- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
On the city streets, in the market square, the people drinking themselves into oblivion
The drummer boy and I play our sad songs of despair coated in warm layers of fuzz, but no one seems to care. No one ever seems to care; that is a theme in my life. My fingers make the chords and my voice brays out the lyrics. They drink their liquor and move their jaws. One woman comes up to us in between songs and asks if we can turn down. I spit in her face. Does she not realize that we are the only things living in this entire block? Can she not see the vagrants wandering the street? Who shall be their street prophet if not me? Who will tell their stories? Afterwards, they pay us in beer and monopoly money. I walk into an alley and am never heard from again.
In a mechanic's shop, waiting to hear bad news
I've taken my car in because it has a rattle like death's bones. I speak to a man covered in tattoos who will not look me directly in the eyes. That's okay; I don't like his shifty gaze, nor do I approve of the color of his eyes. In the waiting room there is a stuffed turkey, an enormous bird, the titan of his race. Someone has plucked out his eyes and replaced them with marbles. When my mechanic tells me the price for the repair, I think of that bird. Suddenly I realize that God is our taxidermist.
In my car, listening to NPR
Outside, the rain falls on my windshield, painting a dismal picture, a smeared visage of melancholy. The radio host speaks of the fall of nations; I wonder how long it has taken them to realize that we are all falling, all of the time. I see a dead fox on the side of the road, its black leggings covered in mud. The radio begs for contributions, but I keep on driving. There is no choice in the matter. We have to reach our destination.
On my couch, a notebook in my hands, the television my noisy master
I glance at the white paper in my lap, trying to will it to write itself. On the screen, nerd stereotypes bicker and drink endless bottles of wine. The cat comes down after awhile, its call a steady moan, a prayer for release. I look at the gut growing out of me. We are not the people we think we are. Everyone else is right.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
Friday, September 25, 2015
I had a college professor who wrote an entire book of poetry devoted to Hitler's facial hair. For my novel Apophenia, which I'm currently editing, I wrote a character based on that professor, whom I named named Gibbons. His poetry, all of which centers on Stalin's mustache, serves to chronicle the personal changes of the protagonist. These poems are ridiculous, but I find myself rereading them and pondering their meaning. I've shared a few of them before, but here they are, collected together.
Stalin’s Mustache: An Affirmation
It wasn’t unexpected, you furry wet leech, that your sexy shimmering shaking would lead to something of an affair, which, now don’t get me wrong, brotha (reduced to the vernacular, yet again), I enjoyed as much as a man/boy/woman/transvestite could, especially when considering the rather fecal circumstances that you are undoubtedly loath to remember, seeing how you shat spanked cummed your way through the interview, filthy hobo that you are, you dirty girl/boy/baby, you ridiculous fat swine, you smelly flea-bitten poopy-eared Commie, you hairy twat, you stinky taint, you delicate beautiful busty whore, I really, really, really, really want to forget/preserve/consume/digest you, but alas, the Dictator prevents it, he is always getting in the way of our bristly porcine love, and I like to think that some day, you and I shall walk together, man and mustache, hand in hand, foot in mouth, genitals joined in whiskery abandon.
Stalin’s Mustache: A Statement of Purpose
What trenches we swam through, you and I, brothers of the crimson cloth, mercilessly slicing throat to throat, all across the battlefields of Europe, each body we killed a drink, a drop, a stone cast upon a rippling lake. The Germans fell with every shot of your rifle, I a passenger, a mere sheathe for your knife, your bullets, your canteen. The Commissaire threatens us with death if we turn back; I could never dream of turning back, having transformed into the veritable death machine I am today. What the man of steel says you perform; what I do is reflected in the gleam of a blade, plunged into a million throats, slicing through Aryans, Jews, political prisoners, clergymen, and any who would oppose those bristly lips, those dark, course hairs that stick in my heart like the thorns of a rose.
Stalin’s Mustache: A Dénouement
Witches tits, that’s what you want. You Want It All, you sniveling coward, you disgrace to your lineage of fat, disease men who shit their britches any time the shit hits the proverbial fan. Your ancestors were bastards; not one of them had a respectable upbringing, and in this day and age, that can’t be ignored, no siree. We eat champs for breakfast—yes, it’s true, just ask anyone—and those who get in the way get curb stomped. Take your polluted bloodlines and go crawling back to the mutts that spawned you. It is likely that you hatched from an egg like a reptile; it is even more likely that your mother tried to devour you, she being a monster, you being a monster’s spawn. Not even a magnificent growth as such that which resides on your upper lip can save you, for you are no man of steel, nor are you a human being. I want the thing that grows on your face, for it speaks to me in heathen tongues, and though I do not know how to answer, I know that whatever I do, you will be there, blocking our love, blocking the very salvation that might make you human. This is your last chance to feel. This is your last chance.
