flum

Half-Legged Yellow Haired Transsexual

2012-01-24T14:53:00.001-06:00

The big yellow haired blue lady looks more like a transsexual than usual. I guess the same goes for the smaller one. I wasn't even going to post this one, but since when does quality count for anything in here. I like how it looks like she's leaning on the canvas, but where has her other leg gone? I guess she didn't need one, not with that lean.

Cuddles and I

2012-01-22T14:08:00.003-06:00

There is a lot of hair on my head. I tie it into a pony tail, and sometimes it feels like there's an extra head up there. Two heads! Since I have no pets, and no significant other, sometimes I dress up my pony tail and instead of putting it at the back of my head, I go ahead and put it on the side. Since this extra head is made out of hair, you'd think there would be no good reason to put a wig on it, but I do anyway. Hair on hair on hair! For eyes I prefer the googly kind, they come with pins attached, so I can just stick them in there. For lips I use hand made baked sculpey kind which also has a pin. No nose. No ears. If I were a head at the side of someone's head, I'd rather not smell anything, or hear anything.

My head hair and I, (his name is Cuddles) we walk around and look at people. Cuddles' googly eyes really freak a lot of people out, lol! And one of my eyes always points to the far right, no matter how I try directing it. Unfortunately, as of yet, I haven't been able to wire Cuddles' vision into my brain, but I'm working on it. It's exceedingly painful, and I have to be quite drunk, and when I'm that drunk, my operating fingers are shaky.

People always tell me that I should get a hair cut. I make up excuses, but when they're gone, my eyes well up. No one's taking Cuddles from me. Not no one. We're inseparable.

Amen

2012-01-22T13:03:00.001-06:00

Badlands 777

2012-01-15T13:55:00.001-06:00

Don't Get Rol(f(ink))ed

2012-01-14T14:18:00.000-06:00

"In Germany, during the seventeeth century, a popular expresion came into being, uttered by condemned criminals begging not to be "rolfinked": Dr. Werner Rolfink, founder of the anatomy theater at Jena, performed annual dissections upon those bodies passed on from the scaffold." - David Martin, from Curious Visions of Modernity.

There is "rolfinked" and there is "rolfing". Both might lead to better alignment of your body, but if you are being dissected, you won't care about your posture then... because you'll be dead... and I'm not sure, but I don't think dead people place as much importance on their body image as living people.... because once you die, you're body is without mind, and that's where body issues develop... in the mind.

Sometimes, when I'm reading the newspaper, I get a boner, and I have to hide my boner with the newspaper. I guess calamity really gets me off. And so does reading. And so does looking at sexy ladies while reading about calamity.

Someone called me an asshole today because I opened my car door in an absent state of mind and the door hit the side of a car. The woman inside the car called me an asshole. Then I budged in front of her in the coffee line, and now she's sitting at the window here, eying my car lasciviously, gripping her car keys. She'll write "FUCK YOU ASSHOLE" on my car with her keys, but not if I keep watching her. I'll get to her in time, and all there will be will be a big "F", and guess what, bitch, that's my favourite letter.

I dreamt last night that the S wasn't working on my computer. I think it means I'm inadequate. But instead of the S being in it's usual place, it was where the G is. I need two goddamn S's with all the lisping I'm writing.

I decided to wear an assortment of fragrances today. One on each of my wrists, and one on either side of my neck. I'm hoping that instead of creating a mish mash of smells, the four will work together to create something seductive and explosive. Those sexy ladies, who gave me the boner, I think they are being seduced by my smell sauce.

I'll have wine. Turkey breast. Yogurt. They will give me energy for the gym to work out. A high energy workout. Just enough to break a sweat. Just enough to maybe slim my fucking thighs a bit goddamnit. Fuck.

Pardon me while I go check my car. That bitch with the keys has left my sight for a second. And in the parking lot: A tow truck. I need my car. It's too cold out not to drive. Henry, my horse, he's getting old. I can't afford the horse medication so I just supplement his oats with wine. He loves it.

Actually, the tow truck is here to tow an old man's car. He was in the bathroom when I made the announcement of the tow truck. Now he's had to pay $50-110, and he can barely walk, I swear it. I guess that's what you get for being old and styling your hair or whatever, in the bathroom, taking huge dumps.

Naked Lady Standing in a Field

2012-01-11T14:10:00.001-06:00

Where I Smoke

2012-01-08T13:14:00.001-06:00

This is where I smoke sometimes. I don't know what Rascuache means, but I have a feeling it's an insult. Last night I went out there, and someone had peed in front of this sign. As though he was marking his territory. Just because you pee there, doesn't mean it belongs to you. Just because you write a word there, and pee there, doesn't mean I'll stop smoking there. Maybe Rasuache is an insult, or maybe it's a salutation. Rascuache!

Sometimes I smoke here, too. This is just around the corner of Rascuache! Those stairs lead into the Korean Church which I live next to. Can you see the upside down cross? They must be satanic, that Worf Gang. And we're nowhere near no wharfs! Maybe it's a comment on isolation. There's a gang I won't be messing with.

Catalogue of Symptoms

2012-01-06T15:18:00.002-06:00

Now I'm sick. I think I caught it from my Dad when I shook his hand at the airport, after he had been sucking on a toothpick. You're not supposed to pick your teeth when talking to someone. It's rude. He has poor manners.

Last night, from the sickness, I woke up coughing. And I guess I got up too fast, because then I felt I'd pass out. The sound drained from my ears, and I saw stars. Then I thought I'd puke for some reason, so I tried that, but succeeded only in dry heaving a few times. Then I thought I'd take a giant shit, but succeeded only in farting real loud.

Here is a catalogue of the unpleasant bodily sensations I had to deal with last night:

1. Coughing
2. Headache.
3. Having to pee.
4. Almost passing out.
5. Dry heaving.
6. Huge fart.
7. Fart smell.
8. Peeing.

I hope this has been informative and entertaining.

Santa Claus Complex

2011-12-31T13:42:00.001-06:00

I saw We Bought a Zoo yesterday and it was relentlessly emotional... Or maybe I'm just an alcoholic. I would have had troubles keeping the tears back if my tear ducts weren't all dried up from the meds I'm on.

Do you know Jonsi? He is an Icelandic musical dynamo, and it was him who was doing some songs for this movie. His songs make me feel like crying from happiness when there are no pictures involved, so you can imagine my feelings when there is his music playing paired with Matt Damon's reminisce montage of his dead wife.

I hate it when movies are so happy/sad right to the end, so that when the credits come up you have no time to put on a man face and everyone sees how little of a man you actually are. Like a baseball player winning the world series, my eyes misted.

There were two girls sitting behind me in the theatre, and some dialogue in the movie made it known to them that the Easter Bunny did not actually exist. Then one of the girls asked her older sister if she still believed in the Easter Bunny, she said she didn't quite quickly, but then probably remembered she had to keep the Easter Bunny's existence real, so then she said maybe she believed in him.

I remember my belief in Santa was lost when I found presents from Santa to me before Christmas in the garage. Christmas was just a big lie after that. And there were a few awkward years where I had to pretend he still existed to keep my dad happy. It's still kind of awkward to this day, like maybe my dad has a Santa Claus Complex which he takes very seriously. Like he gets all dressed up, and gets deadly drunk, and eats all the carrots in the house to pretend he has a team of reindeer at his control, and he eats all the cookies too, because he's Santa, goddammit! Then we have no cookies the next day, and instead of thanking my parents for the gifts, I have to thank the spirit of Santa. My dad's cheeks get red and his eyes glaze over at such thankings, and I think he has to restrain himself from shouting "HO HO HO!" and eating all the cookies.

I also saw Dolphin Tale. Nothing promotes tears more than amputated dolphins. God. Some subjects just shouldn't be dealt with.

Oh, and there was also Our Idiot Brother, which was good, too. I could relate since I have two older sisters and am a bit of an idiot.

Hopefully you all have a great NYE and accompanying New Year!!! It's the year of the dragon, bitches, get ready for wealth and prosperity.

Christmas Dinner

2011-12-28T12:44:00.001-06:00

As it turns out, my dad, the retired accountant, is quite the poet. For example:

Wiener wiener
Quite contrary
How does your garden grow?

And do you have stubborn rings on your fingers that you can't get off? You could use soap and water, but according to my grandma, you should just use windex! She uses windex for everything!

And my grandpa said that he wears his hair short because he has a large head, whereas, I keep my hair long because I have a small head. I didn't even know!!! Last year the same grandpa told me I had a big head. He's quite senile.

I got a puzzle for christmas, I don't know about you muthafuckas. Excuse me while I puzzle. Then I'll do jumping jacks, because that's what I do after a good round of puzzling.

Well, at least there was a lot of wine, and I woke up terribly hungover. Maybe I even shot my mouth off! Only my sub-conscious and the memories of my relatives will know for sure.

Now there is the pressing business of non-christmas, and the grey shadow of January looms ahead. January: The Depressing Month. Let's make January better by promoting breast cancer and calling it Boobuary. It will be the month where you make sure you have plenty of visible cleavage (unless you are a man. No one wants to see that).

Drooly Shirt

2011-12-22T12:54:00.000-06:00

Now i'm in the airport, going baack home for the holidays. I wasn't molested in customs, but they stole all my drugs!!!

When checking ladies bras for the first time, you have to make sure you look like you know what you're doing even though you probably don't. Just don't act like you're about to paw at them.

It might be a lot warmer where I'm going, there might not be snow. It might just be windy and brown. Brown!

Now there are senior citizens sitting beside me. They have so much medication on their persons. They've been frightfully molested there in customs. They're probably going to see their children who have long ago neglected them.

On the plane I might read Six Walks in the Fictional Woods (or something like that) by Umberto Eco. Or maybe The Psychoanalysis of Fire by Gaston Bachelard, or maybe The Uncanny: Experiments in Cyborg Culture. But probably I'll take the gravol and accidentally rest my head on the person next to me and drool all over his or her shoulder, ruining their clothes and not paying for dry cleaning and not giving them a gift card neither, not giving them anything at all except a drooly shirt, hahahahaha!!!

I'm interested in Cyborgs these days. I had a dream where all the cyborgs were "Female", but they each one of them had penises on the inside of their thighs which provided no other function than enabling more pleasure. They would attach pumps to their penises, and tubes, too, and they could connect with each other, and have multiple orgasms. I would like a vagina on my leg. I would use it to carry small round objects.

I'm wearing my grampa's pilot ring for the flight. He fought in the war goddammit!

Sometimes if I'm taking a long flight overseas somewheres the flight gets so long and there is so little leg room, it's almost maddening. But if I've been meditating, and if my destination is dubious or cause for nervousness, or if I have no money, then I'd like the flight to last forever because you get free meals, and drinks, and you have tv in front of you, and there are other people there. Sometimes I imagine that is what death will be like. One long plane ride, maybe infinitely long. I know you're thinking about all the orgies that would happen. Well, let them happen.

I'm going to go cross country skiing!

Hopefully all of your holidays are making smiles. And that, if you like assorted meats and cheeses, then you will have plenty. Or maybe you like eggnog, well hopefully you have enough nog for as many eggs you have.

Cow-Lady. Blob-Monster.

2011-12-17T13:33:00.001-06:00

When my mom got angry, instead of smoking, she went to her purse and got some Nicorettes. Sometimes one piece of nicorette wasn't enough, so she took another. Sometimes her anger would turn to rage, and she'd stuff as many pieces of nicorette into her mouth as she could, and she'd stand there chewing heavily so that whatever was in them would get into her blood stream.

If she had any sense about her, she'd just have a smoke, but she didn't like the smell and all those additives. She just likes the nicotine, thank-you very much. Unfortunately, as per Nicorettes plan, chewing gum isn't as fast a fix as smoking. So mom's rage wouldn't be abated for quite a while, and she'd look like a pissed off cow-lady standing there with her arms folded and mawing a giant cud of Nicorette with rage and scowling flowing alternatively through her eyes. Us kids could not help but laugh at that sight, which did nothing to control mom's ever increasing rage.

Then she'd eat too many of them and would have to go and pass out on the couch, but not before gagging, which sent the pink gum flopping out her mouth like some horror show blob, it hitting the floor with wet blob sounds. That would send us kids shivering, and giving us nightmares for weeks. Consequently, as soon as we'd stop having the nightmares, somehow we'd spark in her the rage, and the whole process would begin again. I guess it was an effective means of discipline that rage-filled cow-lady-pink-gum-blob-floppy-smacking-sounds gum slithering to my bed at night and shouting profanities and trying to suffocate me.

I come by my addictions honestly (and fearfully).

Graphite Drawings

2011-12-14T13:47:00.001-06:00

Tortured Critter With Giant Tongue

The Tongue is the Heart

The Heater Always Wins

2011-12-11T13:27:00.001-06:00

The floors and ceilings in my apartment are really thin. I live on the second floor of a three story building. That means I can hear the people below talk and listen to t.v. and yell at each other and yell at their dog, and I can hear the boy upstairs do the same, but if he's yelling, it's not at no person, it's at his reflection in the mirror. I think he suffers from the dreaded roid rage.

Also, I have no control of the heat, just like in the USSR or present day Ukraine. Even when it's minus twenty out, the heat might not be on, it has a will of it's own. And when it does come on it makes banging sounds, as though it is the most tedious of labours.

