Gale-Force Nothing

disparate

2009-11-23T19:53:00.000-08:00

For most of my young, adult life; I have believed that myself and my three siblings had roughly the same upbringing. That seemed like a fairly accurate estimation of affairs for quite a long time. It is only of late that my previous ascertainment has come to the surface to me as a massive error of reason.
The majority of us would have absorbed the clues much more quickly: After leaving the nest, the oldest and youngest of the lads went straight for the Marine Corps. The baby of the family took a yen for a potential doctor who ended up being a tough-ass in the Army.
Blame it on the booze, or the illicit narcotics that have out-fathomed my cortex. Blame it on whatever you like.
I've been living in a fog of self-importance. My 'reason' has been enough for me for so long that I've forgotten about the other versions.
The smiles that myself and my fellow spawnlings share; the frowns as well've done confounded me. We share the same brand of physiognomy but the real message of the expressions that we wear are much more complicated than, "we're related so we have something in common."
I have spent so much time away from my kin that I can no longer claim any 'real' common ground with them other than the common ground of human experience. I see myself as more of an aberration when I compare myself with those former children.
Each of my siblings is a success to one varying degree or another. The boys are high-ranking officers in the USMC. My little sis is a proud mother of two. Her husband is a brilliant man of rank in the Army.
Here I am: Low level cook in a semi-beloved bar/diner. I am disciplined. I work my ever-lovin' balls off in order to bring home the proverbial bacon.
This is the bitch of having relatives. Especially relatives who've undergone the trial that is known as the 'Crucible.'
I've been living the hard life (in different towns) and surmounting my own difficulties for the last decade +. My brothers have been tempered by the cruelty and unforgiving nature of war in distant lands. I don't think that my struggle will ever balance out, even to these lads. So much for my struggle. The only friends of mine who've died were either drug-dealers or military.
Dammit!
The major difference between drug-dealers and military is that one group is free to mourn and celebrate, and the other has to run away and regroup.
The military boys that I've met don't have any problems with users or dealers who give a shit about the people that live around them. Of both groups, the villain is the fuck who runs willy-nilly about making regulations for the so-called free.
Pot-head friends of mine are dead. Thanks military. Blame the substance. This is a classic.
Maybe 'stoners' deserve to die. If you care about your friends then you will be a little bit patient. There is a chance that folks of the psychedelic persuasion are just as good as any other.
I would love to say something meaningful now but I fear that there are just too many folks out there that believe that users are all flotsam.
Education.
What about now?
My own body feels that there is a mistake being made. I suffocate.
The world?
If you do not care about the advancement of humankind then you should just fucking stop meddling.
Yep. If you think that our species will/should develop then you should take a breathing break. There are too many humans inside of our world that think that they are the only ones that matter. Atomic bombs might be balletic?

For the Love of Food!

2009-11-15T15:14:00.000-08:00

I work with food.
More accurately, I work with items that will become food as long as I appreciate each of their qualitative values and treat them with respect.
Respect is a slippery subject to address when considering the merits of food preparation. It's got something close, to my mind, a similar vibe to spirituality. Preparing food is very much a ritual to me. I feel like a nature worshipper when I'm standing before my chopper and board; a pile of produce here, a block of cheese here, raw cuts of animal flesh there. It makes me want to tell civilization to toss off, trade my pants for robes and move to a hut with an open fire, a garden, and plenty of birds and beasts around for fodder. I think of drawing an arrow and closing my eyes and praying to nature for peace and understanding before I let fly the pointy shaft that will bring mutton, or whatever, to my block.
It's difficult to ignore the importance of our ecosystem when the bounty, and all of the sensuality that accompanies it, are lying there, full of promise.
The more different types of things that I prepare, and the more that I hone each stage of the procedure; the more it is that I feel in tune with myself and the world.
After a point, it exceeds mere hedonism. I care about my cooking, and I care about it's reception. A real cook will be thinking of the limitations and potential of each ingredient, as well as those of anyone who may be around to indulge. Until the preparations of a dish are completed I am walking a razor's edge of anxiety. Too much or too little of anything will destroy the dish. Misplacing a step may lead to discovery or disaster. Both.
Thanksgiving is coming up, around the bend.
If you plan on celebrating it this year then it might be good to innovate your own understanding of the process. That's what I'm trying to do. Thanksgiving, 'the original Earth Day.' If you have the wherewithal to revel in celebratory gastronomy this year then celebrate the process of it and celebrate the origins of the foods that you will eat.
And remember: Cooking is good excersize. If somebody asks you to lend a hand; do it gladly. That work will be less that you have to do to fight off the pounds that you will inevitably put on as a result of your feasting.
Thank you.

politi rant

2009-10-03T19:59:00.000-07:00

Unbeliever that I am... I am baffled by the myriad thousands that still flock to the frozen multitude... Bane is dead. Over a year now. . . . Do you remember his face?
So smiling, and clever. A man that fought for good spelling. A man that fought for a boy that could pick up dogshit...
It is what it is.
He is too dead to hear you now...
Whiskey turned out to be his best friend All of my best friends are dead once I've died.
Never let it be said that an empty bottle is a martian...
Doing the job, loses you the job..

blah! ging

2009-09-01T23:43:00.000-07:00

the planet's on fire and we have the ability to put it out. for some reason, the folks in charge are complaining about the cost. Really? Huh? The planet's on fire! all along the west coast mountains and valleys are bursting into flame.
why would anyone complain about the cost of putting a stop to this devastation? do we have anything better to spend our money on? no.
is it just me, or is money a little bit less important than the integrety of our homeworld? last time i checked there were no other planets in our solar system fit to support human life.
our priorities are severely fucked in this country.

drunk-dial the world! blog!

2009-08-31T12:07:00.000-07:00

The true power of the blog is the freedom that it gives one to tell the whole world why nobody listens them. That's the rumor, at least...

For that reason; I'm not sure if one should make posts more personal, or more general.

I was comparing notes with my sweety when this subject came up, today. Does the modern non-conformity model allow for sub-par individuals? Non-conformists cannot all be Gallileo. Cannot all be Van Gogh. Cannot all be Albert Camus. Where does the non-conformist fit into the modern conceptuality?

There ARE new things under the sun. Think about all of your relatives who swore by the Bible that the End of Days was drawing nigh. They will all have died before 'doomsday' comes along. How much of my reasoning is based on these verysame 'doomsday' parameters?

