Thursday, May 25, 2017

Mil Lesions feuds with The Atomic Sex Offender.

At highschool gymnasiums up the seaboard, they met in heated combat.  Even at several television studios.  You should have seem them, if you would know them without their masks, helping to assemble the ring in some rented room.

The secret of delivering a convincing punch?  Really do it.  Put some force on it.  It saved Mil Lesions the cost of a wisdom tooth procedure on one side of his jaw.  The Atomic Sex Offender always threw punches with his good, articulate side, onto the opposite side of Mil Lesions face.  Sure he was losing his teeth, but it built the match into a fervor and everyone liked the Powerslam From Hell at the end of the match, ready for the pay-off as it were.

The Atomic Sex Offender always got funny looks from security, and people were sneaking into the dressing room to see if they could get a look at his true-life face.  It was real unfair to him, because the sex offender thing was just a bad gimmick as far as anyone knew. 

Up approaching the Northeast, the Atomic Sex Offender drove his rental car off the road, down an embankment and into water.  As he was under the influence of alcohol, egress was not easy, and he drowned, only to be found the next day after being missed at the motel.  Local news told all about it and showed his real DMV photo, as if to embarass his family, but the story did not go far.  The dirt sheets picked it up and spread the word, which many of the fans eventually heard.  Hated that they got his DMV photo, because he wasn't really a sex offender, again it was just a bad gimmick; he had a family and everything, such as it was.

But man, he could throw a punch, could that Atomic Sex Offender.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

I'm a real boy!

I was walking through 1010 with the old Disney song from Pinnochio in my head.

Got no strings to hold me down.

But it wasn't true.  I was just telling myself that.  I was really hemmed-up like Gulliver in the old Johnathan Swift tale, tied-down tightly where I had not a move to make.

I play a little chess.  I like to have mobility.  I always play my opponent, reading his strategy first, then building off that.  I am like the water.  Unstable.  Take my queen; I keep coming.

When darkness turns to light...

An old love interest was the author of my torment, from my humble perspective.  There was so much hinted and hidden and whispered, but not a lot said outright.  "Don't tell him."  "Don't give it away."

Beset and pulled at.  And I ask of Pearson, what holds a man together while at the same time pulling him apart?  His dreams are like a fire that he has to keep contained, lest he destroy his life and forsake his future.  Living in a dream doesn't make it real.  It rather mortifies your life, ruining your effectiveness.

Then early one morning, I saw the manager's ass jangling and I started singing lets get it on, to myself, in the cool morning.  I started at "we are all.... sensitive people... with so MUCH to give."

I'm going to make a dream graveyard and call it a Japanese rock garden so no one knows what it really is.  How we give up on dreams, and it hurts.  It hurts.  George Hurst shot by one of Al Swearingen's whores, who marched it, gun drawn, shirt down, boobies exposed so no one would notice her face in detail, and plugged him but good.

But it wasn't a kill shot.  Just enough to hurt.  Like a dream dying.  A falling star.  A meteor making one hell of a light show through the atmosphere over the night time world, before smacking finally into the ground.

Monday, May 15, 2017

Little Beaver: this changes the paradigm.

Little Beaver was a forager.  He picked berries for the tribe.  His father had given him a bow and arrow for self-defense.  One arrow.  He practiced with it, shooting his one arrow into various items around the grasslands.

Little Beaver shot the soldier at the outpost.  He walked down the hill, surprising the hapless white man, and he shot the soldier in the shoulder.  The soldier died slowly, breathing out blood bubbles.

Little Beaver then is granted his turn with the white girl captives, and given strong drink of courage.  Now Little Beaver hunt the lands.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Pain Management Hostel(distraction is the people's opiate)

The pain management clinic was like a torture house.  Anything to distract from the real bugging pain.  Eli Roth would have loved the whole thing(not the bugging, but the precious torture).

-a blogger with an obvious conservative bias, in an article on stomach cancer, draws a link between a Fox News anchor and population growth.  This is irresponsible journalism!

Distraction is the people's opiate?

Friday, May 5, 2017

ikkemotubbe and his cold beverages.

Ikkemotubbe liked Sun Drop even before they put Earnhardt on the side of the bottle.  It competed with the other citrus-added soft drinks, but bared a particular resemblance to Mellow Yellow.  If you asked Ikkemotubbe, he would say, it even had a "bright" taste, like drinking sunshine, and if you took some at the end of the day, it was to get a good sugar boost after a hard days work, a sugar boost in a refreshing cool drink of Sun Drop.

He was on the Social Security, retired in other words, when he found a Sun Drop vending machine at an out-of-the-way hole.  It was between some old tires and junked lawn mowers at a shadetree mechanic's garage.

He and Screamingcloud departed early one humid morning to the garage.  Screamingcloud had not passed into manhood at this time, so he kind of stuck to Ikkemotubbe, like a pup following the lead dog.  In other words, his balls hadn't dropped.

They were trying to figure out how to get the vending machine, when the shadetree guy brought a dolly with one good wheel and one flat tire.  Screamingcloud was slinging junk this way and that, stopping after each piece to see if there was a snake lurking where that piece had been.

How would they get the prize home?

"Gotta be a better way."  So he gutted the big metal drink machine, removing all the internal mechanisms and such other of the gutty works, like crossmembers, springs, screws, retaining clips.  He put the gutty works on a truck then rolled the empty carcass of the machine down the road to his house.

