Sunday, 28 December 2008
there's a saying (or i just made it up) that "we grow by learning from our mistakes". i've fucked up a lot and i'm sure a lot of others have too. how are we learning from it though? is life just a set of unfortunate fuck ups and when we die we ultimately have learned all of our mistakes? or is there perfection in finding the little things that some call defects, flaws or jailable offenses?
i say fuck the perfect world, it would be a boring place. we don't strive to watch other people succeed. if we did, wouldn't there be a talk show on how joe schmoe didn't miss a day of work for five years instead of some dumb 15 year old whore who still doesn't know her baby's father after seven paternity tests?
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Needless to say, such instance are many and varied.
Doubtless, one could list myriad occasions and circumstances where people and events were far from perfect.
Naturally one began to look for instances that had a slightly narrower scope than all of creation.
I began to think that perhaps, the time of year being what it is, the holiday season would be something that one could use as a means of studying perfection. Or at the very least, ascertain what it is not.
How? I hear you ask.
Surely, one's task would be made that much more Herculean in its aspect if one were to use Christmas as an example of what is imperfect in this world.
I assure you, it is not.
Take, first of all, the common creed espoused at this time of year by those who celebrate the anniversary of the birth of Jesus Christ. That is, "Peace on Earth and goodwill to all men." Often known as the true Christmas message, this invocation implores us to be civil to one another. If only for one day.
A noble sentiment, to be sure, however one cannot help but ask the question - why is it only on this day that men should feel goodwill toward one another?
In a perfect world, one would hope that every day would be such a day. Everyday men would open their hearts to their neighbours. Everyday people around the world would put down their swords and the only struggle would be for peace.
Sadly, we do not live in such a world.
We live in a world where children are bribed, threatened and cajoled into behaving properly. If you behave, you will receive a pleasant surprise in your stocking. If you do not, you will receive a lump of coal.
What kind of parent would willingly raise a child to believe that the reason one acts decently and behaves well is to receive some material reward? Not to mention the fact that in order to teach this lesson parents consistently lie to their children about the magical fat man who delivers these rewards.
In a perfect world, children would be taught that behaving well and doing good deeds have other benefits, both personal and societal, besides material gain. There would be no need to lie to them to teach this lesson.
But lie we do. Lie and spend.
The cost of Christmas to the average Christian consumer is a financial burden that often causes more grief than it does joy. It is, no doubt, a wonderful thing to give as well as to receive. However, there are many among us whose capacity to give is severely diminished and attempting to partake of the holiday festivities can be a severe financial burden.
Even if one can afford to give one must ask oneself - why only at Christmas? Surely, the love I feel for my kith and kin is something which is reasonably consistent all the year round?
In a perfect world, one would give if and when one could. At a time that suited both the giver and the receiver. And both would be the better for it.
In a perfect world, we would not need such an excuse as Christmas to be good to one another. We would not need such an excuse to gather together with our loved ones.
In a perfect world, these things would always happen, everyday.
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
Does such a thing even exist?
Is she just fucked up enough to make me happy?
But what I do know is that when I'm around her I feel comfortable. Content. Relaxed. At ease.
I can say what I feel and mean what I say and not hold back a thing.
Does such a thing even exist?
Do any of our ideals really exist?
Are we just faking it?
I think that, perhaps, this may be the closest I've ever been to really loving someone.
For who they are.
And not just for what I wanted them to be.
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.
And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed.
And the LORD God said unto the man whom he called Adam, "Hey man, how about giving names to all of these animals. I've got some other shit to do, but I'll be back later to see how you're doing."
"Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat. But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die."
And the LORD God returned after many days and found Adam making a burnt offering unto Him. And He said unto Adam, "Hey man. What's up?"
And Adam said unto the LORD God, "Oh hey, Dude. How's it going? What’s that? The animals? Oh right, the naming thing. Well I got some of them done but not all. You made a hell of a lot of them, you know? I kind of got a bit sidetracked. What happened? Yeah...you know that tree of knowledge you were talkin' about? Yeah…no, I didn’t eat any…no, not that…you said not to so no way, right? Heh heh…no Dude there’s this weed growin’ all around it and I picked some right and I dried it in the sun with some nuts and berries n’ shit. Oh yeah…trail mix Dude…it’s really awesome. Oh! Hold on a sec…gotta turn my barbecue or it’s gonna burn. Okay, so I dried this stuff to make incense, you know? You like that stuff, right? Anyway, it smelled…like sooo funky Dude. And, okay, so I picked one of those apples from the tree of knowledge. No, I did not eat any, I swear. No, I just dug out the center to make a pipe and put some of that dried weed in and lit it and well…wow…just like wow Dude…that is some awesome shit you got growin’ here Dude.”
And the LORD God said unto Adam, “Yeah, that’s pretty good stuff, huh? I made it special for my day off. I call it Seventh Day Heaven. But listen man, I see you’ve named the cattle and the fowl of the air and the beasts of the field, but you have no mate for companionship. Aren’t you getting lonely out here all by yourself?”
And Adam said unto the LORD God, “Huh? Lonely? Nah…not me Dude. I got my dog. Here, boy! That’s a good boy! Want me to rub your belly? Yeah...that feels good doesn't it?"
"Oh, sorry Dude. A woman? Hmmm. You know Dude that sounds like a great idea…but, I just know she’s gonna want to talk all the time and I’ll have to listen to all her shit. And she’s gonna want me to do this and she’s gonna want me to do that. And she’s gonna want to know where I’m going and what I’m doing all the time. Nah, why ruin paradise? How ‘bout I keep the rib and just fuck the goats instead?"
"Hey c’mon have a seat Dude and let’s eat this pig. They are delicious, by the way. If you hadn’t intended for them to be eaten, you wouldn’t have made ‘em so tasty, right? Maybe after supper we could spark up another bowl of Number Seven and go watch the monkeys. Those little bastards are hilarious.”
And it was good.
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
On the flip side... You know? There really is no flip side. I value horrifying experiences the same as good times with friends. It may seem weird to you, but any visceral, raw experience is good. Bombing in a standup gig in Harlem because of a bad nigger joke, well thats the same as performing at C.B.G.B.'s opening for the Ramones in the seventies for me. I may have a broken brain, but fuck if I don't enjoy it like a retard shitting his pants.
I can barely find the words to describe it.
Her skin was so soft and white and beautiful.
Her lips were luscious and tender and moist.
She was beautiful.
In that moment, she was the most beautiful, most amazing, most spectacular, most perfect woman. Ever.
Every time I try to remember, it brings me such joy.
God. I love her.
The memory of her.
The way her lips gently caressed my lips.
How her tongue pressed softly against mine.
Such sorrow to think that it won't ever happen again.
The touch of pale, soft skin under my fingertips, to set my nerves aflame.
To caress her cheek once more would be enough to be the cure of this terrible ache.
The passion. The fire.
Why do I love so much the memory and despise so much the remembrance of it?
Parting is not sweet, but sorrow.
If someone's hope, I could but borrow.
For hope has all but left me dead.
And devils feast on what angels dread.
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Monday, 24 November 2008
i have been single for quite some time (almost a year now). after a while you feel like you are a complete loser until you go online to cam sites such as cam4.com where people plead with girls to show them their tits.
it is almost like a sociological experiment on how men can be controlled by one woman and gaze at her for hours in hopes of seeing a nipple or possibly a bit of the ol' snatch. it amazes me how these people comment and become fixated on one girl that they will most likely never meet to show her tits yet hundreds of thousands of tits can be found just by typing "tits" in a google search.
it is quite cliched to say this but it is true. men think they rule the world but the almighty cunt and tits actually rule it. go to one of these chatrooms and you will see men started swearing at a girl and basically raping her verbally because the girl won't show any boobies. these men become socially retarded for the tits. if this girl was to meet any of these guys in person, she would be able to manipulate them. hence why tits rule the world.
the only exception to this rule is gay men but what do you expect from a group of people who like shoving gerbils in their asses?