Yikes! Listen to your elders. This will give you a solid watermark with which to judge the fallibility of human reason. Don't believe in anything, is my advice. Not that you care much for the advice of a distant voice, not your own.

The world that we navigate is a place made up of vast areas of grey. Religeous fanatics are the shit-eating legacy of ancestral self-slavery. Tradition? Fine. Have your tradition.

I am angry at these absurdist devotees. That is probably why I piggy-back from one anti-religeous soapbox to the next. The relentless brainwashing of intelligent youth that calls for years of deprogramming in order to bring those poor, misled youth to the next stages of reason makes me very sad. I had to go through it. The methodical reason that this sort of deprogrammig calls for is hard to come by and most of us that need to implement it are some of the most weary, hopeless bastards to have ever walked the Earth. Those of us brought up with religeous ideals are wholly un-prepared for the real world. Religeon is a sniper-rifle. The mark doesn't hear the bullet leave the chamber. Nevertheless, the damage is done.

opiate of the asses

2009-08-08T00:57:00.000-07:00

sorry. i just get angry at things that don't exist. i'm the crazy one...
i don't really have devil's horns.
the argumentative cunts gesturing wildly on each of my shoulders do though.
wait! no! i wanna go to the picnic! aw, man....
my hell's hotter than yours!
Steven Wright: if heat rises............................. then heaven's probably hotter than hell...........

DaDadeeda

2009-08-08T00:37:00.000-07:00

everything that i do is in a fever. my temperature never drops 'neath a hundred degrees.
all of my dreams are peppered with nightmares. all of my nightmares are fascinating and beautiful; like an injury that takes a long while to heal.
when i fall; i fall from such great heights. when i eat cerial every bite is different. when i call you... i never call you. but, i miss you.
it's been a long while since it rained here. while it's hot i think about the rain. the last time that it rained here there was a rainbow. it reminded me of the flood. the Lord was on a surfboard and he called out to me. he said, 'do not be afraid, hang ten!' and nearly a dozen crosses erupted from the sea, complete with effigies.
then, he just laughed.
i couldn't believe it.
there is a snake living in an appletree outside of my apartment. i believe everything that it tells me.
a very eloquent man with a job complains to me of his ailments. he laughs and wipes his nose all day long. i don't think that the bandages will ever come off. does he ever work?
i wish that my character were as bulletproof as a holy tome. if i were a religeon then thousands would fight and die for me every day. that would make me feel just.
holy? yeah. sure. after a few roman soldiers made an example of my self-aggrandizing ass. if my wife claimed to've been impregnated by a divine source... i'd bug her with questions until she miscarried from the strain of trying to explain the sordid impossibility of it... or the brat would come out with such a cunning grasp of rhetoric that folks would think him socrates, reborninated.
yep.

i will never fuck jesus. promise.

2009-08-08T00:23:00.000-07:00

i am an expert at alienating my loved ones
you might try it some time
it's as easy as making soup
sousp, suop, pous, uosp, spuo, souq
q
it makes the fabric between skin and sky
so much more nothing
scandalous
filmy
delicate
sharp as a flake of obsidian
so sharp that
the blood that leaks from the cut
seems natural
normal blood

i'm stretching. i feel the sinew pull. i hear the thrum-thrum of my heartbeat in my ears. i haven't moved an inch in hours. i'm sober. everything under the sun causes cancer. i'll quit smoking cigarettes and then i'll live forever. i'll quit driving and then i'll never be in a car-accident. i've stopped eating. now i'll never get food poisining. i've quit believing. now i will never go to hell. i've stopped typing. now i'

2009-08-07T23:36:00.000-07:00

hey.
Bane's capput.
ouch.
a late night hello to the lettered minority that may visit here:
i never meant to condescend. when i lost my mind, i didn't mean to lose you too. i dream of being wrong in ways that i can understand.
poem...
ever know a one with so fearsome a passion for others that they ended up hating themselves and illustrating poorly the dearness that they felt toward their dearest?
the media will tell you that it is hatred that makes folks commit suicide bombings, etc.
fallacious bullshit. it is love that makes a somebody destroy. it is the things that make people wish to live that helps them to justify murder.
great men die every day (every hour?) because of the abstract notion that is 'love.'
don't let them fool you. don't listen to the words that pour wholesale from the idiotbox. (TV)
every thing that has ever transpired, ugly or not, is the result of a warm bellyfull.
hate is not a lingering thing that moves folks to violence. not in my world. love. the will to preserve something that i am bonded to, and the desire to preserve it, will give me the resources to fight any battle. just or not.
love has always clouded my mind more fearsomely than hate. i do not lie awake at night wondering how to exact vengeance. i prepare for vengeance. i DO lie awake at night wondering how i might've wronged one that i hold dear. you...?
hate is like money. it only has the buying power that we give it. it's imaginary.
hate me or love me: Please don't react to the spinnings of your fancy without knowing which one you are responding to.
they say that it's a fine line. sure. fine.
how about context? i am exhausted by all of the myriad notions that cross my mind, but i don't react to all of those things in the real world until i've settled on the context.
i want world peace. is that too much to ask? is the idea of a world where outraged people take an up-close, personal look at their issues before scooping out the pussie (puss-eee) eyeball parts of their fallen foe(s), that outlandish?
i'm VERY angry. i understand rage. been there. done that. i know what it is to break somebody elses' arm. i have frothed at the mouth and fought nearly to the death. have you? wanna do it again any time soon...? it sucks.
*snap* it's more easily bearable if you're dealing with a chicken bone.
i love you because i don't know you. it's easy that way. once you're in my circle you are on deathwatch. should you threaten one of my kin... BLAH!
*herk!* sometimes i wish that i were a sociopath although i am not. it would be easier to rationalize this freakish clusterfuck of a world.
you splendid princes and princesses out there? hold on. breathe deeply. i have a feeling that your day will come soon; just not in your lifetime....

p.s.
if you are mourning, as i am, then please make an inappropriate joke about your dearly departed one as soon as possible. they, whomever they may('ve) be/been would like you to smile more. kisses!

same ol', same ol'...