In addition to suffering from the roid rage, I'm pretty sure the guy upstairs is a huge moron. When the heater starts banging away, a sound which we can both hear, he thinks it's me banging away at the ceiling with a broom handle. So he starts stomping on the floor, which takes much less energy, and the floors are hardwood and quite resonant. Then he and the heater get into a banging match. The heater always wins because it's a machine and has no soul. Even with his roid rage and complete stupidity the guy upstairs can at least say he has a soul. And that's why I like the heater so much, because even when I'm not at home and the guy upstairs is, the heater is crushing him with banging noises - banging noises the guy upstairs can't contend with, and will eventually lead him to insanity. Here is an example of life's small pleasures.

Giant Moth

2011-12-10T13:37:00.001-06:00

What's that fluttering around in my sheets? Is it my stomach? No, I haven't eaten mushroom cake drizzled in mushroom sauce. It could only be one thing.

I lift up the blanket, and it was as I expected: A Fluttery Moth! I let out a piercing scream while it flutters it's way to the darker corners of my room. Nothing quite like a good screaming to send shivers into the other tenements hearts. I lay back down and to take more rest. But it's no use. The moth has flown directly above my head and is perching itself on the ceiling. I can see it better now that my eyes have got their focus on.

I'm feeling a bit privileged. If Don Juan were here he would be proud of me and this encounter. The feeling of privilege, though, is not enough to mask my growing fear. My fear is growing in proportion to the size of the moth. Yes, the moth is getting bigger. I can see his wing patterns change as he grows. I know he's waiting for me to close my eyes for the attack. He wants to eat or scratch my face off, my eyes being the appetizer.

I think of getting the rifle from my gun rack and shooting him in his side and watching him sail to the ground in a puff of powder. Maybe I'd have a meal myself - a meal o moth, not for it's delectable delights, but for revenge, and maybe it's spirit (I'm always looking for new spirits). Then I remembered that I don't even own a rifle, or any gun, let alone a gun rack.

So I made do with my sling shot, making sure the rubber band was well oiled, so it wouldn't snap, which might cause a flurry of wings and screeching sounds from the moth. I found my sombrero just in case my shot missed and also wore my safety glasses. I also decided to take off my undies, just in case, somehow, the moth couldn't find it's way into any of my vestments.

Not turning on any lights, and tip toeing for the element of surprise, I positioned myself just outside the door of my room and took aim. There it was, a vile critter, it's beady little eyes speaking about nothing but death and dinner, dinner and death.

For ammo I used the closest thing I could find, which happened to be a chunk of meteorite, which I bought from the gemologist. She said the meteorite would inspire masculine energy and create a higher tolerance for enemy interaction.

"Get ready for the Ace From Space!" I yelled and let the meteorite fly.

It was a direct hit. But it wasn't a mortal one. The moth fluttered to the floor, it's wings causing a small wind in my room. Thinking quickly, I grabbed my triple stuffed pillow and began wailing away on it, and eventually suffocated it. All of it's six legs finally stopped thrashing around after sufficient amount of time with his ugly little face under the pillow.

I would eat well for weeks, develop many costumes, and have since taken a liking to running in circles around naked incandescent light bulbs.

Cat's Cradle

2011-12-03T15:48:00.001-06:00

The Last Rights of Bokononism from Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

(Each line is said once by the person giving the rites and then repeated by the dying person.): God made mud.
God got lonesome.
So God said to some of the mud, "Sit up!"
"See all I've made," said God, "the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars."
And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around.
Lucky me, lucky mud.
I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done.
Nice going, God.
Nobody but you could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have.
I feel very unimportant compared to You.
The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around.
I got so much, and most mud got so little.
Thank you for the honor!
Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep.
What memories for mud to have!
What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met!
I loved everything I saw!
Good night.
I will go to heaven now.
I can hardly wait...
To find out for certain what my wampeter was...
And who was in my karass...
And all the good things our karass did for you.
Amen.

V12 Buttocks

2011-11-26T13:46:00.001-06:00

Now it snows and to prevent slipping on the roads they put down a mixture of salt and sand. Mmmmm.... salt and sand....

Now the snow melts and the streets become a brown sloshy mess which the pedestrians have to walk through. I walk through it well enough. When it's icy on the sidewalks I shorten my steps and quicken my gait, stuff my hands in my pockets, pull my hoodie over my head, adding extra insulation to big fro hair. If you saw me walking down the street at you, you might think I was crazy with the quick hoppy gait. Or maybe you might think I was a jedi. If you asked me where my light saber was, I'd tell you it was at home in the fridge.

I was standing on a street corner waiting for the light to change when a big truck pulled up beside me. The truck had a rumbly engine, which caused me to rumble my buttocks. My butt is no V12, but for a few seconds there at the stop light I thought it was, and when the light changed I took off, imagining I would make the screeching sound cars make when they take off. Boy was I disappointed. I nearly tripped and died because of my displaced sense of reality and over confidence of the power of my buttocks.

Three Naked Lady Torsos

2011-11-25T19:08:00.001-06:00

Matta Paintings

2011-11-25T19:06:00.001-06:00

Big Breasted Naked Lady Curious Naked Ladies Unintended

2011-11-19T13:54:00.001-06:00

Cactus Man

2011-11-11T16:21:00.001-06:00

Looks like a man wants to give me a cactus, and he's being adamant. There is a chance the cactus, when eaten, might cause hallucinations, insight, and revelry. The revelry might be only in the mind, but I'll take I'll the revelry I can get.

Or maybe it's not a man trying to give me a cactus at all. Maybe it's the ghost of the cactus I ditched by the river in the springtime. He's coming to get me for leaving him there to die.

I'd rather not eat cactus, I wouldn't be able to stand the spikes. Eat your own goddamn cactus. Unless it's peyote, like I already said. I'll take your peyote, but anything else you can suck on.

Thanks.

Fiffy Ruttiger Sass 2

2011-11-09T16:15:00.001-06:00

Technological Objectification

2011-11-08T12:01:00.002-06:00

The advancement of technology is exponential. Soon we’ll reach a point where our consciousnesses will integrate themselves with the capacity and technology of computers. The result will be a human/computer hybrid called a cyborg.
    Human DNA has not evolved exponentially. It’s evolved through survival of the fittest through the millennia. Our genes are catering to a time past when technology consisted mainly of opposable thumbs, for example.
    The new race, or species of “human”; with their advanced acquisition and retention of knowledge; with their developed communication methods; and with their extended life spans, will look at unmodified humans like the vestiges of ancient civilization that they are. Like how we look at chimpanzees.
    The new hybridization technology may be incorporated slowly, and with government control, and debate. Or, given the nature of exponentiality, the technology will come all at once, the benefits of it being clear, and desperately desired.
    No longer will a human’s memory, knowledge and thought processes be based on inefficient biological processes, but rather on chemically mechanized processes, with the aim of maximum efficiency.
    Observing the signs of the end of a more “human” way of life, a sub-culture living in this society will draw attention to this society’s condition. By doing so, they will cause people to question the merits of an exponential technology. They will try looking at technology objectively with the hypothesis that too much technology is ridiculous.
    Humans have evolved from Chimpanzees because of their technology; either with the opposable thumb, or with bipedality. The sub-culture of demonstrative humans will take all aspects of technology out of which they grew, and take also the technology existing, and of the near future, and manipulate it with the aim of “technological objectification.”
    Technological objectification is ridiculous, because it involves amplifying ancient technologies, and existing ones, so that an inefficiency and awkwardness will be created. Despite the ridiculousness, the sub-culture will take it deadly serious.

Campagnie Marie Chouinard Body Remix Goldberg Variations Oh Yeah

2011-11-06T14:00:00.000-06:00

Percussive Panoply of Sound

2011-11-05T16:12:00.000-05:00

Check out the bongo I bought!

The man I bought it from said he made it himself. I bought it off him off the street late at night, or early in the morning, depending on how you look at it.

I was a bit drunk, and he said he had drinking problems, there we shared a commonality. He was missing his two bottom teeth, no commonality there, and I think he was jealous of my pearly rows. He asked me for a smoke since I was smoking, and I obliged, because I know the nicotine withdrawal, and would not wish that on my worst enemy.

He put two dirty fabric bags on the nearest ledge, one white, one black. As he did so he said he had a drum to sell, what a weird thing to say, or to sell. Despite the weirdness, I all of a sudden wanted to have a drum, since it was near Halloween, and I was feeling tribal. He told me more about the drum saying it was worth $80, and that he had made it himself. He took it out, and not only was there a drum, but also a leather drum banger. In the other bag was 150 cds, and said he had to sell them, describing his sales path, a journey consisting of more than 150kms.

I had $75 in my wallet. He said he tried taking it to a store, but just missed them. After some haggling he sold it to me for $56. Then he started telling me about his current situation, and started jumbling his facts, like he had two homes, and that he was married to a multi millionaire, and that he also made mukluks, but he couldn't remember the name for those at first. And I felt like I was being ripped off. I told him he was a liar, and asked for my money back, but he started walking away, and he was walking away with my lighter, too. So I asked for that back, and he threw it at me, I didn't manage to catch it. Then I started shouting at him, I shouted "So this is what you've become, walking around town ripping people off." I shouted good and loud, and some people far ahead heard me. He called me an asshole and went on his way.

I would be angrier, but the drum has increased my tribalism, and have become happy with my purchase. Now I play the bongos in my apartment, and the people living in the rooms above and below me either bang on the floor with their feet, or bang on the ceiling with brooms. The result is a percussive panoply of sound. There are no fires aloud in the apartments, so I make do with lighting many candles. A bongo session also needs tribal death masks, of which I have many.

Happy Hallow Forever!!!

Vagina

2011-10-29T15:15:00.003-05:00

Self Portraits

2011-10-25T18:20:00.000-05:00

Goose Dragon

2011-10-17T13:34:00.001-05:00

Bus in the Desert

2011-10-13T16:35:00.001-05:00

Broken down bus in the desert. Everyone inside screams. Some scream to out scream their neighbour, some out of sheer panic, others like they are on a roller coaster ride; those are the ones to stay away from.

The sky also screams a deafening blue. A blue to pierce and shatter your eyes. None will survive.

They can’t scream forever, God thinks, and taps his fingers impatiently on the blue dome of the sky.

Hallucinations

2011-10-12T17:51:00.000-05:00

Craving Nothing but Air

2011-10-09T12:37:00.002-05:00

I wouldn't mind a cigarette. Wouldn't mind some fun. Wouldn't mind a bum. It's cloudy out, my shoulders hold tension. Woman are playing with their boobs. I know nerds. They smell funny. Wouldn't mind a cigarette. I quit asking people for one because then I get indignation.

Breasts are designed as resevoirs for an unpredictable food source, it just so happens they are also awesome. When some women gain weight their breasts also grow, and that is one advantage of weight gain.

My balls are like the two old critical puppets from the muppets.

Now if I want a smoke I just buy a pack and keep on telling myself I'll quit.

If you don't watch where you are going, you'll run into things. Sometimes it's hard for some people to watch where they're going because their minds arrive at their destinations before their body does. And some part of their mind is on future events, and/or ill fitting underwear, or anything else, then falling down and possible impalement is almost inevitable.

I envy people who aren't addicted. I'd like to sit on a park bench and not crave anything, except for air. I'd make sure to sit somewhere with an abundance of air, somewhere leafy, so that my craving could be met, and all my needs would be satisfied. I'd sit down and just start gasping for air, then breathe heavily, and resign myself to contentment. Knowing my luck, I would probably end up on the top of mount everest with panic in my eyes.

Smoking is so shameful. I'll never find myself with a stumbling giant lady with ill fitting undies if I am in the grips of nicotine. I mean I will find myself with one of those if I continue to smoke.

I'd like a fur trench coat. I could conceal weapons in it, and expose myself to people.

Feedback

2011-10-07T20:15:00.003-05:00

Huge Clown

2011-10-01T14:23:00.002-05:00

When my sister was young, about 3 or 4, while my family was living in the ghetto, she saw a boy get hit by a car and there was blood, many brains, maybe he died, I forget.

Then I had a dream recently where a boy was hit by a car, but instead of blood and brains, he was greeted by a giant clown who embraced him.

Death is a huge clown that embraces you.

Brain Damage

2011-09-23T20:05:00.001-05:00

I have to give a presentation soon. I get so nervous and jumble up my words. But I jumble up my words anyway because I think I have brain damage.

It’s not because I was fed paint chips as a child, that’s not what caused the damage, it’s because one night I inhaled a gramme of weed at once. We used the gravity bong. It all went into my lungs at once and then my brain. I had troubles speaking afterwards, and had to sit down. I don’t remember having insights; the high was more bodily. Then I managed to go inside, and someone poured me milk. What a weird thing to drink at such a time. Milk is weird when you’re not high. It’s doubly weird when you are. Milk.

Then I had to puke at some point, but the toilet was broken, but despite my newly acquired brain damaged, I managed to fix the toilet.

Now I just jumble my words. Presentations help none.

Don't Pinch Your Anus Shut When Delivering a Baby. It's Okay to Crap All Over.

2011-09-17T22:22:00.000-05:00

Last night I went to a student art exhibition. The poster said it would go to late. So I arrived at 11:30 expecting a huge gallery party, but instead I was greeted by ten or so people sitting or standing around in a circle. I knew the owner of the gallery, and he was there. So I had some sugary red wine.

