Cliff Burton became a casualty of the Bus People, twenty-six years in the past. Coincidental time paradox? Methinks not.

Experimental jet set, trash, and no star sculptor, or, 99 lilaballons, or, everyone's stupid

Work No. 666: the lights going off and staying off. 

Can't wait for MOCA to counter with a foam show.

What, you thought I was gonna waste valuable electrons posting about the carefully managed clusterfuck that is hypersensitive Muslims, rapacious Westerners, false flag bearers, & the poor shlub in the street? Perhaps a traipse through a room of purple balloons would sooth their troubled souls.

Tyre! Tyre! burning bright in the suburbs of the night

The piece of shit can't actually traverse Routes 66, 666, or n.

A nail, nay, a screw, lay deep inside the rubber.

Lest ye thinketh this post is très sexy, 'twas only the catalyst for dropping off the wizard jeep, trudging with the SBH back chez Randal, waiting for five lousy minutes for the workingman to herald a fresh, shiny finish at least I got the dishes done, & trudging back, the damn sun out the whole time I hate getting all sweaty & grimy but verily, a necessitie in shewing evasion to both this shambler from beyond the stars

& the interwebs which saveth me from being the 14,346,193rd comment on [insert Issue of the Hour here] because if I can't convince you to spend valuable time listening to Emperor, what chance do I have with anything unimportant?

Go forth & multiply slack.

A stitch in time saves thousands

Let that mean whatever you wish. I just wanted some riffs. Wasn't I just here? My internal clock is broken. Chronometric fisticuffs. Blood sticking to guts sloshing in entrails. A pile of platters I don't feel like pontificating on. No thanks to waxing chortle on indubitable supervillain symbiosis.

In jet black meditation. Hand me that salvation, will ya?

Semper fudge

I'd love to (not really) pen a few-thousand-word screed on this nothing's shocking smooth criminal agitprop but 1)I'm on staycation & 2)I've got to download and print my very own Harrier and follow the simple instructions to start my Marine Air Squadron for my triumphant return to the Towering Slab.

Ya'll gettin' some troo kvlt shock & awe, motherfuckers.

The braine, halvynge been drayn'd -- prithee, rhyme ys wi'thee, & thou knowst yt

A Commick, poetick miscelany, upon a conglomorated particle of fire, noise of cannon, bathroom literature, braying of asses, and an not-yet-out law'd conceited MP or three, transmited by a quandam citizen of Clevelandia, now resident at Parmastan, to Scribes Sundree, Esq; at their Inter-On-Web, dated the 9th of lousy Smarch last O.S., Windows 7 prob. And also a wormwood and poetick consabulation and altercation upon a conjunction bored, viz. pointless fisticuffs.

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. 

Sing a lullaby, sleep now

Spent fifty-plus-one of Staycation '11 strick'n with decease, never happened at GenCon '88's Ye Olde Lich Hunt I can tell you, but 'tis no skinn'd nose, compost happens, et cetera yet this prevented a fulfillment of my homie duties, & I find as age strolls on by flipping both birds & righteous indignation these body parts wrapped in a piquant nelsonmuntzing, that now & then the vista of rituals that used to angry up the blood are sparser in number yet more potent, but lest me stab me in retaliation & then who would open the Towering Slab?

As for the rest, i.e. this, not sure what I want to do with it [ed. note: look for a resolution, amateur sleuths, you won't find it; nothing is ever resolved], as more & more each day the unimportant stuff becomes important & the important stuff less so which leads to a reevaluation of what's important. November 6, for example, ain't, though verily a chuckle riseth as we who rock &/or roll celebrate the birth of the guy who crooned this. Trust no one.

Did get one hunk of verse done, the dying breath of a year, cursed like all years, to fade in the slow burn, though, also like all, there are stars found in the black.

Paint the devil on the wall

Starting penning a bunch of razzmajazz about the consuming impulse aping vague symbols (linking arms, fiesta policing) encountered in passing by the finest corporate functionaries over water cooler gossip &/or a porn surf drive-by, but since that was a)simply an excuse to post ye olde school thrash & b)because I find civilization's slow burn apocalypse funny, erase et voilà.

Coda [ed. note: Zeppelin rules]: look, campus fuzz, I've worked essentially each & every Saturday for two decades, when I say we're open, we're open, so drop the technocrat procedure about your TPS report stating nothing is, post-bird, & send a truncheoned polyester to unlock the gates of knowledge, the lobby in the cant of the future pepper-sprayed.

Bombs? We don't need no stinkin' bombs

Suffocates efficiently as it preserves post-apocalyptic victuals those cans of cream of mushroom won't last forever. Snow, the other death from above.