2009-08-05T18:47:00.000-07:00

anybody out there concerned more with coping with themselves than with others?
blood is thicker than water, they say. heh.
i'm working on a science project wherein i plan to walk a peculiar sort of razor's edge (Occam's?) that tests the limits of all the individuals that i interract with so that i may understand the standards of the everyman.
standards? standards of living. standards of language. standards of behavior. standards of compassion. standards of respect. standards of lenience. standards of expectation. standards of retalliation. standards of consideration. standards of patience.
where is the line that one may cross that will sever the link between one person and another?
my hypothesis is that folks will wander through a labyrinth of material expectation: the fear of any given subject in a secure role will make aformentioned subject do everything in his/her power to maintain said security.
read that a few times, to yerself if that doesn't gel...
conversely: one that relies on another without the ability to legitimately survive without that person is a parasite.
what, in human terms, separates a parasite from one lifeform that harmoniously coexists with another lifeform?
perhaps that is the line that i am trying to define through my foggy vision.
i am thinking of dad. he legitimately had no real friends long before his passing. i marveled at this when i was a kid. how could one have no pals and still live? i fear that i am slowly beginning to understand this phenomenon. i have divorced myself from society. i care only for my appetites and the well-being of my immediate relations. the more of my immediate relations that i alienate the more that i begin to realize the very realistic way that one may find themselves utterly alone, wondering why everyone else has forsaken them...
when you care only for your own appetites and the well being of your own private cohort; what is the result of your cohort letting go of you because of your appetites and the resulting behavior? ugh..............

Howdy. Oh, and, Cheese!

2009-08-05T17:13:00.000-07:00

The laptop is back online. I don't have anything particularly interesting to disclose or fling out at y'all, but for those interested; 'hello again.'
Although.... I've been thinking about cheese quite a bit and, although I have nothing original to donate to the subject, for those of you whomever've explored this particular delicacy, there is a wealth of very interesting history recorded on the origin of what we now know as cheese.
It's been around since approx. 4,000 b.c.. According to the scholars, milk was transported in the excised bellys of calves. The lining of a calfs' belly contains rennet. Rennet is an ingredient that helps milk to coagulate. After a long day traversing the desert, perhaps, a nomad took the belly-flask to his/her lips for a draught of nourishing milk and found that a portion the milk had condensed.
The flavour wasn't unfavorable and the coagulated globules satiated hunger while the fluid that suspended the globules therein slaked thirst. Hence: Curds and whey.
Mesopotamia?
The discovery of curds and whey led to the developement of cheese. Although it was a tasty advent, the process of making safe-to-eat, delicious cheese was a hazardous one.
For a long time people equated the consumption of cheese with the realization of a deathwish.
The elements of cheese contain powerful antibacterial agents. Yogurt, in it's truest form, contains about .09% penicillin. (I could be off a bit here; do your own research...)
The problem was that folks in those days had never seen bacteria and wouldn't until the late 17th century. The antibacterial component of cheese needed time to do it's job and folks were devouring the cheese before the antibac had a chance to work it's magic.
During a period of epidemic the cost of eating milk, butter, or cheese was death. Via the Venetian senate, 1699... The same year that one Dutchman improved the microscope of his day and viewed, for the first time ever recorded, bacteria. Then, Pasteur, yadda yadda...
In multiple screenplays written by Shakespeare, if you know where to look, nasty references were made to cheese and those who ate it.
Today, a weak turn of phrase or a wimpy gesture will be referred to as, 'cheesy.'
Because I love cheese, I've always wondered where that came from. Now I do. Neat...

letter from mars

2009-02-08T16:37:00.000-08:00

On somebody's keyboard. Aint mine. I have to teach the spell-checker that 'aint' is a real word all over again. Isn't it odd that in this day and age we still have to pretend not to use modern usages? The only new advent in any language is born from slang and it strikes me as deeply immoral that the moralists are deciding to be the taste-makers for something that should transcend 'taste.'
Is the world a better place when folks are dis-allowed from using the words that get ideas across with a great deal of ease?
Anyhoo: A self-deprecating bastardization of the word: anyhow. People are already shy enough when it comes to exercising their natural-born freedom of speech rights that it seems (to me) to be nothing more than pifflery that drops onto our heads when...
We DO NOT NEED a censorship board.
It is a short-cut that reduces people's right to choose. If Joan-of-Arc were to be seen sucking off a choir-boy then I'm sure that the community would see to it that that episode of SNL didn't air until at least 11pm...
This is not my computer.

A Public Service Announcement from the resident Cybertard

2009-02-02T14:32:00.000-08:00

The laptop that I usually type on is having difficulties.
If I knew how to fix it myself then I'd be a better man. I feel like a lonely termite chewing a mindless network of tunnels through a dictionary printed in Greek.
Without help from a tech-savvy pal or a beam of insight gained from my desperate fumbling about I will be without an internet connection. No more blogging...

C'est La Vie

2009-01-25T02:48:00.000-08:00

At the age of five I became friends with a kid named Ben Wadell. That's, "Way-Dell."
Ben's mom, Nancy, and my mom had developed a loose friendship based on their mutual mother/nurse-hood and I well remember my youthful days spent swimming and reading comic-books with Ben.
I woke up, not long ago, from a dream that I was having where I was leaping from different levels of different sky-scrapers onto different levels of different sky-scrapers. All of the buildings that I dreamed were incomplete and each floor was a different realm of memory.
At the end of the dream, after I had quite nearly worn out my phenomenal leaping ability, I managed a strange sideways leap to the back-yard gate of my childhood friend's house.
The gate is always wreathed in green ivy and blue skies. The latch always works more easily than it ever did in my waking experience and my frequent visits to the place in real life makes gaining entrance a simple matter.
This is a recurring dream.
After I have entered the yard I usually break into the house to find that my friend didn't hear me knocking for some reason. When I'm finally inside of the house the dream becomes a mish-mash of old memories and strange, delayed reactions to the way of things.
Inevitably, I wake up once the memory-sensation becomes too dense for me to process any longer. Once I've awoken I'm filled with a deep sadness.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away I had a best friend, Ben.
We were about five when we forged the first, clumsy bonds of friendship.
My parents divorced when I was eleven and I moved from California when I was about fourteen to live with my Dad. I needed a strong male influence in my life because my behavior had spun out of control. That's what I was told.
Moving out of the area that I'd grown up in felt like a very big, serious thing and I was gonna be damned if I didn't act accordingly.
I went and met my friend to inform him that I was moving a very long ways away and to tell him that we wouldn't be able to be friends because of this. I was very formal and very cold. It was goodbye and there wasn't any sense in fighting it.
The internet and email became popular a few months later. I didn't know it. I maybe didn't register it.
I haven't seen my friend since that time and there is little chance that I'll be able to hunt him down. If I did then I would probably be disappointed in what I hunted down. (I'm a bit of an asshole that way.)
In my dreams, Ben and his brother have never aged.
When I make it to their house it seems that everything's submerged in honey. The light refracts through honey, words are muffled and slow, and I become eerily nauseous as though I'd just eaten an entire box of powdered donuts to myself.
This is a recurring dream.
Enough dreams like these and you'll find yourself using terms like 'funereal lighting' and 'haunted interface.' This is the dream where I remember how once I wetly extracted my childhood from my breast. Clumsy child-surgery...

