Saturday, April 21, 2007

Virginia Tech

A couple of thoughts about the whole tragedy:

1. NBC News is a piece of shit for airing segments and letters from the package Cho sent them. That's what he wanted, you douchebags. Now every whackjob is gonna know he'll die in infamy if he finally decides to mow down some people. He just needs to fire up the old video camera first. They merely pay lip service to the victims, because it's the actual death that makes the news, not the lives that were lost.

For example, look at the Amish school shooting. The Amish simply forgave the shooter, and then moved on. They didn't plaster his picture everywhere. We Americans can be pretty sick fucks sometimes- we get off on our supposed revulsion to violence by talking about how much we hate it until we're blue in the face.

2. Everybody is bitching about gun control. Gun control is not the solution- creating a society where people tend to not go crazy is. He could have just as easily used a bomb or poison gas or laced the campus cafeteria's food supply.

But since I'm pretty sure we're just going to stay fucked up, here's an idea. Let's allow people over the age of 21 who pass a battery of psychological and background tests to apply for a civilian police position- basically full-time off-duty cops who get to carry a weapon. I sure as hell don't want to wait ten minutes for the cops to show up while some nutcase is spraying students and walls with lead. How many lives could have been saved if someone in the building had been carrying a firearm, been trained in its use, and had a suitably working moral compass?

Gun control doesn't work for another reason- the people who aren't supposed to have them don't care too much about the laws. So decent Americans are left without protection, and the fuckups get to run willy-nilly with the guns they buy from drug sales and smuggling rings.

3. My thoughts are with those who passed away on that campus- I hope you find some kind of peace somewhere.


Monday, April 2, 2007

The Great American Novel

I post this merely for posterity's sake- I wrote this story in 2002, and just recently found a copy of it while moving to my new place. With my luck, it'll be lost again in a few weeks, so I thought I would recreate it here. It's fairly long, but somewhat humorous- feel free to ignore if uninterested. It's primary purpose is archival oriented self-edification.

The Great American Novel

It has been duly noted over the centuries that the Great American Novel has yet to be written. But I, even though admittedly innocent when it comes to literary pursuits, must beg to differ. But considering that the average critic knows nothing of a certain Harry T. Belfunk, it is a charge most understandable.

For, you will see, I have met a man named Belfunk and his work. Now I'll be the first to admit that almost all of his literary efforts were a great waste of time and ink. However, it happened one day that Mr. Belfunk wrote what had to be...

But look at me. I delve immediately into the meat of the story.

One autumn day I was busy arranging my Sunday ties according to size and color. The largest went to the right and the smallest to the left. Anyway, I was so engrossed by my organizing that I didn't hear the sound of Harry's rather large feet slapping the cobblestone road. What I did hear, however, was the knock on the door.

For those who have never heard Belfunk's knock, a bit of explanation is in order. His knocks may not awaken the dead, but I am certain that they rattle the elderly. And since I knew the price of new oak doors (they aren't cheap), I decided against acting as if I wasn't there. So with a smile one usually reserves for the deaf and dumb child, I opened the door.

Harry simply marched in, paced around a few times, and said, "I need capital."

A few more words concerning Harry: he was never one to mince words, seeing anything superfluous as wasteful. Furthermore, it was understood among his friends that he wasn't exactly of the same financial breed as they were, and I always thought that this made him slightly insecure. But for one reason or another, Harry was always busy cooking up get-rich quick schemes.

Of course, I did what any noble man would do- I turned my pockets inside out to show him I was in no danger of sinking in a river, were I to be pushed.

But with a wave of his hand he canceled my offer, stating, "No man, I need real capital. Something to live off of, not pocket change. What I need from you is a plan."

"Sure thing, Harry. But why?"

"I'm in love. And it would..."

"Say no more," I interrupted, "For now I see your plight. You need money to marry the girl, for she says she needs security."

"You couldn't be more wrong, old chap," Harry countered, "You see, I truly think that she is the most wonderful dame in the world. She never asks for anything, and that's what breaks my heart the most. I want to buy her things, put her in a nice house. I have too much pride to ask her hand in marriage before I've earned a living."

At that moment, I could predict me and Harry staying up all night, drinking tea and formulating a suitable plan. But I always love an opportunity to tease him whenever I can, and it would seem this time that Fate wasn't about to allow me to forego my future.

"The answer is simple," I declared, waving my hands emphatically, like a circus announcer. "Just sit down at a desk and write the Great American Novel."

There are seasoned veterans who have found glory on the battlefield who cannot stomach the sight of Harry's mug catching onto an idea. He starts to sweat profusely, his eyes grow to hideous proportions, and saliva escapes freely from his open mouth. In fact, he closely resembles Secretariat coming down the home stretch.

If there were one good thing that could be said about Harry, it would be this- that he always follows through with an idea, once it has caught his eye.

This one had obviously caught his eye. For a moment, I debated whether or not to call the carpet cleaners, so great was the flow of saliva, but I quickly decided Harry was more important. So I said what I thought I had to say.

"Harry, you can't. It's preposterous! Okay, I concede that in a couple of years maybe..."

"I have three weeks," Harry announced quietly and solemnly, his eyes now glazed over, the rusty wheels starting to turn in his head.

And with a glance, I could tell he was no longer paying attention. He was lost. So with a heavy heart, I decided to let Father Time teach him a worthy lesson.

Without even a word of parting, Harry was gone.

Three weeks later, I was organizing my pots and pans according to their respective sizes and uses when I once again heard the booming sound of Belfunk's knock upon my door. As I started to let him in, I could almost picture the look of disappointment on his face. But what I actually saw touched my heart and broke my soul.

Looking back at me was a man changed forever. His eyes were the blackest black, his hair whiter than lightning, and his face heavy with unshaven hair. His clothes were filthy, and in his ink-stained hands he carried a large parchment, which I assumed to be his Great American Novel.

I stood in the doorway for a few minutes, letting this awesome sight sink in. But I quickly came to my senses and ushered him inside. Without a word, he walked over to the fireplace, and tossed the papers into the blazing fire. I was speechless, as was he.

He watched the fire for a few moments, turned to me, and said, "It's finished."

Dying with curiosity, I fixed a pot of coffee and begged him to share his story. He acquiesced and began.

Immediately after leaving your house, I headed straight for my home, intent on writing the story. I gathered up some paper and some quills (everyone knows you must use authentic goose quills if you're attempting to write anything great). And there I sat.

I don't know if you've ever tried to write anything but your name, but let me tell you, it's a lot harder than it looks. After staring at a blank piece of paper for two straight hours, you're not exactly brimming with confidence. I decided I needed something to write about.

And then it hit me- I would write about my love for Sylvia! And with a brush of my hand the ink started to flow. I must have written over thirty pages the first hour alone! What I wrote was pure, and honest. Whereas my predecessors had materialistic motives, I wrote for another. Shakespeare's greatest works are sonnets- sonnets about love for another. And so it was with me.

Love is a liquor that produces varied emotions- some men fear ardor; others practically swoon at the notion. However, love mixed with madness is the greatest catalyst known to man. Money and power, when all is said and done, fall far short.

Yet love is also a fleeting thing, to be sure. So, I had to act fast. I ignored both the telephone and the doorbell, my ears simply refusing to hear that which would halt my writing. For days at a time I went without the company of food, only allowing myself a boiled egg and toast twice a week. And when I didn't write, I slept; but that was from only the greatest physical exhaustion. I contend that only Atlas himself could bear my weight on his shoulders.

But perseverance always pays off. Exactly twenty days after we met, I finished my novel. It was a masterpiece of construction. Every sentence had a meaning, every word a certain nuance. I tell you, man, it had words that would move the hardest heart, entrance a man to move the stars, or even make men forget their lesser gods... I knew this would gain me Sylvia's love, for if it didn't, nothing would.

The instant I put down my quill, I marched over to Bumbleman's printing company, threw open the door to his office, and placed the manuscript before his hands. From somewhere deep within, I heard myself utter a terse phrase.

"Pay me."

Bumbleman is the type of man who could pass a child dying in the street and check his pockets for loose change. His heart was last seen being traded in for gold bouillon on the common market. But then again, you get the idea.

