Close those eyes, asshole.
Now, enjoy your dream: presented by Kubark and General Dynamics!
Oh, my ... oh my goodness can you believe the way the brown people
dance at the end of their strings? The long, dangling threads of freedom will
liberate you do you not see how we liberate the fucking shit out of you?
Do you refuse to live the dream we project into your brainsoul?
This is a troubling turn of events for the people of the United States. You do
realize they hate your freedom, like totally hate it a whole bunch and stuff.
They they they they are a rare breed of brown people who hate us and they all hate us brown people that is they think you are a cracker devil and your christ is a crazed prophet and your hair is like a salty creature from the depths.
And now awake. And now you turn on the media of your choice and we no longer control the message.
We are not the fourth estate. We are not the sordid truth.
We are the Book of Mormon when
we collect our signatures. We are
a god damn cabal up in this shit. So there.
Bomb bomb bomb bomb. Die die die die. Any white deaths? Bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb.
Any of ours? They are not ours! They are their own and it is that difference that makes all the difference.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
My blur
I've been struggling to live lately. I'm a dizzy mess. I'm a dizzy, lightheaded mess and I'm a nervous mess and the sirens won't stop whirring and I think they're about to come take me to jail.
Or take me to heaven. Or hell. Or nowhere.
The constant voice is on repeat: this is your moment, this is your moment, this is your moment. The hot liquids do nothing to quiet the voice. The hotter the liquid, the louder the voice. So I stop drinking tea and coffee and the voice is a whisper that punctures the silent morning like a car alarm.
Oh no.
The sirens are loud they rattle the windows and the temblors are god who is unhappy with children. god is not happy because happy is hard and it is to be earned.
I see teal and I think it would be nice to never see it again. Enough of that color, please. But then I see it on a beautiful child and I'm happy enough to see it. The child is full of life and he gives the color life and together they give the world new life and we all engage in the ritualistic dance of life and then I want that color gone again because I'm too, too dizzy and I wish I wasn't.
Close my eyes. And I long for a smoke. I long for a vice. I desire so many things and I deny myself these things because society wants to keep me dizzy and society wants god to be unhappy and temblors equal money for developers who oppose gay marriage but cheat on their wives with sexy, big-breasted broads. The biggest of breasts for the men! The men demand the best!
The liquids do nothing and the sirens get louder and the breasts get larger and colors become lifeless. The colors fade. Good-bye.
Or take me to heaven. Or hell. Or nowhere.
The constant voice is on repeat: this is your moment, this is your moment, this is your moment. The hot liquids do nothing to quiet the voice. The hotter the liquid, the louder the voice. So I stop drinking tea and coffee and the voice is a whisper that punctures the silent morning like a car alarm.
Oh no.
The sirens are loud they rattle the windows and the temblors are god who is unhappy with children. god is not happy because happy is hard and it is to be earned.
I see teal and I think it would be nice to never see it again. Enough of that color, please. But then I see it on a beautiful child and I'm happy enough to see it. The child is full of life and he gives the color life and together they give the world new life and we all engage in the ritualistic dance of life and then I want that color gone again because I'm too, too dizzy and I wish I wasn't.
Close my eyes. And I long for a smoke. I long for a vice. I desire so many things and I deny myself these things because society wants to keep me dizzy and society wants god to be unhappy and temblors equal money for developers who oppose gay marriage but cheat on their wives with sexy, big-breasted broads. The biggest of breasts for the men! The men demand the best!
The liquids do nothing and the sirens get louder and the breasts get larger and colors become lifeless. The colors fade. Good-bye.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Why Nothing Matters
"Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?
Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able and willing?
Then whence cometh evil?
Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?"
What began as a small act of defiance in my teens has become a full-blown belief system in my thirties. I have seen men commit the most unspeakable of crimes and suffer nary a slap on the wrist. I have held women in my arms as they sobbed, unable to fathom the depths to which some are capable of dwelling.
I wonder what I should do. I pray for guidance. They say you should pray, and I do.
But a prayer offered up to an unknown quantity is the act of a fool. I have been a fool for far too long. I refuse to pray; furthermore, I refuse to play by the rules ever again.
Those who claim to be on the side of good are too obviously evil. They are fat on the meat -- the greasy grizzle -- of the innocent, praying on their tender, delicate, embarrassing minds. The so-called good are the master manipulators. They are the alpha and omega of man. They are the faux-dichotomy. They are the worst.