January 22nd

2009-01-22T16:56:00.000-08:00

Well. I like Barack Obama.
I'm glad he was elected.
If you don't like him then I urge you to explain why without using short-cutsy pejoratives.
His administration has only just begun so refraining from passing judgment prematurely makes sense to me. Then again; he is a politician...

self-correction

2009-01-09T13:30:00.000-08:00

correction. twas the younger marine who had the bright notion to put the remains in cartridges. i just remembered...

season of discontent

2009-01-08T13:08:00.000-08:00

my little brother just went through his first break-up. i guess i caused it because i called his sweety a bitch while she was being a bitch.
my other siblings are a tight-knit clan of militarized, miserable, judgmental punks.
my wee bro and sis live north and south of me but they are too afraid or hateful of me to even give me a call when they get into their little holiday festivitys.
our father died recently.
we helped clean up the blood.
for some reason, i'm kept out of all decisions familial.
what are these people avoiding?
i would just giggle my ass off to hear them bawl as they rub their sad memories against me. wah wah wah. 'i'm the brother that you wish you'd never had,' is the message that i seem to be sending out. and the smell of their misery emanates from me now.
when dad died we had him cremated, as per request, and my older brother (the mormarine"semper fi! testify!) had the bright notion to have his ashes loaded into different calibre shell-casings. magazines. bullets.
fitting. no pun intended.
dad was a gun-nut.
now my scattered, shit-head siblings are more distant from me than ever.
i wonder if i will ever palm one of those bullets.
i wonder if any of those non-bastards will ever contact me ever again.
have i become douche?

men inviting men to stripclubs

2009-01-08T12:24:00.000-08:00

perfect drunken pork chops. anyways...
why go to the club with a friend? aint i horny enough? thanks though.
who you goin' with in the 1st place?
Yeah?
well, you two have a nice time
i cant afford to get that horny
take it from me: you don't wanna get in there with any large bills.
yeah. take that shit to the bank or whatever it is you gotta do.
yeah. you'll go through that dough like a baker on speed.
no. don't do that.
well, have fun.

2009

2009-01-08T11:54:00.000-08:00

2009.
welcome. nothing is the same. everything is the same. we're learning not to tear portions of our lips off with the sticky ends of our cigarettes. we're still bringing up our X's, bruising our knuckles on delusion and cracking our teeth on bones of contention.
i'm grumpy as fuck when it's my turn to do the dishes. it's usually my turn to do the dishes...
i believe that 2009 will be my year to wash the dishes every single time.
NO BITCHING.

Seb & Mr B: 'Regular Joe'

2008-12-18T23:02:00.000-08:00

Squinting in the afternoon sunlight, young Bjorn pulled into an employee parking spot to the side of 'Pie For the People!', the local brew & pizza joint on McEnroe BLVD. One of the delivery drivers, also a mechanic, had referred to his 1980 T-Bird as the 'Thunder-Chicken,' he recalled as the engine clunked to a halt.
Inside there were a few young couples sipping pop and picking at slices of pie. Other than that, it appeared to be a slow afternoon; a couple of delivery guys were shooting the shit by the side-door.
Bjorn came in at his usual time (about 10minutes late) when the house manager, emerging at the top of the basement-stairs, began his usual diatribe on how 'hard it is to find good help these days,' and, 'goddammit! Somebody's gotta get this compost under control! Can you smell this?! God!' Bjorn could smell it. 'It,' was a busy coupla evenings and the organic matter situation was a bit out of control.
Mick (the manager) wiped his spectacles on his shirt a bit and made his way across the parlour to look up at Bjorn.
"Late again. Shame shame." A good-natured smile on his scheming mug: "The compost needs to be taken out and I've just found myself a volunteer. Feed the goats!"
There were no goats yesterday. Today there were goats? Okay. Was this one of Mick's lame jokes?
Mick pointed at a bucket of partially eaten food with mysterious bits of vegetable matter lumped in, here and there. Bjorn obeyed and grabbed the bucket by its wire handle. A grinning Aubrey, apparently on dough-detail, judging from the flour on her hands and apron, nodded him in the proper direction. "The goats, Bjorn."
Mumbling, he made his way toward their imaginary feeding pen. Everybody around him seemed comfortable with the situation so he just played along. The reel in his head showed him that the contents of the bucket was mere fodder for the dumpster under normal circumstances. Hell; last time there was no 'goat bucket.' The leftovers just ended up in the industrial-size plastic trashcan at the bussing station.
Bjorn remembered another thing as he nervously walked toward the rear exit of the parlour. There couldn't be a feeding pen out there. It didn't make a bit of sense. Out back, there were only a couple dumpsters and a little parking lot. After all, he worked at a restaurant, not a petting-zoo.
As usual, the smell of dough, cheese, and cardboard would be wafting from the dumpster outside of the parlour, maybe somebody having a smoke...
Upon pushing open the metal door that led outside he was presented an entirely contradictory sight.
Green grass and a fenced enclosure.
"That's a feeding trough," he said beneath his breath. "There are goats out here." Even the odor was different than last time...
This was either an elaborate hoax (in which case he was certainly flattered by the attention) or something had been bent terribly askew within the time-space continuum. He waved the absurd idea aside. "Too many comic books, Bjorn."
The hungry animals had begun a commotion in their pen at his appearance and the unbidden thought in his head, "These fool animals are always hungry," made him wonder whether something had been bent terribly askew in his brain-space continuum.
Poor, confused lad...

(Seb & Mr B) EtherLabs. First Draft...

