Tuesday, March 20, 2018

random element, meet critical situation.

The stars in his crown!  Bush 43, we cower beneath his mighty legs!

DBryan, King Heinz!  Alas!  Anon!  The Valkyries!  He comes.  #SDLive

Get On Ahead With It.  (acronym: GOAT)

when you're in the desert,
you can remember your name,
because there ain't no one
for to give you no pain.

Honeybabe, let the deal go down.  You with them stank draws.  Pudding pop dipped in oyster sauce.  The baby cries in the other room.  Put your hand over mum's mouth.  By the time you two get finished with your splendors, you go to the other room, to find a big gray rat has eaten-off one of the baby's toes.

Maybe he'll starfish that digit right back on.  Little shaver.

Stale whiff of cowardice, off that, a sneeze, blowing phlegm across the room.

But hey, its springtime.  "Life springs eternal."  And life is persistent, order returns and the universe spins along like a great clock, and we are not even cogs, we are but specks of dust on some of the small, finer, less important gearing in the works.

All Legendary Fighters Return!

Friday, March 9, 2018

NSA Drawer 85: Delta Virgo.

I know a place.  Agua Caliente.

They dont like anybody in Agua Caliente.

Let me relate to you a little parable.

I once theorized there was a file on me somewhere, and a lot of the information was wrong, almost as if my worst enemy had written all the paperwork.

It ain't a file.  It's a drawer, babies.  A whole damn drawer.  See, I started a sort of obfuscation thing at one time, where all of my output was like random noise, generated to feed a glaring, innervated beast that lacked not only consciousness as we know it, but furthermore, had no soul of it's own.  A sort of giant symbiote.  But that's done.  No more obfuscation.

See also the fable of the Emperor's New Cloths.

I also worked on another theory, that somehow someone traveled time, or sent something backwards in time, so there was a whole future projection of the old Canucklehead sitting somewhere on some think tank desk.

Just a theory.  With proof, it's a fact.  Without proof, with only some simple observations from everyday life, this is mere theory, speculation.

Anywho.  Here is u mikl.  Mentally buck nekkid.

I knew that gringo was a bounty keeler from the minute he arrived.  He's not only smart, but he can shoot, too.

Its also called Drawer 85 because of an I.Q. test score.  85.  Someone who has a desk job, thinking out the tough problems.  In reality, sitting on the border of some line of demarcation between a functional person, and someone getting an SSI check because he's too dumb to work.

While I'm on the subject, let's talk of a comic book character called Spiral, a woman with the ability to go only backwards in time.  Sounds like she could be dangerous, but she's been woefully misused.  There was another character with this power from the XSE universe that was in Bishop's first arc.

Dancing backwards through time, reliving failure after failure, over and over again.  Six arms.  Swords.  Crazy helmet.  And she's a woman.

I walk through the streets, cause she knows who I am.  She sees my good deeds, and kisses me windy.

These and other old musings.  Two facts: One: I don't like to be predicted.  I don't like to be defined.  Which leads to the truth of the second fact: Most of my actions are random, dictated by emotion and whims, rather than a logical plan.  However lately I have been pre-planning a lot of stuff, and acting more "responsible"-like.

Angie, I hate that sadness in your eyes!

Almost like the reliving of a senior prom that I didn't attend the first time around.  2009.  I was listening to Angie by the Rolling Stones on WCRE.  Having old names pop up.  The past was coming alive, and I was clamming-up.  Angie was like a headshot to me because I thought of a certain special lady from high school everytime I heard that song.  Also, there was an Angie Youtube video that had the burning twin towers in the background.  Shit was poignant, man.  Anywho, I clammed-up at that point, deciding I needed to get out of that poisonous atmosphere(Rockingham, NC.  Walmart Supercenter 1010).  I kept my mouth shut, unplugged my pc from the net, but not before deleting my beloved blog, the old classic Futnuckery(that actually explained what the word Futnuckery means in one posting).  Two months after I bought my first truck with my income tax refund, I quit that job without a cry or a whimper, resolving to live the same, as a prisoner, until the end of my days.

Things change, bitches, and sometimes you get caught in the middle.

