I awoke with an absolute void in my chest. It felt as if my chest had been pulled and removed; my ribs jutting outwards, some tissue rippage into the core of my stomach. It didn't exactly hurt. I felt immobilized; stunned, thinking that by no means was movement possible and so I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, recollecting every thought in my life, reliving all the moment I couldn't forget no matter how hard I tried. I wanted pain, it would make more sense . Perhaps some lingering, incinerating pain would get me to try. But instead, I just lay there, for about fifteen of the longest minutes in existence, believing the whole time I'd end up dissolving around that void.
Then I got up. It was simple, as simple as one might expect. And there was still no pain, and no further consequences rather than the realization of that void. I still had my wits about me, and my balance. One of my first beliefs was not to look into the mirror. For some reason that terrified me. To feel that I have this absolute void in and on me, but not see it in the mirror? That'd damage me more than anything else. Or to think that there would be something reflecting from that mirror? I wanted none of it.
So I continued my normal routine; grabbed the keys from my basket, along with my wallet and gum, and took to walking downtown. When I got outside, I instantly got this notion that I hadn't been out in a long time, like everything looked eerily similar to the way things used to be. Even the cars looked odd, or out of place. I couldn't quite put it all together, so I just kept walking.
But then it hit me: the dizziness, the feeling that I would topple over any minute. Strange thing was, I knew I wouldn't fall over, as if I couldn't, so instead I meandered down the street like a wave; the crest of my head breaking along with the tides before billowing up again to start the whole process over. I was dizzy, and completely nauseous, but for some reason, the entire time, I had this insatiable certainty that I was okay. That somehow, within the next span of my life, things would turn out fine.
Eventually, I would come to thing it was all just pride.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Speak to Me/Breathe
It once held the flesh of a man who sold his body for war; and carried the needs of his pulse. But now they lie with pictures - and a flag.
It stopped moving thousands of miles away. Yet here it is, resting and coming to life.
Though no one will see it, the existence soon melts to explosion like a lighter in a fire. The mourners have no idea to think about his bones.
The skull has an impression. His is of fear.
It stopped moving thousands of miles away. Yet here it is, resting and coming to life.
Though no one will see it, the existence soon melts to explosion like a lighter in a fire. The mourners have no idea to think about his bones.
The skull has an impression. His is of fear.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Peanut Butter Jelly Time
I really enjoy listening to songs when I think I know the words, but really don't. Once I realize all the words to an entertaining song, I lose a mystique about it that let's me know, that to some degree, the song has absolution; but when I was singing it before, it was my opinion, my version of the song that I wanted to hear.
There are so many magnetic feelings toward anything that sticks in your head, but is still open for interpretation.
There are so many magnetic feelings toward anything that sticks in your head, but is still open for interpretation.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Damn the Ease
If she were ever to walk
I'd give her fingers and lanterns to taste
Yet this is not time to bathe
I seize the day by preaching danger
by giving entrails their due contortions
Heavens arise
let the dreams figure their own apprentices
give the clarinet-voiced whips more pleasure
Musings
prayers multiplied, copied
en masse
formal appeasals, satisfy my breathren
satisfy my explorations
And if the Eastern mud ever becomes intolerable
shoots about plays
of eager dismissals
she will abide to hand back my wrenches
No cause for affirmation
the actions remain detrimental
Satisfy me, for fuck sake
I'd give her fingers and lanterns to taste
Yet this is not time to bathe
I seize the day by preaching danger
by giving entrails their due contortions
Heavens arise
let the dreams figure their own apprentices
give the clarinet-voiced whips more pleasure
Musings
prayers multiplied, copied
en masse
formal appeasals, satisfy my breathren
satisfy my explorations
And if the Eastern mud ever becomes intolerable
shoots about plays
of eager dismissals
she will abide to hand back my wrenches
No cause for affirmation
the actions remain detrimental
Satisfy me, for fuck sake
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
How the Cream Reached A Frenzy
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.
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.
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!
Monday, March 30, 2009
Humpin' the Bed and Shit
Halloween, 2005. Lily was a pumpkin, Igby was a sailor, Flipper was a person in a mask, and I was a shoe horn. I felt like a chess champion among checker players though, because I carried my Uncle Gallagher's pillow case while the rest had fucking Jacko-lantern buckets and what not.
Luckily, cousin Mush came along with a bottle of vodka and some garbage bags. We filled the bags with leaves, climbed the trees along the sidewalk, and dumped them on people's heads. That got old once we finished the bottle.
All the while, I'd been having an okay time, but was a little pissed I walked to the middle of nowhere to Uncle Gallagher's the night before(when I could have been humping the springs loose on my bed) to wind up with an empty and enlarged dried up saliva case.
