Monthly Archives: December 2010

Obligatory 2010 Goodbye

May the shitty be culled in horrible, disfiguring accidents.
May my friends drive around the accidents.
May they smile and cry, may they be blissful and sated
and may they begin 2011…intoxicated.

Music You Don’t Deserve But Is Given, Part One

Net Neutrality: A No Brainer, But Americans Have No Brains

I’m trying to enjoy my coffee, and this is the shit I see:  55% of Americans support the removal of Net Neutrality.

This is like asking your telephone book deliverer to rip random pages out of your phone book.

This is like telling your TV provider to come to your house to remove buttons on your remote. “There,” he says, looking at the empty holes that used to be 5 and 7. “Looks much better.”

This is like, so stupid I feel bad I have to mention this.

The internet belongs to YOU. It does not belong to major communication providers. I don’t care how you slice it. Isn’t your provider ripping your ass off monthly? You say to your wife, “I don’t even use half this shit and they want WHAT for this?” Your wife agrees.

No one should tell you what’s ok for you to watch while you are on the internet. I don’t care if you are inserting dildos into braying donkeys just to see the sound it makes as long as the donkey seems to be enjoying it. I don’t care if you are installing shower cams into convent showers. Nuns are probably stacked, that’s why they are nuns.

I don’t care as long as you are not hurting anything or anyone. No communication company should be telling you to stop fucking with the nuns. There’s enough net police out there as it is, and they take down offensive content when you, the consumer complain. This is not tantamount to begging AT&T to protect you from the donkey. The donkey video will disappear as soon as YouTube finds it. That is all there is to it.

Hate ads? Wait until Comcast gets started with your browsing-in a browser which they will select for you.

Stop fucking with the Internet. You do what you do with your TV, you change the channel. Leave the rest of us alone.

Pat Robertson Is Not My Kind Of Funny

I’ve watched Pat on TV. He says little jokes with a George Bush laugh, that “eh eh eh”, eyes hidden by a low brow. We all love a dirty joke. We love to be offensive, that is why jokes work so well. Some people can’t take a joke, and to this we generally reply, “Well, fuck you, Smedley”.

But sometimes…sometimes a joke can go too far. There are jokes so jacked off that no one thinks are funny, the kind that even makes friends go “ouch”. The kind of joke that silences a room. This is Pat’s specialty. He says that the blizzard conditions in the Northeast are God’s way of slowing down gay behavior a day or two. They will have to wait to blow another man and stop women from licking each others’ labia. After the blizzard, they may resume their homoerotic escapades.

“Eh-eh eh”, says Pat. Some woman with a pink beehive on her head and fingernails the size of pencils agrees.

I want to know what gets Pat Robertson off. Does he apologize while furiously masturbating with anointed oil? Does he actually have congress with that painted lizard next to him? Is he into little boys-after all, they are for pleasure?

These are all deviant acts. Maybe Pat is pissed because there is another storm system that is going to crap all over his beloved Virginia. Now he has to wait to pray with the rosary wrapped around his balls while an altar boy tongues his bung. Everyone should know about Pat’s sex life, because he does a whole lot of talking about others.

Pat is clearly uninformed about weather patterns. There’s a weather phenomenon called a “nor’easter”. I have no idea why this word is concatenated this way, but it is short for “northeaster”. It is a powerful storm that happens almost every year and it dumps amazing amounts of precipitation on the northeastern seaboard. It is highly unlikely that God chose this particular common phenomenon to steep homosexuals in traffic. This is the type of storm that keeps straights in traffic as well. Why does God hurt his chosen so? Now Pat, there is every possibility that the fags are traveling together, and a traffic stop is a great time for some serious road head after the three-pointers zip off. This is not an effective way to stop gayness, and one thing I know is that you worship a smart God. This plan is the work of a rather stupid lesser angel, I hope.

