Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Marvel 828 Universe. "Machelaise 828"

I was reading the Uncanny Sentinels the other day.  The one where Trask found his son in space.

It was good.  Hear there's gonna be a movie.  Perfect first movie fodder is where they take out the Brotherhood Of The X-Men.  Especially that Weapon X.

Good action and some humor.  A clean, clear read for a comic book fan.

Missoulaise, machelaise.

M'soul.  In this hole.  Pit of awesomeness.

Now everyone start to sing.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

there but for the grace of God: Mayor Ozymandias and a dull pride.

rash of gun violence. take away the guns, and they will kill with kitchen knives. there is a lot of ways to die, I wot.

One daddy shy a family reunion, I observe. Take an old coffee cup from the floor of the car and put that beside Mum to keep her company. A little coffee might even keep her warm on those cold nights, might keep the bats out the belfry, help her stay together.

I've been called all kind of things, even a daddy, though I have no children. I am an uncle, with a sort of dull pride in the progeny.

While the real Chicago kills itself, NBC has a full fantasy Chicago line-up, as if in denial. The new Chicago fire is this epidemic of murder. And too hear they want to cut down the police presence. Liberal thinking. Contradictory, given to emotion. Rahm Rhambo Deadfish. Mayor Ozymandias in city central.

The culture is killing them. Better kill the culture first.

Sprechsnast du Tiawi: Headlines Edition

Heard that Obama is writing a new book?

Alabama's first win in the SEC. SCC. NXT. KFC.

They never talk about a female Bigfoot, like Bigfoot is just some one-off male freak, like maybe he was born from a human woman and the skedaddled for the open country. The hills, baby. Run to the hills. Where you can be free and not have to wear any underwear.

Serena Williams pregnant.

Bigfoot, where do you roam?

James and the Giant Onion by Roald Dahl. That sumbitch gets rolling, you better step aside or get turned into cole slaw.

There will be Obama's book, and O'Reilly will have one ghostwritten unless his publisher drops him. Maybe a Hillary book. Coal Miner's Daughter. Does your daddy stink of a lamb?

Natalie is plopping out a whole litter. Gonna put her on the slab for a post-race teardown, I tell you what. Check her piston clearances.

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

The Dog and Bull Episode.

A dog and bull show.

Not a lot of jawing about their personal problems. Like with some of those other boys. "Let me deconstruct for you, the character of my opponent." But not with the dog and bull. They don't need such justification, standing before 40 thousand, but still just trying to convince himself. Politicking, as it were.

Flipping the script with shows of brute force.

Don't get me started about those girls. Cheerleaders of two kinds of character, either a superfriend or a super ego.

He caught me in bed with his wife; now he wants to take my life!

That honky want to be like me. Think he bad and got no class. Sounds close enough for horseshoes.

Friday, April 14, 2017

bled down like some spongy brakes, the trophy husband.

Village of the Damned and the Stepford Wives both waiting at the dinner table. Accusing eyes. They don't even have to say anything. Those black porcelain eyes say it all, reflecting my own dumb stare from just in the corner, putting the onus back on me, where it had always been before. Its the dumb stare I've seen before when brushing or shaving, like I'm apologizing to anything in front of me, apologizing for taking up air and having a place in this world.

It's not so much different than pulling up a rock and trying to get forty winks in a den of angry vipers. And me, now, thirsty for sleep, talking to a dog again. Not that they do me any harm, past the death of a thousand cuts, or even acknowledge me at all for that matter. I'm bled down now to a dragging pace. Such as it is.

My own issues confront me, tossed back at me, as if the cleaning lady washed my own dirty breakfast dish, then tossed a bucket of the grey waters back on me, as if to say, that is no better or worse than I deserve, but the most just of all balances, and then if things were to balance, maybe I'd be yet worse off, without a name even, not even allowed to lay eyes on the cold conjugal bed, much less lay in it next to her and dream. My mind wanders and my fingers lay on the cusps of my pocket seems, and that much is enough for her and must then be enough for me, even if I start screaming from all those dinner table pleasantries and then her cold, bitter breathing at night, with her little fluttering bird heart, and me holding the cage door shut and breathing heavily like some randy old grandfather goat who runs uphill for his kicks.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

One man shaking some sh*t up.

I find my experience has been, in a word: unique.

On the way to Cariwinds, Uncle Toodles broke wind in the car and we all had to stop. Made two of the boys sick. Uncle Toodles must have ate rotten eggs or pickled cabbage something.

If I find that Hanna and that Sancho that she found, I'm gonna put a cap in Sancho and slap her down.

He's looking for Hanna and growing desperate. Is she out in the rain? His heart is breaking and driving hard with a Big Gulp and a candy bar on the seat on beside him. He's driven and driving.

Would he think to check Cariwinds?

He'll get in close and shake the walls all the way down to the foundation to make her scurry out like a terrified mouse. Anything to find her. Sacrifice the world for the good of one.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

The cusp of the wave nouveau: Bnean Post-Realism

(the following commentary is intended for purposes related to entertainment.  be not confused and jump off a bridge or some other such silliness.  this blog is tied to a real person with some very fake ideas and is not intended to help you make your itinerary or any other such real world activity.  As the prophet warned King Ahab, plan not, lest ye own.)

On Spinach Green:

Bn the cultural prophet walked softly in his Geisha sandals.

A movement was afoot, one could say.  Sometimes a movement is flushed away as detritus, such waste, to never be seen again, but Bn had grand ambition and vision.

A house of visions vaster than a planetarium and at once just a cinderblock-walled crackhouse.

His art was his love and his love was hidden away from this cruel world.  What makes you shake a foot in the night?  Random speeding thought did this selfsame thing for Bn the cultural prophet.

His art was a yoked oxen of the field, burdening to plant and nourish crops.  Now and then in his plowing, he dropped a steaming deuce behind him.