Thursday, April 30, 2020

The Many Obsessions of Ahmon Ra

I was watching "All About Eve" and then one of those tomb-raiding mummy revenge epics.  But I was thinking to myself all along, still thinking that Sean had a counter-punch up his sleeve somewhere.

And I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, like if Sean were a shoe, and you found an old discarded shoe in the trashcan, they would be like two brothers, who, put side by side, you would be hard-pressed to pick a favorite, even if just to put to use collecting dust.

As I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, I went on to bigger and better things, like watching Andrea scream at kittens and other sundry diversions.

But you know, if you did put Sean in a trashcan to match up an old shoe, you just know his hair would still be perfect the whole time, because its like Ken doll hair or something, and even doing MMA he probably looks like the ring announcer the whole time, which would be a good trick to play on his opponent to get a quick upper hand.

But it is like, shoe polish, "Just For Men" black hair, made like "too perfect".  Something like bad news, that hair cut, the kind of thing you take sitting down with blaring lights in your face, then they put powder on you: and that like real diaper rash stuff, and the shoeblack hair, the grandma smells coming from him.

I mean, somebody cheesed him off pretty good, and I'm thinking it had something to do with Facebook memes.  Because those things can be vicious.

let not your raunchy be distempered

Screen Capture from FNC's "Hannity" from a few nights ago.

Sean and the colic.

I don't know who exactly, or what, or why, but Sean was downcast a few days ago.  I was like, you know, I don't agree with him on everything, but I wouldn't have the guy just be down all of a sudden.

You say, "the result was completely out of proportion with my intent."

"It got out of hand."

If you really think about it, every one of us gets our hind-ends punted by the boots of life, and all the time.  Everyday, like when BB King sang that "Everyday I have the Blues."  But Sean was almost breaking kayfabe, taking down the fourth wall, and coming to something that was really bothering him.

And he spoke to Laura about it, but it was like, she all on about the media in her usual mode that she was no help to Sean, and she didn't probe the matter deeper, but had that kind of sideways smile/sneer on that she does.

Shannon would have said something nice to Sean, something to console him, like a beautiful mother in the breakfast nook burping her infant child.  And me, rubbing her shoulders, giving her as good a smile as I can, something comforting as she in turn comforts the baby.

Did you notice how I weaseled into that image?  Kind of insinuated myself.  Meanwhile, Laura keeps calling, talking about tires for the Lexus, and I hid my silenced cell in a flower pot.

And all these random daydreams, musings, and even the religious stuff, most of which is pretty thought-provoking in itself, does precious little to solve the original query, which is Sean's distemper.  I must admit it eludes me, but I'm sure, as I've listened to Sean for decades now, that it involves 

a) The Deep State


and last but not least

c)The Mainstream Media

I mean, those guys, and he's just watching them mostly himself, just like the rest of us, really just got under his skin and maybe he begins to see the GOP leader is kind of a Sisyphus character, doing the impossible, saying that life should be fun, that Mar-A-Lago has bed bugs and Chairman Xi said it was like a trailer park with freshly-cut grass.

"Why, we could go to the Doral", he would say.

And I'm like, "I would rather stay somewhere in this next county, while I SMOKE a pack of Dorals instead."

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Nicole's tract of roses.

Wow, huh?  He knows how to play piano, next thing you know the sheet is down so far where you can actually see some of Nicole's bush.

And then its like, it no longer matters what is said.

Janie had seen him coming along in a wagon, along side where the group was cropping, and her deddy said that Woodrow could play piano.  In that instant, Janie said she would have a baby for Woodrow.

Natalie and Woodrow heard the Blue Bellies through the woods, because they sounded like a tornado full of angry cats, and then Nattie and Wood clamored under the one-room cabin, in what was less than a crawlspace, mostly because they couldn't properly crawl there under the low clearance.  Some of the chickens even followed them, maybe out of curiosity.

a bit of that old refrain, by a street poet no less, "winner, winner, chicken dinner".

I was talking to the owner earlier.  Actually being talked to, in the vernacular, the dull language.  Dude talking about a Lamborghini Hurricane or some stupid shit.

Say what they would, they didn't say I was wrong about my last rant.

But such was part of the new way, to talk faster and befuddle "them" into tangles.

 Anyway.  I was thinking some of what the owner said was kind of out-of-date, not unlike my own musings of old times and thusly I put up my antennae up to see what I could see, hear what I could hear.