Saturday, 22 November 2008
It takes a moment
For me to realise that...
I'm not asleep and this is
Not a dream.
This shit is real.
But she just doesn't see me
Fucking bitch whore!
Who the fuck does she think she is?
Funny how admiration
Can turn ugly at the drop of a hat.
Sunday, 16 November 2008
So, last night me and the missus go out for drinks together for the first time since Clinton was staining dresses in the Oval Office. We've got two young children and all of our partying now involves cake and ice cream. But I turned 40 this week and to "celebrate" I'm going out to get hammered and wish I was dead. Tonight we gonna party like it's 1999.
This is a college town and there are enough bars here for every man, woman and child to get a drink simultaneously without waiting in line. It also means that bars open and sometimes close in a matter of weeks, depending on the whim of the student herd. Most of the places I used to know and drink in have since changed hands and I now have no clue what goes on where. After going to one of my old haunts and seeing a dear, even-older friend, my wife talks me into going to the 8E's bar around the corner. Now I fuckin' hated the 80's, pop culturally speaking, and I despise nearly all of the music that ever played on the mainstream airwaves from that era. But I guess the twenty-somethings of this generation like to romanticize the decade of their birth, just as mine did with the Sixties. Anyway, even though it is MY night out, I am a big hairy pussy and so I sit at the bar with my MILF and listen to shitty music and we comment on all the lame 80's movie posters that pass for ambience in this dump. After a few more drinks though I'm starting to loosen up a bit and me and milady are having a good time.
The place was practically empty when we got there, but it starts to fill up after about an hour. When the crowd starts rolling in, I begin to notice that 8E's is, apparently, code for G8E's. Nearly everyone but us breeders seems to be part of the G/L/T scene. Might have something to do with the F2M bartender that looks a lot like the comedian Jim Norton. Anyway, I'm cool with it 'cause I got no one to impress and the music has gotten alternative along with the crowd. And, inexplicably, they've got UFC on the big screen and Joe Rogan is congratulating the winners of the undercard bouts. "Strange," I think as I knock back more rum-and-cokes with the intermittent Sam Adams and I begin to feel it in my toes. A little later the deejay, looking like Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons, comes out and so do the dance fags like moths to a flame. Now the music really hits the skids and I don't know if it is all the booze or just the tunes that are making me want to puke. The lights are spinning and the moths are flaming. My wife is trying to get my drunk and way-too-white old ass to dance and that doesn't happen on a good day. I'm seriously stupored by this point and dancing is completely out of the question. But my most memorable mental snapshot of the place is of two hot lesbians under a life-sized cardboard cutout of Boba Fett engaging in some serious frottage to Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" while Randy Couture is getting his face pounded into the mat by some huge fucking man-beast. What a surreal scene!
Sunday, 9 November 2008
Northeast Georgia is mullet country. The species is abundant in many varieties and can be found almost everywhere except libraries or other academic settings. Invariably dressed in camouflage or NASCAR clothing, the mullet is most often seen in barbeque shacks and in Wal-Mart purchasing its daily supply of Mountain Dew. Mullet families are highly prolific and usually consist of a breeding pair and a litter of four to five snot-nosed offspring, each born only a year apart. The female of the species is often bleached blonde with a large crest rising above the forehead. Young males generally exhibit the buzz cut or flattop mullet while their older brothers may prefer the more modern faux-hawk variation. It is the adult male of the species, however, whose dramatic plumage gives it both its namesake and its notoriety.
It was in my workplace that I witnessed this particularly glorious specimen. When the mullet entered the building, right away I knew that I was in the presence of greatness. The wearer of a prize mullet knows that he possesses something special and exhibits the appropriate sense of pride and accomplishment. Both his swagger and his ’85 Camaro let the jailbait females of the scarlet-nape species know that he is available for stud service. His coiffure also serves to let all other lesser mullets in the area know that he is indeed a badass and will “fuck up any faggot” that dares to challenge his position. This exquisite example stood before me and I trembled slightly. His was the classic mullet taken to new levels of creativity. The sides were cut close with very carefully shaven horizontal stripes that can only be achieved through skillful use of a beard and mustache trimmer. On top were the standard “Achy Breaky” spikes, but these had been combed forward along the front edges to compensate for a receding hairline. It was gelled to a fine lacquered sheen, giving it the envied “wet look”. All of this was rather commonplace and not especially noteworthy. It was the back, however, that truly set it apart. Along the back, beginning at the base of the skull, was a cascade of thin stringy, braided rattails that each ended in a small, red elastic band just above the waistline. This effect must have taken many hours of careful plaiting by his girlfriend/stepdaughter. The stunning effect was further accented by a greying goatee and a chunky nugget-gold crucifix on a heavy rope chain. I blinked in amazement, unsure if what I was seeing was truly real. The care and attention that must have been given to this mullet was astounding and I knew that documentation of such a creature would be vital but extremely difficult. Despite his bravado, the mullet wearer is very sensitive and distrustful of those who do not also share his hairstyle. He is easily confused and will react violently to that which he does not understand. The mullet has sharp instincts and knows when it is being threatened with ridicule.
As one of my coworkers stepped up to assist him, I began to move around the counter in an attempt to flank him. I held my camera phone inside my pocket and tried to gauge my chances of successfully photographing this rare creature. To truly capture its magnificence, I would need to shoot it in profile and that would be nigh impossible without his knowledge. If I could get the picture, I would have something of great scientific value. In doing so, however, I risked a sure and severe ass beating as well as the destruction of my equipment. My palm was sweating as I pulled out my phone and flipped it open. This was crude photography, but I hoped that it would provide the necessary detail to convey the majesty of what was before me. Each time I was prepared to raise up my camera and take the shot, he glanced over at me suspiciously and I began to sense that he knew that he was being watched. All would be lost if he felt threatened. An enraged mullet can be truly dangerous to which any child, spouse or dog thereof can attest. If he charged me, my only defense would be to grab a nearby hanging pipe wrench and bludgeon him. After several tense moments, I decided that the risk was just too great. Photographic evidence might make me the envy of many cultural anthropologists, but I could not justify risking my safety or endangering this magnificent creature. While I was certain that his mobile home contained many fine examples of taxidermy, I could not bear to see him suffer such a fate. I knew that it was better to let him return to the wild. I would have to be content with only a fond memory and a tale to recount of my chance encounter with this most exotic example of a hopefully endangered species. I put away my phone and watched as he turned and strutted out the door. His braids bounced and swayed magnificently and, just before he climbed up into his work truck, he placed both hands underneath and flipped them up and out, flashing crimson as he freed them from his shirt collar.
So, I am left only with this testimony about the one that got away. Like those who have seen Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, I have nothing but my story to share. I saw this legendary creature and this is my account. Every word is true, I assure you.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Ingesting poison. On a regular basis. In large doses.
Is it healthy?
Is it sane?
How many times do I have to wake up on the floor and not remember how I got there?
How many times can you throw up all over yourself and still retain your dignity?
What is it about alcohol that keeps us all going back?
What is it about life?
Is the convenience? The ubiquity?
The taste? The pleasure?
A great social lubricant, to be sure. But then again there are others, more potent and less damaging.
We like to drink.
We like to get drunk.
Consequences be damned.