To this day I know not whether it was the wild look of poets in my eye or the fierce consternation of a novelist, but something greater than the both of us forced him to read my tale. You may ask why he didn't throw me out on the spot, casting my papers and me in the gutter. But you must think the whole thing through. Publishers don't get rich without some sort of sixth sense, some sort of gut feeling. He also knew, in his own corrupted way, that passion inscribed on paper equals dollars. Perhaps he learned it from me.

So he read it. And he paid.

After a brief stop at the bank, I set off for Sylvia's. Knocking on the door, I was so excited I almost knocked it off the hinges. Her door slowly opened, inch by excruciating inch. Instead of a hug and a kiss, I received a magnificent slap to the face, and her tears to boot.

I'm sure stars have fallen from heaven and crashed into the hissing sea, but no one could have felt worse than I did right then. After I picked up my heart and dusted it off, I considered joining a circus troupe far, far away. Perhaps the chimpanzees and lions would appreciate my love more...

My thoughts were banished at the sight of Bumbleman's little, bald head popping up over Sylvia's shoulder. He looked surprised- because of me, or the vicious right hook I threw, I don't know. So it ended up with Bumbleman and me wrestling on the veranda, Sylvia all the meanwhile beating me unmercifully with a wicker broom. Wicker brooms hurt. I made a solemn oath that day never to sweep a rug again with rage in my heart.

For the record, my ambition was to make Bumbleman eat dirt and yell "Uncle!" which is quite hard to do at the same time, I would soon realize.

Finally- I'm not quite sure when- we quit wrestling, dead tired on the front walk. For a long period afterward, we were all silent, too busy sucking air. But eventually, I had to speak.

"Why, Sylvia, why?"

"Why?! I'll tell you why! For three weeks, you don't call, don't visit! You don't even answer your door, even when I begged and cried. And worse yet, I knew you were in there. I could hear you munching on your toast, with more than moderate delectation."

"But Sylvia..." I tried to stand, my legs threatening to buckle at any moment.


The wicker broom bade me sit back down, and I obeyed before I knew it.

Meanwhile, Bumbleman had finally removed most of the dirt from his mouth, and he opened it as if he wanted to speak, but no words would come.

I also tried to speak, but Sylvia, who was now on the verge of tears, wouldn't hear of it.

"Go, Mr. Harry T. Belfunk. I shan't have anything else to do with you. There is no reason for your absence. Mr. Bumbleman has shared the whole story, and the idea makes me nauseous to a frightening degree. If it is truly love you seek, Mr. Belfunk, I suggest you stain the pages of your novel with the moisture of your lips. In any event, you will find your novel more receptive of your attention."

I knew then all was lost. Bumbleman would get the girl, Sylvia would get the love, and I would get paper cuts in cumbersome places.

Resigning myself to my fate, I stood up, dusted myself off, and walked out away. I shed no tears, spurted no words of bitter remorse (though my poetic should was tempted), but simply strode away, with all the dignity a broken heart can hold.

I did, however, suffer myself one glance back. I saw Sylvia, blessed Sylvia, helping up Mr. Bumbleman. I also saw love. I think it was then my hair turned white. A meager recorder of fervid dreams was never supposed to be a witness to true love. The only thing that spared my life from such an awesome sight was the intense burning in my heart.

So I walked to Bumbleman's company. I gave back all the money owed, and his secretary gave me back my manuscript. Mr. Bumbleman is a gentleman, I'll grant him that- he knew how to win gracefully. My next stop was here. And so you now know the story...

At that point, the exhausted Belfunk lapsed into a deep sleep. I watched the light from the fireplace turn cartwheels upon his sunken face. What price had love paid to buy a man's work of art? I slowly shook my head, letting it all sink in. And then I smiled. I suppose it is fitting that his sacrifice should warm him, at least for a while.

My curiosity assuaged, I let him snooze, for there are only two temporary cures for a broken heart- unconsciousness and love. The man who can drink while he sleeps never regrets falling in love.



The sun hung in the sky like a life-threatening blood clot, menacing and deep red. The warm waters of the Mediterranean rolled out beneath it in complementing shades of orange and yellow. In the distance the last remaining evidence of land was slowly retreating behind the horizon. The only sound was that of the waves slapping lazily against the wooden skiff.

Fernando was tired. He had been on the water all day and the work and the sun had beaten him, if only for a while. The clouds above him were a light gray. They scattered and diffused what was left of the evening light. He looked to the east and frowned. A bank of dark clouds had suddenly appeared. With them came the promise of a great storm.

He suddenly grew anxious even though his experience taught him there was no need. He set himself to tasks that seemed important and yet were not truly necessary. He checked and rechecked knots that had held for weeks.

He had never faced a true storm before. Once, near Naples, the wind had picked up and rocked his skiff back and forth like a toy boat, but he had not been scared. On another occasion he had made landfall just before a major storm hit. He remembers sitting on a rocky cliff and watching the power of the ocean. He had been glad not to be in it. Today he would have no choice.

Even though it was not wise, his thoughts wandered and fell on the memory of his father, Manuel. His childhood had been filled with his father’s tales of sailing and adventure. Storms that he had battled for days at a time with no sleep and little hope. Marlins he had struggled with until the ropes cut like knives, the pain compounded by the salty sea.

But above all, Fernando remembered the scars and on his father’s hands. Scars that served as silent witnesses to the trials he had endured. As his father told his stories the fire they used to keep warm cast shadows that seemed to deepen them, make them greater.

Fernando broke free of his thoughts and looked east again. The storm had grown noticeably larger. Seemingly pregnant with rain, it shifted closer and closer. Lightning struck in the distance in small sparks that belied the storm’s strength. Thunder could be heard, magnified by the waves. And yet it was not its size or girth or power that made it great- it was the awesome sense of inevitability that this thing would come. He quickly set himself back to work lashing nets and bracing the vessel.

He wanted nothing more than to encounter this storm. The outcome would be interesting, but it did not truly concern him. He sensed without exactly knowing that was critical was the meeting, the age-old conflict. Everything else was detail. He glanced down at his smooth hands and back at the approaching storm. He would be ready.

His skiff was fifteen-feet long. He had purchased it from a friend who had inherited a better one from his father. It was old and the wood had been bleached sea-gray, but its maker had done his job well.

A boat of Fernando’s size is an anomaly on the open sea- just big enough for one man to have trouble steering but just small enough to cause concern in a storm. In the chaos of wind and water that is a storm, time spent running to untangle a misplaced rope can easily spell death. He looked up- he would have to hurry now.

The storm was practically upon him. The wind had picked up, and the waves heralded the approach of things to come. At last his work is finished.

As a last thought, he sits and lashes his right arm to the boat. The boat was not only his source of income, but also his refuge. He had been twelve when he first saw a man go overboard in a storm. A sudden gust had lifted him as he was lowering the sail and threw him into the raging sea. The men had called and threw ropes, but to no avail. They found him floating facedown the next day. The fish had already started their grisly work.

He has done all he can. Now there is nothing but his thoughts and the waiting. He cannot help but hear the booming thunder and taste the salt in the whipping wind. It will not be long now.

And then the impossible happens. The storm turns. He watches in disbelief as the massive behemoth shifts and begins to pass to his left. A few sprinkles throw themselves harmlessly against the skiff. Light waves cause the boat to rise and fall rhythmically as the storm passes. He watches the storm for a very long time.

Finally his head falls into his tired hands. He weeps quietly before cursing the passing storm under his breath.


Tuesday, March 27, 2007


I'm so fuckin' tired of TV commercials. The next time you think a dollar isn't worth much, just watch a damn commercial. All those bastards want you to plunk down your money, and they try to entice you with fancy commercials. It's all bullshit. MacDonald's has gotten rich by selling us one dollar burgers that cost 20 cents to make. A dollar here- a dollar there- pretty soon they're worth over a billion dollars. The shit adds up.

Deal Or No Deal is the worst. I swear, I think there's more commercials than there actually is television show. I get tired of the commercials even when I Tivo through them- that's how many there are. I get it, people- you make the best truck/drink/hair replacement produce/diet plan/alcoholic beverage/online dating site in the world, and it'll only take me a few bucks to get in on the action. All of you suck.