Yeah, I know. I was hoping to sell out buy in, but I just don't have the marketing chops of The Big O. A recurring trope, yours truly as lazy.

To rectify video-lesse-nesse:



Play it loud or I'll snow on your house.

Shake, yratl, & yrolle

(Mostly) off the interwebs yesterday only to (mostly) find out that there's a whole lotta shakin' goin' on, & given that Bloomers is the firstest Lord Mayor ever to care about dirt, he's more than welcome to take the Towering Slab's guitar army of leaf blowers. You're Chuck Mosley, you independent, you.

It's not that I don't care, only that I've nothing to add. Mosquitoes occupy the bloated, undead flesh that is the state's shambling corpse, kept vaguely upright through the darkest necromancy, of course it's gonna scratch like Lee.

Stabbed in the hart

Since someone beat me to today's Rant, Being the Epilogue to a Selection from yesterday's Careful Hints, increasingly rare in the midst of this dump's inexorable photographic cavalcade (you're welcome, by the way), & said it swankier than I would have, duh, sever your technocratized brain for a slip of a moment & imagine the very top of Yggdrasil. If those branches are shaking, you know what's begun way down here in Midgard.

 


Hold on, buckaroos, prepare to lose, & watch out for cat vomit.

Speak softly & carry a loud heart

LONG LIVE FLASH! YOU'VE SAVED YOUR EARTH, HAVE A NICE DAY.

Despite the best "efforts" of PTBs various & sundry, the city continues to die after nine ten (+ accurate, but alliteration makes me all tingly), & doesn't feel threatened by a group containing itself to one quadrant of one Public Square, thus, what baby shampoo benevolence, look ma, no tears.

Shocking. 



A THREATENING DILEMMA 



Thirty-seven billion words screaming to spill (ed. note: but not on that second thing but I'm sure you can have fun in comments I guess just be sure to read the first; that; that; & that other fuck-if-I-know; maybe that; definitely that), about thirty-six I should, thirteen I will. Is that thirteen? Editor's notes don't count. Lucky day. A shot here & there sit idling, most (ed. note: some one) better than yesterday's quantity-face-punching-quality gig & attendant lack o' words from your friendly neighborhood lackwit, though still ick.

So, a joke.

Insomnia, booze & ______ walk into a bar. The bartender says [bar joke part 2]. Booze drinks himself to death, & insomnia trips over booze's corpse, falling into an eternal sleep.

Don't ask me what happened to ______.

Always couching the serious in humor. I hate defense mechanisms. 



THE EARL PRESENTS, GOOGLE AD HAIKU BY THE DUCHESS

Given my miserable failure as a submission machine -- I'll pause for the inevitable double entendre commentary, you're welcome -- once upon a blue moon I decided that any future batch of versifying will be comprised solely of stanzas molded from the raw clay of gmail Google ads, sure to be a winner in the eyes of the next MFA Bot gatekeeper.

While I continue to avoid getting around to that, enjoy a piece in the same vein from the non-fugly half of Peonage Local no. 13 on one of our favoritest people.

Ford trucks and babies
deer huntin' for the family
offroading Krampus

Same shit, different Saturday, or, nothing can kill the Grimace

 

There's a riot in my heart but my TV's not plasma
Vodka swilled burns the blood hotter than plasma --

hey, if Geezer can rhyme masses & masses in the greatest antiwar song in the history of recorded music in this our universe, parallel #11253-A, fuck off, but not until after you gather round for I shall tell you a tale of a second sight(ing).

I see helium.*

*high pitch lexicon

Once, when work-studied by the UofA, some of us chemistry department stockroomers (in league with our boss; that bug-eyed dude, coincidentally named Ted, was a subterranean oddity), when not stealing chunks of sodium (and other things)** to toss into nearby bodies of water, tied a bunch of garbage bags together, lifted a partially-empty tank from an abandoned lab, filled 'em up & launched the dirigible of a thousand faces. I think it eventually landed on the roof of the JAR, so we students left & got drunk on American beer because that, & garbage like Mad Dog & Yukon Jack, was all the Exchange Street shopkeep stocked, the only place nearby that would sell to underage cannon fodder. Closing ceremonies, blotto air guitaring to Rust In Peace.

**If so inclined, I really could have been an effective, if short-lived, terrorist, but what was there to fuck up in 1991 Rubber City besides rusty shackles & Fords. 