Dear Pat: I hope you are aware that the devil has plans for you, my friend. I believe you will find yourself amongst the wrathful, drowning and clawing your way out of the Styx but never succeeding. Charon’s oar will smack you back into the slime. I’m going to take the high road on this, for I certainly believe you should be violated by a barbed, diseased 11-incher for 12,000 years straight. But that is not my style. I’m trying to keep this blog classy, and even the mention of you is taking my credibility down a notch. But I sincerely hope that Pat understands that it is not nice to say that he hopes millions of people get stuck in airports and cars because of who they go to bed with.

Smoking-Live With Us Or Hit The Pavement, Jackson

I smoke a lot. I’m no Jackie Gleason or John Mellencamp, but I like to smoke wherever I go. It’s social, and very calming to the nerves. Most people don’t know that there is a nicotinic receptor in our brains that assist in quicker thinking.

I think the trade-off between smoking and stinking is an OK one.

The only people I will not smoke around are babies. That is not a nice thing to do.

Now, you grownups are a different story.

Why? Because most of you breathe awful air anyway, given the unrestricted ability of corporations to pump shit into your air. Most of you are already breathing garbage. What is the real difference? Not much. If you want to breathe clean air, go join an activist group. Don’t bug us with your turned-up noses. It’s just another way of saying to me that I am an asshole.

Well, you know how I feel about that. Go die. I do not care.

The Indians used to use nicotina rustica all of the time. It was a prayer to their gods. Now here’s the rub; if you abuse the nicotine, then the gods frown and will hurt you. I assume this pain is called cancer. But as long as you respect the plant, believe it or not, the plant is quite helpful in relieving colds. That mucus that comes out of you when you smoke is not your lung or whatever-it happens to be an irritant that the smoke brings up. Tobacco is an excellent poultice for skin wounds. There are a shitload of uses for the tobacco plant.

But as with any plant, it is helpful as long as you don’t get crazy with it. The plant turns on you for taking too much of it. That is the way of the world. Don’t take more than your fair share, otherwise pleasure turns into poison.

Look, if it was good enough for the Indians, it is good enough for me. Indians do not know how old they are. We should all do this. We can then experience everything all the time. A continuous stream of life means a damn long one, instead of counting down towards death.

They like tobacco. So do I. Go breathe in the Mediterranean vistas if you don’t like it. I am certain you can’t afford it. Guess what? There will be smokers of all stripes there.

I like Mike Bloomberg. I think it was necessary to clean up New York. We tend to leave our spent butts everywhere.

The best way to fix this is to learn how to field-strip a butt.

When you are at war, the last thing you want to do is drop evidence that you have been somewhere. Simply roll out the extra tobacco onto the ground, scatter it, and put the butt in your pocket. It may smell worse than the smoke, depending on who you are.

So: Look at the headlines. Are the things you see nice? Does a cigarette really matter in the long run? There is only one correct answer.

If you choose like a fool, once again, go away. Go jump in a lake, go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut, eat my shorts.

Ragin’, Full On

What do we know about bipolar disorder?

What constitutes a disorder, anyway? Who the fuck is ANYONE to tell you that your emotions are inappropriate?

Bipolar disorder will send you to the hospital, if you throw it around too much. But when you get put away for it, you meet some interesting fellows. I had the opportunity to meet some damn fine soldiers who had seen too damn much, I was lucky enough to have a nurse at the ER who waited patiently for my anger to subside. I was lucky enough that she was there to guard over me like a caged animal.

These soldiers I mentioned live in a locked ward next to the laundry room. They are not allowed to mix with the general public. I don’t know what they did and I don’t care. I saluted every one of them. One of them went so schizoid he forgot how to use a toilet and he thinks that every one who likes him is his nurse.

I…was not worthy to receive his agony. I am a piece of human dogshit compared to some of the people I met. One of them threw water at me and said I should bathe in pigshit. That’s worse than dogshit, in case you were wondering.

I picked up the water and threw it back at him from the floor and asked for drills. I completed every movement and asked for more until he told me to stand at ease. What a gift, to be exhausted by a black, hard as tempered steel NCO.