You might asked why he didn't put all the stuff on the truck.  Don't.

Thursday, May 4, 2017

My ex: Bobblehead Stacy.

She was in her Nissan Murano.  Had the tunes going.  Old Society Hill Road.  On the way to Darlington.

Then boom.  She hit a dog.  A big damn dog.

Concerned, she stopped and clamored out of the vehicle.  Seeing the hurt animal, she started crying.  Tears still streaming, she tried to pull the wounded animal to the shoulder of the road, and the stupid dog bit her.

Long story short, she got an inflated estimate from a body shop to fix the damage on the Murano, because, again, it was a damn big damn dog.  She got a death threat on Facebook.  (animal lives are so dreadfully important to those people.)  Geico cut her a check minus the deductable, and she still walked away with a few hundred.  With the only problem being, the body shop wouldn't do the paintwork.  By this time, she had spent all her money at Ollie's and Dollar Tree, buying previously viewed DVD's and so forth.

So she got a title loan lien against the title for the Murano to take the thing to Maaco(and buy more previously-viewed DVD's and camoflauge baseball caps and such).  Then she had to decide about an Easter Break hairdo or taking the kid to get a tooth fixed.

I know.

Medicaid.

But we're talking a game of inches here.  It takes gas to go to the dental surgery in Florence, and that gas costs money, and then there is Arby's for the trip, and it adds up to a fair sum of money, which she could instead spend on a new hairdo.  Meanwhile, her mother spent a few days eating Pampa-brand canned peaches and Fancy Feast so she could afford to get her own hair done.

And still, income tax time was a whole year away again.

Tax time is white trash Christmas.

And she doesn't carry a regular woman's purse either, which is good because she rarely has money, but instead she has some kind of crazy canvas beach bag with a drawstring.  Dead cards, her driver's license, cell phone and at least one extra pack of Camels.  The sex?  She was hell on the good guys.  I always went away happy.  Ready enough to leave, but happy just the same.

Sometimes you just want to fall on your knees, lift your hands skyward and shout:  WHAT IS WE GONNA DO?

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

G.O.A.T. Meet the great goat.

Personal Philosophy:
GOAT.

G for get
O for on
A for after
T for that.

GET ON AFTER THAT

You let the dust settle, you've lost already.  You didn't win if you have to go home and analyze things to figure out whether you won or not.  If you have to think about, if there is an ounce of hesitation, then you're Bernie or Hillary or Jeb.

I had another brain fart today about the coarsening of the culture, and I tell you, our controllers are tormenting us.  They are looking for discord and disharmony, fostering and nurturing it like a wounded pigeon.

You are being lied to, and not by me.  I remember thinking somewhere there was a file on me, compiled by people that had been around me.  It was grossly exaggerated in every way, and everyone privy to that data was soundly misinformed.

I watched a man act like me, talk like me, even using some of my same words, but in the wrong context.  Which was surreal in a number of ways.  That man made an off-hand joke about 9/11.  Then I stopped being bemused by his mess, and I started wanted to do harm to that man.  But that's okay.  I've resolved since to let age or his own stupidity kill him.

By the by, I did not originate that phrase.  Sports commentator Steve Matchett says pretty much the same.  "Go on, go on, get after it!"  As a way of encouraging.  There is also sports entertainer Daniel Bryan, once called the Flying Goat, due to his long beard and high-flying wrestling maneuvers.

And now I've related this little parable to you.  #GOAT

Monday, May 1, 2017

the mixed nuts in the teacher's lounge.

yeah, I get to go in the teacher's lounge(because I'm having an affair with a teacher).

I go in there and sit down.  Reach over for a handful of nuts and start crunching.  There are, all lightly-salted, peanuts and almonds, even a few of the pistache.   Nothing too good for the teacher's lounge.

Those boys are like pharoahs walking around with their salaries while the others slave and watch their futures go down the drain.

M&M's with peanuts.  They're okay, too, but a bit on the cheap end.  I prefer the chocolate-covered coffee beens.  Now that's a good snack!

Ah, the benefits of the debauch.

Saturday, April 29, 2017

answers on a day of boredom

What holds a man together while at the same time pulling him apart? Like that skin on a pudding. Each a quandry for a day of boredom. I ask a dog this question. No answer. Only the panting breath, as if he were numbly excited in some way, as if to say "just listen at this fool. I can't wait to see wait absolute f*ckery he says next."

Do you love, you creature?

I have seen things.

Once, beset, I was a shadow, walking, apart from the world around me, and I had a hole inside me, shaped like that little Swedish girl; if asked I would have preferred her boiled instead of a pawn in a shameful arranged marriage, but we are each of us pawns to someone else, and I walk through my day in full substance now, casting a shadow but not living in one: I flap my arms and say my lines of dialogue like anyone else, then I go home and crap alone.

I answers the call, and I lays it down but good.

I'm that man.  I answer the call, and believe me, little gal, I does it.

You on the other hand.  Haven't shown me much.

Unless you've been living in a pit, you feel the prevailing winds.  Some are winds of change, while yet other winds are obstinate.  We bend and sway as if dancing, hoping our spines don't snap under the pressure.

When I wore a badge, I found there were two narratives in play.  There was the crap we told everyone on the floor, and along with the stuff we heard in return.  Then there was what we told each other, me and the other badgers.

Some who have taken off the badge find themselves uniquely qualified to work the other side of the street. -an observation, not a call to action.