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
the first time i got drunk was not intentional. i was in grade six or seven and my parents had gone away on a trip to mexico. my sister and i had the house to ourselves but my grandma had us over for supper almost every day. my grandma is some eccentric to say the least. anyways, we had supper and she offered us dessert. i ended up having ice cream and being the spoiled brat that i am, i asked if she had any chocolate syrup to put on top. after a while she came back and dumped half a bottle of some creamy stuff on it. after having it i started to feel a way didn't before. i didn't know it until the next day but i guess she ended up dumping the rest of her bailey's on top of my ice cream.
i blame her today when i do stupid shit when i'm drunk. she should have just molested me instead.
Friday, 10 October 2008
Oh demon alcohol. The first time ever I kissed your lips ‘twas at the tender age of sixteen on the night of The Great Beer Run. It began when Ed’s parents went out of town for the weekend and left Ed all alone and in charge of the house for the first time ever. Patrick and I both told our parents that we were staying over at Ed’s house for the night. It was nothing unusual as far as they knew. But we had a plan. Up to this point, what would usually mean a night of pizza, comic books and channel-surfing for tits on cable now took a whole new direction. We were men now and that meant it was time to get drunk.
The first order of business was the procurement of beverages. Easy enough we thought. The legal drinking age in Georgia was still eighteen in the early 80’s and so we set about finding someone with an older brother who would buy us some beer. We piled into my sky-blue ’77 Plymouth Volaré two-door coupe, recently acquired with my license along with an after-school job at McDonald’s to pay for my own gas and insurance. We then went cruising on the streets of our tiny town, asking everyone we knew if they could get us some beer. But fate was not kind. By the time we found said older brother, the local ordinance against selling alcohol after 11:30 pm was in effect. We tried store after store, but there was no joy. We were crushed. It was though we had failed our first test of manhood and would have to remain in the boy’s club.
I believe it was Patrick who came up with the bright idea. For many years, rural rednecks skirted the rules against taverns by having private clubs around the county. Besides allowing them to operate a bar, being private meant they could exclude anyone they didn’t like. You can draw your own conclusion as to who that might be. So we set off for the Pecan Lounge where we hoped to badger someone in the parking lot into going inside and bringing us back some cold ones. The Pecan Lounge was down a long dirt road and set back into a pecan orchard where, under privacy of darkness, these country clubbers could fuck and/or knife each other without attracting attention. Halfway down the road to the lounge, we spied a guy stumbling along in and out of the roadway. I pulled along beside him and rolled down my window. He thought we were going to rob him until he saw that it was a car full of kids. “Hey man, can you go back in there and get us a case of beer?” we asked. A case of beer was way more than we could use, but what did we know? He looked back down the road at the neon beer signs from which he had just emerged and said, “Naw boys, they ain’t gonna let me back in there tonight. But I need me a ride home. You get me back to my trailer and I’ll give you the twelve-pack in my fridge.” Before I could object, Ed had opened the passenger door and jumped in the back with Pat. The drunk slid in beside me on the front bench seat and slammed the door. Well fuck. He was in the car now, reeking of unwashed redneck and stale beer. I followed his directions back to a decrepit trailer park just knowing that he was lying and that there would be no beer tonight. We parked in front of his trailer and I could hear dogs barking and someone yelling. Ed and Pat followed him inside his aged single-wide while I sat with the engine running, nervous as hell that I would either be attacked or propositioned and not knowing which one I feared worse. After what seemed like an hour, they emerged with our treasure, a twelve-pack of Bud in the can. The guys said that the only thing in his fridge other than the beer was a head of lettuce. Tough shit for him, it was time to enjoy our hard-earned brewskis.
Thus armed for a night of camaraderie, we returned to Ed’s house to celebrate our manhood. Although today four cans of beer each seems like only an appetizer, for a 135-pound sixteen-year-old virgin, it was a gracious plenty. I had taken a sip or two from Grandpa’s Miller High Life in the past, but now I was drinking like a man. It really tasted awful, but quitting after all that would have been tantamount to admitting homosexuality. I forced myself to gulp it down and rip into another can. I remember each one tasting better than the last. After the third one, I don’t think I even noticed the taste at all. Exact details of the rest of the evening are all rather fuzzy. I do recall repeated listening to Van Halen’s first album. My name is Dave and we had an Eddie with a guitar, so it was a natural. Patrick was flailing away, an ersatz Alex as we did “Ice Cream Man” over and over. The only other distinct memory involved Patrick shoving his head into a bowl of tuna salad and coming up with the classic, stereotypical pie-in-the-face mask. Like most things, the anticipation was better than the reward itself. But what a night it was. Three teenage lightweights take that first step toward adult debauchery. Other cultures may have tougher rites of passage, but on that night we were the kings of beers and my love affair with alcohol began with that first hard to get kiss.
Saturday, 27 September 2008
I can see how some movies "based on true stories" can be inspirational. The Heather Mills' movie on how she was unable to use the stairclimber at the gym had me in tears. Equally heart wrenching was in the movie "Mask" (not the Jim Carrey one but the one with Rocky Dennison and Cher as a biker bitch). The scene in the movie where he thinks that the movie "The Elephant Man" is ripped off about his life is not only hilarious but sad at the same time.
Thursday, 25 September 2008
The crimes of George Lucas are manifest and myriad.
I’ve written about this before (you can check it out here - http://sarielthrawn.blogspot.com/2005_11_01_archive.html).
In that short piece I lamented what George had done to my beloved Star Wars saga.
How he had not only created an absolutely atrocious and unworthy set of prequels to the original trilogy, but also that he had “remixed” the original movies. I use the term remix, because every remix I’ve ever heard was always worse than the song it was mixed from and only served to profit from the success of the original. Keep the word profit in mind, we’ll be returning to it later.
Allow me to quote from that earlier piece:
First of all the digital remastering of the originals. Good idea, in theory. But George Lucas had to 'tweak' the movies didn't he? I mean who the fuck wanted to see Greedo shoot first. How the fuck do you miss a guy sitting across from you at a table when your gun is pointed directly at his chest? The whole point of that fucking scene George was to show that Han Solo is a bad-ass mother-fucker who you don't fuck with. A smuggler and a criminal who ultimately finds redemption.
As you can probably imagine, I was a tad upset at the time.
I’ve calmed down a little since. But my hatred is still there, simmering.
So is there anything left to be said about George Lucas and his complete and utter disregard for genuine story telling?
Or perhaps it is more that he has completely prostituted himself and his creation? Or that he’s surrounded himself with sycophantic puppets who do nothing but praise him?
“Jar Jar Binks is a great character George. He’s really funny.”
“Of course Greedo should shoot first. He’s the bad alien guy, after all.”
“You totally read my mind George, I was just thinking how the one thing missing from this movie is an all-alien rock n’ roll show!”
“No way! No-one will care if the character’s actions and motivations from the first three don’t line up with the new three. What with all the ammaaazing digital effects we’ll be using, I’m sure no-one will even notice.”
I could go on and on.
I could tell you how the new Indiana Jones movie is utter shyte. Jesus Christ! It’s like all he’s good at now is turning previously decent movie franchises into mush.
I could tell you that having Yoda, Vader and Vader’s new apprentice make an appearance in Soul Caliber IV just weeks before the new Star Wars game is due for release is both opportunistic and cynical (and from all reports the characters are nothing special)
I could tell you that prior to the release of The Phantom Menace Lucas had only directed three movies. Total.
I could tell you that even though he is friends with some of the greatest and most creative directors, writers and producers on the planet, he chose to fill a role he had very little experience in.
I mean, you don’t get the job of constructing the Pyramids, when all you’ve ever built before was a granary, a barn and your best friend’s outhouse.
But he sure knows how to make a buck, does our George.
Item one - the digitally remastered re-release of the original movies. All released in cinemas and then all released on DVD (and making bucketloads at every turn).