Results were surprising.

They really, really did not at all like my rant.  Which is interesting because a lot of the people spurred to react were really part of the problem in the first place.

It hit me also, after I mentioned filing a law suit, that I had kind of a coded list, where I was being told to make a manifesto or something, an "affidavit" of harassment and humiliation at the hands of the people in Rockingham.  One of them mentioned they had access to video footage, and imagine, Rockingham watching me on some hidden video, as I write a tell-all about them.

 Just something else for them to talk about?

Or the guy that got financially stable behind a bunch of pain and suffering at the hands of strangers in his work environment.

That was part of the sin-consciousness thing, that they had a "file" and their "videotape" and such other, so if I made any misstep it would be well-known, and in some ways, in twists of language, it would come back, as if I confessed my sin into a cave.  But by then, I'm not feeling any kind of guilt, necessarily, but rather feeling damaged by the actors or whatever they thought they were.  Comedians, porn stars.  There was talk in the direction of the porn star angle, such as measuring each other's pricks, to maybe form some kind of rating system or something.

Anyways.  The sin-consciousness thing.  Wasn't really working after a few weeks because I felt like the victim of the whole thing.  I heard inklings about being like a "director", but really, having no privacy, and no real life to speak of was kind of an object of lament, with me thinking I would trade that unenviable position for a lot of different things.

love someone, sometime, would you?

We must learn both to love the just and the unjust, as rain falls on both of them in much the same way.

I was thinking that I had popped from my rabbit hole so long ago(2007) with a general concern about people, but a mystification as to what made them tick.  Hearts, to me, plodding like pocket watches enveloped in cotton.

We must learn love, as Jesus Christ said those were the greatest of the commandments, first to love God, then to lump everyone else in there.  You mean "everyone"?  Yes I do.  See, I said "I do" and now, by Southern grace standards, we are all married, united and bound, our common lot cast in one fell swoop.

At some point, we eventually get our own stuff to a point of momentum, or to a stopping point of attention, where we can afford to look away and take up other causes, outside causes, most of which mean more to others than they do the narrator.  

But we take those up with our own equilibrium in place, and while our own work coasts along on its own, glacial and majestic, sweating life particles, we look to others, we look to contribute in some small way, and maybe in the final analysis, we can wind-up giving more than we ever took away.

Mika said Donald ignored them "blaring red lights".

If Donald drives through red lights, then I suggest, for the good of the republic, he be hired to drive an ambulance.

Be it Sacremento, or Reno, sitting at roadside vendor's cart eating a hotdog, waiting for the republic to get back started.  Richard Burton walking along having an iced cream of some kind, in his shirt sleeves, maybe wondering what Liz is up to these days.

And it seems they are all aching for a good start.  I just know there will be a whole series of economic booms, relative to the present state of the economy, between now and November.  Donald will of course step to reap the whirlwind, all of the good and none of the bad, as is said.

Meanwhile, if Donald is re-elected, it gives Joe and Mika something to talk about for the next five years, and you know how it is, the old Repub in the woodpile, the quest for love and glory, same old stories and tropes, neon ghosts thrown at us.

Monday, April 27, 2020

What was, was, and what is, was not: "that just happened" June 2009 edition. featuring "I oughtta sue their pants off."

As I was saying to Willverine "that just happened."  I had my hand raised, showing a purple kiss of bruise where I had mashed my finger.  Meanwhile, people were "being nice" to other people, after they had stood behind the shelves listening to me recount something similar months before.  Weird symmetry there, someone with a dim calculus working off of my material, and me backtrailing HER material, so I was, after doing my due diligence on the backtrail, sure where most of it came from.

I was certain there were no private moments, and for good or ill, at some point I had to accept them all as family, whether they were dangerous to me or not.

 Chuck "painted a whole car one time."

 Such a concentrated effort just to make someone quit their Walmart job.  If only they put a fraction of that effort in anything else, we would really have some problems solved.  Tropes.  The "hole in the wall", and the "spider on the keys", the restless machine bits working, such as it was, without a conscience, at least such as they fondled at my material.

Which incidentally was the same stuff they so oft said no one read, which was part of why I pulled the old blog, because being not read at all, or laughed at about it, was as disconcerting as being widely-read, laughed-at, the object of wide-spread satire, while still essentially being a friendless loner marching through commerce like a pilgrim.  Either actuality being somewhat dreadful, unsustainable for my own well-being.  Meanwhile, behind their wording choices, my internal radar, my "spider-sense"(like Spider-Man's instinctive aversion to danger) would keep going off.

