Rotten bastards

The Apathist Manifesto

2010-11-16T09:13:00.000-08:00

After 20+ years of being non-religious (I never really was religious, just hadn't cut the cultural Christian cord.) I have grown tired of being asked, "What are you?" and feeling the need to defend my position on religion. I considered myself an atheist when I was the angry young man and I delighted in the mockery of religious institituions and in gleeful blasphemies. As I grew older I found that such a staunch position was hard to justify rationally and I decided that agnostic was a better label for my position or lack thereof. I still take delight in the mockery of all institutions, religious or otherwise, but that is just my natural reaction to bullshit.

Calling myself agnostic has gotten me more argument from atheists than from Christians. The Christians, at least the educated ones, see agnosticism as a philosophy or viewpoint that they disagree with but that doesn't refute their belief outright. I didn't do this in deference to their poor pious feelings, but because I don't like to speak in absolutes on any subject in which I lack conviction. I have no religious conviction one way or another.

The atheists, my wife being chief among them, see this as some sort of cop out. "If you don't believe in God, then you're an atheist!" Some of them seem as hardcore about proselytizing and recruiting as their Christian counterparts. My lack of lack of faith troubles them greatly and they are more likely to debate me on the subject than the goddamned Christians. My wife's main concern is how to handle the subject with our children. My oldest is now almost seven and she sees through bullshit pretty clearly. She still gives lip service to the Santa thing because she doesn't want to rock the sleigh full of gifts, but she knows what's up. She has been told about God by various adults and other children already and we've given her a plain and simple explanation about how we feel about it. When asked, she tells the other kids that she doesn't believe in God and has gotten some flack for it. That's the part that causes my wife to argue her point with me. She sees my agnosticism as a moral weakness in the face of first-grade religious enemies. She fears that my lack of concern about the subject is going to confuse our daughter when she needs conviction the most. I hope my daughter adopts my attitude of casual indifference towards religion rather than my wife's strident tone.

I have therefore decided to refer to myself henceforth as a religious apathist. I don't know if there is a god or not and I don't give a shit, quite frankly. Pray or don't. I couldn't possibly care any less, as long as you don't attempt to impose it upon me in some legal or political fashion. You can have the afterlife, but this one is mine and don't fuck with it. Amen.

I googled "apathist" and found www.apathist.org. No club to join nor even a forum. Just a philosophical statement. Perfect.

The simple theory of the apathist:
Perhaps there is a god, or gods, or goddesses, or higher powers.
Perhaps not.
It's irrelevant.
You do the most good you can with what you have.
If you get help from somewhere else, that's just icing on the cake.

Revival?

2010-10-16T03:10:00.000-07:00

Sure, bring it back.

I dares ya!

One Year Later...

2010-10-11T05:58:00.000-07:00

This place has sat vacant for damn near a year now. The dust is thick and world wide webs hang off of everything. The windows are all broken (should have used Linux) and the homepageless and the spambots are squatting. Somebody shit on the floor.

The bastard is still rotting right where we left him though. Most of the meat may have fallen from his bones, but there's still some gristle left to chew.

What say ye abominable illegitimates? Halloween is the day that the dead rise. Shall we reanimate this corpse and watch it dance or just let 'er RIP?

I've got a tale to tell.

A little late but...

2009-11-01T03:33:00.000-08:00

Halloween sucks.

Stupid costumes. Stupid shitty candy.

At least there's no mention of Jesus.

Bless you all.

BOO!

2009-10-28T06:04:00.000-07:00

I'm just not feeling it these days. Several months ago, my muse went out for beer and cigarettes and just never came back. Can't say I blame her. I've always lacked discipline, but now I've got the attention span of a kid whose Ritalin was replaced with candy corn.

On that subject, before I forget, trick or treats is nigh approaching and I just could not care any less. Halloween used to be fun. As a kid eating candy, a teenager drinking beer, or a college student dropping acid, Halloween was a good time. Now my own kids get excited at the thought of the coming candy orgy, but it's just a pain in the ass for me. I've got to watch out for predators and poison and drunk drivers. And we can't even make it scary anymore. All it takes is one good old-fashioned, bowel-eliminating scare and I'm up every night for weeks with nightmare traumatized kids. But the real icing on the cupcake is this year's costumes. I will accompany a five-year-old Hannah Montana and a three-year-old Michael Jackson along the parade route. I'll be the embarrassed father with the flashlight/billy club acting as bodyguard to the stars. Sigh.

Cooler than you

2009-09-24T16:11:00.000-07:00

I read Kerouac and Ginsberg.

I dream of being a beat poet.

I live in a newly renovated loft apartment.

All my clothes are pre-owned.

My record collection is nothing but original one-off pressings of bands you've never heard of.

My sandals are made from hemp.

My favourite book is Che Guevara's biography.

I only smoke European cigarettes.

The best movies ever made are Soviet underground animation full length features.

I'm a vegan.

I brew my own beer.

I ride a bicycle.

Nothing is cool unless I say it is.

The things you like don't count for shit unless I deem them worthy to be called 'cool'.

I have no label.

I am unique.

the music shop douche

2009-09-22T20:24:00.000-07:00

there is no one who irritates me more is the "hipper than thou" music shop douche. a few years ago some one lived in my town who i will refer to as aaron bono (his last name starts with those letters which just begins to show his douchiness). aaron worked in a music store and of course heard of all these bands before they were famous and whenever you went to buy a cd who would go on a rant about it to you.

aaron also had the amazing personal characteristic of being a chronic liar. sometimes people are able to keep up or have some rational behind their lies to make them somewhat plausible and believable. not aaron.

the music store was in the mall but it was the closest thing to an independent music store we have in this town. even though i despised aaron i will admit he kept the store filled with some decent metal albums. the con to this was hoping he wasn't working when you went to buy one of these albums. i admit to waiting sometimes until he went on his lunch break or to the back of the shop so i didn't have to deal with his chronic lying.

i bought a soulfly album from there and he was working. he went on about how max cavalera fired his band mates for showing up fifteen minutes late and how he was a piece of shit. all i wanted to do was listen to the album and not hear a personal critique of what makes a good band leader. this was minor for an aaron bono moment though.

a few weeks later i was in the store wearing a korn shirt and he told me how he jammed with korn when he ran into them before a concert. i asked what instrument he played and he said guitar. aaron did not play the guitar though. a few months earlier i ran into at a house party and he picked up a guitar and said how he wish he knew how to play.

aaron also talked about how he went to ozzfest one time and drank with rob zombie and partied with pantera. this might have happened but knowing aaron, it did not.

the ultimate aaron moment was when i bought a bill hicks cd. he told me that he saw bill hicks perform right before he died in seattle when he did a small tour. time for a little math.

this incident occurred in 2001. bill hicks died in 1994. aaron was a year ahead of me in school and i was 18 when he told me this story so that would make aaron 19 and born in 1982. aaron was such a hipster at the time that he went to the united states and witnessed this comedic legend at a bar when he was maybe 12 years of age. i finally had enough and called him on his bullshit and asked how he saw hicks when he was 12. he paused, started to speak but stuttered and then answered:

"i'm thirty years old".

i asked him how he could be that old when he was only year ahead of me in school and he paused again.

"that's some guy who looks like me".

finally for the grand finale i asked him if he thought it was a coincidence that this guy was named aaron as well.

"i'm not named aaron".

i pointed to his name tag which said aaron and he commented that it was another worker's name tag. he quickly said he had work to do and went to the back of the shop. his co-worker looked at me after he left and was laughing her ass off. apparently she had heard similiar stories from him and was glad that someone finally shut him up.

a few years later i was in a different city for a concert. beforehand my buddy and i were wandering the mall and went into a music store. guess who was working? i said "hello aaron" and he replied "hello" back to me.

"i thought your name wasn't aaron?" i mentioned.

he looked at me with a weird look and went back to work. i guess it's hard keeping your lies straight.

2009-09-06T02:22:00.001-07:00

SkatePIG

2009-08-30T15:22:00.000-07:00

Seriously you're not gonna believe this shit man, this afternoon we were by the CIS building skating around minding our own business, this was about 5 o'clock or something so nobody's around except us, we're not getting in anyone's way or nothing. Dave was rolling a joint and I was trying to grind down the entire railing by the front steps. I fall off right onto my fucking elbow, right on the side of one of the steps ... seriously man it's totally fucked my elbow up, it's all cut up and shit. I don't think it's broken but it fucking hurts.

Seriously you're not going to believe what happened to me today. It's around three, three thirty and I'm walking by the CIS building and there are these kids just skating all over the forecourt. They're getting in people's way and jumping, leaping like maniacs up and down the front steps on their skateboards. They could have killed someone. This one kid falls flat on his face, right on the steps and then gets up like nothing happened, just keeps skating up and down. You wouldn't believe it, they're like zombies or something, brain dead zombies.

Anyway that's not what I wanted to tell you, I wanted to tell you about this fucking cop. He just walks over to us and is all like, 'You can't skate here' and I obviously started trying to tell him that the work day's finished and shit and we're not getting in anyone's way or anything but he's still telling us to move'.

Anyway I walk over to them and very calmly explain to them that they're inconveniencing the people trying to enter and exit the building and that they're posing a threat to the safety of others and could they please find somewhere else to use their skateboards. This one kid, skinny little kid, he stands up, gets right up close to me and immediately just completely starts mouthing off to me. He's cursing and just, just turning the air blue. He's calling me a pig and the this and the that, you know, really getting aggressive with me. I try asking him to please lower his voice and be respectful of the fact that we're in a crowded place in the middle of the working day and there are women and children around but really, he's really just going nuts.

Just then he spies Dave with the weed and without saying anything he just picks it up and puts it in his pocket, just fucking takes it like that. I mean that's abuse of power, weed's legal now and everything, he's just taking that for himself. Dave asks for it back and tries telling him it's legal and shit and the guy's just like, 'I don't care'.

Just then this other kid who's standing next to him, just calmly and openly starts smoking a huge marijuana joint right in front of me. I cannot believe what I'm seeing, he's just stood there smoking the stuff like it's the most normal thing in the world. I mean if that's not disrespectful I don't know what is. Marijuana is an illegal drug and he's there with a joint of it in his mouth and a huge bag of the stuff just hanging out of his pocket.

Of course Dave, you know Dave. He's still just trying to get the stuff back. Just asking him for it back but the guy just keeps telling us to fuck off so Dave tells him he's gonna find more police and report this guy for stealing our weed and the cop, without saying anything, just fucking plants him one right in the face. Punches him full on and Dave just stands there. Then the guy just walks off with our weed. I just came here after that, I'm just gonna smoke a joint to calm down and maybe watch How high or something.

Of course I confiscate the drugs and he comes after me. Just completely dives for me like some kind of animal, he's clawing at me trying to get his drugs back so I firmly push him back and inform him that I will not hesitate to arrest him if he continues to behave aggressively. This kid and his friend walk off all the while shouting curses back at me like you've never heard. They're telling me I'll be sorry for taking their drugs and really just making all kinds of threats. The whole experience has just got me so wound up. I think I'm going to open that white wine and have a few glasses of that to calm down. Maybe watch a movie. I've just got the Superman box-set on DVD, I might put one of those on or something.

Get out of my head

2009-08-29T05:41:00.000-07:00

It's easy enough isn't it?

Just block them out.

Pretend they're not real. They don't exist.

Don't think twice.

They are the other. The outsiders. The unfamiliar.

It's easy to block them out and imagine they are somewhat less than you are.

Faceless. Heartless. Immoral.

Evil and unclean.

Their destruction would be a justified and holy act.

Their continued existence would be an anathema.

Or worst still. They don't even register.

Your radar remains mute.

There is nothing to notice. Nothing more important than yourself.

Other people don't count.

Even those closest to you barely register a blip on your screen.

Other people are outside. They are the other.

No matter how hard you try. You cannot know who they are.

No matter how much they reveal, they will always remain hidden.

Basically. Essentially. When you get down to it.

What I'm trying to say is. In the gayest, most poetic way possible.

No matter how hard you try.

And no matter how much you think you know.

You will never, ever truly know someone.

And they will never, ever truly know you.

Other people will always be removed and apart from what you are.

And that's a large part of what makes life interesting.

them

2009-08-22T22:42:00.000-07:00

as i walk down the street i can hear their stares.

what are they staring at me?
why do they keep looking at me?
is it something i am wearing, do i have something on my clothes?
can they see my erection?

anxiety soon takes over and i notice my breathing is irregular. trying to get your breathing back to normal when you consciously recognize it is like trying not to cum when you are about to orgasm. it is possible but us average folk can not control it.

i am able to breathe slowly. for every one breath that makes it through, i choke on three. the lump in my throat gradually shrinks until my breathing is back to normal. my attention now switches to the paranoia of the people passing me by.

i continue to walk and avoid eye contact. if, for a split second my eyes lock with a stranger's eyes, my gaze goes directly to my shoes and i continue to walk.

this continues until i see a gorgeous girl walking towards me. gorgeous meaning that she is a girl i would have the courage to talk to. a smirk forms in the corner of her mouth and my eyes meet hers. being shy i quickly look down to my feet but muster up the courage to look back at her and return the smile. we walk by each other, both smiling but nothing else is said.

i continue to think about her smile while i walk.

after passing me she thinks to herself, "i wonder if he knows i am a lesbian?"

More People

2009-08-12T05:52:00.000-07:00

The Proud Addict

A caricature.

Compensating for a lack of substance

with substances.

Denying reality by substituting another.

Cannot make sense

so become senseless.

Celebrate self-inflicted demise

and call it a party.

Drinking from the punchbowl of death

in a slow, cultish, mass-suicide.

Solace in knowing the outcome:

death by own hands.

The Temptress

Muse, muse, muse again and confuse.