But he wasn’t happy just re-releasing the movie. He had to change them. Because there were some things he just didn’t have the technology for back in the day. Some things that just didn’t sit right with him. Like a bounty hunter shooting a guy, or a town in the middle of a desert being only sparsely populated (whowouldathunkit?).
Can someone say revisionist history?
And he has the fucking audacity to be pictured wearing a “Han shot first” t-shirt! (http://www.overthinkingit.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/hanshotfirst.jpg)
So I purchased the re-released movies (on VHS) and find that everything that George has added to the movies has, in fact, not made my viewing experience any more pleasurable.
Some months later I purchase the DVDs (yeah, I know).
Then, finally, the NEW STAR WARS MOVIE is about to come out. I was walking around with a hard on for months prior to its release (Every Saga Has a Beginning. I mean come on? How cool is that?).
I tried to like it. Really, I did. The podrace was fast and cool, kinda. Yoda was in it. Liam Neeson was nice. Natalie Portman was cute. Ewan McGregor was a young Obi-Wan Kenobi. (I just notice as I typed “Obi-Wan Kenobi” that the spell checker on MS-Word didn’t pick it up as an error. Talk about being totally absorbed into the culture).
But the movie itself was garbage. The kid was fucking annoying. And Jar Jar Binks? I mean seriously? WTF??!?
It’s like Pepsi and McDonalds and Pizza Hut all came up to him and said, “Hey George, you reckon you can put in some sort of ‘crazy’ character for the kids? You know, so we can sell more products and cut you a bigger cheque? You know, make him talk funny and maybe give him a funny walk. But he has to have a heart of gold. Little kids really love that stuff, just look at the numbers from these focus groups.”
There is so much wrong with that movie that I could probably write an entire book about it.
The second one was a bit better. But still. Hayden Skywalker was fucking useless. And the plot George? Really? Anakin Skywalker becomes Darth Vader, the meanest man in the galaxy, because he misses his mommy? And the way you got so much out of young Hayden. It had flashes of Keanu’s woodeny brilliance.
The third one was a bit better again (but really only because of the lava pit battle). But General Grievous turned out to be the biggest disappointment in the galaxy. Intended to be a superb combination of biology and mechanics and he sounds like a cancer victim. And who the fuck is making up these names George? Really? Your bad guys name is Grievous?? You fucking hack.
And Samuel “Mother Fucking” Jackson as a leader of the Jedi Council? It didn’t feel unnatural at all.
There’s more obviously. And I’ve probably mixed around some points there. But you get the idea.
Just the fact that Lucas has no idea how to work with actors should be sufficient. Not a single performance in any of those three movies approached anything close to an extra from the Lord of the Rings. And you have to blame the director there, because on paper the cast is fantastic. It’s you George. It’s fucking you.
But I still bought all three on DVD. (Yeah, I know).
And then, after saying (when the originals were re-released) that the original cuts were not going to be released as they were originally screened in the 70s and 80s, he released DVD versions of the original cuts. (Yay!)
And yes, I bought all three DVDs. (Yeah, I know).
So I’m a whore. I know this. But goddamn it, how many beatings do I have to take?
My opinion (such as it is) is that George Lucas, a) is not a director and never has been (at least not a good one); b) was/is more concerned with ILM and his fucking special effects units than he is in actually making a good “movie” (that’s right George, a movie consists of more than just special effects); c) has sold his creative soul to make mountains and mountains of cash through merchandise; and d) has surrounded himself with nothing but sycophants and yes-men who do his bidding and carry out his every whim.
But (and here it is really), I am still a Star Wars fan. Even a George Lucas fan. Sure, I may hate him and wish that he died a horrible death in front of his children. But I’m still a fan. I love Star Wars and I always will. Same goes for Indy.
Even though I feel like a battered bride at times, I shall continue to return. Until my back is broke and nose is crimson.
The Force is my ally. It surrounds us and penetrates us and binds the universe together.
The Force will be with you… always.
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
as he crawled into bed, he looked over at the thing in his bed. something was uttered to him by the thing that may have been sexual but thankfully he was too drunk to understand. darkness soon came over him thanks to the 8% beer.
he woke up later and felt his ribs getting crushed... what's happening?! he woke up to see thing on top of him, raping him. he was paralyzed (or too lazy) to push it off of him. being a lazy fuck, he was also too lazy to pull out. "whoops," he thought, "it's her problem anyways". drunk logic isn't good.
a few months later he can't understand why this bitch is puking every morning and getting fat. he thinks that she's eating too much. when 7-8 months comes around and it's too late to vacuum the fucker out, he realizes that she's pregnant.
maybe this is why my dad and i have so much animousity towards one another...
Monday, 25 August 2008
How was Sariel Thrawn conceived?
Some say that men such as he are not conceived, but spring up, full grown from the Earth. Others would tell you that his very existence defied all the laws of God and Man and Nature.
I tell you now, they are all wrong.
The conception of Master Sariel Thrawn is a tale that defies all explanation. It is exultant in its mediocrity. Luminous in its monotony. Ubiquitous in its sterility.
You will not laugh. You will not cry.
You may, however, yawn.
I realise that it is difficult to image that such magnificence could have be spawned by such utter vacuity, but nonetheless, it is so.
So how was he conceived? What were the circumstances under which he came to be?
Well the simple truth is that he was conceived in a rather non-descript and ugly shack on the outskirts of a rather non-descript and ugly town.
His mother was a frigid, cold-hearted, victim. Raped and beaten until she was nothing but a corpse that still managed to walk and talk, but had just forgotten to die.
His father? He was a pestilence on humanity and a broken human being.
One met the other on a dark street. There was a transaction. There was conception.
Here ends the tale of the Conception of Sariel Thrawn.
As bleak and lifeless a tale as one could hope for. His conception was rather a non-event.
His birth, however, now that’s a different story.
Thursday, 21 August 2008
I learned to read at an early age, cementing within my skull a feeling of superiority over my fellow human beings. For Christmas during my fourth year of life my mother (or Santa, the thin lie she spooned into my head that I never could swallow) gifted me with a read-a-long Disney tape set. I devoured them. Phonics had not seen a resurgence yet, Sesame Street only offended my young sensibilities with its trashy production values and pedantic overacting, while the Letter People held only a slight and bizarre allure for me, but in general, I had no outside help when it came to learning the alphabet. My mother did not read to me, that is why she bought the tapes.
Somehow, I managed to use those books to teach myself literacy. Reading felt easy and natural. One day a red stop sign looked like gibberish, the next it made sense. I finished the tapes, and went on to hard science fiction. The first two novels I ever read were Fred Saberhagen's Bezerker Wars and then Colleen McCullough's Thorn Birds. I was only five.
See, I have always had this psychotic theory that I have lived my life before, everything I have learned only a remembrance of the past, and déjà vu was but a symptom. Somehow I don't think I'm doing any better than the previous run through.
Regardless, I was a sharp youngster that would develop into a brilliant child that would blossom into a mentally retarded adult…but still, I will always cling to my superiority over all humanity. If I am full of shit, I am full of the most valuable and precious shit imaginable.
On the surface I was a good kid. I never needed a spanking, and even though my mother was a definitive authoritarian of the draconian camp—as she was quick to discipline my siblings, I was quick to conform to what she wanted, or make it appear that I did.
There was always an undercurrent of subversion boiling in my brain. It washed through my veins and manifested itself in how I treated my young playmates.