Then we all went to the yellow dog, for advice from it's foul mouth. I only have left to spend loonies and quarters I've been saving, and only took with me $10 for the night. The wine was $4, which left money enough for one more offered by the yellow dog. So I got a beer. He had troubles serving it with his shaking paws, but got it there eventually with the help of his snout. There was five of us from the art gallery there, and we sat down to maybe eat something. There was a girl there who claimed to be a medical student, and I think she was telling the truth. She looked Metis, but said she wasn't, but she was, I knew it by the tone of her skin and the cut of her jib. She was just ashamed and mentally ill, like that girl I knew who convinced herself she had a two year old daughter.

She bought the food that were ordered, and the drinks, but I had already paid for mine :( but then the other three people left, who included two guys, and then we were alone, and she said she would buy me drinks. So we drank white wine.

She said she delivers babies a lot in the bad part of town, and that many are taken away because of F.A.S. and unplanned pregnancies. She also said that when she is delivering a baby she sees the vagina and anus of the woman giving the baby, and she said that often their assholes are pinched shut in the hopes of not crapping all over whilst pushing. She tells them "Just go ahead and crap. You'll never have your baby with a tight anus." She told me "I love blood and guts (smiles widely). Blood and guts and pee and poo." PEE AND POO!!! I told her she is in the right profession, unless being a disemboweling murderer with a pee and poo fetish is a profession, and I'm pretty sure it's not.

She bought me two glasses of white wine. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. And I drank 6 beers before I left for the gallery opening. Plus the one beer. So I was pretty drunk already. Then she leaves saying she has to go to the bathroom but on the way I see her stop and start talking to a group of guys. I was enraged! Then she left to pee and I felt better. But then she came back telling me we were going to go sit with them because they were pre-med students. Then I was enraged again, but whatev, I had just met her, and she was kind with the wine, and possibly dangerously neurotic.

So we sat there with them, and because of lack of room and seats, we sat on the same one. Then this squinty eyed pale faced rich kid who had previously been sitting at a table of all men starts getting really friendly with her. I couldn't believe it! He was touching her knee and making successful attempts at holding her hand. She started talking about touching vaginas in the gynecology room. It had to be a soft touch. Not a mechanical one. The squinty eyed kid was relentless with the pawing at of.

I couldn't watch this all night, and I had to pee real bad. So I went pee. And when I came back they were outside in the wind tunnel making frisk. I killed their buzz. I killed their buzz good, and the pale boy went back to the yellow dog to thank his Gods. She said "You're wrecking my schtick. My schtick." She was trying to talk pretentious to that boy so that he would think she was a hipster, because she had just been to a gallery opening and was wearing hipster pants, and it was the weekend mothafuckas, and was going to get her drink on.

That pale faced boy had a friend who was less of a huge douche, who didn't wear cardigans or skinny jeans. And it was three a.m. goddamnit, and last call and we had to pay up and leave. And we needed cigarettes. So it was back out into the wind tunnel with me, the girl, and the skinny pale faced boy and his friend who were also med students. And the pale faced boy kept on going at the girl, but not as aggressively.

We got cigarettes. She bought them, buying one regular pack and one pack of menthols. There is no mint in menthols.

Outside the store were two natives. One was a guy on his bike, and he said he'd like to take the med student home. She refused, but gave his girlfriend some cigarettes. Haha. She told her take a few, then the native woman took like five, and the med student got mad, and the native woman got mad too.

The rich pale faced boy didn't like natives. He couldn't tolerate them, not when they're always drunk and on the streets asking for money all the time. Not when they weren't in med school. So he walked on, and I was glad, but he and his friend stopped at a safe distance, because I guess he really wanted poon-tang.

Eventually the med student separated herself from her brethren, and we all continued on our way, but much to the pale faced boy's chagrin, our paths crossed again with a native man and his bicycle, and a native woman. This was intolerable for pale faced boy, and he and his friend took off. I was kind of relieved, but in our wanderings I had grown accustomed to him and his friend, and his desperate need for the acquisition of poon. And he may have been preventing me from the chlamydia or syphylus, or bed bugs, or any host of diseases, not to mention a possibly detrimental energy exchange.

So they left, and we talked to the native people. The man with the bike was violent, I could tell. He said he had been in Texas. And his mouth was downturned. He had an aura of violence. I spoke to the woman while the med student spoke to the man, because I don't handle violence well. The woman told me her old man had hit her so hard in the arm that it might be broken so she ran away with this other violent native. I thought by her old man she meant her dad, but then I realized it was her boyfriend. She had mouth and teeth like an animal and when she spoke I imagined some wailing ferret making it's plea. I told her in soothing tones she didn't need this violent native, and that she should just leave. She said she couldn't be by herself with a broken arm alone on the streets. I told her she didn't need anyone and that she should just leave. She seemed to agree with me, but by this time the med student had somehow enraged the violent native man. So we left across the street. The pale face boy and his friend were long gone.

Earlier in the night the med student told me she was a quarter of a million dollars in debt because of a horrible cocaine addiction. She said those cravings had all but left, but like me, she had a taste for the drink, and once we got started it was hard to stop. We had been looking for beer with the pale faced boy and his friend, but all the stores were closed, and none of us had any at our houses. The pale faced boy said he might be able to get some in the suburbs, but that didn't go through, and now with the pale faced boy gone that opportunity had left us.

Luckily we found an Ethiopian tapas bar that was serving alcohol illegally after hours. What a find!!! There were Ethiopian men sitting around the bar and Ethiopian music playing. The bartender, an Ethiopian, said he wouldn't serve us beer, so the med student ordered us double vodkas, with soda water. Not being able to have beer slightly enraged me, but since I wasn't even paying for the bill, and since the bartender had a violent look about him, I complied.

The med student almost immediately went up to a couple of guys and put her arms around their shoulders, while I stood aside, enraged. But then she introduced me to them. One was named Salomon, and he was an Ethiopian. The other was Jonathon, who was a native, but not the street kind.

Then the violent native man whose girlfriend I told to leave him came in and he was pissed off. He came right up to me and said "Fuck you!" He didn't punch me or anything, because he was holding back, but when he shouted the curse word some spit flew from his mouth into my eye. And that could be worse than a punch, right? I could get a disease! The violent man left as quickly as he came, and I was happy to avoid a violent attack.

Then I saw two girls standing outside of the door. I thought they were prostitutes even though they weren't skanky. They just had a certain look about them. Or maybe they were just so nerdy. I couldn't decide. They wanted me to open the door, because it was locked. They had an evil presence about them, but I opened the door anyway because all I could think about was the poon. I had the misfortune of speaking to those two evil women. I won't detail our conversation, because it makes me want to vomit, but as it turns out they were there to fine the bar for serving drinks after hours. The bartender poured the med student's drink out. I had finished mine in time. He went around pouring other drinks out, and then we had to leave.

Back in the street we wanted more beer, but were completely out of options, and the med student had the good sense to call it a night, and I had the good sense not to go home with her. There wasn't any alcohol anyway so what was the point?

It was a crazy night. Apparently the yellow dog has a thing for feasting on med-students. And there was also a french catholic I met that night who was the youngest of 20 children. His sense of humour was lacking. I wanted to leave the art gallery sooner, because I don't enjoy being so incapacitated the next day, but I didn't have anything to do the next day so I thought it'd be o.k. But it wasn't! That's today! My head hurts so much. Oh well, it was worth it. Or was it?....

Which Name is the Best?

2011-09-15T19:39:00.002-05:00

Only three days left to vote.

New Apartment

2011-09-10T14:03:00.002-05:00

I'm making a bench because I've just moved into a new place, and have no furniture. I've already made a table. The legs are 1'7" long, because that way the table fits in my car. I'd like a bench because now I'm sitting on the floor, on a "Lounge Lizard." I'd love an overstuffed comfortable couch to sit on sometimes because sitting cross legged all the time wears on my groin.

A friend came over to get me last night, so I invited her in, just as I was getting ready, and she wore the look that said "this place is pathetic". I don't really care too much about her opinion because she has lots of problems of her own. And don't Japanese people sit on the floor? And aren't they just great? So I've started eating with chopsticks because it's austere. I'm going for austerity, and simplicity.

But really I'm just poor.

Add Spice to Your Life.

2011-09-05T13:44:00.000-05:00

People would like to get into this coffee shop to spend money so that they could use the bathrooms, the wifi. Also they would get something they enjoy, some refreshing beverage, or a stimulating beverage, or bev. They might just want to rest their tired legs, and would be happy to pay for a soothing bev to get the added benefit of temporary respite. Maybe one guy comes here just to hear the music handed down from corporate. Maybe he is a corporate lawyer, and likes jazz. Maybe he is also a pornographer, and works the porno set like he works the courtroom.

But if anyone wants to come in and sit down, even if they are willing to pay for that privilege, they won't be able to. The sight of 20-30 others will greet them doing what they had in mind, and all the seats will be taken. The store would like their business, they would like their business more than the business of the people already here who have already used the facilities, and who are enjoying the AC, and the jazz music handed down from corporate.

I've paid my two dollars, I'll stay here until it closes. I'll laugh at the people who wait at the door who want a seat who want to rest their tired legs. I'll wish them well as they go off in search of another place, but they won't find one, not for a long time and by then they might have resorted to drinking gasoline.

I've been here for awhile surfing the internet, but an old jewish couple and their old friend have been here longer than I have talking about insurance, heart disease, and spices. Even with the heart disease you can eat ANY McCormick spice. Any. One. Can you imagine now the joy your life will have? I don't think you'll be able to until you try it.

In Paris in the cafes there, where they invented cafes, you can buy your coffee, or your espresso, and sit there all day and no one would think of telling you to leave.

I like that no one will kick you out. I like paying the least amount of money for the longest and greatest amount of fun.

Whistling is for Animals

2011-08-31T15:31:00.002-05:00

At work, my boss doesn't like whistling. He said once one person starts, another starts, and soon the whole place is a goddamn whistling fucking frenzy. In reply, I made a whistling sound out of habit, like a bomb dropping sound that sounds like he is crazy for hating whistling so much. He slapped me across the face with a butter brush, and said if I ever did it again, he'd stab me in the stomach.

Maybe he was part animal, and associated whistling with war cries, like squirrels do with their chirping, and how some birds, like eagles do it to tell you to fuck off. I didn't whistle anymore, since I valued my life, but I started banging things.

It's so gross, the big dish sink there has so much junk in the pipes that it takes forever to drain. You have to get the plunger and plunge it. To prevent more junk going down the pipes, and to ease drainage, there is a strainer I use to remove it all. Once I've gathered some I take the strainer and start banging it against the plastic garbage, and if you were part animal, or almost insane, you might confuse it for a man marking his territory. In reply, my boss smashes his pans around. I'm not saying he has breasts and smashes them... oh those are cans, never mind.

So I make sure not bang anything around anymore because I left my animal in the jungle, and these days I prefer reading books to eating raw flesh off the bone.

Orange Tastes Like Death

2011-08-27T23:20:00.003-05:00

Would you like some orange?
No thanks, I don't eat orange.
How about a piece of friendship?
Is that also orange?
Yes.
The colour, or the fruit.
The fruit.
I told you, I don't like orange.
Not even if it's friendship?
Friendship tastes like rose petals.
What does orange taste like?
Death.
How about some death then?
No thanks, I don't like the taste of it.
So I've been eating death all these years?
Yes.
How come I'm not dead?
You are. On the inside.
No wonder I feel so cold when I look in the mirror.

Don't Visit My Deck

2011-08-25T13:39:00.002-05:00

There is the deck outside which has a view of some trees and mountains and the Hydro lines. I made a pencil rod sculpture using brazing as connection. There is a man's head and neck, and beside that a man's body with legs cut at the thighs and arms cut at the biceps. He used to have a big steel schlong, but I cut that off with bolt cutters and threw it into the forest, hopefully for a child to find and to bring home to his or her parent and ask pertinent questions.

I smoke on the deck, and since it's a duplex and crackers like their windows open, the smoke goes right into their livings, and rage fills their blood. But they only come here on the weekends, because the lady she is a judge, I don't know what the man does. And there is a judge living here sometimes on the other side. So I want to become a judge, and judge everyone harshly. Get my finger surgically elongated so I can shame everyone all the better.

I throw my butts down on the wood and collect them later in my own good time. I don't want to pollute my surroundings with them not because I'm an environmentalist, but because in 50 years, the government will start testing the butts for DNA and charge everyone $50 per butt for littering. And that's when I plan on retiring, and I don't need so many fines.

Sometimes the butts stay out there for weeks.

This morning I heard the excited chitterings of a squirrel. So excited. So chittering. What has become of that squirrel? He sounds like he's on stimulants, hahahahah. I didn't give it more thought, until I saw that a large portion of the butts I had been collecting had gone missing, and that about seven of them had been arranged into a smiley face. The chances the wind took the butts and arranged them into a smiley face are not likely, because the wind doesn't blow hard there. It could have been a homeless man, but you never see homeless men in the country. I knew it was the squirrel, and I knew that somewhere it was eating his nuts and laughing manically, more so than usual on account of the nicotine flowing through it's veins. Like how I get when I have my first cigarette of the day. My maniac laughs are only hampered by my choking cough, and periodic ejaculations of phlegm. I like to hawk on the walls, trying to write scary messages. Don't visit my deck!!!!

Chiropractors Can Suck it Hard

2011-08-21T15:40:00.002-05:00

I don't like wearing sunscreen because it attracts the pollutants of the city, and my hands start smelling like poo, and the pollutants are actually the real cancer causers, not Mother Sun.

