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Onasadeone pendemeter

How vain humanity has become when the only belief we can indulge in are the beliefs of the impossible when they become possible. Is it not blasphemy when we don’t abide by our hearts? the snake in the grass that gave us the apple, the death of nobility for or sins. It’s already been paid for but we think gratuity is still necessary.the answer is in or errors and I’m or veins but we can’t believe in it’s simplicity because we are vain.
There is nothing in death except the reward and punishment. The punishment it’s being cast back into the pattern of mediocrity. The reward is to become part of the ratings from who watches the show. the idea of ultimate good and ultimate evil is nonsensical. this idea simply perpetuates the idea that rewards are only possible in opposition to punishments.

Humans are so base, we forget that we have been graced with life and choice. Show me a fucking bad one.
A cynic is fair, though only cynical towards, things they do not have. All poor are near mad, about the absent riches. The lonely are mad, about the love they can’t have. Those blessed with their health, and even the few godless, are sick of themselves.
These trails I once walked, I now laugh and dance across; understanding naught. The simple jester, returning to his kin’s court, through that guise of night.
Reap what has been wept, dance in the night as the light, and find your home kept.
I know you can hear, horses coming near, towing your carriage.

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Cats, Dogs, Sex in the City, and a Band of Brothers

[Author’s note: the parts crossed out, were part of a dictated conversation from 2 separate authors notes. It also got really filthy and crude, so skip ahead to the uncrossed, boring parts.]

The bare minimum only sustains and postpones any progress in your life. That came to me in a daydream while I was on a mystical journey inside a Vons/Pavillions. (I was following someone.) Have you ever seen the movie, Once? It was a good movie but I couldn’t stop staring at the ginger lead character. It just struck me as strange for no reason. Then I thought about Cosmo Brown from Singing in the Rain. His character had pizzazz and charm and a great attitude, and was hilarious, but he was a ginger. He’d never be allowed to bang Kathy Seldon. Of course, I wouldn’t be allowed to bang Kathy Seldon either. (For those of you who don’t know, I’m not a bigot, I indiscriminately hate all races.)

Sometimes, I shock myself with 9volt batteries. Sometimes I shock myself when someone points out my race after I’d forgotten. I’m not even sure what-the-fuck race I actually am, and never could grasp how seriously some take it. I mean, I realize there are obstacles I’ve to jump over every now and then, but I’ve always had to do that. I’ll still never get to bang Kathy Seldon.

[Tell me one good reason why it’s important to classify by race and I’ll tell you it’s another reason why the human race is still a joke. Your footprints shall cease and your existence will be forgotten by the tick of time.] That’s probably what the Earth would say, and say it with a smoker’s cough.

I’m not like that. I’m nicer and more passive because I probably can’t kick you ass in a bar-fight. Not like Blue Mama Earth can with her Hurricane swag and believe me, that ain’t her only trick. IF you do manage to kick her ass, I’ll have been waiting with an empty beer bottle to less-confrontational-ly throw at the back of your head. So you wouldn’t see it coming or possibly wrestle it out of my hand. While you’re curtains are closed and the intermission music montage is playing, I’ll rudely talk shit about how you beat up a woman and how I defended her honor and win everyone on my side, and simultaneously distracting the patrons by bringing your limp body onto a stool next to me and buying you a beer. Hopefully no one will realize my cheapshotdickmove of throwing a bottle at the back of your head to end your tyranny. I’ll probably end up drinking your beer in the next ten minutes after the cloud of pointless aggression settles, and leave with the second prettiest girl you came with because I’m a simple man. She’ll probably have empathized with my performance of being a hero who fought smart, as opposed to have fought dirty. I will have become drunk enough to forgive her for being your friend, and fuck her mercilessly into a puddle of jelly or pudding of some kind for a hard 4 minutes.

(Again, I’m a simple man, aim too high and it might miss the sky. Where others feel inclined to impress, I say it ain’t the real me. If I’m not good enough, I’m okay with you cutting me from your cast and crew right then and there, before we take the two-month downward love spiral because I can’t keep up with all my lies and gradually revert back to my copacetic self because you have failed to inspire any changes in my life to better fit into a snug studio loft within your heart.)