We had a black and white cat named Toby; I named him that, possibly after the fox or hound from that Disney movie about the fox and the hound, or perhaps after the protagonist from Roots. Both names would be fitting. And while I loved that cat, I couldn't help but to torture that poor thing. Not physically, mind you, but mentally. Well, sometimes physically. For example, I knew that he could swim, and I had to prove it to Jerome, the neighbor child a year younger than myself. When the poor cat begged to come inside and shook slimy green kiddy pool water all over my mother’s clean towels, I blamed Toby’s condition on Jerome. It was an easy sell.
Jerome was not a smart child, although he was probably a normal child. I could feel the banality and mediocrity that dripped off his psyche and could already envision his possible futures, which involved either manual labor or prison. He was my plaything.
I often lied to him. With my lies, I generated falsehoods within his mind with the sole intent of humilating him. It wasn't difficult, Jerome wanted to impress me so badly.
“Have you seen the new GI Joe?” I would say.
“Yes,” he would lie.
“He’s dressed like clown.”
“I know! My mom got him for me yesterday. And a Babe Ruth rookie card.”
I always wondered why he took the bait. He probably wanted me to like him, for me to accept him--to impress me. It could never be, for I was a mean child.
“I can’t, I’m grounded from it.”
That was the extent of his ability to think on his feet. He was the only child my age that lived close enough to play with, so it was either his company or soul crushing loneliness. I always felt superior to him, though, in every way.
Take for example the time when we were in the back yard playing He-Man; I was Skeletor, and he was that lame battering ram guy. I had him by the shirt, just about to banish him to the netherworld (the small space between the duplex and the garage) when two Rottweilers trotted around the corner. I suppose they were menacing enough—one of them had more mass than both of us put together, they were not friendly. When they started growling Jerome fell to pieces. It might be a lie to say that I was not scared, but I certainly held my composure. While Jerome devolved into a blubbering mess I calmly led him inside, and neither of us were torn to little bits.
My self-esteem is probably so high today because I had someone like him to compare myself to when I was so young.
Toby, the poor cat that I both adored and punished for next to no reason had been missing or several days. Jerome’s single mother, my own mother, my brother Matt and I ventured out to look for him. My job, as well as my mom’s and Jerome’s mother was to call out his name from the backyard as loud as possible. My brother had reconnaissance duty, and explored the local neighborhood. He found Toby behind the house in an empty parking lot. The poor thing looked as if it had just curled up and bled hideously to death in its sleep. My little brain, though advanced for its age couldn't handle that trauma, so I began to cry, which is of course a perfectly natural reaction to such a loss. Toby was my true best friend, while Jerome was the human meat bag that would do what I say and respond when I spoke to him. Mathew was too old and too cool to play with someone so young.
Jerome had an entirely different reaction to my loss. In a glorious show of callousness, he had the nerve to ask his mother why I was crying. At his age, which was about five, he should have been able to empathize. I boiled with hate. While I was developing out of the concrete operational stage, he would probably never work his way out of the pre-operational. I wanted to teach him a lesson. I HAD to teach him a lesson.
Now, rational thinking might lead you to think that I would talk to him and explain why I was hurting inside, and how he would feel the same pain were he in my shoes. However, if you can piece together the clues from my early childhood nature you might conclude that I would do something nasty instead. And you would be right.
I talked him into shitting his pants. When I tell people this story, I am always asked, “How can you talk someone into shitting their pants?” And the answer is simple: kids are stupid. That is the objective truth.
All I did was talk it up a bit. I told him how I did it all the time, and how great it felt. It was so warm and soft, just carrying it around like that. He always believed everything I said, for the most part, and swallowed this as well.
After a week of prompting he came to me stinking and proud, boasting that he had finally done it. I told him that I did not believe his story and went inside to watch Transformers.
He was spanked, and grounded, and forced to wear a diaper for a time, probably turning him into a future criminal or sex pervert, but I felt vindicated. He blamed me, for what little good that did him, but I had my revenge, and a growing hunger for malice and deviance. Thus an evil genius was born.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Saturday, 19 July 2008
I've seen a girl lay down in a bathtub, lift her anus skyward and then rain down fecal matter in a fountain onto her head.
I've seen two woman defecate into one cup and then proceed to ingest the contains whilst making out with one another.
I've seen woman do the same with vomit.
I've seen people deliberately pass gas in other people's faces as part of a sex act.
I've seen people defecate on each other. In each other's mouths. All as a part of a sex act.
I've seen a woman tied to a pole and another woman kick her in the cunt.
I've seen a man fucked to death by a horse (he died later in hospital, so the story goes).
I've seen people fellate dogs.
I've seen men deliberately slice open their own penises. Cut off the heads. Open their own ball sacks and remove their testicles.
I've seen what can only be described as remnants of human beings strewn across roadways. Their skulls crushed by tanks. Their limbs torn off by bombs.
What's worse? The things we do to ourselves? Or the things we do to each other?
Monday, 30 June 2008
I'm not racist by skin color. That doesn't even make any sense. I'll use 'racist' here like we're talking about national culture, because sure enough, there's big differences. Aussies, Scandinavians, Brits, Americans, Irish, Germans, Japanese, we all got our thing. So I'm not racist, but goddamn, I wouldn't trust a Colombian to walk my dog. Even if he didn't try to steal it or fuck it, he wouldn't be competent enough to walk it anyway.
It's not even that they're such shitbag weasels. Sure, I'll give them a smoke or buy them a beer when they ask, even though they already have their own smokes and more money than me in their pocket. I understand it's just their nature to lie, cheat, and scam at every opportunity. Good for them.
What I can't abide is how they hate us with a smile.
This drunk douche in the bar the other day. He's trying to pick up any girl who gets within ass-grabbing range. My gringo buddy and I comment on it. He's already pissed off because the previous night, a guy who works with his girlfriend was touching her face, calling her "mi amor" and aggressively trying to pick her up. "I don't even mind that if it's on the job," my friend says, "I know how it is at work. He just shouldn't be doing it at the bar, right in front of me. And she shouldn't let him."
"Got a point," I say, "but look at 'em. They literally don't know any better. It's just how it is. Look at this guy," I say, nodding at the drunk douche. "Fucking pathetic by our standards, but whaddaya gonna do. Can't potty-train 'em all, and they're too lame to kill each other off in big numbers. And as far as I know, nobody at the Pentagon is working on a neutron bomb that only kills males, so they're going to be infesting what would otherwise be a paradise for the foreseeable future. But on the bright side - this is partially why their women prefer us."
Which is true. Get a Colombian woman who knows better to talk freely, get her to cut out all the pumped-up nationalistic underdog pride (you thought Americans were jingoistic, lemme tell ya, nothing gets old faster than the constant, ignorant, overcompensating, overbearing patriotism of Colombians - every day is September 12 for them), and chances are she'll say terrible things about her countrymen. And it's something sometimes discussed among the long-term foreigners here. Nobody has real Colombian male friends. Stay here for years, and you may make a few pals, but they're still not your boys. In four years, I know exactly one Colombian who I'd count as one of the boys, and that's because he's lived outside the country and he's not like the others. Many Colombian guys will be nice to our faces, mostly because their culture is to be courteous but also because they don't want any trouble, and then they'll talk smack about "fucking gringos" as soon as we leave. Xenophobia and racism are in no way regarded as negative traits here.
Later, the drunk douche leans over our table and yells at us, flecking spit - "WELCOME COLOMBIA! Eh? WELCOME
Yeah, that's great, thanks. Maybe this reads like a friendly gesture, but what this guy really wants to say is: fuck you, foreigners. I'm hoping the douche gets distracted by some unattainable, for him, piece of tail and goes the hell away.
But douche won't stop. He's talking mostly at my buddy, until he realizes my friend doesn't understand much Spanish, especially when it's yelled in a drunken slur over too-loud Judas Priest. My friend asks me to translate.
