I enjoy hearing people. Give me someone to listen to, and I'll pay attention sympathetically as long as they remain entertaining. In that sense, the first five minutes or so tend to be the best from strangers, or a group of people. The problem is they run out of things to say.
That's where I like to interject. I may not be the best talker, but I can listen fairly well, and I include questions to be a part of the listening process. Yet, simply, people don't have much to say, and thus questions must become more random and direct.
When boredom sets in, but the desire to communicate remains, that is when the best conversational pieces emerge. Maybe it's the surprise of the question, like following up a baseball conversation with a question about a person's stance on abortion. Comforting dialogue followed by harsh, real communication leaves a person without the serenity of thought, leading to a true voice. However, it's easy to lose a person with this technique.
You see, I don't really much care about what you are saying, just that you are saying something, and trying to find a topic that a person doesn't want to talk about is usually the best way to find out the spirit of someone. Refusing to comment will only increase my intrigue, and sure, I'll be a bastard if I need to.
Humans are entertainment, not much else, and it is their fear of being the entertaining focus that makes people hesitate. “Oh no,” they must think, “I might be offensive or dull, or find myself caught in an argument I'm ill-prepared for.” And so it must be that most people avoid this position to avoid being themselves, to further the characters they have created of themselves to perpetuate their own fiction.
“I must not have my opinions. I must be the tolerant complier interlocutors expect of me.”
But I'll let you in a tip: your thoughts don't matter, as chances are they are extremely flawed. God, politics, drugs, children—your views on these situations are nothing more than spectacle, fickle adaptations of a mind and world you know nothing about.
But everyone has their absolutes, those aspirations and ideals they cling to in order to have an identity, not for others, but for themselves. That is how we address our beings, basically. Our absolutes give us something to retrieve when we need thoughts. And it's comical.
The unawareness of this comedy is why talking can be so satisfying. A person will likely have more to say about their stance on the Olympics than their stance on death. While I hope this is avoidance at its best, it could boil down to the fact that we have no real concern about the lives we experience.
How do we combat this mentality? By being true and honest to our voices. By refusing to not subject ourselves to our own insecurities and doubts regarding the path verbal intercourse take. While in this mode, we must remind ourselves to be cognizant of the fact that are words are mere pleasure, entertainment for the sake of interaction, not some sort of moment where our identities are put on trial.
Ask the questions you'd like to hear answers to, and don't be shy to be confident in your reaction. Take away a few layers of skin, and it may hurt, but you will actually feel more.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Free T-Shirt
Got robbed again last week.
Try to turn the other cheek.
My face is bruised and red.
I can't wait til' I'm dead.
Doin' speed, crack, and cocaine.
It's fuckin' up my brain.
No silver lining in my cloud;
But I'm working and I'm proud.
At the Student Alumni Association,
The Student Alumni Association.
We like to get high and go on vacation
At the Student Alumni Association.
It gives me reason to live.
No longer live in sin.
Gets better every day
In every fuckin' way.
At the Student Alumni Association,
The Student Alumni Association.
We like to get high and go on vacation
At the Student Alumni Association.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Below the Subjective Arsenal of Ardent Quality
The first time I experienced cumin I was roughly 20-years-old, half inebriated, soaking in the horrible deluge of my brother’s charmed Miller Lite. I never had a tongue for the stuff, but when I was younger I could forgive myself of such disagreements.
So there we were, playing games the way people play them, and my brother fancied an oven baked treat, and perhaps the greatest oven-made treat created by drunken men: the frozen pizza. Every man has his pizza folly that he frequents, and my brother was no exception. Yet, he was able to strike a chord in me, which ran deep into the bowels of my stomach-loins.
He took out a delectable Totinos Mexican pizza and applied the brown spice of Indian sages, the powerfully aromatic seed that was used to wet the snatches of many young Arabic whore-muses centuries ago. That first taste unloaded a plethora of fond newfound blisses; must’ve had me about six or seven slices of pIZza, Jenny.
When I returned to my own land, hundreds of minutes away, on the crisp, glass laden streets of Mo’town (My town, Yo town, Mo’Town!) I knew I had to obtain a prepackaged fix of the spice.
When my mother went grocerying, I politely inquired, “Um, mom, can you, uh, get me some cumin? Please?” She said, “Sure Tommy,” and even though I was quite disappointed that my mother couldn’t remember my name, still after two decades, I waited and jacked off about four times, anxiously anticipating my little bottle of cumin.
As I reached my own kitchen, there it was, in my bag alongside my jammies and pictures of Linda Ronstadt. And then I opened the jar, took a big whiff, and hurriedly moaned out, “HOLY FUCK! This shit smells like concentrated Mexican taints.”
