Saturday, March 29, 2014

Musing, and Perusing the Amusing...

I have snot in my nose, and it doesn't smell like a rose, I can smell my own snot, it smells like boogers.  Can you fathom the fact?  And imagine that!  When the room smells like cat, and the house smells like dog, and the bathroom smells like ass...

People still like to fly aboard airplanes, even though airplanes have fallen from the sky and people have been killed and maimed, people still climb aboard, taking their lives into their hands, and praying to their gods, they clamber inside the great aluminum birds and set out for adventure...  Cross oceans of water, in search of tomorrow, and dreaming a theme of their journey... Better get a good attorney, your family might want to sue the airline later.

I don't fly.  I don't fly because planes tend to fall out of the sky.  I still remember flight 401, flight 427, flight 800, flight 592, flight 103... I was on a plane ride once in my life, on an Eastern Airlines L1011, when I was ten. (I refer you once more to flight 401...) Once was enough for me. I could see the clouds being sucked into the left engine.  I didn't see any gremlins on the wing, but I wasn't looking for them, either.  I won't tell you if I saw anything grey and metallic-looking, you can speculate on that, if you like.

Suffice it to say, I have no desire to fly aboard a commercial airliner.  Nor do I have any reason to.  That's why we have highways.  You may want to run off the statistics now about air safety vs highway safety, blaw-blaw-blaw... Don't bother.  I know all of that.  Bottom line: Trucks and cars don't fall from the sky! They are already on the ground!  Yes I know I could get gooshed like a grape at 100 miles an hour, {or 90, or 80...} But I'll take my chances.  When I'm driving, I'm in control of my vehicle.  I'm not flying that airplane.  Also, as I've pointed out earlier, even if I have to swerve into the grass, or whatever, at least I'm already on the ground, so there's no chance of falling 30,000 feet.  There's also slim to zero chance of Abdullah The Goatfucker hijacking me with a boxcutter and forcing me to drive into a building.

My sincere apologies and sympathy for anyone who lost a loved one on 9/11/01.  But Abdullah The Goatfucker wasn't acting on his Islamic fanaticism alone, he had lots of help.  Inside job.  False-flag operation.  Search a film entitled Loose Change, and watch it.  I have been gifted [or cursed with the gift?] with the ability to see and identify bullshit, especially official bullshit (AKA propaganda) and I have a well-honed distrust of all things pertaining to government.

Hatred is a strong word.  There are many types of hatred, most of it fear-based. (ie: racial/ethnic hatred, for instance..)  But the bitter loathing and contempt that I hold for all forms of "authority", for the king, and for the money-man, for the CEO and for the mallguard, for every thug who hides behind a badge, and every power-mad politician, this is a special kind of hatred.  Born of, "Who the fuck are you to give me orders, motherfucker?!" and "Who has the right to force their will upon anyone else?" this hatred is fact-based.  I recognize no form of "authority" and I bow before no one.
You can kill me, but you cannot make me bow.

Crazy Horse.  William Wallace.  True Heroes are seldom seen, few and far between, and we are in sore need of one now.  How many are willing to fight "authority" to the death?  I am.  I want Humanity to be better seven generations forth from this one, and fascism stands in the way of that.
This must be dealt with.

There.  I went from smelling the boogers in my nose to fighting for freedom in seven paragraphs.  That says a lot about where my mind is actually at.  Though I attempt to lighten things up with nonsensical humor, the truth remains.  And where is the plane?  Who knows?  Not me.  I can speculate with the best of them, but speculation is still only speculation, and most of it is horseshit since it can't be backed up with evidence...  Horseshit is hard to wipe off your boot, and it tends to stink.

I'll close with this:
Guess what...

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Once upon a time I kicked a dead pigeon down the street.  I guess it had been hit by a car, maybe, I don't know, but its guts were hanging out, and each time I kicked it, more guts would come streaming out of it.  You wouldn't believe how much guts there is in a pigeon, unless of course if you gutted one, I suppose.  There had to have been twenty feet of intestine there, and other organs too.  It was bloody, but it was yellow, sort of a cheddar and tomato paste lookin mess there on the concrete.  I kept on kicking it until I lost interest in it.  I still had some of it on my shoe.  Then I went home for lunch.  And guess what lunch was...  Pizza.  Frozen Tambelini's pizza, with a mixture of mozzarella & cheddar cheeses on it, and you know what it looked like?  Pigeon guts.  I said as much.  I told my Mom what it looked like, as I was eating it.  I might've been ten at the time.  It didn't seem overly gross to talk about kicking a dead pigeon, or that fact that my lunch looked like pigeon guts while I was eating it.  It still tasted like pizza.  Moms tend to think things of that nature are gross, though.  Mine did.  She asked me why I kicked it, I said I didn't know, because it was there.  She asked me if I washed my hands, and I said that I didn't pick it up, I just kicked it down the street.  She said that pigeons are like flying rats, they're full of diseases, and a bunch of other stuff, and then she noticed that there was still pigeon guts on the toe of my shoe...  Mothers don't really appreciate the subtle nuances of pigeon guts, or the way it forms a splatter pattern on a Converse shoe.  She really didn't appreciate the fact that I wore it into the house that way, that pretty much iced that cake.  The yelling began, and I decided that was a good time to beat feet out the back door.  Fuck the rest of the pizza.  I think I might've gone back to the dead pigeon and stomped it to make its brains and the rest of its guts goosh out and splatter all over the street, but I didn't do that right away.  I think I went and stole some cigarettes from the drugstore first.  I reckon a normal kid wouldn't have done that.  The stomping, I mean.  Maybe the kicking too, I don't know.  It was already dead, it wasn't like I stomped it to death.  I did that several years later.  It isn't easy to stomp a live pigeon, or even to kick one, since they tend to fly away.  You gotta find one that's sleeping, and then you gotta be lucky.  I used to walk thru the whole flocks of them in the park when I was a teenager, just to scare them airborne, and to piss off all the people who sat around feeding them.  Well, one time there was one asleep, and I just stepped right on it, kind of a jump-stomp, but I never broke stride to do it.  Just real quick like.  Goosh.  And I kept on walking, but I heard people freaking out over my shoulder.  I guess they were shocked by my actions.  I feel bad about it now, but at the time I didn't care.  Is that callous?  Probably.  Heartless? Cruel? Sadistic?  Yes, yes, and yes.  Even though feral pigeons do overpopulate in cities, especially when people feed them, and they do carry disease, and they shit everywhere, and where they roost stinks worse than a line of port-a-johns at a big festival.  It was cruel of me to stomp a sleeping bird, and rude to do it in front of old grandmas who feed them.  So I feel remorse for doing it.  I'm not going to take a knotted rope and flagellate myself severely about the head and shoulders because of it, but I do feel some remorse for it.  And who wants to come home from work to find a mess of smashed bird in the street in front of their house, with approximately twenty feet of pigeon chitterlings trailing out behind it... ?  Not me, I reckon.

