It’s pretty much public knowledge that I would chew a certain actress’s panties as part of the recommended daily allowance of seven important vitamins and minerals. What might surprise you, Dear Glorious Revolutionary, is the fact that at 11:59 on a Thursday night I realized just how deep my devotion for this unnamed saint of a woman is. I dreamt about her and, lo, she was not naked. And I saw that she was not naked. And it was good.
Granted certain people can be covered in wet leaves and still give off l’orgaseem (French for le damn), but in the dream she wore a suit vest over a plain white tee, and a pair of biker shorts (no, thank YOU, Jesus). Shoes? I dunno. I didn’t get to her feet.
The point is, the mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure! Truth was I’d have loved to have had her naked and sliding across the room on baby oil. Gospel truth, no lie. But the addition of those mundane (yet trendy) clothes made brother want to grab the staff and go all biblical. I say unto ye: Boom shaka laka damn.
So instead of preaching this sermon to the Wife, I get up, and I scribble a few words (writing when horny is better than a Krispy Kreme off a model’s ass), then realize, hey, waitaminute, the internet’s on all day. And the YouTube thingey has every image of Man’s history ever recorded, including one nude scene from what I’m told is an unintentionally comedic take on Alexander the Great. Now, I ain’t no student of ancient cultures, but Colin Farrell as anything? Come on. Although I will say this: if you can take a movie sex scene with Rosario Dawson and turn it into the most cringe-worthy slapstick since Mr. Bojangles “accidentally” pimp slapped Shirley Temple, there’s a huge load of dubious talent in there somewhere.
Kudos, Mr. Farrell. Kudos.
So me and Willie watch it, and we’re laughing and we’re looking at each other like, you believe this shit?, when it dawned on me that the unnamed actress (ignore the previous sex paragraph) is more appealing to me clothed and funny and sexy and sultry and hopefully telepathic – HEAR MY THOUGHTS!— than butt naked on a million dollar set. For as much as I would ride an old woman to get to her, her true appeal, my friends...is her soul.
Yeah, marinate for a minute. Flowers and sitars and everything.
Ride an old woman...to get to the one you love. That’s deep.
The soul thing is deep too.
I didn’t even watch the whole clip, because know what? I respected her too much. That wasn’t her on my ‘puter any more than those were her boobs the size of Volvos on your neighborhood multiplex screen that one weekend when Alexander was out. Imagery is nothing but light fooling us. I’m not black and you’re not white and roses aren’t red. Color is illusion. Light’s not the mixture of a lie, light IS the lie. The truth, my Revolutionaries, is in how we pile up the atoms. Can we get any deeper than that? Yes, but I’m not that smart. Last night was a mixture of dream and reality. I’ll make up a science-sounding word: duons. As in do unto others as they need to be done, with life and hunger and a deep appreciation for their various nibbly bits (which is reality). I was devoted to her all the way down to the duons.
So, all 3 of you reading this, the question that gnaws at your soul which only you can answer, is this: Who would you ride an old lady for?
Ride her hard.
I'm so glad dreaming is still free.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Damaged Goods
Class Action Product Liability Suit Filed Against The Creator Of Man
Suit filed against God
“Shoddy workmanship in every single model” cited
Fucked up citizens and their attorneys have filed suit in Federal Court alleging that God, in His capacity as Supreme Creator, giver of Life Most High, did willfully saturate global markets with products He knew were dangerously flawed .
Stunned citizenry reacted swiftly. “Jesus Christ!” said Jesus (the Christ) of Nazareth, Jerusalem, one of the plaintiffs who initially approached the law firm of Ganos, Opply. “I’m trying to do my job, bring the truth and share the Good News, and God’s creations, Ok, God’s, string me up—-then stab me in the side to see if I’m dead. Who does that? What kind of software accounts for that? I swear, I couldn’t move that boulder fast enough to get out of there!” Plaintiffs seek punitive damages in excess of 800 bazillion dollars with redress to be shared equally among the entire human race.
Sources close to the Creator confirm that it was indeed His signature on the order “Be fruitful and multiply”, a direct consequence of which was the creation of fuckups Nero of Rome, Idi Amin formerly of Uganda, and John Glosternell of Eastpointe, Michigan.
Attorney Phillip Loquell, a noted asshole and lead counsel for the plaintiffs, confirmed for reporters that he, himself, was a prick. “I’m one of the most unpleasant and egomaniacal attorneys pretty much in the Iowa State Bar, graduated top of my class while holding down two jobs, and I wake up most mornings trying to wish my family away.” Loquell visibly swallowed before smoothing his thinning hair, a habit increased in frequency since his fifty-first birthday. “How sick is that, right? My second wife’s only seven years older than my son. Seriously, how the hell does that happen?”