If we are to have hope (and we probably should because it seems important and stuff), we must reveal the naked emperor. We must pull a "Network." We must be willing to proselytize with the verve of the Jehovah's Witness. We must do other things that will lend credence to our cause.
If there is one thing life has taught me, it's that the world is crammed full with people who are willing to do whatever you want them to ... if only you convince them it's in their best interests.
World: my passion is pure. My intent is noble. My message is simple.
We don't know anything, and we never will. So shut the fuck up.
Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able and willing?
Then whence cometh evil?
Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?"
What began as a small act of defiance in my teens has become a full-blown belief system in my thirties. I have seen men commit the most unspeakable of crimes and suffer nary a slap on the wrist. I have held women in my arms as they sobbed, unable to fathom the depths to which some are capable of dwelling.
I wonder what I should do. I pray for guidance. They say you should pray, and I do.
But a prayer offered up to an unknown quantity is the act of a fool. I have been a fool for far too long. I refuse to pray; furthermore, I refuse to play by the rules ever again.
Those who claim to be on the side of good are too obviously evil. They are fat on the meat -- the greasy grizzle -- of the innocent, praying on their tender, delicate, embarrassing minds. The so-called good are the master manipulators. They are the alpha and omega of man. They are the faux-dichotomy. They are the worst.
If we are to have hope (and we probably should because it seems important and stuff), we must reveal the naked emperor. We must pull a "Network." We must be willing to proselytize with the verve of the Jehovah's Witness. We must do other things that will lend credence to our cause.
If there is one thing life has taught me, it's that the world is crammed full with people who are willing to do whatever you want them to ... if only you convince them it's in their best interests.
World: my passion is pure. My intent is noble. My message is simple.
We don't know anything, and we never will. So shut the fuck up.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Perchance some poetry before a fortnight
When summer turns to fall
And the leaves change color and fall from the trees --
Trees rooted strongly in the earth
The crisp, dead leaves fall to ... to earth
The firmament a bed for those delicate remnants of life
Crunch! Crunch!
A child frolics to and fro, oblivious to what was once alive
The fabulous mind of a child:
Carefree, drug free, alcohol free
Simple, untarnished, mitigated
And the leaves change color and fall from the trees --
Trees rooted strongly in the earth
The crisp, dead leaves fall to ... to earth
The firmament a bed for those delicate remnants of life
Crunch! Crunch!
A child frolics to and fro, oblivious to what was once alive
The fabulous mind of a child:
Carefree, drug free, alcohol free
Simple, untarnished, mitigated
Monday, February 1, 2010
My Sister Miranda: a work of fiction
CHAPTER 1
I finally told my sister I’m in love with her. I know, I know, I’m a huge creep. But how do you think I feel? I only just realized it today ... this morning, actually. I was standing in my bathroom, brushing my teeth. I spit out the toothpaste and I just thought yup, I love her.
I love Miranda.
I am in love with my sister. Thank God our parents are dead.
CHAPTER 2
There is a very good reason I have Miranda tied up in my bathtub. She tried to kill me when I told her! Like, literally tried to kill me, with a very big knife. In hindsight, telling her in the kitchen was a bad idea. The kitchen seems to house a number of items one could use to kill one’s brother.
I’ve always thought it would be terrible to be stabbed with a dull knife. I kind of think I could handle a sharp one because it would just go right in. But the dull one would rip you.
The knife Miranda tried to kill me with was dull. I know this because it was my knife, pulled from my knife block. A knife block that rests on the wood laminate counters that might have been in style in the early 80s. Counters that are out of style in the late oughts. I hate my fucking counters. I wish I had money so I could replace them, or just buy a new house.
A house that doesn’t have my sister tied up in the bathtub.
A knock at the door.
Seriously?
I close the bathroom door and walk to the front door, through a short hallway and through a tiny living room. My house is unassuming, at least that’s how the “realtor” described it. I look through the peephole.
No one is there.
I lean with my back against the front door. I sigh. How do you convince your sister to fall in love with you? I don’t know.