In a thoughtless act of desperation, I ran to the Lancelotion mansion to get my king-sized. I passed through the gate, rang the doorbell, and threw up all over the welcome mat. When Mrs. Lancelotion opened the door, she saw the remains of a mixture of semi-digested beef-a-roni, milk, and liquor. She went upstairs to call my mother, but wouldn't let me in because I hadn't been wearing shoes; and she was a bitch.
Long story short, I took the three remaining bags of king-sized from the foyer and passed out in the woods covered in chocolate and my vomit, only to wake up to see Uncle Gallagher trying to use me to take his shoes off. Man was I embarrassed.
(Picture: Slutty Girls on Halloween at the gas station.)
Mundane; It Figures
Baby changing bugaboo, crawling to the top of the highest cave bed, pick-a-licking boysenberries and pretending they are Aztec heads. Which witch will warrant wealth? Stoned killers secretly kayaking, singing Kristofferson, and blending an enigma of fanciful calla lilies, rummaging into past offices, demise and replicate, cross-over to the cross-hairs, pontificate the pageantry and buy them popsicles afterwards.
My mellow cousin's mildew, elongating like moss, shelves the corner of every imaginary shuffleboard diagram, and my weaker attempts to garner atrophy are still pleasing.
Happenstance brings us closer to residence and god-like angles.
Strangling the hope and breathing into it Fibonacci patterns.
I'll glue the idols together and decorate their chests with a laughable garland.
Perhaps them we'll win a visitor.
My mellow cousin's mildew, elongating like moss, shelves the corner of every imaginary shuffleboard diagram, and my weaker attempts to garner atrophy are still pleasing.
Happenstance brings us closer to residence and god-like angles.
Strangling the hope and breathing into it Fibonacci patterns.
I'll glue the idols together and decorate their chests with a laughable garland.
Perhaps them we'll win a visitor.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Jon Likes Metaphors
The blood ran down my arm like melting wax on a candle.
I watched it like a cat spotting an insect.
The wind swirled around me like a star being formed.
I looked up at the sky like a future pilot.
My blood then hit the dirt like a leaking faucet.
I was breathing like a dog out in the hot sun.
The snake disappeared like a mundane memory.
I dropped to the ground with the berries I was picking.
I watched it like a cat spotting an insect.
The wind swirled around me like a star being formed.
I looked up at the sky like a future pilot.
My blood then hit the dirt like a leaking faucet.
I was breathing like a dog out in the hot sun.
The snake disappeared like a mundane memory.
I dropped to the ground with the berries I was picking.
Sex Review: Ashley Contoga, Last Night's "Date"
Finally, someone has proved that being wild in bed doesn't mean being good. Though hyped-up by behavior and a perfectly revealing slut-suit, Ashley Contoga's sexual activity lead to much boredom and dry-taint.
Nothing could enliven the cheap attitude Contoga brought to the dip stick, with her awkward finger motions and look of genuine fright near eruption. On more than one occasion, I had to ask if she was alright.
Her fellating was likewise tiresome. While not overbearing with teeth, Contoga's accelerated demeanor for “finishing the job” didn't effectively work, but delayed the process for quite some time.
Though equipped with large funbags, Contoga's frame was less then stellar in warranting love explosions. Her below average stature was instantly appealing—the thought of swinging her around like a sparkler occurred more than once—but the lack of size hindered Contoga from thrusting into the crevices. And as RuPaul always said, “The crevices are where the battles are won."
Contoga did have some redeeming qualities. The most anticipating and exciting moments were the random statements she made during the slam-dance. During a dull, and particularly smelly, doggy turnabout, she practically whined, “I wanna feel your dick in my knee.” The convulsions caused by trying not to laugh were taken as signs of enjoyment, making her respond, “Hurt my baby tosies.”
She was well lubricated, and was incredibly easy to coerce. Not once was a suggestion rejected (obviously including the fuck-suggestion) thus escalating into more bizarre ideas. Giving her a peace sign afterwards was an appreciated salutation, as well.
Yet, Contoga lacked a closer; something that brought things to the brim, and fired them out at a hundred miles per hour. Instead, most of the maneuvering was as exciting as the LPGA, and the money shot was more of an excuse then a celebration. While seductively garbed in bonerfying attire, sex with Contoga is like a really promising sound-check followed by the worst show ever.
Nothing could enliven the cheap attitude Contoga brought to the dip stick, with her awkward finger motions and look of genuine fright near eruption. On more than one occasion, I had to ask if she was alright.
Her fellating was likewise tiresome. While not overbearing with teeth, Contoga's accelerated demeanor for “finishing the job” didn't effectively work, but delayed the process for quite some time.
