Monday, August 31, 2009

Share a Snapshot

I made Tabouli (spl?). Yes, it's a Middle Eastern dish. The Iraqi method of cooking requires no heating.
The American method requires you to "nuke it" thirty to forty times on high for five years a pop.
Strange world.
I'm broke again and I had to resort to using alternate spices and seasonings.
The recipe:

Bulgar wheat: I happened to have some of this in bulk, as bulgar is my favorite of wheats - whaddya know?
Olive oil: I had none of this, so I just strained some canned olives.
Salt and pepper: I have no idea what either of these are, so I just through in weed.
Lemon juice: Used a pineapple.
Anise: ??? Poured a beer in.
Tomatoes: I always have tomatoes.
Green onion: Green onion, green ice cream - what's the diff? Who is the wiser?
Mint leave: I already threw chocolate chip mint ice cream in.

To my chagrin, the Tabouli (spl?) ended up tasting like wasabi almonds.
That's how life is, though.
You try to make Tabouli (spl?) and end up with wasabi almonds.
Well, if life hands you wasabi almonds...

Sunday, August 30, 2009


June 29, 2003

Littered on the floor beside me:

4 glasses half full
4 empty cheeseburger wrappers
1 empty container of fries
2 empty Starbucks cups
2 beer bottles (empty)
4 empty beer cans
1 water bottle
1 Pepsi can
3 tissues
1 Starbucks lid
Multiple napkins
1 pen
...and I just put another empty beer bottle down.

The Maker's Diet

Susan Powter was out in my garden, eating azales.
I could harldy blame her; I had just had a sunflower.
Salad with rose water dressing.
God bless the gurus, eaters of their own organic bile.
Dennis Miller; when did he go corrupt?
Bearded bullshit from and ice cream man.
But, Susan is out in the garden eating the flowers again. She stinks of divorce and alcoholism.

Friday, August 28, 2009


Stadardized testing
Will eliminate us all from the
Next glass
Of milk you drink
Enjoy your freedom
Marijuana smells like Spierement
Gary Locke stinks of....

Sci Fi Movie About the Future

K, let's go ahead and open up to a clear landscape full of highways. And, let's go ahead and have some ground vehicles moving along on the highways out towards the horizon. Now, let's throw some flying vehicles crisscrossing the highways above. We'd be lost without a music soundtack - some space aged stuff. Let's tune that up.

...That's the movie. Four full hours.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Kennedy and Jackson Share a Beer in the Afterlife or How Glen Beck and Big Macs are not Real

No one deserves a drinking buddy more than Michael Jackson.
The man's entire life is a testament to the fact that you can never, in W.C. Fields' words, trust a non-drinker.
And now he has Teddy to drink with.
What's important to know about drinking with Teddy is that the man demands that you get just as drunk as he is, or he's liable to start second guessing your judgment.
I can remember falling back a few drinks once and he began asking me how one could be friends with him.
I explained that he was rich and powerful and that I enjoyed the company of ghosts.
It's no secret that John and Bobby followed Teddy around badgering him about his drinking and womanizing long after their deaths.
Some even say that dreadful night in that town no one wants to pronounce was laid in motion when Jack appeared over his shoulder and hummed a particularly nasty nursery rhyme in Teddy's ear. The shock sent him driving into the harbor and a woman was left dead.
That blood is on Jack's hands, not Teddy's and any insider in Washington knows this.
But back to Michael – I believe there's something like a heaven after you die. Something like a hell. I also believe there's something like a limbo and that's right where we all are now.
Michael left Limbo.
Maybe it was after years of hell he finally wound up trying to fall asleep in Limbo and just shot right on through to Heaven.
When a dead President wanders around Washington D.C. blowing out his own eternal flame as a gag, anything is possible.
And so, with that in mind, apparently Glen Beck is on his way out.
Beck is the born again Mormon, recovering alcoholic, and hemorrhoid sufferer who went from having a one off on CNN to becoming Rush Limbaugh's heir apparent - all in time for Health Care Reform.
You could almost graph the beginning, peak, and end of Obamacare using Glen Beck's rise to fame.
And now Health Care Reform and Glen Beck are gone.
Sure, some might say there was an impressive attack on Beck's advertisers that led to his downfall. But if you buy that, tell me how the Iraq War, Patriot Act, and 2000 election weren't quickly solved by the ferocious heart of the Johnny Letters of the liberal left.
No, Beck was a patsy who aped whatever the insurance companies told him to. And when Health Care Reform was done, it was time to get rid of Glen Beck.
"Folks, put the shotguns away. Settle all bets. This minor scare is over. Long live Aetna!"
But hell, with doctors like Jackson's, who wants health care? I mean, this guy must have been THE best to be tucked away in Neverland seeping heroin into the late, dead King of Pop.
But maybe that's for the best. You do your time on this planet and you get rewarded with a sweet, quick death at the hands of your very own personal assistant.
Somethings never change. A Big Mac will always taste like a Big Mac, no matter how much you want it to taste like food. At least once a month you'll have to apologize to someone for parking in their living room. And, you can sure as hell count on being haunted by dead relatives that want to remind you to play it safe.
Teddy did. Drunks are known for losing their temper and if Teddy had any firm beliefs in toppling fascist America, he was either pulling a Dean Martin and faking it this whole time, or he had his brother in his ear whispering "Back blacks, Israel, and Choice – the safest liberal turf."
Hell, the only ballsy one was Bobby who fought for Civil Rights when it wasn't the cool hip hop thing to do.
Now they're talking of Camelot being pinned to Obama, seeing how the last Kennedy's are married to Republicans, recovering junkies, or dead in an ocean.
I think if I was the first black President of the United States, the last thing I would want pinned on me is a legacy of getting assassinated and running prohibited intoxicants across borders.
I will predict Obama is done. Health Care Reform didn't destroy Clinton, but it will Obama, because there is the slimmest of chances that he meant it.
Obama has been a failure to FORREALZ Progressives ever since he was inaugurated, but some of us are still hoping he has a little Carter in him and maybe it's his handlers and not his own political greed that's driving him to all these Bushalike decisions.
But I'm not one of those people.
Pretty soon being outside of your home will be illegal after dark and there'll be another Obama-like candidate that will fight for our right to remain outdoors after dusk and they'll hire another Glen Beck to call walking outside after dusk


And that battle will be lost, and this great land will just assume that there's something evil about the dark and those that opt for walking in it must be rotten in the heart.
And Health Care? That will be up there with sodomizing kittens.
Twenty years ago a kid could bring Tylenol to school for a headache and now they get expelled.
It's all for the good of the country, or rather, for those that own the country.
Why do you think Bush was so into ownership? Of course it looked good to him, his people had made great strides in happiness through ownership.
But Bush is just another ghost now. He might still be in Limbo, but his penchant for alcoholism and pretzels tells me he's in hell. Like that Saturday Night Live skit, I can see him staring at a painting of Obama and wondering why the hell he got shat on and everyone seemed to love Obama for doing the same things.
Then, he'll remember the armed retarded cowboys at so-called Town Halls and sigh in relief.
The last thing this country wants is relief. There isn't an American out there that can't make it through life without the excitement of utter hatred for his fellow man.
So it went with slavery, so it went with Communism, Islam, Gays, you name it.
This country needs a good fight and we haven't had one since Afghanistan, and everyone knows that war ended after the first two months in 2001.
Ted Kennedy wasn't one to pick fights, but he was a drunk. That should be the definition of today's Democrat.
The Republicans keep throwing evil at us and the Democrats simply say "That's not very nice."
So, Teddy's probably up there drinking with Michael Jackson; the King of Pop drunk to the gills on some foo foo drink like a Bellini, while Teddy knocks back the most Irish of Whiskey and they talk about old times.
Like deals with dead Presidents, like how to fake you care, and how to Moonwalk all over the nation while no one has any idea if you are in motion or just standing there stump drunk passing more legislation on how to legislate.
And if this is all rather hamfisted and meandering, keep in mind that I just had a Big Mac and it not only didn't taste like food, it left me with a gorgeous stomach ache that's blossomed in my head and is now writing about dead Presidents, Pop Stars, and Public Options.


He Sewed His Eyes Shut

I washed the car today.

Lunchmeat World

Velveeta and sausage
Velveeta and sausage
Recall, brocolli
for your
Your Club with dressing
It's an
American cheese
and sausage
Just four more slices of bacon
Fucking yeah!
I want vinegar and salt
On that motherfucker
Just keeping it real
And put it in
That clear bag
Velveeta and sausage
Potato chips!
Potato chips!
And don't forget to add them
Tomatoes, my friend
And lettuce
And cucumbers
You know my potato chip clear bag ways
That's right!

Wednesday, August 26, 2009


There's little I can say about how much I feel during my visit to the Nazi dentist. He's taking his time pulling out my teeth and the local he gave me is wearing off.
He's not a bad dentist, he's just a little greedy. Did he ask me for my gold teeth?
I tried to make a bargain with him. I promised him the teeth once I was dead, but he's thirty years older than me, so it's not much of a deal.
Well, maybe it is if you believe the stories about the camps.
Crap, that one hurt . I'm pawing his arm, but he keeps shushing me.
Shouldn't he be wearing gloves? You know, those instruments don't look too clean, either.


The nerve of this Jew, asking for a bargain! Was he making fun of me? My age? I've heard they're smart, maybe this one is trying to get one over on me.
Heil Hitler!
I love repeating that in my head when my conscience starts to act up.
One hundred years from now, I will be the thing of myths!
The elder Nazi assigned to extract rummy gold from the pestilence of society.
What a joke.
Why couldn't I be younger? On the front lines, fighting Red scum?
But, instead, I'm in here being pawed by some Jew who can't take the pain.


K, looks like he's done.
Whoa, my jaw feels so much lighter.
Thanks, Hitler.
Oh, Hitler, you brilliant, brilliant man.
I heard a rumour that you have Jewish blood.
Is that true?
Would that make you a self-hating Jew?
I guess you've gone a bit passed my cousin Wilhelm, who just converted.
If it is true, and you are going to exterminate us, who will you have to blame for history in the future?
The Reds? The Arabs? Clowns? Mimes? Dogs! Cats! Trees!
Fuck you, Hitler!
Fuck you!


