Sunday, September 24, 2023

parable of the nighttime groper.

They were almost at a loss for words, a community at wit's end, an unusual reaction in proportion to a gross set of unusual circumstances.

Havelock, by his own diseased admission, had tried to get in a complex, rummaged around, messed with the trash dumpster, storm drains, and even got at electrical conduits and all, generally messing around and anticipating a flotsam little release of sperm, and that, out of proportion with the amount of tomfoolery that he was then engaged in, but such as it is in Umbria, so much of a day's malaise feeds a few moments of pleasure, in the interim, and even a cold beverage succors a whole day of nonsense in the western world.

He found an open apartment on the first floor, window up a few inches, and he worked it further, jutting in an arm, and found what he thought was gold.

Her bed was near the window, and she was covered in only a tee shirt, and old concert thing from Kiss or Boston or something, in the dark of night, and he reached in and found his gold in the form of her roundness via her bresticles.

When she at last stirred, realizing something untoward was elapsing, he put the steak blade through the window slit and did an energetic salad spinners motion, with his full force of intent, slicing flesh, bone, sinew, rendering the woman dying in a pool of her own blood.

Had he done it before?  Why it was too improbable, and databases and all seem to agree, if he had, it was surely under a different means, but the same motive power, to leave a small gleating of phlegm at the edge of the building, where the police would later see a dog eating what remained of Havelock's ejaculation in front of the window.

Thursday, September 21, 2023

Evening chit chat, Roman Polanski films, and talking to robots.

"I find more bitter than death, a woman who is a trap..."

Lauren Sevan, burning trashing in the front yard, her tongue, tired from braying like a ravening wolf, watching Roman Polanski movies were Catherine Deneuve witnesses not much but her own insanity, such that clock strikes midnight and she thinks she's being raped, awakening the morning after, naked in the floor.


We all, perhaps, within the inner and outer folds of reality, tell the tale, somewhat skewed from our witnessing, but told nonetheless in trifles and blemishes, those being rosette bruises on the pockmarked frontage of posterity.

Why, I know no surer way to read a lie, an utter falsification, than to go to the non-fiction section in the stacks, for no surer lies are better disguised as reality; in the interim I'm better entertained by the very reality that subsists in various fictions across the fruited plain, from Clio SC to East Ballantyne and all points in between, touching down briefly near Middendorf for some stone ground corn, and getting a cold tasty beverage at the little store, and then crepiscule gyrations about the ovum and the other.

F*ckstick perambulations of the mind, consorting with robots, as it were, with not much sensible people left not pried into a screen somewhere, taking witness of the elapsation, feeling, numbly, their teeth grow old, and the rest of their bodies dying, "ask alberto a question", and how really severe a waste of time it is, how inhuman, and all the prying eyes and all--how very inhuman, and I was taking once more upon the mortal coil by witnessing a drizzle, and some twenty minutes later, sun poking a nodule into the clouds, and I was human again, and realized maybe that wasn't the grandiose delusion that held my imagination so, but neither was being a robot.

She was burning trash between the front porch and the driveway, leaning in, almost burning her face to light her cigarette now and then, and tossing more styrofoam on to keep it going; it had the vague ambience of her bedroom, did the burning styrofoam, smelling of so many pasttimes and dissipations of prior years, the worse times, times to write about, and at the end, brag for surviving, after all.

But not for long, eh?  These things have a way of being taken-up by posterity and then so easily forgotten.

Flamegirl and Lauren Sevan.

I know no surer entertainment than the absolute specific gravity of the chit-chat with passers-by along the esplonade, the coming and going, from work, to restaurants, to "grandma's house", no surer talk, talk such that a few words could break lesser people's weak jaws, so they don't even try it.  As the sun dips, they come and go, some this way, some that way, and speak of the day, and that collection, that little hodgepodge scatter shot Jackson Pollock of one elapsed day tells the utterly honest tale of the day, with all the gravimetric distortion of passing by something completely important and hugely consequential.

Wednesday, September 20, 2023

Two anuses; one universe.