Whew! Now that’s Christmas. Fuck my Fender, I got schooled by some of the hardest men living. I rolled their wheelchairs. I kissed them.

I hate war.

But if you don’t like soldiers, you are a piece of human shit with no intrinsic worth to anyone. They don’t even know what they were fighting for, but they did it anyway. They believed in something called America.

I am no flag sucker. It’s not at half-mast; it is upside down, screaming for you worthless motherfuckers to save it.

Don’t even salute it. You stay away from that flag until you know what it meant to some people.

Bang! A twenty one gun salute to all of those maniacs still on their feet.

I hope the noise hurts your ears.

Today

Today was one for the ages
Today clocks stopped, newspapers stopped printing, and dogs went out to chase squirrels
I can’t tell you how many days I have been dead

A Quiet Movie At Midnight

Me and the wife watched a midnight movie, and finally, we have a good one to watch.

I am not talking about Inception. Inception was…pretty lame. Chris Nolan reached his peak having the stones to tell a Hubert Selby story. Inception is nothing but a teenage geek fantasy; and the first thing I heard from someone’s mouth about that travesty is that it was “finally a film for adults”.

What?

A giant metaphor for getting laid is “adult”?

I will speak of Inception no more, and do not come here telling me I didn’t get it. Because I got it in the first five minutes. There was approximately five minutes of that film that made me laugh, so I was right on time, in some sense.

Your holiday ghost story is, ironically, “Devil”.

There’s a guy I’ve been waiting to hear from, since he’s a pretty good storyteller. Most of you know him as “M-night”, but I like to call him a good storyteller.

I think it’s safe to say that he broke a barrier or two with “The Sixth Sense”. We still compare movies to it, because we get bored until he comes up with another movie. He has made a few clunkers in the past. We get irritated when he gets a budget and makes things like “The Village”.

So he goes away for a while, but we all like to go see him when he has a new story.

I find this to be very gratifying when he does, don’t you?

I wouldn’t waste any time at all in renting it, if I were you. But wait until you have someone to cozy up with, if you get scared easily.

Wait perhaps until tomorrow, but just wait.

Ssssssssssh, as Alvin Lee once counseled. And he played some very mean guitar, so I have a tendency to perk up when he says Ssssssssh. Too many “S” letters in there. I have the album, don’t get smart with me.

Ssssssh. Is that better? I don’t feel like going to get the album, and most of you never bothered, so shut up. Ssh. That’s my Ssh, copyrighted.

Now it is yours. Now go find a way to see “Devil” if you haven’t. No, no no!

Put down Inception. It is a dumb movie, and not worth figuring out.

Shh, as in “sshut up”, valley girls and boys.

Nuclear What? How Did I Get Associated With Doomsdayers?

I’m trying to enjoy a little bit of chatter with some friends. I go to check my spam filter, and find that I am linked to a site that is saying that the world will end in 2011 via nuclear war.

Here’s the funny part: it’s the bit I wrote about some people walking around thinking it’s OK to call other people a racist that someone in their fevered little heads connected to the end of the world.

Several of you will not find it funny at all. It’s just spam, though, so I suggest you calm down.

I start a blog, and the world is ending? Please. I never said, ever, that you should all have a nuclear bomb shoved into your mouths to know what it’s like to feel the pain of others. I mean, I just had that thought, but so what? I also said you can all go to outer space if you don’t like it on planet Earth, is what I said a little later on after I got done being upset with being called a racist.

This is NOT the equivalent of saying I would like you all to die. I’m actually coming around to the idea that I would like you all to live, but if you are unwilling, then I suggest space.

Things die there. In fact, nothing lives out there long enough to die, that’s how quickly it probably happens. That is why the search for extraterrestrial life is pretty goofy.

It’s space, dummies. It’s way far away from a pleasant combination. Until that changes, which is highly unlikely, we monkeys will be right here. I will be here with my dog should you decide to reach me from the ether. Call my cat if you want to come back. She sleeps 16 hours a day, so you probably will not reach her.

