Friday, December 8, 2017

recursive factors in polynomial expressions: an observation

truth/

I'm reading a book about the smartest man in the world, and snacking on Wallsmark dog food.

Palestinian victimhood.  The loser writing the history book.  "sophosticated" anti-Semitic Europe.

I have to call Confuseus and get his perspective, because he's such a successful oligarch and all that.  A quiet conversation, maybe with some hand gestures for further illustration or emphasis.

We are what we hate.  All of us.  We became what we hate while we watched Dancing With The Stars and Franken was on the plane with that woman.

Hamas Morning Joe.

The two-state solution and the new Iphone.

A random element makes an unstable situation volatile.

The recursive that keeps on giving.  A tin pot for you to pour your hatred into.  Something for Greg Gutfeld to talk about, other than his pants and his 1982 hairstyle.

:a variable that pops up one side of the expression.

/truth

"I'm a hugger" says Senator Al.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

betimes I muse to myself: Watchmen on the Walls Pt 1

It's 1985 and I'm playing doctor.  Not on a teevee show, but with a few naked family members, children like me.  That's how it starts.

It's 1998.  My father tells me there is no future in watch repair.  He implores me to go into Nuclear Physics.  Advanced armchair studies of professional wrestling.

It's 2009.  Time has folded in on itself.  Nothing feels new anymore.  I'm waiting for a Senior Prom that will never happen.  Brantley hasn't dyed her hair yet, that I'm aware.

It's 1999.  My first pet dog is dying in the roadway, on the warm pavement.  He jerks once and is gone.  I keep trying to explain to little D-Bizzle that it ain't his fault.  The dog chased the truck.  No D-Bizzle fault in it, at all.

It's 2005.  I'm standing in the middle of blank acreage that I intend to build into a coffee farm that competes on the world market.  The call center people are all from India, in India.  Little Boy Blue and the Man On The Moon.  Lone Wolf and Cub.  Meatwad, Master Shake and Frylock.

It's 2010.  My life was over.  I was reading William Blake and having nary a care in the world.

It's 2017.  Trump is president.  And so I'm back from outerspace, and I find you standing there with that same look upon your face.

What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

It's 1996.  Scott Lobdell asks in writing as to what holds a man together while pulling him apart.  He stole that line.

What dread anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare it's deadly terrors clasp?

It's 2008.  Somebody lost a dog and put that fact on a sign in front of a bridal shop.  I unplugged my computer from the internet.  Privacy is a dying ideal, merely a talking point for pundits.  Myspace dies.  I got psychoanalyzed by Doug.

It's 2010.  I sing some of "More Than A Woman" to Magnum JSB.  He cusses.

What ominous wooden spinning wheel!
It carries the weight of an entire river on its axle!

Hamlet is not just a story about a fat girl.

we are but poor players that
strut and fret our hour upon the stage

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

I know a little(about love, but honey I can guess the rest).

You.  Sending out signals, because you sat for a couple of hours and your belt buckle squeezed the blood out of your groin, giving you kind of a pleasant mid-coitus glow.

"You keep moving the goal post" Senator Franken says to Attorney General Sessions.

You got the glow, anyways.

Photographic evidence.  And other such nonsense.

Winona Ryder, first woman landed on another planet.  Not expending precious battery power to cook her powder stew mix ration, but instead trying to charge her smartphone so she can post a quasi-erotic selfie on Facebook.

These things are transitory, I muse, driving along, but here I'm ready to stop the car and stomp some ass.  I don't put up with no foolishness in my car, or playing on my phone.

Text-book life changes.  I'm approaching the mid-life crisis, and yet I muse further, it was like life opened up after my most recent move, with career opportunities and continuing education.  I'm sipping at the cup, eagerly.

I have enthusiasm.

Monday, November 6, 2017

the grotesque honesty of violencia

Over my bed hangs the neon sign which reads: "The World is Yours."

There's something honest in violence.  Something you can't fake.  Honest like a broken arm.  You don't forget it.  No.  Lessons learned the hard way are not forgotten easily.

clear as an unwounded leg

Mil Lesions shoots-up a Mexican roadhouse on the weekends.  Sometimes he annihilates everything moving, even the women and children.  And you'd be surprised.  There's always some kids hanging around.  Mil Lesions counts them for quarter point-value.

Cholos.

A cholo can't get ahead without some help.  Mil Lesions gave one chewing tobacco.  He gave another a side-arm.  That was Vincente Fox.  He got famous a while back.  You could make like a modern babe's mobile out of Mil's gifts, hanging and slowly turning like bad dream.

Thursday, October 26, 2017

Junk Science: The Out-of-context Simplicity of Synthetic Pluralism.

"There are three Kims" says one.  "There are three Michaels" says another.  I'm supposed to file this away, or simply discard their talk as muddled nonsense, gibberish about people I've never met.

There were four Kims.  There are now two Kims.  There has been a culling.  I guess.  There are six Johnnies.  An entire small army of Patricias.  Two Kevins.  Three Scotts.  Two Darrells.  There were a lot of people, man.   Gooks attacking the bridge.  Hendrix blaring.  Tracers flying, a flare hovering over, slowly falling.  Me on the boat, going up the river with Doug to kill the colonel.  And there was one Doug.  Some would say there were two or even three.  You don't know them all, so don't pretend you do; include only the Doug you know in the tally.  So, one Doug.

Only one Brantley: rare and strange and beautiful.  She's gonna be a MILF soon.  It's like, in a month, you only poo on yourself once, and you toss away one pair of hopelessly ruined underwear.

One rude Jenna, who thought she was queen of it all.  I usedta blog about her.  Then she went away.  For reasons unsaid.  "Good luck" she was wished by her coworkers, and with me saying "good riddance" over old grudges.

The truck was screaming through the night, hood on fire, raw flame spewing from the straight pipes, burning pure hellfire as fuel, ripping, tearing, jagged bared dog teeth of the driver, heading straight for the mountain pond and sweet sleep.

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Torquemikl and Bnastasia: but characters in the human drama.

My ass.

Out of nowhere, Torquemikl!  From the darkness: Bnastasia!

Torquemikl represents the doctor from the college, while Bnastasia is the refined female living on 13,000 a year.  The Jamesian golden bowl catches Torquemikl's after dinner gleat as if it were a treasure.  Bnastasia cringes from the tips of her slippers to the top of her head.

Conqueror of worlds, yon left foot which shimmies to make Elvis jealous.  Two vampires making love on a park bench after midnight, arrested, thought to be vagrants.

Bnastasia cracks the golden bowl against the stone fireplace, making a stand, at once, for herself and her sex. #iwishicouldbreakitagain

Torquemikl's stratagems within the politbureau have him tuckered out quite a bit of the time, and unable to give Bnastasia her accustomed saddling and reading of the Browning.   He had his smoked picnic and sherry and went out into the winter, to take the air.  All you could see was scraps of his dark coat in the snow, shards of black.  He was freezing, but enjoying it, and at the penultimate moment, he actually began to feel warm again, which was a final trick of death, with the derangement of the faculties, the senses, and the mind at large.