I don't like going to the chiropractor, because what they do there is unnatural. When, without aid from a professional, will you be able to crack your back so satisfyingly in such intimate places? Never. It's unnatural. I've been, just to see what the fuss was about, and never went back, because once you go you have to keep on going and going. Since I've refused to go, the electricity in my spine isn't connecting as rightly as it should, and it's running amuck in the base of my spine, and if I don't find a way to get it back up to my head, I'll suffer from an early stroke, and several early mini strokes, and soon I won't know where my glasses are when they'll be on my head.

Last night I dreamt of an electrical storm in a tornado, and the tornado was full of giant snakes, and they all wanted to snap my head off. You can imagine my discomfort and paralyzing fear. But there's no way I'm going to the chiropractor. He can suck it. They can all suck it.

Savory Lodge

2011-08-17T12:18:00.002-05:00

We stayed at the Savory Lodge, but they should have called it the Unsavory Lodge for all the crackheads and pimps there. It was on Hotel Row, just a few blocks down from Skid Row. We didn't solicit any prostitutes, or smoke any crack, but I left wanting to return one day to indulge.

The prostitutes have sex so that they can buy crack, and will forgo the money, if they can get crack. One pale faced crackhead came in, and she asked us if we were looking for White. I wondered if she meant the tone of her skin, if so, we needn't look further. If she wasn't so disgusting, I'd say she was iridescent with the light reflecting off her skin.

There was already a girl in bed, not a prostitute, an acquaintance. The Crackhead looked at her, and was dismayed, because she thought the competition had already moved in. I didn't tell her different, but asked her instead to leave.

Later in the night a random guy walked in without invitation and asked to use one of our cellphones. We all lied and told him we had none. He asked us if we were looking for something. Personally, I am looking for a deeper meaning. Is there one? I asked him. He didn't know. He meant were we looking for women. He was a pimp. I told him the only Lady I was looking for was the Divine Mother, so that she could fill me with a glowing radiance. He said that sounded all right, and maybe your divine mother is inhaled into the lungs after having a good cracking. I couldn't help but laugh. O, to see the Divine Mother having a good crack. I wished the pimp on his way and took a seat on the stained sofa. Everyone I came with, including the girl in bed, had left during my convo with the pimp, so I took the opportunity to have a good wank. I added my own stain of pleasure to the velvety canvas that was the sofa.

Savory indeed.

In the morning our hotel room was surrounded by cop cars, looking for drugs and pimps. They came to the right place.

Chief, Nice People

2011-08-17T12:03:00.002-05:00

Thanks to , Dogimo for introducing me to this one.

Fiffy Ruttiger Sass

2011-08-12T13:54:00.003-05:00

I usually sleep on the floor at home, because I really love camping, but not all the bugs.

I had a girlfriend once. She spoke marginal English. She thought it was strange for me to sleep on the floor, but sometimes enjoyed having the bed to herself.

I lived in a townhouse then, with roommates in the basement. To save money, the contractors made the floors and walls very thin, so that when she and I made like animals on the floor, those downstairs could hear. To voice their complaints, heavy books were hurled at their ceiling. Message received.

Lying on a bed, though, can be so luxurious. When I was in the mood for luxury, I sent the foreigner to the ground and enjoyed it's enveloping softness.

On one such morning I was awoken to what I thought was the sound of fire crackers. But after the morning haze was gone, I identified the sound for what it was: Farting. Farts were cracking out of she who was on the floor. I pretended to sleep.

The next morning, to make her feel better, I let some of my own go, and she said: "Good. Good."

That's what we used to do. Fart together.

JMH the T-Shirt Artist

2011-08-06T14:47:00.004-05:00

His hair was longer than I thought it'd be, and his beard looked unkempt. He asked me how I got my hair to sit on the top of my head like that, and I told him it was no secret or technique, just a pony tail. He said he tried it once, but couldn't get it right.

Creme Brulee (Hairy Fingers)

2011-08-06T14:29:00.005-05:00

Creme Brulee? No. Creme burnee. Beware the molten sugar.

American Nickel from 1903

2011-08-06T14:22:00.002-05:00

I found this in a Starbucks in Canada.

It's been rattling around for 108 years, just like the Indian in my blood.

Giant Frog Enemy

2011-08-04T12:37:00.003-05:00

I'm often in difficult situations. Once I was in the mud, and was outnumbered by the enemy. The mud was also a Frog and Lizard Sanctuary. The mud played to my advantage, because like in Predator with Arnold Swartzenegger, the enemy could see no heat escape my body with their specialized heat sensing machines.

To prevent starvation, I ate some of the sanctified frogs, mostly their legs. The lizards did not sway my appetite; they merely stared at me with their shifty eyes, and licked their lips way too frequently. How many frogs legs must you eat to sustain yourself whilst lying in the mud? Quite a bit. And after awhile, they lose their deliciousness. Dying of starvation is one thing, eating the same thing everyday might be worse.

In addition to the frogs legs, some of my croaking, ugly, disgusting friends also sported the colourful back. Some had warts; I wouldn't be licking those, but the colour was appealing. My hallucinations from lack of nutrition were starting to ripen. To supplement them, and to go out with a bang, I did decide to indulge in frog-back psychedelics.

I'm not sure how long my trip lasted, but the effects were compounded in my starved blood. If you are a cell, and you have a choice between absorbing nothing or psychedelics, you will choose the psychedelics, because what kind of life is that, absorbing nothing. You might as well not exist at all.

And just like with some dreams, their vividness is so provocative, and reasonable, that the dreamer can't tell them from reality. At the time, seeing the enemy hop towards me in their giant plush green frogs suits didn't seem strange. They carried poisonous darts and cracking whips. I thought I saw one of them use his whip to catch a fly. Quite a whipsman. They didn't realize I had poisonous darts of my own, and that my aim was impeccable. I watched those plushy bastards hop around for days; whipping things, leapfrogging for their amusement, making exaggerated croaking sounds... like wolves, but frogs. One of them had very bad acne on his face. Another had blue paint on his face, like in Braveheart. I wouldn't be licking his face, not in the mud like that, not while being hunted, possibly for my flesh. I forgot why I was there.

The Advanced Equipped Frog and Lizard Sanctuary Engineers and Pilots or AEFLSEP, as they like to be called, found me with squiggly eyes, covered in fornicating frogs, and disheveled hair. If it wasn't for my Pine Tree shaped hairdo, I'd be a rotting corpse in the mud, or worse: eating the same thing everyday.

Everyone in the rescue recieved a medal, except for me. I pointed out that if it wasn't for me no one would have got medals. Captain Drango politely asked me to leave the party, and closed the door forcefully behind me. I don't think AEFLSEP was recognized in the larger canon of Frog and Lizard Sanctuary Engineers and Pilots for their lack of administrative capacities. All they want to do is rescue people and give themselves medals, without doing any paper work. I've begun to suspect that it was them who sabotaged my helicopter while flying over the Sanctuary. The airspace over it is like the Bermuda Triangle.

Introducing Hubert Rumpingdale!

2011-07-22T14:48:00.000-05:00

Air Show

2011-07-19T13:12:00.002-05:00

I went to the air show last weekend. The quality and specimen of their air was sub-standard. The only air that saved the show was their Nitrous Oxide, because it made everyone high, and giggly. I saw Jesus.

There was a booth which you walked into blindfolded, and you had to open these cases to see if you could identify the correct smell with the object making the smell. One case was almonds, one was apples, and one featured the exposed ass of a naked man, who had not washed. I thought it was smelly socks at first, but after my nose had been in there good, I realized my mistake. Those without blindfolds on had a good laugh, as did the smelly ass man standing in the case.

At a booth they had three or four blond woman who weren't the sharpest pencils in the pack, and they were supposed to be "air heads". I sneezed, and one of them said "Gesundheit", which she said was French talk for "Adios". I smiled and nodded.

In another booth sat a few large men eating beans who were "fixing the air". I did not linger there, having my own air to fix, or "crop dusting", if you will.

I "crop dusted" my way all the way to the belching competition, where one small Asian man recited a Shakespearean monologue in burp. He won a gold plated statue of Homer making burp face.

The wind instrument band could be heard intermittently from afar, through the sporadic fog horns. And everyone there was either wielding a kazoo, or the dreaded vuvuzela.

For dancing we acted like snowflakes.

"Air Cakes" were our main sustenance, which we washed down with extra carbonated beer, and finished with cotton candy.

If it wasn't for their sub-standard air specimens, this show would have been on par with the air show in Nantes. It was a good time none the less. My nose has partaken of the deadly scent: Devil's Breath. Now I'm having troubles sleeping at night, and when I do, my dreams ring with terror.

The Greatest Game Ever Played

2011-07-16T15:14:00.003-05:00

Breathe the Light

2011-07-13T13:58:00.002-05:00

I'll go to the walk-out basement because it's cool there. I'll sit on the love seat, which has collected dust from lack of use. When I sit the dust particles float up, and I breathe them into my nostrils. With a calm, quiet mind, I wait for the dust to settle, and there I am, covered in dust, a part of the furniture. Now that the dust has settled, I'll shut my eyes, and imagine the light shining all around me. The universe is infused with this light, and we are vehicles for it. I breathe the light into my nostrils: the binary hairy oval gates to enlightenment. And past my nostrils the light makes it's way almost directly to my lungs. Sometimes when the light is in there, I hold my breath, and wish I never had to exhale, so that I could finally, like a candles flame, rejoin the eternal fire.

The light is converted into something palpable in my body. This conversion allows me to be here. With it in my body I can high five people. Don't tell me you don't like receiving high fives. My heart pumps the light. I have a purpose. I am a catalyst for merry-making. I make apple sauce when the apples are no longer fit to eat, and I give it to starving children in Africa. By the time it gets there it's probably moldy. But at least I tried, goddamnit. At least I tried. Smile sauce. I also fabricate smile sauce with my blazing feet.

The light is all encompassing... Or maybe I'm talking about air. Whatev.

Pee Fetish

2011-07-04T13:18:00.005-05:00

I went biking the other day. A long one, a long and hard one. And at one point, I had to pee. I wasn't about to go in my bicycling shorts, so I saw a forest, and got off my bike there. As I got off, I noticed a minivan pull up beside my bike. There was a woman inside with a dog. Since I didn't want to be interfered with, I walked up to the van, and looked into the open window.

"I'm just going to go to the bathroom," I told her.

"I'm just taking my dog for a walk," she replied.

She wasn't fooling anyone, though. Not even with the dog there. I had heard about these women. Suburban moms, on pretenses of taking their dogs for walks, follow around bikers waiting for them to go pee. There are plenty of strange fetishes out there, and this is one of the more sordid ones. I wouldn't be enabling her sick mind.

Although I am quick to throw stones, the pee sightings I have had, from my living room window with binos in hand, always excite in me a freak curiosity. I live near a lake where people like to swim, where the bathrooms are few and far between, so pee sightings would be more frequent than you'd think. But never would I follow anyone with a dog as prop and lies on my mind.

So I told the woman "o.k.", but gave her a knowing glare, and headed further into the forest, onto a sandy hill. I pushed my bike up, imagining my descent and the smiles all up in my face. From my perch on the hill, and being shaded in the trees, and with my neck craning, and eyes focused, I pulled down my bike shorts, and made relievement. The pleasures were so great I made moan. Big moan. I must have got carried away, and with my eyes rolled back in my head failed to notice the "walker" not 10 feet in front of me, barely being able to contain her excitement behind the trunk of a tall pine tree.

My moans changed themselves into death cries, which sent the woman and her dog scattering deeper into the forest. Forgetting my pants were down, I tried running after her, but was only successful in tripping and falling into my own puddle. Now wet, and rolling, the sand stuck all the better, and if you would have seen me, you would have thought I was the Sand Monster. My death cries turned quickly into wailing. What have I become? I've been defeated by that woman, and my dreams will relive the tales for many nights after.

After releasing more fluids from my eye holes, I gathered myself, tried making the best of my situation, and pushed my bike back to the trail. I thought about the smiles that could be had on the way down, but those smiles would speak of the inhumanity I experienced here in the forest, and the best I could hope for was a stony face, not betraying the rush of going down hill.

I pushed off, and my stomach rose a little, and the wind blew my hair, but before I could manage a smile, my tires sunk in the sandy path, and I fell over: Twice defeated.

I must have blacked out from self loathing and humiliation, for when I awoke, it was dark, and two beavers decided to make my legs apart of their home.

"Away with you, Beavers! Away!"

They took heed.

When I made my way back to the highway, the woman's van was gone, leaving with it a trail of dirty mind and stifled snickers. I would arrive late to my destination.

Now I have troubles going to the bathroom, even in the most secure sanctuary.

Dreams = Magick

2011-06-28T13:56:00.002-05:00

Sometimes dreams can be magick. Sometimes they can lead you astray. Sometimes the are like a slap to the face. What do dreams mean? Are they a premonition of the future? A re-working of the past? Are they representations of your sub-conscious? Your darker feelings? Are they disguised in symbols to allow for better sleep? Are they wish fulfillment, or manifestations of the collective unconscious?

Dreams can be magick, indeed. In my ignorance, not a long time ago, I thought they were premonitions of the future. How else could you explain deja vu? But after years in the lab, I have come to the conclusion that Frued was right: They are wish fulfillment.

You can't have Christmas Dinner every night. But sometimes you are in need of Christmas Dinner, so that night you dream of it, and in the morning you are feeling fulfilled. It helps us to not go insane with the Christmas Dinner need, for example.

But what about dreams where nothing is fulfilled, like if you're waiting in line for something you like, Sprite, in my case. But what if you don't get your soft drink, then nothing is fulfilled. If anything, the need for your Sprite has become exponentially needed.