It's kinda sad that Coke pretty much knows that if it pulls all of its advertising, people would slowly stop buying their product. Because we're not drinking Coke, we're drinking soda water that a billion dollar company has driven into our heads. It's not even a choice anymore- it's a Pavlovian response.

I'm tired, so this isn't fancy or clean, but suffice it to say that commercials can suck my ass. If I want to buy your product, I will- but you don't have to shove it down my throat fifteen times an hour. I don't care if you do have a fully fuckin' boxed frame, Ford. You can still kiss my ass.


Monday, March 26, 2007


Just a few days ago I saw a car on the side of the road. My wife recognized it as a car that had run up on my bumper and passed me with a delightful zeal about a week before. I remember the primordial and terribly delicious sense of schadenfreude rise up in my chest before being squashed by my civilized sense of mercy and pity. Is that poetry? Or is it merely the stuff that must be molded into poetry? Is poetry something we do, or something that is done to us?

Yesterday I sat on the porch swing and sipped whiskey until my head spun like a rusty merry-go-round, grinding and screeching its slow circuitous route. All thoughts melted away, and Descartes' famous maxim, "I think, therefore I am," became obliterated with the clankings of chipped ice against an empty glass. My body reverberated with pure and solemn existence, and it reinforced my ardent belief that my best ideas come from no thoughts at all. Is that poetry? Is poetry something we think, or something that thinks for us?

This afternoon I passed some boys playing basketball in the street, and I was transported to a care free time when the biggest worry was getting home in time for supper. I remembered the time I jumped over a creek and felt the universal thrill and ecstasy that only comes from doing the uncharted and unexplored. The tingling of the skin and emotional compression of the bone that only comes from taking risks. Is that poetry? Is poetry something we feel, or a thing that forces us to feel?

Is this poetry?


Leaves of Green

Every night I tramp out to the dog pen.
My two dogs, when they see me,
Tense up with exuberant impatience-
Tails stiff, eyes fixed.

When I pry open the old hinge
(Taken from my grandfather's gate)
They erupt, jumping and whining
For the styrofoam plates.

Max, the Newfoundland,
Won't eat while I'm close.
So I walk over to the plastic chair
Beneath a tree and watch him
Watch me until he's satisfied
That's where I'll be.

It's quiet- the dogs,
Their instincts engaged,
Shuffle the food silently
Only pausing to take
Quick and gasping breaths.

Above me is a light
That illuminates the leaves
Now just growing.

There is no greener green
Than this. The light strikes
From above, and I look from below
In wonder at every shade
Of green ever placed upon the earth.

Jades, emeralds- jewels they are
Never to be set as a stone
But inscribed perfectly
For me to hold
In a halogen ring
Stored safely away
Against the velvet lining
Of a dark night sky
And a greedy mind.

Then, Dakota, my lab mix,
Having finished his meal,
Pulls me from my reverie
And reminds me of more
Pressing matters- mainly,
Dog treats and some
Well-deserved attention.


Saturday, March 24, 2007


During the summers I would visit my uncle.
He would always drink Budweisers from the can
And walk around his front yard
In a pair of old shorts and wifebeaters
Stained with sweat, motor oil and
The aforementioned beer.

He was perversely comic.
Once, he held two frogs in his hand
And said to me,
“How can you tell if a frog’s a boy or a girl?”
I said, quite truthfully, that I did not know.
Upon that response, he turned both frogs over
And laughed, in his drunken way,
With a glory that Prometheus would have
Been proud to share.
I could see in his eyes
How he reveled in his self-proclaimed genius,
Thinking that his proclamation had changed
My whole perspective on life
And shattered everything I believed in.

Once he asked, “If a tree falls in the woods,
Does it make a sound?”
With such hushed reverence
It was clear he felt he deserved a Nobel
Prize for asking the question.
I wanted to say, "If a fat old man
Hell bent on drinking his life away
In his front yard said something
Incredibly stupid just to impress a child,
Does he make a sound?"
But being young, I held my tongue.

I think he’s dead now.


Monday, March 19, 2007


The semester is starting to wind down, and I'm getting the uneasy feeling that the walls are starting to crumble down around me. I haven't really studied anything- not that I ever do- and I've got oodles of papers and projects to complete.

The thing is, it's hard for me to care.

If I could somehow rip this apathy out of my soul, I could probably place it in a tent and charge people two and a half bucks to look at it. It would be that impressive. Pretty soon, there'd be lines like at the end of Field of Dreams. People would walk in, stare in wonder, and walk out saying, "Damn, I thought I didn't care. Compared to that shit, I'm the personification of Winston Churchill and Mother Theresa singing 'Kumbaya'".

In that regard, my intelligence (though it's quite trite to say it) is both an intelligence and a curse. It's not even that I'm that smart- it's just that most of my fellow classmates are morons. Things I take for granted, like writing a grammatically correct sentence from time to time, utterly escapes them. It's kind of sad. As a result, I'm one of the only able-bodied runners among a field of peg legs and war amputees. They try hard, but the exigencies of their situation inevitably drag them down. Helen Keller might can say "water" with dramatic effect, but it's understood her career as a sniper would probably be a short-lived one.

As a result, I can lounge around for hours on end while they're hobbling toward the finish line. They'll outline, categorize, delineate, and memorize every little fact and facet of what they think needs to be learned. The only problem is, they never learn it. It's almost as if they throw a bunch of bricks around in the air, and then expect to find a finished house. Some of them treat the library as a veritable monastery, yet if you ask them a question out of their rigid knowledge-based comfort zone they have an aneurysm. Ah, such is life, I suppose. Sometimes I think that they scurry to the source of truth, simply because they don't understand it and hope to hide in its shadows.

Some of them will do better than me, that's for sure. I'm by no means the smartest person in my class, and I'm probably one of the laziest. But experience and statistical analysis all bear out the aforementioned contention that I can stick my thumb up my ass and still beat out 85% of the competition. Which, considering it takes almost no effort, is a worthy cost/benefit calculation.

And, yes, this is hubris- overweening and overextending pride. But my fatal flaw is hubris, not the exposition of that which I am proud about. In that I also speak the truth, much as Odysseus spoke the truth when he dared to question Poseidon. So I will speak against the waves of decorum and storms of distaste in my quest for my future- cohorts be damned.

The "curse" part is quite simple- I'm scared to let this beast of a brain run free, for fear of abject failure. (Yes, I do turn this searing laser of truth toward myself from time to time.) I'm good with the occasional bon mot, and can even string along an extended metaphor with some degree of dexterity. But that's about as impressive as a bearded lady- all shock and no wonder. It's simply easier to entrench my latent talents within my hoary flesh, secretly hoping I'm good enough to be great, than to actually attempt the feat. In that regard, I'm hopelessly pathetic. However, it's worked so far. As mentioned above, I'm pretty damn impressive at being slightly better than most.


Friday, March 16, 2007

Perfection Rejection

Am I the only one that has an image of who I would like to be as a person, yet never do anything about it?

Like this weekend, I have things I'd like the ideal version of me to accomplish. I truly think that if I accomplish these things I'd be happier for it. It's nothing groundbreaking, just wandering around for a few hours and maybe working on a paper I have due for class. Instead, I'll just squander oodles of time and piss the weekend away.

I used to play a cheesy racing game called F-Zero on Nintendo. One of its coolest features was that you could literally race yourself. After running the track once, you could race the ghost image of your old race. Really kind of unnerving, if you thought about it too much.

How much would you shit your pants if the ideal version of yourself walked up and looked you in the eye? They'd probably be harder-working, more physically fit, and extremely balanced. Your ideal self would look at you, sitting on the couch covered in Cheese Puffs and glazed over from one too many episodes of McGuyver, and shudder inconsolably. Then it would leave, silently, and throw itself off of a bridge.

Man. That's pretty fuckin' depressing to think about. I need some Cheese Puffs and a plot about an exploding science lab.

By the way, that's not me in the painting. But I have to admit, my abs are about as chiseled as that guy's face.


Indiana Who?

It's a damn beautiful day outside. Earlier it was overcast, chilly, and windy, but the Sun finally woke up and bitch slapped the clouds away.

The bad news is that I'm stuck inside all afternoon working. It's nice to earn a few bucks here and there, but right now I'd give it all up for the chance to just wander around some back roads and waste a bunch of time.