"He's saying, '18 percent THC' and something about
Douche realizes my friend doesn't speak Spanish. He switches gears. He tries to talk in English, and for fuck's sake, here it comes: "COME BACK," he says, "COME BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY."
"You mean, 'GO BACK,'" I tell him.
"It's GO BACK, jackass. GO BACK. GO. GO. GO BACK. Christ, you stupid fucks can't even learn to insult us competently."
He thinks we're German, for some reason, I suppose because Colombians think Germans speak English. He leans into my friend and tells him he'll kill him. He doesn't care if we're German or whatever, he says we made a big mistake coming to his country and we should leave, because he'll kill us all. He's waggling his middle finger off to the side as he speaks, the passive-aggressive thing, and he makes a throat-slitting gesture. I've seen this plenty of times before - they must think their badass international reputation makes up for their inherent pussiness. I imagine it works, mostly, because gringos are nervous, but I know better. It's nothing but a sad little bullying maneuver. My friend doesn't understand what the guy is saying, but I can tell he's about to throw the douche off the balcony on principle.
But I'm laughing my ass off. I grab the douche by the shoulder and speak to him in Spanish. "You know what I love about your country? It's that the people are so friendly!"
This is what the newbie foreigners always go on about - oh, the locals are so gosh-darn friendly! I think it's hilarious. Douche doesn't get the joke.
Douche goes on about how
"Yeah, man, that's exactly right! All the wars, all the guerrillas and paramilitaries and narcos and constant killing, nothing but death death death, that's been working out great for you people so far, stick with it! The ground stained with Colombian blood, man, fuck yes, that's awesome! You guys don't need us, and no other country in the world wants you either, so you stay here alone and kill each other off. Excellent fucking plan! You should be proud to be Colombian, in your own little isolated pocket of killing! More death, man, more death! Go go go!"
My buddy gets up to leave. He's had enough. Douche doesn't know what to make of my rant - his attempt at being threatening has backfired badly, and he's left holding nothing. As I pass, I lean in close to him. "But you know what else? I'm not leaving your country, pal, until I'm done fucking all your women. ALL OF THEM." Smile. Wink. Slap on shoulder.
His head slumps to his chest and he gives me a desultory finger. I walk down the stairs and wave over a pretty girl I know to tell her I'm leaving. She comes over and kisses me. I tell her to walk outside with me for a moment and she puts her arm around me. I look back over my shoulder and the douche is watching us leave. I give him a little nod and a smirk - there he was, grab-assing any female he could and failing miserably, and there I am - snap my fingers and I walk out with one of the cutest girls in the bar. I've never felt like such an arrogant dick in my life, and it feels fantastic to do it to someone who deserves it.
I'm not racist, but fuck you all, you miserable, dumbass, useless, pathetic, stupid, lying, thieving, halfassed scheming scumbag pieces of shit.
Sunday, 29 June 2008
Sunday, 22 June 2008
How often do you see or hear a black actor or musician or comedian or writer lash out in disgust at their own 'community' of black people for behaving in a, shall we say, less than civilised manner.
They're up in arms over 'black on black crime'. They detest the fact that there are so many young black women willing to whore themselves to be in music videos or porno movies. The speak out against the drug addicts and the gangsters and the dealers 'infecting' their own communities.
There seems to be a steady stream of black people bitching about how other black people keep acting like 'niggers'. Almost as if they're saying that all black people should act like dignified white folks. Just because all those other black people died all those years ago so you could have your freedom and you owe it to 'your people' to make the most of your so called 'freedom'.
Black on black crime isn't the problem. Crime is the fucking problem.
White people kill other white people all the time. I'm sure that in China yellow people kill yellow people.
Yes, I understand that even to this day the situation for a black person in the US is still pretty fucked. But that is no reason for anyone to start saying that all black people should start behaving the way you want them to because you don't wanna be embarrassed by them.
People are fucked up regardless of the colour of their skin. As long as you all keep harping back to the bad old days and trying to repay your debt to all the slaves that suffered and all the protesters who were killed, you won't be able to move on. I'm not suggesting you forget about them. I'm not suggesting anyone forgets about them. What I'm saying is that in terms of what might be considered 'proper behaviour' you have no right to ask anyone to do anything contrary to their will.
You see, the beautiful thing about freedom is that it also includes the freedom to fuck up. It includes the freedom to become a big booty 'ho. It includes the freedom to become a criminal. It means that if you want the 'bling,' then you can do what you want to get it. And if that means sucking fourteen hundred dicks, well then so much the better.
The fact is, you are not special.
Being black does not put you in some class outside of the rest of the planet. Your ancestors were not the only ones who suffered great injustices. And you are not the only ones who continue to suffer great injustices.
As much as you'd hate to admit it, you are the same type of scum as everybody else on the planet.
p.s. this rant also applies to every race, every tribe, every nation and every other group of people that has ever existed.
If freedom means anything then it must include the freedom to err. Otherwise, we will never be truly free.
Saturday, 14 June 2008
Question: When does a black man become a nigger?
Answer: As soon as he leaves the room.
And therein, my friends, is the issue.
Racism, you see, is an impersonal form of hatred.
No single human being can ever get to know an entire race of people. It's just not possible. However, there are some who would claim to "hate" certain races or have a lack of respect for them.
My question to that is, how does one hate such an intellectual abstraction?
The word "race" merely describes a concept that we have created within our own minds that describes what we perceive to be a group of people who have similar characteristics. Whether those characteristics are cultural or genetic or whatever.
In reality, any single individual can only interact with a certain number of other individuals. Normally this is done on a basis of mutual respect and with a recognition of each others humanity. Sometimes it isn't.
The problems of racism arise when we don't have the individual to focus on. That is when we create this concept of "race" or "nation" or "tribe". And this is where we fail.
Like most people, I've found myself guilty of this kind of sloppy, uncritical thought.
A black guy stole my car, therefore, all niggers are thieves.
A gang of muslims attacked me, therefore, all ragheads are violent, sadistic motherfuckers.
A jewish man won't loan me money, therefore, all kikes are tight-arse motherfuckers.
The trouble is that the behaviour described above is undertaken by people of all "races". Singling out a particular breed of people and claiming that, as a rule, they exhibit a certain characteristic more than any other breed is an extraordinary claim which is almost always made with no regard to evidence or proof.
Some may argue that a lot of the stereotypical behaviour may be culturally driven and that proportionally speaking the Jews are tighter with their money than other people (for example). However, one has to ask oneself how often one has been “jewed” by a non-Jewish person. Is it such an exclusive feature?
I doubt it.
Part of the problem is that our brains seem to be hard wired to make generalisations about most situations where we find the data before us to be incomplete. One can see how this can be an advantage in saving time during the decision making process and allow people not to procrastinate over making certain choices.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, humanity has come a long way in terms of how we think, what we think about and how we interact with each other. Our civilization (if you can call it that) is now global and the way we think about the world and our place in it needs to change.
The reality is that the differences between the races, at least on a genetic scale is minuscule. Even at a cultural level we are more alike than we are different. Every race, every tribe and every nation all contain the same emotions, the same thoughts about life and death and the same thoughts about how their tribe is better than everyone else’s.
I don’t doubt that as the world’s economy and culture becomes more and more global, issues of race will cease to be of any real importance. However, that day is still some time away.
In the meantime all I can add is that I’m not a racist but I do on occasion have my racist thoughts and sometimes I give them voice.
Nigger, coon, spook, gook, chink, slant, kike, wog, dago, spic, sand nigger, rag head, honkey, red neck.
What is in a name? After all, it’s the thought that counts.