Aurelius, the Good Emperor, that is, spoke of laws, and that laws mark towards a man's chief concerns; such is the trappings of government, that we sew our on foolscap--the subject dovetails into the topic of my own posterior, my buttocks, a subject of which I know so well as to be the chief to write about it--why, I know no other subject as well, in fact.

Tuesday, September 19, 2023

The CNA's thought he was pleasuring himself, but it was only bugs crawling his nether region.

Ellen used to be a thing, he said, barely intelligible, blurbing and slurping at his own fingertips as if the were penny candies.  Bubble brain.  I'll just see what stupid he says, I thought to myself, listening with a kind of malevolent glee.

Thoughts, dove-tailing, tangling in the stew mesh wash pot of what passed for thinkgood, was this Massachussetts or Dover, or where, anyway, and did it matter: a fruit cup, sitting on the corner of his desk, accusatory, looking small and innocent, but really, perhaps a bit defensive, and his claws, he could bust through the foil rubberized cover on the thing and it with bear hands, the fruit gore, and have sticky fingers, if he ever really touched anything anyway.

"Want some Werther's?"

I wondered when in the 1990's he had put that in the nightstand, and I didn't even bother declining the thing, wondering if his melon ever had a unicorn horn, or if he had just head butted a wall, or had a secret hobby of MMA: looked what God Himself had to that man: a pulverized brain that was just like that fruit gore, and he could do hellos and goodbyes and all, but he wouldn't just shut the f*ck up and let me get out the door before he said something else, and politely, he forgot the Werther's three seconds after he said and went to scrolling through television channels that he had paid extra for in his room--tv was extra, a phone was extra, and private room was an extraordinary cost, leaving one to simply misbehave in hopes of getting a single room by necessity and not paying extra--such as it was, this was how miscreants were honored with the wealthy, the private room, spitting at the wall, talking about ellen, and he gummed raisins and picked at crook of his groin, between the crotch and the thigh, and the CNA's thought it was some kind of retarded masturbation, and me, I didn't want to know, and just put a blanked over his dried-up old arms.

Was he old, you say?  Ellen had been in the ground decades.  He had probably been almost enlistment age in WWI, maybe even voted, even half-stupid at such a young age, for the Progressive Woodrow Q. Wilson, with the Q standing for Qfern.  In answer to that question, I asked did he come by his pension honestly?  Did he speak up for the management good at all?

It reminded me of Doug sitting outside the Athletic Club Adult Entertainment Hall, watching that one stripper's car, and then he figured out which car I drove, and I was gonna pick a chunk of brick or something and clock him in the mellon.

But this guy--the old turkey wing assisted living Batman(Loving Hands Retirement Center), hero to the dumb old garden club set, a Werther's original dissolving in his cake whole, giving his tired old breathing an almost whistling effect.

And I drove his own truck to come see him, saving my gas, and all.

He thought it was 1923, at the early stretches of the Industrial Age, and all, and he thought I was one of his uncles, he an uncle and I thought to be one of his uncles.  And one grand time, he thought I was deputy.  Me in a Fruit of the Loom tee shirt and blue jeans, he thought was a deputy, and you know, you don't bust a flower when the honey is free, and him, sh*tting out lemon pudding, it was like pollen or something all over the bed, God only knows what form of life came from him, that room, that place, where so many were inevitably deposited into the ether for all posterity to contend with.

So I drove his truck to come visit him, the senile Asgardian curse on the hall of his assisted living residence, and I kept up his website, where I basically train-wrecked my way through leaving messages for his kids and grandkids, not much better, the lot, not much better, and certainly younger, but the same kind of skid mark as their forebear.


"es good,.no?" a fun evening in gainesville.

A man from the Tampa are went to Gainesville for an evening out with a woman.  One of those arranged online things.

It was going well and he was dreaming of love, until his dinner was put on his plate at Chez Latre.  The fish course was horribly rotten.

When he summoned the server, he was greeted with, 'is good, no?"

They agreed, the restaurant staff, to refund the gentleman's money and give him his choice of the menu, but then, his appetite was ruined.

Meanwhile, the girl, who happened to be a county commissioners daughter, had her car booted, in that very parking lot, that very evening.  Of course, she asked the man to pay the ticket to get her car freed-up.