Counsel for the defendant insists that the ways of God cannot be fathomed by Man and that this is all a big misunderstanding.
“Nowhere is it stated or implied that Our Father is obligated to maintain each and every unit He produces, and, if you’ll notice, each unit arrives to factory specs,” said Edric Jerome Prew, founder and senior partner, Spratt, Prew & Fine. “What people do with their units is no one’s fault but their own.”
“We would expect counsel for such an egregious deity to resort to something as duplicitous as invoking Free Will defense,” said Loquell. “Show me one human being on this planet who is not damaged, just one, and we’ll drop this suit.” Added Loquell: “Bunch of fuckups.”
Statements leaked from several depositions paint a damning picture of Our Celestial Shepherd. “All I know is that if God had performed a little due diligence in the design and manufacture of His products maybe, maybe…” said Hilary Bailor during her deposition as expert witness for the plaintiffs, trailing into silence, thoughts of the man waiting for her at home—Mr. Todd Bailor, not a complete ass but you know, not, well… just not.
The earth’s sapient citizenry assert that after billions of years you’d think God would have given up on being mysterious and unknowable and instead show a little more pride in His workmanship. Even Jeremy Elliott, a lineman at Chrysler’s Mack Avenue plant in Detroit, Michigan currently shaking his head in disgust while hoping to God the next round of random drug tests skipped him, knows that if he skimped like that on quality control he’d be fired and divorced before the ink dried on his pink slip. “Sickness and health, richer or poorer my ass,” confirmed Elliott.
All attempts at mediation having failed, counsel for the plaintiffs agree that while this lawsuit is necessary, no outcome will be truly satisfactory. “Nobody’s saying God is bad,” said Loquell. “Look at Carla Gugino, for Christ’s sake! You don’t get that from somebody who doesn’t care, but there has to be accountability. There has to be accountability.”
The Supreme Creator’s staff said Jehovah Most High could not be reached for comment, citing technical difficulties with Heaven’s communications apparatus.
“Typical,” said most of North America. “Probably outsourced everything to damn overseas.”
“’Technical difficulties’ my ass,” agreed Elliott around a mouthful of weed smoke filling the interior of his car directly after the end of his shift. Pausing to wonder whether or not to answer his wife’s call on the damned insistent cell phone, he muttered, “Can’t be reached for comment. How fucking predictable is that?”
As of press time all of humanity had grand ideas on how their expected settlement awards would make them happy and free, although everyone just kind of looked at everyone when asked what specific plans they had.
Suit filed against God
“Shoddy workmanship in every single model” cited
Fucked up citizens and their attorneys have filed suit in Federal Court alleging that God, in His capacity as Supreme Creator, giver of Life Most High, did willfully saturate global markets with products He knew were dangerously flawed .
Stunned citizenry reacted swiftly. “Jesus Christ!” said Jesus (the Christ) of Nazareth, Jerusalem, one of the plaintiffs who initially approached the law firm of Ganos, Opply. “I’m trying to do my job, bring the truth and share the Good News, and God’s creations, Ok, God’s, string me up—-then stab me in the side to see if I’m dead. Who does that? What kind of software accounts for that? I swear, I couldn’t move that boulder fast enough to get out of there!” Plaintiffs seek punitive damages in excess of 800 bazillion dollars with redress to be shared equally among the entire human race.
Sources close to the Creator confirm that it was indeed His signature on the order “Be fruitful and multiply”, a direct consequence of which was the creation of fuckups Nero of Rome, Idi Amin formerly of Uganda, and John Glosternell of Eastpointe, Michigan.
Attorney Phillip Loquell, a noted asshole and lead counsel for the plaintiffs, confirmed for reporters that he, himself, was a prick. “I’m one of the most unpleasant and egomaniacal attorneys pretty much in the Iowa State Bar, graduated top of my class while holding down two jobs, and I wake up most mornings trying to wish my family away.” Loquell visibly swallowed before smoothing his thinning hair, a habit increased in frequency since his fifty-first birthday. “How sick is that, right? My second wife’s only seven years older than my son. Seriously, how the hell does that happen?”
Counsel for the defendant insists that the ways of God cannot be fathomed by Man and that this is all a big misunderstanding.
“Nowhere is it stated or implied that Our Father is obligated to maintain each and every unit He produces, and, if you’ll notice, each unit arrives to factory specs,” said Edric Jerome Prew, founder and senior partner, Spratt, Prew & Fine. “What people do with their units is no one’s fault but their own.”
“We would expect counsel for such an egregious deity to resort to something as duplicitous as invoking Free Will defense,” said Loquell. “Show me one human being on this planet who is not damaged, just one, and we’ll drop this suit.” Added Loquell: “Bunch of fuckups.”
