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.