Oh Christ, here come the symbols…

3 06 2008

Now that Hillary Clinton is more or less a dead duck, we’re left with Senators Obama and McCain duking it out for the top spot. This is where the symbols come in. Now, I’m not trying to sound like some nutjob TV psychic. What I mean is that the Obama/McCain clash is symbolic of the classic Black Man’s Struggle in America. Because of this, and because he’s sort of black, look for Barack Obama’s camp to play up the underdog aspect. God knows America loves an underdog.

Sadly, I don’t see it working for Obama this go-round. He’s too polished, too professional, to be able to play off a decent woe-is-me card and not look like a total buffoon. No one will feel sorry for him, but then again, no will care either way. In a gang rape, the victim doesn’t prefer one dick to another.

I’m no politico, but I’d say wait for a big bomb to come from Obama’s people some time this Summer. Something involving McCain and his stance on religion, perhaps. It would be a boon to Obama’s Presidential hopes if he could somehow play the two-sided preacher fiasco as a natural consequence of politics. Then, he could come out in favor of a milder, more politically astute preacher, and seem like the Righteous Brother the people will surely vote for. He does this, but manages to make McCain’s same rejection of supportive religious figures look like ingratitude. After all, Reverend Wright was a lunatic anyone would be glad to get away from; Hagee and Parsley are just your average White Southr’n Preachuhs.

At any rate, there isn’t any good choice for us this year. Obama’s a professional politician, and McCain’s an old asshole. In a country full of them, the assholes will always reign supreme.  


Goddamned right I didn’t run you over!

21 05 2008

I’m drunk. Perhaps I should make that clear before we go any further: I am drunk, and don’t quite know how to contain myself at the moment. As to whatever else might be wrong with me, well, it gives me a certain kind of peace to know that–whatever else actually happens to me, personally–you readers don’t really know fact from fiction as this point. I could have swallowed seven forty-mil oxycontin after an eight-ball of some 98% Bolivian Superblow and a solid liter of Jose Cuervo, and none of you would know the difference unless I told you so.

What does that feel like, I wonder? What if I am sinking into one of the best China White jabs of my life, and not just swaying slightly in my dumpster-chair, the victim of too much tequila and something called an Irish Car Bomb. And another something–this time incredibly sweet, even cloying–called a… fuck. Water Moccasin? Whatever the facts, the point is that I’m pretty fucking drunk. 

I’m looking up at the title of this entry and freaking out, right now. I have no clue as to what the fuck it’s supposed to mean. Who did I run over recently? Did I run anyone over tonight? No, impossible. I walked to the bar–a wise choice, if you ever have the option–and managed to make it to someone’s house before the brunt of the liquor even hit me. And then… Well.

Anyway, I can’t help but relate to you the event of my emailing a fairly vicious letter to the editor of the San Marcos Daily Record. Now, I wasn’t doing anything immature–like counting off spelling/grammar errors like I did in 3rd grade–I just sent them a strangely poignant letter-essay about my job at Essay Writers and the work we perform there. It wasn’t a pleasant letter, by any means. I wrote it, so it could only conceivably involve forced sodomy and Mind of Mencia marathons.

Actually, it involves the probability that a good portion of the students here in San Marcos have actually bought their essays from sites like mine. It’s kind of addressed to the parents of such individuals, but not in a joking or ragging way. It actually does a decent job of paint the world of professional essay writing as a grim, grimy place inhabited by drug-runners and pimps. Which, for better of worse, is total bullshit. I’m pretty proud of it, actually, which sets it apart from pretty much everything I’ve ever written (except for a couple of poems), and really sets a high bar for something that is actually not that spectacular. Fuck it–I like it. Piss on you whores. 

Okay. So, hopefully that letter doesn’t actually get published (yes, I was actually sober when I wrote the fucking thing), and if it does… God save us all. 

And the eighth rule…

18 05 2008


I just finished reading Fight Club about twenty minutes ago.

Contrary to what I’ve been told, it’s noticeably different from the movie, in that it contains more of that Palahniuk philosophy that rings so fresh and yet so flat on the ear. That notion seems to be that we can never truly be a part of the great landslide of human existence unless we give up and allow ourselves to be reabsorbed into that which has already shat us out…that murderers want to be caught, because the detectives on the case are their saviors, and so on.

Okay, well… Bullshit. I’m not buying it. By definition, a landslide is an event which drags whatever is in the way along with it. In much the same manner, humankind is an unavoidable catastrophe bearing down on every single one of us from points above. The only way to avoid a total landslide is to be above it, on higher ground. The problem is, each generation is born further down the hill, deeper into the flood plain. Each generation is more fucked than the last. All told, there is no discernible difference between the dead on the bottom of the pile and those nearer the top, except that crows and coyotes can’t dig very far.

From the movie, one might assume that Chuck Palahniuk is out to destroy society, which has been marked irredeemable by those at the head of the landslide.

Ayn Rand was probably closer than Palahniuk on that end.