Dreams of waiting are not wish fulfillment, they are telling you to get things done, because who is fulfilled by waiting? Just monks, and I'm not joining the monkery anytime soon.

In my case, I have to get to the convenience store, and get myself a Sprite, right? I rhyme when I want, bitches.

The Invisible Eye of Terror

2011-06-25T14:22:00.002-05:00

I quit working at the other kitchen and now want not to work in the kitchen I am working in. Oh well, I'll treat it like it is: Punishment.

I've been in post secondary school now for 8 years, there is one more year left if I pass. Then I'll get a real job in an office somewhere and let my arse get fat and look forward to the coveted two week vacation. I've worked in an office before as an office temp. I got the job through La Creme, which featured a roller skating princess in a short skirt on the folder they gave me during orientation.

In the office I de-stapled pages from the files of disciplinaries of pilots, flight attendants, engineers and human resource workers. After they were de-stapled, I scanned them in an industrial scanner, which always crumpled the pages. Sometimes the computer software would freeze up, and I had to ask a computer tech guy to help me. He was always angry to do so, either because he was very busy, or because he thought I was gay and watched while he bent over. I was there for Christmas and everyone got presents including me, even though I was a temp and a foreigner. The tech guy got an axe. He wielded it fiercely upon opening, and every time I had to go ask him for help afterwards, I imagined him with the axe, and with teeth baring.

To speed up the job my boss hired another temp, she wore low cut shirts, and I don't think she wore a bra, and her breasts all but flew out when she bent over. Since there was lack of space in the office, and for efficiency, we were put into the filing cabinet room, which sometimes acted as a fitting room for the flight attendants, while an old man pawed them telling them he was in fact measuring them. He made sure their breast measurements were precise, because you can never be too careful. There was no ventilation in the room, so I made sure to wear underarm deodorant. The other temp, Dieran, had a mini filling cabinet for a desk, which played havoc with her back, since she had to lean forward all day to reach the papers there to destaple them, and with her big breasts not helping any. Neither did they help me, since the sight of them awoke the animal inside, and I had urges to run wild and hump anything that moved. My only consolation was the Irish radio which we played non-stop, which was fuzzy, because the anteanna signals weren't powerful enough to breach the bomb shelter qualities of our little room. The radio irritated me so much I focused less on the pendulous breasts, and more on wielding an axe myself.

As Christmas drew nearer, she feigned sick, and the boss decided fire her. I would have quit myself if I had family near, or if I had something to do beside sit in my room on the floor looking at the traffic outside my window.

I left that job not because of lack of work, but because of all the money that accumulated in my bank, I had visions of traveling the world. As it happened, I instead traveled the darker depths of my mind, and the journey deranged me.

I regretted leaving, not just because of the paralyzing solitude, but also because I unknowingly had some amount of power there with my access to their files. Did you know that knowledge is power, and that since the king is dead, power has moved from the body, to writing. Writing is the new surveillance, and because of it, people, especially office folk, are fearful. I see them now walking down the streets and sometimes casting glances behind their backs. But it's no use looking, you can't see the invisible eye of terror.

Solstice Greetings (wink, wink)

2011-06-20T13:17:00.004-05:00

It's been raining here a lot because we are caught in a jet stream, which is bad for us, but good for Ontarionians.

It's been raining, but it stays light out till about 11 p.m., what with the SUMMER SOLSTICE tomorrow, which has been charging my astrological batteries. It's been darker than it should though because of all the cloud cover.

I went out walking, and there were puddles in the gravel road, and I had been thinking of destitution, and Sartre's idea that the only question we should ask ourselves every morning is if we should go on living, when I saw two frogs and they were having excitement in one of the puddles, and I had interrupted them. They must have been going at it heroically, because when I followed one of the frogs as it hopped away down the road, he was soon tuckered out, and rolled onto his back exposing his creamy white belly. Was it fatigue or the frog's way of giving the ol wink and a smile? Frogs can wink, why was he being so overt? He must be a male gigolo. Well, I wouldn't be exploring that avenue of loathing.

If frogs are anything, they are a manifestation of hell. Oh God they're ugly. At first I thought it was a clump of mud hopping away down the road, A CLUMP OF MUD WITH WARTS. And when the tuckered little guy was hopping, it was almost like his skin was all about to fall off.

Of course frogs can wink and smile, that's what they excel at. It only takes a few face muscles to turn those frowns upside down. A smile goes a long long way, friend, but not when you are using it as a pedo.

Stop your winking frogs! Stop your smiling! Stop tapping your little webbed fingers on the mud and purge your mind of all it's defilements!

Filthy wart backed clump of mud.

I went to Australia, and worked for a man named Ron on a passion fruit farm. I worked with two Germans (Nazis, no doubt) one of whom stepped on frogs to kill them because they are like the plague there with their non-stop fornication and healthy appetites to keep them going like lumberjacks all night long. I was disgusted about the frogs sudden death. Before Kirk, or whatever his name was, stepped on the frog he grabbed him, and held him up for me to see, and it was no surprise to see the little frog giving me the ol' wink and the smile. He made a popping sound when stepped on, which was no doubt his filthy innards.

Filthy innards! I shouted, and made sure he was doubly dead by piercing him with my hoe. Kirk was pleased with my reaction and made fist pumps in air, or FPIA as it's being called nowadays. But the other German, Dirk, or whatever, was less than pleased. Usually I'm not so violent, I told him, but he just stared straight ahead.

Australia is being overrun with ants, and you can't eat a pineapple without them taking over your goddamn picnic. Did you know that all the ants in Africa weigh more than all the elephants?

And there is at least a nations worth of frogs humping and hopping around in my mind, with their smiles, their nods, their winking. It's enough to make you sick, or continue drinking. And all I have now is the glug, because my Swedish Aunts are in town. Maybe it's that that's causing my troubles.

Soon the days will start getting shorter. We are in the apex of light. It's been quite a journey up, now we have only darkness to look forward to. I hope you are well, and healthy with images of butterflies in your mind (even though butterflies are poop eaters, and they peer into your soul with their beady little eyes).

But for the rest of us, this is a time for celebration, like Christmas, but in June. Enjoy your holiday, and don't let the bed bugs bite. And if they do, just sprinkle your matress with DDT.

Bird Poop Sperm

2011-06-11T12:48:00.001-05:00

The bird poop sperm wants to find and break the buoyancy layer of the toilet.

Monkey Fingers

2011-06-04T19:59:00.002-05:00

I've been working in a kitchen for a job. One day I battered chicken fingers, but they're called monkey fingers because they're battered with banana chips. The chef told me how to do it, he wanted them flat so that they would cook easy. Making them flat required smashing them in the batter. Don't worry, no chickens were harmed, except for the ones that were killed to make the fingers. There were a lot of these fingers, and I spent much time smashing them. I spent two hours there battering the crap out of them. The guys joked I'd been dreaming of battered chicken and we all had a good laugh, but the joke was on me. Ever since, at night in bed, I've been dreaming myself as a smashed flat battered chicken finger. I'll cook easy, after I've been frozen, and enjoyed by the dishwasher, who enjoys the Death Metal.

A Good Swimmer

2011-05-31T14:43:00.002-05:00

I like going sailing mostly because I like wind, and water. Although the water is always there, the wind is sometimes lacking. You might think that the abundance of water would offset any discrepancies in the wind, but that is not the case. When you are 66 miles off the coast of the Mediterranean swimming is not an option. There are sharks, and the current goes against you. I'm a good swimmer, but I usually like to cover myself in lard before I go in, and that makes me all the more delectable to the sharks. I'm not afraid of the smaller ones, in fact I've wrastled them. Have you ever wrastled a shark? They're all teeth and cartilage. It's like trying to wrastle a giant angry nose with teeth in the nostrils, snorting death. So I wouldn't want to tangle with a larger one - imagine ten tooth-sporting nostrils all breathing anger in unison. So when there's no wind I start small fires on the vessel and let my mind wander. Sometimes the fires get out of control, and despite what they tell you, the highly lacquered surfaces of the ship are highly flammable. Then swimming is mandatory, unless you have a full bladder, but how full could it be? We're not camping. There are no marshmallows. We're not drunk. We'll, maybe a little drunk - extra incentive for the sharks, I guess. Those filthy lushes. AND ME WITHOUT MY LARD!!! Luckily, in the explosion, a large splinter of the boat flew toward my flailing direction. I grabbed on and practiced my flutter kick. I've developed exceptional calf muscles as the result, and am on the road to becoming an Olympian. Now if someone is tailing me in the chlorine pool, I imagine him to be a shark, and victory is mine.

The yellow sphere: An ode to the universe

2011-05-28T13:36:00.004-05:00

There it goes bouncing off the red clay canvas. Shadows form too. There is a flag. There is a pigeon. Evening light reflects off surrounding windows and makes its deformed mark on the canvas. The yellow sphere shines in the players eyes, but it doesn't stop them from release and smack. Ka-pow! Listening, you would think it was an epic bout of homosexual sex. Round after round the grunts don't stop. Watching the women play, it makes me crazy. With their skirts. And the wind. I wish I was a ball boy. I could handle their balls, and if they should happen to fall - falling because they have yet to master the slide - and if the canvas registered its filthy marks on them, I could wipe them off. I'd leave my professionalism at the door and smile widely as the audience cheered. Professionalism can be foregone for smiles.

The yellow sphere, a comet of bedazzlement.

Maria Sharapova

The Poetics of Garrets (Whatever Those Are)

2011-05-23T14:42:00.004-05:00

The house you grew up in is important because of all of the places you could hide in it. Like the garret, for instance, or the attic, or the cellar. These hiding places were places of enclosure and protection, making them perfect for day-dreaming. According to Gaston Bachelard in his book Poetics of Space, day-dreaming is important for the health of children. Dreaming of our childhood hiding places brings us back to those places and the day dreams we had there. In each of these hiding spaces, since we can't exactly remember the thoughts we had there, the characteristics of the spaces become symbolic. The attic, with it's height, and strong geometry will have corresponding thoughts. The cellar speaks of the subterranean depths of our sub-conscious.

As a child of two and a half my parents decided to leave the house I had until that time grew up in, and not until now have I realized how traumatic that is. My parents knew it, but who was I? Just a snot nosed lally gagger. After the move I started wetting my bed, and developed a fixation with a dirty blue blanket. So the dreams I have of my first residence, the most important, are marred by my parents desire to see their children grow up grounded. And by moving they inadvertently hampered my psychic growth.

My parents never moved again, so I spent the rest of my childhood and adolescence in the same house. I have never visited the attic, because I'm afraid of the bats living there, and because of catching the dreaded asbestosis. I spent some time in the basement, though, underneath the stairs, with a talking lion. He used to eat grapes and shit everywhere.

If you are a parent and living somewhere undesirable and want the best for your children I advise you stay put because familiar hiding places to children, however unsavory, are healthier to your child's subconscious than the eventual gun or crack pipe he will wield if you decide to move. I've never actually wielded a crack pipe, but my dad owns a gun rack, and when I'm in town for a visit, I wield all the guns, I wield them all well.

And to sympathetic early childhood movers, you have a friend. And Gun and Crack Pipe Meetings are held Tuesday and Thursday evenings respectively. Beware the crack pipe meetings. BEWARE!

Form Follows Function

2011-05-16T14:36:00.002-05:00

Louis Sullivan said in relation to building that "form follows function." This means the use of the building should dictate what it looks like. Unfortunately this is an ideal view of architecture.

Nowadays most money is spent on the facade of the building, because that's what people see.

Similarly, we spend the most money on our exterior selves, without regard to our souls or minds.

If we want our built surroundings to improve, we should first focus on making sure we feel dignified, or strong in the character, or what have you.

So the next time you have to make a decision between nice pants, or realizing your ultimate self, choose the highest manifestation of what you can be. If everyone does it, it won't be long before we are frolicking in the buildings of our highest selves realized.

Thor: "Sore" with a Lisp

2011-05-11T15:19:00.001-05:00

Thor was about Norse Gods like Thor and Odin. Did you know Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday are all named after Norse Gods? Thor's Father is Odin, and they live in Realm Nine. I forget which Realm Earth is in, but it's not looked on favorably. Thor gets banished to Earth by his Father for being a punk. He loses his powers, but he still thinks he is a God, and hilarity ensues.

The best parts of this movie were the Earth scenes, as opposed to the CGI scenes, which take themselves too seriously.

Natalie Portman was in this movie. She was also in Black Swan where she won the Oscar for Best Actress. I read in a tabloid magazine a while ago that she had an eating disorder, and was skinny as the result.

Natalie Portman: I'm Natlie Portman. I won Best Actress for Black Swan. It was emotionally and physically demanding, and required many hours of rehearsals, and pretending to be someone else. Now that that movie is done, I will appear in Thor, because all that work has made me horny, and I want make hump with a God.

I think Natalie Portman is strange.

She was born on June 9th just like me! And Johnny Depp. Are you suggesting us three are united in the fellowship of the stars? I wasn't going to say anything, but since you mentioned it, yes, that's exactly what I'm suggesting.

It's summer, or spring and the living's easy. Bradley's on the microphone with Ras-MG.
All the people in the dance will agree that we're well qualified to represent the LBC.

Soul Surfer: Soul Suffer

2011-05-03T12:05:00.005-05:00

Soul Surfer is a movie about a girl who's arm was bitten off while surfing. But that's not all it's about, it's also about life before the accident, and life after the accident. Before the accident, everyone was happy, on the beach there in Hawaii, and white teeth, and going to church outside, and decisions of Whether to go on a Mission to Mexico or not. Life before getting her arm bitten off was great, and so was life after.