4 minutes is the bar price she’ll pay for me to pound her little pink cigarette case with the fury of Apollo until it flattens into a black and blue Goodbye Kitty credit card, and baby, you best believe my tongue is going in that naughty little water park of hers and it’s thirstier than Dracula with a conscience. I’ll probably dig my shovel in her backyard too and try to say the exploding passion or whatever made me do it. Hopefully, this pink taco massacre takes place at her place so I’d be able to go through her things to find a memento. I’ll even learn a few things about her besides her name because I probably nodded to whatever sentences I found no substance in that came out of her mouth like music coming out of a shitty speaker in an elevator.

At her place, I’ll be able to slink out quietly in the middle of the night and walk home through the rained-on empty streets reflecting the city lights with a bluish hue from the pearl white full moon in the cloudless black sky.

If she’s owner to those butt dimples just above the waistline of those shamefully tight cock-ready jeans, I’ll ride her like a military dad. I’ll ride her anyway, because it’s a fucking free ticket to fuck like fucking lions, fucking Nala like a naughty slut, primal, raw, and claws baby! The poor bastard that rustles in the bushes that disrupts our fuck-ageddon, is going to get clawed into pieces! (Lionesses actually does the hunting, and the male just waits because he’s the man and still ready to bone down or eat glorious meats. If a safari jeep showed up, I think I’d be able to fuck it up, depending on it’s tranquilizer dart supply, my tolerance from to opiates as a fucking lion, and whether the guide is on his first week which the other guides should have warned about interrupting my bang time.)

I’ll probably have beer munchies and when the opportunity arises, I’ll fuck her and eat simultaneously until I’ve banged every organ out of her body. She better be good at screaming bloody murder in savage ecstasy, or good at faking it because I love a good performance. It tells my cock her cunt is hospitable and my cock’ll think, “it’s nice in here, I hope my master lets me blow a fat fucking load of spicy happy-sauce somewhere in, on, or around this place. Hile, Black Angus, Hile!”

4 minutes because it’s ultimately what one asks for when asking in a bar. Personally, I’ve never picked up women in a bar. [That I can recall.] The process itself dissuades me and the prize, the 4 minutes doesn’t present any reward worth a flying fuck of mine. I’m not a guy that high-fives my homies because I got a drunk little cock-gobbler to release my snake into her garden. There’s no thrill of the catch for me either because persuading a drunk chick to leave with an asshole is not a very difficult thing to do in L.A. It’s like kicking a kitten. All one has to do is omit the idea that this woman has ideas and opinions and feelings that are worth a damn on occasion, and make sure you seem decisive and in control of most aspects of your life while you flirt. Seem is the keyword, fellas, and you’ll be fucking her fooled meaningless flesh in no time. Oh, and make sure she’s had a few so she can omit the women’s lib thing and men are bastards mantra they sing at their tea parties, and mistake your cockiness for charm. Then high-five your ego, toast your glass of self-glory, and give yourself a wall-street applause because you’ve lowered the points on humanity’s stock.

Now, you say, “It’s survival,” and I’ll say, “I’ll toast to that! What kind of world are you surviving for again? Man, I was just in the bathroom, and this drunk dude was pissing in the urinal, got it a couple of times, and I’m pretty sure he fell in dick first at one point. He didn’t even wash his hands, and now he’s gonna go bang that random chick he left with. I’m sorry, what were you saying? Right, survival…”

Bitches, don’t think you’re innocent too. (I don’t mean bitches in derogatory way, I’m punching fellow cocks brutally, and I didn’t want you feeling left out without a cute pet-name.) Every time you let a cock take your castle, the cocks gather and cock-a-doodle-doo his glory, encouraging and inspiring other cocks to do the same. And they can, baby. My loves, my ladies, no matter how many times you’ve watched the episodes of Sex in the City (as I have, no joke) or ran from these raging cock-wielding assholes, an asshole will always find you. It’ll be your fault, because men don’t think, right? They react like dogs that hunt in packs and want your tasty treats. They follow suit of an alpha dog, and when he’s banging a bitch, the others will be banging soon too. Men follow the alpha in their packs, but these leaders have been in a moral decline. These men can’t find a woman’s love precious, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

Listen up boys. You stupid cocksuckers!

(I wanted to leave it at that cause it sounded cool and might win some women back.) Deep down, I do care about where our illegitimate children are raised. There are very few good guys left, the ones that mean it when they say, “how you doin’?” and they’ve become harder for the good bitches to find. It’s just as hard for these good pricks to find good bitches. We all know the drill when one of the boys is down for the count because a girl put him there, pick up a 24-pack of she’s a bitch and you can do better, and hit the town. If he’s really down in the dumps, the fifth of “you aren’t gonna remember shit in the morning because I love you man, Band of Brothers, no man left behind!”