Flames of desire tower high and only a mist to quench.

Is the occasional whetting of the tongue worth

the burn ever-present?

It’s about control.

Only a moment here and there for her;

A brain –racing, -folding, -twisting, -turning, mind-fuck

that defines and stops time

for him.

Oh damn you, goddamn you…

What can I do for you next?

Please leave me alone

so the dejection can take hold

to restore the blandness of normalcy.

Random Poem

2009-08-10T12:01:00.000-07:00

The Skank

Asking nothing of your soul or emotions

the skank is there for you to fuck.

What isn’t at risk cannot be lost.

She has lost too many times before.

Her trying heart took a pounding

harder than her dignity and snatch.

She fills her void of love with cock

and the seed of possibility.

Like the potential of life shot on her face,

hers is also wasted.

Slowly dripping away,

turning cold and hard;

the threat of life is avoided.

IT'S A TRAP!!!

2009-07-24T10:23:00.001-07:00

No, not really. I'm going to just re-use one of my first bits on the subject as best as I can remember it.

"So, I don't know if I'm queer or not... It's worrying because, I'm terrified of dicks. Not this one(points at Sgt. Terror) we got a good thing going. But I had a moment recently watching the movie Smokin' Aces. HEY, any man who can't admit Ryan Reynolds is a pretty man is gay by default!! Anyway, there's this big ending where my little Ry-Ry has this hero moment... Quoth George Kostanza, 'It moved'. Not that I sprung a bedpost sized erection, it was more like when you're in a department store and see a cute saleswoman undressing a mannequin and you just get that little... twinge. Eh whatever."

i'm not gay but...

2009-07-23T18:30:00.001-07:00

first off, i'm a hetero guy and lesbian porn doesn't do much for me. yet if it's a girl going down on another girl while a guy is railing her (also known as a 3-way) i like it. maybe it's because i know how shitty my oral technique is and i am sexist towards lesbians are way better at it than me? or maybe it's because it is more likely for me to have sex with a girl than to be a first hand witness to some hot lesbo action.

I'm not gay but...

2009-07-23T16:58:00.000-07:00

I have had sex with a girl. And I'd do it again.

Firm Footing

2009-07-22T05:29:00.000-07:00

I'm not gay but...
I'm knot gay but...
I'm not gay butt...
I'm not ghey but...
Eye'm knot ghey butte.

I'm not gay but I know how it feels to love and lust and want.
I'm not gay but I understand wanting to spend your life with someone.
I'm not gay but I want to be happy.

I am not a homosexual, however...

... I am a human being.

Which gives me something in common with all of you.

Gay included.

Mr Smith and Miss Veronica discuss Money

2009-07-02T04:53:00.000-07:00

"I have a tree which grows great abundances of cash, all in different currencies of course" Miss Veronica said to Mr Smith. It should be known that being a Miss Veronica she was obviously a scarlet woman in fishnets and red lipstick.
"Why should I believe you Miss Veronica? you are after all a scarlet woman in fishnets and red lipstick" said Mr Smith, who being a Mr Smith tended towards tweed suites and thick glasses.
"You know Mr Smith I know you're only insulting me to belittle my confidence so I'll sleep with you but you really need to take me more seriously" Miss Veronica replied placing her sassy hands on her sassy hips.
"How could I possibly take you seriously? you are a woman, even in the most outrageous narratives the male protagonist would find the money tree NOT the woman" he snarled back with a triumphant flick of his sandy brown hair.
Miss Veronica, if this had been a full fledged romantic chicklit novel would have through trial and error eventually won over Mr Smith.
He would see the money tree and begin to take her seriously.
But this wasn't a full fledged novel so instead she walked away.
And spent her money tree earnings on a pair of baby pink heels that cost at least three grand.

The best things in life are free but I can't afford them

2009-06-30T15:17:00.000-07:00

If you're one of those human beings with working eardrums and the mental capacity/training necessary to understand the English language you've no doubt heard the phrase, 'the best things in life are free'. It's a phrase you've probably heard in countless bad pop songs, shrugged off in times of financial woe and embraced in times of giddy childlike joy. It's a phrase most people would agree with, or at least claim to agree for fear of looking shallow and materialistic. It's a phrase I myself might agree with but it's not something that brings me comfort.

I've never had any problem finding money. I realise how punchable I just became by saying that. Here I am syphoning money off of the honest taxpayer in order to fund my beer soaked lazy sitcom watching, guitar playing life and acting as if there's some magical force of nature granting me riches. I realise I'd probably be on the street without all kinds of hardworking people there to support my lazy tuchus but even so, I have never really felt the sting of poverty and have always seemed to have a little more money than I need.

I'm not rich by any means, I don't come from a rich family and was never paid any kind of allowance as a child but I have never really worried about money. I mean, from time to time I have worried about (and continue to worry about) clothing and feeding myself and having a place to live but even in those times I'm comforted by the idea that I could live in some flophouse, eating half a tin of spaghetti hoops a day and wearing second hand clothing donated to the local charity shop by widows of badly dressed men (I already look like I do anyway). This has never seemed so bad to me, with the paltry amount of cash it would take to sustain one's existence I've never really understood just why people worry so much about money. Sure it'd be annoying to lose your HD television or your high speed access to genital mutilation videos but it's not really something to worry about.

The things I worry about are the things I couldn't buy with all the money in the world. I have money piling up around my nipples but the only things I want are the supposedly 'free' things. I want to be able to lie in bed and fall asleep without having to spend an hour or two blocking out thoughts of how I've wasted my life. I want to really connect with other people. I want to be good at something, I want to get back my passion for life. As far as I know none of these things are purchasable with any major credit card or world currency, not even American express.

These things may come to you free and they may come easy, if you're born to receive these things it may seem like you're dispensing some valuable advice when you remind others that, 'The best things in life are free'. The sad fact is that many of us just aren't born to receive these gifts and nothing we can ever do will change that, for some of us the real moral of the tale seems to be, 'The best things in life, you can't even buy them'.

Goddammit, I depressed me.

another self important post.

2009-06-24T21:43:00.000-07:00

as the great philosopher ma$e said, "mo money, mo problems". now i don't know about you but i find it hard to feel sorry for a celebrity when they say these things yet the cost of the music video for the song is more than some third world countries GDPs.

jonathan davis was a whiny cunt for "got the life" when he's complaining about fame. boo fucking hoo, go find jesus like your former guitarist and write a crappy book about it. and while your at it, quit fucking a porn star and go back to the regular bar whores.

that's not to say money solves all problems. i am making more money now than i ever had and it's not like i'm getting laid left, right and center. then again i am not making hollywood money.

money is just paper. it's paper that we attach a meaning too. if our economy turned to shit and the dollar was worth as much as the zimbabwe currency (sorry i am too lazy to research what the fuck it's called), would we value toilet paper more than money? and if so, would we wipe our asses on dead presidents (or prime ministers for us commonwealth folk).

to bring this rant to a end i think i should state the obvious. you should fuck me even when i'm poor.

Good for something

2009-06-20T08:17:00.000-07:00

Hey there brother, can you spare a dime? Or a penny? Or a cent? Or a Euro? Or some yen? Maybe some shellfish and shiny rocks?

No?

Oh well, thanks for your time.

Any medium of exchange will do.

Something that will allow me to obtain goods and services.
Something that will make me feel safer.
Something that I'll obsess about.

And think about constantly.

Plan, scheme, connive.

It's about comfort. It's about power. It's about sex.

Once again, your desperate need to procreate has made you a slave. Kneeling before Mammon.

But this no false god of mythology. This shit is real.

When you have it, it's your best friend. When you don't, you say you're better off without it.

But all it is, is a medium of exchange.

You exchange your labour for it. As does your neighbour there. As does farmer Jim.

How else do you propose we make this shit work?

This isn't Star Trek motherfucker.

There are no golden ages. From now on all our ages will be green.

Opening my wallet, I pull out a brand new bank note. Fifty dollars.

I feel it between my fingers. Smooth. Plastic.

I roll it slowly in my fingers, making a tube.

I put one end in my nose and leave the other end hovering above the plate.

Inhale.

Ahh... that's better.

Money. Not totally useless.

7/8

2009-06-05T00:53:00.000-07:00

"Even if you're clever enough to write a pop song in 7/8, you're almost definitely going to go to 4/4 for the chorus." - probably said by someone in Pink Floyd

As I've mentioned on this blog before, I've been unemployed for seven months now. Drawing a check. Living on the teat. But these days I do make it to work- if you want to call it that.

And because of my fondness for tardiness, for early-outs and absences, back when I was employed, my unemployment checks still end up being up about seven eighths of what I was making at Apple.

So this one goes in the 'win' column.

Obligatory last minute piece

2009-05-31T15:42:00.000-07:00

I have bad news for you. I have seen your future and I know of the horror that awaits you. I will tell you of your terrible fate but please understand that I do so only for the sake of entertainment and fulfilling my obligation to a blog I should never have helped create and no longer enjoy writing on. This is not a warning, there is nothing you can do to avoid the future I have seen laid out for you but if you would still like to know please read on.

At some point in the future you will stub your toe. You will scrunch your little face up in agony, grasp the stubbed area and curse under heavy pained breath through tightly clenched teeth. That brief moment between stubbing your toe and the fading of the agony it causes will be truly horrible.

This will happen, you cannot avoid it. You can try, you can buy an extra fluffy pair of bunny slippers and take nothing more than baby steps when walking around your abode but trust me, this will do nothing other than make you look even more adorable as you wait for the inevitable toe stubbing. Still don't believe me ?? You just wait. One day you'll get careless, you'll wake up late for an appointment or simply forget to take care when running to answer a ringing phone and BAM. I don't claim any psychic powers or any insight into your personal situation and I can understand your doubt. You may believe you can beat the odds, you may think it may not happen to you but you will see, you will stub and on that day I want you to think of me and what a fool you were to ever doubt me.

Even after that fateful day of toe stubbing I want you to realise that it's not over, I want you to realise that it will happen again. I want you to spend every moment of your life understanding and accepting the fact that the inevitable day of the next toe stubbing is just around the corner. This may sound like a terrible thing to have to live with but trust me, keeping this inescapable horror in mind will help you truly appreciate those moments that don't involve the stubbing of one's toe.

NOTE - Nothing I have said here goes for people who are crippled, people who have or will soon have their feet amputated and people who will die incredibly soon. If you are one of these people you are likely to avoid ever stubbing your toe again, lucky you.

DAY 611

2009-05-22T14:35:00.000-07:00

The door is there, I can see it. It has a knob that I can just pull or push, I forget now. It is a golden thing and I see it everyday. The woman with the urgency comes in almost everyday through it and does her thing. I like it when she cleans beneath the carriage clock on the side table yet I hate the ticking of the thing. There is a television on the other table over by the small cubic area that pushes open the rectangle of the room. I saw myself on it and I saw my Mum and Dad.

I cry for them.

The window above my bed blows a wind through, though it is not open.

I'm given a list of food to eat, drinks to drink and games to play.

Every few days men come to visit me and are really nice.

A black man with greying tufts of hair comes a lot with toys in a bag and paints my nails.

Another man who makes me laugh a lot brings cheese. I really like him. We have fun and he combs my hair for what seems like ages.

Another man who tells me about a glam rock group he was in makes me wear big boots and I saw him on the television.

Madeline.

the bad times

2009-05-20T16:01:00.000-07:00

"I'm worst at what i do best" is how his suicide note began. He further imitated Kurt Cobain's teenage angst with similar clichéd and self-deprecating comments about how useless he was in the letter. The usual "nobody will miss me", "no one loves me" and "i am stupid" lines were present every other line. Even though he felt he was stupid and that no one would miss him, he still made sure to check the spelling of certain words and used a thesaurus to make sure certain words were not overused. He wanted his last writing to be remembered for its content, not its sloppiness.

His note concluded with probably the most common quote in suicide notes since the mid
1990s. "It's better to burn out than to fade away" which he mistakenly attributed to
Kurt Cobain. Even though he was meticulous in making sure there were no spelling or
grammar errors in the letter, his research skills were obviously lacking. He left his
laptop open with the suicide note on the screen.

He stripped naked. "I am going to end my life the way I entered it" he though to
himself. This was most likely not his idea but one from a shitty indie flick that
some film student made.

He wrapped the belt around his door knob and tied the other around his neck.
Tightening it up he gradually lost his breath.

Darkness soon came.

A few hours later, his father entered the room to see his son naked. The laptop had
ran out of power and shut off. All the father saw was his nude son with a belt around
his neck.

"Fucking metal music" he thought to himself. "All the boy listened to was heavy shit like INXS and had to imitate Michael Hutchence".

One step at a time perhaps

2009-05-17T05:41:00.000-07:00

And now, my question:

Having turned forty, I can feel an impending mid-life crisis bearing down on me like a rabid Rottweiler riding a runaway freight train. How best to deal with it? Buying a Corvette is so cliché and I can't afford one anyway. An extra-marital affair is right out since I don't have the energy and can no more afford a divorce than I can the Corvette. I need something original and unexpected.

So what can I do to sow the last of my wild oats and burn off my quickly vanishing youth?

- billy(no longer a)boy

Instead of an extra-marital affair, how about a marital affair? Get the wife and kids together, order up a couple of hookers, get yourself an eight ball of coke watch your youth burn away.

Alternatively, you can attempt some form of extreme sport to help you feel alive once more.

The problem is when your done sowing those oats and defying those deaths you'll have to go back to your good ol' day to day. Well you don't have to, but you probably will. You'll realise that you really didn't have it all that bad and that your life didn't suck that bad.

You'll realise that more than half your life is over. And you'll have to make a choice. Whether to live the rest of the time you have left as best as you can. Or you'll come to the realisation that your best years are behind you and that you should just give up.