In my state, you find the coolest shit just wandering around in the middle of nowhere. Most people see riding around as a giant waste of time and gas, but I intensely enjoy it. There's a road miles away from any sign of civilization that has curbs and huge oaks trees lining both sides. They're over a hundred years old, at least. My best guess is that it used to be an old plantation driveway that the State paved over, but I just don't know. There's not a whole lot of money in this State to look into those type of things, so usually the secret is lost to the ages.

On my way to work, I cross an old one-lane bridge that was built around 1900. Records are scant, so they're not exactly sure when it was built, but all the old people nearby say it was there when they were born. Parts of it are falling apart, but it still carries traffic. They'll probably replace it in a few years with a much more modern (and infinitely uglier) contraption. Sigh.

There's even a depression in the earth near the Mississippi River that no one really knows how to explain. Geologists just kind of throw their hands up in the air and say, "Fuck it, I got nothin'." It's that kind of strange. It's round, and intensely deep. Quite spooky to behold. Rumor and historical evidence seems to suggest that some of the pirates and thieves that cruised the river used it as a spot to bury their treasure. Also, I can't figure out why it doesn't fill up with water. It's pretty fucked up.

The last time I was there, it was in the middle of summer, so the woods around it were thick as hell. Giant spiders tried to eat my face off, so I didn't explore further. I'm hoping to go back one day with some climbing gear and reach the bottom. I'm pretty sure there's a magical time portal down there. Or at least, some wicked shrooms. Either one would take me to a very special place.


Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Off With His Head?

Recently a jury urged that a judge sentence a man to death for the killing of a child. You can read the story here, if you're interested. Being, it just glosses over the facts, but apparently the guy buried a 9 year old girl alive in some trash bags. I don't know why the age is important- would it be less heinous if he had killed a 15 year old that way? I doubt it.

I'm not a fan of the death penalty, simply because humans tend to make mistakes. And even if they're right 99% of the time, that means 1% of the people on death row are innocent. Which is, in my opinion, a special kind of suck.

I'm not familiar with the details of the case (I don't really care, either) but I do know that a jury has an emotional, gut-reaction type response to these type of trials. There's no "innocent until proven guilty" mentality. There's only a, "Somebody's gotta pay for this shit" mob thing goin' on that can't be good. I mean, you know the State's gonna bring charges against someone, just to avoid public outcries. So they pick the most likely suspect, and send him down the river. The jury would convict anyone, if the prosecutor has any talent at all.

Also, life in prison has to suck infinitely worse. It might be bearable for a few years, but once you realize you're goin' to die in that hellhole, it's gotta suck pretty hard. And then you got the other guys either a) trying to fuck you, b) trying to shank you, d) trying to give you Hepatitis C and/or AIDS, or d) all of the above. It can't be good times. Especially if they know you killed a child.

Even the cruelest son of a bitch in prison won't stand for that shit. There's guys in there who will rob a bank and shoot five cops in the face without thinking about it, but they go apeshit when they learn about someone hurting a child. A few years ago, didn't some inmates hold a guy down and put a prison tattoo on the guy's face? Oh yeah, they did. You know the guard was paying attention that day. Wink. Wink.

Also, the death penalty is painless. You just go to sleep. Hell, I can go to sleep. That doesn't take any balls. They don't even really fry people anymore, do they? Just a little shot to make you sleepy. Jerk Wads.

All I'm saying is, there are fates worse than death. One of them is spending fourty years in a maximum security prison before dying with a painful Hepatitis C related infection and the nickname "Easy Rider."

I'm not saying the guy isn't the scum of the earth, only that he's getting off easy by being put out of his misery.


Sweatin' Like a Whore in Church

I hate summers in the Deep South. If you're from the North, imagine walking around in a warm and wet blanket for six months out of the year. Because it's not just hot, it's humid. And water (if you remember your science from high school) conducts heat like a mother fucker.

So pretty soon you're covered in this soupy sweat shit all day, and there's nothing to do. You can faint if you think terribly strenuous thoughts. Before the advent of air conditioning, my grandfather said that people just lounged around butt naked all day on their front lawns. Made weed whacking an adventure, he would claim. Of course, he was an alcoholic, but I'm pretty sure that's a pretty strong point.

In the middle of July, crack dealers will switch to selling ice water for a few weeks, because there's a greater profit margin. Hookers give it away for free if you rent a hotel room with a swimming pool, I hear. Usually they get along famously with the crack dealers for those few weeks, causing a crime drop in the middle of Lincoln for a while.

The Sno Cone shacks around town get temporary tax-free status, as their clientele begins to approach something of a cult status. Their customers camp out in tents, read from the company's manual, and hold quiz bowls on the subject matter. It's pretty freaky stuff.

I could go on and on, but trust me, it's pretty fuckin' hot down here.


Monday, March 12, 2007

Kids Are Weak These Days

Earlier today I rescued a turtle from the middle of the road, simply because that's how I roll, bitches. It was a big one, maybe tipping the scales at three to four pounds. He was feisty, too, and kept trying to rip my fingers off with his needle claws.

I took him home and then rode my bike to a nearby creek to drop him off. I'm no turtleologist, but I figured he'd like some water.

There was a kid standing next to a bike. He was maybe eight or nine. He asked me if I could get his tennis balls for him, and I said, "Sure, as soon as I release this turtle." It was a very Napoleon Dynamite type moment. I think to myself it's pretty sad that this kid's playing tennis by himself in the middle of the street, but then I determine he probably just doesn't have any friends. It's still sad, but I like to supply my depressing thoughts with a logical explanation.

So I release my captured turtle into the creek, and it simply sinks like a stone. "That's not good," I thought to myself, especially since this kid's watching my every move. I really don't want to be the one to break it to him that stuff dies. "See that turtle there, Timmy?", I'd say, pointing towards the murky water, "That's what happened to your grandpa. Turns out he's not just asleep."

So we stare at the water for a while, me and this kid I've never met, and pretty much watch nothing for a few minutes. It was very Faulkneresque, and it kind of gave me the chills.

After wigging myself out due to the fact that a) I'd just killed a turtle, and b) I'd probably severely scarred some little boy for life, I climbed out of the creek.

Then I go to get his tennis balls. I'm thinking they're in some kind of heavy brush, because the kid was probably Barry Bonding them into God knows where. So I ask, "Where are they?" He walks to the edge of the road and says, "There. I didn't want to get stung by the bee."

The tennis balls are like literally half a foot off the pavement. The grass is maybe two inches tall. This is ridiculous. Someone should get this kid some therapy, if he's that scared of one bee. Also, the bee was flying around us the whole time- did he think that the bee was going to get super pissed if he moved six inches to the left? I'm pretty sure all bees think are, "Buzz, buzz, fly, buzz, danger, buzz, buzz." I don't think tennis balls and vendettas are really part of their bag of tricks.

In my day, we were jumping off shit, scuffing our knees, swimming in ponds, getting cut up to hell and back in briar bushes, tempting tetanus on a daily basis, borrowing machetes to hack our way through the woods, building clubhouses, and playing with slingshots that could quite easily put your life (much less your eye) out. Sure half of my childhood friends died in freak accidents, but that doesn't change the fact that today's kids are soft. We need a major foreign power to attack us, so this younger generation is forced to man up and grow a pair.

P.S. The turtle lived. Apparently they can hold their breath for a really, really long time.


Cash is King

I love this shit, because it's meant to be commercial, and the execs won't to make some money off the magnificent bastard before he heads toward the white light of death, but he's so authentic they don't know what to do with him. When music executives encounter that kind of authenticity, they're flabbergasted. Mostly, because they don't see it anymore.

Look in the man's eyes. If you can't feel his pain, you have no soul. Here he is, looking back over a past filled with so many mistakes and streaks of greatness, and he realizes that all he's got is a bunch of dusty trophies. He makes a lot of dramatic arm movements that would be laughable if anyone else tried them, but you can tell he doesn't give a damn anymore. If Johnny Cash wants to charade a couple words, that's fine. I don't tell God when to make it rain; I won't tell Cash how to sing a song.