Today, off, & limey footie starts (big four/five/whatever yawn but at least it's not La Liga -- about fucking time -- please, Arsène, for purely aesthetic reasons, don't locate a D -- Balotelli eats babies, slicking his mohawk with their greasy Gerber blood -- fynd, dinas Abertawe!) & 'tis to rain which assuredly will keep me in front of the telly, precipitate being powerful enough to stave off darkthroning, all of the above moot since an attempt at faux biographical fiction's gonna kill me something dead because, for once, I'm trying.

I don't drink vodka, so next time, lighter-than-airists, drop some vino, yo.

Writing is hard.

Almost forgot, politics, politics, politics, satanic dums, spineless goopers, bloat, democracy, fart, I wanna be anarchy, fool's gold is up to $1800 an ounce a day keeps the gunmen at bay, bunga-bunga, seven deadly words, seven dirty sins, drinkin' & screwin' in an orderly fashion, I'm hungry like a first worlder, relax I'm no Boy Scout, anti-preparedness'll get this complicity killed during American Riot, you're welcome, giant carbon feet. The world's gonna end bloody no matter what, today, tomorrow, Quetzalcoatl, August 5th 2037 mark it down, prepare in your own special way with special sauce, I have my albums.

Amen.

Inside joke theatre

Losing drawing winning game no. 3745 of computer chess last evening to a chorus of ever-evaporating mid-priced vino slosh & the above sludge aficionados hazily summoned lazy summers that were still desperate to be youthful, the last time(!) I played the kynge's pastyme (not lawn darts, as I later discovered much to my chagrin) till the shiny new adding machine chez Randal & being a pop to a two-year old Doodily, standardized college testing as I type. If she bombs, I blame myself for not having her replicate my test eve experience of a Sammy Hagar Weekend inhaling doobie aroma* at a rock and/or roll show.

*recall, the definition's been recently updated, phone home

A hoop jump to be sure & she knows it, such realism offsetting my dismal failure to inculcate the cold, calculating murderessness of loud, sweaty, life-affirming power chords. SLAYER! SLAYER! just doesn't fire the synapses of either lunatic offspring, but as long as the system is used to bump up bill-paying skills -- folks gotta not desiccate -- in her career (nein!) field (non!) personal interest (oui!) of choice, I'm proud papa. Try & find a happy gig, kids, unless you get tingly designing weapons-grade pieces-parts, then may an industrial accident befall you in the nether regions.

Since I'm a selfish bastard, am I happy at my gig? What is my gig? This?



I remember those idealistic days. I also remember not lying. This?

Not mine, don't sue, thanks. I'm so old school I rhyme.
Anyway, in lieu of a frank & not that fascinating discussion of how our already subsumed if not outright ax-murdered-by-our-own-idle-hand-under-orders (ten bucks says the Germans already have a word for this) self-definition wicked witches when in direct contact with a vengeance neither swift nor entertaining, meted out over decades, so that we will wonder if the misery in our life is manifest, the machinations of Leonardo Leonardo, or... some third thing, tonight's program sublime. Told you. Would I lie? Cheers.

A Cold War bunker just outside of Tirana, Albania.

Between the Rossoneri losing to fucking third-rate limeys, a hound dog press and having run through every underage hooker in Italy --

Weelax. I find good place for party down. Eets new country, neer bluebeery heel.

Here?? Stronzo!

You whet see. We good time. Medvedev know nuthing.










The world leaders descend a dust-strewn, crumbling staircase.

Boot...










...you're dead!

 

Bunga bunga!











Fin.

Something wicked this way comes

Get ready for the newest volume of Choose Your Own Death, Jack Russell's Inferno or We Built This City On Dead Eardrums don't bore me with fussy details like no Slick or you'll ruin the joke, jerk. Speaking of the apocalypse, check out the Hi Super Nintendo Chalmers I'm Learnding! available where Hussein X speechified El Destructo the other night:

Does not require embiggen clearance, Lester.

Difficult to choose, but my current favorite might be the Power, Ideology and Legitimacy course that mentions Al-Qaeda, communism, fascism and "other utopian ideologies." Insert own punchline here.

One Seventeen Bourbon(s), One Twenty-Three Scotch(es) and One Six Cases of Beer

Whew! I can finally wipe off the dust & put that to good use.

On a more less not-all-that serious note, folks bag on goopers as being smart as a sack of really dumb rocks, but this is ingeniously supervillain, for booze, like porn, is coated with a year's supply of Recession Wax. I'm not saying the loot won't ooze to the usual suspects 'cause duh, thus my fellow Ohioans, please join me in a soon-to-be more expensive drink, not like you weren't gonna get blotto anyway 'cause you can't afford hookers n' blow like said usuals especially after hearing from fellow peonage about the technocracy's local HR bot layering red cake razzmatape (shorter: don't you or your future-winning children even *think* about getting really x 3 sick who do you think you are

"First, your shorter isn't very short. Second, everyone already knows this."