He seems to believe that we can only truly excel once the old ways have been torn down, and the new guard is allowed a truly fresh start. A sort of slash-and-burn sociological experiment. That’s all well and good on paper, but my question is: how can we ever expect to start fresh? You can tear down an old barn, but there’s still a big pile of shit left over, not to mention the foundation. Do we dig that up and destroy it, too? Do we waste our formative, fast-burning years on cleaning up after people long-dead and utterly blameless?

Fuck that noise. The only valid philosophy for this day and age is the Jackrabbit Principle: stay as far ahead of the brush fire as possible, and when it’s too late to run, lay low and eat the young.

Fine, I’ll give the baby back.

22 04 2008

Sorry I haven’t been updating like I should. You guys are like family to me, seriously. Well, if you discount the fact that I never (well, rarely) discuss anal sex with my family, then we’re practically cousins. As it happens, I’ve been neglecting you for a good cause: this guy’s blog archives have kept me from your grabby, suffocating, loving arms for the noble cause of selfish entertainment.

And now for a witty segue!

*whispers offstage*

Oh, okay. Ahem. And now to completely change subjects without so much as a second’s warning!

There’s nothing more apt to make me sick with glee/sickness than the thought of stolen babies. I can’t remember what made me think of this–maybe I read something about it earlier?–but I just wanted to go on record as saying that I do not support the theft of infants for personal gain. If by some strange set of circumstances someone should steal a baby in the name of charity and humanity, well, I could get behind that, I guess. Just so long as there’s no money changing hands, I’m peachy keen.

Speaking of stealing babies, I’m still looking for a job in the town to which I’m about to move in little more than a month. Holy fuck, is that right? A little more than one month? Christ Almighty, I’m beginning to panic. Or rather, I should be. At the moment, I couldn’t give a shit if I stole someone else’s shit and was simply looking to make a quick buck.

Too many nights where I only get two or three hours of sleep, followed by nine straight hours of work with barely a breather, have turned me into something resembling a zombie. Well, a zombie who doesn’t eat brains and is vehemently against the theft of infants for personal gain. Just so that’s clear. Some zombies have no social mores.

I’m not one of those.

Goodnight everyone.

I hope you go blind. Seriously.

18 04 2008

There is a time and place for everything, guys. The Byrds said it much more prettily than that, but the concept is the same: there are appropriate venues for specific actions. Tennis should be played on a tennis court. Crack should be sold in the ‘hood. Anal sex should always be performed–always–in the butt. When one or the other of a proper couple is altered, the universe becomes imbalanced, and has to right itself by giving us television shows like Lost, and by inventing ass cancer.

Having said that, I swear I caught a minion jerking off in the bathroom today.

I won’t go into too many details, because we all know what jerking off is about: not so much the “jerking” as the “off”. Suffice to say that I went searching for one of my wayward minions today, a kid who conveniently wanders off whenever there’s work to be done. After about twenty minutes, I ended up quitting the search on the reasonable, mature, wholly defensible grounds that I had to take a massive dump. By “wholly defensible” I mean that no one in their right mind would ever require me to prove my assertion that I had, in fact, taken a massive dump. However, I digress.

Upon entering the shop bathroom–one toilet stall, one sink, one urinal–I noticed a pair of (safety-write-up-worthy) Nike basketball shoes swinging around haphazardly beneath the door of the toilet stall. The toes were pointed straight out, like someone stretching early in the morning, which is completely understandable; the only problem was, it was almost lunch time.

I didn’t stick around and watch the show, because I would like to achieve at least one more guilt-free erection before I die, and there’s no way I could ever a) get it completely up, and b) have sex with The Girlfriend without the image of a self-abusing minion popping into my head.

Obviously, I didn’t want to call his name or knock. I’m usually pretty polite about things like that–when and if they come up (accidental punnage, sorry)–but remember, I had to unload a book-of-the-month-caliber steamer posthaste, and this little jerk-off (sorry again) was wasting valuable clean pants time. So, before I left the bathroom, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of…

After a stern talking-to from my supervisor’s supervisor, I was compelled to apologize to the man I had terribly embarassed by my insensitivity and lack of couth.

“Sorry, Garrett,” I said sheepishly.

“That’s okay, Kenneth,” Garrett cheerfully replied around a massive lump of chaw in his lip. “I know you weren’t trying to pull nothin’ over on me.”

“Yeah, but you know how it is…”

“Hell,” he retorted gleefully. “If it had been me, I’d have sent Barbara in there after ‘im!”

Yes, Dear Reader, you understood that correctly: “Garrett” is not my minion, but a regular employee who has been with my company for thirty years. He is also a Vietnam veteran, gun enthusiast, and a devout lover of snakes. That last attribute came in handy when I told him that there was a big-ass snake in the men’s room, but I couldn’t figure out whether it was a king snake or a moccassin.

It took maybe ten seconds for the entire event to transpire, but it was worth it, if while viewing only from the sidelines. Garrett had burst into the bathroom with a broom and small wastebasket in hand, and a full-face welding mask on with the tinted lens pulled up. He looked, in short, fucking scary.