So: There is no point in racism, and there is no point in thinking the world is going to blow up. Don’t you all remember from school that this rock is 4 billion years old? For four billion years, the Earth has been putting up with the stupid sun, the moon, and humans.

My bet is that Earth will survive. My point is, we have two choices: we either stick with Earth, or we don’t. If we blow ourselves up, then we break into little atomic particles, which probably die in space. I have no idea, I do not work for NASA.That all sounds bad. If we don’t blow ourselves up, guess what horrid thing will happen?

We stay here forever. Now this may be a metaphor, but let’s say life was about choosing a metaphor.

Which one would you choose?

This isn’t blackjack, where you are drunk and you say “hit me” until you lose all of your money. It’s only living, and if you are tired, you should do what other tired people have been known to do.

You go and take a nap, and we will see how you feel in a few hours. I will have my half-Jewish mother make you some chicken soup, and then we can talk about how you feel then. It’s pretty good and it hasn’t failed me yet.

Now if a nap=nuclear war, for the first time in my life, I will have no comeback for that. I will assume that you are crazy, or very, very funny.

The internet is the weirdest thing we have ever invented. Instead of using it for national defense(not a good idea either), it is now being used by schizophrenics. That’s neat. I didn’t think schizophrenics cared much for reality, and now I see that they do.

So: scratch schizophrenia of the list of things to be scared of. Because when you get right down to it, schizophrenia is really nothing but an overheated brain, which is something familiar to all of us. When we stutter, or we we get dizzy, that’s because we have had something done to us that disorients us. When the brain ceases being disoriented, it calms itself, and then suddenly you say to your friend, “I’m good. It’s all good, that was weird.”

Well, yes it was. Spin yourself around(those of you over the age of oh, I don’t know, eight otherwise this will not work) and tell me how you feel if you do it ten times. Then say a few things to someone you love afterward. Ask them if you sound loony.

They said yes, didn’t they? But after you have stopped spinning, you feel better. You no longer sound like a schizophrenic, unless you were one before you began spinning.

You are only schizophrenic if you began spinning before I told you to do this little test, and instead of reading what I just said, you go to a website that says the world will blow up in 2011. And you are still reading, aren’t ya? Good. You don’t have to go to space to find out that nothing is there. I have now decided you, reader, can hang out with me sometime, maybe meet my dog and my wife. Those things are always fun.

The Sixties: It Didn’t Have To Happen Like That

It’s not easy contemplating the decade in America between 1960 and 1970. Generally, the part most worth discussing is the latter half, mostly because so much happened it is hard to sort out. It’s easy to figure out the early years and the 1950s. For the first time in human history, men and women did not have to fear being surprised that someone was going to kill them because the nuclear bomb put an end to that fear in a certain corner of the world called America. It is not a coincidence that “The War To End All Wars”, World War One, brought the Roaring Twenties, a time of booze, less clothes and lots of dancing in the same manner that the Fifties brought the same damn thing.

When you don’t fear death anymore, you can start to play. But if you play too much, you’ll forget that there are children on the playground somewhere with ouchies, who have just fallen down. Some are being tormented by bullies. But all you know is that you have never swung so high on the swingset before, and it is glorious. It sounds like everyone is laughing, because you have become dizzy. The sun is out, it’s April, you have nice clothes on. What could be wrong?

That will do, a decent metaphor for the Sixties. Anyone who lived there, if they are honest, will tell you the same thing. What they do not want to tell you is how they fucked it all up. That is a story for the first children of the seventies to tell you and, quite frankly, they haven’t told us the whole story either. That is because they are dead or dying. The swingset flipped upside down, and America hit the concrete.

Why? How could it have been so great, and then so grim?

Because we honestly thought we could have kept playing forever. Even my German Shepherd will roll over and say “I’m done, I need water” after half an hour of ball chasing. I swear, it looks to me like I could just keep throwing and throwing and he’ll keep running and running until he has a heart attack and dies. But at some point he will say to me “I’m tired, Daddy, let’s go in”.

This is what America forgot to do. Get tired of itself.