I cannot be assuaged.  Or bargained with.  I bend only enough to survive the winds, and not enough to compromise my ideals.

You've been told.  Little gal.

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.

Thursday, April 6, 2017

Pure Horatio Alger for your fuzzie warbles.

James 1:9 (KJV) "Let the brother of low degree rejoice in that he is exalted"

(NIV) "The brother in humble circumstances ought to take pride in his high position"

James 1:16 "Do not err, my beloved brethren."

Sylvester Stallone in Rocky 4: "go for it."

Ricky Morris: "You don't have a hair on your ass."

Karl Malden: "You just fixed your wagon, vaquero!"

Eli Wallach: "He who double-crosses Tuco and lets him live understands nothing about Tuco."

Punkin': "Hey yall! Watch this!"

Megyn Kelly: "I'll show you the front and the back."

Malcolm Mcdowell: "Time is the fire that burns mens' souls."

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

lives of quiet desperation slowly pressing us into the bygone dirt

I was jawing with J.L. down at the self-serve station, trying not to spray fuel all over the rear quarter panel. You see, that J.L. is a cut-up. At once J.L. looked at me and said right serious, "did you trade a walk-on role in a war for a lead-role in a cage?"

He talks such mess all the time. You just have to laugh and go on about your business, while he spits chaw-juice into your dusty footprints. Grizzled old piece of somebody, that J.L. There are many great old ones walking around among us, often not tipping us off to their greatness. It is the psychological process of individuation, which is ongoing, with so many not attaining anything like perfection of the personality until old age.

And J.L. is one of those great old ones. It boggles the mind to think of the things those old boys have seen in their lives, and yet they come through all the better, without safe rooms or written rules of etiquette. Last of the Greatest Generation. Meanwhile, over here the pizza man knocks five minutes late and we're hiding in the panic room.

Bad show, pizza man. Try that at J.L.'s house and see what you get for your trouble. Or the time J.L. flew a crop-duster. He chased some poor old sharecropper under an old oak tree in the middle of a big old field. That's J.L. Anything for a lark. Surprised, perhaps none moreso than himself, that he survived his wild young days to become the well-adjusted, lovable old bird he is today.

God bless his eyes.

Monday, April 3, 2017

longing to put on my sandals....

blew out my flip-flop,
stepped on a pop-top

Apollyon, Arise!

see also: Graham Greene's novel The Destructors.

jesus footwear. the rest is all Tom Arnold, right up to the 12 dollar Panama hat.

if I could touch but a hem of his garment. hepatitis.

these days good keyfabe don't pass for no spaghetti in a can.

as we walked across the beach, there was only one set of footprints, because I had my spurs way up in your kidneys. But hey, you knew I was there, and that was what counted.

Ikkemotubbe blows up a tire. Baby, baby.

ick-ee-moe-two-bay

He called it himself. He got the spare tire in shape, inflating it and then hosing off the road dust. Then he went to Hartsvegas for a chicken sandwich. Loaded with mayo, dripping it like a hoochie mama running out the lacrosse team dorm. And one sickly piece of lettuce. Fountain coke with "minimal ice", ordered as if he were some submarine captain signalling passing ships with pussy-assed flag signals.

Thinks he's cool like the Outlaw Josey Wales.

Sunday, April 2, 2017

Uncouth Understudy.

training the understudy

get him accustomed to winning.

locusts and wild honey, straight from the comb.

five-month houseguest. uncouth s.o.b. feet stank.
as Iron Maiden said, "the beast comes with great wrath, for he knows his time is short."  exploded bandwidth usage.  sucking the fat pipe.  Lion's Gate movies, all the time.

Tom Petty sang: "I've got a little space to fill."

Bob Dylan sang: "the hour is getting late"

The standard fighting stance can be imitated by even a little child, but putting the principles into practice is another matter.  To flatten a grown man with only a thumb, takes years of concentration, like making the goats pass out.

The trick is focus, concentration, seriousness, and I ask, have you the focus to breath in and out AT THE SAME TIME?!?

a lonesome time of yore
near midnight,
not a minute more,
as I ponder tales
of forgotten lore.....

a bad paraphrase.  I know.

Much meditation is needed.

Thursday, March 30, 2017

liable to bring the dromedary to its knees

ellsworth, the nighttime security, walks the perimeter of the graveyard, on the dirt trail between the cut grass and the edge of the woods.

he doesn't see greyson emerge from the woods in the shadows.

(catches pants leg with rake handle, causes a start)

what a graveyard need a security dick for? what you don't want me to walk up on?

you know everybody takes the good stuff with them. we put the best among us in the ground.

anyways. dont eff with me on my freaking reconnoiter.



you ain't never been but the briefest shake of a leg, anyhow, greyson.

(greyson walks off, scanning the surrounding brush for empty bottles)

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Le Beaux Aux Follies

"Golfed the sinker. Single. First and third."

"Usually, you're a goat for chasing such a far out pitch, but that kind of skill bears it out. So instead he looks like a first-ballot Hall of Famer."

"Total limp-wristed delivery, making like an air foil or some other such. Depleting the ball's momentum.  It drops completely off the map!"

"Here comes two RBI, skip."

"Knock one in so we can go get our hotdogs."

"All those sunflower seeds. It looks like the bottom of a birdcage around the batting coach. Maybe we should lay down some newsprint so its easier to clean up."