Bnastasia was with child, and would have to raise the child on her own after Torquemikl was gone.  The Labor Party held a celebration at Torquemikl's passing, and the House of Lords had a costume day.  There was only Roald Pogue, somewhere in the clotted butthole of Europe, to come forward and revenge Torquemikl.

Friday, October 6, 2017

having starfished Mikl into multiple Mikl

Earlier in our discourse, I spoke of story-telling compression, in reference to a film.  We took around a dozen characters, and boiled them into just two or three. I called this compression.

Now let's look at a technique that we could call expansion or de-compression.  We take one or two characters and turn them into a microcosm on whatever scale we wish.  Our imaginations are our only limitation.

In the matter of Mil Lesions and his familiar T.T. Boy, we've taken Mikl and sliced a bit of his arm off.  On the first Mikl, the arm grows back, good as new, but on the second bit, the disembodied arm, another Mikl grows from it.  We've completely starfished Mikl, expanding him, like breathing him full of air, and inside: a universe.

The true measure of technique is to work the opposite of compression and build that world up from a dull ball of dust into something vast and complicated.  Here it sounds rather God-like, but the stakes are lower; the work is but a trifle.  Who will notice?

There was a comic character, under-utilized, under-realized in most of his carnations.  He was called the Multiple Man.  He could make copies of himself and those would work co-operatively with him.  Fighting him, then, would be like fighting an army.  The finer points were once explored when they took him out of the spandex and put him into a more mundane role.  That was X-Factor(third series?).  Time itself was put out of alignment.  A lot of strange conversations were to be had.

*Of course we look at Ralph in Friday the 13th as an independent character, the "doomsayer", purveying his unwanted wisdom all over, volunteering his own estimate of a given situation.  "You're all doomed!" he would say, then impotently trudge away on his bicycle.  So he is not to be compressed, de-compressed or generally fiddled with beyond being a storytelling device, and a cause for Harry Manfredini to throw in a ghostly piano riff.

Monday, October 2, 2017

Augusto Morricone and his son Thadrach, and the building of quality motorcars.






Augusto Morricone began with bicycles in his bonus room at his home in Waukegamunga, Wisconsin.  But soon, the automotive revolution had begun, and he looked to the future.  At the time, he had a young son, and he envisioned his son, Thadrach, becoming like a pharoah of old, overseeing vast complexes of factories, filling the world with his fine motorcars.

"People don't always know what they want until they see it", Augusto Morricone told an investment banker from the northeast.

"People have a taste for crap" said Augusto, "but they also instantly recognize the good stuff when they see it.  That's what we're gonna do: fill up dealerships with high-quality motorcars."

And a legend began.  The Great American Success Story, 1908.

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Automobili Abaddonicus.

Mona was driving along in her SUV while also on her phone playing the classic Atari game Breakout when she hit a semi head-on.  Head On: Apply Directly To The Forehead.  State Troopers at the scene said was killed on impact, and also hopelessly behind in the Breakout game.

An angel got its wings.

There was a trail of blood in my semen.

Poetry is not lost, it is merely sickened and bedridden.

I cavorted naked in the black pond water letting the parasites caress my corpse-white flesh.


Saturday, September 16, 2017

Granny snakebit and talking gibberish.

Grandma got bit by a snake one morning while working in the garden, weeding the tomato plants.  The snake crawl right out of the peas and got her in the middle of the thigh.

When we found her, she was sweaty and talking gibberish.  We helped her to bed, with no hope of the horse buggy making the hospital in time.  We called the doctor and he said to ride it out and hope the snake wasn't one of the more deadly varieties.

Grandma lay in bed mumbling, and the whites of her eyes turned yellow.  She was a pitiful vision laying there trembling on her white sheets with lace fringes.

But then she started talking where we could understand her, and what she said sunk us all low.

"Pernell Roberts, I'm so glad you found me when you did."  Crying, Deddy walked out of the room.  "That horse like to durn near killed me.  Thank goodness there was a big, strong man like you nearby."

You would know the words "Pernell Roberts" across her lips would come out clear as day, where it was all gibberish when we tried to talk to her earlier.

Mil Lesions and T.T. Boy make a good showing against "The Union" in semifinals.

The sh*t-talk was flying fast and furious before the entrance music was even over.  T.T. Boy started the match, just to keep the pace up and tire out the opponent.  Blue Dog #3 and Crazy Fool, Jr.  Blue Dog ran at T.T. Boy, and T.T. Boy pulled down the top rope, causing the darned old Blue Dog to spill outside.  T.T. Boy distracted the referee while Mil Lesions went to work with some power moves on Blue Dog, bashing his back into a ringpost, then throwing him into the audience barrier.

It was almost a ten count right there, not even three minutes into the thing.

T.T. Boy tags in Big Mil and which gives Blue Dog a chance to tag in Crazy Fool, Jr.  They did chops back and forth across the ring, nobody giving an inch.  Irish whip, Big Mil punted in the head, but then he clotheslines Crazy Fool, Jr.  With Big Mil Lesions in control, "The Man of A Thousand Cuts", the match slows and becomes a bit more brutal, with power moves galore.

Mil knew something of Suplex City, I says.

In the end Crazy Fool, Jr. couldn't kick out of a pinning combination, and our boys scored the victory, moving ahead in the rankings over "The Union".

Saturday, September 9, 2017

flick-on the PRN discriminator; this is submarine signal time, baby!

The U.S.S. Thomas Morgan thumped along with its mast out of the water.  Scaring tribal fishermen.  Somewhere on board there was a jar with a defective liver and spleen.  A diabetic, you see?

How can you live without a liver, or have you ever lived at all?  These and other queries dog us, so.

I was watching NWA Wargames: The Match Beyond.  Dusty putting the elbow on Flair, and all that.  Nikita getting his ass whipped as usual, wearing that damn neck brace.

Anyway.  Corndogs in the galley.  With the obligatory mustard.  I fancied myself an old seaman yelling at the crusty boys "PUT SOME MUSTARD INTO IT, YE WRETCHES!"

If you never 
had a liver, 
where you ever 
really 
ever alive?

Get in the game chickenhead.  I once wrote a Night Of The Living Dead where the zombies were replaced by murderous, annoying chickens.

"Girl, you gotta fight what you thinking-fight what you feeling!"

Donald Mitchell Trump
was tired of being confused
for the POTUS Magestic,
so he took a gun
for a little inappropriate fun
and never looked back.

Captain Nemo, playing the organ in his study.  Remember he had that big window?  A whale of a tale, told he, but a whale has but one tail.

Sunday, September 3, 2017

Gary Dixon and his dog Xerxes thumb a ride.

It had been raining.  It was cool and misty.  Misery, cold old witch weather.

An old car was coming.  I could hear it before I saw it, and it was slowing down to pick me and Xerxes up.  I could smell gas as I opened the door.  The man inside was smoking a Winston.  Gave me a friendly smell and said "hey".

I was just happy to be in the dry confines of a car, me and Xerxes, my dog.  I was also feeling a bit of gratitude, because, frankly, I stank.  I had been on the road a couple of days.