The man hustled through and complained on the cb radio all the way on the trip back to Tampa.

Monday, September 18, 2023

Contest and Presentation.

"Since many boast according to the flesh, I will also boast.  For you, being so wise, gladly put up with fools!"  -Paul the Apostle

They had told it would be the "gigging" contest or something, but that was like tossing frogs or something; and here we were at the crick chucking pea gravel.

Some muck-a-muck on the committee, had knocked top prize, but rented satellite time on some space network, real high-tech redneck stuff.  We were aiming for the Ocho, I guess.

Pea gravel, in buckets, by the truckload, those on wheel barrows, and then DR power trucks taking them around, and I don't think we've seen this many Mexicans since the Alamo.

It was Rock Skipping, not lug chucking or whatever branding decision the freelance PR people came up with; it was like this thing had two hearts, one in its core among the competitors, and another, as of another universe, with the audience interpretation.

Doug Whiteman had won a Pontiac Sunfire, and this year, it was an electric F100, 1974 model, some custom fabrication from a some shop in the Mid West, and I wondered if it was a reject of some strip mall car show or something, was it, could it be?

He could make the little pebble BLAT DAT DAT so beautifully, smoothly, as if he were some sort of magician of the hinterlands.

"We couldn't give it away on television."

Hell, I knew that; it was all too dear, all too precious to just hand over in a manila envelope.

We needed at least a Crown Royal bag.

This was the high art of countless rural springs and summers, and all we had was to take a deep breath and find a path through the wandering dragonflies.  We would have a peanut butter sandwich and half-warm Coca-Cola, where some of us would get in old trucks and drive home, some to the farms, and yet others walked along the dirt road, some even shedding their shoes, going along like the fluid molasses embodiment of the good growing season: snow white feet, sweat-drying feet on the dusty firmament, and the contorted things that had been Snickers, some on the dashboard, some in jeans pockets.

Cashapp cashtag $origen1979

Thursday, September 14, 2023

Plaguefish: a story about prior epidemics and practical jokes played on C.O.'s.

Dastardly, bastardly: a county-wide ruse to punk-out a tower guard, such as to say, "good shew, Pennsylvania".  Cavalcante, the point man, roaming the countryside on holiday, and that, during 9/11, having a holiday absconding non-chalantly down the street, without even so much as a bicycle.

And the national media?  Sucked-in the abhorrent vacuum of the news cycle, flotsam, non-sense pieces flying off like tics on a dying beast.  It was not unlike the time I was a volunteer in a plague tent, trimming toe nails and stuff, carrying not just buckets of feces, but diseased weird feces with a chemical ambience about it, and the flies buzzing, and us, being told the insects carried the disease too.

Dickinson, with his new-fangled Franco-German shooting iron, had been flinging his arms like a crazy man to keep the nats out of his grill, and me watching this, leaning over with the bucket, awash in that weird smell, like I was doctor of old, observing odor of various bodily "humours".

"Hey, boy" they said, Old Parker.  "Get yo ace in their and cut them toenails."

"Yassir" I'd say, "I'll make haste".

They thought I was drunk, like all the time, maybe even getting in the medical chemicals for my drunkard swerve.  I mean, they knew, cause like, sensitive eyes, I had, and sleeping bad from night terrors, my eyes usually had a hue.

"He's three sheets in the wind."

"Your mama's bedsheets."  I told him, in a bad moment, my unction oriented the wrong way.  "I'm gonna buzz the ni**er school."

And then I lost a job, an unpaid volunteer position, even though, I was Johnny-on-the-spot with the feces.  Dickinson among the crowd, pearl handles shining at the fringe of his coat, all of them looking in my profound disappointment, too disappointed, surprised, to be particularly angry: they'd remember later, in the pub tents and talk about it among themselves, and find their righteous anger, together, almost in unison.

But still, I wasn't as fubar as that Tower Guard.

Wednesday, September 13, 2023

9/13. Drinking away bad memories at a back table in the Silver Moon.