We'll have none of that. I see what your eyes say.
You hate me. And you should.
Mouth full of blood and empty sockets of gum. For each empty socket in your mouth I have one dead Jew on my hands.
Heil Hitler!
Heil. Heil. Heil. Heil.
Christ, get out of my head, woman!
Oh, Ellen, you were so smart. Did you really think they'd accept us as man and wife...
Nazi and vermin!


Should I tip him for this service?
I don't want to come off cheap.
What if I just shouted "I killed Christ and have raped German Aryans!"?
Just like that, at the top of my lungs.
What else could you do to me?
Would you look me in the eye then?
Am I making this all easier for him by not speaking? Becoming less and less human with every scream I don't give him?
They told me to be strong, not to show this filth my pain - to not let him have it.
But, I don't know, I think I'm making it easier for him.
What if he is innocent? What if this is all he can do to avoid getting shot?
Jew, we're taking your teeth or shooting you.
Dentist, you're pulling them, or we're shooting you.
Would I take his teeth?
No. I'd rather be shot then watch even this man suffer.
But, what if it was Hitler? Would I take his teeth?
Does Hitler even have teeth? Or is it just a maw filled with fire and brimstone?
What amazes me the most is that I wasn't religious until these...people called me a Jew.
Would it make me a demon or an angel to bless this man? Should I feel sorry for him, for what he is doing?
I'm weeping. I'm letting him see me weep. That's my blessing.


I can't take
Heil Hitler!
Heil Hitler!
A nice bath somewhere secret.
But, I know where I'm going.
To the land where you pull teeth from one shore and take them to the next.
Heil Hitler!
I'm not a religious man. But, I figure whatever is out there will make a religion just to punish things like me.
I want to believe they will.
Heil Hilter!
I want to believe in a thing that will strap me in a chair, pull out my teeth and watch me weep.



July 7, 2003

- Drunk, stoned...
Most of my afternoon was -------- no, let's start over.
Most of my afternoon was shadow of spectral images of my bosss.
She's an angry one when you - can you get fat surrunded by bacon grease in the air? - get her mad.
And today's (I feel it sapping into my skin) assignment can only end in failure.
MISSION: Deliver a newsletter to a printer. No problem. Give Alvin this envelope and ten bucks.
WHAT'S IN THE ENVELOPE: Bridal shower games.
WHY IS IT A PROBLEM: It's because it's me. I have troubles with small, easily accomplished tasks. That is why I know I will fuck this up someway.
But, I've said too much.
Oh, glum.
I spend the evening checking and rechecking that the bridal shower games are safe in my car. Away from flies, rain, steering wheel apparitions, and nuclear apocalypse.
It's something to do.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Mutton Hunger

I'm totally hyped to write a book called Mutton Hunger. It's about things. It sounds like a porno, but it's not. Therefore, it's not crude to those of you who have no sexual identity.
He had a brass axe and egg noodles for eyes. His only failing: Mutton Hunger.
Mutton Hunger:
It will send shivers to your very being. And your being is a woman named Maude. Accept it.
Mutton Hunger.

Hair Trimmings

Hair trimmings
Trim hair
She came in
With grandkids
They were cutting my hair
Say that again
Holy shit
Am I right
Fucking made me realize
Fucking made me realize


_My name is Oday.
_I am dead.


Spoons are useful.
I have a spoon curled up like a half-moon n the armchair I rest in.
I so love spoons.
I drink whiskey like Americans.
I'm so lost. Praise Allah!
I'm so. Spent.
We've been in this area for three weeks and they can't find us.
I enjoy tacos with blood-sauce.
We call it blood sauce because it looooks like head run-off.
I've seen many people killed.
JUst before me. Killed in extreme ways. My favorite was to watch a man eat his own penis to avoid gunfire, and even then we shot him.
I really do feel that this is all so very sick.
I feel so very wrong, and yet I can't stop myself from enjoying?
No, I've never enjoyed - but felt so numb to it.
I feel like it's so normal - you know, making a man rape his own daughter at gunpoint, it's like you feel like you should get a rush, but you don't.
It's all waste.
Everything is waste.
I hate the Jews and the Americans because it is so easy for me. It fuels me.
Deep in the remainder of my soul I know how awful I am.
And at the same time I see the Jewish-American axis raping my land.
No one tells them of civilians shot to pieces with shrapnel.
But, at the same time, I rape innocent civilians and laugh afterward.

-End Transmission-

-Begin Transmission-
But, where was I am?
I am dead, at least I believe myself to be dead.
I worried of Allah; I worried of my soul.
But, here I am at peace. I am in an armchair, in a white room with just me and my heroin.
I am so high.
When I look back I notice that I really wasn't all this way.
I remember keeping a cat in a locked drawer overnight, just to see what happened.
I had slept in another building and the next day I went to see what happened.
She was alive.
I could never forgive myself for putting her through that afterward.
I didn't...I didn't cry. I just realized that I had done something wrong - instinctively.
Where the hell that went? I don't know.
If this reads like a comedy, you are missing the point.
Do you know how many I have killed?
Then you know more than I.
I used to collect G.I. Joe figures. I drink Pepsi. I play Xbox. I have seen Caddyshack 300 times. I drink Budweiser. I drink whiskey. I smoke American cigarettes.

-End Transmission-

-Begin Transmission-

One time, as a boy, I prayed to Jesus Christ, just to see what happened.
I had prayed all day. I didn't want my mother to die.
She had been diagnosed with a tumor of the brain. I didn't want her to die and I had been praying to the almighty, Allah.
I grew concerned that it wasn't working. I prayed to Jesus and Moses and nothing happened.
Later, months later, I had forgotten about it as my mother became well.
I never cared about religion after that.

-End Transmission-

-Begin Transmission-

I just shot an enormous amount into my vein.
I just shot stuff into me.

-End Transmission-

-Begin Transmission-

This is better than living. I feel, somewhat, at peace. I am alone in this white room, in my armchair.
I wish everyone could be in this armchair with me.
I begin drinking at nine.
There was this one time me and my brother went fishing.
He had brought this exquisite pole and I had brought one I borrowed from my aunt. We went fishing and he ended up catching my bait. I laughed.
I laughed.

-End Transmission-

-Begin Serial File Number 808-

Subject at rest.
All vitals clear.
Administered thorazine at 8:09 AM.
Breach of security examined 10:20 AM.
Subject at rest 11:48 AM.
Sarah A. Silver in custody. 12:01 PM.
Breach secure. 1:49 PM.

-Begin Transmission-

Who said that?
Please! Let me leave!

-End Transmission-

-Begin Notes-

Subject identified intruder. One Sarah Amundson Silver. Intruder stopped, intruder named INVADER at 4:05 PM.


No, there is nothing you can give me.
Yes, I am Sarah.
Admundson - I already told you!
Is there any water?
Can I smoke?
No, he's not my boyfriend.
No relations, whatsoever.
You're really going to ask me that?
(INVADER spit on interregator)

-Break in transmission-

Washed aside
Like star dust
Washed aside
Falling into
Tin pits

-Program Run-

Tha Tha

This is the the-the. Tha. Happen to find the expierence quite startling. Sitting on a curb I fidn the rose bricks quite inspiring - or, to say they would. Chance a pass in the lower gears purr and voice the distant rain-appeal. Lighter ground for a higher consciousness - to be told. And have you seen the new night streamers go round? This is the black darkness of death. Bath drips like dead antelope down, down to the starving daughters that enjoy your WORK? And how do we come to this conclusion? So shaded and mundane. Word of God. word of God. This is the practice of atonement for grants, great, and piracy. Enjoy your day. Come what may. Mother may I sleep in the refuse, it's more practical than the alley can. And can I do the can-can-can once more? To these there never is a sin. And who show'd say why? And And And And And And And. Mother may I and? Have you juiced through the dead stump of favorite tame with the dead shrows of forgotten birds down below the cellar door. Down, down, down,
Did you down? Down aspirin with percoset with coin with coke with ephedrine. Tiny dots Tiny dots. Down by the fountain we went to see the rides.
June 2, 2003