Statements leaked from several depositions paint a damning picture of Our Celestial Shepherd. “All I know is that if God had performed a little due diligence in the design and manufacture of His products maybe, maybe…” said Hilary Bailor during her deposition as expert witness for the plaintiffs, trailing into silence, thoughts of the man waiting for her at home—Mr. Todd Bailor, not a complete ass but you know, not, well… just not.
The earth’s sapient citizenry assert that after billions of years you’d think God would have given up on being mysterious and unknowable and instead show a little more pride in His workmanship. Even Jeremy Elliott, a lineman at Chrysler’s Mack Avenue plant in Detroit, Michigan currently shaking his head in disgust while hoping to God the next round of random drug tests skipped him, knows that if he skimped like that on quality control he’d be fired and divorced before the ink dried on his pink slip. “Sickness and health, richer or poorer my ass,” confirmed Elliott.
All attempts at mediation having failed, counsel for the plaintiffs agree that while this lawsuit is necessary, no outcome will be truly satisfactory. “Nobody’s saying God is bad,” said Loquell. “Look at Carla Gugino, for Christ’s sake! You don’t get that from somebody who doesn’t care, but there has to be accountability. There has to be accountability.”
The Supreme Creator’s staff said Jehovah Most High could not be reached for comment, citing technical difficulties with Heaven’s communications apparatus.
“Typical,” said most of North America. “Probably outsourced everything to damn overseas.”
“’Technical difficulties’ my ass,” agreed Elliott around a mouthful of weed smoke filling the interior of his car directly after the end of his shift. Pausing to wonder whether or not to answer his wife’s call on the damned insistent cell phone, he muttered, “Can’t be reached for comment. How fucking predictable is that?”
As of press time all of humanity had grand ideas on how their expected settlement awards would make them happy and free, although everyone just kind of looked at everyone when asked what specific plans they had.
Friday, March 16, 2012
i WISH i was in dixie...
War On Racism starts today: The Lohan-Diggs Initiative. Find somebody of a different hue you’d love to see naked (or, if you feel ready for universal love, shag till your spinal column snaps), then keep that image in mind as you encounter said hue(s) in real life. Note: those of you who are virulent racists may keep photos in your pockets for review.
Since racism tends to be fueled by self-hatred I’d like to take a moment to tell the Deep South: It’s OK. We know you actually love us. Everybody loves black folks. We remind you of Snickers Bars, what’s not to love? We know you know slavery was not cool. Not cool at all. Short sighted planning on the management’s part, we get that, we’ve all been there. I’d grease up my big, black Mandingo chest and hug every one of ya if I could. Let go the guilt, let go the ancestral shame. Cast aside that reactionary Safety Mechanism O’ Doom and join us.
Take my hand, Deep South. Let me take you to Love Land. Clarence, and I’m a Scorpio…
Let me float this by you: after a while you won’t be able to breed any more pig-eyed, sphincter-tight progeny willing to carry your psychosis forward. Gotta be blunt here, brothers: you’re obsolete. Even Racism 2.O is an obviously detectable virus; hell, even Norton Anti-Virus blocks it, and we know Norton ain’t for shit. Your numbers are dwindling. Your kids are learning Spanglish. Your oldest son’s got a black girlfriend. So’s your oldest daughter, and when she and Vanessa get married they plan to adopt an Asian child (still hot on the market). So I ask, what does it profit you to sell “2012: Don’t Re-Nig” bumper stickers (kudos on the wordplay, by the way), or introduce legislation that you know will disproportionately target the poor and historically disenfranchised without offering viable alternatives?
Nobody, not even Sarah Palin, is stupid because they want to be. Not deep down. But human beings are Cling-Ons, holding to whatever scrap bumps against them when they feel they’re floating in perilous waters. When they feel threatened. But you’re holding onto a false assumption. We’re not after your jobs (yeah we are), your women (yeah we are), or the America you want to take back (Kraft Mac-n-Cheese uses Rap in their jingles; you’ve already lost, son)— these things are not yours to own in the first place. This ain’t a game of marbles where you can just gather yours up and go home. We earn the jobs same as you. “Your” women are not possessions to direct (that’s a big one to get through your heads, so we’ll wait). When you’re a kid and you know you’ve done wrong you do one of two things: Blame somebody else, or punch your little brother. Ever since 1863 a segment of this nation’s been blaming the blacks, the browns, the reds, the yellows, and the effete Northern sympathizers for absolutely nothing. Oh, they’re blaming them…but have no idea for precisely what. Shame, brothers, makes the mind foolish. Keeps you stupid and unpopular. The Lohan-Diggs Initiative will grow you up fast if you let it.