People "being nice" to people, and so forth, like dogs lying down with cats, and so forth, something un-natural that makes one do a double-take.

 The question I used to ask myself was whether all those people hated me just enough to look so often for something to poke fun at.

But then, I decided to change my writing voice somewhat, no longer going the real journal way or the amateur journalist way, but doing something a little bit different.  I said to myself that I really didn't care if they liked me or not, nary a jot, and more than anything else I was telling myself that they/you don't know me, but rather have a few details that you could do whatever with.

That was my re-assurance, that just like the prisoner in Shawshank, there was some part within that would not be bothered by any of it, no matter what kind of hellish pointless torture life might seem.  For instance, I remember a time early on when I was "healing" when I would prepare my breakfast, take the meal at my desk, have a reading session of some element of Roman history.  Then would come computer time, and new words and things were coming out of my mind, flowing through the keyboard, then appearing on the monitor.  Guitar time would come.  Another meal.  Nap time.  Fiction reading.  News time.  Incredible Hulk time.

Anyway, little-to-no outside time.  None of that at all.  I was convinced that wherever I went I was always expected and there was always a set of words they would use on me, like their "can't hear you" or their "I drop my phone in the toilet" or something completely screwy like that.  And again, I say it was like being in jail.

And I say also again, they couldn't pay me enough to work in that store again.  And I feel like they're should be some kind of compensation for all the extracurricular, especially how off-the-clock stuff got into the workday.  I told one troll "they had a lawsuit against Walmart cause some Associates got locked in the store".  And for once, its like one of those bastards knew exactly what I meant.

Like that scene in Ronin where the hero tells the Irish lady that "I never left", meaning he was still a CIA guy, just playing the role of a retired agent.  Like, I never left either, because they were still sandwiched up my ass, however they do that.  But you could test the limits of that, and actually have fun with that, like I when I pick my spots in the Walmart radio songs, when there is a really poignant line.

During the height of the turmoil, I walked through 642, light foot traffic around, and on the radio

"the people bowed and prayed
to the neon god they made.."

And I'm talking to the sound, like a madman "I'm not talking to you."

Saturday, April 25, 2020

My penis suggested what to buy you for your birthday. Again.

It was a gray day for a while: the kind that I always find pleasant enough as a constant reader, conducive to spending hours indoors reading, then taking to the porch for a cigarette in the air now and then.

Was I reading?  No.  I was watching tractor shows and virtual racing, mentally unwilling to commit to the raw attention demands of a good reading session.

But I went to the mailbox.

Almost there, walking down the drive and it was like, Mother May I, God opened the drapes and immediately there was heat on my face and bald coconut.  So bright, but beautiful, and the brilliant crevice above surrounded by dingy fluff.

And today was the Princess Kate's bday, and I was thinking, what could I do, worlds away, to lift her up?  I wound up making some perverted comments, but I tempered that with a genial, general concern for her outlook.  She gets moody on her birthday, and I sympathize.  I always get a weird feeling on my birthday, but not so much moody, or no more moody than normal.

So I was thinking that the bday script must be flipped for Princess Kate and that frown should be given a jolt to shock it into turning upside down.  What other than a selfie taken by my penis?  There are other things, other times and other chances, and the alchemist works at his bench only when the moon is up and he is guarded by ravenous angry wolves.

"Look, Kate.  My penis is yelling at you."

And other things, and other ways along the Gentile diaspora transpire, perspire and strive, some for and some against his and her own wishes.

a novel fragment: Dr & Mrs Edmund Hinde

"In frustration of the magic of her femininity, she knew that by no conjuring whatsoever could she permeate the shell into the inner nucleus of what made Dr Hinde the thing he was: maybe it was something old and dark and so far away from her, or maybe it was something the world had trained into him in the intervening hours; part of her suspected she had maybe even been there without realizing, and contributed, like laying pavers on the road to certain crucifixion, and all the while, not even caring to check at her fingernails or even fix her hair, but somehow running brightly through, only to realize the bitter certainty of her solemn frustration in a quiet hour of the future."

-from Time After Time, a now lost fragment of fiction written around a housefire and some good anti-psychotic medications.

Friday, April 24, 2020

Dust bitten, twice shy! Come to the social: a poem.

Come to the social:
Cheeseburger and Fries.

Come to the social,
dressed in casual style.