Stalin’s Mustache: A Compromising of Values
How easy it is, by the light of day, to see the errors which we have made in our lives, little pink fragments of brain matter littering the ground where we have walked, lazily, as we always do, to the supermarket, leaving pieces of ourselves behind, sad, mad artifacts for our successors to find and ignore, they being consumed with their own heavy guilt. They tried and failed; we tried and failed. The thing is, no one has ever succeeded at anything. There are various degrees of failure, is what I am saying to you, my mustache. You think you are pristine; you think you are the holy gift of god to man, but I must say, if you are so perfect, why do you look like the sort of thing a middle-aged man would grow? You are someone’s compromise. You are someone partial surrender. You will never be anything more than I make you.
Stalin's Mustache: Renaissance
It is the end of days. The mirror before me is a splintered world reflecting the decaying flesh of a ghoul. Bombs burst outside, fire falling from a mud-grey sky. I look at my hands: they are covered in butcher's blood as though I have just slit the throat of an ox. The glass cracks beneath my feet. Rats scurry in the walls, eager for the promised meat of a thousand murdered souls. They have grown fat off of us; they are familiars, witches' pets, tiny, swarming wolves. All of my teeth are chipped; when I bite down, I taste iron. In my hands is a razor, a crude, worn tool of men who would defy their being. Shaggy thing on my face, you are as precious as any limb or genitalia. You are the heart of me; the pulsating beat which keeps my feet on the earth and the air in my lungs. As they shout and scream, I know I must save you from this. I sever you from my face, mustache. Your bristles will not haunt me. In your death, I will be renewed. Forgive me.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Three years into my obsession with weightlifting and strength training, I thought I'd say a little bit about routines. A a novice, you have the idea that there is a perfect routine that'll make you stronger and bigger than any other one. This is how programs like the Ed Coan deadlift routine and Arnold Schwarzeneggar's training cycle get spread around, as though following these respective programs will make a neophyte deadlift 800 lbs and win the Mr. Olympia. It takes genetics, years of hard work, and a whole lot of drugs to achieve a world record in powerlifting or to become a champion level bodybuilder, which really should be obvious. But nothing is obvious to the novice. The novice consults the internet, as he does in all things, and he finds links to beginner programs like Starting Strength or Stronglifts 5 by 5. Maybe he realizes that he needs to start small and work his way up to an advanced program. The aforementioned Starting Strength is a popular choice. The beginner uses five exercises (the low bar squat, the bench press, the press, the deadlift, and the power clean) and performs 3 sets of 5 three times a week, then he adds weight, usually five or ten pounds, until he can't add any more. This is called linear progression, and it's a fine way to begin a strength training career. But it's not the only way. In fact, I really don't think it matters once you understand the basics of training. Yet the novice has quickly become a zealot. He's gained ten pounds or so, has increased his numbers in those five lifts, and he feels as though he knows everything. He's a regular on the Starting Strength forums, and has joined the cult of personality formed around the program's creator, mediocre powerlifter and average Texan Mark Rippetoe. Rippetoe's philosophy is that you are not a special snowflake. You respond to training the same way that everyone else does; therefore, you need to program exactly like everyone else. Once you're finished with your linear progression, you should tackle an intermediate program like the Texas Method, which focuses on weekly or monthly progress. This is the only way to get strong, just like the low bar squat is the only way to squat. Accessory movements are a waste of time. Deadlifting more than once or twice a week is a waste of time. There are objective truths, is what Mark Rippetoe wants you to think. There is only The Program, and nothing else.
All that's a bunch of bullshit. If you have the determination and the genetic talent, you can lift weights however you want. You can do ten sets of ten; you can workout every single day for hours on end. The routine doesn't matter; there is no best way to lift weights except the way that makes you progress. Plenty of people have no set routine. I don't anymore. I know what exercises I'm going to perform on a given day, but the reps and sets and variation are dependent on how I feel. And it's working great. My training has focused on setting personal records nearly everyday; I got this from John Phung, and it's really revitalized my training. Do what makes you want to lift weights, is what I'm saying. Performing a strict routine that has you doing the same rep ranges every workout is mind numbingly boring. Experiment, like people used to do before the internet consolidated all of human knowledge. Every time I weened myself from a program written by somebody else for somebody else, I've made progress. This is my advice, for whatever it's worth.