Monday, August 24, 2009

Smart People

In a dimly lit garage, Franci and Chris sat. It was around one in the morning and something had to be done.
Out of all the ideas in the world that two junior high kids could have, this one sprang up:
"Let's go steal some cigarettes!" Chris said.
A fifteen minute walk later, they were across the street from the victim. Its name was QFC.
"Here's the deal, we go in separately and snag 'em. Then we'll meet back here." Chris said.
That was it. That was the plan. What creative minds. What smarts.
So, off they went; Francis first, Chris would enter later.
As Chris entered he noticed two great things: it seemed to be that only two men were working that night, and second - there were no customers.
As Chris walked, he had two contradictory thoughts running through his mind: the first was to not look suspicious, the second was to not look suspicious by trying not to look suspicious.
He looked suspicious.
The cigarettes were located up front, near the check outs. But on this glorious evening the checkers were doing whatever checkers do in aisles with those guns.
So, Chris sauntered towards the cigarettes and noticed Francis walking away. Chris then floundered for awhile and at last grabbed a pack of Newports.
Great job Chris, go for the gold.
Chris then ventured to find Francis who was by then over in produce.
Francis beamed a smile at Chris and patted his jacket.
"Three packs of Camels with free lighters in each." Francis said.
"I'm gonna buy a coke, you walkout while I'm getting rung up." The cigarettes were in Chris' pocket.
Francis was ignorant enough to put huge three-pack boxes of cigarettes in a flimsy Nike jacket. The cigarettes bulged out and beckoned "I'm stealing! I'm stealing!"
So, Chris went to the only open register and began the ritual of purchasing a good from a grocery store owned by a faceless company.
As Frances walked towards the door, the revelation of the century came to Chris.
"Hey, Francis! How ya doing?" Chris yelled.
"Hey, Chris - later."
"Wait!" The cashier screamed.
I'll stop here. What in God's name was Chris thinking by actually pointing his friend out? Here's what: It made it seem less like they came in together. Chris had by now made stupidity into somewhat of an art form.
Chris began running with the clerk at his heels and Francis in front.
"You better stop right there or your just gonna make it harder!" The clerk yelled.
"C'mon, Chris! Run!" Francis yelled.
Chris ran like a madman chasing the moon. He had no clue where he was going.
The clerk was behind him. Francis was out of sight. The thought that kep going through Chris' head was when he should stop running? He was way ahead of the clerk, but when would he know the clerk gave up? He couldn't look back.
Then it happened.
Chris had tripped over a bush. In the process he fucked up his arm. He lay on the street listening to the gradually increasing sound of the clerk's footfalls.
Chris was fucked.
Then, the only good idea of the whole night dawned on him: he took the cigarettes out of his pocket with his bad arm and threw.
They flew about a foot. Chris looked at the pack of smokes. They sat right next to him and seemed to be laughing. "Tee, hee, hee."
As the clerk came towards him, Chris began wailing to draw attention away from the Newports.
"I have no sympathy for you." The clerk said, then grabbed Chris by his good arm for the pilgrimage back to QFC.
They arrived at QFC. The police had already been called.
"Who's your friend?" Chris said nothing as he got frisked for anything he might have stolen.
"You didn't steal anything?" The clerk asked.
"No." Chris thought about the Newports n the street and held back laughter.
An older couple walked by and chastised Chris as he sat n the floor of QFC.
"Little bastard oughta be locked up!" The fat, beer-smelling man said and the woman who looked liked a five-cent hooker giggled.
To add insult to injury, two uniformed women came in. One was a cop, one was not. The latter was an Explorer cop. Now, Chris couldn't even sound cool when he told the story to the many parka-wearing "I wanna be in a gang" youths he hung out with.
Furthermore, she wasn't only an Explorer cop. She had gone to school and was friends with both Francis' and Chris' sisters. So, when they told her that Chris had called the boy Francis, she immediately knew who Francis was.
So, with his rights read to him and in the back seat of a police car, the cop and the half-a-cop drove to Francis' home.
All the while, Chris was thinking about how it was going to look when he got away and some how, magically, Francis got busted.
The search light on the top of the cop car beamed into the Layne living room where Francis' sister, Alice, was having a slumber party.
Luckily, for Chris, they didn't explore the house any further. Instead they drove Chris home.
After a bit of knocking, Chris mom opened the door to display the most outrageous afro on a white person that even Chris had seen.
The police briefed Chris' mom on what happened. Chris was never convicted of anything. Francis and Chris were separated by their parents for the duration of a month.
The next day, Chris went to the doctor for his arm. The doctor was located near the QFC.
Telling his mother, as they waited for the appointment, that he was going to stop in at the drug store, Chris meandered towards the bush which had blown the whole escapade.
Later, he smoke the Newports in his mother's room as he cleaned and listened to the new "Nirvana" group from Seattle.

I guess you can all guess who Chris really was. That's right - Alan Iverson.
Good night.

Four Enclosed Walls

September 6, 1998
195 lbs

I was about here, last night, when I decided I'd better get the hell out of the house. Night had fallen, coffee was getting cold and my brain needed something, besides myself, to listen to.
I called Josh, mentioned I'd like to do something. He was with Chris. These two were my last resort.
Chris called back later, looking for Traci's number. I believe it was a clever disguise saying "I know we're both bored as hell, I don't wanna hafta call Traci so - PLEASE HANG OUT WITH ME!"
I accepted, he was right, I need Traci's phone number too!
So, we called Pat, and, as luck would have it, they were going out. They being Pat and crew.
Down to Seattle's Pioneer square to drink and make merry.
Me and a fella named Brian decided to drink in a convenient store, instead of paying cover and four-dollar drinks at the club.
We only had two hours before last call, anyway.
After we paraded about to a teeny club and were dismissed for the stench on Brian's breath.
To the porn!
We ventured to the Lusty Lady. I watched a few fuck flicks, Weisberg went gaga in the strip shows and Brian and Neil walked the halls, bitchin about going to another club.
Later, Brian caught sight of a Russian strokin one off to a dildo-carrying strip-slut. Weisberg then walked in on the poor Commi.
We left.
More porn was to be had!
Down to the sex boutique. I tried to find something of interest, but found some sort of adult voice telling me how stupid it all was.
I left empty handed. Weisberg bought various magazines.
We left Seattle. I went home and then to bed.
Today I've been bored off y ass with nothing to do.
A bit ago I talked to Traci. She can be a large-type annoyance. But, today I enjoyed what I thougth would be a nowhere conversation. She's fun to talk to about sex. Why? She's honest about the vice. I masturbate too much, she fucks too much - so I shut up and listen.
A recent pregnancy scare has driven her to celibacy. A pact with God and a period is all it took. It wasa funny conversation, with her admitting that she just plain likes sex too much. Then, came around to say that once she had it, she'd wonder "Why did I fuck this guy, it wasn't even that good."
It reminds me of drinking, and she used that as an analogy.
One worry I had was that she would give me guilt aout not talking to her after we had had sex.
Traci and I only hang out about once every two months anyway - it had nothing to do with the sex. So, when she popped in with " I thought you'd never call me."
I didn't think it had been that long.
I remember the event. It was hot out and I think I went limp at one point and gave up. It was a most embarrassing spectacle.
"Why?" I asked, figuring she thought I was embarrassed about the ugly event that ended with me saying "London Bridge is falling down."
She said "Cause you haven't called me since we fucked."
It made me laugh and excited at the same time.
When women say "we fucked" it gets me going.

Friday, August 21, 2009

District Nine Review

All in all this was a good movie. I enjoy Sci Fi and this movie touched on all the hallmarks of good Sci Fi. Let's take a peak:

The movie begins in Johannesburg, Ethiopia in the year 2934. A large ship full of brain draining arachnids has shuttled it's crew from the war torn Earth of that year to the New York of 1988.
The arachnids arrive in full New Wave regalia and with a little help from their human slaves, have managed to get away as Brits.
"We're Brits!" They say any time anyone asks them why they speak in this chunky language, but since they are speaking in that language, everyone just figures they are from New Jersey.
At this point, one of the arachnids, begins voice overing a narrative of their struggle, and it is revealed that the space creatures are called Pocky. That's for plural and singular. If you are a Pocky, then you and your Pocky can go to the store and buy a hotdog. That kind of thing.
Anyway, this causes confusion with the candy by the same name, but only in Japan and Cost Plus.
Moving right along, the Pocky had come to Earth in the year 2934 to get a better deal on Health Care. At that point in history, Ethiopia was the only country where it didn't cost over a million dollars to have a doctor remove a splinter and pour hydrogen peroxide on it.
But it was still fucking expensive!
So, the Pocky went back in time to 1988 to get free health care in Canada, but arrived in New York. Since they didn't know the language, they had no idea that they were miles away from Canada.
So, the Pocky begin making YouTube videos of themselves being funny in the office. Like, there's this one where the one Pocky is trying to sell this guy insurance (not health, auto) and one of his antennae pops out of the human mask and scares the guy to death. Literally – he dies. But he doesn't just die, he blows up like a balloon made of chum.
But aren't they in 1988?
Yes, they are uploading the movies from 1988 to the year 2009. That's where we come in.
So, you see this movie of this guy blowing up and they pan out and it turns out WE were watching the movie the whole time.
Then District 9 starts.

So Say the Recipe

Ignore the evidence
Salad is quick
Come forsake my angel night
Come extinguish the light.

Come and play my game

Run down that badger, Kip
Come smell my rock-bottom

Escape the medic!
Escape the medicine?

Revolve around time
Corrupting my parapet.


Say what?

Cross and helix
Escape my parapet.

Clumsy. Obnoxious.
Left hand porno movie.

I met a grocery clerk
on my midnight errands.
It was a month ago,
somewhere in August
I was purchasing
supplies for the coming week.
I believe it was
coffee, juice
and assorted snacks.
She stood at the register
going through the midnight
motions of nothing to do.
She wore a white shirt
and an apron of blue.
She went through her
chores of nothing to do,
while I picked out
groceries of liquid, food,
and tobacco.
No sign in her eyes,
as I walked the long
aisle, so I went
upon the motions
of fidgeting
and looking at the
It was midnight
in the grocery
I was buying
rations for the
week to come.
Gravely, I looked
at the time,
feigning an appointment
that would never arrive.
She wore make up
and earrings, and
hair auburn-fall,
August was upon us,
but the hair proclaimed
The time was midnight,
as far as I remember.
It was my turn now
to purchase my things,
I left them n the
to be processed
into bill and bag.
She smiled at me,
and I lost my nerve,
I couldn't speak a sentence, syllable
or word.
My name was printed
on the bank's check,
and she recognized
the last.
And after my

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Shape Up

July 1, 2003

I decided to shape up.
I quit everything and I'm better for it.
One day at a time.
They still come by.
But, it will pass.

Fishing for Bait

Later on in the day
It was quite concentrated
Lover of the trajectory

Falling down on ribbons
-and cods
Quite fantastic
Mr. Plastic

Fallng on my skin
Brings out the nerves

Playing plaster
With your laser caster
Come closer, my scent
The death-bottom

Oh, my little bitch

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Canadian PM Declares France a Colony

It's Time for Alberta to Take Charge

Recently, the other day, the Prime Minister of Canadia revealed Quebec to be a nation within a nation.

Not since Hitler annexed the Sudetenland has such a gross reach for power been displayed by a human being. Sure, you could go back to the dinosaur times when Mandy the brontosaurus clambered to take power of Pangaea from Moses, but that was before Christ died for our sins, so it doesn't really count.

A nation within a nation is the same thing as making a state inside a state. Most of the population of Earth is American, as the bar graphs below will display, and I feel that the following comparison will help you understand what the evil dictator of Canadico is trying to do: Imagine New York was its own nation inside the state of Delaware? Imagine how New Yorkers would respond to that news: they would overthrow the capitol of Delaware and eat their children. It's common knowledge that the average New Yorker is fed babies from the day they are born. Haven't you ever wondered who really started the Holocaust – New Yorkers.