"He gets caught stealing, he ain't riding in the bus with us tonight."

This is overlapping dialogue in the style of film legend Robert Altman. Presented here, the effect is a list instead of a mileu like Altman used often. The film presented isn't a film at all, but a treatment from the back of my mind called "Stickball", which is about amateur players being drafted after a strike by the players' union.

The Player Hater Whitepaper: Screwing, to the Screwee

I have my Confuseus moments at times.  You see there is an ant-farm on desk, not quite two feet in length.  Sometimes, as a lark, I shake that ant farm, just to watch their ordered lives turn into chaos.

Monday, March 27, 2017

912: Snake-eater.

Puff.

"You are number two. Don't make eye contact while you do your business. That only angers me."

"Being second of only two, you are therefore both the runner-up and the worst."

The downpour. Fat Mike's Drive-Up. The smell of sizzling taco meat.

"Constant motion.  That's better."

Forgot the catsup packs.  Only use the fancy, b*tch.  With the picture of the bottle on the side of the package.

Back into Fat Mike's for the catsup.  They say I have to buy something to get the catsup.  I'm getting angry.  I think of complaining to the BBB.

"Sitting in the sunlight is giving me a headache.  Get your horrid self off of the gear shift so I can move the car."

"I'll tell you what I need: I need my aviator glasses, with the solar dampening near the top of the lenses."

(Fat Mike pees in the Men's room without shutting the door first.  Everyone on Beechtree Drive can see him from the back and his awkward posture while he relieves himself.  It looks, from the back, like he is trying to gently coax a baby bird down the urinal drain.)

Smoke wafting.

love them characters: Polly Problemsolver

Young waste of black man.

Raised to have impossible ideals by people beaten up by life, mistreated.  Statistics.

What dignity of the man!

Wants to go to a club.  Feel the mass-hysteria with the rest.

All this negativity.  You would think I didn't like this one, but indeed I do, for things would be great if he had his way.  I believe it.  Courteous, thoughtful.  Not the smartest of them, but far from the dumbest of the bunch.  But he is too meek to dictate terms, though he will speak up when something goes against the rules.  And he likes the rules.  Lives by the rules.  And how else to live a good life, but by the rules?

Polly Problemsolver.

But wholly a different kind of man than the man Abaddon1215, with in fact, a gulf and a pit between us.  Luckily I'm writing the character as a background object, so I'm not burdened with giving him a victory, solving that query of what he would do if he were in charge.

In the context of the story, he would have to ball his mother-in-law to be put in charge.  He won't.  He's a sexually hidden character, making us wonder is he too young to have developed sex in that brain of his?

Time runs short for Polly Problemsolver to find his own penis.  He's in baby-making time, and not making any moves to make babies, save for going to the club.  Going to the club does not necessarily in and of itself make any babies.

Uplifting for me to write of one so different, with it in mind, that despite our differences, we are friends, or would be friends in a better world.

Don't ask about the name.  I make no pretense of making a realistic name, like what kind of slave-owner had his antecedents in cages, being the original Problemsolver, the name sake, as it were.  Alas no.

The being searching for his identity in the modern world will not be burdened by tethers from the past!

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

the valley of the shadow

Lord show me what I fear, so I don't fear it no more.

Careful what you ask for, little shaver.  As in the tale of the monkey's paw, you'll have zombies at the door.

These petty anxieties add up to a rime of sweat at my temples.  And yet I will not relent, lest they should overtake me, growing into substance.  Which would be a real drag.

Petty anxieties.

Pretty anxieties.

Pixies beseeching my soul, threatening to reach up and drag me to hell!  Beckoning upward, to reach the light of this daylight world!

My intellect my only armament-scant solace, that!

Monday, March 20, 2017

912: everyone is suddenly a blue dog?!?

The 1960's called, and they want their foreign policy back.

I had a haircut and a shave.  Spiffed.  Suitably spiffed, in my own terms, and ready for love.

I think of Confuseus pounding his shoe on his desk, swearing all the while to bury the greatest nation on earth.  Better pack a sack lunch and invite some friends, boy.

We don't roll over for nobody.  Not even the Leftist Minority, loud as they are.

Don't worry; Donald will win handily in 2020.  Still wont shut them up, but still.  Less ammunition for rogue talking points.   Dems working alongside KJU to undermine the American government.

A leftist dogpile of selective outrage, poured out on our elected officials; democrats destabilizing America.

And none with a clear argument.

And I shaved again since that time I mentioned above, where I had the haircut.  I likes shaving.  Recommend it.  Hair cutting once took a periodic role, almost religious in its implications.  Beset on all sides by the Walmart jokes?  Cut your hair.  It was like that.

I cut my hair as if shedding the collected filth of the world, and I always felt like I came out of the experience of the hair cut, in a word, fresh.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

The Weekender: alone with your mad thoughts

Man, you are like a living, breathing Pink Floyd album!

Sitting there, easy chair, hard feeling.  Man, them thoughts burn a hole right through you, if you let it!

I should have took you to golf.  I should have, I know.  You know I worry about you.  I might be the only one that cares.

But I can call you back off of that ledge, now, can't I?

That girl and what she did.  Shut up!  I can't take anymore!  You'll drive me mad, too!

A sound?  A counting?  I've heard it before, too, in the night, when the house is silent and still, the sound comes to me through the ringing of white noise.  It's the heart we both thought we lost, and it beats still.  It lives.