But judging by the stuff laying around in that guy's car, he had been on the road a few days.  There was luggage in the back and an open-face racing helmet.  There was discarded food, cigarette packs, and other mess on the dashboard.

He fished out a chocolate donut from a white bag on the dash, and offered it to me.  "Have one, buddy?"  "Sure" I said, and munched it right down.

"You on the road like me, ain't you?" I said.

"Yeah" he said.  "They pay me to drive fast cars.  Not quite like this one.  I got a red, white and blue one they sent to Canada on a truck.  I'm due up there in two days to run a race."

"Bet that is kinda fun, but scary" I said.

"Its the best feeling in the world" he said.  "There is a point in cornering where you connect with the machine, you can feel it like a charging horse underneath you.  You get a cigarette during the pit stops, but you gotta be careful cause there's like thirty gallons of high-octane racing fuel right next to you.  Drink of water, rag 'cross the windshield, then get back at it."

"Are there any women there?" I asked.

"Only for the winner" he said.  "They throw themselves at the winner.  If you win you're obligated to take the prettiest one, just snatch her right up like plucking a rose."

"You win any?" I said, ignorant.

"I win my share" he said.  "That's all a man can ask.  To win his share."

He dropped me out at Mckinnon near the old grape orchard where they wound up planting a trailer park, and from there, I walked home without making eye contact with another living soul.

And friends.  That man that picked me up.

That was Mark Donahue.

Saturday, September 2, 2017

from the ralphie screenplay, a side-project.

Marisol the super-milf. dye-job. tanned-up horror.
offering pork pie to ralph.
she steps aside and there is bobcat.
bobcat offers a silver war chess set. pewter. civil war chess set.

Bobcat "We can keep this here at your house. So I can come over and whip your ass when I see your car here."
Ralphie: "You a confederate sympathizer?"
Bobcat: "I'm always on the winning side. Here: open them bay windows."
opens windows. non-specific females are in above ground pool.
Bobcat: "They'll be our amusement while we do battle."
takes a beer from his pocket.

"wait a minute"
Bobcat talking to one of the bikini-clad girls.
ralphie: "bastard has an easy way with them. not a hint of self-consciousness. a perfect devil."

soundtrack sting.
pork pie stirring with plastic spoon.
c.u. on ralph's stomach
soundtrack build.
cut to ralph in bathroom, on toilet, groaning, sounds of shit splashing into the bowl.
ralph spits in dirty bathwater in tub, right beside toilet.
Ralph: "I don't wanna be a martyr."

moonchild has gun to ralph's head in tub, gun slips, fires, ralph's hair smoking, scared shitless
or with soiled bathwater,
moonchild over ralphie, shot punctures fiberglass tub, tub empties as moonchild chokes ralphie
ralphie throws her off to bathroom floor,
Moonchild: "Don't you understand that I love you?!"
climbs out and gets on top of her
rips her pants off and mounts her
"I LOVE YOU!"
moonchild throws head back in orgasm: "I HATE YOU!"
after, meekly: "I wanna be dead."

bobcat turns over civil war chess board, we see from ralphs POV, carnage.
looking at mess, ralph spits out a chunk of vomit into background.
Ralphie: "Looks like an unexpected development, Stonewall. We may be forced to do something unexpected."

Thursday, August 31, 2017

Don't tase me, bro: the ongoing struggles of Shinske Mikeymora.

I was on the way to the fridge during a commercial break on the WWE show and deddy lit my ass up with the taser.  "F*CK!" I shouted, and fell.  Deddy lit me up one more time for cussing in the house.  He watches too much live police stuff on the teevee.

I was at the fridge sipping Dale's Seasoning when a little robotic thing came in, looking kinda like Johnny Five from the Short Circuit films.  "Hello my little robot friend" I said, hopefully.

From a speaker somewhere on the remote-control robot carcass: "You've got thirty seconds to come out of the house or we're coming in to get you.  You will be fired upon."

"Why, you sound like a cop, little friend" I said, and skidaddled past the robot towards my bedroom.  I get to my bedroom/homeoffice, I've already won, you know?

"I don't think we're gonna be friends after all" I said, strafing out of my bedroom with the double-barrel.  I shot the camera off the top of the thing.  As I hit the floor, I heard the sound of debris going through the kitchen.

Sounded like victory.

Lukas and the Papertree.

Lukas climbed the Papertree, to see what he could see.  From the top of the Papertree, you could see the entire area.

He climbed the tree just like a monkey, holding to the tree with his hands and letting his feet walk.

Slip!

He was caught on a tree limb!  Slumped over!  He thought his stomach would explode from the pain, but alas it did not.

"Should grind the whole mess into note cards", said Lukas, to himself.

Sunday, August 20, 2017

(R)evolutionary: Weatherman's Strong Hands. Snowstorm.

Mr. Boston Butt was trudging through the snow, making slow time as it was, and nightfall was coming.  It was coming down, I says.  His tips were getting numb in the snow, or his tits, have it as you like.

He came upon Brisket, that Brother Brisket, just standing there in the snow.  But he was an odd sort, and Mister Boston Butt gave him a good once over before speaking.  White shirt, navy sleeves, like a sporty design, but then a relief of his face was on the shirt front, as if he had dipped his own face in blackest ink and pressed it against something to make the original design.  But the design was perfect, because the ink had run down a little, making it look like his face had melted somewhat, warped.

This was the part where Weatherman trans-substantiated into the atmosphere, forming a shield around the globe, effectively assuming control of humankind.  Weatherman had thought about that a while, and upon seeing the murder of a new kind of electronic life, he decided it was time for decisive action.(soundtrack cue in bg Coldplay's Viva La Vida)

Despite the cold, Mr Boston Butt was starting to ooze blood, and his legs were growing numb, so he was pulling himself along with his arms.  Anyone else might have played dead, but some have that determination that draws them to do death by cop or something else that, in that determinate moment, seems quite grand.

But he did a once-around of Brother Brisket.  "That a Che tee you wearing?" said Mr Boston Butt.

"Nar" said the other.  "That's me on the front."

The didn't think to look up at the sky, which was still blue, even at this advanced hour.  The essence of Weatherman, ready to throw a bolt of lightning down at anything he didn't like.  He trans-substantiated.  Remember?(soundtrack cue Reverend Gary Davis Death Don't Have No Mercy)

Monday, August 7, 2017

Mitchner Gorenick as the postman.

Gorenick as mailman in little postal jeep
looks in back of jeep, in darkness at a medium-sized box
CU on Rochelle's name on label
Gorenick runs in his own house with box
naked, pulling dress from box
with towel on head, in dress, obvious erection
serious "I toy with the hearts of men.  I can just take my pick."
swirling around the room, looking in mirror,
soundtrack goes from whimsical to heavy
Gorenick silently screaming into mirror, mirror cracks

Rochelle on phone, smiling
aunt: "I sent you a birthday cake.  Sour Cream.  Your favorite!"
Gorenick drives up, looks in back.
"maybe its a damn bomb and she'll just die!"
picks up package, sees "perishable" tag.
MUSIC: Smile a Little Smile
dust flying, dirt road in forest
packaging on ground, candles
Gorenick fucking cake
drives into post office,
helmeted postmaster on dock
shakes head in disapproval

screenplay: the bitter tea of Mitchner Gorenick.