Even though we knew her arm was going to be bit off, the director, Sean McNamara spent an excruciating amount of time portraying her as a normal teenage girl living in some kind of utopia. Extra emphasis was also given to her being a practicing Christian, which may lead the audience to question God's Divine Plan. In contrast to the time spent pre-accident, the director reduces the time spent of Shark Eating Arm to one second. I would have liked to see her being shaken (not stirred) and more thrashing.

After having her arm hastily removed there is drama of getting her to the hospital, and will she make it. She will make it, we all know it. We all knew her arm would be bitten off, and we all knew she would make it. More and more time is spent showing her ER style in the hospital with impossible drama, panic, and shaky camera. Then more time is spent showing her becoming a surfer again, and competing, and not even winning.

In addition to the Christian aspect of the film, and thought provoking questions about divine will (none provoked) I learned that Christians love scantily clad girls, and underwater shots of them in their bikinis, and revealing angles of them surfing. The Christians have to breed to keep their way of life. They have to whiten their teeth, and try hard making puns and looking thoughtful, all the while exercising their rampant virility.

I had to keep my eyes shut for most of the movie, lest I inadvertently slash my own wrists. Luckily I didn't sleep well the night before, and so managed to take a small nap. I think I started napping after a prosthetic was worn by the girl, and then taken by the girl's dog, and barked at by him.

Having my eyes closed tuned my ears to the sound track, which was the only redeeming quality of the movie, but even then, there were parts where no music was played, and I thought I would grind my teeth into my brain.

The movie would have been better with an opening scene of her having her arm bit off, with a montage of happy Christianity for the credits, and then that Hawaiian music for the rest of the movie with surfing shots, of the real girl surfing, and doing Good Deeds with her stump at her shoulder, like some deformed alien head.

I wouldn't advise you to see this movie, advice you may have already given yourself after seeing the trailer, but in case that was misleading, spend your time collecting rocks, if that's what you are into.

Say Hello. I've Got a Biscuit.

2011-04-29T18:42:00.002-05:00

Now I'm near the mountains, and it keeps snowing every morning, and the wind is enough to make you crazy. Reality is hitting hard, what with the prospect of working for my money. I might live with my Great Aunt this summer, she lives near the church, and makes sure to attend every Sunday, sometimes more days. I imagine myself painting a pieta, or the crucifixion. My Great Aunt tells me her leg is doing better since she stopped smashing it down so hard when she walked. But instead of saying "my leg" she said "me leg".

She once diagnosed my dad with schizophrenia. She knew the symptoms because she is one herself. Turns out my dad was just an alcoholic.

There's one more year of school left, and this is my last summer of freedom, before cha cha cha, I become my worst nightmare (slap you on the butt, chief). It's not freedom though, it's skillfully navigating the waves of anxiety. Not smoking helps, but then where will inspiration to repeat vowel sounds in rapid succession come from? It won't come at all, and instead I'll stare longingly out the window. Escape from life and ourselves comes but very seldom. They say we should just accept things. I'll accept things with my ceremonial death mask on, and accompanying vestments, and with a lapdog I believe "knows". I've followed that critter once for four days, turns out he was following a traveling hot dog salesman. There were epiphanies.

I'll be waiting, you slack jawed lily gaffer.

a a a a a a a a a

o o o o o o o o o o o

e e e e e e e e e e e e e

la la la la la la la la

Fa fa fa fa fafaffafhaha

The Yellow Dog

2011-04-19T18:29:00.005-05:00

$10 was stuffed into my jacket pocket last night by one of three blond women standing outside having a cigarette. She thought I was homeless, probably because I am skinny, and have unkempt hair. Or maybe it was because I was walking in the downtown area which has been taken over by homeless people at night.

I was looking for the Yellow Dog, a mangy creature said to invoke transforming abilities when having drunk of it's offerings, not bodily offerings, but grainy ones. I already had some beers, and 600 ml of Saké, and I wanted more because I suffer from the Addictive Personality Syndrome.

I knew vaguely where the Yellow Dog was, but without proper guidance, my journey would lead me to inhospitable darker corners somewheres unknown. So I asked the first guy I saw if he knew where it was. He was a Native American, or Native North American, in this case, or an Indian, if you will. Along with the homeless, they are also inhabiting the downtown streets when it gets dark. He seemed friendly enough. He also knew vaguely where it was, but not for certain, so he googled it on his iphone. If I were a cowboy, and this was 1833, I'd imagine instead of consulting his iphone, he would instead have consulted Mother Earth, or an Elder, but instead of trying to find a pub, I would in fact be trying to find some elusive spirit, and if they weren't blinded by hatred for the white man, they would offer me to sit in on their next peyote ceremony. Instead he used google, which is the modern equivalent of spirit quests. He pointed me in the right direction, which by and by lead me to the Pony Corral. And it was there those three blond ladies stood outside, two of which were smoking.

I had smoked all my cigarettes, and wanted one, so after walking past them, I decided to ask them for one. They stood under some bright florescent lights by the door. I asked the smoking if I could have a cigarette, and without hesitation she gave me one. It was a Benson and Hedges Slim. She said she could have bought DuMaurier Regular, but decided for the slims. They didn't seem to mind me there while they talked, maybe it was because they were high on cocaine, I don't know. One said her boyfriend was a big coke dealer, and that his truck had gone missing, but they couldn't phone the cops because it probably wasn't his in the first place, and because he was a coke dealer. Then they started talking how they got fired for being high and smoking weed, whereupon they all had a good laugh. Then when the other one asked if I was homeless, I said yes and she gave me $10. I refused at first, but she just stuffed it in my jacket, and who am I to ruin her good deed. She also gave me a hug, which was the best present offered to me that night. She asked if I had a phone number, and I said no, then I said yes, but she didn't believe me. Then she gave me another hug. She wore a leather jacket.

Being outside the Pony Corral, I couldn't help but think these ladies were in fact horses. They sure were riled up. Maybe it was the powerful release of Wild Oats they were high off. Other horsey behaviours included them spitting and burping. They made a great display of spitting, which made me think for one crazy second that they were camels. I quickly admonished myself for such thoughts. They were horses, no doubt about it. No camel would be seen as hysterical. Since they were horses, and I had at my bequest a wild stallion whom I managed to tame with my whisperings and Royal Gala Apples, I hailed him with a whistle and outstretched my arm. It wasn't long before he came galloping up to stop by my side. Where he spent his time I knew not, but his breath sometimes smelled like whiskey. The horse, of course, was a large man named Stanley, who had lost several bets to me and was paying me off with horse rides. I jumped on his back, and waved my hat at the girls upon exit. They made whinnying sounds. Stanley lead me willy nilly to the Yellow Dog, which was closed, and smelling like pond scum.

"Ok, Stanley, off you go." And Stanley went off somewhere at a gallop.

I would be walking home. Stanley had to go to stable, and all the buses had stopped running. I used the money to buy some food, because the walk home was a three hour one.... The added nutrients would also help me awhile since I live under a bridge and cook roadkill in cans full of hot water with soot in it. They say it's the soot that adds the flavour, but I don't trust them when all but three of their teeth are missing, and when they call themselves dentists.

Unofficial Painting Parade

2011-04-17T19:39:00.002-05:00

The last guy doesn't care what you think.

The March

2011-04-13T17:01:00.005-05:00

John William Tecumseh Sherman

The March is a novel by E.L. Doctorow about the American Civil War. He writes characters who are turn coats, Generals, freed slaves, a white freed slave, a British reporter, a city boy, a prim Southern woman turned nurse, a European doctor, general assistants, and a photographer and his assistant.

The book was published in 2005, and the author incorporated hindsight into the narrative, for example, speaking of a Southern General he writes "General Johnston and his colleagues of the unjust cause, now embittered and awash in defeat, will have sublimed to a righteously aggrieved state that would empower them for a century."

As a democratic, non-slave holding society, we can experience all of it's virtues. We are free to do what we want as long as it's not against the law. We may take this for granted, and it may seem strange to call Lincoln a Visionary, but at one time not having slaves was considered strange.

Doctorow describes the Union army under General Sherman as an animal or an organism. His troops, medics, and freed slaves consisted of at least 100,000 people. And as the animal moved it's way north through Georgia and the Carolinas, it destroyed or consumed everything in it's path. Railroad lines were uprooted and twisted, mansions were pilfered for vittles and valuables and then destroyed, and whole cities were burnt to the ground.

Not being an American, and not having this all learned to me in school, before reading this I was aware of the race issues but always thought they came from difference and ignorance. Racism is ignorant for sure, but I wonder if the post-confederate states people still yearn to be slaveholders, or if they still see black people as freed slaves. Hopefully not. But I'm sure the hatred has carried through some of the generations of some of the descendants.

Also by Doctorow is Ragtime, which describes America between 1900 and 1917 including a portrait of John D. Rockefeller. He is an amazing writer and has won numerous awards.

Here is an excerpt from The March where Arly, a turncoat, describes to his friend Will his views on ladies.

"If there is any good reason for war, it ain't to save Unions, and it certainly ain't to free niggers, it ain't to do anything but to have you a woman of your own, or even of another's, in a bed with you at your behest. You are talking the highest kind of survival, young Will, the survival you achieve after you are gone to your God that by the issue of your loins has craeted them that look like you and sound like you and think like you and are you through the generations of descendants. And you know how He fixed it: so that we turn our swords into plowshares and a the end of a day go into our houses and after a good, hot dinner we taken them upstairs, these blessed creature of God who are given to us, and pull off their dresses and their shifts and their corsets and whatever damn else they use to cover themselves till just the legs and breasts and bellies and behinds of them are in presentation to our wonderment... oh lord. And when we go inside them, plum into their beings, and they cry out in our ear and we feel there is nothing softer, warmer, or more honeyed up in God's world than what embraces our stiff tool, and we are made by God to shiver into them the issue of our loins, well, boy, don't talk to me about what you don't know. And if the bordello ladies you slander are not half of what I am telling you, please to remember they are as much our glorious Southern womanhood as whatever you been dreaming about that Miz Nurse Thompson, who, I can promise you, would taste no sweeter when put to the test than the uglymost whore in those houses by the waterfront."

Tweetie Bird

2011-04-11T22:41:00.004-05:00

Tweetie Bird. A big yellow bird with blue eyes. He has an old lady as keeper, who is oblivious of the bird's speaking ability. His speaking ability, though is marred, as though he were fed paint chips instead of regurgitated worms. You might mistake the bird as retarded hearing him talk, but Tweetie has proven that he is far from cat food. Were his intonations regarding the cat pre-meditated? Or was it just dumb luck?

Although caged, the bird seems to have no trouble escaping his confines, and it's his attacker who enables his escape. How come they both have speech impediments? It's because when Sylvester isn't trying to eat Tweetie, they are drinking together. They've both suffered from the stroke, and not necessarily the stroke of genius, especially not Sylvester.

Tweetie finds brilliance in his innocence. His cage is an illusion, he stays there because he gets free meals.

Love Sniffing

2011-04-06T17:38:00.002-05:00

There I am in the sun, my reflection in the screen.

It smells like muskeg.

I'm getting old. The lines under my eyes now connect with the vertical lines between my eyebrows. And my mouth is down turned and I'm constantly sneering.

I will go to the mountains, and lie down there in some meadow, have the ticks crawl into my crotch, and sleep well for many moons. Meadow flowers are edible. They also smell quite nice, so when I'm not eating them, I'll be smelling them. I've got huge nostrils. I love sniffing.

Casa Malaparte

2011-04-02T16:26:00.004-05:00

Not being able to get in, but still getting the chance to act like Brigitte Bardot (a long time dream of mine...)

A Trip to the Local Boat Making Factory

2011-03-31T14:15:00.001-05:00

This one is not a boat.

A Centrum, a Centrum Occupied by the Sun

2011-03-30T10:22:00.002-05:00

"Thus we have to admit that, even if outside the world there were not nothing but space and even matter, nevertheless the world of Copernicus would remain a finite one, encompassed by a material sphere or orb, the sphere of the fixed stars - a sphere that has a centrum, a centrum occupied by the sun." - Alexandre Koyre. From the Closed World to the Infinite Universe.

Jake the Projectionist

2011-03-27T17:22:00.004-05:00

"Fffffffitnesssssss, eeehhhhhhhh?"

Jake Number One wore an eye patch. He said he got it playing hand ball.

Jake2 said "playing with your balls, eh?" And everyone had a good laugh.

Jake Number One's eyes, when uncovered were enough to burn a hole in your soul. Just one eye was still cause for worry, but not enough to run screaming.

Jake had a detachable tongue, which he used when he was drunk to clean himself. He said it impressed the ladies, but the ladies he was trying to impress were just perfectly aligned, random objects making the form of women in his periphery vision. When he focused his eye on the form, he could tell what they were, so to increase the fun, he'd look at them sideways, as if he were a raven and they were on spirit quests. Everyone knew who was actually on the spirit quest, it was Jake Number One, all the time. He had fires in his living room, fires in the bathroom, fires in the kitchen. There were holes in the ceiling, the walls, to allow the smoke to leave. And on those fires he'd roast some kind of animal he caught in the park near his house. Everyone was always afraid to ask what it was, but it couldn't be more than skunk, or dog, or squirrel, maybe fox. Maybe cat. No one ever tried any of what he was eating, because Jake said you had to be in touch with the spirits, before trying it, and getting in touch with the spirits, as far as we knew, was being so high as to cause alarm.