All the while, she’s communing with her friends that thought there was something off about your boy. They don’t know exactly what, but will give an answer vaguely close and neutral ensuring her that they know what the fuck is going on. Most of the time, their “omelette of knowledge” is foundation’d around something they’ve heard all their lives from hearsay, probably from someone older. They feel it necessary to take control with a “mama knows best,” approach, and to the trained eye, only goes to show what little progress they’ve achieved in life. They just don’t know what a good guy looks like, so good guys look a little off or unbelievable. It’s not threatening to us pricks, but their defense mechanisms. The fangs only come out when you do something wrong. Bitches are like cats. They will do what they want, and there’s nothing you can do. You push, and it will hurt.

Cats, dogs, pricks, bitches, Sex in the City, and a Band of Brothers. Gentlemen, you’re in a pack with the wrong kind of leader. The wrong kind of leadership leads nowhere. Remember when Joey from Friends got his own show? Neither do I. Ladies, you don’t give the puppy a treat when he pisses on your rug, but sometimes a girlfriend of yours does because he’s the cutest puppy ever! Your rug is still pissed on but the only thing the puppy knows is that he got a treat even after juicing your rug. I’ve got to start closing my blinds now and locking my doors. What next?

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and we don’t care about the young folks, talkin’ ’bout the young style

One day I wanted Coco Puffs, the next, Apple Jacks. I was eight or nine, and this was a prelude into my future as an indecisive assface. At that age, an identity crisis happened as often as I saw my dentist and what kid would know how big of an impact either of those would be? Puffs or Jacks, I was lactose intolerant anyway, but c’est la vie.

The best way to cope and make sense of it now was to take the guise of the jester. Lighten the load of the heavy stuff. Showing you were conscious of the matter at hand, even mocking it, shows you know something. That something you know, regardless, allowed you to look like you felt less shittier than everyone else. I knew what that something was, I always did, never told a soul, cause I’d look less cool if I let you have my cigarette.

Maybe I didn’t know how to tell it. I didn’t know all the words in the language to convey it or shit, would you take a vague analogy instead? I’m better at those, but they’d seem like a joke in itself, got room for comic relief while you’re in a pit of despair? Of course you do. It’s one of the most important roles in the movie, and you’re not going to audition. Everyone was Don Lockwood, but not me, I was everyone’s Cosmo Brown. I was good at it.

I’d never feel comfortable as Don Lockwood, and I couldn’t be both. Cosmo Brown would never be allowed to sing in the rain because of Kathy Seldon. The things that make us happy; you can have that and it’s fleeting nature. (Sometimes, I think Cosmo should have gotten Kathy, but can you imagine how history would’ve turned out if the ginger won the girl?! Once was a good movie, but I couldn’t exactly believe it’s not butter. Worse, what if Cosmo was an oriental, Jackie Chan bloopers during Make Em’ Laugh.)

Fuck, I’m going off on a tangent now. Are we agreed the multiple identity crisis I braved in my youth has affected me? Good back to the weird Singing in the Rain analogy.

I’ll goad my syllabus further in defense of my bigotry in stating I hate all races equally,  indiscriminately. Happy face. I’m even surprised sometimes when someone reminds me (they remind me) of what my race is supposed to be. Identity crisis can start here.

Tell me one good reason why it’s important to classify one by their race, and I’ll tell you why the human race is my favorite joke. Smoking cigarettes and smoking barrels, mama Earth’s got a smoker’s cough; going green and choosing the diet of a bunny ain’t gon’ cure her cancer. We are the cancer. Sad face.

I think Dracula would make a great candidate as Surgeon General. Remake the Karate Kid and Singing in the Rain with Jackie Chan. And Daniel Day-Lewis would bring back the spirit of the World Wrestling Federation, make the people believe again. Alright, I’ll go to bed.