Get busy living or get busy dying. That's what you can do.

My question is as follows:

If there is in fact no deity or prime mover (which is almost certainly the case). And if the universe is indifferent to our existence and our non-existence. And if there is no over-arching morality or good or evil. Then, what purpose do our lives serve and if they have no ultimate purpose, how does a materialistic atheist justify his own continued existence in this universe (or any other) and find some semblance of meaning to allow him to keep trudging along?

Dear Rotten Bastards Bad Advice Blog

2009-05-13T07:23:00.000-07:00

Originally posted by Tomby Stone:

My question ...

I have lost my ability to fantasise. I have always liked Einstein's suggestion that 'imagination is your preview of life's coming attractions.' and I used to lie around for hours previewing all the attractions coming my way.

Having lost faith that anything half decent will ever happen to me ever (which I understand is all my fault) I am unable to imagine a fun and exciting future. I feel silly and childish and even more of a loser than usual whenever I envision any kind of positive future.

Is this a good thing ?? Is there a point we should discard dreams and focus on reality or is this a very bad thing ??? Should I allow myself to dream stupid dreams again ??

Also ... Amy Winehouse, would you ??

If I may answer your last question first...Amy Winehouse? Fuck yeah! As long as there was absolutely no talking. Singing would be encouraged, but none of that drunken Southgate gibberish. She's like a long-stemmed rose on a gravestone. After a full round of immunizations as though I were preparing for safari in West Africa and after donning two condoms, I'd hit it. But then I'm a bit of a slut. I'd probably do her mum too.

As for your fantasy question, I say dream a little dream. But here is what I do. I no longer dream of a brighter tomorrow for myself. I'm too much of a realist. Instead I just dream of an alternate present. Each new day brings with it opportunities to imagine life not sucking quite as much as it actually does. When I read about crime happening in my neighborhood, I just imagine myself as the hero who delivers a sound thrashing to the ne'er-do-wells who threaten the tranquility of my community. When I hear that our economy is spinning faster around the bowl and may soon go straight down the pipe, I imagine a pastoral existence where my food grows from the earth with little effort and my cherubic offspring provide all the entertainment I will ever need. And when the constraints of marriage begin to wear on me, I can imagine that cute girl at the supermarket checkout is really into older men and will lavish me with affection the next time I stop in for eggs and bananas. By comparison, Walter Mitty is a complete amateur.

So it's really the expectation that is the problem. It's okay to fantasize about better things, just don't hold out any hope of actually having them and you're on your way to happily frittering your life away. Sure, it's silly and childish, but then so is real life.

And now, my question:

Having turned forty, I can feel an impending mid-life crisis bearing down on me like a rabid Rottweiler riding a runaway freight train. How best to deal with it? Buying a Corvette is so cliché and I can't afford one anyway. An extra-marital affair is right out since I don't have the energy and can no more afford a divorce than I can the Corvette. I need something original and unexpected.

So what can I do to sow the last of my wild oats and burn off my quickly vanishing youth?

- billy(no longer a)boy

proposition.

2009-05-06T14:24:00.000-07:00

I am the mo-ron who chose 'the bad times' as a theme. It's going nowhere at light speed (one word or two?), so I came up with a gimmick...

The Rotten Bastards Bad Advice Blog!

It goes like this:

I post a question; some sort of issue that's giving me all kinds of grief. The first of you weird fuckers to copy/paste the question into your own post, followed by your advice, in turn gets to ask a question. It goes on like that 'til we get bored of it, or until June.

(Obviously, you can still just write a piece to the main theme for this month, which is 'the bad times.' Doye.)

What say you?

Yeah? Good.

I'll start.

Dear RBBAB,

I have this friend, we'll call him WombyBoneClues (inside joke), and he's this brilliant, filthy bi-polar artist from Manchester who I'm totally in love with. Everything he creates is amazing, and it's even better because he thinks it's shit and chucks it in the bin, allowing me to dust it off sign it in the bottom-right-hand corner, and sell it!

Now obviously, I want to live with him and basically make exploiting him a full-time job, but I sort of have a wife and a kid. Oh, and another kid coming in August.

Also, I'm not gay, but the money could be worth it to let him take out his aggression on my sweet, virgin bum bum.

What, oh what, should I do?

Thanks in advance,
EmptyAssInAmerica

The 'bad' times

2009-04-30T15:52:00.000-07:00

Goddammit, typical me. We finally get round to a topic based on happiness and joy and I fall into one of the deepest depressions of my life. This entire month I've just felt awful. That kind of lying in bed with incredible fear of the future awful, lying in bed telling yourself, 'It's okay, you're just tired, you don't have to think about your life right now, just get some sleep' and being unable to believe myself. I've always been a miserable bastard but usually my misery manifests itself in the form of a 'Nothing's worth doing or planning for' lazy attitude. Recently I've been feeling far more of the far scarier, 'I can't stand being alive' gut wrenching dread of each moment.

I doubt I'm going to off myself or anything. I'd say it's a pretty safe bet I'll be around this time next year and if that's the case I'd say it's a dead cert I'll still be bitching and moaning about my situation. The only thing that will have changed will be my opinion of this moment, this day, April 30th 2009.

At some point in the future I will look back on this time and smile. I'll feel a warmth in my heart when I think of the way life was. I'll feel a beautifully sad nostalgia, the same nostalgia I feel when I look back on my high school days from this moment now. I remember that I was fucking miserable and terrified every day of my school life, I remember that my mind was full of nothing but fear of the upcoming cross country run and Science class in which I would be once again forced to sit next to the violence prone kid with the ginger bowl haircut. This is all stored in my memory as factual information cross referenced with the horrible feelings I felt at the time. None of it matters to me now though.

I'm distant enough from any of the horrors of my past that I can look on them with a fuller and deeper understanding and appreciation. Remember that day I walked home thinking about all the shit that big Herman Munster looking kid was going to do to me when he found out I punched his little brother ?? Yeah, that was a beautiful sunny day ... aah, the old walk home from school, the horses in field I'd walk past on my way home, the nuns walking back to the monastery [edit - nunnery ... wait, is nunnery a word ??], the sunshine glistening off of the windows of freshly cleaned cars, ahhh, I remember that day.

Maybe I'm just too ignorant and forgetful to truly and fully remember how horrible those days were or maybe I have gained a deeper understanding of those moments since living them and leaving their horrors behind. Either way I see beauty every time I look back, a beauty I feel I missed while living it through my neurotic little closed mind. I couldn't see the beauty of those days through the blinkers of my fear driven mind but fuck it, I see the beauty of those days now even if I'm still blind to the beauty of this very moment.

I only hope when I die, it'll be slowly. That way I can hopefully look back at the whole damn thing and see it from the beautiful understanding perspective I see my youth from today.

progress you can (quit) beat(ing) off to... (silver lining #129)

2009-04-28T13:46:00.000-07:00

"The reabsorption of semen by the blood ... perhaps prompts the stimulus of power, the unrest of all forces towards the overcoming of resistances ... The feeling of power has so far mounted highest in abstinent priests and hermits" - Nietzsche

I quit masturbating, and finally got cracking on my internet novel. It's kind of a big project: 1/3 blogs from the characters, 1/3 videos uploaded by the characters and finally, 1/3 short film.

I'm probably going to need some help with it.

So, you know, get the dick out of your hand and contact me:

disconcertia@gmail.com (email/msn)

or

dozat@mac.com on aim.

Cool.

My Review of 'I Am Legend' (silver lining #128)

2009-04-24T02:50:00.000-07:00

I wrote this back when it was in theaters, because it's not often that a movie comes out and I've already read the book. I submitted it to the local newspaper- no dice. Go figs.

"You should go see 'I Am Legend.'

Good shit.

I learned that Vampires (they get capitalized, because they're a race. A lot of people don't capitalize races, but I do, because I'm not a racist. Anyway,) burn like Jews.

Yours in Christ,
-Dozat"

I don't know. Maybe it was a racist paper.

you want happy? i'll give you happy... (silver lining # 12,224)

2009-04-21T13:39:00.001-07:00

Taken without permission from VICE Magazine.

a moment of bliss

2009-04-19T16:44:00.000-07:00

everyone remembers the one person in high school who you wanted to fuck but knew you had no chance with. this isn't the typical high school cunt who wouldn't even acknowledge knowing your name even if you were sodomizing her at gun point. this was the girl who was beautiful and painfully friendly but in the back of your mind you knew you had no chance with her. you may think you did when you were intoxicated and pounding one out thinking of her but the moment of clarity came to you quickly while you were cleaning DNA out of your belly button.

in a way this was more cruel than the previous situation because at times you were confused by this person's friendliness. as a teenager you were constantly thinking (and trying) to find ways to stick your dick into anything that shows slight kindness towards you. it took until you were grown up (or got laid for the first time) to realize that some people are just nice people and want nothing more. this lead to false hopes and wet dreams.

flash forward a few years later to see the same girl working at a grocery store. she's still friendly but has had a few kids. this has lead to a transformation in her appearance. she has gained some weight and looks haggard. smiling while talking to her, you know that for once you have a chance with her in her current situation. you think to yourself that maybe she is falling for the same thing you are doing to her that you did in high school.

you talk for a few minutes and have a genuinely nice conversation. leaving to the store you are smiling, not because of the payback you gave her from high school. you are smiling because you found out from her that her hot sister is single and maybe, just maybe, this is tearing her up inside.

For Fear of Falling Footwear

2009-04-16T16:15:00.000-07:00

I really think there must be something wrong with me. My emotional retardation is such that I can never simply enjoy happiness when I find it. Just when things are going well, a smile on my face sets off an alarm. Suddenly aware of my contented state and knowing that it can never last, I begin to anticipate impending misery thus bringing about a self-fulfilling prophecy. And the happier I am the more profound the effect. As soon as I get caught up in the moment, a voice warns me that a fall from this emotional height would be devastating. I begin to imagine all the possible bad endings to my bliss and I am left waiting for the other shoe to drop and bring the whole house down. Such is the anxiety of my contentment.

My only recourse seems to be self-medication. A good and proper dose of the right substance keeps the higher functions occupied while letting the reptile brain bask in the buzz like a lizard on a warm rock in the sunshine. Sure it's only a temporary fix and the same problems will still be waiting, possibly worsening, during my mental vacation. But right now, who gives a shit? The appeal is obvious. Happiness is a warm crack pipe. It's no wonder that alcoholics and other addicts return again and again to that sweet release from the uncertainty, the randomness, and the sheer boredom of day-to-day living, replacing it with a pharmacological fixed grin. The psychological craving for the narcotic effect lingers even after the physical sickness of withdrawal has passed. Once you've smoothed out the bumps, taking away life's highs and lows, there is nothing left to do but kick back and enjoy the ride. From one of my favorite films, Drugstore Cowboy: "Most people don't know how they're gonna feel from one moment to the next. But a dope fiend has a pretty good idea. All you gotta do is look at the labels on the little bottles." What a comfort. Fortunately, I don't have an addictive personality else I would have been lost long ago.

At last...

2009-04-16T04:41:00.000-07:00

It's nice
To be able
To tell someone
"I love you"

And mean it.

back-handed free associations (silver lining #11,004)

2009-04-15T13:51:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is my son, Jackson's first birthday, which makes me think of cake. Which makes me think of Hedberg. Which makes me think of Shawcroft.

Which makes me think of Panamint.

Which has made me smile almost as many times as the last 364 days with my new best friend on earth.

So, there's that.

The Jesus Bunny

2009-04-13T11:45:00.001-07:00

I'm entertained by the idea that Easter's most prominent figure is the Easter Bunny. Further, Christmas is better defined by Santa Claus than the birthday of the savior of mankind. I find it charming that the birthday, death, and ressurection of God's son is not entertaining enough for us. We have to add in novelty figures like giant bunnies that hide treasures in plastic eggs and fat, white men that sneak into our houses and leave us gifts, asking for only cookies and milk in return. I never see kids lining up at the malls to sit on Jesus's lap (insert Catholic Priest zinger here). I guess Jesus doesn't get us to buy candy and food coloring in April or shit-tons of needless gifts in December. Whatever the explanation, I find the reality hilarious.

apartment living (silver lining #10,884)

2009-04-09T16:32:00.000-07:00

Someone just drove into my nook of the apartment complex in a teal, ninety-something Toyota Tercel. He parked between two covered parking spots, half-blocking each of the cars in the stalls, and honked.

His horn played the theme from 'Gremlins.'

Thinking of how someone with balls that enormous could clown-car them into a Tercel makes me happy.

Very happy.

GEICO (silver lining # 10,768)

2009-04-06T13:12:00.000-07:00

i lost my job almost 6 months ago,
but i'm saving a shitload of money on health insurance.

Come here Ren you big lug

2009-04-06T12:12:00.000-07:00

Steph sent me a text message saying she would like to drink red wine with me. I met her that
same day with her big tits and a frown in 2006. I fucked her two days later and I fucked her
about a week ago. She's never mentioned it but I'm sure she is covering for a girl I
haven't met yet. Three years and I don't know her surname. It's got too long to bring it up
again. She's about ten years younger than me and I do not joke to say her name may be
moderate.

Still, she is all I have right now, so to speak.
Have you ever fucked a frozen cushion with glass stabbed in it?
Have you ever kissed a lizard?
Like a tongue is transporting some disease into your mouth in a hurry.

We get on and I don't care when she goes in the morning.

The girl I was fucking before Steph got pregnant and gave birth to a boy on June the 7th
2005. I am a witness to it and it was grotesque, she did puke and shits whilst rolling and
screaming on a big blue ball. I kept myself under control with the Frank Booth mask they
provided for her.