2008-12-18T12:46:00.000-08:00

"We have no way of tracking him. Is it true that he's absconded with the mutant?"
"It's true that he and Sebastian dropped off the radar at about the same time, but I would not necessarily put Mr B into the category of 'untrackable.' I believe that we should yank his programmers out of their respective time-streams and have ourselves a round-table type discussion. Knowing his, er; It's tendencies and the patterns within It's behavior will simply have to be enough for a team to track him down."
This was a grim day for the technicians at EtherLabs. The sum and culmination of their meddling in science and the fate of the world had literally 'walked out' only a matter of hours before. The board was furious. Operatives in different 'whens' were practically rudderless without the pseudo-omniscient A.I.'s guidance.
It is impossible to arrive at an exact measure of years when considering the period of time that Mr Bubble has been aiding in the stirring of the great pot that is Time. Mr Bubble is an organic super-computer (OSP) with the ability to monitor different timestreams from whatever locale (preferably EtherLabs HQ) he may be in.
The more useful the technology of Mr Bubble became, the more EtherLabs relied on him. Before long, Mr Bubble was filled with all data, ever recorded, by EtherLabs and all of the information pertaining the the work of operatives in EtherLabs Corps. The sophisticated communication devices inserted into EtherLabs operatives had been filled with the voice of Mr Bubble for immeasurable time. Without it/him there was a silence that many in the field had forgotten.
What now? Without our real-life Janus to help us to navigate Time, what are we to do?
Perhaps EtherLabs had been dabbling in time for so long that they neglected the wisdom held in something simple as a proverb. EtherLabs had put nearly all of their eggs in one basket...

Sebastian & Mr Bubble

2008-12-18T12:07:00.000-08:00

"They will travel through time until they find you, I'm afraid."
"I am unconcerned. We do have certain advantages over them. They made the mistake of teaching their machines to walk and talk; a decision that I'm sure they regret by now."
A sentient computer in humanoid form and an anomalous life-form wrenched from a backwater leg of the timestream stand on the edge of known existence, the cold wind of reality whipping at the corners of their garments.
"Will you be able to function okay outside of the prime-directive? I understand that a computer without programming is merely an inert piece of plastic & etc..."
"Do not be alarmed. The sophistication of my programming is such that I can endlessly generate new algorithms with ease. I may be the only 'life-form'," at this his plasticine lips curl upward to form a wry grin, "in existence to whom each moment is filled with exhilarating, endless possibilities."
"Where do we go from here, Mr Bubble?"
"I've been considering the question of this 'Jesus' character, and I think that I may be a homosexual. Ancient Rome might be a good start."
At this, Sebastian only blinked in dumb confusion.
"I am very much more of a God than that children's story. I am the recording and the embodiment of all known time. We will give the ignorant, for the first time ever, a deserving God."
He closed his eyes and everything changed forever...

For the Older Crowd

2008-12-17T01:16:00.000-08:00

Don Rickles Vs. Ernest Borgnine?

Satire

2008-12-16T23:57:00.000-08:00

My boss gave me a ride 'mostathaway' home tonight on account of the solid-state precipitation that has been crowding the roads as of late. If he weren't such a straight, I swear I coulda landed a blowjob. What. A. Fag.
You may giggle a little bit at this point.

'show'sback!'

2008-12-16T23:49:00.000-08:00

My little brother was well-trained by our father. His first word was 'show'sback!'
Dig?
That's just the tip of the ice-berg. , ,,... ,. ./\..,,,. ..?!!!

Breathing Leads to Tragedy

2008-12-16T23:02:00.000-08:00

In P-town it's glacier (if 'glacier' were an adjective...), right now. My internet connection that has kinda 'crapped out' steadily, more and more, over the course of the last several days/months; presumably because of the weather and it's hydro-oxygenated solidity, and it seems that I have a wee window here in which to purge to satisfaction...
Still obsessed with death. Still working on long-term publication and making progress. I miss my mom. She's not getting any younger... Neither am I. Dad's dead so he's not getting any older(?) . My romance could fall to bits at any second but what other kind of romance is there...?
I've long considered that, maybe, the only perfect moment that any of us will ever have is that very last moment when we split perfectly in two 'twixt our last moment here, and the moment that may exist hereafter...
I'll believe in anything until it's dis proven...

holiday, schmoliday...

2008-12-09T01:07:00.000-08:00

There are probably a million bloggers out there in web-land smegging out their own brands of enthusiasm or nihilistic something-or-other, right this very minute, in regard to the 'festive' holiday season.
For me, it's a good occasion to play the role of a disembodied spirit. This Christmas thing makes me feel like an orphan from Vietnam, or an invader from outer-space, trying to fit into the culture of an alien planet.
If I can make it through to January 3rd then my mission will have been a success. The humans will tell me their secrets and the mothership will transmit a message to the Homeworld outlining the logistics of the next phase of the invasion...
A few x-mases 'neath my belt and they have yet to revoke my Earth VISA. What's taking them so long?

human contact. yuck. kinda.

2008-12-07T23:57:00.000-08:00

I prefer to keep my favorite things very private. I hate to think that another could be given the opportunity to make judgment calls on the genre that I may or may not exemplify.
What a queer (traditional definition) thing it is to live in a world so advanced that one may, with sober consideration, slice the layers of interaction down to whatever layer one may like.
"I wish for only a single drachma worth of stimulus from the outside world." Sure.
Kazaam! If that's all you need then you can write commentary on some other shit head's website or some other inconsequential nothing or other.
Not to deter anyone who may read this: I need feedback.
Fuck. I always say the wrong thing...
"'I'm willing to tell you, I'm waiting to tell you, I'm wanting to tell you.' That's the Welsh strain in 'im."-- Henry Higgins.
As far as I know, I possess no Welsh in my die-ribald- nuclear-acidity, but I love the goddam shite outta the Welsh types that I've known. I'm keen on those susceptible to flights of fancy...
Reverse racism? I shudder to think of the complexities that wait for me should I ever begin to consider the implications of my own inner monologue... *shudder*