Sunday, 18 May 2008
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
Although some people
We can never know everything
But I think I may
Know one thing
I might know
How I feel
Or I might know
Who I am
Nobody knows who I am
Least of all me
I can't even begin to guess
Where I begin
And where I
Sunday, 27 April 2008
you brought a fucking taser home from thaialnd? how did you get it through customs yuo dodgy bastard!it shorrible the sonud is all crackly and scary. i got flasherd by a spped camera and i dont have a valid licenec sop i am pretty fu ckd noew. that caks wine was hrorbile but i mixed it with lemonade and it was a bit okasy but heaps better than the gross beer and some dog came into the abckyard and ghis name was "dude" who the fuck clals theuir dog dude/. seriouskly. he was blakc and i patted him but then i got a bit itchy cos i am allergic to like evrything. and it weas a bbq and the dead animal smoke was blowing on me nd i nearly barfed. she has lots of hats on the hatsnad in the hallway so w eall put hats on. i looked like a fucking bushman. then i danced to qwueen and freedie emrcury makes me cry cos he is dead. so we drank more and i ate a micorwaved potato cos the bqked ones had btter on them. no thanks. then we played with the laser a bit more and i got brinas in the eye and he is a policeman and he was not impressed. i tried to have a nap but it was all spinny.. the trmapoline was not a good idea. then we werwe singing and the sheep in the yatrd next door was baa baa baaing. so now i am hoem and i dont have to wokr tomoorw so i am rpewttyy happy so im come on the internet and aperil is enarly over so maybe i should post a blog but ti is influences... and i couldnt think of anythign all month cos i ahve beend rinking way too much lately, its very unladylike. so i tohught mayeb somethign will coem to mind now so i started typing and all i got was this garbage wioth enought typos to make anyone go blind and im sorry and i cans ee squiggly re dlines under all the mistakes but fucked if i am, gonan go trhu and correct them, all cos that would just defeat the purpiose of this and my fingrres are too slwo for my brian anyway and i wanna get out of here and go buy somrhying to eat but at the end of the day my biggetsd influence is ALCOFUCKINGHOL. cheers.
Thursday, 24 April 2008
For me, an influence can be anything. It can be getting punched in the face by the drunk at the bar when you are being an arrogant cunt. Also it can be when you are taking a shit and realizing you are out of toilet paper and have to run upstairs for it with your cock flapping in the wind.
At the end of the day influences are like puke and shit. You might take a bunch of crap in, but it's going to come out as a fucking mess. However this mess is uniquely different from anyone elses mess. You show your influences with the excrement that comes out; a convoleted mess.
Saturday, 19 April 2008
Well that's a juicy one, ain't it?
I mean, after all, everyone has their influences. Whether they be people, places or things.
I suppose at one end of the spectrum you can argue that everything I've ever come into contact with, or indeed, everything in the universe influences me in some small way.
But I think the point here is to go a little deeper than that.
The trouble is, there are so many things to discuss. Not just people. But ideas. Places. Things.
Where does one begin?
Perhaps with music.
Musically I would have to say that my greatest influence, or the musician who had the most affect on me would be Prince. In my formative years (and even now), his music has all touched a chord in me. Sure, his latest couple of albums may be pretty pedestrian and his whole "I'm gonna sue my fans and stop swearing because Jesus said so" bullshit is irritating. But fuck me if he isn't a goddamn, bona fide, musical fucking genius. Possibly the most under-appreciated guitarist in history.
Listening to Prince's sexually charged and provocative lyrics have definitely influenced my way of thinking about love and lust and ladies. His music was a large part of the foundation that would eventually become who I am now.
In fact, now that I think about it, Prince would probably be the greatest influence on me. Apart from my parents of course, but they don't count 'cause they're not famous or anything cool like that.
Everything else that I think about sort of pales in comparison, in terms of influence and longevity. I can start to rattle off other things here like, say, christianity. Religion has had an influence on me. I used to quite the christian. Tolkien was a big early influence. I credit The Hobbit as the book that turned me into a reader. Hunter S. Thompson. Charles Bukowski. Shakespeare. Buddy Wakefield. All more recent influences.
Skepticism has been a great influence on me in the last few years. It's fast approaching Prince levels of influence and it has helped me become part of the reality based community.
But at the end of the day, it's all about the music. The funk of it. The rock of it. The soul of it. The sex of it. Prince is the man.
And if you doubt me, then you ought to challenge him to a game of basketball.
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
To retain it's freshness, THE SOUL must remain dry. Sterility gauranteed unless THE SOUL is SHADOW, but you can get all other types of infections by re-using your own SOUL. If you have to re-use damaged or open. (For External Use Only). Please dispose of THE SOUL safely. Fill THE SELF all the way up with SOUL and leave it for a full 2 minutes. THE SOUL should be full strength and not watered down. You can not give THE SOUL to your SELF by re-using your own your SOUL bleach it first. If THE SOUL hurts, pull out!! The selling of SOULS is permitted only in closed packages. Do not remove THE SOUL from THE SELF until moment of use. Do not remove the protective SELF until moment of use. Recent studies have shown that THE SOUL may live outside the body at room temperature for atleast 16 hours, but no longer than 4 days. Never carry THE SOUL in pocket as THE SOUL may ignite and cause burn injuries. All SOULS sold in the U.S. meet the same FDA standards for strength and quality. If you want to lose THE SOUL and are 18 years of age or younger, consult a doctor. Rapid SOUL loss may cause health problems. Slide rubber spatula between THE SELF and THE SHADOW to easily seperate them without tearing. Remove THE SHADOW from THE SELF before intial use. Apply THE SOUL to genital area (vary amount of SOUL to achieve desired lubrication). THE SOUL is extremely slippery-clean spills immediately. Take this SOUL exactly as misdirected. Do not skip rope. When using this Soul see important warnings: avoid contact with eyes in nostrils. Avoid feeding suspect breast. Caution: Federal Law prohibits the transfer of SOULS to any persons other than THE SELF to whom it was divined.©Eli Higgins 2008___
(TheBoyNamedCrow/aka… at www.myspace.com//chestfulloflights)
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
- There's a girl in my bed.. Under my covers, twisted in my sheets. Her singlet has been pulled up, exposing her left breast. I tug on the nipple, hard enough to make her gasp. Her face is pressed against the pillow and she's starting to sweat. I slide my other hand into her lacy knickers, the ones she wore because she knows they turn me on. I'm rubbing the familiar damp spot between her legs, just the way she likes it.
Her breathing gets heavier and she whispers my name. She bites her lip hard as she comes, then rolls over, her body shaking. "You're the best." She mumbles, already starting to drift off. There's a girl in my bed and I'm obsessed with her. I can't get enough.
There's a girl in my bed...
And she's me.
Monday, 24 March 2008
Saturday, 15 March 2008
Sexual fetish? How about just having sex in the first place? That would be nice wouldn't it? Regular old penises entering regular old vaginas? Streaming ropes of jizzum hitting chins?
But I guess if one were hard pressed to find a 'fetish' one would have to definitely need to examine one's own personality first and determine what would float one's boat, so to speak.
Bearing that in mind, my new perversion would have to be... bullet wounds.
Take one fresh bullet wound. The location is a matter of personal taste. I prefer the chest and back areas myself. Once said bullet wound has been located, proceed to insert erect penis into the cavity. Thrust and repeat.
The beauty is that the blood acts as a lubricant and the wound itself is lovely and warm. Sure if the body you're fucking is still alive and conscious then there is bound to be some writhing and screaming, but that's supposed to happen anyways, right?
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
We are fucked on an every day basis. Laws, legislations, regulations, norms, mores, etc... The only reason the man wants to keep you down is really a conspiracy. I'll let you in on it...
The Man is involved in a world wide conspiracy. He is associated not with the conspirators but the conspiracy theorists. He has connections to people like Alex Jones and David Icke and keeps everyone 'down' and 'subdued' so they are able to profit and get publicity.