Momentarily Over the next year I have this baby in my home.
I didn't enjoy that time.
According to his Mother he did a shit in the bath and ate some of it. That was the only
interesting thing he did that year.

Some time in late 2006 he was born again.

He became amazing and we began to hang out like brothers.

He never speaks ill of his step dad, I get great comfort in that.

He rarely speaks to steph for he knows some shit that I am vague about and I inherit his
wisdom.

I'll be collecting the kid tomorrow with a grin on my face like the end of a brisk park jog
in summer.

I never jogged. I have been brisk in a park when I tried to lose my virginity to a girl resembling Gail Tilsley in 1989.

You get the point.

You love it

2009-03-30T14:55:00.000-07:00

I have something I must confess, something I've been hiding for years, something I've been hiding from myself and from others. Something terrible, something horrible. You see, my friends .... I ... I am Paris Hilton.

Don't get me wrong, you wont see videos of me being sexually abused in hotel rooms by random soulless richkids. I have never and will never release an album of pitch corrected electric disco warblings. I have never appeared on Mtv auditioning hyperactive simpletons for the role of best friend forever ('forever' being redefined as 'until the start of season 2'). I am not physically the skinny, sick bird dipped in cold vomit looking socialite whore we all know and loathe as Paris Hilton but I am in every sense, the shallow, soulless, stupid spoiled whore you think of when you hear her name.

I see the occasional headline such as 'Paris buys new billion dollar car for pet Chihuahua' while signing in to a friendless lonely night on Msn messenger. These headlines may fill me with the desire to see that spoiled bitch stripped of her cash and deported to some African shanty town to squander the rest of her worthless days picking flies out of her wonky eye and swallowing them for sustenance. In all that time I spend sitting at a computer monitor boiling with rage for the rich bitches of the world it never seems to truly occur to me just what a rich spoiled bitch I am.

I go to get a cup of coffee and am pissed off that my malfunctioning kettle switched itself off before boiling the fresh clean water I was able to fill it with at the twist of a lever. I switch on my flatscreen digital television and am annoyed and upset that I just missed my favourite show. I feel wronged by the Universe when I check my freezer and find the only things left to eat are those coconut lemon tofu steaks that I really hate.

Anyone who's known me longer than two minutes will have heard me rant at least three times about the horrors of a world that allows us to live lives of luxury while children far away starve to death. I realise that these rants do little other than making me sound like a preachy Bono esque holier than thou prick quoting shitty Phil Collins songs but to think I'm preaching is to miss the point entirely.

You see, I'm not outraged and saddened by the fact that there are children starving to death right now ... like, right now. I just find it fascinating. I find it fascinating how little I care. I know it's happening and I recognise what a truly terrible thing it is but it's all mental recognition, I never feel the sadness in my heart that I know I logically should. Don't get me wrong, I feel awful whenever I see the image of a starving child on my television screen but that bad feeling is easily remedied by the click of a Tv remote. It's like a horrible Russian snuff movie or a Uwe Boll film, you know it happened whether you watch it or not but somehow it's only the watching that will make you feel it as a horrible reality.

Of course you're the same. I don't care if you do the occasional bit of giving or working for some worthy charity. You know deep down that you're not working nearly as hard to help these people as you would be if you were in their place and working to help yourself. If the spirit were willing enough the flesh wouldn't hold it back.

We're all somebody's Paris Hilton. We're all spoiled bitches from somebody else's perspective. This doesn't seem like it'll ever change. We'll continue to look on in disgust as these billionaire socialites remain ignorant of the suffering around them and of just how good they have it while all the while ignoring the fact that we're exactly the same. As I said before I'm not preaching, I don't have any solution to this problem. The only thing I've gained from this whole thing is the knowledge that I'm a truly horrible person. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go car shopping for my Chihuahua.

The Confession of Sariel Thrawn

2009-03-29T18:38:00.000-07:00

Those of you who have reached this point in the tale will know that I have much to confess.

More than most.

But it was not always so.

There was a time when this soul of mine was pristine and unfettered.
Pure and clean.

When I think back, it seems like so long ago. Another life. Another world. Another person.

I have, since that time, done innumerable things worthy of confession.
Crimes and misdemeanors.

My name has become famous. Or infamous.
Depending on your point of view.

Unspeakable acts of wanton cruelty.

The evil of the Georgetown incident would be enough to condemn billions of souls to hell's embrace.

But it was not billions.

It was me.

Nor is there a hell, except for the one I've made. For myself and for those around me.

The weak and the strong have been crushed under my boot-heel.

I have gladly choked the life out of kith and kin.

Feeling my brothers throat crumble in my hands. The tendons and muscles in his neck tightening twisting.

Struggling.

But it wasn't enough.

It's never enough.

The strength of Sariel Thrawn was too great.

But I confess, it wasn't always this way.

I confess that once I was a kind-hearted man. Who loved his brother.

I confess that there was a time when I was innocent and guiltless.

I confess that the man I was would despise the animal I have become.

This is my confession.
This is my life.

Coup de Grâce

2009-03-26T15:48:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'll cop to it. I killed the little towheaded bastard.

I must say in my defense that it was a mercy killing. He had been dying for over ten years. I only finished the job.

By the end, his crooked-toothed smile had disappeared and I just could not bear the pitiful look in his sad blue eyes any longer.

I decided to put him out of our misery.

He knew that it had to be done. He was expecting it. There was a look of resignation, if not relief, when the end came.

Good riddance, I say. He was morbidly shy and had always felt inferior. There was just no place for the timid, tender-hearted little pansy in this man's world.

Better off dead.

When I look at old photographs of him now, I feel a small pang of remorse. But mostly I feel resentment at missed opportunity and squandered talents.

There were many others who were complicit in his death, but they were only doing what came natural. They were just living their own lives.

No, I'm the one who did him in. I cannot blame anyone but myself.

He needed killing, as they say, and I was only too proud to bring down the axe. His murder was my rite of passage and I accepted the task willingly.

The killing stroke was delivered and he was dead even before he hit the ground.

I did not look back. There was no body to hide. I just stepped into his shoes and walked away.

Emotionally bronzed, I raised up the shield that he had always been too weak to carry against the slings and arrows.

And what of all the baggage that he had dragged along by his chains?

I still keep it in a secret safe place. I return to it only rarely when I can shed my armor.

I pick through the scabs and scars and occasionally catch a glimpse of his ghost.

And then I stand up straight, put on my trappings once again, and get on with our life.

Mr Whippy is moonlighting

2009-03-22T17:18:00.000-07:00

I shut curtain

I hear breath

I do not like

I fear

I admit I swore

I swore to my mam and dad

I tear

I never asked for this

I am becoming a stooge for some....

I will regret this, I'm sure I will regret....

3 Hail Mary's & an Our Farther

I am tree

I am football

I am the dirtiest knees in Barrow

I am an altar boy

I am crimped on neck by Canon.

Ok scratch all that shit. I saw all the bullshit as a kid, I saw that cunt canon cunt every time I had to do my time at church. I picked the duty as alter boy in school when some sister came round and asked for nominations. Me and Pete Craig put our heads together and decided it would be better to shake a bell than look at an old girls crotch whilst genuflecting.

I don't remember much, I had to wear that Lacey fucking thing, like a big doily over my head bordering a black gay suit with flaps. The "Lamb of God" or "Wafer" came in a massive transparent sack from some wholesalers. I grabbed hand fulls to eat or jam in my pockets for later.

When it was showtime I forgot my role every time. When the big man sticks the wafer up in the air, you got to ringading! When he did something else with the Tabernacle, I think? ringading! & some other shit. I forgot then, I'm not gonna remember now.

That cunt, Canon Nally, would clasp my neck and squeeze, squeeze and fucking squeeze every time I was on ringing duty. You know, if I could beat his head apart I would do. I'd fucking destroy that fucker any moment from..

He's dead, he died years ago.

Fat, bald fuck.

They have this candle in the Catholic churches called the "Eternal Light" which never goes out.

As a child I was amazed.

As a child I put it out and was more amazed.

my admission of guilt

2009-03-22T15:32:00.000-07:00

anyone who has read my previous entries may know that i don't have a problem admitting fucked up stuff that has happened in my life. part of what makes you grow as a person is realizing that you are a fuck up like everyone else and getting shit off your chest. in a way this blog is like an anonymous counselling for me. so i will follow this with a list of things i like to get off my chest and since i am lazy, they will be in point form.

- if i am in a relationship i have a tendency to become infatuated with the person. no clue why, i don't have any mommy or daddy leaving issues. i just do.

- i was a mommy's boy until i was about a teenager. maybe it's because she was more lenient and let me do things i wanted that my dad wouldn't.

- i often think of what things would be like if i wasn't around. not in a suicidal sense but in a morbid fascination of if i died tomorrow, who would be at my funeral? call me emo but to me it's almost more of a curiousity of who i have impacted in my life.

- i cannot hunt or fish because i cannot kill animals. if it was a life or death situation it may be different. i still eat and have no problems killing insects. at the same time i have no problem striking another man if i have too.

- of all the substances i have put in my body i would have to say alcohol is the worse.

- i have never had a prostate exam cause i don't want a finger in my ass.

- i often have the thoughts that maybe i could have saved a relationship if i didn't react suddenly to stuff that seems trivial now

- although i am a crybaby, i haven't cried in over a year. it's not that i don't feel upset or sad anymore but maybe that i know things will be okay.

- the majority of my time online (outside of work) i spend looking at porn. it's not really an addiction or habit but it's similiar to the same way a stock broker might constantly look at how a stock is trading.

- i shit quite often (3-4 times a day) and i piss quite regularly too.

- i have a soft spot in my heart for hair metal. although they knew they weren't serious and they made music only so they could fuck more groupies, they weren't pretencious about it like many musicians now a days.

- i read quite a few biographies and sometimes think of how unexciting my life is.

- there are certain movies i won't watch because of memories i have tied between the movie and certain people i've had in my life.

- part of me hates confrontation and the other part loves the adrenaline rush and the escape from monotony.

- i don't know if i know the difference between love and infatuation.

- i wonder if there is anything after death but i doubt there is

- i buy shit that i rarely use. maybe because i am often bored?

- when i write these blogs i like to pretend i may impact someone's life when in face i really know it's just taking up space.

Admissible

2009-03-20T07:10:00.000-07:00

I'm in love.

There.

I said it.

Bring on the cliches.

Bring on the taunting.

I'm taking all comers.

The fact is, I'm happier now than I can remember being for what feels like forever.

And whether it lasts another week or forever, at least I'll be able to say "I felt something once. And I liked it."

Is this a confession? Or is it merely an admission?

I'm not sure.

The word confession gives the sense of owning up to a wrongdoing. And I've definitely done no wrong here (at least not yet).

So I admit, I'm in love.

As for a confession...

I remember stealing cash and various products from a former employer. Thousands of dollars worth.

They had no idea. I had free food and drink.

Win. Win.

A BLACK & THE HEX

2009-03-10T13:06:00.000-07:00

I've always been broke and I always will be. The past has been my fault and the future the fault of a black man and I. There have been flourishes of money times in my stretch of life thus far but it gets spent almost instantly. I'm thirty four and more broke than I ever have been. I've been unemployed for just over five weeks, the first time in around 12 years. I applied for job seekers allowance over the phone to this cranky woman, a bear of a woman, I imagined. I forgave her for this though as she had a pleasant voice and I felt as if I knew her after the thirty five or so minutes of me saying 'yes' and 'no', mainly 'no'.

Somewhere between her, an interview, me lying and signing that dole form, everything got lost and I had to go through the same failure steps again with a much more chipper lady. Within a week, nothing. I call up and demand a supervisor, a cheque comes the next day for sixty four pounds and seventeen pence.

I am delighted.

This was a couple of days ago.

A couple of years ago I'm standing in a queue at the ATM of Barclays bank opposite where the Starbucks is now in Nottingham City centre, it's a warm day, the sun is out. I'm probably wondering if the machine will spit me some of the vile green backs and definitely wondering why the big black dude in front of me is holding an umbrella as there is no sign of rain. I get to the machine, I'm quizzed as to which service I require next. The big dude has left his card in the machine. I take a quick look around the corner to see him walking away from me, far enough away for me to steel his earnings. All of a sudden I'm on one of those vibro machines that people use to vibro shit or lose weight with. I press the cash button then the hundred pound button and I'm dissolving in paranoia as the machine "Nuuuuuurs" away. It fucks out a hundred as I'm looking for a camera.

I should have got more?

I shouldn't have taken any! I should have fucked him over for a grand, will they let you take that much?

I was raised racist, fuck him! He doesn't know how to structure his day around the weather let alone know how to retrieve a card, fuck him!

A fresh birth has more mettle than...

The walk home from there was in tradition of Henry Hill and I have lived a life much the same as his ever since. I don't have a monkey on my back I have this big rich looking nigger with an umbrella.

So I confess, I stole from this guy who I don't know and never will lest I show the cops my wrists for a hundred quid. The fuckers ruined me, I'm sure of it. I do loops around ladders to reverse the burden.

The Confession of a Hater

2009-03-09T21:30:00.000-07:00

I have to confess something, not because it feels good to state, but because I’m curious if anyone else out there has similar feelings: I don’t think I truly like one person. Not my friends. Not my family. The only people I seem to like are those that I don’t know very well and as soon as I get to know them better, my likeness towards them disappears. The closer you get to look at someone, the more glaring the imperfections. Even Pam Anderson has Hepatitis. They are either stupid, crazy, annoying, or stupid crazy-annoying. Am I self-righteous? Too judgmental and unforgiving? Perhaps just a grumpy fuck. Is the prescription to stay far away and experience life through binoculars or to be consistently disappointed? Change myself, you say? Fuck you. What a popularly held, but completely ridiculous concept. How many lives have been ruined because of one person’s hope that another would change? I think relationships are much like life: bursts of greatness marred by excessive tedium. The occasional creation of an excellent inside joke placed within weeks of boring, repetitive, meaningless conversation. I suppose it’s better than being alone all the time, but not much.