I am the Anti-Midas, everything I touch turns to shit...

Shit.  It's all shit.  "Everything is shit."
That's what one 'Gabbi Colette' said in a video entitled Interior Semiotics.
   You can find it here: ... Shit.

It's all shit.  Everything turns to shit eventually.  Nothing lasts forever in the material.  Not even the seven wonders.  I couldn't finish my supper, because it tasted like shit. {Actually, it tasted like vomit, but shit works in this context.}  It even smells like shit.  I can still smell it.  Smells like dukey.
What's brown and runs down your leg? Dukey!  So that's basically it - it's all shit.  From the time I was a little kid, all my shit breaks, I can't never have nothin' nice.  It's like they made it all for someone with a light (or gentle) touch, not for me.  If they'd've made it for me it would've been heavy duty, but it wasn't.  Toys didn't last very long around me when I was a kid.  Neither did other stuff around the house.  Seemed like everything I touched either broke, or wore out, or became unusable in a very short time. (even a puppy!)  Tonka trucks were the only thing that lasted a good minute.  Matchbox cars couldn't stand up to the rigorous gas stove test (or to a redbrick, or being thrown out a two story window, etc.) Clothing didn't last very long either.  Anything I touched, it died.  Neighbors' cars were fair game if they were parked on the street.  I got in and pulled every knob, knobs came off in my destructive little hands, antennas bent or broke off, turn signal levers snapped, mirrors twisted right off their mountings, things of that nature.  It was the same in school, pencils snapped, erasers came off, paper tore, pages came out of books, toilets backed up and overflowed, teachers screamed...

...As I grew, it was the same, things just followed suit.  Dirtbikes blew up.  Firearms misfired.  Plastic models wouldn't cooperate and go together the right way so I'd get mad and smash them.  Games I couldn't win got thrown across the room.  Sports I wasn't any good at only got played a couple times, then forgotten about. [If there was no immediate gratification, then I lost interest very quickly.]  Cars broke, or engines blew up, or transmissions shat the bed.  Seems like they just don't make stuff heavy duty enough for the abuse I put them thru, except maybe Ford trucks.  Volkswagens make good woods-buggies, but they break too easy, and when you hit a concrete wall head-on, they kinda smash.
(You may think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not.)  Apartments break.  Houses break.  Windows don't stand up to cinder blocks, and furniture doesn't stand up well to drunk humans.  Neither do walls, appliances, or sinks and commodes.  Girlfriends can break too.  Maybe they break emotionally, but it still amounts to the same state of broken.  It's like a long trail of destruction in my wake.  It's gotten better over the last ten years since I stopped drinking booze, but shit still breaks sometimes, or doesn't go my way, doesn't cooperate, and I get mad, and I yell and cuss and smash things... Hulk Smash!  Hulk Smash!   .... But my name isn't Bruce Banner.  I don't get it sometimes, why can't inanimate objects just cooperate?  Can't they see that I'm Human?  I'm supposed to be the one in charge here, not some inanimate object.  Toaster doesn't wanna cooperate?  Burn my toast?  Eat my tortilla and don't wanna give it back?  Fuck up my waffle?  I'll unplug it and smash it with a baseball bat! Pow!  There, I showed it who's boss. Goddamn motherfuckin toaster.  But then I had to go get a new one.  If it woulda just cooperated with me to begin with, then none of that woulda happened.  Why can't shit just work like it's supposed to?  Fuck.  If everything would just go my way, it would be cool.
Motherfuckingoddamnmotherfuckinfuckingoddamnmotherfuckinshit, fuck.  Fuckin, if fuckin shit would fuckin just fuckin, fuckin, do what it's fuckin made to fuckin, fuckin do, fuckin everything would fuckin be so fuckin, motherfuckin smooth, man.  What the fuckin fuck. Why fuckin can't fuckin shit fuckin just fuckin do fuckin what it's fuckin supposed to fuckin do?  Why fuckin the fuckin fuck does fuckin shit fuckin have to fuckin be such a fuckin challenge, man?  Why can't it just work right the first time?  Then I wouldn't fuckin have so fuckin much motherfuckin stress, shit would be all good, man.  My stomach wouldn't hurt.  My blood pressure wouldn't be so high.  I wouldn't want a cigarette.  And if I could hit the lottery for like a million bucks or more, then everything would be cool, man.  No more worries.  Just move to Colorado and smoke reefer all day, and build race cars.  Mmhuh. Fmpf.