You again.



expendable worm, a said usual? [ed. note: deathly ill? Non, though it would be handy to have some basement junk to hawk on the Legitimate Businessman's Market, mayhap I'll become a pretzeldent]) at yesterday's staff meeting that I never attend & now I wish I had 'cause I rather enjoy a zesty snifter of angry blood ritual & a chortle chaser, this calls for some metal facing.  



Three days till catharsis woo!

Gov. Kasich & the Booze Czar (do we have one?) explain the finer points of scamola to a filthy rube. (h/t Charles)

Hole in the sky cosmic ceiling of consciousness & my wallet but not my heart well maybe just a little one

Man, it's hot.

Sweet merciful crap yesterday was unseasonably sweaty, Right Guard aplenty, that rhymes & you know that rhymes don't hang me for my crimes such as this café sunburn darkthroning in the woods with his chicken dinner a mere seventh of a fortnight earlier.

Man, it's not.

OMC*WHOATEALLTHESNOW!?!?!?!?

*Oh My Cthulhu



I did have a lovely dream last night as lovely goes for moi parce qu'I never dream about naked chicken dinners it's not fair, though, after coolly sloughing off the shock of sting from a giant psychedelic wasp, I watched Cryuff's miracle flight pock noted thespian Stan Stamenkovic into the great beyond blood & bone splattered across the continental drift, man, I loathed loathed that diving bastard. Kai Haaskivi motherfucker.

Cleveland has now decided, after years & years of low-key thee green boozeroony, to party for their right to fight.

 



Dear Moneyed Jerks of America,

For the low low cost of one-half of a quarter of a bomb (this is going to go well -- for the usual suspects, that is, chortle), you too can buy one gently-used Baltimore Poe House & Museum. You'll be the envy of all your friends at the next passive-aggressive charity gala. Don't make Li'l Edgar cry.

Ever your slacker,

Employee 78911265-B-27Q

Hell is other hells (the ones without sex, drugs & rock &/or roll such as the Hell Where People Are Skinned Alive, duh)

Knows what's in a six-demon bag.

Does that mean the library is hell? One does detect from day to hour the deliciously acrid scent of weed wafting through the air off of various tweed-clad professors & tracksuited & ugged students no I'm not naming names but ever since that pseudo-renovation the back stairwell is no longer the hangout of choice for either stoners or amateur filmmakers not that kind of film you sick bastards. Rock &/or roll? Books on the usual suspects (DYLAN UBER ALLES ACHTUNG LENNON/MCCARTNEY MACHT FREI) but admin won't go for Darkthrone as closeout in lieu of less abrasive announcing. Wankers.

As for an activity that has pride of place in the loins of many fine & not-so-fine folks, one does occasionally come across a condom wrapper, though that's as rare as un étudiant not declaring, upon hearing the due date, that he/she/it will return the books sooner rather than then 'cause he/she/it's got a paper on procrastination due tomorrow guffaw never heard that one fourteen billion times over the last two decades. Not all oldies are goodies, bubs & bubettes.

I need a vacation. I hear Venezuela's nice.



"I'll let you know, but first, the massacre, then, the discotheque. Bunga bunga!"

The Bank of Hades card. Don't leave the black pit of despair without it*

All Li'l Edgar dances with is Discover & himself. 

*not accepted in Tartarus or New Jersey. 

Prélude à l'après-midi d'un pretzeldent: I can hear the Cleveland monologuery Q & A'd on the talking picture box -- curse ye, unknown coworker! -- which means I'm well within my right to air guitar to 90 decibels of Negative Plane.

Win the Future™!

The inexorable drone of existence continues unabated, or, how 'bout that local sports team?

I'm sure some fools patriots interested parties Democrats Republicans independents soccer moms NASCAR dads whatever the talking hairpieces' unwashed mass flavor of the week is C-Span junkies heroin junkies Soviet satellite aficionados

Gasp! I knew it!

anarchists the unemployable angry loners drunks masochists watched The State™ last night & since I already explained my view on the subject & being thoroughly unprofessional &/or not a supervillain & we've already burned through 3,447 importantly pivoting critical moments in our long national pirouette I'm sure this 3,448th is the Gozerian key, bonne chance, suckers.
Slow ride, take it easy, th'eternall Glasse awaits ye.  

Oh, the local sports team(s) suck(s). But, like the above, you knew that.

Oh, P.S., help a fellow traveler out, the internets must be swankified.