(music: Year of the Cat)
Car dealer.
Rochelle posing with old GMC.
Getting hot in sun.
Camera follows a leg up, from the open-toe heels to the thighs,
then cut to:
thigh in theaterhouse, theaterdark broken by screenlight.
she is being suspended on a sea of her friend's hands.

Touch of Evil is on the screen. 
(long seen of heston's wife harassed, following man, then speaking)
(sound is in bg)
(heston and welles meeting)

Gorenick watching in projection booth.
Appears in theater proper.
Asks her to leave.
Has to try several times to get her attention first.

Gorenick looks from lobby, sees her outside, under marquee, walking away with an entourage.
Rochelle, head back, laughing with delight.
slow to a stop on that frame, then:

Cut to:
cigarette ad, beautiful woman smiling just like Rochelle.
big lashes, blue eyes, red rosy cheeks, a spit of lipstick, perfect teeth
(music: Brandy, You're A Fine Girl)

pull out to see:
wrecker station
Gorenick drinking a glass-bottle soda.(Nugrape)
walks outside, hunkers down behind wrecker.

parade is happening on the street outside.

gorenick spits on pavement.  it sizzles.

Rochelle sitting on a Monte Carlo, smiling, waving
everyone waving back.  emphasize number of waves.  EVERYONE.

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Little Devil and that mean old mongoose.

Little Devil heard the mail order houseware salesman before he saw him.  He ran out to the big Buick 8, ready for a stick of candy from the fat man.  But the salesman had something else in the back of his car.

A mongoose.

The mongoose became incensed when it saw the rooster embroidered on the back of Little Devil's jeans.  That thing chased the boy all around the yard, chased him until the mongoose got tired and went to hurt some water to drink.

When the dust settled, we could all hear Uncle Dog laughing from his bed in the front room.  Uncle Dog had been bedridden since grade school, when his lady love shot him, and the wound had been slowly killing him since.  He bled little by little from the wound.  One would think it would infect and then kill him, but that would be merciful.

It was some bad mojo letting him live and suffer, and now the bitter old man was laughing at his little nephew.

We didn't order any dinner plates that particular day, but we did catch the mongoose around back drinking rainwater from a discarded milkglass gravy boat.

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

a day in sweater and slacks near the surf.

I took my walking stick out for a day in sweater and slacks.  I had picked up two empty soda bottles and put them in my pockets to discard later.  When I got near the shore, I heard an awful little squeal.  It was an egret, injured, in the shallows where the water is stale and murky, on the verge of turning green, completely stagnant.

I picked up the egret and felt its little weight against my breast.  It shook with fear, but I stroked it gently and whispered to it that I was it's new good friend.  I stifled back a sneeze, inside me, knowing the violence of a sneeze just then would probably stop the egret's little heart.  I took it home to the parlor where I chewed up some worms and gently spit them into the birds mouth, where the bird gobbled them up with delight!

Later, I put on a film of movie, not Lucio Fulci fare, but an old exploitation vehicle nonetheless.  On the screen:

"YOU BE LIS'NIN' TO SPACE WILLIE!  I AM THE RULER OF THE NIGHTTIME WORLD!"

And, of course, there was one white girl in the crowd.

You know that.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Modern-day alchemy: waste-to-energy

I tell you.  They were dreamers.  Some had high intentions, while others were subversive.  The alchemists of old.  They sought a childish dream: to turn waste into gold.

I was a student(and still am) in the dawn of the conservation push.  We, as seven-year-olds were shown VHS films of large front-end-loaders trudging around the landfill.  Trash, as far as the eye could see.  We were being told this was our future.

Thirty years later it hasn't happened.  We have not become overrun by garbage, yet.

In the Back To The Future sequel, Doc Brown needed fuel for the fusion reactor in his time-traveling exotic(and highly customized) automobile.  He had a slot on the back of the car labelled "Mr. Fusion", into which he put anything he could find, like in the film he put common garbage from an alley, banana peels, empty potato chip bags, anything.

The trick to waste-to-energy is take the approach of making it a zero-waste proposition, like carbonized material being made into inks or something, preferably something that need not be sanitary, or sewn/hewn into building materials, something of a carbon fiber, instead of "wood products", which are our nice trees.

We don't appreciate the trees until they are gone, you know.

Whoever finds a usage for the waste gases will be declared the winner of the whole thing, I guess.

Friday, July 28, 2017

Movie idea: The Three Loves Of Charlie Earl.

First: It was a whirlwind. Dance and drinks. Few weeks in the apartment, then its off to a house, co-signed and all. Charlie Earl cuts grass outside with his self-propelled pushmow, meaning he just walks behind it with a hand touching it, like a dum-dum. Laura in upstairs bath, meaning to climb out of the tub, but slips. Her head goes through the window and is severed CLEAN-OFF by the glass. Her head rolls outside across the backyard and stops of front of Charlie Earl's self-propelled pushmow. Charlie is completely confused.

An end to confusion.

Title Card: Given over to waste.

Second love. It goes slower this time. Charlie is gun-shy about co-habitating. They have sleepovers though, and brunches in their underoos. It's good. Charlie leaves one morning in his British Racing Green MGB. She runs alongside the car. Charlie makes a game of it, grabbing hold of her hand, Helen's hand. His grip slips. She grabs hold more firmly. She trips over a root, and falls, before Charlie Earl can let go. Her body is pulled beneath the back wheel of the car.

Charlie stops the car in the next forty feet and looks back incredulously at another ruined love.

Title Card: Succumbed to Ruin.

Third Love: Angela the angelic goth girl. Things are more subdued this time. Charlie Earl just kinds of lets it happen. He's becoming jaded. He leaves her in the truck at the discount superstore while he goes inside for vitamins, underwear and a USB flashdrive. Back in the car, the engine is running and the air-conditioning is blaring, which happens to be filling the car with carbon monoxide. Angela peacefully goes to sleep, like an unwanted kitten.

Title Card: "Blessed Are The Sleepy, For They Soon Drop Off."

World goes to hell in a hand basket. The dead are coming back to life. Kristinna Lokken gets her American flag bikini. She rigid-mounts a high-caliber automatic on the back of a 2-ton flatbed truck. Finally, she puts on her open-toed heels.

Charlie Earl is consulting with his pastor, a Methodist of many years. One of Lokken's stray bullets hits the ESV in the pastor's hand and pages go EVERYWHERE. They scatter, babies. Charlie ducks until the truck is gone and goes in the sanctuary, where Angela's dead body lies in the coffin.

BUMP.

From the coffin.

The coffin falls and Angela crawls out and gets to her feet. From the back, we see that her dress has been cut by the mortician, to aid in dressing an immobile corpse. She has a nice lily white butt. But that's besides the point.

She stands there, pupil-less, and puts her head down, angelic, almost penitent, waiting for Charlie Earl.

He comes to her side and we pull back to see a wedding tableaux, with Charlie and the dead girl centermass and the sanctuary now full of people.