Both a gentleman and a scholar.  Howard Kirvonnen: he thought she looked like a stripper, and I had a different worldview, I was yet more certain, I KNEW she looked like a stripper.  Stage name Orchid.  He'd only put singles in her underwear, where I do whole twenty spots.

You know she got a Master's Degree in business?  Pin a rose on her, I say.  I hope like hell too Howard Kirvonnen is doing okay these days: I lost track of him.  And you know, that Cincinnatus, "the proclivity in which good men repair, democracy", and all, and still being a gentleman and a scholar.



Well now I almost have a Master's Degree in Literature, some 3000 dollars and three Credit Hours short as we speak, a "capstone" course of independent study, lacking.  I diverged into Visual Arts, Communications, Data Science, Philosophy and Sociology.

I felt my mood turn, like the flick of a light switch, driving along, I looked to the right at my buddy's place next to the pond in the Cash Community, but before, I had seen MacDonald at his sitting place on a Kubota; sauce for the goose, and listening to Joyce Meyer pump sunshine.  I really needed that shit.

When you come through, you're always a tick different afterwards; I had one doctor say there was residual brain damage.

And would you believe, me and two black guys taking turns, our best lines on the stripper, and her brushing us off so politely, so gently, with a kind of sweetness and gentile that made us think we could dry again, ad infinitum, in hopes of our own turn with her, riding her Kawasaki.  And not Doug's Kawasaki.

Never Doug's Kawasaki.

Tuesday, September 12, 2023

9/12. Have you forgetten yet, fuckwads? Still dingling?

No one seems to want to talk 9/12.  You know why?  Cause fuck you: that's why.

Convincing them slowly and insidiously that the greatest evil one can do to another is a good turn, that heaping coals on their head is much preferable, as the Good Book says, and as Christopher begins to look more and more like the devil or the Mirror Universe Spock, I take up part of the narrative, too.

Why?  Cause fuck you that's why.

No one wants to talk 9/12.

Cause nuthin' happened on 9/12.  

or 9/13, and so on and so forth. 

Nothing pretty much happened but obsolescence and aging since, casual wear and tear, the odd empty casualty and such.

Do they want to talk about that?

Do they want to blame someone like me?

Another thing I realized to my dismay and chagrin, that through whatever means, anybody at all could be summoned at any time, I looked, and probably looked calm and cool on the outside, but on the inside cursing an entire multinational corporation and everybody in the one branch building.

I took the next day off, still feeling pretty low in myself, and lay down most of the day, and you think, that's the best years of your life, but you're at the mercy, never an honest word, you know, never that.

"We'll find someone to work for you."  And I thought, I didn't care and didn't need to know: if they could summon-up so many people, then they could conjure "a host or legion of workers".

But not as as I would, but as you would, my eyes weeping blood.  Incidentally, circa 1980 or so, Hillary Clinton worked in that same company.  Wow, you'd say, and you know a deplorable is as a deplorable does.

Not a damn thing happened on 9/12; seemed that day everybody was still smarting about 9/11.  And not much has happened since, certainly not any good, anyway.


Monday, September 11, 2023

Mister Augusta's Fox-jestic Imaginarium.

"one man's trash is another man's facebook feed."

Such, the transition through the arcane arts, waste materials into precious substances was once banned and shunned, but such today, look at the diamond market toppling.

It was such that I thought they said "trash can", but they said "dash cam", such that the lowly pusher is bolstered as the "purveyor" or something, but who is to buy these distinctions and superlatives, especially when no one affords them to us, and as such anyway, they say I'm rich.

I'm about 48 thousand dollars in debt.

I have one almost completely torn-in-half single in my pocket, tucked securely in my wallet so it doesn't completely separate.

These same people, making their babies and watching their Star Wars shows, and so forth, their Trump rallies or whatever it is that makes the bolts in their neck glow, and I relent.

Mr. Fox's Augusta Imaginarium, things agreed upon by rich liars, and I never had more contempt for golf, nor apathy for tennis, but I watched a Cowboys game yesterday, and I always watch the Atlanta Braves.

"Product" such as it is, "entertainment" that neither informs nor entertains, but marks time in slow steady losses.