Another knock. Jesus, thanks for the panic attack, invisible dude at the front door. I look through the peephole again and there is no invisible dude. There is a visible young woman with visible cleavage and a ton of make-up. You know when pretty women wear too much make-up and you want to just grab them and shake them and scream damn it! Stop wearing so much fucking make-up! You would be so beautiful if you just stopped with the make-up!
Wow, should I do that now? I mean, I already did a bunch of other crazy shit today. Maybe this is my time to shine! God is trying to tell me to change the world!
I throw the door open.
-- Chuck?
Hm. That is my name. How does this pretty young woman with too much make-up know my name?
-- Yeah?
She is very pretty. She is wearing a pair of skinny jeans. The kind I always make fun of but secretly find sexy on a skinny girl. She is wearing yellow patent-leather high heels. She is probably 5 feet tall, but she seems taller because she is so skinny and those heels!
-- So.
I look up. She is smiling because she knows I think she is hot.
-- Are you ready?
-- Ready for what?
She pushes me inside the house. I don’t stop her. She closes the front door behind her. We stand in my tiny living room.
-- You don’t remember me, do you?
I don’t remember her. Shoot. You’d think I’d remember a cute chick who can really wear a pair of skinny jeans. I’m stupid.
-- You know, you really shouldn’t wear so much make-up. You’re a very pretty girl and you don’t need it.
-- You haven’t changed one bit.
She walks to me and grabs my dick in her left hand. She grabs my dick right through my shorts! She starts stroking my dick and I almost forget my sister, whom I love, is tied up in my bathtub.
-- Are we ... hm ... what are we doing now? Wait, why are you here? Stop for a second!
She stops and pulls off her tank top. She has what most gentlemen would describe as a perfect set of titties. I really want her to take off her bra. Like, really bad.
And she does. What sister?
We fuck on the floor of my tiny living room. I cum on her perfect titties. She goes into the bathroom to clean herself up and then she leaves.
I don’t realize any of this until it’s too late.
CHAPTER 3
My mom would often accuse me of overreacting. If she were still alive, she would probably say I’m overreacting right now.
How could you put your sister in the trunk of your car and just skip town? Responsible people just don’t do things like that!
CHAPTER 4
I park the car at a rest stop on Interstate 4, halfway between Tampa and Orlando. I buy a bag of pretzels from a vending machine and I eat them.
I think.
I think there’s probably not any way out of this situation. And then I remember ...
I remember her name!
Stephanie Marvelle. Oh, how I remember your name. You grew up, didn’t you? You little minx! I cannot believe the way your name just appears on the whiteboard in my head, like a Deus Ex Machina in my own shitty story of a life.
I think it’s time to cash in a favor.
CHAPTER 5
Miranda has been in the trunk for a few hours. She quit banging about 15 minutes ago. I can’t get her beautiful face out of my mind.
Here’s the thing about my sister: she’s perfect. I know she’s perfect because the guys I know are always telling me she’s perfect. She’s the kind of girl most men want but wouldn’t know what to do with if they got her.
She is tall: 5 feet, 10 inches; she has black hair; she is brilliant; she puts up with my nonsense; she has green eyes that make the small of my back tingle.
She is my angel.
CHAPTER 6
She is dead.
CHAPTER 7
-- Hi, Stephanie!
Stephanie looks surprised.
-- Who is she?
A question I anticipated. Unfortunately, I freeze.
--Jesus. Come in.
I carry my dead sister into Stephanie’s apartment. I sit her down at the kitchen table and open the fridge. Beer, milk, Sunny D ... string cheese. I choose beer because I’m a raging alcoholic and I’m sober and the love of my life is staring at me with lifeless eyes.
Beer! Oh my God, do I love beer! My favorite part about beer is when you drink it too fast and you almost throw up and that taste fills your sinuses and your eyes water. I’m a glutton for punishment, my mom used to say to me.
I drink this beer as fast as I can. I want that feeling right now.
-- Is she dead?
-- Yeah. Can I grab another?
Stephanie nods.
And all of a sudden, I am no longer myself. I am an angel delivering the Good News and I am surrounded by He who is All. I dwell in perpetual light and I am a servant of glorious hope and everlasting joy!
So that passes and I’m drinking another beer.
-- You didn’t fuck her, did you?
-- No. Why?
Hm. She thinks I’m crazy. And it turns me on.
-- We should do what we did earlier, but with her watching.