Look, I don't want to trouble you with these problems. As 98% of the population of this Earth is Americans, this Canawdian stuff doesn't really affect you. But, you have to look at it deeper. What lies below the surface is unsettling – some would say shocking. A report received by this news agency just nine years ago reveals that nation-within-nation-building is on the rise.

Look at the statistics: 5/1%, 8/4%, 43%

Shocking, no?

So, what can we do about this threat to freedom? You guessed it – attack it. But, not us - no, we have to keep ourselves busy with liberating the other 2% of this planet. Everyone (98%) will agree that Iraq should be looked on as a model for liberation and successful war-waging. If we look to the brilliant architects of that war – D to the Rum and Con to the Rice and yabba dabba Pizzaul to the Wolfin – you'll find that they all have one thing in common – they are all from Alberta.

It's true.

Donald Rumsfeld grew up in the small town of Somesmalltown, Alberta in 1897 – 1894. Condoleeza Rice matriculated from Alberta High in 1988. And Paul Wolfowitz was an airman for the Royal Albertian Longbow society – look it up, it's on the Internet.

So, I guess you can see what I'm driving at – Alberta needs to invade Quebec.

I, like our (98% of you's) President believe in delivering freedom by the means of angry, diabolical, orgasmic warfare. Sure, some think that peace can be achieved by a handshake – not I.

I believe we need to deliver peace like a pickaxe to the face of tyranny. I believe we need to send freedom by way of an exploding dart that you shoot from bamboo into your enemies face and then his face starts to wither and then BLAMO - his face totally explodes because you equipped your dart with an explosive. Or, wait – nukes! So, you deliver peace to your enemy in this awesome bomb that annihilates all the living creatures (except cats and dogs, because people like those things) and leaves all the businesses and money and cheese and porno for us to enjoy when we bring our peace to them.

So, my point is, we need to look to Alberta to save freedom for Canadaw. I believe they can do this in a two-prong approach. See, Alberta is situated to the right of Russia and China. Quebec is on the right. Frenchland is up above it all (and are arming Quebec as I write this). What I believe Alberta needs to do is first win the hearts and minds of Quebec by killing Martin Short (I think he's from Vancouver), and then they need to make friends with the Russian Czar and the Chinese King Topeka. Next, they need to send their troops into Frenchland. But, and here's the rub, at the same time send their nukes to Quebec. So, Quebec's all thinking – "Dude, they're totally attacking Frenchland – dope, let's get high" and Frenchland would be thinking "Shit!" But, all the while – death from above.

Soon, Quebec would be a smoldering ruin – except for the cats and the dogs and the cheese and the porno and there's like these hotchicks that are so hot that they can't be killed by conventional weapons and this one Albertan comes marching through and plants an Albertian flag in the dead body of Rick Moranis and

You get the point.

So, let history judge my plan and me. Let the revisionist historians say that we didn't win in Iraq or that we didn't nuke Quebec, but remember – only true patriots dream and only true patriots go to war (in their heads) and only a true patriot can enter American soil and such and such.

God Bless Canada

Robert P. Zechert

Bar Graphs: *&^$%^#^&#&60%3

Big Foot Larry

It has been proven today that Bigfoot is real. Not only did he die for your sins, he died for a reasonable quote on his insurance.

By no way am I trying to discount Christ. He died for your sins too, but he died in a simpler age when affordable car insurance didn't exist.

Why would it? The caveman that lived in Christ's time couldn't afford cars. Battling dinosaurs to save Christopher Columbus from the Inquisition was taxing enough. Also, back then a car cost around 24 billion-billion dollars. That's because they were made from diamonds in a mine made out of pure gold. Look it up.

But, back to the Bigfeet. Modern medicine, with the help of stem cells from baby albino children's ghosts have saved a Bigfoot from certain death. The Bigfoot was found full of shrapnel in Basra, Iraq.

Bigfoot enlisted in the Army Rangers, shortly before Christmas of 2003. According to his biographer Bigfoot felt that he needed to do his part for a country that didn't even believe he existed. Now THAT'S patriotism.

Others in his squadron didn't even realize he was a Bigfoot.

Lance Corporal R. Kilgore explains "Yeah, he was a hairy bastard, but he told us it was just glandular. So, then we got really quiet cuz we felt bad that we were making fun of someone with a disease. Like, when you make fun of a really dumb kid and find out he's a retard – I mean, retarded-American. It was like that."

The squadron related the final days of Bigfoot, his brief death, and his apparent resurrection. L.C. Kilgore was the only soldier to give his name (for obvious reasons).

According to their story, the Bigfoot, or "Larry" tried to teach the soldiers and the Iraqis a "simple peace" or a "code of the brotherhood of man." Most of what he taught appears to be nothing more than fables gleaned from breakfast cereal commercials. One such story goes thusly:

And who to thee will give it the marshmallow of life? Who to thee will giveth gold from a bowl, and then steal it away like a thief in the night? Woe to thee, yon rabbit, leprechaun, or bunny.

The soldiers weren't sure what to make of Larry's words, but they said they still felt awful bad about "ribbin'" on him when he had "that granular disease."

But, it wasn't just stories that fed the myth and legend of Larry the Bigfoot, it was also miracles.

L.C. Kilgore explains "So, we had just stolen a case of Crystal Pepsi from this other squadron and we were really in good spirits. Well, Larry comes over and punches (NAME WITHHELD) in the face. Then, he swigs all the Crystal Pepsi and belches this super big belch. I mean, it was unbelievable. Then he started bitching about his auto insurance and how Geico had ripped him off. I wouldn't call it a miracle, but it was miraculous."

Little did Kilgore know, the word miraculous means the action was a miracle.

Christmas miracle?

Then came Christmas of 2006. The soldiers knew a heck of a lot of "flak" was coming their way. It was ugly in Iraq and getting uglier. Larry began telling the soldiers that he was going to perform one of his patented miracles.

The soldiers were less than overjoyed. The last miracle ended with one of the soldier's wives pregnant.

"Yeah, it wasn't the greatest combo for us: the insurgency getting stronger and Larry promising to perform another miracle."

But, on Christmas Eve the soldiers noticed a bright star in the sky.
"I remember thinking, by God, the savior has come."

No, it wasn't Jesus Christ, but a lowly, drunken Bigfoot named Larry that had stolen a Huey helicopter.

"I don't know what he was trying to pull, but it must not have turned out, cuz he came straight into the mess hall like a rocket."

Yes, it was another Larry miracle. One that killed three and injured eight. He had spray painted Geico with a circle around it and slash through.


Crews arrived on the scene and pronounced Larry dead two hours later. One week later, Larry showed up to Sunday services in a tuxedo.
"It was miraculous. Either that, or he wasn't dead – like maybe we don't know enough about Bigfoot anatomy to pronounce a Bigfoot dead? Also, I guess Larry kept stem cells in his pocket just in case something were to happen to him. Maybe they worked? Maybe the Republicans are wrong? Whatever happened, Bigfoot Larry was really mad and really drunk. We had buried him and all. It must have been a bitch to get out of that grave."

The next hour and a half of carnage left nine dead and three wounded. Larry then took off in another Huey and was never seen again.

Messiah? Bigfoot? Drunkard?

You decide, America. Send your thoughts to

Tuesday, August 18, 2009


The UFO timed out at O’Hare at approximately 4.20 PM. There was initial shock as it stopped revolving around itself, and shot out in the clouds, leaving a gaping hole that left the 26 bystanders shocked.

Shocked, as in gasps and screams being sent towards the heaven in general fear of what could actually run from 0 to who the fuck knows in less than .08 seconds.

It was Election Day, and in more unfuckingbelievable news, the Democrats swept the Congress and the Senate to ensure that fuckall continues to be done to stop the evil powers that be.

At the time of the event, I was sitting neatly at my computer punching up the latest poll results, hoping to God that somehow what I was seeing on my monitor was gonna do a goddamn to save this country from itself.

Little did I know that rusty imps, evil Liebermans in , and Hillaries in the wings were making sure that every vote went towards the same party.

Meanwhile, a UFO was causing generalized religious experiences in what would otherwise be an airport with a neon lighting wing straight out of an Ah Ha video.

Imagine buying an Uno’s pizzaette while the biggest degree of human awestruckdumbness was occurring only yards away?

What they hell did they come for? Have they been coming for years? Who can stop them from giving us zero point energy and saving the Earth from ourselves, our Kind of Man?

Do they come in 57 varieties, like the famous Mr. Greer mentions? Do they abduct us in the dead of night and play with our collective genitalia in order to figure out why we spend 90% of our lives pissing or fucking?

Months later, the story breaks and the press distinguish it with jokes about interstellar overlords traveling 70 billion light years to get a good hotdog. Witnesses are purportedly abound in numbers, but hiding their secrets for some mondo change; some slip of paper signed by Rupert Murdoch that will give them riches and fortunes – AKA bigger houses, more donuts, and more drugs.

They’ll blow the money on their vices and end up on a reality show stating that they let the wad go to get away from their abusive father, husband, wife, sister, mother, brother, refrigerator repairman. All the while, they could have chanced a ride to fucking Orion.

On the heels of the reports, you’ll hear about lights in Arkansas explained as angels coming for Mankind. Pat Robertson announces the chances of rainfall occurring in Seattle – IN OUR TIME! George Bush flirts with Iran and Iran flirts with Israel.

Downed UFOs slam into South Africa and Iran. Russian rockets continue to burn up over America and the brightest comet ever comes around with two weeks warning.

I blow a flat and have to ask my Mom for 365 dollars to cover the damages.

Life is not simple. Life is hard. Life is really hard. If Life were an organ, it would be a huge, swollen cock.

Eddie Joe Money continues to buy gasoline, Hotpockets, and crack in America. Wampum Mayan Pookah continues to make ends meat with half a beetle and what fell in the last monsoon. Exxon Mobile Texaco continues to eat children in a not very literal sense.