Jake2 said "Hey, Jake, why don't you go and smell a rotten crotch." Jake2 was going for his daily fitness routine.

"FFFffffffffittttnnnessssssss," said Jake Number One, and stared at Jake2 with his one good eye. Jake2 didn't care, but his lack of concern came from ignorance, and looking in the mirror too often. Jake2 worked on his buns.

Jake Number One ate buns like that for din-din. "I'll eat your buns for din-din, Jake2."

"You sick fuck. I'll stomp your skull. I'll ruin your other eye by pulling it out and squishing it. Then what, Jake? Then you'll be blind is what."

But Jake2's threats did nothing to deter Jake's peering gaze.

"I'll tear the flesh right off of your body!" He shouted, but Jake2 had already left down the stairs and the door had closed behind him. He shouted the threat in the hallway to no one, but since the walls were so thin everyone could hear. They would think "Just Jake Number One again, shouting threats to eat human flesh in the hallway. That crazy guy." And they would smile, and continue chopping parsnips with over sized knives.

It was Sunday, and some women, usually busy at work, decided to play Women, and put on aprons and cook shit. They used huge GD knives, drank so much wine, and played Women Music loudly on their brand new really expensive speakers. Because fuck a gopher. Fuck one good.

Jake Number One decided to practice his throwing knife abilities there in the hallway. He pulled out the picture of Jake2 he kept stored in his undies, now marred by sweat, and pinned it to the wall. In the photo Jake2 was smiling, and like Jake Number One said every time, he said "I'll give you something to smile about," and whipped the knife at the picture, so that the knife peirced Jake2's left eye. That would always make Jake Number One smile. With his spirits lifted, he decided to get some beverage from the local tavern, a Sunday tradition.

Tonight he told himself, he would not be taken home in a makeshift gurney, which was two projection stands put together. He told himself he wasn't a projector. "I am not a projector. I am a projectionist."

The Versatile Beaver

2011-03-24T09:44:00.005-05:00

Today I am a beaver with a chainsaw. The chainsaw makes me versatile. You might call me the Versatile Beaver. I could be a plane. I could put out forest fires and deliver goods. Would you like a few goods? I have some. They generally smell like candy and pomegranates. I'm feeling randy, I think I'll go chop down a tree with my teeth. I eat trees. I love wood. They don't call me the versatile beaver for sitting around with a stick up my nose and a finger in my butt. I've got a nice dam house.

A Voyage to the Fourth Level of Alternate Reality

2011-03-22T10:07:00.004-05:00

I was picking my nose the other day, just having a good ol pick, just minding my own business and not paying much attention, when I tripped, and my finger went all the way up my nose and into my brain. I must have prodded a nerve, and as the result I saw Jesus.

He was with a bunch of ladies, and they all wore billowy material, and it was windy. Jesus made wave motions with his arms, and some kind of sound effect with his mouth. He moved closer towards me in bobbing motions, with his arms still doing the wave thing. I could see that his eyes were buggied, and there were crumbs in his beard.

Is this Jesus? Or a homeless man? We were on a beach and it was night. The waves crashed to our right. It could have been that I had woken them up from sleeping out here in the wind. Woken them up after an evening of debauchery and/or merry making. Jesus continued to advance, much like a man in the throes of tormented psychoses. I was getting ready to slap him, and maybe jab a finger into his buggy eye. I erected my finger and had it at the ready. I was thinking "Kapow, Kapow, kapow..." because that's the sound of impending fury. I thought of praying in my mind, for protection from crazy people, but in this case Jesus was right in front of me, and he was the crazy person, so I thought I'd just reason with him out loud, but no way could you reason with those buggy eyes, and wavy arms, and bird bobbing gait. Threats were my only option.

"Jesus! I'll poke out your eye. I'll poke it out!"

Jesus didn't seem to care. He continued to advance. I had no choice. His eye, being so big and white, was an easy target. He didn't even see it coming. He smelt of cabbage. My finger sunk into his eye socket, and I rammed it deep into his head, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't touch brain. Hoping to have quelled the situation, I thought I'd wake up on the floor of my room with my own finger lodged firmly into my nose while resting in a puddle of my own blood, but it were not the case. Instead, by prodding Jesus's Jesus Nerve I was sent to the third level of alternate reality.

I was now standing in a slow moving river. Or it may have been a pond. It was still dark out, and the water was black, reflecting only madness. Trees lined the banks of the water, but after having examined them more closely, and observing their irregular movement, I realized the trees were in fact some kind of monsters trying to act like trees. And something was slithering against my leg. I wore a daffodil print leotard. I knew I had to swim, but there was a current, however weak, and it was going against me. Meanwhile, the monsters continued to advance, some now in the water. They had sticks, and their eyes and noses were covered with impenetrable masks. I thought of jamming my finger in their ears. They looked like an easy target. But there were so many of them, and me in my leotard. I felt just then that I would be good at prancing. If only I weren't thigh deep in water. And the slithery thing was getting comfortable with my lily white legs. Where was Jesus now? And I imagined him to be on the beach with one fucked eye. I tried doing a walk, but that was even more horrifying than anything. It seemed as though the ground under the water was covered with clam shells.

The monsters continued to advance, their eyes glowing behind their shielded eyes. Did they know who they were dealing with? I didn't look like much in my leotard, but in regular apparel, it's apparent I wield a mean finger. As the nearest monster was in striking distance, I wound up and sunk my finger into his ear. He offered little resistance, as though it were a race amongst monsters to see who could get to me first. In fact, it looked like he liked it a little, like his eyes were glowing calmer. My finger sunk deep into the slime of his ear canal. Neither did the monster fall, nor was I transported. So I rammed deeper, using my other free hand to help with the ramming, but his ear, and it's winding tunnels, were too deep for me. Just when I thought I'd be spending an eternity here with the monsters, the one I had penetrated offered me his stick. I mumbled a thank-you, and rammed that in his ear. His stick was more like a wand: smooth, and sturdy. The wand had no trouble reaching it's target and lo, I was transported, to what I imagined had to be the fourth level.

I woke up on the floor of my room with my finger lodged firmly in my nose and my face covered with blood. There was uneasiness and pain and disgust as I pulled my finger from my nose. Of course it was bleeding. So I put some kleenex in there.

I'm writing this in the fourth level of alternate reality!!!

Everything seems normal enough, except when I want to say ketchup, I actually say banger. It has it's disadvantages. Hopefully that is the limit of weirdness for the FOURTH LEVEL OF ALTERNATE REALITY.

Holy

2011-03-20T10:55:00.000-05:00

Castle, Yes.

2011-03-17T00:36:00.000-05:00

Horse Memories

2011-03-13T23:36:00.001-05:00

The first horse I ever rode was a small one, a brat. I thought small would be best, but as it turns out it was not. He felt he had something to prove. Was unwieldy. Cody sat on a high horse behind me, a huge one, and I had to look up at him. My horse was new and hard to control.

I rode horses after, and learned not to judge a horse by it’s size. Bigger horses may be nicer. I was given an appaloosa, the best horse, because the previous year I rode Jesse, a stud. The appaloosa one time started bucking, and instead of pulling back on the reins, I just jumped off, and that hurt, and the horse ran off, and I was scolded. That was a bad bad year at camp.

At Falcon Crotch Lodge, for a staff party, they took the staff out on horses. They promised us a meal, but I didn’t think I’d like it, so ate copiously all that day. When on the horses I farted much, and the lady behind me knew it was me, but I tried making it like it was the horse. Another lady behind me said it smelt like sour kraut. Ewww. She also talked about poo juice while cleaning the hotel rooms. Ewww. She was a lesbian. I didn’t have a bad experience this time. I was riding behind Shannon, keeper of the spandex pants, and hot hot body.

It's what we do when the snow starts melting

2011-03-11T12:42:00.002-06:00

Chameleons: Lions of the Ground

2011-03-06T19:34:00.003-06:00

Chameleons: Meaning lions of the ground. Aren't regular lions of the ground? Whatever. They are especially adapted for killing large insects. Their claws are made to grasp tree branches, their skin can change to fit it's surroundings, their eyes move independently, and their tongues can also grasp large insect heads, and other appendages, after exploding from their mouths. They aim for the heads so that the insects defenses will be neutralized.

There are also desert chameleons. Now their claws aren't grasping branches, but are spread out, so that they move easier across the sand. And their skin isn't blending into the surroundings, but is acting as a thermal control. Half of her is dark, and half white to absorb the suns rays and keep them in, respectively.

An animals main purpose is to reproduce to spread it's genes. Chameleons are no different. A female wanders the desert looking for a mate. She eats desert beetles, not to be confused with dessert beetles, by waiting in the shade of sparse vegetation, and catching one with her tongue when he also wants shade. There aren't many desert chameleons, but she will eventually find a mate. When she does, the male will forcefully have his with her because he's been searching forever, and he knows another one won't come along soon, if ever. He uses his teeth for grabbing her, and his claws to pin her down, and preforms the acrobatics to get himself in there: The Double Backed Beast.

You would think that since there are so few desert chameleons, and they are searching for each other constantly, and that is arguably their purpose - to reproduce - then once the male and female see each other, relations would be more cordial and less barbaric. But the female, despite her constant searching, upon seeing the male, will probably think: "I'm not in the mood right now." Or maybe she will think: "I don't like the cut of his jib." And he will think: "Now is not the time for judging my jib, I've almost died of thirst and starvation looking for you, I will not see another female ever again probably, and you will not see a male. My jib is the only one here." And she will think: "I'm not in the mood. Your jib is irregular. I was looking for a male with a better jib." And he will think: "My jib isn't important! We need to make business. That's our only goal!" But his pleas will fall on deaf ears. By then she will have moved on with her head raised, and her mouth perpetually turned down. The next male she finds, if she finds one, will have an alright jib, but imperfect gumption.

It's the dessert, lady. Beggars can't be choosers. But the males realize the females will never be in the mood, so they do what they have to.

2011-03-04T14:20:00.000-06:00

Me Lucky Charms

2011-03-04T14:13:00.005-06:00

Hematite

Orange Rock

Prehnite

Meteorite and Room

Puka

Le Minotaure

2011-02-25T20:07:00.003-06:00

Drawings from Minotaure, Volume 1. Original Issues 1-4:1933. Arno Press New York. 1968.

An Extra Pointy Nose

2011-02-24T10:50:00.004-06:00

They call me the mosquito because I'm quick with the punches. While they are winding up, I've already smacked them thrice.

"Thrice!" They exclaim, whilst the stars twirl. They try contemplating how it happened, and during their contemplations I have smacked them thrice more.

If one has managed to wheel one off, as it were, my neck is double jointed, as is my back, and the punch will hit nothing but air, as if the lug has punched through me.

"As though through air," he will begin to contemplate, but remembers now is no time for contemplations, but it's too late, I've dealt him several more blows.

I show no mercy. I fight mainly with my adrenal glands. I wield them unmercifully, as though they were nunchucks. I'll smash their faces with them and watch the adrenal splatter.

They call me the mosquito, because when they've fallen unconscious at my hand, I pierce their flesh with my nose, and suck their blood into my brain. I've suffered several hemorrhages but it's worth it - the constant smell of an enemies blood. My children will grow to be strong.

Green

2011-02-21T09:36:00.001-06:00

Please do not judge me for painting the mutants.

Puke Alley

2011-02-18T18:55:00.003-06:00

Have you ever seen anything so gross, and it was just so gross it made you want to detach your head from your neck so that the vomit was not impeded by your mouth?

Yes.

Sneerggghhh herghhhh.

I think I know what you are talking about. Just yesterday, on the street, I saw vomit on the street.

Please don't talk to me about vomit. I've just eaten 700 pez.

I'm sorry, but it relates to your opening question.

Fine, proceed, but if I vomit, please do not roll your eyes.

Agrrreed. I was walking on the street, and lo, vomit. One vomit sighting is unpleasant at best. Two is almost unthinkable. Three is cause for detaching of head for loss of worry of mouth impediment. As I later found out we were walking down puke alley, and apparently following the notorious Vomit Van Vomitman, who, like the kids from the fairy tale, leave rocks and crumbs to find their way home.

Vomit is not nearly as luscious as bread crumbs, or candy, but I'm sure birds and squirrels and probably dogs would still eat vomit, thus confusing Vomit Van Vomitman toward his rightful home.

Dogs will eat anything. Squirrels, too. Just yesterday I saw a squirrel rummaging in the garbage. THE GARBAGE! I thought they ate nothing but natures candy. No nuts in the garbage, squirrel, you sexy tailed rat.

Squirrels, dogs, moths, butterflies... The creatures of hell. Never trust a moth. No matter what it's promises.

(Meave laughs nervously, tries changing the subject, but it's futile, she has too often conversed with smooth talking moths.)

Is Def Leopard your favourite band?

Yes. Yes they are.

Mine too.

(The two walk together for the remainder of their journey to the fish store sharing the glow of common experience. They will not erupt into violent emotional fist fights today, or ferocious slander. The sun is shining, and to them, moths are their mutual downfall... the sweet talking moths.... mmmmmmm......)

Proper Hearing

2011-02-12T09:48:00.004-06:00

Ear talk.

I will have troubles listening to you with too much wax in my ears. The sounds will be filtered as through water, but not as much pressure.

My ears bled when I was young. I also had meningitis. The doctors stuck a needle in my back. I can't remember it, but it explains my distrust of doctors. There is no choice of hospital trips when you are young and your ears are bleeding.