And we do. And I feel conflicted.
CHAPTER 8
When you’ve already killed the woman you love, it’s not such a big deal to kill a woman you like to fuck.
And so I do. So long, Stephanie.
I take the yellow heels with me as I exit the apartment. I leave the women.
CHAPTER 9
I guess I thought it was important to take those heels. I can’t remember. They remind me of art, like the kind you’d find in an ostentatious gallery in New York City.
I like a nice high heel. It makes the calf flex and I love a nice calf muscle. It’s my favorite part of the female body.
Stephanie had interesting calves. They were poorly defined, but they were proportional to the rest of her. She had an eating disorder and giant fake tits.
Miranda didn’t. She was perfect.
CHAPTER 10
The pills are starting to kick in.
Did I live a perfect life? I guess not. But I loved. I loved with all of my heart.
THE END
I finally told my sister I’m in love with her. I know, I know, I’m a huge creep. But how do you think I feel? I only just realized it today ... this morning, actually. I was standing in my bathroom, brushing my teeth. I spit out the toothpaste and I just thought yup, I love her.
I love Miranda.
I am in love with my sister. Thank God our parents are dead.
CHAPTER 2
There is a very good reason I have Miranda tied up in my bathtub. She tried to kill me when I told her! Like, literally tried to kill me, with a very big knife. In hindsight, telling her in the kitchen was a bad idea. The kitchen seems to house a number of items one could use to kill one’s brother.
I’ve always thought it would be terrible to be stabbed with a dull knife. I kind of think I could handle a sharp one because it would just go right in. But the dull one would rip you.
The knife Miranda tried to kill me with was dull. I know this because it was my knife, pulled from my knife block. A knife block that rests on the wood laminate counters that might have been in style in the early 80s. Counters that are out of style in the late oughts. I hate my fucking counters. I wish I had money so I could replace them, or just buy a new house.
A house that doesn’t have my sister tied up in the bathtub.
A knock at the door.
Seriously?
I close the bathroom door and walk to the front door, through a short hallway and through a tiny living room. My house is unassuming, at least that’s how the “realtor” described it. I look through the peephole.
No one is there.
I lean with my back against the front door. I sigh. How do you convince your sister to fall in love with you? I don’t know.
Another knock. Jesus, thanks for the panic attack, invisible dude at the front door. I look through the peephole again and there is no invisible dude. There is a visible young woman with visible cleavage and a ton of make-up. You know when pretty women wear too much make-up and you want to just grab them and shake them and scream damn it! Stop wearing so much fucking make-up! You would be so beautiful if you just stopped with the make-up!
Wow, should I do that now? I mean, I already did a bunch of other crazy shit today. Maybe this is my time to shine! God is trying to tell me to change the world!
I throw the door open.
-- Chuck?
Hm. That is my name. How does this pretty young woman with too much make-up know my name?
-- Yeah?
She is very pretty. She is wearing a pair of skinny jeans. The kind I always make fun of but secretly find sexy on a skinny girl. She is wearing yellow patent-leather high heels. She is probably 5 feet tall, but she seems taller because she is so skinny and those heels!
-- So.
I look up. She is smiling because she knows I think she is hot.
-- Are you ready?
-- Ready for what?
She pushes me inside the house. I don’t stop her. She closes the front door behind her. We stand in my tiny living room.
-- You don’t remember me, do you?
I don’t remember her. Shoot. You’d think I’d remember a cute chick who can really wear a pair of skinny jeans. I’m stupid.
-- You know, you really shouldn’t wear so much make-up. You’re a very pretty girl and you don’t need it.
-- You haven’t changed one bit.
She walks to me and grabs my dick in her left hand. She grabs my dick right through my shorts! She starts stroking my dick and I almost forget my sister, whom I love, is tied up in my bathtub.
-- Are we ... hm ... what are we doing now? Wait, why are you here? Stop for a second!
She stops and pulls off her tank top. She has what most gentlemen would describe as a perfect set of titties. I really want her to take off her bra. Like, really bad.
And she does. What sister?
We fuck on the floor of my tiny living room. I cum on her perfect titties. She goes into the bathroom to clean herself up and then she leaves.
I don’t realize any of this until it’s too late.
CHAPTER 3
My mom would often accuse me of overreacting. If she were still alive, she would probably say I’m overreacting right now.