No, I'm not trying to scare you.

We shouldn't play with dead things?  I must disagree, and I know you don't agree.  You think so much on those dead epochs and bloody battles.  I don't have to tell you.  You know the substance of all your mad thoughts: these things that consume you.

Maybe something dead wants to play with us?  Okay, maybe I am trying to scare you, now.  Sit down.  You're lying; you don't have to bathroom at exactly this very moment when the hour is getting late and the talk is getting heavy in its importance.

Imagine a heart, drained, but still beating away, lying on the cold damp earth beneath this very house!  Disembodied, yes!  And why?  Because its just an emblem, my friend; the owner of that heart is long gone.

Very well.  If you must.  I've become tiresome.  I've worked you into a fervor at these hints of the past-a dead past, that is. 

I'll give you your peace, if only until you awaken again in the morning, in the cool, silent house.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Feeling intimately the circumference of her circle. Bad advice, I wot.

Where does she get off telling me, like she a math teacher. I'll show her numbers that don't add up, and even imaginary numbers, theoretical numbers. She don't want to get in my radius, lest I get my hands on her diameter, feeling intimately the circumference of her circle. If I wanted warmth I'd have looked elsewhere, or donned a pair of wax wings for which to fly towards the sun. "You come to my center, you enter, the winter." A man is too crazy to have a regular relationship with a companion, don't you think? That's why we cry over obscure subjects, or if we drop a piece of pizza. Imagine the cheese sticking to the floor, and all you pick up is a piece of cooked dough with some marinara gore on one side. Or a snow globe shattered on the floor, with snow falling between the rough-cut floor boards, to the place were pencils and pennies and paperclips go. "Rosebud" he says up top, in the chair. Nobody under the floor but us chickens.

The perfect bracket.  You try.  God laughs.  I wouldn't even spare a try.  I can't do too much glorifying of student-athletes, because I like for them to "keep their feet on the ground", not be broke celebrities.  The lost productivity!  My bathroom!  But I'm sensitive in some areas, like a city girl-a mousy type.  The office has a pool, a dead pool!  Win a pizza!  That self-same pizza I had last night, and none to be the wiser, but Dad.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

From whence a thrill may yet come....

sourpuss. as of the eating of those odious yellow citrus. all I will say.

Chris Matthews and the hysterical vomiting.  The machine takes in and then outputs based on its input, like manipulating a prize horse's diet to control his poop.  If Barry Obama sent a thrill up his leg, then I ask, ala Hannibal Lecter, where does Donald Trump thrill him?  Perhaps, yet, a good wrenching of the scrotum to wake up the man in the bubble.










Jesus getting the Heisman. Crazy shit, man. Blew Twitter up.  We didn't even know Jesus could ball, but we're all sure, if he did......

Heisman material, all the way.

At the mercy of the Lunar Calendar, and feeling a bit fagged.  Bloodsteve Boll is now a raider.  Raider Bloodsteve, anti-Nazi warrior.  Feathers and eye-black and all.

No-flap warrior, here.  Master and Commander.  Maybe I should forget all this self-denial, buy a six-pack and go fishing.  I DON'T do it.  I deny the placid toilet rim my essence!

A caffeine buzz can overcome a manic low.  I just found this out.  Booyah.

9/12: Sunspots

the livid inflamed hand, like something from a Dali painting about onanism.  fingers stitching and fumbling about.....

I have horrors, but this one does not permeate the surface of my psyche; so it is not that I lack fear, but simply that this vision does not provoke.

So I am not without fear.

Just not afraid of a sickly hand.  To be perfectly clear on the matter.

....reaching high into the air, hoping blindly for something....


Sunday, March 12, 2017

I have the right to expect absolute privacy.

Not only, Mister Comey, do I have a "reasonable expectation" of privacy, I expect absolute privacy.  That last is conditional I know, and probably only achievable under specific circumstances.

But I do.

Saturday, March 11, 2017

The weekender: Being for the Benefit of Kyle Busch.

All things serve the Kyle Busch, converging on his effeminate frame like flashlight beams trained on his person.  Cruising along the North Carolina secondaries at 140 mph in some pussified ricer V6.  Life must be pretty good for the Kyle Busch.

He is ruining my Saturdays by "slumming it" in the feeder series simply to gain extra stats for the record books.

There must be a hard limit on cup ringers appearing in the XFinity series.  I don't want to watch those guys taking wins from the up-and-comers.  As someone said a few years ago, they say "where is your trophies?".  Kyle Busch came down and got them, I guess.

They squeeze out drivers like Steven Wallace, who had a long run of good showings on Saturdays, and then disappeared because, according to the smoke screen of Cup regulars in the field, it didn't appear that Wallace made his breakthrough.

But for the Cup drivers.  And Eliot Sadler.

And after an XFinity championship, only one more year in the series, after, and that only part-time.  Keep the line moving, pls.

I say this not to hate on the Kyle Busch, but improve the dynamic of the Saturday shows.  Kyle is a champ after all, and before he was a champ, you know he had the determination to become a champ.

But on Saturdays he is being a chimp.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

nougat candy bars and doodoo pancakes

caramel sticking in the roof of my mouth

Zero bar from the fridge.

Cold cola from same, no ice.  Cola black like my unconscious mind, seemingly hiding things from the world around it.