What pisses me off about the music industry today is that people like Johnny Cash would never make it in today's commercial climate. They don't have the "look." God, how I hate the "look." Talent means nothing, as long as you look the part. They can fix the singing in the recording studio nowadays, and they feed you backup tracks when you sing live. It's a big joke.

I'll try to lay off the music videos for a while- I fully realize the tens of people who visit this blog come here solely for my rapier wit.


Sunday, March 11, 2007

Intriguing, to Say the Least

I just can't get over these commercials. It's almost as if the anti-drug people accidentally hired some potheads to design their commercials.

This one is my personal favorite. It involves a guy who's smoking pot and hangin' out with his lady. Nothin' wrong there, but the girl doesn't seem interested. Which makes me think she has pretty low self-esteem in the first place, because I doubt the chap was real motivated when they first got together. It's not like you're researching a cure for cancer one day, then hanging out in the woods smokin' reefer the next. She new what she was getting into.

Then, out of fuckin' nowhere, an UFO comes out of the sky and an alien pops out. Nobody freaks out. Not even the girl, who isn't smokin' the weed. Even the guy appears to have just started hitting the joint, so it's not like he's even got a buzz yet. What the fuck? I mean, if I was just sitting around and a space ship landed ten feet away from me, I'd probably shit my pants. I call bullshit.

Then, if this is even possible, it gets stranger. The guy offers the alien some weed, which is totally unrealistic. You don't just offer a hit to random strangers. That's how you end up in jail. In real life, he'd of swallowed that joint in five seconds while running away. Even someone who is stoned knows that.

Anyway, Mr. Space Alien turns him down, and that makes the girl fall in love with him. I told you this girl had some low self-esteem. This, ladies and gentleman, is the kind of girl who bangs guys in the bathroom at Applebee's when they buy her a drink. Anyone who can fall in love with a space alien in a few seconds' time must equate their personal worth with a pile of shit.

The last scene involves them flying off into space together, accompanied by butterflies. This is seriously a freak show of a commercial.

When you throw in the unsettling carnival music, it seems to do more to promote marijuana than discourage it. I can imagine potheads laughing their asses off at this shit. The lesson is, "Smoke weed and your cheap whore of a girlfriend will leave you for a space alien." Makes you want to throw down the bong and put on a tie, doesn't it?


Rich & Rare

Apparently Canada is good for something after all. God knows the Expos were a horrible mistake.

I recently visited my local liquor store and picked up some Isaiah Craig for about $23 a bottle. It's not bad, but it's nothing to brag about. On a whim, I picked up some Rich & Rare, because I'd read an article about it in the Jackson Free Press. Basically, they advocated it as a good, cheap whiskey.

I bought a fifth for a little over six bucks.

Tonight, I tried it, and it's surprisingly smooth. There's a nice oakiness to it, but it's not overpowering. The aftertaste is pleasant, as well. Other bourbons and whiskeys I've tried have had too much fire and too little sweetness. If I wanted to drink horsepiss and get wasted, I'd just buy some moonshine. But this stuff has soul...

So, if you're looking for a good sippin' whiskey at a price that you can actually afford, I'd suggest Rich & Rare. I only wish I'd found this out before I blew through two trust funds and killed one of my grandfathers to collect the life insurance. Oh well- anything for the sweet nectar!


Solid Gold

Don McLean is definitely one of my favorite musicians of all time. While "American Pie" was his uber-commercial opus, this one seems to truly be a song he enjoys singing. The lyrics are amazing. You can just feel it, man.

My advice? Press play, and then place your hands on your cheeks. For the next four odd minutes, simply watch and listen, and try to figure out just what Van Gogh was trying to tell us. I can't describe why I enjoy this song so much- I can only hope you enjoy it too.


Decapitated Headlines

Here's a sampling of real and current headlines from, with my critique of them following after each in italics. My point is, these news organizations are about as concerned with the transmission of truth as Trump is about finding a great leader to run one of his 2,000 corporations. I'm pretty sure he's just in The Apprentice to make money, but I've been wrong before. The actual headlines show up after the jump.

1. "U.S. struggles to find fresh troops for Iraq buildup."

I guess the mobile spa units with armor-piercing nail stations haven't been finished yet. I love how they use the word "fresh" as a code word for "breathing." Also, that's exactly why we're losing the War on Terror- our boys are winded. They need oxygen masks. Gee, and I thought it was because we had stepped into an ideological morass spanning thousands of years and hinging on the very fundamental beliefs of ancient religions? Man, I'm an idiot sometimes. Our soldiers just need a breather. That's good to know.

2. Mexican leader vows drug crackdown, prods U.S.

I love how MSNBC just assumes that the average reader of its site wouldn't recognize the leader of Mexico's last name. They'd be like, "The channel that brought us the Simpsons and Family Guy is fighting the drug war? Isn't that hypocritical?

Also, "prods" either conjures sexual imagery or farm animal behavior therapy. Really bad choice of words. Next time, try not to hire someone just because they have an English degree and they're dating the editor's daughter.

"Vows" doesn't make sense either. He's not getting married, after all, or swearing to kill a blood enemy by sundown. They just picked it because it was short. I bet they suck at Scrabble and crossword puzzles.

3. "Man seeks to dispel public's fear of ski masks."

This is what we call a shit story. You should never click on these types of stories because the best part about them is the headline. It never fails- the story is never as good as the one you instantly make up in your head. Instead of being some cranky old bastard who's pickled himself half to death, it's some yuppie from Oregon trying to make a few bucks off the winter ski season. And the only reason they're running the story is because he used the date the editor's daughter.

4. "Packers fans cry 'No Moss!'"

This is mind-boggling, because they think that their readers won't know Vincente Fox's name, yet that they'll instantly latch on to the fact that "No Moss!" is a clever play on words of a quote said by Rocky Marciano, a whitey boxer from God knows when. Way to keep tabs on your demographic, goatfuckers. I'm so tired.

Also, it should be Packers', with an apostrophe after the "s." See #2 RE: Employee Qualifications Advice.

5. "Tornado caught on cell phone."

Why the fuck is this even news? I've seen a tornado before. I've seen a cell phone before. I'm pretty sure that when the two meet, it's not terribly exciting. How, with a website that covers all the news in the world, can this make it on the front fuckin' page? Unbelievable.

By the way, if you didn't picture a tiny tornado twisting inside an actual phone, you really can't be my friend.

6. Hindus hang from hooks.

Someone's been drinking too deep from the ol' alliteration pool. Literary techniques are not Legos or Twinkies- you can't just grab a few on a whim and then leave them for the dog to piss on later. With great power comes great responsibility, bitches. As someone with an English degree, I can say with some amount of confidence that if Milton read this headline, he'd wreak some unholy hell on the motherfucker who drew this one up.


Saturday, March 10, 2007

Old Age

I've decided that old people are happier when they don't have to solve a particular problem.

Today as I was returning from my bike ride (17.5 miles of fury!) I saw a county fire truck go roaring by before turning down a side street. When I was younger, I would have followed it to see if they needed any help. County fire departments are small, and if Bob is out fishing, you're short a firefighter. If anything, I could keep people away from the fire.

But now I'm older, and thus more tired. So I kept driving on.

I imagine Encyclopedia Brown is probably an alchoholic by now. I mean, yeah, it was cool at first figuring out how the bad guys skipped school, and where your best friend's dog went, but that shit had to get old fast. People you don't even know start showing up and want you to solve their problems. Not so fun now, huh, book boy?

I picture him sitting alone in a hotel near Phoenix throwing beer bottles at the wall. Whenever the maid tries to open the door, he's all like, "I got it! You're a fuckin' loser who works at this crap hole in the middle of the desert! You pop pain pills every night so you won't have to deal with reality! Your husband's sleeping with another woman! I solved the fuckin' case. I'm Encyclo-Fuckin-Pedia Brown, bitches. By the way, the only clue I needed was your outfit and the fact that your face looks like basketball leather."

The maid, faced with such cognitive powers of blinding truth, instantly kills herself by jumping over the balcony. Encyclopedia (Mr. Brown if you're nasty) then shoots some morphine and passes out.

I'm going to do a circuit of nursing homes, where all the old people sit around and watch me do menial tasks, like tying my shoes and riding a unicycle. I think that would make them happy as they sucked Jell-O through a straw.