So, it’s no real surprise when the aliens hang over an airport and decide to leave after only twenty minutes.

“Sorry baby, we gotta go.”

Later, the plot thickens as China sends satellite destroyers out into orbit and puzzles Washington’s mettle with its astute observation that America owes them an entire war deficit and has been selling secrets to their free agents since both Bushes and one Clinton came into the den.

The aliens furrow their brow and ask what’s next.

We somehow manage to answer in unison “Nevermind that, entertain us!”

Grays, greens, and Icke’s reptile people continue to visit and take us on board, if only to ask themselves “I still cannot fucking believe it” when we puzzle over how they have come so far without a superior reality television program.

American idols and top models tread the Earth as if Galileo and Einstein were child molesters and all we can ask for is a Texan with morals who will commit to destroying something at some time, if only we can take our eyes off our bills, children, and penchant for skipping work to own a Nintendo Wii.

The aliens don’t even wonder why, they just wonder what else could have owned such exquisite DNA and not sent supercollider end of fucking anything into the Universe.

Scratching their collective green, gray, and Chewbacca’d brows they send a team of crack nanobots to the Earth to destroy us once in for all.

But, the Americans have gained the upper edge and some dirty NASA man makes it possible to one up China and the nanobots are destroyed by good old fashioned American no how.

P.S. They missed every fucking satellite in their trajectory.

David and Goliath is a good Christian tale. And good Christians run the Earth. But, what if Goliath was the good guy?

I’m sure even Dr. Phil gets my point when we ruin it for what Carl Sagan would call billions and billions.

Fuck billions. It’s the universe and it’s THE NUT.

End game.

So, when an atypical anomaly manifest itself over an airport, don’t call Dan Akroyd or the Chicago Tribune. No, in my opinion throw rocks at it and hope that it has better judgment than your typical communist, homosexual, minority, liberal, peacenik alien and sends a large death ray into this overgrown double stuffed Uno’s special we smirk at and call Earth.

Check Out My Free Health Care

Better Than You…You Fucking Asshole

I think I can now fit in,

I’ll just wipe society’s royal ass

Again and again.

Ah, another crystal clear drink,

It is such fun to fit in and not think.

I’m here to stay.

Like a fruitcake

I’ll never go away,

But sent every year

Of every day.


Monday, August 17, 2009

This is Not a Saga

Vegas I

June 3, 2004

"Destination Entertainment!"

- Flyer on plane

On a plane.
Scott just let me take a peak at the average money spent in Vegas per stay - 503$.
I have, maybe, 403$.

Oh, listen. A girl once told me "they could feel the evil once they left the plane." She also told me "the devil lives there."
She may be right, but somehow I got out alive.
An overview of Vegas can be summed up by the smell. You'll walk a street and everything is fine, the only smell in the air is ugly heat. But, somehow, underneath it all, you'll smell sewage. Yes, it will hit you like a ton of bricks and bring tears to your eyes and then go away. That is the essence of this waste, this Babylon, this JESUS CHRIST MY DAUGHTER IS NOT GOING TO COLLEGE!!
Sound sad? Yes, maybe. But, the truth of the matter is this smell is real and will hit you nine times between the Flamingo and New York, New York.
Trust me, I'm not big on metaphors or similes, but GODDAMN! That smell will hit you when you least expect it. It's like finding a hole in a condom or like losing hundreds on a game named after an enchanted village.
Vegas is the nightmare that America has always hinted about.
But, all melodrama aside, it didn't kill me the way it would a Charlie Sheen or a guest guitarist with Stone Temple Pilots.
No, Vegas left me with the shits, if anything.
It seems that I'm not ballsy enough to let it kill me.
Yet, I still don't feel right.
I feel like I came close to learning a lesson, but didn't get far enough into the cookie jar to really get a good beating.
Everyone needs a good beating - look at Vietnam.
Or (country's name withheld out of respect for thousands of best intentions).
The point is: when America falls to the hands of vicious evildoers, Vegas will be the climax. No, not Washington D.C. Washington is not the epicenter of America. Vegas is. Star studded and immaculate on wings of cardboard and neon. This is the phony that puts America to shame. This is the town that makes infomercials like "American Idol" look like Broadway. This is it. This is the devil's spawn and should be treated like the lowest common denominator it is: a sickening sore hiding behind stars and stripes.
Vegas is proof that we stole the Holy Grail and filled it up with Thunderbird. Vegas is proof that America is a hypocrisy that feeds off suffering and excretes mirages of gold. Vegas is THE wilderness Jesus tread upon.
Sound heavy handed? Of course not - we've all been there and watched as our children asked us what "three-way dildo action" was after passing a newsstand in Vegas.

With that in mind, let's begin our quest in the wilderness with a beast that can barely spell, much less keep up with his own blog.

No, this is a tell all and the innocent will pay - BIG TIME!
Currently. A stewardess' ass is in my face as she explains, in jumbled English, the need for us all to stow something somewhere.
Me, I'm not big on stowing, but I take heed to her words.
It's an ugly situation - flying.
There's nothing but a wing and a prayer, and sometimes that prayer goes like this:

Jesus, Lord!

But, these are the good people at (name withheld).
No, the poor are like lambs unto God, and God wouldn't let the poor suffer....
But, that's childish. The poor are evil and every good Republican knows this.
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas - especially the poor.
Scott tells me that Vegas is teaming with the poor; they beat each other ugly, just to get a spot next to you to pick your pocket.
Lucky for me, I have embroidered chastity belts on every pocket I have. But, alas, this has nothing to do with the poor.
No, I don't trust myself with my own money.
Yes, the Wheel of Fortune will always tell you blatantly "YOU WILL ALWAYS LOSE."
But, that's all hearsay. No, the good will prevail.
Because, we are good Christians. We believe that George W. Bush will cleanse our souls of evil knowledge...of knowledge.
That's blasphemy, really. And I apologize. It only takes two minutes of W's prerecorded "for when the bastard croaks" History channel minute about Reagan, to know that this is a man of goodwill.
There's no reason to belittle a president when there's an economy that affords a lunatic, like myself, to spend hundreds on dollar drinks at the Barbary Coast.

Why do the "disaster" victims in the safety videos on the plane look so calm?
I'm sure it's been said - but GODDAMN!
Also, does anyone need to be reminded that you can't smoke on an airplane?
The engines are now boiling.
The throttle will soon - there it goes.
We begin moving.
The piston will soon rocket into the sky.
There's no stopping this beast.
The stewardess just abolished my CD player.
"Excuse me, but I need you to hear the unsteady thunder of this metal dildo rocket, clunking, into the air."

And then we crashed.
We made it, maybe, 300 feet into the air and then we crashed.
In Seattle.
And we all woke up in Vegas.

You get it yet?
Yes, I'm writing a shitty Twilight Zone episode where I symbolize Hell as Las Vegas.
Pretty clever, huh?


More on More

Four Enclosed Walls

I'm sitting cross-legged. You know: Indian style. I'm in the top of a stone tower, in the middle of Egypt and I feel like a monk.

You have no idea how important you feel when you're atop a tower, sitting cross-legged on a stone floor as light comes in from three windows and makes yellow doors on the ground that get smaller as the sun goes down.

I feel important: like I'm here for a reason and that I'm meditating on some master game move that will effect mankind for the rest of, well mankind.

Four enclosed walls will do this to you. Especially here at the beginning of the Earth.

But, see, there is no mankind and there is no Earth. There's nothing left. I ruined the whole thing by opening a goddamn email I should never have received.

The email was addressed to 4479CE@YAHOO.COM. It was supposed to go to 3368CE. A grand error for me, a simple typo for the big boys above.

The big boys above ruined everything for me that day and now I'm in this damn tower, thinking that I'm something like Christ, even though Christ never even existed. Even though I never existed.

It happened on Wednesday. I worked for a major retailer as a buying assistant. I get a lot of email from a lot of vendors and Wednesday was no different.

Like most people, I found my job boring and spent most of my day waiting for my Inbox to clear up enough so that I could play online poker.

I don't think I would have even opened up the email if it weren't for the fact that I was using the up arrows on Outlook to go through mail.

If the email had come in the morning, I would have never opened it. See, in the morning I go through all the email first and would have deleted and sent to my junk folder anything that said something as dramatic as "URGENT: READ IMMEDIATELY!!!"

But, it was around 11 and most junk email comes before I get in, so I use the arrows to run through vendor questions more quickly.

So, after replying to a Farmland Pork...good god, the last correspondence I had with mankind was a goddamn pork company...anyway, after replying with a phone number to call to set them up in electronic data interchange, the URGENT message popped up.

-----Original Message-----

From: Angle

Sent: Wednesday, July 27, 2005 10:58 AM

To: Nort



The IP address is 123.4432.123. Click me for map and instructions. Bring following code: 0101110011011001

Being bored, I clicked on the instructions and found a map directing me towards Maple Valley highway.

I'm not Nort, but I recognized the IP address and was intrigued.

I drive that highway every day and always would notice the green address marker on the wooden stalk and the address that looked IP rather than street.

I'd think of it as the Matrix address and have a good laugh.

It's really not all that funny now.

So, that night, on the way home from work I stopped by the address with the email. What I found at the end of the street was a small shack boarded up with DO NOT ENTER signs all over it.

At this point, it became too weird and I left.

I didn't want to get shot and I've always had a sinking suspicion that anything on the internet that's mysterious is probably about some sort of abhorrent sex act.

Driving out I noticed a buddy's car outside a bar on the highway and went in for a drink.

And another drink.

And another...

After nine I had drank enough courage to trek back to the shack. It was dark by then, so when I parked I put on the high beams and start waving the letter over my head and screaming like a banshee.

Suffice to say: I'm a drunk, and when I get drunk I act like a drunk. The kind of drunk you see in the movies at frat houses.

No one came out of the shack and there was no hint that anyone would, so I marched up to the front door and let myself in.

When I opened the door, the light from my headlamps fell on what looked like an ATM machine. I walked up and figured I knew what to do next – so, I punched in the code from the email and hit ENTER.