We’re not kids anymore. If someone wants to indoctrinate you in stupidity, shake it off. That’s what growing up means. “When I was a child I behaved as a child. When I became a man I cast off childish things.”
Grow the hell up, my peoples. The Lohan-Diggs Initiative ain’t PG-13.
Since racism tends to be fueled by self-hatred I’d like to take a moment to tell the Deep South: It’s OK. We know you actually love us. Everybody loves black folks. We remind you of Snickers Bars, what’s not to love? We know you know slavery was not cool. Not cool at all. Short sighted planning on the management’s part, we get that, we’ve all been there. I’d grease up my big, black Mandingo chest and hug every one of ya if I could. Let go the guilt, let go the ancestral shame. Cast aside that reactionary Safety Mechanism O’ Doom and join us.
Take my hand, Deep South. Let me take you to Love Land. Clarence, and I’m a Scorpio…
Let me float this by you: after a while you won’t be able to breed any more pig-eyed, sphincter-tight progeny willing to carry your psychosis forward. Gotta be blunt here, brothers: you’re obsolete. Even Racism 2.O is an obviously detectable virus; hell, even Norton Anti-Virus blocks it, and we know Norton ain’t for shit. Your numbers are dwindling. Your kids are learning Spanglish. Your oldest son’s got a black girlfriend. So’s your oldest daughter, and when she and Vanessa get married they plan to adopt an Asian child (still hot on the market). So I ask, what does it profit you to sell “2012: Don’t Re-Nig” bumper stickers (kudos on the wordplay, by the way), or introduce legislation that you know will disproportionately target the poor and historically disenfranchised without offering viable alternatives?
Nobody, not even Sarah Palin, is stupid because they want to be. Not deep down. But human beings are Cling-Ons, holding to whatever scrap bumps against them when they feel they’re floating in perilous waters. When they feel threatened. But you’re holding onto a false assumption. We’re not after your jobs (yeah we are), your women (yeah we are), or the America you want to take back (Kraft Mac-n-Cheese uses Rap in their jingles; you’ve already lost, son)— these things are not yours to own in the first place. This ain’t a game of marbles where you can just gather yours up and go home. We earn the jobs same as you. “Your” women are not possessions to direct (that’s a big one to get through your heads, so we’ll wait). When you’re a kid and you know you’ve done wrong you do one of two things: Blame somebody else, or punch your little brother. Ever since 1863 a segment of this nation’s been blaming the blacks, the browns, the reds, the yellows, and the effete Northern sympathizers for absolutely nothing. Oh, they’re blaming them…but have no idea for precisely what. Shame, brothers, makes the mind foolish. Keeps you stupid and unpopular. The Lohan-Diggs Initiative will grow you up fast if you let it.
We’re not kids anymore. If someone wants to indoctrinate you in stupidity, shake it off. That’s what growing up means. “When I was a child I behaved as a child. When I became a man I cast off childish things.”
Grow the hell up, my peoples. The Lohan-Diggs Initiative ain’t PG-13.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
The Stoopid People
I’m one of the stupid people. Set up: I’m brushing my teeth. There’s a candle lit. The Wife loves candles, but this one’s strong enough to kill insects. So I flash-decide to blow it out. I lean over and do so. Using a mouth full of toothpaste. Damn.
I’m one of the stupid people. My brothers and I – well, we were young lads at the time but still old enough to know the particulars of gasoline— we’re home alone for a spot one afternoon. We notice that water’s gotten all over the top of the gas can Daddy kept in a leaky storage cabinet off the kitchen. Mind you, the can itself is sealed watertight. Dinged and bent metal can. We’ve heard our father cuss about water in his gas tank enough times to know that bad gas is not a joke; apparently one drop of water could kill a station wagon, so we decide to test the gas by pouring a bit into a saucer (in the kitchen sink, mind you— safety first, science second; the opened can was at least a good 12 inches away). Once in the saucer. . .we drop a match on it. Explosions galore. Flame whooshes up to sear the paint off the upper sink cabinet, older brother snatches the can away from the ignition point, making sure to liberally sprinkle us younger ones, next older bro manages to slap the faucet on while we’re all gonna die, the 2 youngest have now flown so fast out of the kitchen that they met their younger selves. In the midst of all this I achieved a higher state of being and remember thinking in capital letters well before internet communication, OH. SHIT.
Fire got put out. Cabinetry was smoky and fucked. Mama and Daddy would be home twenty minutes, tops. We boys were smoky and fucked. No amount of painting, cleaning, airing out the kitchen, and knowing their babies were alive and well would cover the fact we’d potentially burned the kitchen down. Our being fucked was reinforced by my oldest brother (he might have been 16 at the time) waiting till after we’d finished the immediate clean up to say, “Yep, that gas was still good.” Damn.