Hell, if I could watch that and eat Jell-O, I'd be happy.



Occasionally I like to turn the scope of my searing genius onto the national stage, because even I get tired of talking about local politics. Local politics, after all, is about as important as two dogs fuckin' in the backyard. You look for a second, feel a mixture of elation and shame, and then walk away. At least I do.

National politics is like elephant fuckin'. I mean, come on, you got to pull over on the side of the road and watch that shit go down.

I still can't quite believe Hillary Clinton is actually running for President. I'm a Libertarian, so in my heart I don't really care who wins, but I amazed she thinks she's electable. She might even do a good job, but that doesn't mean she'll get in.

I'm pretty sure Stephen Hawkings would make an awesome President, as he's smarter than all of us put together, but America's not going to vote for a guy with a robot voice and evil dictator wheelchair. Not in the age of television, at least.

First off, she's polarizing. People either love her or hate her. And if it's one thing Democrats don't want, it's a polarizing figure in the next election. They could almost win back the White House by drawing names out of a hat, as long as that person doesn't draw any type of ire. What I mean to say is, a random plumber from Minnesota would have a better shot for the Democrats than Hillary.

It's a natural reaction for someone who's been out of power to overreach when they first get a taste of the forbidden fruit. But that's generally a mistake. One must ease into power in national politics. They need a liberal that won't make the rednecks come out en masse simply to vote against him or her, like they did with the gay marriage ban. Did you see the lines in Florida last time? People were literally coming out of the swamps to vote against it. They want conservatives to stay home- which shouldn't be hard, since their morale is so low. Don't give them a reason to get up.

Secondly, she's a woman. At least half of the people who'd say they would vote for her are lying, and will change their vote once they get behind the curtain. I really don't see a lot of men voting a woman into office with this climate. Regardless of your feelings about the War on Terror, it's probably not good business to put in a leader who could get her ass kicked by Sea Monkeys.

Democrats, if you want to win the White House, do the following:

Obama is the bright light of your party. But he's too inexperienced to win the big one right now. You need to Condoleeza his ass into the Presidency over time. Have him and John Edwards (your charismatic candidate) develop a working relationship over time. Let John Edwards win the nomination, and then he picks Obama as his running mate. I really don't see how you could lose with an Edwards/Obama ticket. The son of a South Carolina mill worker running with a guy whose ancestry were slaves in South Carolina. The media (and America) would fall for it hook, line, and sinker.

Of course, they won't do that, and they'll end up running a Clinton/Farrakhan ticket to oblivion somehow. And then they'll blame the country.

I should really start doing retard summaries at the top, like CNN does, because I'm pretty sure 95% of the American populace can't read this many words without blowing out a blood vessel.

Oh well.


Take Two...

I think I like this template better than the original. It seems welcoming.

In other words, it's kinda like that guy or girl you knew in high school that you'll never see again, yet never stop looking for. Like a 50 year old woman feeding chickens from the porch of her trailer. Like used car streamers flying in the spring breeze on the frontage road. Like the glint of the sun off the glass while you're driving too fast with good friends.

Sorry. Bourbon makes me wordy, and apparently causes me to grow a vagina filled with erstwhile emotions. Who knew?

Sometimes I feel like a homeless man making sculptures out of plastic forks. Not even classy sculptures either, just the kind that make the other homeless people beat him up and take his shopping cart after throwing the crappy sculptures in his unconscious face.


Friday, March 9, 2007


I actually saw Icicle once. My eyes started bleeding profusely from the sheer sight of his grandeur, so I couldn't stare long. Later, after I had gnashed my teeth for an appropriate amount of time, I was able to recollect my thoughts and write them down.

I saw him at Kinda Fancy Mall, which is in MountainVille, an affluent suburb north of Lincoln. The two are so close that it's hard to tell where MountainVille begins and Lincoln ends, but the ever decreasing amount of litter on the side of the road gives a distinct clue.

This was in the early days of Icicle's reign, where pretty much everybody still liked him. I mean, Lincoln was so bad off, it would be pretty hard to imagine he could make it worse. Oh how sweet innocence is, when one has it.

What I found hilarious about the event was the fact that Icicle was shopping in Mountainville, when one of his big selling points had been bringing more business to Lincoln.

There's a mall in Lincoln, but the fact that Icicle apparently won't shop there on a Saturday night is somewhat telling. Basically the Mall in Lincoln is so shady that the light of the sun never hits the building, and it's engrossed in perpetual twilight. It's not an unsafe place during the day (old people walk around inside it like zombies, and everyone that could cause a problem is still sleeping off last night's vices) but at night, you're taking your life in your hands.

Not only that, but Icicle gets his heart fixed in another state. I know our health system isn't the greatest in the world, but I'd like to think that a heart doctor is a heart doctor is a heart doctor.

It's almost as if Lincoln is his personal political litterbox, and he runs elsewhere to get his food, clothes, and medical treatment.

We're left, then, with just the shit.


Drawn and Quartered

I wasn't sure if I could speak about this or not, but I was recently given permission.

The Mahwongs have commissioned me to paint a picture of their leader, Icicle. For payment, they offered the souls of their firstborn. I assured them some weed and a Gatorade would be sufficient, but they insisted. I didn't want to seem ungrateful, so I put them all to work finding me Gatorade and weed. Some of them don't have to look hard, if you get my drift. But, at least they're keeping busy.

Apparently, the picture is to hang from the State Capitol, City Hall, the Governor's Mansion, and from every school and Taco Bell in the county. From what I gather, Icicle mucho likey the taquito. (He's a sour cream man, I hear.) But I digress.

His image will also fly above the United States flag at the federal courthouse, as well as be prominently displayed when he makes his much anticipated announcment in the fall to cancel all city elections and enshrine himself as permanent leader. With elections out of the way, he argues, he'll be able to spend more of his time fighting crime.

The image at the top is but a draft- unfortunately I ran out of the colors awesome and omnipotent. And the halo hasn't even been started. That said, the Mahwongs would like some opinions on the image- however, Icicle has asked that they all be positive and reflect his superior leadership abilities. Other than that, though, he wants you to be honest.


Icicle Unbowed, Bitches!

Welcome to the rabbit hole, fuckers!

You remember when logic actually played a part in anything? Where shit was somewhat predictable? Where arrest warrants were actually enforced? Because I've forgotten. I've currently got a carrot shoved up my ass, and shit keeps coming out of my mouth. I'm typing this with my toes and standing on my hands. Alanis Morissette's music actually sounds palatable. I swear, it's upside down land around here.

The Magnificent Bastards vacated the arrest warrant and recused the presiding Judge. Oops.

Now, in the real world (which no longer exists) a new judge would pop up, reissue the arrest warrant- because, after all, Icicle has still violated his parole- and we'd just go on with life. But in this new world, I fully expect the new judge to give Icicle a medal before turning into a T-Rex that hands out hot meals to the rich. Icicle will then declare himself dictator and single-handedly destroy the American military solely with his sheer upper body strength, kinda like The Incredible Hulk. Only much more incredibler and hulkier.

And since we've killed Captain America, there's no one to stop him.

I truly hate you all.


Thursday, March 8, 2007

Shit I'd Like To Do Tomorrow But Won't Because Life Sucks

1. Go to the crossroads where Robert Johnson supposedly sold his soul to the devil. I'd like to visit all the purported places- I think there's three. Just 'cause.

2. Drive to Rolling Fork, Mississippi with a pack of Camels and sit in the little gazebo across from the mammoth courthouse and wait for someone to ask me for a smoke, and trade them a cigarette for a story. Repeat until I had no money.

3. Cruise the Natchez Trace with the windows down and "Sweet Child of Mine" blasting on the radio. Once again, just 'cause.

4. Ride my bike from here until I can't ride any further, and then just camp out in the woods next to the road. Repeat until I had no cares.

5. Sit in the middle of the Delta, squish down into the fertile earth, and sing me some fuckin' blues.

6. Smoke a good bit of weed, and then just lay in a canoe in the middle of a lake.

What I'll actually do is go to work and then piss the rest of the night away. I wish I were so stupid I couldn't live out the wretched tomorrow fourteen times before it actually happened.