Spare Change

2009-02-28T05:26:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I’m just too old and cynical to truly believe that real change is going to come. If I were still the angry young man and a naïve idealist, I would have campaigned for the cause and been caught up in the excitement of having something to believe in after so many years of wandering in the political desert. But now I’m the middle-aged guy who is still angry but knows that it doesn’t mean shit. Examples will be made of a very few of the most egregious offenders, but the majority of the business criminals will still sit in their fine feathered nests and wait for the time when they can once again run amok with a friend in the White House. Real change in this country is only going to be effected through drastic measures.

Whether through simple blind greed or intentional mismanagement, the overlords of the past decade have left the house in shambles and yet still claim that only they can fix it. It really seems that such ruination could only have been perpetrated with the express purpose of undermining the incoming administration. They knew that the election was lost even before the campaign began, so they just fiddled while the empire burned and said, “Don’t worry about the mess. Let the nigger clean it up.” Those who are accustomed to having servants will always think in such terms. The right wing is now decrying the onset of socialism in America and the downfall of freedom and liberty as we know it. Which freedoms? Do they mean the freedom of choice between Coke and Pepsi, Burger King and McDonald's, Walmart and Walmart? No need to worry. They will always have that freedom albeit with less money to spend. Those who cry the loudest about losing their rights seem to only care about the right to maintain a personal arsenal of weapons and to make Christianity a government institution. The conservatives are screaming about big government taking over our lives, but they never said a word when Bush expanded the government’s surveillance program far outside of the Constitutional box. It seems they only really fear big government when they are not in charge of it. Only when it involves expanding social programs does it become a problem for them. Funny that those who feel the most entitled to living the good life sneer and bemoan government entitlements for the needy. I for one fear big business far more than I fear big brother. The government is not ever going to get any smaller or less powerful, so let it least take care of the basic needs of its citizens. Expand the welfare programs and put every poor man on the dole. And legalize drugs so he can get high if he wants. Maybe then at least he won’t be breaking into my house and stealing my shit. It may be socialism, but, as an admitted leftist, I’m ready to sign up as an instructor for the reeducation camps. Let the banks fail, let the automotive industry die like the dinosaurs, and let all the fat cats take a swan dive from their Wall Street windows. Nationalize everything and we’ll divvy up the bill when it comes. Give me socialised [sic] medicine and government-funded education. Pry all the guns from the cold dead fingers of the owners just like it says on their bumper stickers and make the goddamn churches start paying their share of the taxes. Can we make a difference? Yes we can, comrade.

yes we can.

2009-02-27T22:01:00.000-08:00

as human beings it seems that it is our natural instinct to blame others for our short comings. it is easier to blame someone else than to admit we fucked up. if people have a horrible life they blame it on their parents for not loving them enough (except in cases of incest where the opposite is obviously a problem). it is now my turn to tell a story that may have had a traumatic effect on me and turned me into the person i am today. i feel that in telling this story i will inspire others to do the same and we can unite. through this unification we will find ways to stop hunger, AIDS and snooty cunts who think you are interested in what they are saying when really all you want to do is to see if their bush is shaved or not. enough with the malarky, here's my story.

it was while i was in kindergarten that this event happened. it wasn't a girl saying i was ugly or getting the shit kicked out of me that effected me, it was the teacher.

i wore sweat pants like many boys did at the time. comfortable, durable, and easy to take off in case any girls in my class wanted to play doctor during recess. i had a problem with these pants though. whenever i would take a piss in a urinal i felt a need to pull the pants and my underwear down to my knees and to show off my bare ass while i pissed. while my parents may have found it funny, they didn't tell me to quit taunting the pedophiles with this behavior. a fellow student named jeff decided to though.

jeff smack or slap me on my bare ass while i was pissing. this obviously caused a commotion and i didn't appreciate his hijinks. in hindsight, it may have been better to pull up my pants when i started to scrap with him but i guess anger took over. anyway a slapping fight between the town of us started and my sweat pants and underwear were hanging around my knees. maybe in some undeveloped countries showing your dick while fighting is a ritual for showing your manliness but i ended up looking like a fucking idiot.

the slapping fight continued for a bit until the teacher came into the bathroom and broke up the fighting. remember that my pecker was still out when she came into the bathroom and split up the ruckus. the next part is where my memory fades but i remember her spanking both of us. now i don't remember if she spanked me while my pants were around my knees but for the sake of the story, she did.

jeff and i were both punished for our hijinx. we weren't allowed a snack during snack time. for some weird reason i remember that it was chili that day and i thought that if i sniffed alot, the smell of the chili was the same as eating it and so i wasn't missing out. i can't remember what i ate two days ago but can remember this incident from twenty years ago. i'm a fucking mess.

so that's my story. let the others come out and post similiar stories so humanity can grow.

I think we can

2009-02-27T15:35:00.000-08:00

I like to think that the world has turned a page.

Or even opened an entirely new book.

I am hopeful.

But let's be honest.

Reality has a knack for crushing a man's dreams.

Human beings have achieved much in the last few thousand years.

Fire, the wheel, language, clothing, electricity, space exploration, genetics.

And because we've already done so much, I continue to hold out hope that we will do more. Much more.

Sure, it's easy to remain cynical. Especially when all we ever hear is bad news.

But bad things have always happened and will continue to happen.

Somehow we've managed to rise above and move beyond the horrors and the limitations of a corporeal existence.

I guess it's up to each of us to do the best we can.

Yes, we can help the poor.
Yes, we can eliminate hunger.
Yes, we can cure disease.
Yes, we can travel to the stars.
Yes, we can evolve.

Sure, having a black man in the white house may not amount to much in the end. But I'm hoping that it will at the very least be symbolic of something greater.

An era of rationality, love and hope.

I feel like the world is changing and for the first time I feel like it's changing in the right direction.

Success In Failure

2009-02-19T10:37:00.000-08:00

[Inspired by Tomby's post.]

You know, I often describe myself as a failure. But then I look back, and I can't regret the life I chose. Everyone knows the creative arts are a tough business. As I like to put it; a one-way ticket to poverty, addiction, insanity and death. And that's if you "make it."

10 years in music, 10 years in comedy, while also writing everything from porn to award-winning speeches to fanzine reviews and comix, and my only real mark has been left on other musicians and comics, and a tiny handful of fans.

But I've met a LOT of cool and interesting people. At times, I've lived a life that would make Nero say, "That's a bit much." I've indulged in about every vice, and regret very few. I was a favorite niche performer at two separate fetish clubs' events.

I gamble regularly, including a monthly poker game at my house. I've always been a porn junkie, from the time I discovered my Grandpa's collection of Olympia/Grove Press books. (Which included everything from Burroughs and Nabokov to The Story of O and A Man And A Maid.)

And drugs? All of them. I even broke my "no more illegal drugs" rule -- which has kept me "clean," but drinking and smoking for over 15 years -- once, to shoot ecstasy right before it was made illegal. (Although I had done MDA before.) Me + cocaine = very, very bad. I'm lucky crack wasn't around at $10 a pop. However, when I was a heroin addict, I was arguably at my most productive, working a day job in a chemical plant and getting regular gigs as a musician nights. The problem with heroin is when you can't get it, or get really good stuff and OD. (I did once.) I preferred the pharmaceutical Dilaudid anyway, when I could get it. Quitting really does suck, but in a different way from cigarettes: Quitting dope makes you feel like you're going to die for a couple weeks, from a real physical need -- like not being able to take a shit for the rest of your life. Then it gets better. I quit smoking for a year once, and I wanted a cigarette every fucking moment of every fucking day.

I learned a lot from LSD, and was popular as a "guide." That's where my "nobody goes to the hospital, nobody goes to jail" rule originated. I could turn a bad trip around with some markers and a roll of paper. But eventually, I felt I'd gone from learning the interconnectedness of the universe to watching cartoons and giggling.

I wish everybody could have a safe, positive environment to try LSD in at least once.

I just read an article about how every drug should be legal "except crystal meth." That whole panic cracks me up -- we were doing crystal ("crank," the exact same drug) in the '80s like crazy. Get this: The Air Force still gives Dex to its pilots. But, like crack before it, the drug warriors need one absolute bugaboo to keep the charade going.

I have hepatitis C as a consequence of my drug use. (And, ironically, the refusal in the '80s to enact needle exchange programs -- instead informing us to clean our needles with bleach. Which killed the HIV virus, but not the then-unknown Hep C.)

Totally worth it. I'd just like everyone to be honest: People do drugs because drugs are fucking FUN. They have drawbacks, each and every one. But if people are made aware of the actual risks, (often the worst of which are prison and dealing with hardcore criminals, or the expense of a black market product) instead of bullshit propaganda (smoke weed and you'll shoot your brother), they could weigh them rationally.

I am not rich. I am not famous. But then sometimes I rethink my "failure:" I've appeared on 40 episodes of a television show which Bill Moyers called "the most interesting weekly half hour of social commentary and criticism on television."

I've been quoted in the New York Times, and had a clip of me shown on ABC news.

I've seen just about every punk band from the '70s and '80s live, and opened for several, and met many more. Would it be cooler if I'd had a hit song than it was opening for SWANS and Sonic Youth on their first show in Minneapolis? Having Paul Cook and Steve Jones party at my apartment? The feeling of just being there, to see a brand new movement in music, fashion and art develop -- and being part of it? Would I trade all that for commercial success?

In comedy, I was always proud of my writing, but I was a notoriously inconsistent performer. I could never tell why the same material that killed the night before, ate it the very next night. I stopped getting mean and pissed off when I was having a bad show, which helped, but I never, ever got confident.

What really killed me was that, in the span of two years, every club that booked me for more than three nights (from Des Moines, to Grand Forks, to Memphis, to Madison -- where Jim Taugher was the ONLY booker crazy enough to book me and Stanhope together) closed. At the same time, Tribble's hotel venues changed management and wanted "PG" comics.

Stanhope, in true form, said, "Maybe that should tell you something."

But I had the respect of guys like Stanhope. Lines and tags I gave them came out of some of my favorite comics' mouths. (Once you give a line away, you never take credit for it. I once had someone say they saw this great comic, and if I knew him. They then proceeded to tell me a joke I'd swapped to him.) Likewise, I had lines given to me by comics I worshiped.

I got to do time at the LA Improv, where the staff treated me, an absolute nobody, like a king. I got to do a show in New Auburn, MN, in a house where the living room had been converted into a bar after the VFW burned down. The whole town, about 80 of them, showed up starving for entertainment, and just poured out the love -- and the free drinks.

I used to do a bit about the new puritanism, and how we need to LIVE. That bit ended with, "When I go out, I want to go out with lungs that look like Swiss cheese, a liver the size of a basketball, a raging hard-on, a needle in my arm, and a goddamned SMILE on my face!" After one show, a guy came up to me and told me he'd come down to cheer up -- his girlfriend had dumped him, and he was actually feeling suicidal. But that bit had made him realize there was plenty of fun left to be had in one life.

How could I trade that moment for anything?

So I did fail in one sense: I forgot to sell out. Okay, I didn't really get the opportunity. I also used to say, "My artistic integrity ends right around the point payments on a Corvette begin."

But we only get one shot at this life, and many believe we only get this one.

I've had a lot of fun, and been awed at the respect I've been given by those much, much more talented and successful than I have been.

But most importantly, I've made people laugh. I've entertained people when they were at their lowest. I've even inspired people to try music, or comedy or writing themselves.

I can live with that. I can die with that.

It's About God Damn Time

2009-01-31T06:55:00.000-08:00

Some say the end is near. Some say we’ll see Armageddon soon. I certainly hope we will. – Tool (Ænema)

I’ve always held a great fascination with post-apocalyptic literature and film. Something that takes place after the shit has hit the fan and the remaining humans must cope with the breakdown of society. I want to see the population culled by at least three billion and my family and I will live among the ruins with the other survivors. I do not expect zombies or vampires or a rage virus, but we are due for a cleansing epidemic of some sort. Something that happens rapidly on a global scale before we even know what hit us would be great. The resulting collapse and disorder would damage infrastructure somewhat, but hopefully leave some technology intact. I don’t want to go back to the Stone Age; I just want to see real bears on Wall Street and the end of the white man’s reign. That end may be coming sooner than you’d think. From Maynard, Mayans, and McKenna the message is clear. The actual date may be in dispute but they agree that December of 2012 is going to be an interesting time in history. It just might possibly be the end of it.

The civilization of the ancient Mayans was based upon both unimaginable savagery and an advanced understanding of astronomy. When they weren't ripping out still-beating hearts, their High Priests mapped the heavens and created precise language and tables to chart the movements of celestial objects. The end of their 5,126-year Long Count calendar is marked by the winter solstice and the alignment of the sun with the center of the Milky Way galaxy. That date is December 21, 2012 on our Gregorian calendar. There are some scholars who claim the actual date will be the 23rd, but what’s a mere 48 hours in a 5,126-year cycle? The Mayans left no record of what would actually happen on this date, but time ends here for some reason. Maybe it’s time to make human sacrifice fashionable again before God gets angry and eats the sun.