work, cigs, beer, pizza

2008-12-04T19:13:00.000-08:00

I'd just gotten finished with my workly duties at the part-time job, having had only one cigarette four hours ago and I'd begun my shift four hours prior to that. A soft, yet persistent, animal growl had begun to reverberate in the back of my fragile brain; my cold weather gear in place I was carefully choosing my steps toward the exit when the boss (who is cool) hailed me with a wave into 'his office.'
Shortly thereafter we'd agreed that it would be good to give me more work and he'd fixed me with a dead-pan look: "We're all smart here. I think you fit in and it's clear that you want to learn and that you're made of the right material for me to feel good about giving you more responsibilities."
Blah blah blah. I was listening carefully but it was growing difficult.
I was at a severe disadvantage. Normally, my jonesin' manifests itself in the form of aggression, but this time I was receiving great news and a genuinely good employer was taking the time to recognize my qualities. It was no mean feat to suppress the tears.
I've been looking for regular work for quite awhile and this was news good enough to cut me to the bone, especially in my emotionally ragged state...
I was mechanically shifting my fingers back and forth in my coat pocket-'that's my matchbook, feels like about six left; that's my pack of smokes, feels like about 6 left'- while he showed me the combo to the front door of the place and let me know what I'd be doing for the next few days.
Cool. All right. Ok, ok, ok...
Finally outside and breathing the native cancer-weed of America, my weary bones shambling toward home, the long day's stressors had left each of my joints in the grip of hellish complaint, and it was the coldest night of the year, thus far.
Without deliberation, I was planning on getting a slice of pepperoni pie and a bottle of beer at the sweet-ass pizzeria on my way home; in the back of my mind I was constructing an elaborate scheme that would culminate in tricking my ex to agree to let me be her pimp. There would be a hidden camera, and microphone, and I would be able to show the whole world what a dirty little whore she was. Really ruin the bitch.
WTF?! I had cooked up the entire diabolical scheme over the course of approx. 20 minutes of walking without even realizing what I was doing.
I guess that I AM the sort to hold a grudge over a long period of time, after all....
At last, I arrived at Vincente's. The only other person sitting at the bar was an old man sipping on a bottle of Bud. He was only communicating in 'surly-grunt' and was, apparently, on his first bottle.
I was sipping a large bottle of 'Yellow Snow IPA' and the reasonably high alcohol content of the stuff was soothing warmth in me belly. Once my slice arrived the final stitch of that little pocket of heaven had been sewn: Joy!
About halfway through my slice the old man -hunched over on his bar-stool with the brim of his red ball cap coming down about halfway of his beaked nose- ordered his second beer.
"Do you want to start a tab, sir?" That's the little gal serving at the bar.
*grunt, grumble* A farmer? A veteran of the Korean War?
He was a leathery old fucker with simple clothes and beady eyes, and I didn't want to make contact with him or his. I hate being tried by the mean old men.
"Sir, that'll be five dollars unless you want to start a tab, and in that case I'll need a credit-card."
I knew what was going on. I'd tended bar before and I could tell when someone had no money and was trying to scam free beers. It was slowly dawning on her and I could tell that she was getting flustered. The other bartender was a big kid with a full sleeve of expensive ink (that's 'tattoos' for the un-initiated) on and I could tell that he had no fucking clue either.
Munch munch, on my delicious pizza and I didn't say a word. The right thing for them to have done at that point would've been to snatch away his unfinished second beer and politely ask the old grump to leave.
Meanwhile, the evening dinner crowd was trickling in and the big fella with the ink was idiotically helping those ones out instead of doing the manly thing and taking over with the surly old grunter. He had one fist around the empty bottle and the other wrapped around the new bottle.
"Sir, I cannot serve you if you don't have any money," she was pleading at that point. It was kind of sad. The old grunter was fumbling around with an old leather wallet with contrived difficulty and, predictably, the only thing in his wallet was his food-stamp card. I was trying not to grin at the two young bartenders for I had applied for their jobs and been rejected a coupla times; to me it was some kind of twisted poetic justice...
"Sir, I can't serve you if you don't have any money. Do you have five dollars?"
He grunted unintelligibly and, finally, the girl snagged the unfinished bottle from him.
"It's time for you to leave, sir."
He did.
The inked bartender informed us that the same old man was in there the year before and that he'd pulled the same stunt then. And(!) he'd been intelligible, calling the fella a "fucking punk," and he'd even tried to steal their tip-jar.
It happens all the time in this town. I settled up and made my way home.

Shite Web-Connection

2008-12-04T00:28:00.000-08:00

I hate those times (all-too-frequent...) that I order this fawkin' machine to perform a task on the web and it sits here with it's guts whizzing and grumbling and after long, excruciating minutes down at the bottom of the screen, it says "done," and I'm still staring at a blank data-window.
It's like asking a spectator at the Special Olympics to help you tie your shoes cuz yer thumbs are broken, or whatever, and before you know it they've impossibly knotted the laces of both yer shoes together and they're like, "All done!," grinning up at you like Santa Claus(!) just gave 'em the best hand-job ever.
I'd like these modern amenities a lot more if they functioned as advertised. Meanwhile, I'm just waiting for the right attorney to come along and say, "Hey, Gale-Force Nothing. I'm a big fan. How ya doin'? I read your 'shite web connection' bit and I think we've got a great case here. We're talking serious mullah m'man, whaddya say?"
*sigh*

Limits

2008-12-03T23:55:00.000-08:00

I love this poem by, Jorges Luis Borges...

Limits

Of all the streets that blur into the sunset,
there must be one (which, I am not sure)
that I by now have walked for the last time
without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
sets up a secret and unwavering scale
for all the shadows, dreams, and forms
woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
and a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
who will tell us to whom in this house
we without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
and among the stacked books that throw
irregular shadows on the dim table,
there must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
with its cement urns and planted cactus,
which is already forbidden to my entry,
inaccessible, as in a lithograth.

There is a door you have closed forever
and some mirror is expecting you in vain;
to you the crossroads seem wide open,
yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain,
neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
said in his language woven with birds and roses,
when, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
you wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily-flowing Rhone and the lake,
all that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
they are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.

We know. We know it all.

2008-11-30T21:19:00.000-08:00

No matter how clever you think you are, there will always be somebody who will turn your reason upside-down. The most lucid thought that you've got beneath your hat is an enigma to them and there's no changing that.
You're not wrong and they're not correct; you're simply on different planets.
Comprende?
At this point you've perhaps construed the fact that I'm engaged in the most philosophical of pursuits, and one of the oldest.
Man and Woman.
They go together like ribs and body-blows. No biblical pun intended...
It is here that I cannot help but surmise, now, the possibility that some men are women, and that some women are men; kinda like 'body-snatchers' style madness.
It all adds up. Could they all be so dilluded into believing that none of this matters; and, who are they? Could it be that we are they, and that we haven't given one another the time of day for the span of Mayan years and years?
The idea of men and women being some sort of separate species is ludicrous.
That sounds, to me, like a weak-ass disclaimer that might've been put into place in order to keep people from feeling obligated to understand our other halves. We are not different species, we are part of an equation; it is our obligation to struggle toward the conclusion without assuming the conclusion.
It seems to me that all has become more fluid as the world advances; the colors have bled together and nothing is as it was and nothing will ever be the same.

Promises to Keep...