Delicious murk.

that stickiness in the back of my throat from the sweet soda.  If it aint good and cold, it won't kill a strong thirst.

the stupid blood smell of hot metal coming from the lawnmower and the grass hasn't been cut but maybe once in a year.

and once again I'm the little butterball that smells like sweat and ass with a torrent of flies hording around me.

I wasn't free, even then.  Diminished rights.  All that.  Beholden to others.  The weakling pup follows the pack at a distance, while the strong run point.

Todash.  The chimes end.  The black sky.  A rain of snowflakes. 

My teen years this time, and my teenage love burned like a witch by the mayor.  Still smell like ass and sweat.  What was she thinking?  Did that turn her on?

I'm yelling "THIRTEEN!!!" and my old counterparts are coming out of the bleachers, here and there, one by one, and starting to fight alongside me.  My betters realized they f**ked-up by giving the wrong guy the death sentence.  I vow to stick that executioner's axe straight-up his ugly a**.

Because I have friends.  And some of them are Vulcans.

At the end of the day.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Twon.

he threw his bike chain up and it landed, laying across all four of them power lines--

the power lines said "PA-YOW!!!"

he drank his RC cola and tossed the 12-ounce bottle onto the stones of the driveway, where it shattered-not into a million small pieces, but only several big dangerous pieces.  Kinds good enough for suicide.

then his uncle ran out the house smelling of the malted beverage and shot him in the shoulder(I touch my shoulder in illustration) and the opposite arm(I touch that, too) and severs the seminal vesical, which is a specialized man part used in reproduction(not like boards or glue, but the very pathway through which the baby sauce is squirted along and through, over and under).

life-altering injuries.

but this is esoterica.

I will not back-up for all the world.  I will brook no regret in this matter.

I'm told, every time I have an "episode", it causes a small amount of brain damage, which will ultimately accumulate, causing early-onset dementia.

The clock ticks, my friends.  You must decide when you stop believing me.  I cannot decide for you, or tell you, for even without memory, I'm probably will still be an interesting writer and your good friend.

Movie Idea: If you see Titty, pray for death!!!

If you see Titty, pray for death!!!

Three exclamation points-just like that.  The emphasis collides with todays disposable-ness and indifference.

The solitary clockmaker turned terror of the old west.  From whence did his value of human life go, never to return?

Men.  Women.  Children.  Dogs.  Pigs.  Horny toads.  I killed some of everything at one time or another.

The ticking of a clock, for him, is like the rattling of cans to the rabid dog.  A call to action!  Bullets always tell the truth!

He will bomb a stagecoach, chaining the corpse of the driver at the controls and sending the whole works into town.  The whole town is leveled by the shock wave.  And in the middle, the coach and the horses burning like tiny candles on a birthday cake, but in a sea of deranged building lumber.

Goodbye town.  They should have been nicer to him.  Their own fault, you see?

Everyone that sees him thinks he is a doctor or a dentist.  Won't drink.  Trim facial hair.  Best hotel suites.  Feather beds.

Brigida is the damn devil, boy.

Cyrian Hindis?  How does Kevin Spacey look with a soul patch.  I don't know.  I'm not a casting director.  I just write roles.

Monday, March 6, 2017

From the Blake(and Jim Morrison. And Ray Manzarek).

When the doors of perception are cleansed....

enlightened realizations?  an epiphany each and every moment?

or do you just know too much?

Ever wish you didn't know something-a something firmly wedged inside your head, troubling, haunting?  Perplexed and psychotic, pointing your wood at the wrong things, scattered intentions, like straws in the wind.

The Lizard King lamented, or perhaps just mockingly noted American hospitality.

These and other matters, I attend to continually.  Not opening my own perception.  My perception is already too wide.  I get like an entire star field on my scope and lack the capacity to zoom.  So it's difficult to appreciate the one, I wot.

Human suffering is fleeting.  Every stone on the earth will outlast that much, friends.  We, as mortals, are fleeting, and our waters will eventually drain out of us leaving only a smattering of stinky dust.

So we are, without our lifewaters, stinky dust.  You heard it here first.

How the hell does anything ever get done around here?

Sunday, March 5, 2017

The Colossus: The Man Tihwih

He woked as the sun woked and rose.  He give kisses to him papoose and squaw and depart.  He took him bow, so they thought him to be look for deers and other game animals.

But him not.

Him depart on spirit journey, for he had felt low within himself, and knew he needed something extra, like a regular dr pepper instead of his diet dr pepper.

Him get to hill and sit in the mid-morning sun.  Him think on himself, and wonder if anything more could fulfill?  Could it?  Would it?  He was at a loss to think, what him want, what him need?  Him not know.

He go beyond hill, to the Place Not Seen Often.  There him surprised to find plenty, just laid about on the ground, as if waiting for him.  He took of this, and partook of this.

The smoked turkey drumstick tasted like ashes, and did not scarcely satisfy.  The battery was dead in the handheld Nentindo system, so he could not play games.  There was no cellular data service for him perfectly found iPhone.  The buffalo skins wilted at the touch, like burned paper.  The tin of rat asses were spoiled.  He spat them out like lukewarm gruel.

It all tasted like ashes, and that was why a dream was so far away and gossamer-thin; so you could not see its flaws.  For you would see its flaws up close, as it were.

Tihwih travel back, three hours through the woods, away from the hill, to see once more him papoose and squaw, who he now missed, though at the hill, they were the furthest thing from his mind.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

F.U.D. isn't just ur uncle Elmer.