On the other end of the technological scale, the psychotropic philosopher Terence McKenna also mapped out the arrival of what he called the Transcendental Object at the End of Time. According to his theory, which I will not pretend to understand fully, we are moving towards this Object at an ever-increasing pace through both technological advancement and psychedelic experimentation. The Object is simultaneously moving towards us in its own incomprehensible fashion. We will confront this Object on December 12, 2012, the day some have termed the Omega Point. Predictably, the Object will appear much like the monolith in Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey and I suppose we will all grunt and shriek before it and then someone will hurl their bone-white iPod against it. McKenna, along with computer programmers, provided a mathematical model to prove his theory though the development of his Timewave Zero software. The program carefully maps out history and its conclusion is that 12/12/12 is the day that the appearance of the Object will rupture reality. The most interesting part of McKenna’s theory is that the Unknown can be experienced by many, but by each in their own way. Thus the fundamental religious mind may attempt to grasp this unknowable by seeing it as the appearance of the Virgin Mary or the second coming of Jesus or Judgment Day while the New Age or scientific mind might envision it as a visitation by an alien race. McKenna also hedged his bet by imagining a wide range of possible phenomena occurring on this date. From the extreme “soft end” in which nothing perceptible actually happens to the extreme “hard end” in which the oceans boil and the stars fall as written in Revelations.

I’m hoping for the hard end. Let’s just shoot this lame horse and move on. It is high time for the holier-than-thou to get sorted out and for the Facebook status quo to end. Sure there are going to be loved ones that suffer in the end, but they are all suffering anyway. We have reached the nadir of western civilization and it is high time to put it out of its misery. So just how does one prepare for the end of time? I’m not joining a cult on a compound or building an ark, but I’m going to make damn sure I’ve got plenty of booze on hand during those weeks and maybe even “an heroic dose” of psilocybin if I can score it. The end is nigh, so let’s all get high. I’d like to see that Transcendental Object in a McKenna state of mind. I’m ready to board the spaceships and see the stars up close or for the Rapture to come and clear the place of Christians. Even if it did go down biblically and we were all left standing in line behind the velvet rope waiting for St. Peter the bouncer to let us into heaven like it was the hottest new gay disco in town, I welcome the change. I’m up about the downfall of mankind. To quote still more song lyrics, “It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.”

Fail

2009-01-30T15:57:00.000-08:00

In the world's eyes I'm a failure. No job, no meaningful relationships and no money. This doesn't bother me much. I could change everything any time I truly wanted to. I could get a job stacking shelves in some stale, neon lit supermarket or serving coffee in some pompous coffee house. I could fool some dumb female into thinking I'm worth her worthless time. I could wisely invest my money in a nice little two bedroom place, self cleaning oven, the whole bit. What's the point ?? I'd still be a failure.

The only thing I've ever wanted is to be an artist. Not a rock star, not a celebrity but a real artist. I remember my childhood fantasies when I was still naive enough to believe all artists lived in Paris and wore big floppy berets and paint splattered overcoats. I'd picture myself in that grotty Paris basement, readjusting my beret and twisting the curled ends of my well waxed moustache betwixt my thumb and forefinger in deep contemplation of the beauty of artistic creation.

The most fun I've ever had without having to use chloroform was my time playing director with the family video camera. I was little Kubrick, creating elaborate plot lines and super convincing special effects. My little stop motion movies featuring my regular cast of Robocop toys and wrestling figures, created for the sheer thrill of creating.

Somewhere along the way I just lost it. I don't feel as much joy in creating any more. I don't feel as much desire to be that moustache twisting, beret wearing artist. In this sense, and only this sense, I'm a complete and total failure.

judgement day

2009-01-22T19:21:00.000-08:00

the idea of a judgement day to me means that someone slaves their life away in the hopes that after the game is over they get a prize. it's kind of like when you are younger and you only play a sport such as baseball or football in the hopes that after the game is done you go out for ice cream and not a vicious ass fucking by your local priest or drunken uncle.

in order to judge there must be a certain viewpoint which is right. now this ultimately means that one path, and possibly one religion, is the right away.

"we pray to as many different gods as there are flowers
but we call religion our friend"

i should get trashed for this quote, and rightfully so as it is from a jewel song. and as a side note, am i the only one who thinks that all her songs sound like they should be for tampon commercials? getting back to the point or lack of one, is it to say that on the day of reckoning that we might be judged on something which most of us feel is wrong but others don't?

maybe the catholic church (or as i like to call them, NAMBLA) and the few priests who practice lil boy fucking will be the ones right and we will be punished for not partaking in this extra curricular activity. or maybe those great tribes in africa that worship a shrub and believe woman shouldn't be allowed to have that pesky clitoris will be the chosen ones.

if this is judgement day i think something should be done about it. all the gods in the world should have a royal rumble like wrestling match where the winning god can judge all the mere mortals. this will make sure that the god you chose is a fucking winner. the only problem with this idea is that the atheists will be fucked.

"I swear to fuckin God I raise Hell
and make the white man call me MASTER"

30 years young and as joyful as ever

2009-01-12T06:04:00.000-08:00

Deserve?

What the fuck?

Who among us can honestly say they deserve a goddamn thing?

I don't and I'm sure as shit that neither do you.

Life is not a fucking gift. We are not fortunate.

We just are.

That's it.

Don't go looking for answers kid, because you ain't gonna find any. All you're gonna find is a deep, dark abyss. And when you're staring down into that hole, the only thing you'll see looking back is yourself.

Make your choices, take your shots, live your life.

Or don't.

It's entirely up to you.

Tomby Stone's end of the year condescending rant extravaganza

2008-12-31T14:39:00.000-08:00

We all have our own idea of a perfect life. Whether it be my dream of sitting around discussing the importance of individuality with Tom Waits while a young Audrey Hepburn whispers sweet nothings in my ear and Nellie Mckay stands in the corner singing a naked duet with Kate Bush to the tune of Hava Nagila, the lyrics being cleverly changed to, 'Tomby is awesome, Tomby is awesome, Tomby is awesome and he's so cool'. Whether it be John's dream of running hand in hand on a deserted beach with Fred Durst or Sariel Thrawn's dream of sharing a romantic candle lit dinner with Adolf Hitler, we all have our own idea of just what would constitute perfection. That's the problem.

I highly doubt Tom Waits's's idea of a perfect day would be hanging around with a buck toothed geek who insists on saying, 'I ... like, totally LOVE your stuff man' every two minutes. I also have my doubts that Mizzes Bush and Mckay dream of standing naked in the corner of a room singing Jewish folk songs about how awesome I am and ... call me insecure but I'd imagine the thought of whispering a single word into my waxy, greasy ear is enough to put Ms Hepburn off the idea of giving life another go completely. It's a tragedy really, our ideas of perfection are incompatible. We can only achieve any kind of perfection by denying other people the right to do the same. It seems the best humanity can hope for is a fair compromise, nobody too happy, nobody too unhappy. An entire world united under the glorious notion of, 'Meh'.

I recently saw a documentary about a heavy metal band in Iraq and all of the problems they had to overcome in order to play the music they wanted to play. I found the documentary especially poignant because ... well, because I fucking hate heavy metal music, all of that 'Metallica' type bullshit anyway. It just irritates me. This combined with the subconscious mistrust of middle Eastern people my upbringing instilled in me the image of this Iraqi boy dressed up like James Hetfield playing shitty metal songs on a fancy shaped guitar becomes a nightmare. In my perfect world nobody would play Metallica covers on fancy guitars and no middle Eastern would ever try to look like James Hetfield. I'd be with their God on that one, all shitty metal and stupid skull T shirts are barred. Luckily, unlike the Muslim God, I'm not a TOTAL prick. I can recognise that 'my right to wave my arms around ends where their nose begins'.

This is the main problem with Religion, it seeks to force people to live the way it thinks they should live. Whether it be through the now quaint and silly seeming threat of eternal torture at the hands of a horny red halfgoat creature or through the very real threat of pissed off Muslims who found bomb making easier to pick up than guitar shredding. If you think you know how somebody should be living that's fine, tell them. If you think you know what kind of music somebody should be listening to, what kind of genetalia they should spend hours looking at on the Internet or what colour pants they should be wearing to their brother's funeral, tell them. Sadly though, the responsibility and the final decision must always be theirs. If they show up at the wake of a family member blasting Cannibal Corpse through Ipod headphones, wearing bright green flares and carrying a copy of Big balls monthly underneath their left arm, they may have chosen poorly but at least they chose.

Thankfully, with the popularisation of the Internet and the free flowing inescapable information it brings people are finally starting to grow out of the old, 'Automatically obey authority' way of thinking and attempting to delay their judgements on any given issue until all the facts are in (or at least until they can look it up on Wikipedia)
This coming year looks better than the last and hopefully this gradual improvement will continue for as long as it takes. People do gradually seem to be waking up to the fact that the most important thing in this life is to allow others their personal freedom and their right to run their own lives. Of course that personal freedom and the power it brings must inevitably bring the responsibility of standing or falling by one's own decisions but I've chewed your ear enough tonight, maybe we'll discuss that next year.

in a perfect world

2008-12-28T16:56:00.000-08:00

in a perfect world there would be an opportunity to reverse time and change the shitty decisions we all have made. whether it be that inappropriate comment or the phoning to an ex-girlfriend drunk at 3:00 AM and quoting some shitty Creed or Staind lyrics in the hopes you will get one last hand job through the top of your pants behind some shit stained bar.

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?

Merry Festivus

2008-12-25T05:22:00.000-08:00

Thinking about this month's topic and about what would constitute a perfect world, it seemed appropriate to examine the world that we have now and see if I could spot any instances that do not meet that highest of standards known as perfection.

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.

How indeed.

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.

Once more unto the breach

2008-12-16T02:17:00.001-08:00

Is she the Perfect Woman?

Does such a thing even exist?

Is she just fucked up enough to make me happy?

Who knows?

Not me.

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.

Ideal woman?

Does such a thing even exist?

Shit.

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.

The Book of Genesis (Let There Be Lighters)

2008-12-09T07:18:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-09T06:44:00.001-08:00

Maybe this last cigarette, in front of this humming compressor here at work, under the flood light from the factory roof, bugs attempting suicide in its brightness, the wet blanket heat clinging to my neck, the warning signal on my phone to alert me its about to go dead even though i just sent a message to my girlfriend riddled with paranoia, the sudden memory my brother just went to gaol for buying drugs from some redneck neo nazi on the southside, the realisation i spent my last paycheck gambling, trying desperately to scrape enough together to pay my rent, the hammering inside my chest that feels like miners digging for gold in my heart, the sound of my own breath and the calm i get from hearing that I'm still alive, the very fact that all this can be extinguished with a simple thought of something good, like a kiss, or shot of good scotch,...maybe this is my perfect world. It might be the lesser of several evils.

Or in any world but mine...

2008-12-02T23:44:00.001-08:00

In perfect world...

When she told me that she had broken up with the man she loved,
My first reaction should have been sympathy
And not an erection.

The only thing, really.

2008-12-02T23:41:00.000-08:00

The one thing
I really want
Is to be able
To tell someone
"I love you"

And mean it.

Damn you, ROBOT HITLER!!!

2008-12-02T13:06:00.000-08:00

Perfect is a wierd concept to me. I mean, have you ever seen 'The Twilight Zone'? Man gets his very own perfect world. Man discovers everything going great is monotonus and boring. Man loses mind. So on that note, my perfect world would be on with shit happening left and right. Turn a corner? Gunfight between cops and the F.B.I. Go to the store for cigarettes? Bomb threat that I have to deal with. Excitement is a key to life and I thrive on it. Of course, I have low latent inhibition, so I need constant input because reality itself is like a drug to me. And as with other drugs, I like to use to excess.

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.

One Perfect Kiss

2008-12-02T02:49:00.000-08:00

It was the most perfect kiss I've ever experienced.

I can barely find the words to describe it.

Her lips.

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.

Such peace.

God. I love her.

The memory of her.

That kiss.

The way her lips gently caressed my lips.

How her tongue pressed softly against mine.

Such joy.

Such peace.

Such happiness.

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.

Her 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.

Beating off on a dead horse

2008-11-30T15:49:00.000-08:00

Some might call me a pervert. Some might call me a prude. I can see how they'd both be right. I'm not sure if it's a mental condition or just the fact that I'm a stuck up prick but I just can't find any pleasure in the 'normal'. I'm more interested in the one eyed schizophrenic girl rocking back and forth mumbling to herself in the corner than a thousand pop star girl group cookie cooter whores. It's just how my personality has been imprinted, maybe it comes from my pretentious, hipper than thou teen years but these days it's a truly natural drive to constantly need originality. To constantly feel like I'm experiencing something new and different. It may make friends roll their eyes and whisper things behind my back but all in all it's a fun little quirk and nothing to worry about.

... That is until now.

It's getting harder and harder to get harder. It seems like the whole world is creeping further and further into a dangerous level of perversity. As sexuality becomes more and more pronounced in society. As hardcore sexual action becomes as easy to see as clicking a mouse button two or three times. As each advertisement, web page and fashion statement becomes closer and closer to simply waving genitalia at each other, boredom grows.
It seems society as a whole is just becoming worn out on the regular and 'normal' with regards to sexuality.

This is why Miley Cyrus is one of the most popular names on any 'nude celebrity' website you might visit. This is why the topless pictures of a 15 year old Keira Knightley are way more popular than any of the many other nude scenes she's ever done, despite the fact that she's always looked exactly the fucking same.

Male human beings have an inbuilt desire to feel like they've achieved something when engaging in sex. It has always annoyed me when women claim, 'Rape is not about sex, it's about power' Sex is about power, at least a great deal of it is.

You've only heard of Miley Cyrus because she developed fast and started flaunting herself at a dangerously young age. From the thousands of us desperate fellas Googling for naked pictures of the little monkey faced brat to the repressed folks who find their excuse to think about her young naked body by feigning outrage at 'topless' pictures (Oh my Lord, she's topless .... Under that thick sheet she's wearing .... aaand her hair is ruffled, why else would they ruffle her hair unless they wanted us to think she'd just been fucked hard ?? I'm disgusted, just let me finish jerking off and I'll go write an outraged letter)
She's not even close to an attractive girl, that doesn't matter. She doesn't look enough like a child that it would worry us to want to fuck her yet we know it's wrong enough to make us really feel like we're achieving something when we exploit her. If it's wrong it's unusual and if it's unusual it's exciting.