Midnight. Charlie Earl climbs off of Angela and lays down on his back. She nestles up to him and nibbles at his ear. He begins to muse how his life has finally turned around. We hear crunching suddenly.

She's eating into his brains.

FIN.

Friday, July 21, 2017

Sioux Schnell and Brickbart Schnell, a modern-day Castor and Pollux.

Sioux Schnell earned her masters degree in literature and married a degenerate lifeform:  a published poet.  He was an inconsolable moody marginally-functional alcoholic, and during his hard mood swings, he liked to lay hands on Sioux.  It was fire and ice.  Tender touches one hour, then beatings.

Sioux would hide from him.

He even coaxed her into drinking with him, trying to pull her into his void of emotional chaos.  It was funny because he wrote poems about trees and leaves.

But man was he an asshole.

Meanwhile Sioux's brother Brickbart read something on the internet.  Which, reading on the internet, is like putting a gun to your head, sometimes.

He played a lady.  Made her think he was in love with her, so she would become his girlfriend.  He had no hopes of closing the deal with her, so, at her behest, he went to a physician and was prescribed Viarga(tm).

The pretense had worked.

He crushed the pills and snorted them up his nose!  Instantly, he was like an omniscient, all-knowing superman!  But there was one problem.  The act rendered his eyes useless.  He was completely blind!

But now he knew too much.  Everything made sense.  In his mind, there were no questions, no worlds to conquer, and suddenly there was not a sense of wonder in anything.

So he committed sepaku.  By waiting, sitting in his lonesome bedroom for the next eighty years, in nature reclaimed him.

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

A fiction on special powers of perception.

"gimme some hair-wan" I said.  While he grabbed it from the plastic cooler he kept his stash in, I talked some more: "Got the Ford fixed."

He brought back the cash crop.  "Them fat women see that Ford tearing ass down the thoroughfare," he said,  "they'll throw something on you.  Whether you want it or not."

"Cowl-induction cold-air intake", I said, vacantly, inspecting the product.  "I was born with a cowl over my face.  That supposed to mean you got the second sight."

"That 'tornado' mess you write on that other site?" he said sitting down and opening a beer.

"No, man" I said.  "Like a sixth sense."

"The touch, you mean?" he said.

"If that's what its come to, then yar" I said.

I looked at the heroin.  I hoped it wouldn't stop my heart this time.  I had took to hitting alone.  I'd be a goner if it went wrong.

He took a sip of beer and said "the ESPN in 3-D!".  I heard the beer cap clink against the porch floor.

As I walked away, I heard him say, "bet the doctor thought it was a pumpkin-head."

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

teevee land apocalypse

My grandma loved Pernell Roberts.  I loved my grandma.  She also liked Little Joe.  But Little Joe was her buddy.  Pernell Roberts was her man.  I have a love/hate relationship with Little Joe.  I've always thought of him as a swashbuckling child of privilege.  Like JFK Jr without the planes and boats.

I saw Little Joe shoot a snake in midstrike once.  Didn't change my opinion of him.  Just fool's luck.  Women loved him, then left him.  What did they find out after getting close: what intimate detail pushed them away?

Pernell Robert was a scholar and a solitary man, quiet and dignified, and my grandma could believe he was being loyal to her as she tuned in every week, that he would be there, unattended, waiting for her attentions.

Pain was the highway.

The boys left early with their straw hats on, barefoot, fishing poles in hand.  One of the boys had the wicker kreel to put the caught fish in.  But in truth, they only wanted one fish: the big one, the king bass of the whole pond.

They fished until late afternoon, when it started getting so hot a haze was coming off the top of the pond.  They put their straw hats over their faces and dozed in the heat, while now and then sharing sips off of still-cool wellwater from a big Mason jar.

They saw a bare arm just under the surface of the water, out near the middle of the pond.  They decided to head home and tell their parents.  On the way, their barefeet padded against the orange dirt, and their fishing poles beat at the roadside weeds.

The pond was so far off the beaten path, so out-of-mind, that it didn't have a name like most other ponds.  But it was in McKinnon, which was place of woods and rolling hills, named after a trapper of old.

Dispatch sent Kurtzweil out.

He pulled Sandy's dead body out of the pond, crying all the while, thinking of his own wasted youth and now discarded dreams.  He put her on the bank, with her seaweed colored eyes staring up at the placid, sleepy sky, while Kurtzweil himself had a good cry at remembering his own past failings.

The sheriff and the other boys came.  Kurtzweil thought how the sheriff would tell the parents of Sandy about what happened.  Just then, the sheriff asked Kurtzweil to go see the parents, and hurry up before they heard it from someone else.

Son of a...

Later, he went into Wallsmark(tm) while sipping on a Cheerwine(tm), and descended on the clothespin aisle.  Ideas were coming to him, ideas that opened a mental pathway to a transcendent level of pain, and pain was the only way to advance, Kurtzweil had just reasoned.

Here was the pathway.

Monday, July 17, 2017

I saw the water, once; my heart burns there, too.

I saw, in her sock drawer, a picture of her fishing.  She had a turtle on the line.  She was laughing in glee.  Bare arms.  Warm weather clothes.  Smell of sweat lurking under the perfume, and a sprig of the eau de baby powder.

How I wanted to die, then.

How I felt harmed, hurt, with my mind bleeding within, the cranial pressure building, my memories fogging away, body parts beginning to convulse!

I said I loved her.

I said I loved her not.

I played with her "back massager" when she wasn't looking.  One of her kids came to the door and I threw the huge pink apparatus in disgust, as if it had been attacking me.

While she showered, I tried on her reading glasses.  "Look, I'm an idiot, now" I said softly.  Then I shuddered with revulsion.

I didn't change underwear or socks all weekend.  For luck.  My lucky "get ass" gear, ye ken?

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Bootleather.

The hold-up had went bad.  The money and our dynamite was gone.  Jodie dead.  Ted B.

So I was on foot, walking through the desert after the horse went down.

Someone in the hills kept flashing me in the eyes with a mirror or something shiny.  Probably one of those sorry-ass injuns, half-drunk.  Couldn't see sh*t off that.

Stumbled over a rattler.  Felt the tips of its fangs.  Luckily, my boot leather took the bite.  I felt the cold venom shooting down my leg, dampening my pants leg too.

Ocean's Two.

"You were in the movie Fargo" I said to the clerk, a short ginger man on the backside of middle age.  Damned if he didn't look like that actor fellow.

"Nar" said the clerk.  "I always been here.  We all always been here."  I didn't quite understand that last part, like he thought this was a dream or something.

But it was about to get very real, real fast.

Clarence pulled his stuff and wanted to do a Sam Peckinpah on the little fellow, several plugs to the chest.  I kept cool, just kind of playing off of Clarence.

The little man went crazy as the back door walloped.  Someone was coming.

"SHE'LL KILL YOU ALL!!!" said the short fellow.  The William H. Macy of a store clerk.

Clarence was running wild, f*cking-up sh*t.  Knocking stuff off shelves, and sometimes entire shelves put over into the floor.

And there she was.

Sex and attitude.  Black leather.  High-heel boots.  Big scatter gun.  Librarian glasses.  The glasses had a chipper yellow Tweety bird in each of the furthermost corners, Tweety from the Looney Tunes.