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petals grace your face

time glides to the end of the street,
licensed to the echoes of the feet.
left and right are the ways you’d find
but it looks like you’re leaving me behind

slow it from that pace
her petals grace past your face
of the things you might find
maybe that you’ve left me behind

chance can come and can be lost
wins can be had but at too high a cost
the future is what you’re gonna find
if you must leave me behind

wind swept dancing trees
raindrops will return to the sea
the babes eyes will open
to find you’ve already left me behind

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Ouroboros

image

Among the last two weeks, I’ve been ostentatiously waking up in infrequent places from a face-down drowning position, seldom from my own bed, on a daily basis. I.e. the haggardly genuine bedhead look accompanied with photo-phobic eyes, and a genuine distaste for dialogue spurted from anyone’s word-hole thing on the face (as I referred to on one occasion). Also, packaged with a general reduction in wit or any creative demeanor that allowed me to be noted as a “funny guy.” But the last two days, gave those back. I staved my need for grandpa’s cough elixir, which happened to be mommy’s mouthwash, and slithered back into a skin. It felt new, but it felt like the antecedent and austere skin. I even dreamed.

I usually cycled the same dreams, but I had a new one this time. Whatever my soul was telling me, I couldn’t be sure, but it did tell me there’s something happening, something new, something bigger. It felt like the process of my excessive consumption of make-believe liquid courage and countless nights facing hell when I slept, meant I was really dying. On a metaphoric level, of course, but that led me back into this skin that felt familiar, but new, improved, and I’d have no say in whether or not I had to get used to it. I couldn’t understand this all until I read her recent post, and that kicked my missing mind back into my spinal socket, in which I glued shut with a strawberry shortcake milkshake.

(My replacement for whiskey could be none other than a strawberry shortcake milkshake. I was forced to venture into the discovery of such because my roommate was playing the dreaded beer-pong, in which I abhor my own participation due to the susceptibility of dirty balls. If I wanted to play with dirty balls, I’d simply wait til Friday, when I took a shower.)

Her post seemed to revel in a transformation as well, which deduced her inconsistencies of the same like as mine. (Of all the epochs I’ve known her, this was the first time she’d ever helped me.) That was the string on the kite, cut loose to fly wherever it pleased. My mind flew back to me, with sponged visions of my new world, all the while, my serpent body shed the dead skin revealing a resilient new, asskicking one. As the great philosophers AC/DC said, “forget the hearse, cause I’ll never die, I’ve got nine lives, cat’s eyes, abusing every one of them and running wild.”

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Cannonading pace of His Choo Choos.

The young never look past the beginning, that’s why they’re so eager for sex, drugs, and money. The old are closer to the end, and procrastinate the truths they really want to finish with. This is the age of the cannon that inevitably fires at the next. A dust cloud of mangled lost souls, hopes and dreams in smithereens. We beg, moan, cry and groan about it, but we can all feel it coming, that’s the only thing we’ve all had in common, like rats scurrying towards the end of a flooding sewer.

Unassailable demise on train tracks into a mountain and we’re aboard with one-way tickets. …The irony of it all is longing for death when the right person wrongfully breaks our hearts. Lonesome, crushed hearts shoveled into the furnace, for a train race of a humane pace. Young and old alike; convalescent daycare taught lust before love; as always, the young never got it right because the former promised excitement before the value of their hearts’ contentments are unfurled. In hindsight, the old seldomly paid attention in class as well. Swell.

We all want a form of it, a piece and proof of it, and willing to die if it fails; what do you want, quick, we’re not getting off of these rails.

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a picture is one thing, but picture a picture of a picture

“You’re having one of those days again, aren’t you?” He said to the check-out girl as she broodily scanned the three bottles of wine. She looks up to see the man in his pajamas then the clock on the register, registering the fact that the pacific time zone stated it was still ante meridiem. “Ditto. I’m trying to fight this thing off, what about you?” She said as seraphically as she could.

Sadness before noon is no way to start a day. Some brood, some drink, telltale signs of the infinite abyss being easier to fall into, than to fall upward into the eternal light of blah blah blah. The catch is that it’s contagious, and there are only a handful of people in the world with the immunological prose that can stand or even reverse it. Those few are the real treasures, even angels-on-earth, but they’re better known as friends, or bff’s. Even if most of us are underachievers, we can all afford to try a bit harder.

The man returned that afternoon with a mixed CD to give to the check-out girl. She smiled as if the sun peaked out briefly on a cloudy day, restoring hope on planet earth, even momentarily. Little did she know, the man did not make the CD, in fact it was a gift given to him by another person in hopes of achieving the same gift he just received. The point being, that gesture meant something to someone. The little things in life could end up being the biggest things in death.

There’s no better way to come off uninteresting than by stating you’re interested in everything.

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