Franco didn't give a shit about 5 by 5, and neither should you.
Monday, September 21, 2015
There are a whole lot of fad diets out there, most of them terribly unhealthy and just plain unfun. You know who has fun when they eat? Meatatarians, that's who. You've never seen a healthy-looking vegan, but I guarantee you've seen a healthy-looking meatatarian. You see, the body needs protein to build tissue, and only delicious animal protein contains the proper amino acids to build muscle. Mixing rice and beans together isn't going to cut it, unless you want to see how fast you can clear a room with your excess intestinal fumes. Let's go over the basics of a meatatarian diet.
Breakfast--three eggs, a yogurt, maybe a protein shake mixed with milk. Dairy is delicious and fair game for meatatarians if they have the ability to process lactose. Eggs have a perfect protein rating, which means the body absorbs almost all of the protein. Plus, they are so good.
Second breakfast--Whatever meat dish is left over in the fridge, maybe a small steak. Meatatarians eat like hobbits, and therefore have multiple editions of various meals. Don't skip second breakfast! It'll ruin your day.
Lunch--Fried chicken, a meat sandwich, a hamburger, any animals you can catch. Lunch is my favorite meal of the day. I usually pick from various guilt-free options, including fried chicken. Every once in a while you should probably eat some chicken liver in order to obtain essential vitamins. Don't forget about your organ meats! You don't want to get scurvy!
Second lunch--Maybe a meat pizza, meatballs, spaghetti, or a really fat chihuahua. Just like with second breakfast, skipping second lunch is a recipe for disaster. When I forget to eat second lunch, it's hard to make it through the day.
Dinner--Roast beast, steak, pulled pork, sausage, any stray people who look suitably delicious. Dinner is just the best. I usually eat red meat because it tastes really good. Do what you want, though. Being a meatatarian is about being unrestricted by society's rules.
Midnight snack--Raw fat, buckets of blood, anything that moves. Our ancestors were primarily carnivorous. Obviously we haven't evolved at all in the past 200,000 years. Why not eat as they did?
Have I convinced you? Doesn't this diet sound delicious? Let's look at some famous meatatarians.
The T. Rex from Jurassic Park!
Future President Donald Trump!
Nineteenth century strongman Arthur Saxon!
Save the planet, eat all the animals, the human ones as well. Hopefully President Trump legalizes cannibalism so that us meatatarians can stop living in hiding. Let us look forward to a new future, one full of meat!
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Don't mess with Sasquatch when he's taking a crap.
Well jabronis, it's been a long while since I schooled ya'll in some paranormal crap. My day job's been keeping me busy, and I haven't had much time for my true passion, which is defending the great city of Hillsdale from various ghouls and hood rats. One beastie that's eluded me is the most famous of all American monsters, Mr. Bigfoot, playa extraordinarie, AKA skunk ape, ape drape, yeti, etc, etc. Last year, I made ya'll a guide, but I think it's time that I updated it, seeing how new information has been discovered. I FOUND MYSELF A BIGFOOT YA'LL. I got the skuzzy video to prove it. Unfortunately, Art's loser brother Gary borrowed my camera to make a sex tape before I got to copy the video to my computer, and he's been incognito for the last week and a half, so hopefully the evidence is still on there, but I wouldn't count on it.
The exact circumstances of my bigfoot sighting are shrouded in mystery, but let's just say I was taking one of my best hood rats down to the river for some hanky-panky and we got more than we bargained for, so to speak. She was knobbing down on my crankshaft and I was looking at the river and wondering how many toxic tons of semen were flowing down the Ohio at that moment, when we heard some ruckus in the park. "Woah, there, shortie," says I, "I better go check that out," 'cause I figured it was some trailer trash fornicating on top of the slide and/or monkey bars, and Gordy Weaver don't get no blowie while munchkins are roaming about. So I jump out and get my Louisville Slugger, which I keep handy in the back seat, and I march on over toward the swing set, and lo and behold, what the fuck do I see but a goddamn Sasquatch with a trashcan shoved over his head like he was the high school nerd and the football time just got done having themselves a time on his behalf. Even from fifty feet away I could smell his ass; he smelled like someone masturbated into an old sock and then left it out in the sun for a few eons in order to marinate it. "Virgina, go get my camera!" I yell. That hood rat wasn't the brightest, and I guess it pissed her off when I called her Virgina, 'cause that wasn't her name or something. I turn around and she's not there, and when I turn back the goddamn Bigfoot is standing right before me, trashcan still on top of his head. He murmurs something, I couldn't understand it because I don't speak Sasquatch. "Keep cool, brotha," I tells him. He lets out this low roar and it sounds kinda sad, like somebody shit in his cereal.