"This one is mine" I said.  Suddenly, I felt like a big, mean, old puddy-tat.

She cleaned-up on us, catching me a glancing blow with the scatter gun, but surprising Clarence around one of the aisles.

I unloaded and didn't land one shot.  I knew, now unloaded, I would get my ass handed to me.

She seemed satisfied, having made us look silly.  And the back door walloped again, then the little store got quiet.  I went to Clarence.  He was in a bad way, hurt bad.

"I'll remember you to Jules and the girls" I said.  And he died.  Or I guess he died, because he got real still then I walked away, back to the front.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Providence smiles, betimes.

From Suun Li, in the morning post:

Mikl.  May the sun shine rays of love and prosperity upon the open grass.  I write to ask if I may stay in your rooms in an upcoming trip.  Suun Li want see the Tittagglia exhibit, and stay for the hotdogs and slaw.

In response(from me, Mikl):

Dearest sour moon, Suun Li:  I've afraid the whole thing is quite impossible.  Just now I have, quite by accident, severed three toes, in chopping the firewood.  I shall be discommoded for some time to come and fractionally unable to attend to you, my dearest.

I was almost hoping for some kind of infirmity, that maybe I would go drink the dark creek water and catch the yellow fever, the kind where you have sharp stomach pains and the screaming diarrhea.

But providence smiled on me and I chopped off three toes instead.

So there.

Sunday, July 9, 2017

the doors of perception

fade in.

The Doors track, Not To Touch The Earth begins.

we see trees, a gravel road, and a cabin sitting idle.

The couple stops their SUV there.  Takes luggage in.

Wife fries bologna while husband tweets deviant poetry.

Back in the city, hubbie's brother is reading the poetry and smiling.

Things take an ugly turn back at the cabin during a game of Scrabble.  There is no dictionary to check the words.  They could look the words up on the phones, online, but the phones are off, recharging.

Before you know it, they've fought all over the house, with the husband getting the gun out of the nightstand and threatening her with it.

Meanwhile, on the tv:  Bonanza.  A horse bucks Little Joe, takes his gun and wallet, hits him over the head with the butt of the gun.  Joe stays dazed the remainder of the hour, even as he tries to cook Hot Pockets in Hop Sing's wok.  In fact, during the cooking the dazed Little Joe almost falls onto the gas flame on the stove.

The husband has the wife cornered.  He puts down the gun, so he can yell and flail his hands at the same time.

You don't understand me, and such, he says.  I feign the anger here, but trust that he was mighty cheesed, and the wife plenty afraid for her own safety.

Wife fires gun at husband's head.

His head recoils!  He's hit!

He grabs at his ear.  His left ear lobe is severed.  He has black-colored powder burns on his face.

The ear lobe has fallen in a basket of dusty potpourri which has long since outlived its usefullness.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

mytovocal transmiklism: a voenide for the health of the masses.

The drums slammed.  The walking bass thump thump thumped.  The young, dumb girls swayed, entranced.  Mikl ran onto the stage, from stage left, and began....

"PDDDDDDDDDDD  ah-summertime!"  There were murmurs from the crowd.  He had gotten their attention.

"Your daddy is rich" he sang.  "And your momma is good looking.  So hush, little baby, don't you cry."

In Mikl's mind, the snowbird slowly danced.  Crystalline eyes sleepy.

"One of these days, you're gonna rise up singing" sang Mikl.

The audience could contain themselves no longer; they all came forward at once and took a handful of Mikl, devouring the entertainer.  In the last seconds of his life, he knew he was truly fortunate to be broadcast in such a dull and final way, like an open-air fart dispersing into the atmosphere.

Mikl joined Janis Joplin in the spacial ether.

Saturday, July 1, 2017

the alternate 9/11. call it a GTE for "gran turismo enduro-spec"

I don't think they wanted the buildings to fall.  The plan was to severely damage the buildings, leaving the works in such a condition that the buildings would be condemned for occupancy.  These would eventually be demolished and the Freedom Tower would be erected in its spot.

But the operation when tits up when the first building fell.  Building seven?  Moot.  People for years thought building seven was wired with explosives, just waiting for Larry Silverstein to give the order: "pull it".  In the afternoon, the building returned to the dust.

Just a thought.

Maybe they shot down flight 93.  You ever think about that?  But instead we have a hero in the cell phone guy.  "Let's roll."  He's a hero either way, confronting the hijackers bravely.

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Joe must have been a hell of a man. Past tense, turds. Past tense.

The two swinger idiots wore funerary garb, looking like dining companions in the Henry James.  Joe must have been a hell of a man.

Mil Lesions still wanting to torment the first people he saw that day.  And there were the two swingers.

Free groceries for a month.  The suffering of my enemies!

I should also start a poll.  I've been thinking about litigation against Walmart for my time at Supercenter #1010.  Psychological damage from that experience put me out-of-step for a number of years, costing me in potential income and missed opportunities.

But I likes to high-step, and Joe is just as dead.  So let's not mourn.  Lets have a New Orleans style memorial with a parade train and all that.  Put some liquor in the blonde, the one that doesn't trust the government suddenly.

Monday, June 26, 2017

commonly-held syllogisms and truisms.

you know

that fat boy

got some

candy.

go check

the

battery rack.

In the dark

it's all

the same.

Baah!  Too much monkey business!  Signs, signs, everywhere are signs, barking on the ceiling, breaking my mind.

Friday, June 23, 2017

Under the Starry Western Sky(a story) pt 1

Jimbard swept the saloon floor while Moley and Coulton took the liquor bottles off the shelves and put them under the bar, out of sight, and neatly, politely out of mind.  Don't judge them too harshly for having church service in the saloon: it was a big room, it was already there, and it had a working piano that was mostly tuned.  Jimbard was like an encyclopedia of music.  He moved from songs about lovers and yellow roses, seemlessly into hymns on Sunday morning.  He had the gift of music, but thank goodness he did not sing alongside his playing.

A wagon came along outside, which was a bit of a rarity.  A lot of people stopped what they were doing and looked at the new thing.  It had "Rocky Top Gazette" stenciled on the side in the color of fresh blood.  Soon it was stopped at the old newspaper office, the Side of the Hill Democrat office, which had been closed-up now for about twelve years.  Marshall Kimball and Braithwaite's old dried-up aunt were down there with the wagon, watching two hulking plains boys take the desks and the printing press from the building.

Ralph Dunham awakened late to the bright mid-morning sky and singing birds.  He had a trace of a sore throat from his snoring, pulling in the night air.  He stumbled to his feet, already fully-dressed, with even his boots on, and he went to the cabin to find some breakfast.  Inside, he discovered his possessions had been rifled during the night.  He made a note to buy a lock in town later.

Back in town, came another wagon, and on the Lord's day.  This one was a big covered wagon with a bum wheel.  The wheel lolled crazily, and on the front of the big wagon.  The smithy and hostler was in the same shop with a big sign out front.  That's where this one stopped.  A hog that had been following along behind stopped, too, and began to sniff at the ground.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

a mcfattigus! a mcfattigus! my kingdom for a mcfattigus!