Garrett assured me that the scream from the bathroom most likely came from the minion, who may or may not have been actually jacking off. Garrett wasn’t sure, since he was looking at the ground for the snake. The minion was so embarassed, I assume, that he took the rest of the afternoon off, leaving without even getting his paycheck.

All in all, I’d say it was a good ten seconds spent wisely.

So, I found this old essay about dog crap

5 03 2008


Say whatever you will about dogs- they’re cute and dumb and a joy to own. My ass, dear reader. These beasts are not the best friends of any man. They are conniving, calculating monsters who do whatever they can with whatever they have to completely ruin your day.

Specifically, I’m speaking of my own dogs. Gigantic, slack-jawed retards who eat more than they weigh and have absolutely no shame in their hearts. Mastiffs are supposedly a noble breed meant for protection and the loving adoration they bestow upon their owners. I say they are devious creatures who love a good laugh every now and then.

To illustrate, allow me to relay a tale of intrigue and suspicion.

One day, as I was walking up the path to the driveway, I noticed our largest dog, Deacon, behaving rather strangely. He was slinking around in the tall prairie grass in that manner of an animal who has done something very wrong and fears the consequence. I looked briefly around and, seeing no obvious damage or, you know,  dead cat, I continued on my way.

It was nearly dark, the dusk waning as night overtook it, and I reached my old Buick just as the sun went fully beyond the horizon. I opened the driver’s side door, and leaned across the seat to reach my c.d. case lying in the opposite floorboard. I remember slightly kicking the velour interior of the door to prevent it from slamming on my exposed ankle.

That was when I first noticed the smell. That horrid, meaty stench that can only mean one thing permeated the inside of my car and I gagged against the soft armrest. Dog shit. A fair amount of it, judging by the strength of the odor. My head jerked upward and I glanced around in a maniac fit, trying to locate the source.

There, on the plush velveteen lining of my old junky car, was a reddish-brown stamp in the exact pattern of my boot-soles. Son of a bitch. Cursing the gods, the dogs, and any other entities whose names are anagrammatically interchangeable, I shoved my furious form back out of the car. And right back into the same monstrous pile of steaming excreta. God damn it!

Using an old t-shirt to brush away the foul goo from my door, I stomped my heavy boot against the gravel in a vain attempt to rid my feet of the abomination. The smell was overwhelming, like hamburger and bacon left to ripen in the rainforest.

Satisfied that my work had accomplished all that could be hoped for, I turned to make my way back home. That was when I noticed it. There, black against the moonlight like the eyes of a golem, were enormous ice-cream dispenser curlicues of fresh dog shit all tactfully hidden in the low grass beside our walk-way. Deacon. The little bastard.

I finally managed to make it home, but not without one more incident to put the icing on an awful cake. As I climbed the steps up to the house, the crap I’d assumed was wiped away from my boot heel lubricated the stairs just enough to send me sideways off the porch and into–yep, you guessed it–another pile of dog shit.

How does one counter-act such a blatant attack on their well-being? Do I beat the dog to within an inch of its life?

Do I drag the gargantuan monster from pile to pile and rub his nose in each?

Or, do I personally go and crap wherever I know he makes himself comfortable during the day?

That seems like the ticket. Just go and lay a fat log everywhere Deacon is sure to walk, eat, drink, or sleep. That’ll show him. Asshole.

I’m (probably) with stupid.

4 03 2008


I came across one of the best summations of how I feel about human intelligence just a moment ago, on the forum of a site dedicated mainly to penis jokes. The author, Peter Lynn, is one of my favorite writers on the internet, and I tend to respect his opinion on things. On top of that, he’s a fucking grammar guru.

Knowing your IQ is probably the least beneficial thing a person can know about themselves, intellectually. I know mine, and wish I didn’t, because it can kind of make me act like an asshole at times. I get to thinking, “Well, what do they know? I have a —IQ, and I’m smarter!”

The funny part is that most of the time, I’m flat wrong. I’ve been consistently proven to be wrong in a variety of situations by people I–privately–consider to be my intellectual inferiors. Does that make them “smarter” than me? Hell no. But knowing my own IQ probably makes me lazier and less likely to make sure I know what I’m talking about, instead of just mouthing off like a dick, as is my normal custom.

I was tested by my psychiatrist for various reasons, probably just to ascertain if I was mentally capable of fucking with her, or not, and for whatever reason she told me my results. I’ve never been quite the same, since.

Anyway, here’s the quote:

“Yes, you should have known better. There are two good reasons not to mention your IQ in public. First, it is extremely gauche. And second, if you put a number on yourself, people will always be able to come along and one-up you with a higher number, some of whom may not be lying.
I was tested many times in childhood. Never once was I given the results, for the above reasons. This was my mother’s decision, and she was right. I don’t know what my IQ is, and I don’t want to know. For one thing, I have a general idea of where I fit in the scheme of things, and that’s good enough. And for another, why would I want to know the uppermost limit of my potential?”