"Yo homes, what's up?" yells some asshole, and I look and it's Gary Howard, and he's got his arm around my hood rat. I put my finger to my lips to tell him to shut up, but he walks right up to me and slaps me on the back. "Finders keepers!" he whispers, and I tell him to look at the goddamn Bigfoot and he finally does. The hood rat screams; Gary grabs the baseball bat out of my hands and starts wailing on the trashcan, and the poor Bigfoot's screaming now, his ear drums likely shattered, and I sprint to my car to get my camera to capture the whole pathetic scene. This shit continue for about twenty minutes, the Bigfoot running around, arms flailing, Gary chasing him with the baseball bat. Eventually he manages to bust out of the trashcan. Gary takes one swing at him and the Bigfoot catches the bat, jerks it out of his hands, and snaps it in half like a toothpick. Man and beast are staring at each other, eyes locked, and I'm thinking that this is the final end for Gary Howard, but then the monster turns and jumps right into the river! We watch him swim toward Kentucky. So if you ever wondered if Bigfoot would fuck his cousin, I guess you have your answer. I'll let you guys know when I get my footage back. You'll be seeing me on CNN and shit.
Monday, September 14, 2015
We've all asked ourselves the question: how much dinosaur porn is too much dinosaur porn? The answer, of course, is different for different people. The first step is determining whether or not you have an addiction. When you come home from work, is the computer your first stop? Do you have to watch an animated .GIF of two tyrannosaurs boning to relax? Because that's okay. That's normal. Not being able to go fifteen minutes without imagining the giant cloacae of two prehistoric reptiles banging together is not normal. Not being able to walk down the street without imagining random passersby orally stimulating the orifices of dromaeosaurs is not normal. Stealing your child's dinosaur toy and disappearing into the bathroom with it for half an hour is not normal. Let's figure this out. You can still be you.
It took a long time for you to become comfortable with your need to view dinosaur porn. People said it was weird, that it was unnatural. How could you explain it to them? You were attracted to these magnificent creatures. Perhaps it was other animals when you were younger, but dinosaurs were the ones you stayed with. Think about it. The long tails. The massive heads. The birdlike feet. Scales. Feathers. Claws. Who wouldn't get turned on by those things? Hell, sometimes you stare at a pencil too long and you start wondering where you could put it, where it would feel best. Random objects. Dumb ideas. The thought of Donald Trump's wig caressing your rump. What a world it is. All these things that turn you on. But nothing gets your blood pumping like some dirty pterodactyl porn. You don't need to explain yourself. There's nothing wrong with getting a boner from two giant bat creatures tearing at each other like only one's going to make it.
But suddenly everything starts going to shit. Your spouse feels neglected because he/she doesn't have a bony sail protruding from his or her backbone, and you're really into sails at the moment. Little Bobby Stevens isn't getting to school on time because his dad is shoving a triceratops toy up his asshole. The cat shit in your shoes because you didn't feed it. Your work performance is slipping. Your boss stopped by your cubicle to ask if you still wanted your job. Well of course you want your job. Dinosaur porn costs money. The free shit isn't worth jack. You can't masturbate to a bad CGI image of a woman from the uncanny valley getting raped by an anthropomorphic iguanodon. You can barely tell it's an iguanodon; it looks like a goddamn monster, not a dinosaur. Somebody gave it a goddamn penis. You look your boss in the eyes and tell him that you want to keep your job. You've got dino porn to live for. It's time that you got some help.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Looking for: Someone to share my darkest secrets with and to help take off this goddamn costume
Hobbies: Being ridiculously rich, bat-accessorizing everyday items, punching poor people in the face
Bio: I AM THE DARK THAT PROWLS THE NIGHT, THE FORCE THAT CANNOT BE TAMED...EVIL FLEES IN MY PRESENCE; HOWEVER IM REALLY JUST AN AVERAGE GUY THAT LIKES TO CHILL IN FRONT OF THE TV AND WATCH SOME HOME AND GARDEN NETWORK, AMIRITE? I HAVE A BUTLER AND HE DOES EVERYTHING FOR ME. ONE TIME I HAD A TEENAGE WARD BUT THOSE DAYS ARE OVER AND THANKS TO JESUS I AM A CHANGED MAN. PLEASE COME LIVE IN MY CREEPY GOTH MANSION WITH ME. LOOKS LIKE ALFRED FORGOT TO TAKE OFF THE CAPS LOCK. MAYBE YOU CAN HELP ME WITH THAT TOO.