They Killed Captain America

It's this kind of shit that pisses me off.

Hey, Comrades, I heard there's still a little kid in Newark who believes in Santa Claus. Perhaps if you're fast enough, you can totally crush her spirit as well.

What the fuck is wrong with this country?


Wednesday, March 7, 2007

Icicle IV

I remember those halcyon days when life was care free and my biggest worry was running out of ideas to blog about. Cigarette smoke and gentle breezes wafted effortlessly through the myriad hallways of my magnificent brain, and I was content to let the secrets it unearthed linger innocently there for all eternity.

Oh, how the fuckin' shit hits the fan.

Icicle, our esteemed leader, gets indicted, arrested, placed on probation, hunted down with an arrest warrant, and gets subsequently placed in the Burton County Detention Center.

Wondrous. Now I'm quite seriously considering three or four Icicle blogs, an Icicle television channel, a local Icicle newspaper, an a custom-designed diamond studded series of Icicle ankle bracelets. Because, as far as I can tell, the people of Lincoln can't get enough of the Icicle news.

What's sad is that for a little while, at least, this town was a sinking ship with a crazy captain. He wasn't going to find the New World, but he probably had the sense to order someone to steer the ship if a giant flaming iceberg came out of nowhere. Now it's just wandering about, captainless. It's just a matter of time before people are out looting storefronts and refusing to pay for gas.

The optimistic part of me says that the tagline of Gladiator is right, and a hero will rise out of this to lead the city to a brighter day.

But the realistic part of me says that most of us are going to die horrible gang-related deaths.


Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Icicle v.3

Oh. fuck.

The Magnificent Bastards in the prison-shaped building slapped Icicle's counsel in the face yesterday, saying they lacked a certain mojo to deal with the appeal. And by "mojo," I mean jurisdiction. You know, that foundational hallmark of Western culture. It's a slight problem. They basically said that they had about as much right to hear this particular case as the one where the space alien claimed it was sexually molested by a Vulcan on Venus.

Capron v. Van Noorden, bitches.

(By the way, fuckers, Vulcans are people. They're just like you and me. And if you try to tell me otherwise, I'll kill you. And when I do, I'll just hire Icicle's lawyers, and they'll delay the trial so much that your relatives will die and/or get Alzheimer's before I go down. Mark my words, bitches.)

Anyhoo, now the Dream Team has filed an emergency appeal to the Magnificent Bastards, claiming that the Judge stole an order from the circuit clerk- a crime punishable by up to five years in jail. For the love of God, when is President Bush just gonna nuke the hell out of this place so I can die in peace? I'll think I'll call the tip line and tell them I saw a Muslim a few weeks ago- that'll do it.

Anyway, they're acusing the judges of committing a felony. What the fuck? From what I gather, she simply took back the order so she could attach exhibits to it- it's the same damn order. Shit's on your face, Icicle's counsel. And guess what- the Magnificent Bastards may be liberal and love Icicle, but their sense of self-preservation is even greater. They'll cut you down like chaff on Judgment Day if you think you'll get anywhere impugning a judge without evidence. Good luck fittin' that future ruling up your ass.

All I can figure is that if you rub Icicle the right way while he's sleeping, pure gold shoots out his ass and he sweats high-quality heroin. Because otherwise, I can't see why you'd go around and fuckin' jeapardize your professional relationship with every fuckin' person of import in this state.



Beer and Blimps

Went by the ol' Rare Beer Store gas station today and made my own six pack.

Nothing quite says drunken American debauchery like selecting six random ales and heading home to drink the night away. Quite sad, really.

Had a Southwick, which was quite pleasant. Of course, it was my third, so I'm not so sure how well the taste buds were registering.

I've decided that the blimp is the greatest symbol of American jackassery on the planet. I mean, the Hindenburg basically immolates hundreds and hundreds of people, and we have several other modes of safe air transportation. So what do we do? We fly fuckin' blimps with ads on the side so we can get overhead shots of sporting events. I'm pretty sure they could just use stock blimp footage from 1987 most of the time, and no one would notice. Which makes me think it must be pretty fuckin' boring to be a bird.

Not only that, but blimps aren't good for anything. We might as well fly hot air balloons over sporting events. They're only worth is that they're great presents for the rich homosexual who already has everything. Get 'em a nice fuckin' argyle print hot air balloon or blimp, and they'll piss on themselves. But that's about it.

But with a sport where men are slugging through the mud to achieve glory and eternal fame, let's not fly a fag balloon around so we can take pretty pictures. That's cheaper than an old whore.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must go find a blimp to piss on. This Southwick flows right through me.


Pissant Units of Time

My life is generally filled with periods of work, school, and driving back and forth between those two ventures. Every now and then, I get some time at home to eat, relax, and then cry myself to sleep. Just kidding- the Percocets I pop every night tend to dry me out. But the sadness is real. Very real.

If I ever do get any free time during the day, it's pissant time- time that's too short to do anything worthwhile yet too long to be convenient. For example, today I have and hour and a half break between classes. Pure pissant time. By the time I left, it would be time to turn around. So that's out. It's not long enough to even study (haha) because by the time you get into something, you've got to head to class.

So what is a person to do? I usually just sit in a corner and tremble a lot. Of course, that's probably due to the Percocets. But I started taking them to get off of cigarettes, so that makes it okay. Because the possibility of lung cancer is far worse than mania and a numbing sense of consciousness. Right?

I can't feel my fingers- I should probably stop and go to the hospogijdjdgk;olkds,,,,,,,,,,,gargle.


Monday, March 5, 2007

The Porn Stops Here

Today in Burton (yet another fake name) I was working my life away when I wondered why there were so many cars parked along the street.

Apparently, there was a trial going on at the courthouse. Which out here, in the middle of damn nowhere, is somewhat of a big deal.

The bigger deal? The guy was up for possession of child pornography. They had his ass on ten counts. Ten, mother fuckers. As in he's going away for fifty years.

Which is great and all, but the point of this story is more about how much of a freakin' retard the guy is, as opposed to the efficacy of the American legal system. For some reason, the guy a) looked up the child porn on school computers, and b) rejected a plea bargain where he would have only spent five years in jail.


Does he know how fast a jury will convict him? Now he's got fifty years to experience some guy named Shaw Shank his Redemption, if you catch my drift.

And I think you do.

Later, at a dinner party with a former juror present:

Partygoer: "Hey, what did you do today?"

Juror: "I helped put a pedophile behind bars for half a century."

Partygoer: "That's awesome. Can you pass the chips?"

Again, what a freakin' dumbass.


The Broken Hearts (Bullshit) Club

After getting that arrest warrant issued, Mayor Icicle complained of chest pains and headed for the hospital. So he's been holed up there over the weekend, so he won't have to worry about getting holed in county lock-up. Get it? I'm talking about forced homosexual sodomy. Never mind the fact that he has the strength to jog around and allegedly tear down houses. (Once again, I'm allegedly breathing right now. You can't prove it, so it's not necessarily true.)

Because really, how much bigger of a target can you have on your fuckin' chest than Mayor of a town? I'm pretty sure some straight guys would try to tap that authoritative ass, just so they'd get some street cred.

I'm not gay, but if I were ever in a jail cell with Elvis, I'd probably go for the reach-around. Just 'cause. That, and because of the fact that toward the end, he had man boobies.

Anyway, Icicle apparently had the strength to pay his personal attorneys beaucoup money to appeal the decision to the Supreme Court. Apparently the Judge that set the terms of the probation is impartial, and should recuse herself. Right. Because surely the judge has to be biased if you walk into court with three gun charges, and you somehow walk out with a slap on the wrist and no worries about being someone's bitch. That can't be fair.

But it's Icicle, and the Mahwongs love him. Damn you Mahwongs, damn you.


Saturday, March 3, 2007

Uncrustables My Ass

How fuckin' lazy are we as Americans if we rely on factories to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for us? Because apparently buying bread, peanut butter, and jelly has become too much of a drain on our lives. I can't tell you how many times I've slaved away for hours making a PB&J sandwich and thought, "Damn, why can't someone make this easier?" Most nights, I fail in the attempt, and simply wake up the next morning covered in someone else's saliva and bread crust.