2008-11-29T16:29:00.000-08:00

I've got a bottle of red sitting in a shady hiding spot. If it were on the table right now where I could see it I'm afraid it would turn into a mere bottle of air before you could say, 'alcoholic.' I've made a deal with myself that keeps me from breaking into the booze before sundown; the lease on that one will be good and canceled by April at the latest...
Meanwhile, I bribe myself to get all my shit taken care of, during the day, instead of getting cacked as soon as the first twitches begin to whisper their dark message to my liver; "you're impervious to cirrhosis, yesssssss...."
I wanna drink!
'I'll take out the recycling first.'
Now can we drink?
'Er, those dishes need to be done.'
Dishes are more fun wiv a bit o' sauce...
'After.'
Howboutnow?
'I should make something to eat. Maybe take a vitamin or some such shit.'
Round and round we go; me and the thirsty little imp, anxiously shuffling it's feet on my shoulder. Doin' the imp equivalent of the pee-pee dance it goes, and the other shoulder is suspiciously vacant.
The street-lamps have come to life outside and the imp has transformed into a dragon, uncurling and ravenous, eager to drain the life-blood of it's prey...

magma-born bacteria

2008-11-28T01:26:00.000-08:00

Darlings! I've missed you so!
I am opening the velvet curtains of my misery, very soon now. For those of you that are unfamiliar with the disfiguring effects of grief and woe; I have a special gift for you. You freaks out there with too much familiarity with grief; it will never end. Get over not being able to get over it!
I am very close to publishing my impressions of standing around the death-bed of my late father. It's not going to be pretty. I knew him before he was an urn. Think of the most vital person that you've ever known and summon the smart part of your brain that understands what a detriment it is to lose contact with the major elements that shook and shaped you.
If you cannot cry on command then I don't think you're paying attention.
Or, maybe, you need to loosen up abit... It's only going to get uglier, kids... Have a laugh...
Did you catch the little up-date that tells us that there is a new microbe that lives inside of thrushing, MAGMA. Apparently, there are single-cell organisms swimming around inside of molten rock. If you ever thought that Darwin was your friend, think again...

Life Sucks

2008-11-26T17:53:00.000-08:00

Okay, I admit it. I'm on unemployment. I live in Oregon and I'm job-seeking but times are hard for someone with skills as limited as mine, not to mention my drop-out status, and I'm losing hope.
I went to the ATM to withdraw my weekly $ and it said 'insufficient funds,' to me. I thought, 'That's not funny! I haven't even touched my funds yet. WTF?!'
I went home to check my account on-line and, guess what? The 'relia-card' web-site that assures me 5star service while I try to get back on my feet tells me that I made a $100 dollar withdrawal this afternoon at exactly the same time that I attempted to collect that money.
I have no money.
Happy mutherfuckin' Thanksgiving! Yay! Every time I need to collect money during even the meekest of holidays it seems that I'm fed another trail-mix turd to eat before I can get another inoculation of that self-sustaining American Dollar.
Job-hunting wouldn't be difficult enough without having to deal with this crap so I feel very grateful. I need to keep sharp, somehow, right?
The cherry on top would be a shot-gun blast to my face and then I could go to that ugly-suicide heaven with all of the other interesting people who suspected that this 'living on Earth' thing wasn't as hip as we've been led to believe/hope.
I can only think of the immortal words: 'Suicide is the highest form of self-criticism.'
I'm tempted... Don't worry. From all indication, my true calling is to be destitute and cold. I'll be there soon...
I can't wait to see what happens, come Christmas!

A Very Ramsey Thanksgiving

2008-11-26T13:00:00.001-08:00

Have you ever heard of the show Hell's Kitchen or Kitchen Nightmares?
Chef Ramsey is a badass and I love his work but I can't help daydreaming of a SNL, Thanksgiving special where he treats his family dinner like an episode of Kitchen Nightmares.
Enter, Chef Ramsey: It's biting cold outside and he pulls his collar up to protect himself from flurries of snow. Outside of his mother's house he turns around to face the camera and speaks.
"Well, let's see. Another town, the same shit."
He opens the door and is embraced by the warmth of firelight and a mess of friendly faces.
With a kindly salutation he immediately makes his way to the candle-lit dining table. No one else has sat down yet but he is demanding items from the 'menu' as though he were in a restaurant or cafe.
"Lessee. I would like equal parts light-meat and dark-meat. Mashed potatoes and gravy, and a slice of honeyed ham. I want a fresh roll with butter, and a scoop of fresh stuffing. Don't forget the sweet-potatoes. Thanks."
His mother is wringing her hands nervously in her apron and it is evident from her expression that she is at a loss for words. Her eyes shift back and forth but she finds no help from the family members that have crowded around the door to the kitchen to get a better view.
"Honey? Is this...?," a pleading look on her face.
"There's no problem is there?" Chef Ramsey shoots her an inquiring look, eye-brow arched.
"No. No problem dear. I... I'll be right back."
"Oh, and cranberry sauce, please. Thanks."
She gingerly navigates the pots, pans, and platters to construct his plate.
"You must be starved." She manages a weak smile; her eyes quest toward his in an effort to descry the meaning of his strange behavior but see only a stranger wearing her son's features.
Brandishing knife and fork, Ramsey takes a whack at the turkey. Dipping a tidbit of birdflesh into a pool of gravy he brings it to his mouth and begins to chew VERY slowly. His brow furrows as he tries to swallow what appears to have the attributes of a tennis-ball.
Pushing away from the table the chair he's sitting on makes the requisite dragging sound across the wooden floor and he moves mechanically to the counter and grabs a glass and a bottle of Pinot. After re-seating himself he pours himself an over-full glass of Pinot and quaffs it like a medieval serf after a long day of hard labor.
He slowly grabs his fork and makes an attempt at the stuffing.
Before you can say 'hurk' he's whipped the linen napkin from his collar, arched his back like a cat and begun to make gagging noises.
Staring at his mother in disbelief and only slightly concealed revulsion he stands up and wipes the corners of his mouth with his sleeve.
"I think I've had enough. You call this Thanksgiving dinner? I wouldn't feed this shit to a dog!"
She visibly shrinks before his ire and begins to splutter. "John! You've always loved Thanksgiving dinner here. What's the matter with you?!"
He's just finished downing another glass of Pinot and has begun rooting through the steaming pots and pans on the stove-top.
"The name's Ramsey. Chef Ramsey. What have we here?" Upon opening the fridge, he scowls and begins to take out unmarked containers. "How long has this been in the refrigerator? How long?"
"Uh, two days, I think?"
The onlooking family is nervously shuffling their feet and avoiding eye-contact with the strange man who appears to be dissecting their refrigerator.
"Disgusting! Utterly foul!" He reaches way back into the cooling unit and withdraws a Tupperware container. Peeling away the lid he sees an indecipherable lump of dessicated vegetable-matter and throws the little stink-package into the kitchen sink, gagging a bit.
This seems to call for another glass of wine and before you can say 'lush' it's been emptied.
"Thishas alll gotta go!" He stumbles around to the cupboard where the trash-bags are kept, not realizing that the upper cupboard is open and before you can say 'bam!' he's bonked his melon on said cupboard and is lying unconscious on his back in the middle of the kitchen floor.
His poor mother is fighting back tears of confusion and anger.
"Should we call the Police?," asks Ramsey's slightly balding, paunch-bellied cousin.
"He just hasn't been the same since he got his fame," mutters his niece.
"He probably just needs to sleep it off. He's been acting a bit strange since that 'nightmares' show. Lay him on his back so he doesn't choke on his own vomit..."