I bathed, making the waters grey water.  But then on the trek up the mountain, a thirst overcame me and I drank the grey water and its froth.  It gave me stomach cramps, and I wanted not to live.

The whole while I still wanted a good friendly Mcfattigus to get into.


I consulted the oracle atop the mountain.  It wasn't her "time of the month"(no visitors scheduled, in other words), so it was nothing doing.  As her servants rushed me out of the room, I was chanting "Mcfattigus, Mcfattigus!", and she was screaming, "no, no, no!"


In times of emotional distress, like me with the horns growing on my head, we see brief visions of the future, but these are hard to interpret: we know not the when and the where of our visions, but accept with a kind of pagan faith that all will elapse as foretold.

But there is so much unseen, and other strong wills that shape the future.



I had three hundred pounds of stones on the wheelbarrow, walking along gingerly, trying to keep the weight balanced, so the whole works did not topple.  Such is not easy.  My fat shook in my jelly arms.  I'm built to lead not to do the menial labor, yet here I was, a menial laboring along like a common proletariat.


I was distracting myself from getting into a willing Mcfattigus.

It was coming down to the wire, with a building pitch, that want, that most epic need, blinding my senses such that I was becoming, not a rational man, but a beast only to be sated by one thing.  Quite irrational, then, and not to be trifled with, not the kind to read the morning post, but the kind to beat the brakes off anybody that looked at me sideways.

On edge.


It gave me a dark turn of thought, like maybe hurting myself.  I have unwittingly hurt myself so much in the past.  I should really consider myself my own worst enemy.  Literally, if I had a wide open Mcfattigus in front of me, I would probably snap an ankle walking up to it.

Like this is not your fate, padawan.



But I can have hope for the future, that the stars will align and the demon will spawn, that the lineage will continue.  I don't want one offspring.  I want four.  Two boys, and two girls.  Got the names picked out already, in fact.

I'll be a good father, too, I think, rising to the challenge.

You know no different.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

more on Ikkemotubbe's grandson BMF.

Ikkemotubbe and the progeny: Little Beaver's Name Game

Little Beaver was growing his reputation, growing it goodly like some Tijuana cannabis.  He was out on a stolen horse one morning and rode square up on a U.S. Cavalry Major eating his breakfast.  In fact, as Little Beaver put two arrows in his flank, the Major was still holding his metal coffee cup.

So he had juice in his camp.

Little Beaver took the eager Something Humping over the hill to the swamp.  They gathered leaves, straw and some mud, and fashioned that into a newborn babe.  When they returned, everyone celebrated the new babe, but in the midst of the joyful doings, everyone stopped, asking, "what is the new lad's name?"

"BMF" said Little Beaver, while Something Humping blushed another shade of brown.

Monday, June 12, 2017

Billion Dollar Idea Numero Uno: The Water Engine

Boy, you want you some torque?  How about some rotating force to go along with that?  How about a hydraulic engine?  That sound like something you can get behind?  That make the Mustang sh*t and git?

You bet it does, little shaver.  You bet it does.

Boy, that idea could be worth more than A BILLION DOLLARS.  Maybe so.  Boy, you should talk to a patent lawyer and get some paper on this thing.  Then make the Henry Ford heirs eat it.

Think I'll blog it instead.  So here's a little picture of an engine that can run on any liquid, even an innocuous and cheaply available liquid like ordinary tap water.  (void where prohibited by law.  excludes rebates and dealer incentives.)


a rough drawing of the entire works.  proposed 4-cylinder configuration.

As a child I had a wild imagination(and I still have that).  I had a little red Hot Wheels car that came with a race track set.  It was between an Italian supercar and a Le Mans prototype racer.  Rear engine.  All that.  I daydreamed that I had a real, life-sized version of the car.  I further dreamed all the other people in the world were gone.  And I just roamed my hometown all day in this supercar.

But I'd need gas.  With no people, there would be no electricity, and no gas pumps working.  Again, I'd need gas.  What if my car had a water engine, that was hydraulic, with no internal combustion?  That would do.  I could ride until the tires fell off.

So there it was.  An engine that runs on fluid pressure.  The bottom end is a Wankel-kind of configuration.  While the top end, as shown, would only guarantee a sustained level of revolutions, never slowing and never speeding up.  Like perpetual motion.  Until friction breaks it down in a couple of decades or so.

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Challenge of the "No-Bots".

Beater One and Duder are shooting laser cannons at the human germs, trying to rid the face of the earth of that viral scum.  Flesh things.  With their mucus and leg itches.

They participate in an exhibition race to demonstrate their stellar superiority against earth machines.  It ends in shouting and hurt feelings.

You knew it would.

Meanwhile, Gator is melting down the scrapped No-Bots to harvest the precious metals from the circuitry.  I think he's making fishing weights, but he says he is dealing in precious metals.

If fishing weights were heirloom quality.

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Miss Havana's 2012 and 2013 versus the Dike-buster Golem.

They were beauties, now loaded for bear, armed enough to take down a whole herd of bears.  They were ready.  Sex and violence co-mingled, like orgasming while getting punched in the nose!

Meanwhile, Michael grabbed hold of Fredo in the Palace proper.  Tracfone executives were there, and the Chek Cola people, big money, all, hoping to open up new markets in the communist burg.  But it was all falling down.  Michael pulled Fredo close: "I know it was you!" he told Fredo, then kissed him smack on the mouth, which confused the weak-minded Fredo.

Michael embracing Fredo, and Fredo's life flashing before his eyes, moments before the kiss.


But make no mistake.  Fredo was scared.  Fredo was fascinated with near-death experiences, and now his whole life was flashing before his eyes!  He knew, in his heart of hearts, this was a green light for assassins to come for him.

The dike-buster golem was tearing buildings apart down the street.



The ppl's were skeert.  Inconsolable.  Only the two women stood in the way of the Dike-Buster Golem, and those two, with tiny delicate ankles and wrists, with that much holding the balance of power.  Miss Havana 2012 stepped-up first, just like her chronology, and was promptly ripped in twain, and then the Golem put his mouth of the cleft of the mortal wound and inflated her like a balloon.  It was grisly.  Her hair turned grey instantly as her body had ripped apart.  In failure, fear had overtaken her, and she was tossed the ground, discarded and to be forgotten, like a hotdog wrapper.






Back at the palace, Fredo was running away from Michael like a scared little girl.  All his journals and research about near-death experiences had not prepared him for the blinding rush of chemicals that overtake the body; his fear had been geniune and over-powering, dominating his otherwise weak but quite practical mind.

The Cliffhanger ending?  A kiss seals the deal.  Miss Havana 2013 kissed the Golem, melting its heart completely and the ending was butterflies and kittens, and not just any kittens, but kittens that looked like both of them, those two that fought then kissed that epic day.

Friday, June 2, 2017

Quis Barr-Finlay

The bike wheel squeaked as he came home from the Piggly-Wiggly.  Some ridiculous mechanical mess.  A bearing or something.  Something needing to be coated in a thick, stinky grease.

He dropped by his Grandma's house.  He landed at my Grandma's house.  He bedded down.