I swear, if I could find a way to actually sell bananas without the peel, or perhaps pre-digest people's food for them, I'd make a fortune. Because that whole chewing bit takes up too much of our sitting on our lazy asses time. We've got a whole bunch of nothing to do, people, and we need all of our free time to do it.

Jerk wads.


The Dreaded Mahwongs

Lincoln is filled with Mahwongs.

What are Mahwongs, you might ask? Well, then, I'll tell you.

But first, go surf for some porn. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Done yet? Good.

Mahwongs are poorly educated, animalistic bastards that stalk all that is good on this Earth, intent on destroying its presence where it stands. Fortunately, they're somewhat lazy, so that's good.

Despite the views of some bigots, Mahwongs cannot be accurately located by skin color alone. They come in all shades, whitey white, white, kinda off-white, whitish, mulatto, mocha, coffee bean, midnight, and even black velvet. Okay, I made that last one up. But you get the idea.

Their defining characteristic is that they're impervious to logic. If you say something logical, their brain actually never hears the message. You could say to a Mahwong who was on fire, "Hey, old chap, I believe you're going up in flames," and the Mahwong would say, "We can't focus on the obvious. We've got to turn this city around," before turning into a walking funeral pyre of flames and platitudes.

The citizenry of Lincoln are really slaves to their lack of education, which in turn Mahwongifies them to a great extent. Most of the time, if you use a five syllable word in a way that may or may not be intelligible, they either a) worship you like a king, or b) elect you Mayor so you can royally fuck things up.

Here's the thing- we've got this mayor in Lincoln- let's call him Icicle, because I think that's cool. Get it? Whaaaa-Whaaaaaa.

Anyway, Mayor Icicle claimed he was going to clean up the crime in Lincoln. So, the Mahwongs, in their decaying brains decided, "Crime is bad I guess. Icicle doesn't like crime, so I like Icicle." After completing that syllogism, most of the Mahwongs fell into a coma for two weeks for overexerting their brains. Then, they came to and voted Icicle into office.

Icicle then turns into a Hitler-type leader. Icicle-Hitler proceeds to a) flagrantly violate several state laws on camera and get's put on probation by a judge. Before that, he b) allegedly tore down a house with a crew of guys and some sledgehammers. (For the record, I'm also allegedly writing this blog post. Write your congressman.) He's a nutcase. At least Hitler had the common sense to completely take over the power structure so he could make up his own rules first.

For the coup de grace, a warrant for his arrest came out yesterday. The mayor of Lincoln, a major city in the Southeast, has an arrest warrant issued with his name on it. I swear, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

Here's what drives me abso-fucking-lutely insane- the Mahwongs love him with a zeal that borders on idolatry. Today they staged a rally in front of City Hall to show their support. A local news station just reported that 58% of the people in Lincoln don't think he should go to jail. What the fuck? I swear, they could show this guy on camera killing people Gestapo style for parking violations and the Mahwongs would say the next day, "Serves them right. Icicle is gotta cut down on crime."

All I'm saying is, Mayor Icicle could wipe his ass with the U.S. Constitution on camera while cutting off a jaywalker's head, and the Mahwongs would erect a graven image of him in the town square. It's ridiculous.

He could suffocate a ten-year old child with the decaying corpse of a puppy, and he'd still win re-election in a landslide. He'll probably run from jail and win.

God, I hate Mahwongs.


Friday, March 2, 2007

My Town

I live near a large city in the Southeastern United States. I shall call this city "Lincoln."

Lincoln is a dump. At one point, it used to be pretty cool- majestic and architecturally beautiful skyscrapers lined the sky. Now it's a shell.

Like a lot of larger towns in the South, there's perhaps a six to eight block radius where it's fairly safe to walk during the day. People drive into the town to work, then quickly escape before nightfall falls over the city. Because then, if you wander down the streets, you might as well just kill yourself. Because you'll be dead anyway. Strange people wander the streets, wanting to fulfill their thirst for blood. Some of them will kill you and leave your wallet stuffed with cash on the sidewalk. They're simply insane.

Or, as I like to say, Insan-O. Because it sounds funnier.

The local news ran a piece tonight about how people were moving back into South Lincoln, because the perception of crime there was overblown. A local resident was quoted as saying, "Crime can happen anywhere. It happens in Lincoln, it happens in Washington, and it happens in Jefferson."

(By the way, if you can't figure out that Washington and Jefferson aren't the real names of nearby towns, you're probably not very smart.)

Anyway, it's all bullshit. Of course crime is worse in South Lincoln. The newscaster wouldn't even do the broadcast live on a street in South Lincoln, for fear of instant death. Nor would she let her child walk down the streets of South Lincoln alone, because (hopefully) she's not a complete moron.

A local real estate site has over thirty houses for sale in Lincoln for less than $15,000. Why is that, you might ask? It's not because there's so many of them. It's because instead of insulation, they fill the walls with the bodies of dead hookers and crackheads.

Jefferson, a quickly growing bedroom community to the North of Lincoln, has recently realized that if it builds a living room, it never has to come to Lincoln. So they started building mini-skyscrapers. Which means office space. Which means all the employers in Lincoln are leaving. In a hurry. So soon, even the six to eight block radius will be a ghost town.

My prediction- in the next 5 years, Lincoln will become a sinking pothole of crime and moral decay, with Mad Max type individuals roaming the streets looking for clean drinking water and cigarettes. The streets will be littered with rusting automobile carcasses, as all the gas stations were long ago burned to the ground in the Great Riot of '09. Parentless children, mutated by the nuke that the military hit the town with in a last ditch effort to save the city, will wander around with glowing eyes and no sense of shame. Really rich people from around the country will take tours in tanks through the carnage, for the pure thrill of it. A few will die every year. TimeLife will make a few bucks off of tribute books and calendars, and then everyone will forget about it.

Either that, or it'll just completely go to hell.

But the Mad Max thing is so much cooler.

In my next post, I'll write about the Mahwongs- I think, fair reader, you'll like it.


Thursday, March 1, 2007

Weed, Porn, and Other Vices

Welcome to my blog.

I thought for a long time about what I was going to write about, and then I unceremoniously thought, "Fuck it." I'll write about whatever comes to mind.

I want another cigarette but I just don't have the energy to get the hell out of the desk chair and walk the fifteen feet. How the hell did I get so tired, and so old so fast? I'm probably going to die soon- or worst, simply zombie ass my way around for the next three decades until I keel over.

My city has the worst railroad crossings. How hard can it be to bridge the concepts of asphalt and iron rails? We can clone a fuckin' sheep but we can't keep my 20+ plus old piece of shit from getting airborne everytime I cross the railroad tracks at five miles an hour. Unbelievable.

I bought some John Courage a few nights ago. The stuff is stout, but for the love of God, it tastes like beer.

If you ever want to really feel sorry for the lot we're in, go visit the MSN Money Boards. I've never seen such a bunch of money grubbing whores in my whole life. They'd sell their mother's bones to buy flowers for a harlot. (I wish I'd written that last line, but alas, I stole it.) The end analysis for everything they do is how will it effect my budget? If their kid came down with cancer they'd drag the bastard around for two weeks shopping for discount chemo treatment. I think they jack off to watching their interest accrue every month. Ridiculous.

I attend a somewhat? nice school where I live. Oddly enough, I didn't know any people who regularly smoked pot before. Now that I'm at this school, I've met three. Coincidence?

By the way, if anyone can explain why alcohol is legal and weed is not, please try. When I get high, all I want to do is watch Conan O'Brien and eat Salt & Vinegar potato chips. How is that hurting the world?

I'm a Libertarian, if you haven't noticed. Which means I think people should be able to do whatever the hell they want, as long as they don't hurt other people. If you and Jane Doe want to piss on each other in your basement while a poodle bites your ear off, go ahead. Smoke a little weed afterward? Whatever. It's not my business- however, when you start doing this shit in my front yard, or on the highway, then it's my problem. That's my politics.

I'll post more later, because 99% of the people who ever make it to this site won't read this long bullshit anyway. They'll read the first two sentences and then their eyes will glaze over before they start the inevitable search for porn. Don't think I don't know, people. Don't worry, I'm coming out with the DVD version so that you can just sit there and have it jammed directly into your heads. Makes you all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it, doesn't it?