Come to the social,
with yo' made up eyes.

Come to the social,
where we gasp some then die.
I draw a parallel line,
between some obtuse lies;
I point to the path not taken,
and I'm lip synchin' like Francis Bacon.

M to the Izzat, Phenomenal:
blog lines stomping, his shirt is abominable!
Textin' Nora about my mood swings
headshrinker cuts me in half
counting my growth rings,
while the gallery laughs
and the prompter moves on to new things.

Lysol had sex with Katie, too, mane.

My niggaz, you gotta, like, keep yo blood clean and shit, right?

Now, I make light of Trump's disinfectant injection comments, but I'm certainly not one to throw out the baby with the bathwater.  Trump has done good, and Trump is going to be here for at least part of the virus recovery.  So right now, he's our man, and he genuinely has some good points, despite a throwaway musing comment about shooting-up cleaning products.

Here we have people parsing noting that Trump's inadvertent misinformation will have to be volleyed by the media, lest someone take the comment seriously and lose his or her life.

So I get on board and say, "Do not inject yourself with cleaning product of any kind."

We just have to acknowledge that while being the most powerful politician in the free world, Trump is not a politician, and though he holds a press conference with a roomful of doctors and researchers, he is not a doctor.

I come here not to bury Trump, who, like a colossus, bestrides the republic, with us walking about to his tune beneath that massive gird. 

Thursday, April 23, 2020

The car that feasted on human blood.

The Ford Interceptor, a concept designed to compete with the 300/Charger Mopar twins.

What if:  instead of spending 20-30k on a new beater, you just bought a 1200-3500 buck old beater, and invest the remaining money in aftermarket customization?

What if, I just gave you a dose of being woke?

A magic dose of midnight blue metallic love potion.
As it was with Ford automobiles in North America since the late 80s, the Taurus was a key part of success.  Crown Vic sales slumped after a lengthy period without significant updates.  One idiot magazine noted that the Crown Vic circa 2006 felt "unsafe at street speed" or something similar.  Meanwhile, my primary was a Police Interceptor, and I whole-heartedly disagree with the magazine's prognosis of the vehicle.

Even had another civilian-issue Panther platform car later, and loved it just as much.  Never "felt unsafe".  I remember one of those same magazine people tried to haul plywood in her Porsche 911.  Then I would have felt unsafe at street speed.

But yeah, I had a Panther platform car.  Once there was a beautiful dream, but now that dream is gone away from me.

I'd have the aftermarket cup holder/cassette rack on the transmission tunnel, and she can set her fries where the cassettes would otherwise sit.

Nora. would you. select a cheese? What is. Your favorite. Variety of cheese?

Nora, Nora, answer me, now!

The Unsinkable Mike Morris: This blog, some Mike Morris and the Victory of the Blight.

A rose is a rose.

Another may be 

just as elite.

But this one is mine.

One destroyer screams in time

There are others, and some answer to the same, but this one is special, if a little bitter, special and treasured because it is mine.

You know, if I'm in the house all day, I start blogging about "loving myself".

How about that Walt?  I sing a song of myself, my restless yarbles and my evening meal.

Went to see the destructors, just a bunch of rich f*ckers, holding pieces in their hands continually.  And then there I was, on a rise at the back, behind all the outbuildings, the strawberry and blueberry clumps at the edge of the fallow field weeds.

Wise men?

Despise them.

Staying behind too late

headache trying to concentrate.

Here comes the Titan,

followed by Larry,

then Brian.

The Desultory Men In Yellow Coats,

Rainbow Bridges and Curious Ghosts.

Tuesday, April 21, 2020

The Lion and the Lamb

How I waxed poetically solemn once about how the online world sometimes reaches its tendrils into the real world.  I said of an old thing from the past, "its like, everyone knows, but its only talked about sideways, in a crazy code."

These days my own attitude has changed about all those matters of the online and the real world.  I mean, I didn't get on here screaming that Darnell had dropped a bag of weed on the shop floor by accident.

The dept double-agent found it, then confided in his doper friend, who was really his only friend of the 80 or so superstars on the roster.  The double-agent was kind of a mismatched student of human nature, was that one, on a constant rampage through bungled assignments and making all kinds of behind-the-back threat/promises of having people sacked from the employ.

Did I tell precious secrets?  Remember I said a few days ago that if my conspiracy theory was anywhere near accurate, then most people know some if not all of this.