And I’ve added cumin to everything since.
So there we were, playing games the way people play them, and my brother fancied an oven baked treat, and perhaps the greatest oven-made treat created by drunken men: the frozen pizza. Every man has his pizza folly that he frequents, and my brother was no exception. Yet, he was able to strike a chord in me, which ran deep into the bowels of my stomach-loins.
He took out a delectable Totinos Mexican pizza and applied the brown spice of Indian sages, the powerfully aromatic seed that was used to wet the snatches of many young Arabic whore-muses centuries ago. That first taste unloaded a plethora of fond newfound blisses; must’ve had me about six or seven slices of pIZza, Jenny.
When I returned to my own land, hundreds of minutes away, on the crisp, glass laden streets of Mo’town (My town, Yo town, Mo’Town!) I knew I had to obtain a prepackaged fix of the spice.
When my mother went grocerying, I politely inquired, “Um, mom, can you, uh, get me some cumin? Please?” She said, “Sure Tommy,” and even though I was quite disappointed that my mother couldn’t remember my name, still after two decades, I waited and jacked off about four times, anxiously anticipating my little bottle of cumin.
As I reached my own kitchen, there it was, in my bag alongside my jammies and pictures of Linda Ronstadt. And then I opened the jar, took a big whiff, and hurriedly moaned out, “HOLY FUCK! This shit smells like concentrated Mexican taints.”
And I’ve added cumin to everything since.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Scenery without solace is unnecessary.
In one of the most awe inspiring days of my life, I met a man who has brought art, creation, and the ability watch perfection to the world. He was trying on shoes at The Shoe Department when it happened. I grabbed a pair of Asics, he a pair of Keds. Our hands went for the same shoe size thingy and we struck up a conversation from there.
"I haven't used one of these things for years," he said.
"Me neither, why...I don't think my feet have grown since I was 17," was my reply.
"Well you go ahead and see what size you are. I think there's another one on the next bench."
"NAHHHH...shucks mister. I was always taught to respect my elders. You put your dirty feet on it first."
"You sir, just earned yourself a free lunch at the food court."
For the next three hours we sat at the food court eating corn dogs and talking. I felt like an 7-year old talking to He-Man in 1983, like this guy was a superhero who could fuck any bitch he wanted to, even though he wore Keds.
What really held the conversation was the fact that he invented the transparent toaster oven. I had loved Eggo waffles since I had teeth. I began making them when I was 4 on my own. At age 7 I was making over-easy eggs and dipping them in toast. However, it wasn't until my 15th birthday that I got a transparent toaster oven. From this moment on, my toast, waffles, bagels, and mice were never under or overcooked. I could watch my toast toast! My fascination made my newly grown asshairs straight and curly second by second. It felt good.
The very coolest thing I can say about my life is that I developed a secret handshake with the guy who invented the transparent toaster oven. The second coolest thing I can say? I won a years supply of creamy corn when I entered the county fair's 50/50 two summers ago, God Damnit anyway!
"I haven't used one of these things for years," he said.
"Me neither, why...I don't think my feet have grown since I was 17," was my reply.
"Well you go ahead and see what size you are. I think there's another one on the next bench."
"NAHHHH...shucks mister. I was always taught to respect my elders. You put your dirty feet on it first."
"You sir, just earned yourself a free lunch at the food court."
For the next three hours we sat at the food court eating corn dogs and talking. I felt like an 7-year old talking to He-Man in 1983, like this guy was a superhero who could fuck any bitch he wanted to, even though he wore Keds.
What really held the conversation was the fact that he invented the transparent toaster oven. I had loved Eggo waffles since I had teeth. I began making them when I was 4 on my own. At age 7 I was making over-easy eggs and dipping them in toast. However, it wasn't until my 15th birthday that I got a transparent toaster oven. From this moment on, my toast, waffles, bagels, and mice were never under or overcooked. I could watch my toast toast! My fascination made my newly grown asshairs straight and curly second by second. It felt good.
The very coolest thing I can say about my life is that I developed a secret handshake with the guy who invented the transparent toaster oven. The second coolest thing I can say? I won a years supply of creamy corn when I entered the county fair's 50/50 two summers ago, God Damnit anyway!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
on Why We Write Like Idiots
The discussion arose out of much timid laughter and brazen apologies. Too many people had insulted too many shipwrecked homophobes, only to end up with this scantily applied "worth saver" called Democracy. To wade in this newly formed government, amusing in theory to some, I decided to go on a lofty tanget about how Mildred's asshole reminded me much of New Jersey: full of shit.