That's when the world around me began falling apart.

There was a static noise coming from everywhere around me and I ran to the door to look outside.

A large, black blind was slowly coming down across the night sky. Everything from the bottom of the blind down was slowly disintegrating like static.

Then I felt it.

The black blind was an eyelid: my eyelid. The eyelid that I created to open on this world and see all the Big Macs, TV sets, and boobs that make up what I believed to be reality.

Soon the other eyelid was coming up from what appeared to be the ground and I soon remembered what was what and who was who.

Not only was the world around me not real, but neither was I. I was the product of a computer glitch that ran four numbers one number behind each and what occurred was my existence and a receipt of that existence that was to be sent to someone named Nort, but came back to me instead.

I was run like a job and the error had corrected itself by generating the same error.

So, who is Nort?

I'm not programmed to know. In fact, if I wanted to know I couldn't: it would be the same thing as a zero in a line of code wanting to know who was running the program and what they had for lunch.

I can't know because I'm such a small part of program that's run by a programmer somewhere, that the very idea that I could know – it boggles the mind.

When I opened my eye again I made sure I had an image to be. I imagined this room and that's all that I could come up with. I couldn't stand the idea of whatever nothing would be, and at the same time I couldn't stand the idea of living a lie.

Therefore, four enclosed walls.

I've been here for millions of Wednesdays and I'll be here for a million more and more and more and more

Friday, August 14, 2009

I Want to Make Love to Your Donkey

As many of you may know, the holidays are upon us.

Yes, that one day when you eat turkey and get drunk and…THANKSGIVING! Yes, that day is over now and now it's time for the Holiday season.

No matter what holiday you're celebrating I hope that you will join with me in expelling all religious meaning and begin concentrating on the gifts and the booze.

Back when Jesus was born or died or whatever he did, and when Kwanzaa was…um….sent into exile, and Hannaukah was resurrected, and some Hindu thing, and that one thing with the Muslims and the Shriners – well, you get my point: back when these holidays began all the cavemen could think about was buying bone toys and shell clothing for their loved ones. And, of course, to top it off ,they got drunk on dinosaur wine.

You see, back in Christ's, Moses', Muhhamed's, and Charlie Brown's day there weren't shopping malls and breweries and stuff like that. No, back then you spent your money on what was available: the delicious ambrosia of distilled monkey blood and the never ending gaming action of flying kites made out of pterodactyls.

See, back then, people like Moses rode on large dinosaurs and scoured the land for new ways to get drunk and/or high. In fact, it was Jesus Christ who first smoked a blunt made from the delicious coca leaves of St. Miguel.

But, much like our day and age there were plenty of McDonalds restaurants around. Which brings me to the delicious feast of Ramadan. This holiday is celebrated 4 to 6 PM every night at Applebees and has been a Muslim tradition since elephants had feathers. In the tradition of Ramadan, the family fasts until 4 PM and then dines on the most delicious appetizers made by mankind and Martians. For, you see, it was the Martians that had the galactic technology to build Applebees franchises in the year 1414 BC. So, you see why everyone made a holiday out of the event. So, the next time you greet your Muslim brother or sister, you let them know that you understand their faith and why they find paying full price for mozzarella sticks insulting.
On to the Christians. Christmas is a celebration of lights, in which a candle is lit for every day in December. The candles are made from rhinoceroses in celebration of what Christ used to drive back in the day before cars and stuff. Every December Christ would ride into town on a rhinoceros and throw olives and mushrooms at people. That is why a traditional Christmas dinner is usually pizza. Later in the month, it's the 25th of Christmas and then you blow out all of the candles and square dance for a while. This is probably because Christ was born on the 25th and he was totally a hick. Anyway, make sure and tell your Christian brothers and sisters "Happy Christmas, you rhinoceros candle!"

What's left – oh yes! The Hindus. Hindus celebrate the glorious holiday of Thanksgiving on December 19th.

No one knows why.

On to the Jews. The Jews celebrate Hanukah, which is a celebration of Pat Benatar, the glorious singer/songwriter who wrote the Twelve Days of Chanukah using only a ukulele and a xylophone. The Jewish faith believes that musical prowess is a gift from God and that it should be celebrated with loud flatulence and loud hooting noises. If you run into any of your Jewish brothers and sisters, fart loudly and exclaim "Happy Hanukah!"

Scientology! Scientologists are fucking nuts and you should probably stay away from them during the holidays. They make meat armor and ride through the streets pouring gravy on children, for which they intend to eat. If you run into a Scientologist get out of the way.

Mormons! Mormons are much like Hindus, but instead of celebrating Thanksgiving on December 19th, they celebrate the Jewish holiday Hanukah. See above Jewish holiday.

Republicans are a new religion and have come up with the best holiday I can think of. In fact, I decided to become a Republican this year just so I could celebrate. During the 20th through the 30th Republicans shoot heroin in their toes and walk the streets like zombies looking for more heroin. Please don't confuse this with Thanksgiving.

Democrats, in an attempt to get back at the Republicans and their dirty heroin holiday, have also come up with a holiday. In it, each and every Democrat smokes crack and votes Republican. Unlike most of the other holidays, this one occurs the second Tuesday of November.

Well, that's it for now. Please tell me about your personal holiday and I'll be sure to post it on this site.

One thing that we can all agree on is that the holidays are about getting drunk, fasting, eating, and shooting heroin…together. Be they Jew, Muslim, or Catholic, we know that they are our brothers and sisters and if we go to war against the evil Scientologists, they have our backs.


Matthew J.C. Eckert

P.S. If any of this offended you, please realize that I am a seventh incarnation of the God Jezeusosmuhhbrahudda and I will strike you down with my ninja gaiden star.

That Time Indians Stole My Money

That Time Indians Stole my Money

There's a vast gulf that lies between the cultures of the white man and those of the Native Americans. One way we have bridged that gap is by coming together to gamble.

Slowly, but surely, the five Native Americans left in America will reclaim their entire continent by way of video poker.

This was back in 2000, on New Years in fact.

I had just procured a 5000-dollar loan from my bank in order to pay off my astronomical debt and to have money in case my useless wench ex ever wanted to eat fondue and drink 100 dollar wine with me.

In other words, I was pathetic and the saditude of my state came to a head on that frightful New Year's eve.

Having 5 grand in my pocket and tired of moping around about the above wench, I decided it would be fun to go up skiing at Mt. Baker.

Mt. Baker is far from civilization and the idea that anyone would lose money in a nearby casino is not only preposterous, it's science fiction. But, lordy lord….

So, reaching Mt. Baker the lesbian interplanetarian ships from Jupiter descended upon us and demanded that I gamble away 1000 dollars to appease their Venusian Gods.

Well, more like we did some skiing and drinking and then headed to the casino around three.

At the casino I began winning numerous monies and laughing heartily at the stupid Indians and their spoiled plans of taking my bank loan from me before I could blow it on blow.

So, with the arrogance only white and black people have, I decided to stay behind with this one guy (I always forget his name) as my friends left in order to take more money from the dirty savages.

I was playing the roulette wheel and anyone with half a brain cell knows it's the dumbest, worst odds game you can play. But, I was up and there was no way I was going down with my 50 dollar winnings.

This all played out well and good for a couple hours then I began to lose.

And lose.

And lose.

Pretty soon I was downing the ugly withdrawal of winning to losing with premium beer that the tribe was glad to put in my hand for a buck fifty.

Now, I began to realize that the friendly and gullible Indians were beginning to lick their lips in my direction. The mark had been made, the word was out – we're taking that whitey down tonight.

More beer followed and the paranoia ensued. I began blabbering about manifest destiny and the West Indies and slave boats and dead bodies riding buffalo ghosts into the high plains. I made wild gestures with my hands and was twice restrained.

Sure, they knew my story: distract the crowd as to make off with some self respect when they weren't looking.

But, this was not to be.

Once I wised up and knew that once my wallet was clean the tomahawks would come down on my head. I managed to find a phone and call a cab. I was told there was a wait as it was New Year's.

This was around seven.

By eight I was getting drunker and I decided that I was going to circle the wagons and take some Indian blood.

At the cash machine I pulled another 200 to match the 200 I had already lost. They weren't taking me down that easy!

By nine the good tribesman had robbed me of another 200 and I found that I couldn't pull more cash.

Luckily for the Natives, they had a special teller that could pull past the 300 you were allowed to take from a cash machine in one day.

Armed with 1000 dollars of my bank's money, that took four years to pay off at a high interest rate, I decided that I was going to beat the casino like a gong.

By 11 there was no cab, no money, no beer.

I sat in a stupor, repeatedly calling the taxi service and screaming into the phone "THE SAVAGES HAVE TAKEN MY ENTIRE WORTH AND WILL SOON FEED UPON MY CHILDREN AND GOATS!!!!!"

The taxi service either didn't care or had more important pioneers to save, for no promises were made and I was left with a kindly "As soon as humanely possible." I tried to explain that there were no humans left besides the tribesman, my friend, and I. For the casino had erupted into downright weirdness.

First to walk by was a amphetamine addict in a Santa suit throwing raffle tickets from his bag. Only, the raffle tickets were poker chips and tore the skin on my forehead open, leaving me a bloody wreck in the lounge. I vowed that once I was in better form the Christians were going down too.

But, it wasn't just Santa. There were dwarves being sent out from the kitchen, dressed as parrots and singing Rod Stewart songs as they circled the casino.

Before long, the entire casino was engulfed in weirdness. Trapeze artists in pink shawls descended from the ceiling and skipped batons off the poker tables, a Saskwatch was let in from the cold outdoors and began devouring those with the dumb luck to have taken any of the tribe's money, and finally, the Shaman Spirit Thunderbird descended from the chandelier and began ripping the throats out of every non-Native left alive and winning.

I praised Buddha for letting me be a drunk loser. Think of it! If I had taken even a dollar of the tribe's money I would be in some Sun God Hell in the lower Dakota. Or, worse, some trailer park of the damned in flats of alkali.

