Thursday 27 November 2008
Fuck, I depressed me.
Beating a dead horse, I'd prefer to call my experience flogging an expired equine. I'm a fag like that. It only happens when I'm around her, and I cannot get away. This is why I'm on my fourth scotch with no end in sight. We were never really a couple, but we were together toward the end of my adolescence. I know I loved her, but my aversion to physical contact instilled by a religious toltolitarian of a mother drove us apart. It was my fault, and I took the responsibility, but now I'm going to beat a dead horse and call her. She lives two blocks away and we're still friends. We will never be together again, even now as I've sorted out my personal issues, I know this. Yet I still swing the stick into the horses' ribs over and over and over. Torture, it literally eats at me like necrotizing fasciitis of the 'heart'. Fuck, the horse is just mush now. But I'm still going to beat it.
Monday 24 November 2008
beating a dead horse - tits = power
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
Funny, like cancer
There's a look that she gives me.
It takes a moment
For me to realise that...
I'm not asleep and this is
Not a dream.
This shit is real.
She's looking
But she just doesn't see me
Fucking bitch whore!
Who the fuck does she think she is?
Bitch.
Funny how admiration
And love
Can turn ugly at the drop of a hat.
It takes a moment
For me to realise that...
I'm not asleep and this is
Not a dream.
This shit is real.
She's looking
But she just doesn't see me
Fucking bitch whore!
Who the fuck does she think she is?
Bitch.
Funny how admiration
And love
Can turn ugly at the drop of a hat.
Sunday 16 November 2008
Reliving the Dream
I am serving up some tenderized, fully-aged horseflesh marinated in last month's alcohol and peppered with the bitterroot of lost youth. It goes well with a glass of whine vintaged from sour grapes.
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!
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
Apropos of Nothing
Today I spotted the most magnificent mullet that I have ever had the privilege of viewing in person. I have seen photographs and read accounts of many rare and remarkable mullets, but now I can add my eyewitness account of such a unique sighting.
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.
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.
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