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

Taken To The Mat By The Cardiologist Behind His Serial Killer Eyes.

Sports entertainment was popular in attic writing at one time.  The tradition, toga open, man boobs that look like pre-pubescent girls baby fat enriched little lump titties.  All the codgers talked were abstract concepts and teenage boys.

Open to anything.

The monkey encircles the horse, attempting to outwit the wiser, more-measured creature, and only armed with his wiles.  Monkey, handful of dirt poised, horse, eyes-wide.

You don't exactly look like "neighbors", yourself, Mister Ben.

Red Dick cooked eighteen pieces of chicken and a pan-full of pre-made biscuits from the freezer section.  He ate a biscuit, fed the dog the rest and settled down on the front patio with a cold adult beverage and a western paperback.  Slade by Louis Lamour.  Once the condensation collected on his beer can, it became slippery, and fell as he was taking a sip, deforming against the hard patio.

I prayed he would finish, but he kept right on strumming my pane with his fingers, singing my life with his words.....

Its becoming more difficult, old mother, to tell what is the real world and what is my delusive fantasies.  It's almost a moot point, for each have a history that is demarcated by the present, a book of continuance.  I had them all in my mind.  Every one.  Each with his own passivities and desires and daydreams and guiles.

These days it don't pass for no spaghetti in a can.

Modern man laments as the steam rises off the blacktop, and the orange security lights engulf him in a sickly cast.  He smells tire rubber, ozone, his own shampoo stink, the sharpness of the perfuming.  His triple-mother girlfriend who wears pajamas to town and constantly has the walking farts.  And a lop-sided caterpillar tattoo, drawn for 40 dollars, colored-in for another 25-spot.

Saturday, March 3, 2018

The new marketing push at Bint Global: The Perfumed Hillsinger, Mikayla Eco.

Fibner and Locust will get right on the paperwork, sir.

Right away, lads.

But its not about lads.  And now that I can't find Lucky's blog anymore, the one where she was screaming and talking about cheese, I've got to find yet more FEMALE muses.

The perfumed hillsinger sings the songs of the local women as he camps in the hills.  The guitar doesn't carry far, but his voice echoes for miles distant.

So I'm going to echo a female internet person.  I'm looking for good candidates. Must post at least twice a month.  So far, I've looked at several woman bloggers and a female evangelist.  The evangelist seems a good one, with the exception of little mundane details from her daily life, which is what I need to make things work.

Remember Anders on Battlestar Galactica?  He was in a quasi-comatose state, blurting gibberish, but that gibberish actually ran the ship's various systems.  It made sense in a way.  Don't get too specific with it.

The hillsinger product will be sold at Bed, Bath and Beyond and also Further Along The Highway locations.  If we do this right, we could have the next fidget spinner, or Rubik's cube or Tickle-Me Jonathan.

I am going to take it upon myself to use my dull life and all its paraphenalia and little choices to magnify several women personalities.  This is not empty symbolism, but very meaningful symbolism, as I will be shaping my life from her very words.

A female muse.  But not Hillary Clinton.  Don't like her.  The sources I've looked at are largely non-political and actually are foreigners.  One is based in the UK and looks very promising for my purposes.  She has a boyfriend, which leaves me in the lurch, having to either begin a romantic conquest with a stray neighborhood cat or change the way I interact with the short girl at McDonalds in Cheraw.

I'm leaning towards the McConversation instead of the beastiality.  She will be my significant other, and when my muse mentions her boyfriend, I'll take all of that material and apply it to the short girl at McDonalds.

Sounds like a challenge, but it may yet put my life into overdrive and give me more motivation.  It will dictate my clothing, possibly my bathing, trends in my eating and other such nonsense.

And her words will no doubt affect what I write here, though you will still get the unfiltered MIKL.  Gonna be fun, my little dookies.  Fun like stealing and rape, fun, not fun like a picnic at all, even though there is an obvious picnic and social club aspect that cannot be overlooked.

This will not be like what I did to Jenna Lee, under the prior employ of Fox News Channel.  I was a bit snotty some times, because she had a rotten attitude.  Understand I formed this opinion years ago, before I began that particular blogging effort, so maybe my old wounds made me act more like a sparring partner than a friend or comrade.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Are you naked?