See, back in the 1670s, they had these things called "jokes," named after Douche Earl the Duke of Jokes. He became wildly popular with his legendary scurvy impersonations. He actually just really hated vitamins, and was trying to make the trend of avoiding fruit popular. So anyway, I tried to match the Duke's clever attitude towards "laughter," at least that's what we used to call it. I think today's youth refer to it as "anal leakage," thus explaining Dane Cook's notoriety. Oh boy, is he boisterous!
See, back in the 1670s, they had these things called "jokes," named after Douche Earl the Duke of Jokes. He became wildly popular with his legendary scurvy impersonations. He actually just really hated vitamins, and was trying to make the trend of avoiding fruit popular. So anyway, I tried to match the Duke's clever attitude towards "laughter," at least that's what we used to call it. I think today's youth refer to it as "anal leakage," thus explaining Dane Cook's notoriety. Oh boy, is he boisterous!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Psycho Killlaaaah, Norman Bates
I wrote a song the other day in my sleep. It was awesome. I was rhyming and beatin and moving the tempo and skediddlin and skedattlin. The song was in my head when I woke up, and even though I knew it was musical genius, I took it to the shower with me only to forget it.
If everything was optional, I'd work as a dreamer who wakes up and has a studio in the next room. It would help if there was a device to record audio in dreams too. Why are we wasting money on feeding the hungry and not stepping it up with this sort of technology?
You know how there's those special, special kids who are like blind and are on breast milk their entire lives, but can play Beethoven after listening to the song once? I'm the guy who combines the RHCP, The Who, MGMT, and Willie Nelson, but then asks himself a thousand questions until he forgets it. Why am I tarded? Me want cake! Me want pie! Me stick hand out the window and catch big bee!!
If everything was optional, I'd work as a dreamer who wakes up and has a studio in the next room. It would help if there was a device to record audio in dreams too. Why are we wasting money on feeding the hungry and not stepping it up with this sort of technology?
You know how there's those special, special kids who are like blind and are on breast milk their entire lives, but can play Beethoven after listening to the song once? I'm the guy who combines the RHCP, The Who, MGMT, and Willie Nelson, but then asks himself a thousand questions until he forgets it. Why am I tarded? Me want cake! Me want pie! Me stick hand out the window and catch big bee!!
Monday, April 6, 2009
Taking Time For Daily Cheese
I awoke late in the day with the word sardonic in my head. I wasn't sure what it meant, but I wanted to use it properly in a sentence by the end of the day.
I had to ride the train down to the city. My iPod had just died, and the train was surprisingly noisy. More people were talking then usual; more cell phones and loud walking. I spent the ride staring at an old man. By his movements he appeared blind, yet he was shuffling a deck of cards. I got off the train feeling irritated.
Downtown was usual—windy. People and cars rush as quickly as the wind. What I despise most about the city is the fact you can go from smelling a fine restaurant to moldy trash in seconds. But I do enjoy the energy, like concentrated life. The scene makes me feel like I'm doing something.
I always walk by dancers from the university, and every time I expect them to spontaneously dance. Sometimes I worry the guys will see me checking them out, which inevitably happens while checking out the girls. I'm confused why they never have jackets on when it's so cold. They must really work up a sweat in class.
I finished up my downtown business and went home. I was trying to remember this kid from high school's name. Then I thought of his nickname, and blurted it out, “Bloody Tamponce.” I laughed out loud and some lady glared at me. She had a mustache.
I had to ride the train down to the city. My iPod had just died, and the train was surprisingly noisy. More people were talking then usual; more cell phones and loud walking. I spent the ride staring at an old man. By his movements he appeared blind, yet he was shuffling a deck of cards. I got off the train feeling irritated.
Downtown was usual—windy. People and cars rush as quickly as the wind. What I despise most about the city is the fact you can go from smelling a fine restaurant to moldy trash in seconds. But I do enjoy the energy, like concentrated life. The scene makes me feel like I'm doing something.
I always walk by dancers from the university, and every time I expect them to spontaneously dance. Sometimes I worry the guys will see me checking them out, which inevitably happens while checking out the girls. I'm confused why they never have jackets on when it's so cold. They must really work up a sweat in class.
I finished up my downtown business and went home. I was trying to remember this kid from high school's name. Then I thought of his nickname, and blurted it out, “Bloody Tamponce.” I laughed out loud and some lady glared at me. She had a mustache.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Kidnapping Some Really Nice Kids
I raise eskimo children in my basement. We pour water in the sink and pretend to ice fish. Sometimes, they want to go outside, but I don't think it's such a good idea, not in April at least.
Last week one of the girls asked me if any polar bears were around. I told her not to ask questions because it made me angry. She knew I was kidding because I was grinning, and we laughed for a few minutes before I told her there weren't any here in the city. By then I think she already knew the answer though.