Finally, around two, the cab showed and my buddy and I were escorted by a tall Native American warlord out to the car.

He explained that I was left alive to warn my people that the Native man will be evoking revenge on the white man and that if they would like to keep their lives, albeit in concentration camps in Mormon Utah (they don't want it), we should send all of our monies, property, and women to the Native American Council, 124 North Ave, Kirkland, WA.

Half of the proceeds will be going to reparations for the Native American's "dark brothers and sisters."

I thanked Chief Pai Gow and promised to spread his word to the four corners of the land…and to pack a bag to Europe ASAP.

So, what did I learn? I learned that the white man's ignorance and avarice will soon bite him from the Pacific to the Atlantic. I learned that underestimating cultures for their differences is a sin that shall be wrought manifold on the sinner and that his lies will cast him in to the ugly depths of Salt Lake city. Lastly, I learned that drunken whores will blow me given the alternative of being devoured by a Thunderbird spirit.

"So long, Chief Pai Gow – I will never forget you!" I screamed from the cab.

And, as we drove away, I could hear him mumble "Whatever."

But, the evening was far from over. An ugly white man was loose at the condos back on the mountain.

As our cab drove in to the complex we realized we had no idea where we were and where our condo was.

We asked the driver to drop us off and left the cab for the wilderness of the Mt. Baker Chateaus.

We first came upon a junky. Like the Scarecrow, she was an ex-junky and had no brains at all: she opted to chat up my buddy instead of me.

I decided to leave them to fuck amongst the trees and I journeyed onward. Only to come upon Keith.

Out of the woods he jumped holding a large stick. He had lost his shoe, his shirt was ripped up, and the look on his face told the story of a case of beers and a large jug of absinthe.

"Who goes there! Who dares the wrath of my shalailee?" He yelled, brandishing the stick in a violent manner.

"Keith! The savages stole my money and are coming for our women!" He had provoked the great white man spirit in me and I now wanted blood as well.

"Nevermind that, there's a group of rich upper class snowboarding scum that have snubbed me for the last time!" Keith was livid.

"We shall tear their souls out with chicken wire and then head down the mountain and string them around the casino as a warning." I was finally at peace with my anger. It seemed that all I needed was a man covered in ivy and brambles, holding a big stick to show me back to the path of anger.

"We need more booze!"

"We met up with a junky, let's find her and see if she has spirits."

"Then we shall take out their eyes and play roulette with them."


We finally caught up with the woman and my friend. He realized that he wasn't going to get laid without a garbage bag of crack and he was growing tired of her.

We asked after the booze and she informed us that the guy she was staying with had some beer.

We followed her.

On the way, Keith told me the story of the snobs and how their snobbery had broken his spirit and shat on his manna.

It seems after skiing Keith was walking back to our condo and came upon the rich folk unloading their equipment.

"Need a hand?" Keith asked, half in the bag and three sheets to the wind.


Keith then helped them move their 6000 dollar snowboards into their condo and in exchange they agreed to let him drink with them.

Before long, much like the tribesman, the party began to grow weary of Keith.

"Who is that?" A woman asked one of her pompous boyfriends.

"Why, that's the chap who helped us load in the snowboards. Why ever is he still here?"

"Correct, why ever would he think he could chat us up in his inebriated manner?"

Keith sensed that the party had turned on him, so he grabbed a beer bottle and held it out like a torch to ward off the would be attackers.

He then walked backward, slowly out the sliding glass window.

"If anyone moves a muscle they're getting hit over the head with this microbrew."

The snobs knew Keith was serious and backed off.

Now Keith wanted blood.

But, first there was booze. Inside the condo of the junky, we realized that the man she was with was her boyfriend and he regarded us first with suspicion, then contempt, then with the sort of hatred one saves for Hitler, Stalin, and Bush.

When his back was turned, Keith grabbed a butchers knife off the table and I found myself backing out of the condo slowly with Keith and my other friend.

This brought me back to my senses and I disarmed Keith of his knife and he fled into the woods howling like a banshee.

Keith never did find the bastards, but I had to disarm him twice more that night.

It was then that I vowed to never drink again…at Mt. Baker…on New Years…with a man brandishing a branch.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

That's How It Felt.

It was close to eight.
I was hanging from one leg from the boat. A rope held me hanging above the water.
"Of course bowling season begins in September." He looked up towards the clouds that were moving quickly across the sky.
The water was rising and lapping against the boat and sprinkling my face.
"Yeah, this leg of mine." He walked around to the other side of the boat and yelled "But you only get two!"
I looked down into the water and I could make out a can of…what? Beans? Something down there for how long? Probably not long, but everything found underwater seems to be from the 70s in my mind.
I heard him walk around the boat again and then exclaim "This weather!"
It's hard to say what really set the man in motion. His name is Bruce Springsteen and that's probably what started it.
You really can't be named Bruce Springsteen now a days and not be made fun of.
He's an older man and maybe everything was all right for him up until 1984, and then all of a sudden he's a joke.
Luckily for him, stars fade. But, unfortunately for me, I remembered.
Where to begin?
His first day in the office, I noticed his name velcro'd to his cube and I think I sent out a large distribution email stating that from that day forward I would be working with Bruce Springsteen.
Then came the wisecracks in coffee rooms that Bruce slowly caught on to.
"Just gonna throw some bait out there." Bruce dropped a couple pieces of chum in the water and blood hit my face.
"My father is a detective! He'll find you!" I yell up at the boat, but I was pretty sure he couldn't hear me and wouldn't care about my lies anyway.
"I've always owned boats. I love them. I love the water. I love the scenery. You really don't know what you're missing until you actually purchase one. Sure, you can get on one or take a cruise, but until you know how they work and how to fix them, you really don't understand what it is to be a boat owner."
"Thanks, Bruce." The water was around my head like a crown and I could hear movements in the bushes suggesting that I would soon perish.
"You hear that? Oh, that's a big one. I can tell by the sound. Alligators are actually more friendly than you would think. However, I wouldn't want to shake hands with one." From his voice I could tell that Bruce was relaxing. Possibly drinking a beer.
Then I began thinking about beer, and how I would never have another. Then I started to cry. Not really about the beer, but about how I was going to pointless die because this man's name was Bruce Springsteen. The fact that I was going to be eaten alive violently also entered my mind and at that point I believe I started breathing harder and coughing.
"You OK down there, buddy?" Bruce's face appeared over the edge of the boat and he did have a beer in his hand.
"You a big drinker, Bruce?" I yelled up.
"I enjoy beer. I can't tolerate hard alcohol. Makes me go a little nutty." He said with a straight face. "I'd offer you one, but it'd be kinda hard to drink it upside down!" Bruce laughed.
"Can we talk about this? I mean you're going to kill me for playing a stupid song during your stupid speech?" I was mad at this point.
"It wasn't a stupid speech. It was basic SQL for beginners. I was trying to teach a class. That's my job. You wouldn't understand, because you play on the internet all day, doing God knows what. When you – well, if you had a job that you took seriously, you'd be pretty goddamn angry if someone decided to play pop music during your lesson."
"Bruce, is it worth killing me?" But he was away from me now and the water was nearing my nose.
Things suck when you pray to drown. But I didn't see that in the cards. Just as I began figuring that there's nothing wrong with thinking you might survive, the gator entered the water near me and immediately went for the chum.
Bruce's head appeared again over the bow and then I felt warm piss on my face.
The water boiled beneath me and the gator emerged on the beach and went back into the woods.
"They won't touch you with that stink on you." Bruce yelled down and I was slowly lifted back into the boat.
Up on the deck, Bruce looked down on me and said, "That's how it felt."

Alien Magflies Deforest Bridge

Notes on the State of the So-Called Apocalypse

The so-called apocalypse is coming our way. It's not really real. Not really.

Christians might die in swarms as they protect Israel from nuclear bombs in order to ensure that the end of the world comes – but, it doesn't affect you.

If you can read, there's a good chance you're not a Christian…or a Muslim or Jew.

No, you're card carrying religious person doesn't read the writing on the wall. They're too busy looking for incongruent symbols of destructions.

The Jews have their Moses; the Christians their Jesus; the Muslims their Mohammad.

We have ourselves. Believe in yourself and you'll succeed, they say.

Believe in imaginary figures in the sky and you'll end up booby trapping your foreskin to assassinate the unclean. You'll end up launching terrorist campaigns from backwater countries with no running water and a severe shortage of Big Macs and Grande Lattes.

If you believe in evolution, you'll find that man has evolved and brought his Gods along with him. Once we lived liked pygmies and saw God as a movement in the trees. We developed tools and learned that God was a thing of thought; something to be built in our heads. When we looked around we saw that we were multitude and needed a numerous Gods to watch over us. Later, we assigned them seasons, feelings, and formal wear. Our Gods grew emotions and style. They were built into the best technology our imaginations could afford at the time as we struggled for survival. Our Gods were at best two-year-olds with no disciplinary figure. Gods don't need role models.
Soon, we met other cultures and traded Gods like baseball cards. Took the rookie Vishnu and traded it for a Buddha. Looked up ancient ERAs and realized that Gods were much like us: better at some things, not great at others.

Then an ugly day in history occurred (a necessary ugliness on our way to enlightenment). We found that as we looked around us our friends and family were not infallible. They were not as good as we were. Sure, they might share some common morality, but in the end, it was really our self and our self alone that had it right. At that point we decided that there could only be one God, and one God alone. For the many are pieces, but the one is the puzzle.

The age of one Gods began.

Moses comes from the left with a God created in our own image. Jesus follows with tales of decency towards humans and sacrificing sins to the one God. Mohammad comes over and double checks for us. Prophets galore come out of the wood work like running water shouting about the one God, the true God.

But, the prophets were people and people rarely agree with all the other people. So, all the prophets battle it out in words. Using the clergy and the parishioners as soldiers, they advance on the countryside. Great swaths of blood thirsty trolls with stars, crosses, and moons dangling from their necks have it out in ReligionMania.

The flock stand by, mouths agape and wonder where this bloodfest came from. The prophets counter with promises of hell or salvation. The flock is upset, they latch onto the nearest deity and ride it out.