F: Fear
U: Uncertainty
D: Doubt

Niggling questions.  And the questions always niggle, and few among us listen for the answer, therefore our populace is perennially misinformed.

Gross opinions dominating the news cycle.  It makes me sick.

I hate Scott Pelley.  In particular.  Constant F.U.D. from CBS.  I remember the morning show people talking to Morgan Freeman, knowingly smiling at one another after saying, "You ready for the election?"

Married to his own granddaughter.  But here I belittle a man known for just having a good voice.

Not a prophet or a king.  Just a face on a movie screen.  And now will the media-created and sustained celebrity class overtake the impotent political class?

Will Miley ever get an ambassadorship from the State Department?  Gaga for health and human services?

And the Dems learn the wrong lessons.  So their own "common core", their own programming, is leading them astray.

It would take someone outside of politics, like a real Donald J, to fix the system.  But he rightly must be held accountable during his reign.  Schumer misunderstands, that Trump isn't maintaining the swamp by appointing billionaire executives to cabinet positions.  Schumer and company ARE the swamp.

They all preach to their own choirs.  Any expansion of the base is anomalous and unintentional.

Friday, March 3, 2017

love's little mass: a secret bit ensconced in the soft flesh

I says: each woman has her own beauty and her own good secret that is worth waiting to hear.

I go further still.

I must choose my words carefully, now.

I feel the chill of the night air around me and the beckoning blackness, beckoning me to take my shirt off and dance!

The twilight grotto!  Bones of things in left in cages, animals for the butchering, the trading, the awful malingering of the star beasts!

I fear I bit Jonbo on the neck and blacked out, awakening in the asylum, where I always knew I would wind up if I ever really spoke my mind about all these mad thoughts in my head.

Charlie Daniels gets to a good part, and I slow down to listen.  He begins with a Robert Johnson idea and makes it his own, puts his own thumbprint on it, and he will then, too, be forever remembered for his own words, instead of some trolling by a guy like me.

"C'mon back you son of a gun if you ever want to try it again."

"In America, did you ever think we could get it back together again?  Well we darn sure fooled ya."

 

Thursday, March 2, 2017

More Bad Science: Recursion

A recursive is a self-referential component in an expression.  If it recurs, or has subsequent iterations, it refers to itself, as in the original expression.

Donald J.  The man Jesus.  Abaddon1215.  Lions, all!

Recursives in a world of Facebook likes and reTweets.  These fly atop the quicksand of digital data.

In the third world: Confuseus tries.

variable public return=true

futnuckery extends class blog {

abaddon1215.blog = futnuckery
}
variable private return value {

confuseus.dictum = sandboxed.value(range = 0, 16)
}

abaddon1215 = abaddon1215 + 1
blog.write
add blog.post

debug = unnecessary

"I'm like a bad penny.  I always turn up."

turnitup.rocknroll
volume = 120%
airport.noisecomplaints = fallson.deafears

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

The Player-Hater: Meander, word of the day.

to dwindle away like sands in the hour glass.

to recede like the shifting tides.

a slow walk for a heavy ass.

talking extinction, babies.

Conveniently used in a sentence, that is:

"Do yer and yer wifed watch the elebin of the clock?"

"Yar, meander."

the life draining out of us.  corrosive chemicals always boiling away, and our brains with the little sparks and Bucknasty's Ma waterdish empty again.

Time is ever fleeting.  All things will surely one day cease.


nine-twelve: rodan's tinker

a native American child, sitting in the timeless dust of his ancestors, playing at toys.

while the sun spots, burst and stretch pure energy, high above his head!

-This disguised musing of paranoia brought to you by Abaddon1215.  Don't move on unless you are ready.  Let no harpy command you to do so.

Monday, February 27, 2017

a note fit for a postcard.

Vandulbraughten was a friggin Nazi.  He escaped into America somehow during the height of the fighting, turning coat when his country needed him most.  For shame, I say!  Loathsome creature!  Even now I remember the News Of The World footage of Hitler smacking his desk, while yelling NEIN NEIN NEIN NEIN!

Chaquita.  The muses gazes also.  What more can be said that is delicate, providential, and evidential of such a prim flower?

Crash Moody.  That was I.  That was me.  Such style, such grace.  What a man!  An example among men.  But a mouse, in a cage, building a small city out of horded cheese!  A junkyard surround for a kingdom of forgotten treasures!

Tittywick(of the Chestershire Tittywicks).  Will flee his demons, because he grows weary of good fortune and a prosperous home.  If only he could be put on an explorer's ship, as perhaps sent to the hell of the arctic.

Bern'rd.  The old grave digger lurks and drinks, still.  Though he has been fired and barred from hassling visitors to the graveyard.

Bob Beckel says he should have died a long time ago.  I have no opinion, except that I appreciate him nowadays, and if he were not alive, I would miss him. 

However:  I thought he died a year ago.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Women's Prison Apocalypse(some scenes I wrote)

Women's Prison.

Some women tanning on the yard, trying to keep up the appearance by rolling up their jumper sleeves and pants legs.

(o.s.)Warden: "On what wings dare he aspire?  What dread hand dare seize the fire?"

A bus comes in.  It stops and convicts are herded out at their new home for a few years.  There are three.  It's obvious which one we focus on.  The most beautiful.  The audience must instantly take a liking.  That much is key to the film.