Think about it.
Friday, 15 February 2008
Sunday, 20 January 2008
I'll drive back across the border and be bored of the useless shit that I bought. I could have bought it in Canada but sometimes you can save money on the exchange.
America won't stop molesting me at home, either. I'll turn on the television and have the choice to watch fulfilling shows like Friends, Survivor or America's Next Top Model.
If I get hungry and want to fill my fat face, I'll be confused by all the choices.
Sometimes I wish I wasn't able to make choices. The citizens of Communist Russia had it easy. They had a gun pointed at their fucking head to do something.
Sometimes I wish it was that way here, that way I would have an excuse for my apathy.
Saturday, 19 January 2008
I think of humanity.
I think about all the shit and all the bile and all the love and all the beauty.
It's like the total dichotomy of all existence
no yin and yang, embracing differences bullshit here.
Total fucking polar opposites man.
The poorest of the poor and the richest of the rich
about "the good old days when they didn't tax your labor
and the niggers worked for us."
From one side to the other.
Back and front
everything you could possibly imagine.
on world domination.
Peaceniks, beatniks, freethinkers.
Lovers of the earth
and protectors of her children.
We the people, we are the ones who rule
we are the deciders
we are responsible.
See us as murderers
See us as
The freedom to choose includes the freedom to choose badly,
very fucking badly.
We are the american dream and the american nightmare
walking hand in hand
like some kinda bad soap opera romance
big chins and tall hair
staring at the red light waiting
to hear someone yell "cut."
Friday, 18 January 2008
Wanted: Encinitas California- 7-11 requires staff for the "graveyard shift" BIG money and opportunities for advancement. Pursue your happiness today. We are an equal opportunities employer.
Wanted: Salinas California- A&B Produce requires "farmhands" for seasonal work. Earn great money working outdoors in a stable, friendly environment.
"Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free"
Wanted: Tempe, Arizona- WE want you: for a FUN career in fashion! From your hands to the runway. Needed immediately 45 workers at G&R textiles. No experience necessary.
"The wretched refuse of your teeming [ocean, RIVER, etc] shore."
Wanted- San Diego, California- Needed border security patrol men to protect our borders, our livelihoods and way of life. Apply to the "Minutemen Militia" (not in that way, you queer) 215 Turner Road Haley, Texas 14010.
"Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me."
Wanted: Pfizer corp- Miami, Fl is seeking "product" testers. Try new products before the rest! Side effects may include fun, sweating, and great pay!
"I lift my lamp beside the golden door."
Wanted: The "White" House Requires- Painter/Door Repair Man. Experience with pyrite is a must! Apply directly to G.W. Bush, Supreme Leader 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, DC 20500 .
Thursday, 10 January 2008
(The following piece is by an artist called Buddy Wakefield. I highly recommend his work, especially if you like performance poetry. Check him out on Youtube or go to http://www.buddywakefield.com/)
My town is cute
like a bumper sticker
like when Christians sport POWER OF PRIDE bumper stickers.
What is it you people don’t understand about pride being a deadly sin?
My town is cute like GOD BLESS AMERICA bumper stickers.
Judging by our excessive luxuries, those stickers really work.
Now if we can just get God to bless the whole world.
Alix Olsen’s bumper sticker reads I LOVE MY COUNTRY.
I JUST THINK WE SHOULD START SEEING OTHER PEOPLE.
But my town doesn’t see other people.
We’re just too cute
like the difference between what we say and what we do
like the fact that violence in any form
is sanctioned by the government as criminal or insane
unless they're the ones who commit it.
My town is cute like people who still shop at Wal-Mart and claim to be patriotic.
My town is cute in the way we worry about the gays
fuckin’ up our family values and the sanctity of marriage,
yet we still let our children watch television shows like Wife Swap, The Bachelor, Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire, American Idolatry
and Fox News.
My town is so cute that - check this out -
once, six years ago,
there were some brown people (boogity boogity),
they attacked two of our tallest buildings
and killed a shitload of our innocent citizens,
kinda like we did
in Guatemala, Nicaragua, Panama, El Salvador,
Tanzania, Mozambique, Vietnam, Afghanistan,
Hiroshima, Philippines, Kosovo, Bolivia,
Angola, Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Dresden,
Dominican Republic, Cuba, Haiti, Indonesia,
East Timor, Cambodia, Iraq, (what the fuck
are we doing in Israel?)
and my cute town pretends we never saw it [or had it] coming
so in a perpetual attempt to save cute face
we’ve waged a war on terror about as effective as the war on drugs.
My town is cute when we wage these wars in the name of God.
As many as 20% of the polar bears on the Northern Ice Cap are hermaphrodites
due to PCB’s being dumped into the ocean.
You won't hear about that shit on the news because it's too cute,
like a wolf giving birth through its penile canal (True).
My town is cute like a 300lb tumor containing hair and teeth inside of it
grown from the body of a 210 pound agoraphobic woman,
cute like competitive poetry, the history of Scientology, plastic surgery,
and refined sugars, cute
like a man swallowing an 8-ball of cocaine
then jumping from a 5-story building to escape police,
getting up and running away from it all.
this is a true story:
The first time my town saw the sky
it sucker punched us in the throat
left us breathless
said, "I'm gonna keep you awake some nights
without touching you
you'll make it up, the pain,
you always do."
Now my town only buys drowsy formula sky.
Otherwise it gets too big, the sky,
like when we were three
before we realized:
We have balls.
The sky does not.
Therefore, we have bigger balls than the sky.
do not talk to us about being tea-bagged
by upside down hot air balloons.
Where rational conversation and big pictures are concerned
we have no time for getting wrapped up.
We are not presents for your sky.
We are just right.
like the book about bunny suicides,
cute like Old Yeller just 'fore he got shot in the rabies
(a good actor, that dog).
My town was born way off the mark.
Sometimes we see it coming, the mark,
So we shoot it with spit wads or
precision-guided phallic symbols.
Every time there is talk of war
people give me reasons why their town
will be bombed first.
It's a souped-up sense of self importance, buck-o.
Everybody knows my town will be bombed first
we planned the construction of a nuclear power plant
right here in the same fields where our military children
now carry out covert orders to keep the word dumb alive.
Christianity has a hard time workin' here,
makes us believe that even when we are alone
someone is watching us and judging us.
Now we're all narcissists.
We have a habit of giving other people's gifts to ourselves.
But at least our children still get their confidence booster shots,
while our fathers perform voice reduction surgery
to keep our pleas for help mime-sized
while our mothers are bending infinity in half
so that our families can continue to talk in circles,
while we all burn our tongues when we drink hot cocoa
for the same reason everybody here wants to hug the ocean
because it's just so much.
My town knows that there is something so big inside of all of us
we have to suck
just to distract you from being directly overwhelmed by our real power,
the kind of power that makes you smile.
Everybody knows that smiling is for little girls, the gays
and certain kinds of fish
who are smiling by accident.
The shortcuts my town has taken
have saved us so little time
gotten us so far ahead of ourselves
we have actually fallen behind.
Would have been better off learning to herd turtles
into bomb shelters, on a moments notice,
giggling at the fact that we will all now die
and it'll have happened so fast
we will have never been anything
but really cute
like our three-year-olds
who use folding chairs
to beat lambs within inches of their lives.
My town is inches tall.
It's why the sky looks down on us,
wants to tell us something
like grow up
or reach up
or look up and watch me winking
I'm trying to talk to you.
The Earth is travelling at 66,641 mph around the sun.
It simultaneously rotates on itself at over 1000 mph.
My town? Yeah,
it's having some trouble sleeping.