Age: Doesn't matter
Looking for: Someone that I don't have to club over the head every night, who comes willingly to my cave
Hobbies: Bashing bones with other bones, jumping up and down like a monkey, pawing at the dirt and praying for rain
Bio: Does anybody know anything about farming? I need some help with a garlic patch. Also need somebody who knows how to use 100 percent of an animal and who can cook a good bear brain soup. If you don't mind a man who smells like shit, has a three inch brow, and who can crush walnuts with his bare hands, give old Grog a call. Don't have a phone number. I hang out at the public library on Tuesdays between ten and twelve o'clock.
Age: 20 going on 55
Looking for: Meth, a gun, his pants
Hobbies: Doing meth, making meth, selling meth, eating cat litter, eating cats
Bio: Yo, just got out of the joint and looking to score big. Need a sugar momma to help get my business established. Would be best if you owned an abandoned building in the shitty part of town, or maybe a trailer out in the woods. Need a lot of guns, too. If you have cats, that's a plus, but don't get too attached to them. Sometimes I see nothing but the lights in the woods. Really dig Cat Stevens. Sometimes I piss my pants.
Looking for: a spiritual partner to help me on this wonderful journey called life
Hobbies: growing mad radishes, smelling bad, letting my beard engulf my face
Bio: What do city girls know! What does anybody know, you know what I mean? Life is this big confusing mess and we just gotta find some meaning in it. If you are interested in ending the rat race and ready to embrace nature, come on down to my little farm. We raise fresh organic radishes that cost 3.99 a pound. Nothing like putting your hands into Mother Earth's womb. Smell that earthy goodness! Could be my BO too. Let's smell like onions together!
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Well it has been awhile, folks. Not much happening in my little corner of the world. The neighborhood kids are still throwing toilet paper all over my house. Everyone's dog poos in my yard. My boss thinks that I'm a moron. Romantically, I haven't had much luck. Yep. Everything's peachy. Is time a flat circle? I dunno. That seems a little depressing, don't you think?
I did catch a mouse today. I'd been trying to catch the little fella for weeks. I got myself one of those no-kill mouse traps and baited it with a piece of apple. Turns out mice really do like cheese more than apples! He didn't take the apple bait, but he jumped right on the piece of cheese. Was a cute little guy, just the size of a matchbox car. I looked at him for a while, his black eyes peering back at mine. His respiration had fogged up the trap. He ate most of the cheese. I took him outside and walked a few blocks over and let him out. He sat in the grass, staring up at me before scurrying into a culvert. "Bye, Rupert," I whispered. I hope he comes back.
One of the neighborhood boys saw me doing all of this, a strapping young boy that goes by the name Fat Roll for some reason, I've gathered. He sat on his bike, his beefy legs straddling the cycle, his hat slightly askew on his rotund head. "Howdy there, chap," I said. "Nice day for a ride, eh?" Fat Roll continued to stare at me, his mouth silent. He had blubbery lips and freckles on his cheeks. "Stay in school, drink milk, and don't do drugs!" I told him, placing my hands on my hips. We seemed to be caught in a stare off of some sort. Fat Roll's eyes had a darkness behind them, an unfathomable blackness. "What do you want?" I asked, my voice changed. "Do you know what I know?" Still the boy said nothing. "Did you see the mouse?" I asked. "That's what we all are, my friend. Little creatures trapped in cages. Sometimes, we are let out. Other times, we are thrown into the abyss." I was really talking nonsense, an unfortunate habit I have, but the kid seemed to know what I was saying. Suddenly, he put his feet to the pedals of his bicycle and took off down the street. I wonder if he'll write me a letter. Maybe I've made a new friend.