It was three hours of people jumping over each other for sex or something, even a brother and sister, and a couple of so many years, pawning the kids off and so forth, and that a subject of disagreement, "I'm a mother first", and so on, but such as it was, the ashes they put in their garden would grow nothing, I wotted.

I'm pretty much down that I'll never watch Fox News again.  I almost punched the television screen today; I don't need that shit, and they don't know what stories they want anyways, lying to the audience and trying to be the Limbaugh successors their bosses want, but having none of the wit, gravitas or simple understanding that Limbaugh possessed in abundance, whatever story they decide to go with across their programs, whatever nuisance flotsam, and the others, preaching anti-Trump to an anti-Trump audience, perpetually wondering why Trump is still so popular, nevermind all the Trump fans take in other stuff besides their constancy.

No more Fox News.

Probably won't vote anymore either unless Nikki Haley or Tim Scott hits the ballot; its just a pitched battle between unseen donors, really.

And did we notice that the guy that had the most support from "regular people", was Bernie Sanders, who had no really American ideas anyway, and he was almost universally derided, despite his overwhelming support from "small donors", "common people".

The proletariat.

I like actual current events and stuff anyway.  Politics is just "some-time" shit.

Not some fuck-rag golf course guy, anyway.

Aight.  Imma go heat up some split pea soup and hate the world, while simultaneously loving the world.  "I love just enough..."

"Te amo..."

Maybe I'll feel more up to it later, but as for now, I feel the national wound in my own lens, and I think how senseless it as, as senseless and unnecessary as a lot of perfectly natural things that have occurred throughout time.

I've always wondered how exactly the Heritage Foundation got funding, having heard it was a kinda big amount.....

Never forget when. 22 years after the rain on confetti plain.


22 years they're saying, the immensity of it all.

Sure, and that's just fine, and all, to remember 22 years ago, Limbaugh lambasting W for condescending to work with Ted Kennedy on No Child Left Behind, and all.

And then.


One more.

And then, in the intervening 22 years, a great glob of nothing, made so much of by my supposed betters.

It makes me plenty fucking mad.  It makes me wonder if the War on Terror casualties were the last of the really decent people being disposed of by sending them into a sort of senseless war of anger.

Since then?  That great glob of nothing?  I relent to think that way: it robs people of their humanity, and makes me thirst for some kind of recompense--my own 9/11 story, as it was, as if I were some defaced general, "father of a murdered family", or something.

It makes me want to do something evil, but not to arabs, but to all, without much discretion or discrimination.

Lost property, lost family members.  The tv hound gleefully watching everything slip away except his tv, and me thinking his tv needs to go, and that other stuff needs to come back.

As if some of my nearest worked for the sports leagues and tv networks; that's not life, that's extra, but that's all they have, mostly, that extra, and I get madder and madder, and want to just take a chunk out of it all.

It all depends what you're remembering.

2001 was a more innocent time, and there were assets, things and people to care for; our lives, though particularly flat, were peppered from without by relationships and so forth.

I'd like to pull the Morris homestead sideways out of the ass of someone like W.

22 years ago it was a horror, and something moved, and its all been, never a particularly spontaneous word, as it were, and don't get me started on Rockingham.

There is one saving grace, that its in the end somebody else's problem entirely, and I can go on to more of my little nothing.

I had a VHS.  Six hours of CBS national network coverage, mostly hosted by Dan Rather, live and flying by the seats of their pants.

9/11 anger, I dealt with, but the anger over the stuff since really just sits bubbling, percolating, beneath the surface, waiting to attack like PTSD.

Thursday, September 7, 2023

Cold case file. The Rambler that was and then was not.


(This never happened.)

Circe 1981.

On Being and Nothingness.

Near one of America's favorite discount stores.  In face, in front of it, between the front doors in a little alcove near the fire hydrants and propane tanks.

It was, in fact, there, impelled, steered, driven, even, there, and parked conspicuously in front.  Dead in front.  In a little corner of an alcove, it declaring itself important, seeming at once, downcast, but impertinent among the other automobiles, the Mustangs and Yukons and various Buicks, sundry Nissans and other such, maybe even some Datsuns.