Did I, ass of myself, make unto you, roll him up, roll him up, put him in the pan?  Or did you project a kind of sin-consciousness and a construct that brooked unreal because there were real world pieces missing.  The AI was not something that could exist on its own, like one of those early Cylon battlepieces.  It needed a human intelligence, supposedly, because it lacked that certain human spark of life.

Like Rudy.  Or Un.  The "Adorable Leader".

 Nora keeps on saying, in front of the television audience, that she wants me to text her.  And I really want to, but I'm shy.  I would ask her something crazy, like what's her favorite cheese.  I remember the Lama said he wished he could hold her hand or something, during an interview.  And I'm thinking: what's the problem?  Does human contact harm the purity of the Lama or what?

"I wish I could, but I don't have time for a new thing."  Or "I would, but I don't know how to make amends."

Lord, doncha buy me a Mercedes Benz. 

Rather we get to the part where we have the altar call and I have to give the weekly statement of the Gospel, but here I am to do it, not by rote, but afresh with a renewed spirit, with thankfulness and a recently reconfirmed faith.  A reason for your hope: evidence of things not seen, substance of things believed.

Bow your heads.  Now, friends, lettuce spray.

storyline, schmoryline: mysterio's sprained finger kayfabe

Truly, not Mysterio's finest hour as a performer to be manhandled while he's "incapacitated" due to a sprained finger.  Meanwhile, professional play-by-play putting over the work.

"But it hurts like hell", you might say.  Well give that man a Tylenol, and this desultory work of storyline after Jim Ross observing a kick to the leg could "cause a Charlie Horse".  I'm thinking all the while, "a Charlie Horse means he's defenseless", because, Lord have mercy, its uncomfortable.

 They'll probably call it the "Intensity Era" or something.

Let's hope Rey recovers and gets back to his usual 110%.  But seriously, I just thought it was, kind of funny, and probably brave.  And here I'm kind of jeering and nay-saying, but maybe I did miss how truly brave that was, and not seeing them push the bleeding edge of sports entertainment.

But I'll say this.  Bum storyline or not, Rey is always near the top of the game, and he has been for decades now, even since before he was in the ring in gimmick matches against the physically largest guys in the biz, like Paul Wight(another favorite here).

Sunday, April 19, 2020

Gran Guignol, Make Them Die Slowly, the giant wheel of life groans

I was watching "Make Them Die Slowly/Cannibal Ferox" and thinking how they just set something there to look at, like the cinematographer has in insensitive eye, but when does that brush back and we realize that we know that his depravity works against spring-mechanisms of decency?

We the guinea pigs, in other words, in the same old story.  Gran Guignol, at least one murder a night, one bath of blood for the spectacle obsessed degenerate.

So KH made her plant die, slowly.  Sole inspiration, but as is the song, love and glory, and this information is capture for the Queen to use.  I seen all good people go on their way, you know?  Toward the slow strong turbulence of the river.

The inter-connectedness of things: the Broomstraw Stoic

 Are we supposed to bury our feelings, stoics?

Quite not, but we are forced to make some realizations of universal bonds between the matter of the universe proper, the inter-connectedness of things.  Why, a turn of fortune here may be good but yield a million dead butterflies across the globe!  We must accept some kind of presence within the whole, not at the center, and not necessarily on the fringes either, but in a place dictated by the order of nature.

The order of nature.

We are powerless but to succumb to the order of nature, because any thrashing and splashing against such is ultimately futile.  Think of a running stream of water, as of a brook.  It works on the rock over time, such that even the dull, strong, implacable rock is worn smooth to the point that it makes less an impact on the current.  But we are not stones in the stream at all, but particles in the water, not even with the dignity of a polliwog or a tadpole, but constantly moving along.

"Time and chance happens to them all."

Some have spoken of the practical measure of "negative visualization", almost like when Marcus said of a fine steak that it was merely "dead flesh".  This is a tenet from the Cynic school, but has effectiveness in preparing the Stoic for the whims of life and tides of time to do the inevitable death and rot thing.

You might think "I'm a MAGA guy, but I'm also a Baptist, so I need to be hit hard with sin guilt."  So you watch MSNBC and CNN, with Morning Joe and all that, Allie hating on Donald hard, talking that hard sh*t.  You think, I need to rebuked, lest I become complacent in this world of sin; I need not forget my own sin, because I have to hold to while repenting, in thankfulness of the great gift of mercy in my salvation.