Monday, September 7, 2015
Thursday, September 3, 2015
That just describes it all, doesn't it? Everything you've been thinking. Outside, the cars move down your street; birds land in your trees, singing their song; squirrels gather their nuts and shake their addled brains, but you, good sir, you can't help thinking of anything but butts. Big butts. Round butts. Butts that move like two giant ham-hocks. Tanned, gorgeous behinds. Fat, sweaty pieces of meat. Some butts you'd like to sit down to dinner with and pour a glass of chianti and just have a nice conversation. Other butts you'd like to attack like a ravenous hyena. Some butts you'd like to smack. Others you'd like to kick. You'd probably like to smell some butts. Others, not so much. All in all, it doesn't matter. You have butts on the mind.
When you close your eyes and try to sleep, butts fill your mind's eye. They jiggle across your screen at work, when you're trying to get real stuff done. You go to the restroom and you see someone's pants sagging down, their butt crack visible. "Goddamn," you whisper and they look at you strangely. You may have a problem. That wasn't sexy butt. That was maintenance man butt. You hate to admit it, but you're beginning to think that a butt is a butt. This puts you in a philosophical mood. Is an ass truly an ass? Should you be happy with whatever butt you have? Nobody's got Kim Kardashian's butt, true, not even Kim Kardashian. That butt is a composite work made of astrophysics, plastic surgery, and Photoshop. Now you're depressed. You think you've been lusting after a butt that doesn't exist, all of these years, and now, having hit the bottom of the barrel, you can't tell one ass apart from another. Life, for you, has been about butts for so long. What reason do you have now to get up in the morning and drink your coffee?
Then you see it, walking down the street. A big ass, both cheeks wobbling in the hot summer sun, protected by a pair of yoga pants. This lady has a pretty face, but it's her butt you're interested in. It moves with a life of its own, up and down, up and down, constrained by the thin fabric. You press your face against the window, your tongue lolling out like an animal's. "Jesus," you say. "Butts." It's amazing how life can be restored to a desiccated corpse in one quick second. All you needed was a good butt. You can pay the bills now. You'll put food down your gullet. This mindless routine you follow, the monotonous patterns of life, it is all just secondary. "Hummmm," you say. "Butts."
You are a true philosopher.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
I sit here, drinking tasteless coffee, the humid night air still lingering in my ancient house. A cat comes down the stairs, a beast of bones, and bellows, its complaints unintelligible and impossible to comprehend. "What do you want, goddamnit?" I ask, staring at my collection of dinosaur toys. A carnotaurus stares back, its horned head made of plastic. My fingers feel like plastic. They move on the keyboard and words pop up on screen. Just the act of typing is satisfying, even if what I'm typing is just as incomprehensible as the old cat's screams. "We're all characters," I say, almost spitting out my coffee. Some things you should pay more for. I've always tried to pay the lesser amount.
I could write about my hurt back. Maybe the Goon has more to say about politics, which are his specialty. There's poetry in the heart of Mitch R. Singer, though you have to look deep to find it. The Hillsdale Paranormal Society is always making the most of dire situations. But I don't know. None of those characters sound interesting at the moment. Nothing does. That's the thing about writer's block. Your capacity to create doesn't leave you. The desire does.
Fresh coffee hits my cup. Nothing could be worst than the first cup. Who likes cold coffee? It's like drinking cold mud. The water in my pipes tastes like blood. Here I am, listing various opinions. Isn't that all a writer does? You put shit down on paper. It requires an eighth-grade proficiency with grammar and a drinking problem. That's what I said once, in a novel that sits on my shelf, waiting to be edited. Apophenia is the human tendency to see patterns in random information. That's all a writer is, a dispenser of random information.
This coffee is much better. It has taste. Gevalia is the good stuff. The click-clack of animal claws greets me, and my dog's ugly head leers upward. It wants food. How would you like to be fed little bits of processed grain and animal waste? I wonder if a human could live off of dog food. It seems likely. Dogs evolved to eat our garbage, after all. You can live off of eating garbage.
It's going to be better, I honestly believe. There is no shortage of information to be dispersed in this head. Some of it you might find humorous, or horrible. Pointless Venture is the most successful creative endeavour I've undertaken. We just hit a milestone of 669 views for August. Sure, most of those were probably spam-bots, but at least I've given them some material. Watch out for the Goon. His apple-picking days are numbered.