Soon, power is circling around these God makers and their voodoo haircuts and their power begins to eclipse the great states.

The great states, lecherous fools, clamor to a prophet and tame it like a horse. The state rides the horse into crusades across the globe stamping out the old Gods and their heathen followers.

Finally, every God is in their place. Every prophet has a cut of the Earth. Every nation has a cut of the God.

The stability is a breath of fresh air. A great Mentos to the populace. We collectively sigh and thank our district's/borrow's/parrish's prophet and hope that the prophet from next door is content on sucking the new peace.

A dull mood of stupidity sets in and the prophets die out. Replacing them are Saints, Rabbis, Priests, Clerics, and miscellaneous de facto Jedi Knights. They bore too. And with their boredom they find new ways to persecute in their own kingdoms. Butchery begins and paranoia sets in.

Years pass and the flock looks around at the bodies upon bodies and decides something's amiss here. They whisper to one another in the dungeons about where this God is.

They begin looking.

Alchemist look for God in the minerals. Astronomers search the skies. Mathematicians search the numbers.

Behold! We have found God! God is in the atom! God is in the DNA! God is in everything! Here's God! And with that, the scientist produces the most wondrous lump of fecal matter mankind has yet seen.

For you see now! God is everything! God is nothing! But, most importantly, God could give a rat's ass!

The flock begin to blush. For thousands of years they had been killing and raping for this God that didn't care. This God that was as good to them as compost.

Kill God!

The flock set out to leach the world and everything it offered. They created smokestacks, heroin, and nuclear bombs. They created ways to sap food of all its nutrients and serve it to children in the hopes that they would get a real bargain. They built devices of convenience that ran on the blood of the Earth. Before long, they had enslaved themselves into an armored machine sent to run them all into the ground.

But, before long, people started looking around and seeing the machine for what it was. They blushed again, but this time, they didn't act in anger. They set about to fix the machine. Make it a machine of life, rather than a machine of death.

They ran this by the governments of the world and they were none too pleased.

The machine of death was easy to control, it made money, and it generated power. The other machine was useless to those that couldn't see passed their nose and had no love for machines that took work to build.

So, while the flock set about taking down the machine of death, the rulers of the world set about trying to put it back together.

The Ying and Yang of the 21st century had begun.

A year in, the machine of death was a near memory and the machine of life was coming along.

But, like Vader with the plans for the Death Star, the flock had a surprise in store.

By 2002, the machine of death was fully operational again, and what's more, the Gods – those ugly precursors of the machine of death were back in full forces.

On step forward, two steps back.

So where are we now?

Have we hit our great period? Are we slowly folding back into our own past? Or, do we evolve in large spasms that span a million years apiece?

Well, judging by the news lately, we're far away from salvation.

By a few hundred years at least.

WE CAN'T STOP THE BONANZA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Wednesday, August 12, 2009

I'm Only One

I Don't Want to go to Las Vegas: Three Jokes
There's a Valuable Lesson Here
"Look on the bright side is suicide."
- K.C.
I remember a joke. It was a joke about this elderly man feeding pigeons. He'd go out to feed the pigeons everyday, out of an utter lack of anything better to do. This elderly man was lonesome. Well, the joke ends with him feeding himself to the pigeons.
It's a heartbreaking joke, really, but it does apply here.
Ha ha.
There's nothing funny about loneliness, but it does regale a smirk from yours truly, when you think about the fact that we are all, by and large, lonely.
There is no real attachment to anyone that withstands enough to place them within every aspect of your being.
That's why I masturbate a lot.
No, true loneliness is being with someone 24-7 and still feeling lonely.
So, I am not truly lonely.
But, this isn't about me.
It's about aliens.
Out on the patio I saw a small bird. It was camoflauged to fit the tree it was hopping on.
I was outside, alone, and I said to the bird "Hey, I see you!"
The bird then replied "Fuck off."
This startled me, as birds rarely tell me to fuck off.
But, this was no mere bird. Yes, Paul Revere, this was an alien.
Soon, I began a long conversation with the bird where I discovered that it had been shape shifting on ole' Mother Earth for centuries and found the luxory of birdom the best.
I inquired why and it responded "because I get to shit on whoever, whenever."
Hmmm....that makes you think.
"Not only that, but do you know what a bird eats?"
I told it I figured hayseeds and pollen.
"Fucking everything! Look, when you go out with friends, how do you feel when they say they want to go for Chinese, and you don't like Chinese?"
I told it that I don't like Chinese, and, yes, it brings me down a bit. Basically, because I know I'll have to order off the American menu and feel like a cultural bum.
"Well, as a bird, everything tastes good to me. Hell, if I'm hungry, I'm in the desert and come upon my own shit, you know what?"
"What?" I asked.
"I fucking eat it. And you know what? It tastes like fucking lasagna, baked Alaska, prim roses - it doesn't fucking matter. It just tastes swell. How do you like them apples, mister?"
I told him that I liked them well and that I would love my shit to taste like lasagna, cuz I'm broke and can't afford food without bouncing a check.
"See?" It/he/she/whatever said.
And you know what? That alien shape-shifter had a point.
"But, how do you talk and think with the brain of a bird?" I asked.
"Ah, good question. I talk and think because the amount of brain I have is all you need to talk, think, shit, eat, so on and so forth. See, you humans have it bad. You have too much brain. You have so much brain that when you talk you think about what you say before and afterward to make sure you don't make an ass of yourself. When you think, you think about innumeral possibilities for one problem, letting the problem persist for weeks, years, lifetimes. When you shit you have to have something to read or look at or think about, so that you can't sit for half a sec without not thinking. When you eat you wonder how many calories a food has, how it will taste, what you had to pay for it. For me, I have just enough brain to not give a fuck what I talk about, what I think about, what I'm going to read as I shit, or what the fuck my food tastes like."
"But, what about complex thought; I mean, look at all the amazing wonders of our race: the pyramids, the White Album, Taster's Choice?"
"They're for shit! If you didn't think so fucking much you wouldn't need all that shit to think about! Christ, you're making me use more brain than I have to think about this."
The bird/alien/unknown brain clot then shape shifted into a racoon. "OK, there, that's enough brain to figure out that the only reason you ask a question like that is that you have too much fucking brain on your hands."
"So, why the human race? Why do we exist as thinking entities rather than birds or chimps?"
Again, the bird shape shifted. This time into a dolphin.
He fell to the ground. It must have been around 60 feet.
He hit the ground and most of his insides blew out all over the leafy green of my backyard.
His dying words were "The human race is a race to drop 60 feet to your death to try to prove a fucking point, you asshole!"
So much for aliens.
Smoking: Bad
Hey! Do you like to live life on the edge?
Do you thirst for a thrill-seeking sport that causes lung cancer and sends 3.1 million Americans to their deaths?
Well, try smoking!
That's right, we're here at Phillip Morris International throwing people off their headquarters.
Why? Because, smoking kills people!
Look, I'm going to throw Sharon here off the third building tower - Sharon?
"Hi, Tom, I'm being thrown off this building to my utter demise. You know why? Because, it's safer than smoking! Tom, if you please."
There she goes. We have a comlink to Sharon. Sharon, how do you feel?
"I'll tell you Tom, I just shit my pants, I'm having second thoughts, but there's no turning back - I need to show the American public how dangerous sm"
Oh! And she has hit the ground. What a mess.
We're now going down to Jim, via satelite from the bottom of this building.
Jim, are you in touch with Sharon?
"Yes, I am, Jim. Sharon, how do you feel about smoking?"
Any word, Jim?
"No, Tom, it seems her brain is only so much goo on the pavement. But, if she were alive right now, I'm sure she'd tell you that her 874 foot drop was a lot safer than blazing up what the tobacco companies promote as a easy, relaxing vice that doesn't hurt anyone."
Good work, Jim. Now, we're going to cannibalize her corpse, proving that Jim and I would rather eat a dead body than inject ammonia, gun powder, and Kryptonite into our lungs.
Disturbing News from Viagra
Hello, I'm Vince Ross, of Viagra.
We care about our customers, and we care about you. That's why I'm going on TV, live, coast to coast to let you know of a small consumer problem we have been having that may effect you or your loved ones.
We at Viagra know that male erectile dysfunction is a problem facing us all: our spouses, our loved ones, and 28% of the pornographic industry.
That's why we created it. Heh, heh.
Anyway, recently we discovered a side effect to the drug that we at Viagra are very concerned about.
Apparently, it only effects long time users, but we at Viagra are pulling the drug off of shelves, regardless.
OK. Let's get down to brass tacks: Viagra makes you retarded.There, I said it.
If you are using Viagra currently, or have ever used the drug, there is a good chance you will become retarded in anywhere from six months to twelve years.And that's a fact.
You see, clinical studies last, oh, 2 to 5 years and during our test studies there was little to no retardation in our subjects.
But, low and behold, we have found that these studies were little more than saying a woman isn't pregnant two minutes after intercourse.No, our studies were unnsuccesful.
And when I say unnsuccesful, I mean, there's 56 million Americans right now being demoted from CEO to "that guy with the Nemo coloring book and loss of bladder control."
We at Viagra have felt this personally, as I, the only member of our family with a thick, fat, potent dick can even relate the rudimentary basics of this problem - and I got a 1040 on my SATs.
Yes, we at Viagra regret this news, and we regret the loss of a precious, precious drug to you, the consumer. Because, we know that you need your dick rock hard to turn your woman on - but, it will be at the expense of most neural activity.
Take it from our CEO:
Have a good day! How are you? How are you? Do you want to see my pictures? Nemo is my best. I colored him red, just like Vice President Shahill said. Isn't her pretty - OH! Wait! You haven't seen my sea lion! I colored him in the lines and all. He makes me think of spaghetti. Boy, I sure could use some spaghetti. Mr. Shahill says spaghetti is Italian and that I own Viagra and that it make your pee pee grow. I love my coloring books and WAIT! Look! A squirrel!
Viagra: Making Promises Since 1997