As one of the stupid people I feel compelled to apologize for all the idiocy you’ve faced today. It was surely a lot. There was the dumbass that waited to put his left turn signal on until the light turned green, effectively trapping you behind him. There was the kid who thought it’d be manly to shatter a glass bottle in front of your house while you weren’t home. Then that woman, the way she called your phone all pissy and indignant about the level of service your company provided. If only she’d dialed the right number. I feel you. I feel responsible. How can I stop your pain?
Watch this. It’ll do.
I’m one of the stupid people. My brothers and I – well, we were young lads at the time but still old enough to know the particulars of gasoline— we’re home alone for a spot one afternoon. We notice that water’s gotten all over the top of the gas can Daddy kept in a leaky storage cabinet off the kitchen. Mind you, the can itself is sealed watertight. Dinged and bent metal can. We’ve heard our father cuss about water in his gas tank enough times to know that bad gas is not a joke; apparently one drop of water could kill a station wagon, so we decide to test the gas by pouring a bit into a saucer (in the kitchen sink, mind you— safety first, science second; the opened can was at least a good 12 inches away). Once in the saucer. . .we drop a match on it. Explosions galore. Flame whooshes up to sear the paint off the upper sink cabinet, older brother snatches the can away from the ignition point, making sure to liberally sprinkle us younger ones, next older bro manages to slap the faucet on while we’re all gonna die, the 2 youngest have now flown so fast out of the kitchen that they met their younger selves. In the midst of all this I achieved a higher state of being and remember thinking in capital letters well before internet communication, OH. SHIT.
Fire got put out. Cabinetry was smoky and fucked. Mama and Daddy would be home twenty minutes, tops. We boys were smoky and fucked. No amount of painting, cleaning, airing out the kitchen, and knowing their babies were alive and well would cover the fact we’d potentially burned the kitchen down. Our being fucked was reinforced by my oldest brother (he might have been 16 at the time) waiting till after we’d finished the immediate clean up to say, “Yep, that gas was still good.” Damn.
As one of the stupid people I feel compelled to apologize for all the idiocy you’ve faced today. It was surely a lot. There was the dumbass that waited to put his left turn signal on until the light turned green, effectively trapping you behind him. There was the kid who thought it’d be manly to shatter a glass bottle in front of your house while you weren’t home. Then that woman, the way she called your phone all pissy and indignant about the level of service your company provided. If only she’d dialed the right number. I feel you. I feel responsible. How can I stop your pain?
Watch this. It’ll do.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
The Avengers
There is cool, and then there is the Heavenly Host sitting in primo seats waiting for the lights to go down. Some folks don’t realize that all human evolution was designed to bring us to this point: an “Avengers” movie (Marvel Comics, not Ms. Peele), written by someone who can write, directed by someone who can direct, and crewed by people who get it.
Put on some Depends then watch this preview.
People misunderstand superhero comics. It ain’t about testosterone, tights n tits. It’s about possibilities. Fire up a kid’s imagination and you create a small god. Even as a kid I knew grown folks with superpowers beating each other to high hell was goofy. I didn’t read comics for the fights (well, sometimes; Hulk versus Thor was always good for leveling a few mountains, and Wolverine versus Wendigo: classic), I read comics for the What If factor of life. What if there was a being who consumed planetary energy for food? What if you had the Power Cosmic? What if a person could develop a cool armored suit and defend those who needed defending? Who would these people be on the inside, and how could they teach me to be me? Myths, my friends. Spiderman, Hulk, Batman, Valkyrie, Storm, Jean Gray, Moira McTaggert having to hunt her own son—these were the stories that fired the imagination. They created a small god.
Me. Hey there.
You’re able to read this via an astounding web because of small gods. You’re able to keep in touch with hundreds of people around the world while you’re at work because of small gods. You’re able to watch television at a bus stop, make love to your significant other without touching them, and travel at speeds faster than a speeding bullet because of small gods. Evolution rides on technology, be it genetic or mechanical. As kids, we left comic shops with brown bags full of wonder and we asked ourselves, ‘What if this was real?’ I would have pushed my brother in front of a bus just to see Spiderman swing down and save him. I would have died from the utter cool of it.