My ear bled again last night, the one with the hearing problem. I pour mineral oil into my ear in the evening before sleeping, it ruins the linens, especially the shams. Soon my nightly activities will paint a rich tapestry on the linens and instead of being sheets for wrapping or shams for throwing, they will be paintings on the wall. I'll set them ablaze and call it modern art.

Blood is like mineral water. All these extra added external fluids will hopefully allow for proper hearing.

From Walden by Henry David Thoreau

2011-02-04T22:53:00.003-06:00

COMPLEMENTAL VERSES.

The Pretensions of Poverty.

"Thou dost presume too much, poor needy

wretch,

To claim a station in the firmament,

Because thy humble cottage, or thy tub,

Nurses some lazy or pedantic virtue

In the cheap sunshine or by shady springs,

With roots and pot-herbs where thy right hand,

Tearing those humane passions from the mind,

Upon whose stocks fair blooming virtues

flourish,

Degradeth nature, and benumbeth sense,

And, Gorgon-like, turns active men to stone.

We not require the dull society

Of your necessitated temperance,

Or that unnatural stupidity

That knows nor joy nor sorrow; nor your forc'd

Falsely exalted passive fortitude

Above the active. This low abject brood,

That fix their seats in mediocrity,

Become your servile minds; but we advance

Such virtues only as admit excess

Brave, bounteous acts, regal magnificence,

All-seeing prudence, magnanimity

That knows no bound, and that heroic virtue

For which antiquity hath left no name,

But patterns only, such as Hercules,

Achilles, Theseus. Back to thy loath'd cell

And when thou seest the new enlightened sphere,

Study to know but what those worthies were."

T. Carew.

By Holly

2011-02-03T20:52:00.000-06:00

Not my Duck

Egoism (Drinking) Pen

2011-02-01T20:14:00.003-06:00

Clampin

2011-01-30T23:09:00.004-06:00

I clamp m'shoes

clamp m'shoes

when I leave

so the floor won't get dirty

clamp m'shoes

I clamp m'teeth

clamp m'teeth

at night

so I don't wake up screamin'

clamp m'teeth

I clamp m'wood

clamp m'wood

in the wood shop

so m'wood won't fall apart

clamp m'wood

I clamp m'hands

clamp m'hands

when poopin'

so no one hears the dirty dog bark

clamp m'hands

All this clampin

I won't fall apart

A Dirty Barking Dog

2011-01-28T22:41:00.003-06:00

I feel shame when I poop. Good boys don't poop. Mathematicians don't smell like body vegetables. Some babies are born without anuses, but the doctor will make one for them, and in the mean time they will wear colostomy bags. If somehow you escape their detection, you will be qualified to work at the New Yorker.

I run the tap when pooping, so that no one can hear the air escape me, making ridiculous sounds as it leaves. I'd rather my anus make barking sounds, because that's what it is, a dirty dog. I run the tap even if no one else is home, so that not even God can hear. Sometimes I run the tap, the shower, and I sing loudly and pound on my bongo drums. At least making brown is an excuse to do my chanting.

I hate hippies. I was at a course some time ago, at night, with other students, and we sat on a balcony overlooking a lake. It was a retreat, and we were trying to learn about Shakti. Well, then some hippies started playing on their drums, and it interfered with out ability to concentrate ourselves. Hippies probably love pooping.

After I've done my business I wash my hands throughly in the bathroom sink, then again in the kitchen sink, because who knows who has touched the doorknob last. Probably ninja hippies. Pyjama wearing ninja hippies with halos of moths.

I thought I had a girlfriend. So where is she? I told her I couldn't see her on fridays because I need time to myself. Then I told her I didn't need that time anymore, but she is still not here. I'll see her tomorrow. I see her every Saturday. We are animals on Saturday; I don't see her enough. I'm thinking of asking her to marry me, but with school, and possibly children, I wouldn't have time to do both. Plus I need time to myself. Everybody poops.

The Decadent Stump

2011-01-23T14:30:00.006-06:00

Top of the muffin to you!!! That's what we say in Muffinton, the stumps being less than the tops. Muffinton is littered with muffin stumps, not even the bums will eat the stumps, not even the cockaroaches. I've eaten of stump before, I'm weird like that. But, it's just stump, still muffin, but stump. That's what I tell myself, and others, but they just shake their heads and walk away.

There is a group of Stump Eaters in Muffinton and we have secret meetings in the basement of the Pinehole Hole Pub. It is run similar to Alcoholics Anonymous, except no one there wants to quit eating the stump. There is pressure from the rest of the town which superficially makes us want to quit, but we all really love it. Mary Fattinhole says she wants to quit binge stumping, and she cries and shakes every meeting. I can't help but roll my eyes. "It's like all things in life, Mary," I tell her, "eat a stump. Eat two. But don't inject them into your veins." Often she cries all the harder at my words of wisdom. Our stump munching meetings usually end in fist fights. Just yesterday my face was pounded into a pulpy mess. My cheek was ripped open and now I inadvertently smile at people. The first rule of Muffin Stump Munch Yum Yum Club: Do not talk about Muffin Stump Munch Yum Yum Club.

There is an amputee who started coming to our meetings. She says she's from Blamdenflurfen, but no one believes her. "Where are your Blimpers, then?" We ask her. She says she lost them, along with the greater portion of her left arm in a dog sledding accident. We try questioning her further, but she either remains silent or changes the subject. Each of us all has accused her of lying, sometimes all at once, sometimes in hushed tones at the bar. If our meetings don't end with fist fights, they end with shouting slander in her direction. She calls herself Rubbin McTissueloss. That's a fake name if I ever heard one. Why would a stump arm want to come to Muffintown? I've walked from the post office with her to the laundromat one time, and not once did any citizen wish her "top of the muffin." NOT ONCE! If I didn't get to know her, and if I didn't have lustings for muffin stumps, I might have done the same. It's like she's giving us the finger with her stump there hanging from her shoulder. I saw her wave with it once. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't aroused. It takes a list of positive attributes, and a few awesome negative ones, to move into a town with a blatant disrespect for all things stump with a stump on your person. She wields the inedible stump of courage, as opposed to the edible stump of courage which was buried a number of years ago (said to give courage).

I have come to associate muffin stumps with Rubbin. Although eating stump has always satisfied a large part of me that I had been hiding, I knew the satisfaction was not 100%. After entertaining some fantasies with her in the forest by the river, I decided to try and realize them.

At our meetings she always gave eyes to me. They were sugary and tasted like blueberries. She gave eyes also to Flurff Bandylegs, but he had a girlfriend already. Not that that would stop him.

Everyone loved Rubbin's stump, there was even talk of replacing her with Old Murflin -- the clubs Queen. Chormel, a sculptor, talked about casting Rubbin's stump and mounting it on the wall. Rubbin intuited our side discussions, and so gave us eyes.

Since I was the craziest, both in my fighting and in my judgement of edible stumpery, I decided to be the first man of our club to try her out. My stump meter said 10 and I was hungry. Not being one for tact, and noticing the fire in her eyes (they were all slightly burnt, some more than others) I asked her kindly, and with much eyebrow wiggling and lid winking, if she would please meet me down by the river in the forest. I would bring my guitar, two bottles of hooch, and some horribly disfigured muffin stumps found preferably in the gutter. She eyed me peculiar, and said things she thought a respectable lady might say, and I replied with something a gentleman might say, but with intonations concerning our effects. She spoke still in the vein of a respectable lady, so I used my second approach: Lying. This was a language she could understand. By telling her that particular place down by the river in the forest in conjunction with certain actions might heal her of her stumpness, she conceded.

It was a misty, hazy day, our meeting day. I set the time at dusk. It was purple out. The river is lower down than the town. A number of animal trails lead down through the forest to the river. I took the one I knew best. I had forgotten how big the forest was. It was immense, the town being a refuge from it's dark depths. I should have been more specific with Rubbin and our meeting place. I wrote in my notebook: "Real life is different than mind life." But quickly crossed it out. Now was not the time for disillusionment.

By shouting her name in 45 second intervals while staggering in the mud by the river bank we were united. She was pleased enough to see me. I had brought what I said I would and after laying down a blanket proceeded to serenade her with my guitar. I sang the popular Italian hit "Bellissimo". She told me to stop after a few seconds and to sit down. I brought out the hooch and was looking forward to enlivening our temperaments for conducive of romp, but before I could even have a little she touched my arm with her good one and asked me if I had ever milked a cow.

This always happens to me. I try for good times and end up with cow milking tales. She said she missed being able to milk cows and hold two bundles of wood, and she started crying a bit. I turned the oven of my loins down to simmer and imagined myself walking around with one arm. No more two handed high-fives. No more two handed OMG faces. No more pointing to two things at the same time. A horrible impediment indeed. I sympathized with her for a bit, all while she spoke of arm related mutilations, childhood experiences, and random facts.

Despite my efforts, it was evident the control of my loin oven temperature was a phantasm. The full moon was out. The river gushed luxuriously beside us. The tears ran down Rubbin's face and were funneled via cleavage between the vertical hills that were her breasts. There were thoughtful glistenings. Having no intention of speaking, except for primitive, stream of consciousness releases during moments of intense passion, my original plans were being squished by the unrelenting monsters of Feeling and the Desire to Communicate Feelings With Words.

"Rubbin. We've had enough talk. It's time to make our bodies speak under the influence of elixir and soggy, dirty muffin stump." I pulled out the hooch and muffin stump and said: "Take this and eat it." Our communion was with the Kings and Queens of stumpdom of yore. There was a cool breeze, enough to feign cool and give us an excuse for goosebumps. The sky had gone from purple to black. We were animals. All that talk, apparently, was fuel; fuel for make moan.

We awoke in the grey dawn, in each others arm(s). We were a good distance away from the blanket I had set down the in the night. There was a hunter and his son staring at us and chewing on a tall piece of grass. The dad said he almost shot us by mistake. I wouldn't have blamed him. I told them to leave or feel the fury. They probably knew the fury, and judged it to be less than harmful, but left anyway out of decency, but not before them both staring good and hard at Rubbin's gaping stump.

"Stump gawkers," I said to myself. Rubbin woke up peacefully enough. We made a few awkward comments about the situation in general and laughed nervously. I myself suffer from nervous anxiety in the mornings and thought at any moment I would lose it. Rubbin discussed her plans for the day, complete with random facts and what she thought about people I have never met. I decided to jump in the river and swim to the lodgings of my cousin who lived down river, an event I usually save for the vernal equinox, but decided now was just as good a time as then. We said our goodbyes and wished each other well saying we'd see each other at the Muffin Munch Stump Yum Yum Club.

Rubbin was the muffin stump personified. The dark part of me that took delight in eating the muffin leavings were multiplied with her. Pleasure has seen new landscapes and is making a boat to navigate the waters. Muffin stump humping was a confused, literal activity which I now look back on as though a master in stumpery. Where will this crazy debauchery called life lead me next?

Creepy

2011-01-23T13:34:00.000-06:00

Ever Stalwart

2011-01-22T02:36:00.004-06:00

I think I'll go to Des Moines, Iowa, to the river there. I have a boat, and oars. I think the water is slow moving. I imagine the landscape smelling like decomposing bodies, a vestige from the civil war. I have two long oars, I can row for days, weeks. Des Moines would be a mecca. I'd wear my hair in a pony tail. If you had long hair, you would too. I wish it was more exciting, but it's not. It's just rowing. Maybe it's stoic. I think I'd like to be a hero, so would you, so would everyone. You can't save someone's life until you row down a river, or so I hear. Comfort is important. I'd have a net to save me from the mosquitoes. It's still winter, I realize, but I'm planning ahead.

Phone Call:

I'm in Des Moines. I'm Cajun, you know.

How is Des Moines?

It's better than I expected. I met a man who told me I had the power to communicate with dreams. His mushrooms were good.

I thought you said you'd quit getting high.

I lied. I lied.

How is Iowa? Are you on the river?

Iowa is treating me well. I'm on the river. My sinuses are clear, and everyday I row.

Is there that smell?

Yes. It's worse in some places. They think it comes from decomposing bodies.

That sounds sad. Are you sure you don't want to come home?

I love rowing. I'm hard.

We miss you. Don't drown, and phone.

I phoned, didn't I?

Make sure you phone more often.

Pay phones are hard to find. I hate how people stare at me.

Maybe if you didn't look like a bum. A no good bum.

I have to go.

Ever stalwart.

Prosticuts

2011-01-18T19:01:00.002-06:00

I have a lot of hair. Poor hairdressers who have to cut it. They always ask if I use conditioner and if I brush or comb it. The answer is always in the affirmative. I don't think they believe me. One lady said my hair was like hay, I think I'd like it if a horse ate my hair, but that's a different post altogether. My hair has the tendency to dread. If there ever was a mop head it is me. I worked as a mop a couple of summers ago, but the guy operating me said toilet dunking was the only way it would work. I can only stand so much toilet dunks.

Hairdressers or stylists or cutters or follicle designers are just like prostitutes. I have my hair washed. She might as well jack me off. The pleasure then continues as she touches my hair. Sometimes I think I need a girlfriend, but then decide not to bother and visit the hair cutter instead. I always make sure to bring cash, and tell them to keep the change. It's not for nothing I eat my oatmeal with the cod liver oil - a proven hair growth stimulant.

Cold Clay Breasts and Mini Donuts

2011-01-16T11:04:00.002-06:00

Red

2011-01-15T09:26:00.003-06:00

For Sale