Outside Warden's office door.  A squirting noise from inside.  Through the magic of programmed perspective, we are transported inside to see his hands lathering in soap.  Soap flies this way and that.  He's really wringing his hands vigorously.

A gleeting of soap lands in a fishbowl and begins to mingle and stretch out in the clear waters.  Fortunately, there is no fish in there.  We don't torture animals here.  Only women.

From outside the Warden's office window, overlooking the yard:

Warden: "That big one.  Her bigness vexes me."

Chief Screw: "She's a mole for us.  Her name is Pam.  Like the buttery cooking spray."

Warden: "Must have soaked in it.  Tell them to find us another Timmy.  Let's go down there."

Outside:  The warden and a group of guards approaches the hapless Pam.  The warden draws a side-arm pistol and fires without aiming.  The bullet goes wide, way over Pam's head.

The Warden closes in and aims, this time, then carefully shoots in the three-point position, like a marksman.

The bullet sails high over Pam's head.

Now the rage has grown nuclear within the warden.  He runs at her, pulling the trigger, but the now empty gun is just clicking over and over.

Pam cringes, and as he gets right up on top of her, she goes to her knees and puts her arms over her head protectively.

The Warden hits her with the butt of the gun several times before the other screws stop him and him get him out of there.

Pam is left in confused silence, hurting.  She starts crying.

----

Mouse, the runt of our group is having surgery.  Docs and nurses all around.

The engorged, enraged Warden runs in yelling "LIVE!  LIVE!".  He climbs on the table with her, and his head hits the lights, making them spin crazily.  The scene becomes chaos.  He falls onto the floor.

The lights fall onto the outstretched young woman, and its like a bomb of blood going off, saturating the room.

Insert shot of her glasses on table, covered in blood, blood streaking down lenses.


Monday, February 20, 2017

Stellar Women's Prison Revolt(or Be More Like Shannon)

The prom queen, the toy/mouse, the genius and the heavy.

The shower scenes.  Altman-esque over-lapping dialogue.  Cooter talk, I says.

And there will be shower scenes.  This is I aver.

Scenes of the heavy, like a mommy gorilla, picking ticks from the hair of her charges.  Maternal, characterizing, baby.

Me likee the characterization.

"a dead bee makes no honey" scrawled on the wall behind her-the letters bleeding juice.





The emotionally-charged content of subjugation!  Maybe even a dream sequence with a women's lib song from the 1970's.

How does a women's prison inmate get pregnant?  Ixnay on the pregnant-way, I says.  Carry the bun from the outside.  Abortion sequence?  Maybe.  A coat hanger and the heavy.  A coat hanger for the heavy.

"See them love!"

Get Sid Haig and his straw hat into the time machine.

Of course, I'm the warden.  I get the plum role of the whole piece, being the pharaoh of the entire production.

Kinda goes without saying, that last.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Morris Contra Fordism: A Postulation Against Groupthink(academy awards edition)

Scene, then crowd response.   John Ford liked it best when a crowd was actually in the corner of the scene, on the scene, watching with their own eyes, then he basked in their reactions, as if to give us our own reaction to the scene at runtime.
 
In the same year, Citizen Kane and How Green Was My Valley vied for the Academy Awards.  While Kane is my preference, Valley was good.  Tres good, and a prototypical example of the Fordism to come, but each film had similarities.  Though the reflecting pool of Citizen Kane was deeper, it, like the John Ford effort, relied on characterizations in subsequent scenes to literally tell us what to think about what we just saw.

But again, Ford preferred the responses literally on the scene, as if happening live.

George A. Romero's work of his most productive period(1975-1982) presented the absolute abandonment of Fordism, with the films Martin and Dawn of the Dead representing kind of a counterpoint.

That should have been the death knell.

And we see the technique largely abandoned in the post-modern work of people like Tarantino.

It's a new day.

I flash-forward to the Oscar winner Man On Fire, which is an isolated revenge piece.  "A bullet always tells the truth" he says.  Focused, but at once oblivious to stray elements that crop by like insubstantial clouds.

A secular humanism pervades now, and is being replaced increasingly by racial apologies.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Movie Premise: Divide and Conquer: Hysteria

Lesbianism brought me back to life like in Friday the 13th Part 6.

Because I like to f*ck with people for my larks.

On to the show:

Planet Sappho.  Land of the eternal feminine prime.  They are elfin and soft.  And they touch each other, because there are no men around.

I know what you're thinking.  This could have been Stellar Women's Prison Revolt.  Maybe later.  I'll just put that title back into my pocket for next year's summer blockbuster season.  Big budget.  Tent pole.

(I got your tent pole right here.)

Planet Sappho.  Three astronauts, two being virile men and one an alpha female, land aboard planet Sappho, it being determined by analysis of the color and intensity of it's reflected light to be nearest Earth-like planet.

But the horror that creeps in the darkness....

Men are sold on the porn angle, but a degree of sensuality will sell the womenfolk, too, if for nothing else, an exploration, a consideration of something outside the norm, unless you're in college in which case it happens all over the place like a giant pu**ybomb went off on campus.

Like the tag for Schindler's List, "he who saves one, saves the world entire".  So by end credits, the alpha female has loved and died, and but one decides to go against her nature.

This is experimental.  Like college.

Watching the film-all the scenes of disrobings and touchings-the audience began to feel like they were in the hands of a director who was capable of literally anything.  It was uncomfortable, but tittilating.