Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Remembered: Seth, Roman and Dean, emerging like peanut vendors from the cheap seats....

They emerged from the cheap seats, an unknown threat.  I wondered as they brought a beat down, but then I began to think seriously.  Though they dressed in tactical gear, I thought of them in a sense as fanboys coming from the cheap seats, dispensing their own justice, even at once standing behind the revered CM Punk, but for a price.

Love some postmodern commentary, and before they were booked in matches the Shield was just that, fanboys eating the industry, like the real fanboys complaining about shows on social media.  Despite their costumes, of course.

Seth Rollins, Roman Raines and Dean Ambrose were a known commodity to management, slotted in immediately to title shots and main events, there entrance and subsequent quick ascension an anomaly in sports entertainment.

Then there is Bray Wyatt.

Bray acclimated and even helped to introduce others in his clique, but I tell you, if I crapped my pants and walked a distance, the feces would acclimate to my butt, legs and clothing, just as Bray interjected his presence into the WWE.  That's a conjecture, not a criticism.

Through the beatdowns, given conveniently, for storyline in sports entertainment is a matter ultimately of convenience, with that good hedonistic calculus, the Shield acclimated themselves to touring and got to know the competition, and the competition came to know them, as well.

And seamlessly at the dissolution of the group, the grew character traits, like the gourd vine over the head of Jonah as he stared at Nineveh in anticipation.

Monday, January 11, 2016

"horndog" = "sexual polyglot"

"Use me up."  -Bill Withers

"Polly wants a cracker.  Maybe I should untie her first."  -Kurt Cobain

This is equivocation made, when you are lying on your back, two women mouthloving on your nether regions and a flaccid penis in your mouth.  You don't even have that dignity, that you would be proficient in the unnatural act of homoerotica, fellatio and the dude obviously needs pills because neither you nor the two women can do the job for him.  You start to wonder if he is maybe some kind of weirdo.  You wonder.  You really do.

The melancholy.

The dull feeling of biological sadness, as the body loses a small percentage of its mass: a gleat, and the feeling of subsequent emptiness is almost too much to bear.  Maybe if you saw their insides you would feel better, you think, if you just gored all three of them for being losers, losers because they were with you, and that makes them the worst of the losers, unwanted and uncalled for anywhere else by worthy folk, just bored people, biding time and you dread your pubic hair growing back, that it will itch something fierce soon, that this is not the big fun you wanted: it's more of a chore, and that dude is in your grill with his perma-soft junk.

I am the Abber.

I'm always looking out for those situations that might waste your time, might spoil your day, and I'm out to warn you, so that you have the rocking-est best life you can, like having that model and Jagger and Bowie in the bed.  Now that is an epic urban legend, brought to mind by recent events.  His was an open mind, and I will, upon this mentioning, praise him without in turn emulating him.

So now you see that I say a horndog is a sexual polyglot, a dirty minded birdie, a mind that is continually dominated by sex, even when placed in normal situations, in which, despite various calculations, projections, and creative notions burgeoning in the grey matter, sex is never far from the surface.

I'm not talking about me.  I'm talking about some guy I know.