And the Avengers are the ultimate cool. The Avengers wasn’t the best comic. They couldn’t touch the X-Men for sheer power of story line. Didn’t have Spiderman’s universal appeal. What they had was star power. They were the cool kids all gathered at the cool table being cool as shit but cool about it. Not douche cool. Captain America. Iron Man. The Hulk. Thor. The Vision. The Wasp. Scarlet Witch. Their roster changed all the time, but just seeing Captain America, Iron Man and Thor in the same comic? Hellz yeah. And they all had each other’s backs. In a fight they were a well-oiled machine, playing off one another’s strengths. Watch that preview again, a little more glee pee won’t hurt you. The scene where the Hulk catches Iron Man before shell head plows into a building? That’s the Avengers. When Iron Man rounds another building and tells his team he’s bringing the party to them, while the Midgard Serpent is hot on his heels? You just know that there are some heroes about to do what needs be done no matter what. This movie looks like what my imagination used to conjure up back in the day. This movie just might be the first and last true superhero movie. This movie, my friends, is what the Mayans had circled on their calendar. When you go see it I’m sure there’ll be a few Mayans buying popcorn.
Save a seat for me at the back of the theater. I’ll be the kid grinning ear to ear.
Put on some Depends then watch this preview.
People misunderstand superhero comics. It ain’t about testosterone, tights n tits. It’s about possibilities. Fire up a kid’s imagination and you create a small god. Even as a kid I knew grown folks with superpowers beating each other to high hell was goofy. I didn’t read comics for the fights (well, sometimes; Hulk versus Thor was always good for leveling a few mountains, and Wolverine versus Wendigo: classic), I read comics for the What If factor of life. What if there was a being who consumed planetary energy for food? What if you had the Power Cosmic? What if a person could develop a cool armored suit and defend those who needed defending? Who would these people be on the inside, and how could they teach me to be me? Myths, my friends. Spiderman, Hulk, Batman, Valkyrie, Storm, Jean Gray, Moira McTaggert having to hunt her own son—these were the stories that fired the imagination. They created a small god.
Me. Hey there.
You’re able to read this via an astounding web because of small gods. You’re able to keep in touch with hundreds of people around the world while you’re at work because of small gods. You’re able to watch television at a bus stop, make love to your significant other without touching them, and travel at speeds faster than a speeding bullet because of small gods. Evolution rides on technology, be it genetic or mechanical. As kids, we left comic shops with brown bags full of wonder and we asked ourselves, ‘What if this was real?’ I would have pushed my brother in front of a bus just to see Spiderman swing down and save him. I would have died from the utter cool of it.
And the Avengers are the ultimate cool. The Avengers wasn’t the best comic. They couldn’t touch the X-Men for sheer power of story line. Didn’t have Spiderman’s universal appeal. What they had was star power. They were the cool kids all gathered at the cool table being cool as shit but cool about it. Not douche cool. Captain America. Iron Man. The Hulk. Thor. The Vision. The Wasp. Scarlet Witch. Their roster changed all the time, but just seeing Captain America, Iron Man and Thor in the same comic? Hellz yeah. And they all had each other’s backs. In a fight they were a well-oiled machine, playing off one another’s strengths. Watch that preview again, a little more glee pee won’t hurt you. The scene where the Hulk catches Iron Man before shell head plows into a building? That’s the Avengers. When Iron Man rounds another building and tells his team he’s bringing the party to them, while the Midgard Serpent is hot on his heels? You just know that there are some heroes about to do what needs be done no matter what. This movie looks like what my imagination used to conjure up back in the day. This movie just might be the first and last true superhero movie. This movie, my friends, is what the Mayans had circled on their calendar. When you go see it I’m sure there’ll be a few Mayans buying popcorn.
Save a seat for me at the back of the theater. I’ll be the kid grinning ear to ear.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Aluminum Foil Might Be Your Best Friend
'What's on your mind?' Facebook asks. I'll tell ya. Stupid people. What are we gonna do with all the stupid people? Let's not pretend there aren't stupid people. They're the ones asking all the stupid questions. Nobody point a finger here please. People are finding it harder and harder to generate enough mental electricity to fire their brains. How many times have you seen somebody flat out run to catch an elevator...only to ride it up one floor? That's just stupid. Or introduce legislation favoring corporations that get fat off poisoning us. There's a lot of stupid. I blame air fresheners. Let me put my foil hat on a minute: every other TV commercial is for air fresheners. Stuff we bring into our houses...and breathe in. Every. Day. I've been an adult for a long enough time to not recall so much emphasis put on home freshness. Did people become extra nasty and funky in the last 10 years? People think scent isn’t a physical thing, but it is. You’re ingesting stuff, folks. Beware.