You might notice I used the phrase, "thousands of us desperate fellas googling for naked pictures" (implying I was part of that group). You might call me a pervert.

You might notice my argument is swinging dangerously close to the, 'Sex is eeeeebil and society is becoming depraved' rants of many repressed religious fundamentalists. You might call me a prude.

Either way I can see how you'd be right. I do worry about what's going to happen once seeing slightly underage girls naked stops being as exciting as seeing regular women naked used to be in the 80's and early 90's. I don't worry for the sake of society, I worry for the sake of my own inbuilt desire to stay one step ahead and my worrying, burgeoning interest in Japanese scat movies and animal porn.

Legal, moral notice/cowardly backing out - The preceding was purposefully written rather tongue in cheek. Who's tongue in which cheek I'll let you decide. Just don't get worried, I stand by my record. Only twelve percent of all the kids I've ever babysat have needed medical attention or severe mental therapy.

Fuck, I depressed me.

2008-11-27T12:58:00.001-08:00

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.

beating a dead horse - tits = power

2008-11-24T17:59:00.001-08:00

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?

Funny, like cancer

2008-11-22T22:26:00.000-08:00

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.

Reliving the Dream

2008-11-16T05:52:00.000-08:00

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!

Apropos of Nothing

2008-11-09T18:54:00.000-08:00

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.

We like to drink

2008-10-30T02:50:00.000-07:00

Fucking alcohol.

Poison.

Evil.

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.

getting drunk

2008-10-29T17:23:00.001-07:00

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.

The Great Beer Run

2008-10-10T09:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Burn Hollywood burn

2008-09-30T16:10:00.000-07:00

I had intended to write some corny thing about the importance of cinema in our culture. It was going to be great, it was going to once again reaffirm my place as the king of over opinionated art fags. I was going to write something positive for a change but those dirty rotten bastards, they ruined everything.

Hollywood. Bastards. Fucking bastards. Fucking bastards. Bastards. Bastards. It's hard to find any other words. Hollywood is the stomach of Satan. It ingests all that's good and true and turns into highly polished shit.

They let that fucking hack Zack Snyder get his talentless flippers on my beloved Dawn of the dead, then they decide to remake Day of the dead with some 'black enough to appeal to white rich kids who want to be black and not black enough to upset those rich kid's parents' MTV puppet Nick Cannon. Now, some otherwise sane people actually think the Dawn of the dead remake was a decent remake (they're wrong) but there is no way anybody on this entire planet could look at the trailer for the Day of the dead remake and not want to kill everyone involved. The trailer actually features Nick Cannon cocking a gun and uttering the line, It's a bad day to be a zombie' ... really. It's a bad day to be a zombie ?? When is it a fucking good day to be a zombie ???

They actually let Gus Van Sant remake Psycho. What in the holy name of fuckbuttery ?? 'Yeah, Hitchcock, we appreciate your little movie there but step aside. Gus Van fucking Sant is gonna show you how it's done.'.

They turn possibly the greatest horror novel of all time into a brainless Hollywood action movie. I am legend. The story of an every day man approaching middle age who finds his sanity threatened when he becomes trapped into a solitary existence following the outbreak of a terrible disease which turns his friends and neighbours into vampiric creatures. Of course it makes sense that the movie should star Will 'I am the Jesus of douchebaggery' Smith as a tough guy military man with his trusty canine sidekick setting out to kick superhuman mutant ass in a post apocalyptic wasteland. Now I hear they've signed Smith up for a prequel to that debacle. That's right, a fucking I am fucking legend fucking prequel. I assume they'll be telling the story of Robert 'snake' Neville's military adventures kicking zombie terrorist butt in the Iraq. Honestly, I try and be an all loving child of purity but I would honestly breath a sigh of relief if everybody involved in this movie died a slow painful fiery Aids infected death.

It's not enough that that fucking Hack Snyder ruined my precious Romero movies. Now they've let him add his special, 'Make everything shiny and give the whole thing the look of a shaving cream ad' magic to a movie based on Alan Moore's comic book, 'Watchmen'. No doubt audiences will be moved to tears by the tale of Roarshack, mutant zombie terrorist butt kicker on the trail of the evil terrorists who killed his father. Alan Moore must cry his beard wet every night thinking about the shit Hollywood has turned his life's work into.

They remade the incredibly recent Spanish movie [REC] for an audience too dumb to handle subtitles. If you can't handle watching a subtitled movie, too bad. Don't expect culture to keep itself dumbed down to your level. Don't go see a movie, stay home and fuck yourself, preferably with something sharp and STD infected. I mean really, how far away are we from remakes of movies for people who don't like big words in movies ?? 'Me Don Godfather. You kill me son. I kill you'.

I hear they're remaking one of the most beautiful movies I've ever seen, 'Sympathy for Lady Vengeance' for a Western audience. It's just insanity. Chanwook Park's movies are similar to those of Hitchcock in that they're as much about HOW they're made as they are about plot and storytelling. I'm not saying 'how they're made' in any kind of technical sense, I'm saying a good visual movie is like a painting. When you look at Van Gogh's painting of his shoes, you're not looking at a pair of shoes, you're looking at a composition of colour and form. When you remake an artistically valid movie, you're repainting somebody else's picture. You're repainting a Van Gogh picture and if you're a part of the Hollywood system you're painting in a few explosions and fake tits to keep the drooling masses happy.

If it's true that life is short and art is long maybe it's more important that we cease the creation of soulless, empty non art than it is letting a few rich fat people suck wind for a few more years. What I'm trying to say is, maybe we should .... well ... not destroy Hollywood but maybe we should start offering free flights to Hollywood for any pissed off looking Afghan dude who promises to bring his own boxcutter and see what happens.

movie scenes

2008-09-27T23:54:00.000-07:00

I despise people who say how a certain fictional movie relates to their life. Examples of this are the douches at halloween who dress up either as The Crow or some character from The Matrix. If i was able to go back in time, I would go back to a week before halloween the year these movies came out. You know that at the time the prick thought they were going to have an awesome Halloween costume this year and thought to themself that no one else was going to have the same costume. I would then travel into the future to the Halloween where they wore this douchey costume and realized that everyone else had the same idea. The disappointment on their face would be legendary. As you can tell, I'm an optimist.

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.

George Lucas Raped My Childhood

2008-09-25T05:49:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve taken to reading a little blog site called “Overthinking It” (http://www.overthinkingit.com). Which subjects the popular culture to a level of scrutiny it probably doesn't deserve. So I thought perhaps it may be time for me to “overthink” my hatred of George Lucas and his faustian decline into vapidness and infamy.

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?

Perhaps.

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.

Oh, Superman

2008-08-31T15:52:00.000-07:00

It was 25 years ago today that I first fell screaming into this world. I was a rather premature birth, in fact I'd only been conceived a few hours earlier. You never would have guessed it to look at me, if it weren't for the horns and tail you'd think I was a regular human baby. I WAS human, at least that's the line the defense took during the trial. I had my health, I had all my mental faculties, I could lift a '56 Cadillac above my head with one arm, if anything the company did my parents a favour. It's still not fair though, it's not fair to burden a young couple with a strangely quiet, superhumanly strong child when all they wanted was a little casual sex with a glow in the dark condom. It was the dye apparently, the stuff they used to make the things glow in the dark. The moment sperm came into contact with this stuff it transformed into some kind of super sperm, tearing through the soft latex coat and racing toward the egg with the mad intensity of a drunken sailor in a rape frenzy.

Once the sperm reached the egg things got stranger, I shouldn't even say 'sperm' as in this case, the egg was not impregnated by one single sperm but rather 300'000'000+ of the little bastards. Every single one fired from the father's flesh cannon hit it's intended target. Every single sperm, in perfect synchronicity with it's slimy brothers, hitting the egg at exactly the same moment. As surprising as this may be, once accepted it's no surprise the foetus took only two or three hours to grow to full term. It's funny, here sat the top people in the world's top profelactic company, on trial for manufacturing defective condoms when the defect was actually something they could have charged double for had they known it existed. 'Use our condoms and get superhuman children' Who wouldn't want that ??

Of course there were worse cases than mine. Apparently the first hundred or so births that occurred as a result of using these condoms were truly horrific affairs. Babies bursting out of their mother's stomachs like something from a Ridley Scott picture or flying out of the vagina at a hundred miles an hour before attaching themselves, razor sharp teeth first, to the doctor's face. I could understand how those parents might seek some kind of financial compensation but, to be honest, I always felt kind of sad that my parents would consider my birth an event deserving compensation. What was so wrong about my presence ?? I know they hadn't planned for my existence but surely I was a benefit to them rather than a burden. I could cook a turkey in twenty seconds using my heat vision, I could fuck a turkey from twenty inches away using my freakishly large penis, I could do many things that didn't involve turkeys in any way but were nevertheless amazing. Surely birthing a superhuman child is the best side effect you could hope for when using a cheap glow in the dark condom purchased in a dank men's room vending machine.

Apparently my parents didn't see it that way, nor did the parents of my many hundreds of mutant brothers and sisters, nor did the jury. The company were ruined, the top dogs of said company reduced to penniless beggars, all because they'd refused to test their latest product on animals. I felt bad. I mean sure, a little animal testing might have saved the lives of dozens of young women and prevented the births of hundreds of freaks but really, can you picture a gorilla wearing a glow in the dark condom ?? It would look ridiculous, the poor thing.

Anyway, the story has as happy an ending as you could expect. Both my parents died shortly after winning Billions in the court case, I inherited the money and used it to build my state of the art crime fighting lab. I now keep the streets of this city safe by night with the help of my hired staff of former 'Stag condoms' bosses. Wherever a child cries, wherever a young drug addicted man is forced into a life of crime, wherever a costumed psychopath threatens the complacency of the status quo, you will find .... STAG BOY .... Wait a minute ... What the fuck am I talking about ???

my conception: an unerotic love story

2008-08-27T18:45:00.000-07:00

it was a late night. my father was intoxicated with the fine taste of a 40 oz beer. he was poor as his first child, a daughter, wasn't planned and he was either too kind or stupid to kick his wife down the stairs. as he stumbled into bed, his wife had on a tattered negligee. their daughter was sleeping or passed out from the nyquil that she was given to her so she would shut the fuck up.

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...

The Conception of Sariel Thrawn

2008-08-25T05:14:00.000-07:00

How was Sariel Thrawn conceived?

How indeed!

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.

The Joyous Cruelty of Children

2008-08-21T12:30:00.000-07:00

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.

“Show me.”

“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.

how i'm a rotten bastard

2008-07-31T20:28:00.000-07:00

i am a rotten bastard by using this as this month's post much like it's a contractual obligation. i have nothing to say that has any merit.

oh yeah, kill whitey.

Good Times

2008-07-19T04:52:00.001-07:00

I've seen a man blowing a dolphin.

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?

Don't vote for Obama ... he's half black

2008-06-30T15:26:00.000-07:00

I don't follow the politics of my own country, the whole thing just bores me senseless. In this country the word 'politics' implies dull grey men in dull grey suits talking dull grey issues on dull grey television shows, a total snoozefest. American politics is different, with American politics you may never hear a single real issue raised but you'll be glued to the edge of your seat with the wacky antics of the politicians involved. Whether it's Clinton with his impromptu sax abuse or Dubya Bush with his hilarious lobotomised chimp impression. There's always something to keep you entertained, distracted and entertained.

Nobody can deny the genius of the Democrats in the current race for the white house, offering the kneejerk public the most entertaining thing imaginable, a brand new shape and colour of president.

'Hey, how would you like to see the first female president ever ?? Hate women ??? No problem, here's a black guy. Now how would ya like to see the first black president ever ??? What's his stance on abortion ?? Oh, fine, we'll talk about the issues. I just thought you'd like to see the first black president ever, that's all. I just thought it'd be cool for you to be able to tell people you were alive when they elected the first ever black president. I just wanted you to get to feel like your pathetic little life was somehow connected to something of historical importance but hey, what do I know ??.'

Now don't get me wrong, I'm no supporter of the Republican party. The Republican politicians have as little substance as the Democrats, they just didn't have the intelligence to think of the black guy/woman trick. I'm not even against the usage of this cheap trick. They're going to fuck us no matter which party we elect, we might as well get something to talk about while they do it.

I do want to see the first black president elected in my lifetime, that's why I DON'T want Obama in the white house.

You see, the thing with Obama is ... he's half black. His mother was white, he's not a full black guy. He's as white as he is black. Putting Obama in the white house would ruin the specialness of living to see the first black president. Every time we bragged about seeing the first black guy sworn into the American presidency we'd be forced to add, 'Well ... if you count halfcast as black'. Even if, many years down the line we saw a darker than dark black president named Mnengwe Ktuya win the presidency, the specialness of that moment would have been tarnished by already sort of kind of seeing a black president ... if you count halfcast as black.

I lost my virginity to a hot dumb 15 year old goth girl ... if you count oral. I played my first gig at the age of 13 ... if you count a highschool talent show. I'll be damned if I'll add yet another vague 'if you count' neither here nor there event to my already completely up in the air record of achievement. This could be such a special moment in history, the election of the first black president. America has been building up to this for so long, we shouldn't sully this inevitable historical moment by electing a 'kinda sorta' black guy first.

Don't snack before your dinner, don't read spoilers before watching a movie and don't elect halfcast people. The eventual payoff is worth the wait. Let's let this Mccain guy in this time and in four years we'll put Charlie Murphy in office. It will be glorious.