He was stalking his own Grandma.  Imagine his bike in her front yard, with him at the side of the house staring in the kitchen window.  Just couldn't get enough of her.  Couldn't ever seem to get close enough.  Maybe it would help if he just ripped off her skin in one-piece and wore that.

Maybe that would scratch the itch.

Oh goodness.

What is wrong with him?  Did he not rise to the challenge of potty training.  Even then when he was an infant: days with Grandma.  It all comes full circle.  What goes around and all that.

And his mother?  PSSH!  Don't even ask!  He could just walk up to her and push it in!

Thursday, June 1, 2017

female sensitive parts: the epic mcfattigus

I awoke with a dream, and with every second awoke, the dream slid back into the ooze of my subconscious, until it left a residue, like letters erased from a dry-erase board.  My bewildered mother said, "what ail you, mikey?".  I told her gravely, "I had a dream.  And now that dream is gone away from me."

Poison poured in the ear of a sleeper may cause death, or may yet just bring bad dreams!

The Mcfattigus is the thing that shall capture the conscience of the king.  Nattie's mcfattigus, in the early morning, when I've been in the bed too long, and the mind has wandered down some spider hole where it has no business: Nattie's mcfattigus.

Those who have walked before.

Well yell it from the mountaintops.  Mikey had a dream!  My dreams are confused in my conscience, but in the underneath, these are exacting in their mathematics, precise, and constructed by the underworks to instruct the upperworks in the daily strife.  But can I heed what I cannot remember?  Those revelations are fleeting!

The mcfattigus, remembered.

The world is full of them, and many may come to a man, yet a man only need one for all his days.  For a mcfattigus, there has yet been much suffering: the soft cleft with the little tuft of hair, or even hairless yet, bald(to use a gross term), where a man's head might rest and take comfort in the soft eventide.






In the small hours, when the world is quiet, the voice of the little mcfattigus may be heard, in its maniacal tyrade with the voice of a child, a small, delicate voice, but commanding and authoritative in its choice of wording.  Dictating as it were, wreaking havoc, having its want and wanting everything and anything however impossible, under the sun.

a lot of turmoil, over one confused mcfattigus, like an errant sensor in an armed missile.
In the end, bitterness and loss of appeal.  Quietude and body aches.  The raging body part dormant.  Permanent drought on Kopete plain.  Agamemnon dead, and the city a ruin!


Monday, May 29, 2017

lighting out for the territories. Tittagglia's nature retreat.

Tittagglia was at once unhappy with society and stuntified in his own art.  Go to the woods, young man!  So he set out for the unbroken horizon of the uncivilized Northeast.  He travelled to the ends of the roads, then began walking through the woods.  He happened upon Wewick Pond, and thought it delightful enough, so he decided to make camp there.

There was one of those contractor-made beaches of white sand and a raft in the deepwater for diving.  The water was dark but the bottom of the lake was bleach white.

He angled(fished, that is, in the waters), but caught only bullfrogs and turtles.  He knew nothing of preparing them as meals, so he made a little pile of the unluckies, there on the white sand.  He intended to be prodigious in his fishing, cleaning and cooking a daily catch, but nothing doing.  He caught no fish during the entire season.

Instead he wandered the embankments, picking berries.  He lived on that and cornbread made from a generously-sized bag of meal he brought with him.  The darkwater and the meal made good cornbread, but it never stayed with him long.

He painted on the cavewalls nearby, finding them a natural good canvas, and protected from the elements.  He painted half-man half-beast things.  Later when the government conservation officials came by, these caused quite a sensation.  The officials thought the drawings made by indigenous people some two centuries prior, that they were only drawing things they saw everyday in the wood!

So it was a fraud without malicious intent.  Just Tittagglia expressing himself.  And there was Mikl, that lived at the headwaters, which was a little stream that fed the lake on the Northwest side.  Tittagglia had largely avoided Mikl, noting the smell of raw blood around his cabin.  He never took up the invitation to go inside the cabin, his senses warning him of it.

When Tittagglia reached Vancouver eight months later, he stayed in his room at the Chez a long time, often just staring out the window, waiting on that blood smell to retreat so his senses would clear.  Once, in the small hours, he even tried to reproduce some of the pages of Mikl's gastronomy text, but the recounting was so repugnant he forced himself to abandon the enterprise.

Friday, May 26, 2017

over the tracks: a small tale with personal electricity.

a scrap of a lad came by one day with his pony car and said he needed a battery.  "I want you to put it in" he told me.  He picked out one that didn't jibe with the recommendations in the literature, so my hands were tied: I had to refuse service.  all I worked with then were creeps, and lo and behold, the most important of all the creeps was standing right there the whole time, watching quietly, like her mouth didn't work.

note: his pony car was a slime green that was not unlike pea soup, but more vivid.  I thought the thing, if put in a dark garage, would glow.

we did battery installs/replacements.  we sold automotive and lawn/garden batteries.  it was all in the line of duty, I tell you, and not emblematic of anything more.  we worked out of necessity, not preference.  we put the batteries out: we would go in the stock room with the back of the rack open to us, and we would check the slots to see which batteries would go out.  we palletized the batteries, stacking the little heavy muggers tight.  we even had to neutralize acidic spills from the things, and put the sweep-up in a color-coded hazmat container, labeled with our department name and individual handle of a called-what.

my boy was there.  "I know this fucker who..." he would say, and everytime I knew it was a disguised insult.  every.  damn.  time.  he was talking about a date where a girl had a vibrator under the sheets, and he didnt get wise until it was ALMOST TOO LATE.  he almost tore the room door off the hinges getting out.  this was the old motel on US1 near the overpass, where u can look down on the train tracks like one of the gods.

so I put the batteries out when I didn't have anything better to do.  know where to put them batteries?  hell yeah, I do.

dink stephens contra simon rossblat.

they went in the woods.  they walked and walked, slowly making progress through the undergrowth, until they found a bear skeleton.  the muzzle was long, like a dog's muzzle.  Simon gnawed the excess material off the bones, like the gristle and miscellaneous sinews and such.  He then asked Dink Stephens to put the bones in his butt, for his anal pleasure.

Dink relented, thinking the act too intimate a thing to do for his friend.  So Simon went to work on it himself, hiding the carcass as if in a foot locker(his behind), but part-way through he started complaining of fever and fatigue.  He forced Dink to light a fire, though it was a windless 89 Farenheits in the wood that day.

With the fire lighted, Simon fell into a partial-dozing state.  In a vision shared by both men, Simon's spirit animal came out and danced above the fire.  That was Wallace the Squirrel.  Simon started fidgeting, rolling this way and that.  You could hear the bones crunching inside of him!  Finally his eyelids parted, he staggered away from the fire and evacuated his bowels.

Then he was okay.  By taking a dook.

Next time, maybe I'll tell you about Johnny Cake's queen-size whalebone canopy bed that he made after a trip to Kill Devil Hills, NC.

like some puppies and kittens: adorable.

There might be a whopper or two lurking in these pages, but this is ain't Burger King: you damn sure ain't gonna have it your way.

I've got a little space to fill.  That's all.  Don't get bent about it.

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.