I think they’re including stuff in those fresheners to make us stupid. Er (since there’s already TV and Nascar). All the scented candles and the sprays and the plug ins. Mark you me, there’s heinous fuckery most foul afoot (if you liked that turn of phrase, it’s a shameless plug for Christopher Moore’s book “Fool”—available in paperback!). Like the pharmaceutical industry, these mega-corps are not spending all that money on advertising for the public good. They’re right now using phase harmonics to cut through my shields but brother’s using heavy duty restaurant aluminum foil. Rotating frequencies all up on your asses, bitchaz! So ask yourself, did it stink that badly in my house before I plugged 8 different scents in 8 different rooms…or are those heinous bastards going to come out in 5 years with “Natural Scents” to counteract all the nose herpes their years of selling us their fake crap brought about?
You say they can’t and wouldn’t do that? The gubmint wouldn’t let them get away with pushing harmful crap down our throats. Ok, you Pall Mall smoking mofo. Put down that brewski and pay close attention. One word. Sugar. I ain’t even gonna go high fructose. Straight up cane. If I told you there was an all natural substance that would decay your teeth, elevate endorphin levels to manic levels, exacerbate depression, make you fat, and attract bees, would you line up and say, “Oh, boy, sign me up!”
Course not. Don’t be stupid.
There’s a lot of talk now about this Monsanto Corp, which already sounds like something James Bond should be taking down, but on top of that they’re grabbing people’s food supplies worldwide by the balls. Bioengineered super sweet fruits and vegetables. I don’t want my orange tasting like Mountain Dew. I don’t want to use my red bell pepper as a night light. I want my food to be food, and I want my deep breaths to contain air.
Never you mind the crinkling of my foil hat. The world blows smoke up your butts, people. Puff puff.
Pass.
I think they’re including stuff in those fresheners to make us stupid. Er (since there’s already TV and Nascar). All the scented candles and the sprays and the plug ins. Mark you me, there’s heinous fuckery most foul afoot (if you liked that turn of phrase, it’s a shameless plug for Christopher Moore’s book “Fool”—available in paperback!). Like the pharmaceutical industry, these mega-corps are not spending all that money on advertising for the public good. They’re right now using phase harmonics to cut through my shields but brother’s using heavy duty restaurant aluminum foil. Rotating frequencies all up on your asses, bitchaz! So ask yourself, did it stink that badly in my house before I plugged 8 different scents in 8 different rooms…or are those heinous bastards going to come out in 5 years with “Natural Scents” to counteract all the nose herpes their years of selling us their fake crap brought about?
You say they can’t and wouldn’t do that? The gubmint wouldn’t let them get away with pushing harmful crap down our throats. Ok, you Pall Mall smoking mofo. Put down that brewski and pay close attention. One word. Sugar. I ain’t even gonna go high fructose. Straight up cane. If I told you there was an all natural substance that would decay your teeth, elevate endorphin levels to manic levels, exacerbate depression, make you fat, and attract bees, would you line up and say, “Oh, boy, sign me up!”
Course not. Don’t be stupid.
There’s a lot of talk now about this Monsanto Corp, which already sounds like something James Bond should be taking down, but on top of that they’re grabbing people’s food supplies worldwide by the balls. Bioengineered super sweet fruits and vegetables. I don’t want my orange tasting like Mountain Dew. I don’t want to use my red bell pepper as a night light. I want my food to be food, and I want my deep breaths to contain air.
Never you mind the crinkling of my foil hat. The world blows smoke up your butts, people. Puff puff.
Pass.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The Thing About Television
The thing about television is that nobody after a certain age should actually want to watch it. I mean, it’s all written to be as non-taxing to the 14 year old mind as it can be. Should any grown person ever give a damn about the new fall season? Now maybe, just because there are natural lulls and voids in yours and my life, having 2 or 3 shows to watch on a regular weekly basis is all right, but how many cop shows, lawyer shows, medical shows, wacky attractive white folks comedy shows, pseudo talent/reality/documentary shows, fat-people-are-people-too shows, watch-paint-dry-as-I-rent-my-house shows, and idiotic news does the human brain need? And they’re all the same bloody show!
“Tooth & Mouth: When it comes to crime, a crack team of dental technicians find that truth…is often in the eye of the molar. Presented with limited commercial interruption by Colgate Chewing Floss; tonight on Fox.”
Here’s how TV knows it’s got you ungently by the balls and you don’t even care: CSI; CSI: Miami, CSI: New York; CSI: L.A. (probably coming); NCIS; NCIS: L.A. (really); Law & Order; Law & Order: SVU; Law & Order Frickin’ Jesus—- Sweet greasy damn, they’re not even pretending to hide it anymore! It’s all Mountain Dew, folks, just a different colored dye! (By the way, Mountain Dew is now MTN Dew; even our beverages are illiterate.)