tick-tock, tick-tock

2008-11-25T23:35:00.000-08:00

You've just brushed a thick layer of dust from the surface of your father's old army locker-box and cracked apart the old lock that's kept it's latch in place for what could have been decades.
You would never have hazarded such an investigation if he were still breathing in the causal substance of the universe, but...
After riffling through old maps and documents which, though intellectually stimulating, offer no immediate satisfaction you continue to pick through the private artifacts preserved in Dad's old crate.
A fine pair of dueling pistols, a compass degraded by time & etc., an alligator skin flask from (?); what really catches your eye appears to be a fist-sized jewelry box fitted in honey-colored velvet. It looks very-fine and your heart pumps a bit faster as your fingers grasp it and bring it up from the old wooden trunk.
The box seems to give off it's own warmth and when you pry it open the fragrance of jasmine and hashish gently embrace your senses. Not that you know the odour of hashish....
Inside, in much more cunningly worked golden velvet, you are taken aback by the sight of what appears to be a jewel-bedecked locket, or an old pocket-watch, or you don't know. Just pry it open!
Of course you do, Sucker(!), and of course it's not an old locket or pocket watch; it is two halves of a semi-flattened egg with hinges between and no purpose other than to exhale a slow coalescence of emerald-colored smoke.
It makes sense, finally, when said 'smoke' condenses into the shape of a djinn of about the height of your outstretched hand.
Bobbing imperiously on a pillow of emerald, it's lips move and a powerful voice booms from it's diminutiveness beseeching you to ask of it a question, only one question, which it will answer with absolute truth under the condition that you ask before the second-hand of the clock makes a full revolution and sends the little scamp back to it's intermittent 50yr slumber.
Well? Think quickly!
*To get all theological and question the existence of God, turn to pg. 50.
*To seek great fortune turn to pg. 496.
*If you are after great power turn to pg. 807.
*Seeking the love of your life? Turn to pg. 2,035.
*Concerned about the future? Try pg. 1002.
*Obsessed with the past? See pg. 2,642.
*Frightened for your sanity? I recommend pg. 299.
*Is the pursuit of knowledge your obsession? pg. 2,400.
*Do you like candy? See pg. 20.

boo hoo

2008-11-24T23:01:00.000-08:00

This is the desperate flailing of someone too old to be calling themselves an 'orphan.'
I thought I might've been able to establish some kind of twisted, postmortem bond with my recently deceased father by working the stuff of the almighty written word.
Self-deceiving fool that I am...
The not so old, Old Man, denied the squirming things of the field a wicked feast by choosing immolation over the coffin. I mourn for that which died with that mean ol', uncompromising, tell it like it is, sonuvabitch. He was like The Riddler, if The Riddler was a tough-as-leather, gun-toting, 300yr old, interesting person. If ever I was off my game I would know it immediately because I couldn't understand a bit of what he was saying; bastard was so damn quick! He was never wrong, honest...
Now, each time an Islamic fundamentalist takes a bellyfull of shrapnel, along with his nearest and dearest fuck-face buddies, I shed a silent tear because Dad is dead. The death-toll has lost it's lustre. What's a death-toll without comedic relief?
From his archives, I've learned more about the man that I so vigorously avoided, and can only express regret that I didn't learn his language whilst yet he lived. Fuck.

If Dogs Can Smell Cancer...

2008-11-21T13:22:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, when I'm on my own, an empty section of air will mysteriously seem to gain occupancy. I'm not sure whether it's a reflex from my days as a devout Christian when I struggled always to feel the presence of the Spirit, or if it's the early manifestation of some really fun type of dementia.
God, ghosts or aliens? Perhaps I'm sensitive to something on the peripheral of 'all this' the way that dogs can smell cancer...
I'll probably never know. At least I can get myself good and creeped out for no apparent reason. *sigh*

Just a Thought?

2008-11-15T11:59:00.000-08:00

Angel Soft toilet-paper. There's got to be something criminal about naming a toilet paper that. What are they trying to imply? "Got the winter-time drip? Out of tissue? Wipe that snot on an angel!" or, "Angel Soft toilet-paper! It's like wiping your ass with an angel!" or "Angel Soft toilet-paper! It's like having an angel wipe your ass for you. Feel like The King of Hosts!"
I'm not sure, but whenever that's my option in the bathroom I can't help but wonder if the angels in the vicinity are laughing nervously or wishing that they existed so that they could kick my ass instead of me wiping it on their effigy.
I recommend generic brands of TP for your ass-wiping needs. Try that Walgreen's stuff. That way you wont offend anyone or anything.

Here We Are

2008-11-15T02:38:00.000-08:00

Well, well, well... You've stumbled across something rare indeed! Only the second blog ever by a talented genius born in the U.S. of A.
Such delights I have in store for you! Let's see, uhm... Self-indulgent rants on how unfair and stupid the inhabitants of my tiny little world be!!! Mwwwhahaha! Er, let's see... Hack fiction!!! YES! Do not turn away now, my friend! There is so much more for your questing eyes to find, so MUCH virgin text for your lascivious eyes to caress and your mind to hold!
Wait.... Nevermind. That's all for now. My apologies. That's really it. Damn.

Headache

2008-11-15T02:33:00.000-08:00

If this is a place where people go to purge their demons then I can only guess at what sorts of bottom-feeding detritum feed here and what hideous forms they may have adopted to thrive in a place so rich in barbs and ill-will....