I, so it appears on the natural scale, am in the middle of my course.  I can easily say I spend as much time looking forward as I do looking behind, so the candle is lit on both ends, and in that middle juncture, seems to be burning twice as quickly as it should.

an indifferent munching on the triscuits of life, the kjv, and some stoic consolation about the implacable universe around us

Fled for refuge in our hope in Christ.

Listen not to the hopeless, for their message is beyond filth, being actually like gravedirt.  And you would say, one naysayer throwing a handful of dirt does little harm, but let them all line up to throw.  You see the snowball coming down the hill then, getting larger and larger.

We are powerless but to hear, but can we control how we re-act to such?

We keep saying, "this and that are just the workings of an indifferent universe", and "whatever happens, in the final analysis, serves the entire, and therefore is not meant to favor who and what it may seem is important."

Without hope, what are we but specks on a dying rock, being heated by the rays of a dying star?

And now that we have seen the immensity of the pandemic, with horrors and wonders-some of which many thought they would never see-do we revel or care worth one jot or tittle that we have touched the shirt collar of Father Time?

Remember, you are in the midst of your course.  There is still time to change direction, no matter the cost; there is time to avert disaster, to right the ship.  Death, should it come, is but a minor nuisance, another change, and will re-connect you atomically with the universe.

Friday, April 17, 2020

Disassembling Presumed Bombs/The reconnoiter against a turned badge.

He was smoking a Camel unfiltered, sitting on an egg crate patiently working, at this point even using the sweat on his fingertips to make the tiny bomb parts stick to his fingers so he could work at them, taking the whole works down to its constituent pieces, where it was no longer a bomb, but just a collection of demolition materials on a table.

Meanwhile, Neville Brand came through cussing about Marshall Jim Brantley, having committed some kind of legal/technical faux pas that was just coming to light.  Neville had back-trailed across the mesa on the hind-end of one of those 10,000 acre ranches that comprises almost a whole Texas county by its darn self.  They always said something that the Brand family and Brantley family came from a common origin, but nobody really brooked enough of a notion to look that up, but instead it was something they just assumed.

"They smell alike" they would say.  "Drop 'em off a building, one from each fambly, en dey hits the ground about the same.  Splat."  And that was your frontier version of 23 and me: just idle chat at the saloon.

Anyway, out on the table, there were a slew of bodies, with some hid well and some not, and even dead chickens, which Neville Brand ate some that hadn't turned yet, preferring chicken meat over other stuff, and even the whole event still fresh enough that he gathered eggs from the hen houses at a few of the places.  He of course had the old familiars: bacon, salt beef and beans, but he did like chicken, just like a Baptist preacher man.

The old marshall had just went bloodshit it sounded, but there was more to meets the eye, and it would be the office's job to get the particulars on the there and what.

Thursday, April 16, 2020

Villano Five, America Holding It's Breath

We have not to reason why

The universal processes rather lump us all in the same dinghy, and conceive not to do us either good or all, where it be a death untimely or a hangnail; the universe is not out to do us ill.  Therefore in our consolation we come down that even death itself, eventually, does not seem either an ill or a thing to be feared.

But the thing KT Ber threatens?  Perhaps there is reason to lay awake at night in our rooms, processing in kind of a beleaguered desperation, threats, promises, and projections.  She does look so nice on the screen, but then to be threatened and menaced by her in the privacy of darkened corners of one's on mind.

This was the Sean/Barry connection, like the Joker and Batman arguing in a circle, "you made me" and the like.  Was there ever beer to be had between them?  Or would they furlough in a dry county, on a dusty road, on the bed of a 1500, boot leather groaning?

America meanwhile holding its breath.  Sean and Barry undeterred, love and glory, fame and fortune and the same old song and dance: cold showers and leftover pizza.  Listening to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road while having the day's last cigarette.

There is an uncertain immensity in the proposition, I suppose that lets us not have a good mental image, but more just a sort of determination towards some inglorious or vainglorious end, be it justified or not, be it self-destructive or even ecumenical.

Wednesday, April 15, 2020

Your new Winn Dixie circular advert: Barry/Sean Beer Pong plus the poultry farm swing.

"I have a conspiracy theory."  Oh my God.  Here comes a pantload.  And then you know you've seen or heard a fractured version of a yet more prismatic world, a granulated distillation of something that is as fluid as the train of thought, as fluid as human consciousness, with charts, pictographs, dana points, and JW documentaries.