Fucking Gringos

2008-06-30T05:58:00.000-07:00

(Another masterpiece from Mr Goosekirk. If you want to know more go here - http://www.myspace.com/goosekirk)

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 COLOMBIA!"

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 Colombia's the only place in the world to get it - y'know, the usual 'wooo Colombia number one wooo' bullshit. I dunno, I don't smoke, but if that's true it'd be a helluva thing - that would mean they're actually competent at producing something."

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.

"COME BACK!"

"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 Colombia is for Colombians. They don't need us here. The ground is stained with Colombian blood, it's their country, not ours, blah fucking blah blah. I jump in and agree with him. Goddamn, I've heard this shit too many times.

"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.

- GooseKirk

enough with the political race card shit

2008-06-29T16:34:00.001-07:00

I'm not a racist but enough with Barack Obama. It seems like everyone in the United States has hyped this man up to be the second coming of Jesus Christ. Remember, he's a politician. It's came to the point that people are voting for him JUST BECAUSE HE'S BLACK. Voting for someone just because they are black is as dumb as not voting for him because he is black. Some people are doing it just because they want the first black president of the United States. What's next? Voting for someone just because they are Spanish, Albino or a transvestite? Vote for someone because they have common values as you, not because you want to be around for the first of something. I might be construed as being racist or having a hidden agenda for saying this but I'll admit that I don't like John McCain. Want to know why? Because he's white.

I can't believe it's not racist!

2008-06-22T02:08:00.000-07:00

Does it seem strange to anyone that some African-Americans feel that they have to behave better than everyone else?

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.

Thinking of you...

2008-06-14T04:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Nobody looks cool in rose coloured glasses

2008-05-29T19:04:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I get into a weird mental space that precludes me from putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. It's a sense that I've lost touch with reality, or at least the 'proper' way of living and I feel unable to do anything at all until I can remember just how or why I should be doing it. I feel the need for a greater context in which to place of all my lesser moments. I'm afraid of doing something wrong. I don't much care about living a 'happy' or 'joyous' life, I want to live life 'properly'. I want the contentment that comes from knowing I'm on the right track, I want to know all of my actions are the right actions and I want to know exactly where these actions fit in the greater scheme of things. I don't want to do anything wrong.

I want to be told how to live my life, I want somebody to take away the responsibility of deciding what's right or wrong and the fear that responsibility brings. I'm not the only one.

"I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else." - C.S Lewis.

Everybody wants life to make sense and many are willing to believe any manner of nonsense in order to get it to do so. Everybody wants that big answer, the answer that provides a perfect perspective on this life we're all living. The light by which we may see everything and know we're seeing it clearly. This is dangerous. There are people who claim to have this ultimate answer and are willing to sell, there are people who truly believe they have this answer and are desperate to share. They're all as dangerous as each other. As a great man once said and an even greater man quoted in his MSN messenger name, "Belief is the death of intelligence". Arriving at a set of beliefs, a final perspective through which to see the world, it's such a tempting idea. It's just a shame this temptation can so easily override our good sense.

We're like a group of people feeling up a platypus in the dark ( ... you heard me ). Those of us feeling the bill think we're touching a duck, those of us touching the back think it must be a dog and those of us touching the tail think it's one of those paddles S&M freaks use to spank each other on the tuchus. Nobody knows for sure, however many people think they do.

We're living in different worlds, seeing things by the light of different suns. The unknown scares us but that fear will destroy us if we don't overcome. We all need to admit that we don't yet know what the Hell life is all about, to realise that nobody else knows what life is all about either and to muster the strength to take the uncertainty of life as it comes. This is the only real way to live 'properly'.

..... Or maybe it's not, who the fuck knows ??

nobody knows

2008-05-18T21:48:00.000-07:00

nobody knows nothing
but
somebody can know
something about nobody.

The short way around

2008-05-14T04:38:00.000-07:00

Nobody knows anything
Although some people
Know something

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

End.

under the infleundce

2008-04-27T04:45:00.000-07:00

so i syasb to the guy, who the fuck are you and why arw shining a laser in my eye?
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.

I wear my influences like a drunken bum wears vomit

2008-04-24T21:27:00.000-07:00

I'd like to say that there was a huge influence in my life but really there hasn't been one figure that has stood out. At certain times I was interested or influenced but these influences have not held on to all my life.

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.

The men in my life

2008-04-20T22:17:00.000-07:00

Note: The following are influences I have acquired through years of watching too much TV, sitting around all day listening to music and other so called wastes of time. There are many people who have drifted in and out of my day to day life who have been a great influence on me but I'm not going to write about them, as a great man once said, 'they don't count 'cause they're not famous or anything cool like that.'

Bruce Lee - When I was a kid I loved Bruce Lee. I used to walk around the house with no shirt on and the exact cuts and scratches Lee receives from the screw on claw hand of the evil Mr. Han man at the end of the movie, 'Enter the dragon' drawn on my pudgy little white body with my mother's red lipstick. I remember one time I'd had some kind of painful thing stuck in my toe for months. To this day I don't know what the medical name for it was but it was some kind of growth that appeared on the bottom of my toe and grew inwards like a small horn growing into my toe. My mother wanted to pull the thing out with tweezers and I (not really liking the idea) was screaming and crying like a little bitch. My mother, noticing that I was dressed in my Bruce Lee garb (or lack thereof) decided to guilt trip me with the line, 'I bet Bruce Lee wouldn't cry like this. I bet Bruce Lee would be brave and let me do it'. It worked, I imagined myself not to be a pudgy little pale English kid with a blonde bowl haircut and wussy tear filled eyes and instead to be that cool, fearless badass Bruce Lee. Imagining myself to be Bruce Lee as this thing was ripped painfully out of my toe made the pain not only bearable, it made it rather pleasant. As if the pain and my ability to take it with a straight face affirmed my fantasy of being the fearless badass I wanted to be. To this day I'm not only good at taking pain, I quite like it. Recently I completely fucked up my toe slipping on a beer soaked dancefloor and every time I look down at the misshapen bruised and torn thing I feel quite good. I feel like like Bruce Lee.

Marshall Teller and Dash X - I've already ranted on this blog about the great influence the show 'Eerie Indiana' had on me as a kid. The entire show is completely underrated and one of the few shows that still stands up once you rewatch it this side of puberty. Eerie Indiana was the show that sparked my lifelong interest in the bizarre. I used to have a secret ghosthunting club with my friend Michael, he never watched the show and thus never knew where I'd ripped the entire idea from. The club wasn't really as cool as the one in the show, it basically consisted of us running around the local woods at night, unknowingly begging to get raped. The guy I really wanted to be though was Dash X, he's the 'wacky new guy' they brought into the show to boost ratings and basically a poor imitation of Christian Slater's character in the movie 'Heathers' but at the time I thought he was the coolest person on the planet. Dark, mysterious, a real 'weirdo'. He's probably the reason I have for most of my life considered the label, 'weird' a compliment.

Robert Smith - Like many a faggy goth kid, as a teenager I idolised Robert Smith of The Cure. It seems like an influence that goes without saying, the depressed teenager sitting in a darkened room listening to 'disintegration' and writing bad poetry but honestly, at the time I thought I was being completely unique and individual. The closest thing I knew to goth kids were the metal kids who'd never even heard of The Cure. For years afterwards I thought I was the person who'd introduced The Cure to the entire metal community. Every time I'd see a metal fan with a Cure T shirt or badge on I'd believe they must have known the dumb metalhead girl to whom I'd introduced The Cure's music (this wasn't so far fetched, as most people 'knew' this girl. If I were writing about the people who'd influenced my negative attitude toward the opposite sex you'd probably be hearing much more about her) The funny thing is that I used to love the poppy lighter songs such as 'Love cats', 'Friday I'm in love' and 'Close to me' more than the melodramatic gothy tracks but would never admit it for fear of not looking cool. These days those are probably the only ones I'd actually admit to liking.

Tom Waits - Waits is without a doubt the absolute biggest influence on my character, my personality, my dress sense and just about every other aspect of this thing I consider 'me'. The funny thing is, I'd pretty much arrived at the 'Waitsian' personality by the time I even knew who he was. Through passing infatuations with Buster Keaton, Frank Sinatra and many other kinds of classic American icon types I'd already arrived at the whole pinstriped suit, porkpie hat, glamour of having been up three days running drinking whiskey character. Waits was the culmination of all of the influences I'd been gathering in the preceding few years. All this time I'd been looking for Tom Waits and though I knew it, I didn't think I'd ever find him. I was obsessed with Nick Cave for a while because I honestly thought he was the closest thing I would ever find to that whole 'Waitsian' spirit. An awful lot of my influences fade to long term memories of short term obsessions once I discover something new. Waits is the only one who, after listening to all the artists that influenced him and many other artists besides, remains the major influence on who I am.

Of course there are many other influences I've taken over the years, some just as important as the ones I've written about here. From Bukowski to Howard Bloom to Vivian Stanshall to Weird Al Yankovic. I could write for days on end about these people and the joy and fresh insight they've brought to my life. It's only for your sake that I'm not going to.

Prince Rogers Nelson

2008-04-19T06:49:00.000-07:00

Influences?

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.

Bitches.

THE SOUL THE SELF THE SHADOW

2008-04-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

Inspired by Jean-Claude Silbermann- a Surrealist Experiment.......

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)

Christophilia

2008-03-28T23:24:00.000-07:00

The year is 2012, the night sky above Texas breaks open in a blinding beam of pure white Heavenly light. As the holy light illuminates the rows of titty bars, trailers and churches below the sound of an angelic choir singing the chorus to Dennis Madalone's 'America we stand as one' begins to wash out from behind it's blinding glare and a dark figure emerges from the glowing pure whiteness. Everyone knows this is it, he has returned, after almost 2000 years of waiting our lord and saviour has returned to collect his people.

The ground below this holy tear in the Texas skyline is swarming with TV cameramen and wailing, crying believers before the figure emerging from it begins to show any definition. Eyes adjust to the light and the figure moves closer and there he is, it's our lord, it's Jesus .... and he kinda looks like Danny DeVito.

Billions of faces, staring at flickering footage on live television feeds or staring straight up at the glowing Texas sky, Billions of faces register the same exact look. A look that until this moment could only have been found on the face of a ten year old child who's just excitedly tore the wrapping paper off of a promisingly large Christmas parcel only to find a badly knitted sweater and a 4000 page book about the industrial revolution. A look that tries to say, 'This is just what I wanted' but clearly betrays the crushing disappointment within. Jesus looks like Danny DeVito ... he looks like Danny ... DeVito, if Danny DeVito were an Arab. He's not even white. He's not in shape, he doesn't even have a full head of hair. This really doesn't feel right.

The moaning and wailing of the faithful instantly gives way to an awkward silence, the entire crowd silently studying the person either side of them out of the corner of their eyes to pick up any kind of clue that might let them know they're not alone in their current mode of thinking. Deep down they know they're not, though no one says anything you can feel it in the air. The realisation hitting the crowd like a wave of ice cold water, 'My God, all this time ... I thought I loved Jesus ... when it turns out ... I just really really wanted to fuck him.' The exact same thoughts hitting Billions of people at just about the exact same time, 'It's no wonder I was so crazy about this whole Jesus thing, they hung those portraits of a young, toned, androgynous Christ before me my entire life while all the while forcing me to suppress my own natural sexual urges. I had to relieve those pent up desires somehow. Of course, it makes perfect sense. Denying myself the right to sexual thoughts while being shown pictures of this beautiful, well toned creature so perfect he can look sexy while hanging from a wooden cross by nail pierced hands ... and being told he LOVES me, being told he loves me more than anyone on this planet could ever love me, of course this is going to cause me to experience incredibly strong
feelings I cannot (or cannot allow myself to) put an Earthly definition to.'

Billions of women, all reminded of the good looking goth guy they dated in their teen years. The guy who seemed so mysterious and interesting until they let him awkwardly finger them behind the arcade. The guy who then didn't seem quite so intelligent, who's stories didn't seem as amazing.

Billions of men reminded of the petite, tiny breasted actress they only ever fantasised about having anal sex with. Billions of men realising why it's the skinny guy with long hair who always gets raped in the prison showers. Billions of men coming to terms with the fact that they'd have loved to have been serving time with Jesus.

'All this time we've been blue balling for Jesus, saving up semen and vaginal lubricant until you could pop our lower parts like some kind of filthy balloon, all this time. We've concentrated so much pent up desire on this figure and it turns out he's not even worth a drunken sympathy handjob.' The silent thoughts continue to echo around the crowd until the crowd sadly and silently disperses. In a matter of minutes the only people left are those hanging onto their fantasies of seeing Jesus return to torture those who have wronged them. As they look up in salivating anticipation Jesus opens his chubby little mouth and for the first time in thousands of years begins to speak to his people, 'There is no such thing as Hell, I made the whole thing up to separate the pure of heart from the cowardly and petty. Of course this means there is no such thing as Heaven, sorry about that one, I just wanted to weed out the greedy among my flock, I'm sure you all understand.'

By this time the crowd has dispersed entirely. The following morning stock market reports show contraceptives and KY jelly are up 616% and the news reports far less violence.

Selflove.

2008-03-25T03:51:00.001-07:00

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.

Splurfing

2008-03-24T13:26:00.000-07:00

Splurfing is the sexual fetish of ejaculating into someone's nostril. In order to do this, they must have a large nose or the person must have a small penis. The penis must enter the nose and ejaculate so the semen goes far back into the nose canal. From here, the recipient of the semen must cause their self to sneeze the semen and snot back into the ejaculator's mouth. The ejaculator spits this substance into the other person's asshole and then fucks them in the ass with a strap on.