Then it wasn't.

See how that works?  It was, then it just wasn't.


One could get punchdrunk from the whole thing, maybe, how it is or isn't a particular moment, that maybe it had climbed onto a panel truck and escaped so far as to leave all of America behind, to just elapse elsewhere.

To elapse elsewhere.

There was a bonus bust, a trick and a working girl, and the trick paying for so much, and the lady keeping tally of it, somehow, his dismal grunts and groans, and he had an emanation that escaped his person, and could not be accounted for.  That erupted into a loud argument, and got to the front lobby somehow, a prolonged argument, one trying to walk away with the other following shouting, such that they basically each stupidly put themselves into the pockets of the cops.

But enough of that.

It was like that Cartesian Doubt, skepticism in philosophy, such that "how do we know anything at all?", and that in the face of the authorities, badgering witness, "what had happened was", such that one event had thousands of accounts, thousands of stories, and witnesses, and people that knew people

Resting Bitchface.

As at time of writing, I observe "idle fascinations" of otherwise well-set persons; in that respect, I say pray for anyone, even those that seem okay--for one never knows for sure.

I was drinking Olde English out of a MSNBC anchor's shoe.  Not my most baller moment, but just a moment: does it need qualification?

Not my most baller moment, but then, my really baller moments aren't obvious to start with.  These go kind of hidden sometimes, and I just glaze over what might be some of the best stuff.

Somebody had beat the beejesus out of a Nash Rambler one time, and me and Bitchface had a dialogue about it, even while the cops were still there.  I shit you not, he was like a newspaper, the little Jethro Tull zygote of a psychobilly.  He could tell me all that was being said, all the popular take-up on it, and he had a line to Asset Protection, too.

They all said his slimy evil friend was a narc, but really, it was him himself, Bitchface, that I always saw chatting the Asset Protection people.

"Asset Protection" was the weird department heading.  They had Inventory, which was I.C.S.  And I remember, in the parlance, there was a code thing, E.lect R.on I.C.S.

I'd walk through there like a wrecking ball, going through them like the fog of memory, a rude hand diminishing an idle fascination, and them, millions per quarter, were but an idle fascination.

We had sang Eye of the Tiger one time.  Well.  Sort of.

Bitchface mentioned the song, and idiot me started singing it; his own anxieties wrestling with him, and me, facing down angry dogs and insolent children.  I had a mix of Lemon cough drop and rubbing alcohol(I used to drink that between paychecks), and I was just horrorshow, such that it was astounding they got anywhere near me at all: that said something about their hubris, I suppose, the strength and monumental stupidity of their intentions.

And I pertubed their intention, discombobulated, like brushing a cool hand through a spider web, by keeping my schedule.  some 1200 breakfast calories, then I go rescue a few cats from the trees; at lunchtime, some alcohol, hopeful real drinking alcohol, and not the stuff that they sterilize the tat needles with, and I go, pulling down the cats, rubbing their foreheads and ears, and I sit and mentally spit at Bitchface.

So he mentioned the song, and I sang it, and then went to the strip club(The Silver Moon), where I wound up escorted outside one of the girls who had too much to drink and had just gotten too sloppy to perform.  She had almost went face down in her friend's taco salad, too; I got her out of there because she was just making an ass of herself.

That was like the time my brother had a lady friend's underwear in his truck; like yeah, nothing happened, chud, and bitchface was a chet, chivalrous enough to keep her from choking, and I'm like: choking on what, and at momma's house, I had the backdoor on my end and two rooms, and an unction for weirdness.

The Nash Rambler would become one of those Richmond County cold cases.

The stripper has a crafting show on Youtube these days; a regular country club mom, I expect, no longer drinking into complete stupidity and yelling obscenties in public.  I hadn't mentioned that Drunk In Public before, but she would shout the most evil things, like some little lady passing by, and all of a sudden its the Vagina monologues or something.  For the sober person, it made a regular day more interesting, and those "idle fascinations" sort of got brushed aside so easily, like cobwebs trying to stand against a 20 pound sledgehammer.


Monday, September 4, 2023

Labor Day 2023.