As they say in some circles, "JW got dem niggaz werkin'."

But one has only so much of a belly for the grift, and then comes all the rest, and some real rest, too, however tossing and turning or untroubled as of Costanza, unhurried as of the implacable cosmos.

"Mister JW, who tole you to do dat, cuz?"

Don't forget KT Ber.

"Your greasy granny, Little Cheever.  And you knew that before you asked."

 She said to bust-up her chifarobe, but that little escapade went all to hell didn't it?  Just wait.  Up ahead it's Cerberus with Sean Hannity's hairpiece on.

A dog eat dog world, and there were just too many Kevins and Kims.

And the old breakroom joke, "where can I get some chicken shit?"

From Kevin's savings account.

Thespian Michael Pitt, waiting for his moment to scream at the world, to tell it the truths that have been so long buried just beneath the surface, waiting and picking his moment, and noticing that the girl's feet have no smell whatsoever, not of sweat, nor bathsoap nor floor debris nor anything.  Just nothing.

A seemless lapse into complete bullshit, as of the Obama/Hannity Beer Summit that never happened, and Hannity admitting that he is just a figment of Barack's imagination.  Some part of Barack takes to the satirical and tries to put out his own lights, then, as of a moth scampering for the bug zapper, powerless but to destroy and seek dissipation.

 It says, "I know you, and I rebuke you for all that is around me in here, inside of you."  Why, this is good old fashioned Southern Baptist guilt, self-rebuke, sin-consciousness.  One can hate himself best because he best knows his own sins, what he knows first, of his own fractal design.

As Howard Kirvonnen had it, humans were the waste by-product of universal sin consciousness, having that original moment of mistrust.  Akamiel the Wizard, the doubting type, would rather watch with a cynical eye than actually do, but then he was spurred by the cause to action, and I didn't get to see his best hours.  And Cookie Houston, to take the air, have a smoke and philosophize, whether it met and end or not, just for the sake of approaching the formal status of the universe.

That befuddles the real status of the universe, I wot, but there is time and chance available yet.  Time and chance for us all, unless you're reading this and you died from the Coronavirus.  Then its kind of done, like "fun is fun and dancing is shunned."

Tuesday, April 14, 2020

Order fulfillment receipt. Retain for your records, goober.

Reinhold, grab my beer while I lay this out for the people.

The "assessment" that is.  Eligible to retake the Walmart Employment Assessment in October. Failed such for the meantime.  I fully plan to look into other opportunities between now and then.

So I added more to my conspiracy theory again, and it was difficult not to do so.  But I really got to thinking in broadest terms about the thing.  First, I've never told anyone the whole story, so its no surprise they don't react well to it.  The real story is pretty big, and includes a lot of dana points and stuff that really seem to create a disturbing picture of a world that is, by my wot, just looking for a reason to tear itself apart.

I told a friend recently that a certain 2020 calamity was in a sense "ordered by someone", but not in a linear sense, as the friend was saying.  I assured the person that from what I knew, the impetus or the order giver is neither a)a politician(most people mistrust those, but still) b)famous or c)rich.  Finger of scorn that they sported was pointed at rich behind-the-scenes world market types, and I respond by saying something like, "nope, not them.  They just march to the beat the drummer plays, just like most other people, including the "woke", and even the off-the-grid types that like to machine gun watermelons for fun.

Even Tiger King?  Yes, Virginia.  Even Tiger King, that bitter spark in the dumpster fire of modern life.

And if I was at Walmart working, I couldn't enjoy this tractor show as I write this piece.  They're showing a special trailer hitch that absorbs shocks, so driving along, you're not getting vertebrae re-arranged or scaring the horses.

And so it goes.

But the kicker, if my theory was right, the whole conspiracy is not exactly a closely-held secret.  In fact, the person I mentioned in brief the thing thereto would already know the thing, if my theory held true.

To see "the field is being thinned" is like college-degree farmer talk for "cutting the grass", so you don't think of death at all.  And if someone said they were "down with the sickness" then would you say the person agrees with the agenda, with a certainty and a commitment?  Or would you say they simply accept it, like looking at a bruised thumb at the end of the day?

What if I was to say "life is like a full buffet"?  It all goes to the same place eventually.

Mental knitting and weekend of loafing. "Into our lives, a litte rain..."

It's like, I was stuck in a music video, George Harrison's What Is Life, as I started the weekend on a somewhat dubious note, at an ...