How could you put your sister in the trunk of your car and just skip town? Responsible people just don’t do things like that!
CHAPTER 4
I park the car at a rest stop on Interstate 4, halfway between Tampa and Orlando. I buy a bag of pretzels from a vending machine and I eat them.
I think.
I think there’s probably not any way out of this situation. And then I remember ...
I remember her name!
Stephanie Marvelle. Oh, how I remember your name. You grew up, didn’t you? You little minx! I cannot believe the way your name just appears on the whiteboard in my head, like a Deus Ex Machina in my own shitty story of a life.
I think it’s time to cash in a favor.
CHAPTER 5
Miranda has been in the trunk for a few hours. She quit banging about 15 minutes ago. I can’t get her beautiful face out of my mind.
Here’s the thing about my sister: she’s perfect. I know she’s perfect because the guys I know are always telling me she’s perfect. She’s the kind of girl most men want but wouldn’t know what to do with if they got her.
She is tall: 5 feet, 10 inches; she has black hair; she is brilliant; she puts up with my nonsense; she has green eyes that make the small of my back tingle.
She is my angel.
CHAPTER 6
She is dead.
CHAPTER 7
-- Hi, Stephanie!
Stephanie looks surprised.
-- Who is she?
A question I anticipated. Unfortunately, I freeze.
--Jesus. Come in.
I carry my dead sister into Stephanie’s apartment. I sit her down at the kitchen table and open the fridge. Beer, milk, Sunny D ... string cheese. I choose beer because I’m a raging alcoholic and I’m sober and the love of my life is staring at me with lifeless eyes.
Beer! Oh my God, do I love beer! My favorite part about beer is when you drink it too fast and you almost throw up and that taste fills your sinuses and your eyes water. I’m a glutton for punishment, my mom used to say to me.
I drink this beer as fast as I can. I want that feeling right now.
-- Is she dead?
-- Yeah. Can I grab another?
Stephanie nods.
And all of a sudden, I am no longer myself. I am an angel delivering the Good News and I am surrounded by He who is All. I dwell in perpetual light and I am a servant of glorious hope and everlasting joy!
So that passes and I’m drinking another beer.
-- You didn’t fuck her, did you?
-- No. Why?
Hm. She thinks I’m crazy. And it turns me on.
-- We should do what we did earlier, but with her watching.
And we do. And I feel conflicted.
CHAPTER 8
When you’ve already killed the woman you love, it’s not such a big deal to kill a woman you like to fuck.
And so I do. So long, Stephanie.
I take the yellow heels with me as I exit the apartment. I leave the women.
CHAPTER 9
I guess I thought it was important to take those heels. I can’t remember. They remind me of art, like the kind you’d find in an ostentatious gallery in New York City.
I like a nice high heel. It makes the calf flex and I love a nice calf muscle. It’s my favorite part of the female body.
Stephanie had interesting calves. They were poorly defined, but they were proportional to the rest of her. She had an eating disorder and giant fake tits.
Miranda didn’t. She was perfect.
CHAPTER 10
The pills are starting to kick in.
Did I live a perfect life? I guess not. But I loved. I loved with all of my heart.
THE END
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
How you are getting fucked -or- Why Obama is failing
Our country is broken. I know this now. The people in power are helpless to fix anything; how can they? Too many special-interest groups have too much to lose ...
Just turn on Fox News and let the insanity wash over you. Rupert Murdoch is selling a product, nothing more. A product, by the way, that the unwashed masses are buying with the voraciousness of a lion ripping into a llama carcass.
The product is cynicism: toward change, toward freedom, toward education, and even toward common sense.
Don't get me wrong: Murdoch is certainly not the only person selling this product, but he is probably the most high profile. Well, with one exception.
Pres. Obama. Yeah.
Sir, you are selling the same product, and God damn if you aren't losing a lot of people along the way. You know, I really believed in you and the "changes" you were going to bring for our new, enlightened, generation.
But not anymore. You're really just another politician, aren't you? Incapable of living up to the extravagant promises you made to get elected. You're no better than ... him ... you know, he who shall not be named.
So, it is with a heavy heart that I officially renounce my affiliation with the Democratic Party, and any party, for that matter. I get it now. You're all the same.
Cynicism FTW.
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