It's not a bad question, Bert.

Post-modernism depends upon multiple points of reference, or audience/viewer/reader cognition.  You can triangulate a lap dance song, with a woman disc jockey and a sadist, in front of a room full of drunks.  This could approach art, the state of the sublime in its humility, without the artist himself realizing it, or to kiss a toe, hanging from a devotchka's foot, dangling from a car window, and it sends a thrill up through her reclining body.

That movie was based on a true story.  Back in 68 at the Pittsburgh V.A.

So the artist himself may not yet be aware of how his craft is trudging along in the ether.  So to be said, Da Vinci was paid a nice sum to paint a local woman, which he did gladly, muting the entire piece, and hundreds of years later, people stare at that depiction wondering what of that little smile that is not so much a smile, or those straight lips, perfectly at rest.

Quizzical then, in the thinkmeats of the artist, is the very meaning he struggles to catch hold of.  If he underlined it, then it would turn into so much vapor and disappear.  You make a subtle hint, the Jamesian "brushing of the felicities", that so much of the appeal is to listen to the last of the sizzle of the ribeye as it approaches your table.

a chemical the army used to spray on marijuana.

Stuntman Mike says she is "chicken shit" if she doesn't give him a lap dance.  Agamemnon lay dead, his city destroyed.  The climb to Parnasus slowly depriving the brain of oxygen, the world going faded blue and white, looking like a dream, and the tingling from the extremities.

That thing was alive?(looking into the top of the containment drum)

So they say.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

what wonders look down upon our works from mens' stars?

Don't walk away.  I jess axed you a question.  Do you not feel a pressing need to respond to my query?

Need I resort to violence?

I wonder, quite often, not about resorting to violence, but about untold things the lie under the stars.

I mean, we know of the Great Old Ones that came from the stars and forced men to worship them in days of old, forcing small armies of men to toil away at building pyramids and ziggurats, some of which are in the Antarctic ice, or under the ocean floor these days.

I saw of a picture of Audrey Hepburn holding her pet deer, henceforth known as Pippen, in a magazine.  The causes of masturbation are known to be scattered all over the media.

Come here, Pippen.

Poor Old Ones!  Dethroned by a mentally evolving mankind!  Cast aside, for the impotent monsters that they are!

Thursday, February 1, 2018

Sister Abignale and them Lake Nero-Begone days.

Skip to the sweet chock-let:
my sweetheart Sandy:
Got my penny saved,
so I'm her Sugar Daddy.
I'm her Hume Cronyn;
she's my Jessica Tandy:
I want candy.
-Schooly D.

What holds a man together, while at the same time pulling him apart?  Will I ever lose these next four pounds of flab?  What is more epic than seeing the Devourer of Worlds and the Woken/Broken laughing into each other's faces?

Nothing, I wot.

Christmas repeat.

Newborn eyes cry with pain when they first look into the morning sun.

Sandlewood pistol-grip shifter, for the steering column of the Mercury?

If you want disc brakes on the rear of the F-100, you gotta change the whole axle to a newer one.  Don't need the top-end gear, thank you.  I want power off the launch, off the line.  I'll enjoy it up until about 70 mph where it becomes a bit anemic.

I mused the other day, sitting at my dish of round steak and rice/vermicelli medley, that I had been eating the combination, without complaint since my teenage years.  That's a novelty.  The round steak this time, was cut into strips, seasoned and sauted, where in the day, I had the round seared, rather simply, in the pan at medium heat.  I've upgraded from Ms Dash Salt Substitute to Kikkoman Soy Sauce, which is both salty and maddeningly sweet.

My favorite.

These things I relate to you, not to put myself over, but to share the experience, for your edification.  Now I'm sounding like Confuseus all of a sudden, but without the imperious snobbery of his blue blood.

Go Eco-Boost on the Ford Motorsport crate engine, adding a turbocharger for each row of cylinders.  Anything to push past 350 horsepower.  Then go looking for losers who put a K&N air filter on their "buy here-pay here" Camaros and Challengers.