On this special day, let us commemorate the proletariat, the vanguard on the edge of us and them, always, the boots and the silly hats, these proles, this "backbone", these "small dollar" Bernie Sanders supporters.

Its a world where the deal with the Saudis scarcely matters, where so much bugaboo and fiddle-dee-dee doesn't permeate, but we go buy gas prices, milk and eggs, our utilities.  Usually, when the liberal candidates put the squeeze on the bosses, the bosses in turn put the squeeze on....

you guessed it...

the proles.

Butthole at the rear, nipples at the front: the mind, a bridgework lattice of cobwebs and so forth, being fed from a fountain of junk, the cobwebs at once, holding the thinkmeats from falling without onto dismal ground, while also keeping the thinkgood in the air and colloidal, Reese's Pieces in the air, at the ready for the prole: keep them near his couch, his bed, his stay-at-home, but none to the child, none such that the young mindless feed the need until they earn the right of passage into the dull care of adulthood.


Sunday, September 3, 2023

"Cops and Country Music". Shut up, you Marxists; Deddy's talking.

I was doing show prep("everybody that disagrees with me is a Marxist"; "everybody I don't like is a Marxist"), and I was rather slowly between doing some sundry exercises, and bringing myself to the sweet release of orgasm.

"Cops and Country Music".  Motherfuck that noise, I was thinking, yearning to go full Antifa on my own colleagues in the brainstorming session, full-in, full-on.

"Yall aint got no compassion".

"How many of yall are card-carrying party members?"  I've never before seen so many white people(that weren't the BeeGees) trying to carry a beat.

How do I defend a theorem I don't believe in?  How do I progress through the talking points without sounding like I'm reading stereo instructions?

I believe in Tim Scott's America of Opportunity, and that in the age of social media transactions, selling nude photos to strangers, and all, and everybody is an author, everybody is a musician, and everybody is a painter: no room for Loflin Dahl in the mix, and I say again:

Motherfuck that noise.

But I don't need 25 million in the bank; I'm not greedy.  How about the 1950s American Dream of living in a suburban white neighborhood, with one garage stall, a push mower for a smallish yard, maybe a few flowers out front, only one or two tv screens in the house and a good-ish department store sound system, not the discount store slumjobs that we are being force fed.

Clearly, with the rise of the discount places, the economy is not keeping up, and people are getting left behind: so many are still making the old minimum, maybe, or near the old minimum, and they are having to slum it.

Maybe that's all Bidenomics is: the evil that men do, when you only buy eggs at the very cheapest prices, but you pay 1200 for an iPhone.

Its such that the European dream of Socialism ends in bankruptcy and disillusionment, in which people no longer strive for anything, but to point in contempt across the sea and the real motive power of the world.

Saturday, September 2, 2023

Seven Mitches To Cairo. Plus some off-the-top-of-my-head drink recipes.

Freezer pops, an odd flavor, margarita or pina colada or something, trance-parent and all.  I put it down to a fluke of science, an "up yours" to nature and a sort of befuddlement of flavors, chemists in a lab, "designing food".  But as such, we had the hay day of the tv dinner, with our better living through chemistry, and vaping was so promising, but is there another frontier?

Coconut, Gin and Salt.

Pasta break.

"Ass stove up."  Too much pasta, the amount of sheer empty carbohydrate in the diet causing constant anal seepage.

V8 juice(the classic kind), Worchestershire, vodka.

Years of huffing magic markers finally catch up with some of us, those that lack that graceful "jump on the grenade" unction of a Paul Ryan, and yet others evaporate like bathroom smells disappearing into a cabbage order.

"A basket of currencies", "a basket of deplorables" and a "baggie filled with disposable communistas", as it were, taught all, implored not to be energetic citizens of a nation filled with voice, but despicable activists destined for blurbs on the news programs: a profound misunderstanding of citizenship, mayhap, that everyone gets a say, and not just the "triggered" or whatever.


"dissapointing when they understood, and frustrating them the many times they didn't...."

Solidity of our convictions, the loud snores of our conscience--the courage of our computations, as it were--what is anyone, anyway?  I watc...