My goal is to see if the eskimos survive. It's refridgerated down there so I'm optomistic.
Last week one of the girls asked me if any polar bears were around. I told her not to ask questions because it made me angry. She knew I was kidding because I was grinning, and we laughed for a few minutes before I told her there weren't any here in the city. By then I think she already knew the answer though.
My goal is to see if the eskimos survive. It's refridgerated down there so I'm optomistic.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Hankering for some Chocolate
Man, did I want some chocolate! I wasn't sure how I was going to get it, but I knew it would happen.
First I had to go to Powell Street. That's where the balloon-shaping clowns are. My friend Ronald Frisky was one of them, and he usually had the best balloons. Once, I saw him shape a 19-tentacled kangaroo, which didn't make sense, but it was sweet nonetheless.
Down on Powell Street, Ronald (or Rummy Peaches, as we called him) was hitting on milfs and smoking meth. The double activity wasn't working too much for him, so ol' Rummy Peaches decided to shit in the corner alley. The strong wind wafted something terrible our way, and it made a young blonde girl cry while she was waiting for her Sharktopus to be made by Grimmy CuntFingaz. The crying made Grimmy angry, and he stabbed the balloon with a knife and told the girl to go to hell.
Well, damn it if that girl didn't go to hell, no less than five hours later. She was robbing a cancer care center with aborted fetuses (or feti, as idiots call them). She also threatened to piss on the adorable little puppies the center had for the patients to pet. One of those puppies came to bit the young girl in the ass. Schmuggles was from a long line of rightious dog-owners, including the 15th pope and Marisa Tomei. And so while the girl was lining up a tasty spraying upon the poodles cranium, Schmuggles bit her in the ass, with his foaming, rabid, rotting teeth. You see, most rightious people, and their pets, have such teeth, except for Marisa Tomei, who is just really, really hot.
What sent the girl to hell was the fact that she had homosexuals fuck her in the bite marks. For some reason, gods look down on that. Oh yeah, she was also eating Saint Pie, which is a terribly wonderful pastry made of nun vagina. You mix that with some graham crackers and caramel rum raisin ice cream and mmmmmm, you got some good eating. But, it sends you to hell.
Well, before the girl went to hell, she begged Satan (St. Luci) for one last Earthly treat: Twix bars stuffed in a pocket pussy. While the dark prince obliged, he kicked the little girl into the depths of his kingdom as she was about to take her first bite. After he laughed for twenty minutes, he took the pocket pussy over to Rummy Peaches, who shit in it, and gave me the Twix. Hooray! I got my chocalate. And a high five from Satan!
First I had to go to Powell Street. That's where the balloon-shaping clowns are. My friend Ronald Frisky was one of them, and he usually had the best balloons. Once, I saw him shape a 19-tentacled kangaroo, which didn't make sense, but it was sweet nonetheless.
Down on Powell Street, Ronald (or Rummy Peaches, as we called him) was hitting on milfs and smoking meth. The double activity wasn't working too much for him, so ol' Rummy Peaches decided to shit in the corner alley. The strong wind wafted something terrible our way, and it made a young blonde girl cry while she was waiting for her Sharktopus to be made by Grimmy CuntFingaz. The crying made Grimmy angry, and he stabbed the balloon with a knife and told the girl to go to hell.
Well, damn it if that girl didn't go to hell, no less than five hours later. She was robbing a cancer care center with aborted fetuses (or feti, as idiots call them). She also threatened to piss on the adorable little puppies the center had for the patients to pet. One of those puppies came to bit the young girl in the ass. Schmuggles was from a long line of rightious dog-owners, including the 15th pope and Marisa Tomei. And so while the girl was lining up a tasty spraying upon the poodles cranium, Schmuggles bit her in the ass, with his foaming, rabid, rotting teeth. You see, most rightious people, and their pets, have such teeth, except for Marisa Tomei, who is just really, really hot.
What sent the girl to hell was the fact that she had homosexuals fuck her in the bite marks. For some reason, gods look down on that. Oh yeah, she was also eating Saint Pie, which is a terribly wonderful pastry made of nun vagina. You mix that with some graham crackers and caramel rum raisin ice cream and mmmmmm, you got some good eating. But, it sends you to hell.
Well, before the girl went to hell, she begged Satan (St. Luci) for one last Earthly treat: Twix bars stuffed in a pocket pussy. While the dark prince obliged, he kicked the little girl into the depths of his kingdom as she was about to take her first bite. After he laughed for twenty minutes, he took the pocket pussy over to Rummy Peaches, who shit in it, and gave me the Twix. Hooray! I got my chocalate. And a high five from Satan!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)