You boomers, you all thought it could go on forever in blue jeans and tie-dye. That it was always April. You forgot one thing; that someone was dying somewhere else so you could play on the swingset. You are all of a bunch of fucking morons. You saw the headlines. You watched your leaders die. But for some reason, it was OK to keep goofing off. You would think that when you lost your president, that perhaps what you were doing was wrong. You should have gone back there and find out what JFK had gotten himself into before you starting taking all that acid, or at least perked up when Eisenhower said the military was spiraling out of control. But you didn’t, did you? You told him you wanted to go to the moon, and when he put you there, you wanted to go…well, wherever it is one thinks they are going when they are delusional. They call it psychosis these days. You called it a “real good time”. You said “fuck it, there’s the swingset. I used to have a really good time there!”.

Some of you may know who Bill Hicks is. A comedian ahead of his time, of this there is no question. It’s hard not to listen to him and say “well, goddamn! This guy is right, isn’t he?” And he was. Then, as he progressed, he become very philosophical and began to say things like “We can live forever and go to space together if we end poverty now!!!!!”

It’s the type of statement that is so exciting, you might think that a comedian had figured out the secret to life and all we would have to do is follow Bill Hicks and everything would be One.

Bill Hicks died from believing in this idea. Many of you are dying on your feet thinking that someday, someone will appreciate what he said and we will go to space together.

If you think about it just a little, it is probably one of the stupidest things that has ever been said. However, knowing what I know about religion, we’ve been believing this stupid shit for centuries.

Here’s what I think has happened: we have been afraid for most of our monkey lives, either of ourselves, other predators larger than we, or the reckless fluctuations of nature. We have done so much thinking about how scared we are that we have scared ourselves shitless. We have been tormented by fear for a long time, fear of our own home. The Earth has a tendency to do that to people. It is literally the most violent thing we have ever seen. To our little eyes, nothing could be worse than this.

Now I must ask; does the endless void of Space sound any better? Supernovae? Liquids boiling at 10,000 degrees, ice cold death in places where suns do not shine? Black holes that will allow you the opportunity to disintegrate for eternity?

All I can say to Bill Hicks, rest his soul, is fuck you, bro.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t have to look very far to find out what a mess we have made right here on Earth. I shudder to think what the Universe would do if an idiotic species like ours decided to go swing on its swingset. In case no one has noticed, the Earth is already getting tired of us. It has given us a fairly strong signal. It reads: keep fucking with me, and I’m going to make it very hot here and then you will wish you were in space. I like it here, personally, which is why you can all go to space for all I care, and you can take all of your designer clothes and your credit cards and your good times and your Paris Hiltons and your Bill Hickses and charge up a fortune somewhere else. Because when you finally kill yourself from hanging upside down from the swingset EXACTLY like your sick, aggrieved mother told you not to, I will look up from my ouchies from across the playground and I will laugh my ass off. I will not die from any of this poison, because I will remain quiet and wait for you to get the hell away from me. I take the small pleasures I need and the love I have and do some real living. The type of living that takes so long that it will seem like an eternity before I die.

People are going to get confused now because it sounds like I hate a guy like Bill Hicks. Simply not true, he had a clear moral vision, one that most of us would be jealous to have if we had any sense about us. I’ll take a mad shaman like him any day over the people I see around me now. Bill Hicks may have been the physical manifestation of what could best be termed as an allergic reaction. He hated life. He hated you. He hated himself so much that he spent his life trying to tell you how much he hated you and life. And he reacted like an ugly hive. That hive he became turned into cancer. He died of that cancer, and that upsets me greatly, because none of you deserved Bill Hicks. He was dumb enough to get close to you.

I ain’t. I hate quietly. I live longer that way. That is why the sixties failed. We loved ourselves way too much, and we forgot that other people were suffering, that everything was suffering and it was requesting silence instead of freaking the hell out. I’ll throw my pearls at people who need pearls, not swine who will stomp up and down and ask for more, for ever, for eternity, for all of the things that we want except for the things we have.

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