But we watch anyway. We could, let’s say, play cards, or study a new language, or learn an instrument; we might take up painting, mold clay, scrapbook, reminisce. Cooking can be a joy to perform when approached as a possibility rather than an obligation. Conversation-—remember that?-—conversation is a beautiful thing once the mind is engaged. Instead, we watch TV. We get home from work, we’ve got 5 or 6 hours to kill before bed, we devote at least 3 of those to TV. On average. I’m not saying TV doesn’t have its place. Like terrible romance novels and Tom Cruise movies, the brain needs its candy. But even candy has its levels of benefits. Candy doesn’t have to decay the brain and sludge the cognitive processes.
TV, like bad books, often intentionally kills our ability to think. Parasitic self-preservation.
TV does not care about your marriage, your kids, the goals you coulda, woulda, shoulda reached, or whether anybody in your family ever amounts to anything. If corporations have the same rights as individuals (get this, they do. Yeah, I know) then TV is the Pope. TV tells you when to wake up, when to take a leak, when to pay attention to your spouse, when to eat, when to go out, when to stay in, when to finally get things done…because, for a lot of us, our time is scheduled around something stupid on TV. I remember when TV was at least a gracious guest. Sometimes it tried to be art. Rod Serling was a god.
Do we all know that advertisers have made television the ubiquitous necessary evil? Societally, it’s a necessary evil because there are some nights a man needs his Cinemax after those long spells of not getting any, but other than that, along with a couple cooking shows, one comedy, and a righteous documentary on PBS about Blues players or other bit of coolness, what does TV actually offer to justify stealing life away from us middle-aged fucks who are already closer to death than we realize?
Addiction: When someone’s addicted what’s the first thing out of their mouth after some truth is put in front of their faces? “I don’t have to (fill in addiction blank); I just do it when I feel like it; I can stop anytime I want.”
Shut the pie hole. You do have to; you do it all the time; you’ll stop when you’ve been abandoned by everybody who cared about you. Maybe. Or you’ll spiral into the addiction so hard you’ll be scheduling your life according to the convenient blocks in TV Guide.
And that, my friends, would be a crying shame.
“Tooth & Mouth: When it comes to crime, a crack team of dental technicians find that truth…is often in the eye of the molar. Presented with limited commercial interruption by Colgate Chewing Floss; tonight on Fox.”
Here’s how TV knows it’s got you ungently by the balls and you don’t even care: CSI; CSI: Miami, CSI: New York; CSI: L.A. (probably coming); NCIS; NCIS: L.A. (really); Law & Order; Law & Order: SVU; Law & Order Frickin’ Jesus—- Sweet greasy damn, they’re not even pretending to hide it anymore! It’s all Mountain Dew, folks, just a different colored dye! (By the way, Mountain Dew is now MTN Dew; even our beverages are illiterate.)
But we watch anyway. We could, let’s say, play cards, or study a new language, or learn an instrument; we might take up painting, mold clay, scrapbook, reminisce. Cooking can be a joy to perform when approached as a possibility rather than an obligation. Conversation-—remember that?-—conversation is a beautiful thing once the mind is engaged. Instead, we watch TV. We get home from work, we’ve got 5 or 6 hours to kill before bed, we devote at least 3 of those to TV. On average. I’m not saying TV doesn’t have its place. Like terrible romance novels and Tom Cruise movies, the brain needs its candy. But even candy has its levels of benefits. Candy doesn’t have to decay the brain and sludge the cognitive processes.
TV, like bad books, often intentionally kills our ability to think. Parasitic self-preservation.
TV does not care about your marriage, your kids, the goals you coulda, woulda, shoulda reached, or whether anybody in your family ever amounts to anything. If corporations have the same rights as individuals (get this, they do. Yeah, I know) then TV is the Pope. TV tells you when to wake up, when to take a leak, when to pay attention to your spouse, when to eat, when to go out, when to stay in, when to finally get things done…because, for a lot of us, our time is scheduled around something stupid on TV. I remember when TV was at least a gracious guest. Sometimes it tried to be art. Rod Serling was a god.
Do we all know that advertisers have made television the ubiquitous necessary evil? Societally, it’s a necessary evil because there are some nights a man needs his Cinemax after those long spells of not getting any, but other than that, along with a couple cooking shows, one comedy, and a righteous documentary on PBS about Blues players or other bit of coolness, what does TV actually offer to justify stealing life away from us middle-aged fucks who are already closer to death than we realize?
Addiction: When someone’s addicted what’s the first thing out of their mouth after some truth is put in front of their faces? “I don’t have to (fill in addiction blank); I just do it when I feel like it; I can stop anytime I want.”
Shut the pie hole. You do have to; you do it all the time; you’ll stop when you’ve been abandoned by everybody who cared about you. Maybe. Or you’ll spiral into the addiction so hard you’ll be scheduling your life according to the convenient blocks in TV Guide.
And that, my friends, would be a crying shame.
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