Though equipped with large funbags, Contoga's frame was less then stellar in warranting love explosions. Her below average stature was instantly appealing—the thought of swinging her around like a sparkler occurred more than once—but the lack of size hindered Contoga from thrusting into the crevices. And as RuPaul always said, “The crevices are where the battles are won."
Contoga did have some redeeming qualities. The most anticipating and exciting moments were the random statements she made during the slam-dance. During a dull, and particularly smelly, doggy turnabout, she practically whined, “I wanna feel your dick in my knee.” The convulsions caused by trying not to laugh were taken as signs of enjoyment, making her respond, “Hurt my baby tosies.”
She was well lubricated, and was incredibly easy to coerce. Not once was a suggestion rejected (obviously including the fuck-suggestion) thus escalating into more bizarre ideas. Giving her a peace sign afterwards was an appreciated salutation, as well.
Yet, Contoga lacked a closer; something that brought things to the brim, and fired them out at a hundred miles per hour. Instead, most of the maneuvering was as exciting as the LPGA, and the money shot was more of an excuse then a celebration. While seductively garbed in bonerfying attire, sex with Contoga is like a really promising sound-check followed by the worst show ever.
Killing Me Softly
We had monkeys for pets in the 30s, but sometimes they would kill a child by throwing rocks at them. A lot of times you'd hear of parents buying monkeys when they hated their child; once the monkey did its deed, they'd get traded for some fabric now that the mothers had more free time to quilt and there were other parents out there who wanted a dead kid.
Nobody suspected the monkeys were hitmen. Everyone just assumed it was the cool fad, having a monkey as a pet.
I think we do the same thing today with our watch boxes, or what the kids nowadays call tv's or td's I believe. Instead of the children actually dying, they just spend 18 years in a portalled coma until they don't have to care for them anymore. The National Karaoke contest show on td is basically today's version of your 1930s monkey.
Call me old fashioned and out of touch with the times, but I don't see the point in spending money on food to feed your kids if you're going to kill their soul. (Do you know what I had to do during the depression for a loaf of stale bread? I beat up homeless people.) Just buy a monkey and do everyone a favor.
Nobody suspected the monkeys were hitmen. Everyone just assumed it was the cool fad, having a monkey as a pet.
I think we do the same thing today with our watch boxes, or what the kids nowadays call tv's or td's I believe. Instead of the children actually dying, they just spend 18 years in a portalled coma until they don't have to care for them anymore. The National Karaoke contest show on td is basically today's version of your 1930s monkey.
Call me old fashioned and out of touch with the times, but I don't see the point in spending money on food to feed your kids if you're going to kill their soul. (Do you know what I had to do during the depression for a loaf of stale bread? I beat up homeless people.) Just buy a monkey and do everyone a favor.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
In the Withered Winter Coquetry
"Never fuck yourself with cold palms."
I can still hear those words of motherly wisdom, echoing in my brain everytime titillation is on the rise. What's worse is, even though the slogan still runs true, I never remember my mittens.
We were on the run from LEO when Pauly Shore decided to start chucking things out the window. We called him that because he had an abnormal amount of comedic potential, but tended to just annoy us. Anyway, we were going down 518 when suddenly Pauly told me to shove off to the left. Now, where I come from, shoving off to the left meant buttering the little brain boy, whereas shoving off to the right meant prickling the pubic proprietor. So, I preceeded to shove off to the left, which made Pauly disgusted and appauled.
"It's not my fault," I tried to tell him. "I always respond instantly to the things people tell me to do."
So when Bobby Sue Mulligan told me to suck an egg in 7th grade, I pulled off her dandelion skirt and tried to suck me an egg. I didn't know, at the time, that such things were frowned upon. This caused my mother to give me more advise:
"Rick's a quick lick away from getting his nick shpricked."
Unfortunately, savage incontinents carried off mother before she could explain what shpricking was.
I can still hear those words of motherly wisdom, echoing in my brain everytime titillation is on the rise. What's worse is, even though the slogan still runs true, I never remember my mittens.
We were on the run from LEO when Pauly Shore decided to start chucking things out the window. We called him that because he had an abnormal amount of comedic potential, but tended to just annoy us. Anyway, we were going down 518 when suddenly Pauly told me to shove off to the left. Now, where I come from, shoving off to the left meant buttering the little brain boy, whereas shoving off to the right meant prickling the pubic proprietor. So, I preceeded to shove off to the left, which made Pauly disgusted and appauled.
"It's not my fault," I tried to tell him. "I always respond instantly to the things people tell me to do."
So when Bobby Sue Mulligan told me to suck an egg in 7th grade, I pulled off her dandelion skirt and tried to suck me an egg. I didn't know, at the time, that such things were frowned upon. This caused my mother to give me more advise:
"Rick's a quick lick away from getting his nick shpricked."
Unfortunately, savage incontinents carried off mother before she could explain what shpricking was.
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