Thursday, October 27, 2016
This election is rigged, folks. We gotta do something about it. Those able-bodied enough to engage in voter intimidation are welcomed to exercise that god-given right. I am not one of those patriots, however. The only form of protest or rebellion I can participate in is the ancient ritual of pants-filling. If Hillary wins, by God, I'm going to do it.
There's a taco bell close to my place. I'll have my nurse drop me off there with about ten dollars of spending money, or ammunition as I like to call it. My digestive system could never handle the call of the border. I eat a taco and I'm a ticking time bomb.
Then it's on to Wal-mart. It's quite a hike, and quite frankly, I don't know if I'll make it. But once I get inside, I'm letting it rip. I'll try to hold it until an appropriate trigger, like if I see a Mexican family or a college kid. Soon as some dreadlock-haired doofus crosses my path, BOOM, my pants are crapped. The smell will hit them immediately. I'm told its reek resembles the stench of carrion after several days alongside the highway. Aforementioned doofus's eyes will start to water. Passersby will vomit into any nearby receptacle. Children will run screaming. Someone will call the cops. Through it all I will continue my journey, a walking bioweapon sowing feculence and ruin.
They will listen then, when I have pooped my pants. I'll tell them about how they failed to prevent the disintegration of our great republic. I'll tell them that I am a harbinger of the apocalypse, just a taste of the horrors to come. They'll take away our guns, our churches, our ability to say socially unacceptable things. Well come and take it, I say. See if you can get close when I've filled my pantaloons with two pounds of poorly-digested taco supremes.
I see myself as a figure to inspire future generations. They'll write about my dung-coated britches the same way they wrote about Rosa Parks. Perhaps I'll spark a movement, a united brotherhood and sisterhood of elderly patriots, filling their pants in unison, taking one last collective shit before the world they knew changes. Because that's what this is about, really. Change. Everything changes and I'm plain sick of it.
You can hold your nose, liberal America, but I'm letting loose. There might be some friendly causalities along the way, but the foundation of our country must periodically be refreshed with the dookie of revolutionaries. You may think I crapped my pants because of incontinence. But I did it for America.
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Just discovered this awful old poem in a notebook. I probably wrote it at a slow farmers' market, hah.
The Human Condition
rain falling like black leather,
A smitten fool counts his change,
Blood between his fingernails,
A thesis hanging on his doorway.
"What do you smell?
What seems to be on the wind,
Repeating its name like an epitaph,
The last chapter of a banned book?"
He doesn't know; what can you know,
Standing in the fetal position,
Hunched over like a man taking his last breath?
Love is the grease that sticks in his teeth,
Love is the weight that stoops his shoulders,
Love sits in his chest like an atom bomb.
The sky changes, its mood as sour as beer.
"What do you feed a dying man?
The same gruel you feed everyone else."
Who is this stranger speaking to the wind,
This wretch haunting alcoves, smoking steam,
Making plans that will never materialize?
He is you or me; he is just a vessel,
A trick played by a bad magician,
A rock that moves and speaks.
You strike anything enough,
It will crumble.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
So the internet died today. Magical hackers from the planet Russia shot so many packets up the ass of the net's backbone that it can't walk straight for days. You try in vain to quickly find a nice rack on Google image search but that little circle keeps spinning like it has nothing better to do. Visiting youtube is like being transported to the year two-thousand. Everything is so goddamn slow. How the hell is one supposed to receive their daily dose of dopamine? At this rate, we'll be tossing sticks at one another outside like they used to do in the old days when we weren't a race of Candycrush-playing cyborgs. Hello Reality, it's me. Nice to see you again. I guess.
What were the old days really like? Phones were stuck on walls and people actually bought music and video games from stores. Libraries were used by regular people and not just hobos looking at pornography. People talked to one another and looked each other in the eyes. When you wanted to go somewhere, you had to pay attention and get directions. Twitter was something birds did. Facebook was a long-lost Lovecraft story. Google sounded like a mix between a fart and a burp.
We knew things back then. We didn't have machines do our processing for us, as well as our socialization. This sounds like revisionism, doesn't it? A wise old sage fondly remembering days of the past while taking advantage of the technology of the present, irony be damned. I might as well wax poetic about the days before irony, back when people believe in ideas instead of eviscerating them. The ironic man has nothing to say, he just wants to laugh at you for believing. Don't ask me where I was going with this. I've lost the internet. I have no direction home.
Is there a binary choice between Netflix and the cinema? Between Ma Bell and the IPhone? Between Twitter and a real human being? It's either all or nothing; that's the American way of seeing things. Good and evil, shades of gray be damned. I've tried to have it all like the rest of you. I have no philosophy of things.
My son stares up at me with gray-blue eyes, his face describable only by a self-coined word: tunky. It comes out of the mouth in baby-talk. What sort of future will he live in? An augmented one with personalize advertisements beamed in directly to his brain through the infolink he had installed there as soon as he could scrape together the cash? What wondrous technology we are capable of, only to use it for our basest pleasures. Hedonism is in, you know. It never goes out of style.
Before the internet died, I had fever dreams. Let's not pretend it won't come back, fortified and worse than ever.
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Dis here's me uncles Thom and Lester talkin' bout polictics.
Well folks, teh erection is just weeks away and teh country will decided who will become top chef in chief. Now somehows theres a bunch of undecided people, that is, if yur listenin to teh literal media, so I thought I'd lay it all out simple like so's people would know who would make teh best president outta hellery and Teh Donald. Here goes my attempt at reasoning using ma double-brains (taht is a subject fer another post.). It won't be perty, but as my pa always said, she don't need to have all her teeth to make a decent box of hambooger helper.
Butfer you can vote fer Hellery, you need to ask yerself "Where is all teh emails?" Apparantly, Hellery had some emails that she took outta her computer so that tehy wouldn't find out she was besties wit teh devil or something like taht. I've tried getting emails outta my compooter before, but after smashing it wit a hammar and lighting it on fire, I has yet to find my own missin emails, so I sympathize wit Hellery. I also believe taht emails are private corrispondance between two consenting adults, so if Hellery is friends wit teh devil, it really ain't nobody's business. I have a lot of bad friends in bad places, but so what? I still get to work a half hour late just like everbody else. Apparantly also Hellery is in bed wit Wallstreet, whoever taht is. I used to know a Backstreet but I never mets a Wallstreet. Also teh worst thing abouts Hellery is that she's married to former President Slick Willy, who plays teh saxophone and has had manny lovers. If you can stomach all of that, maybe you should vote for her, I dunno.
Teh big alternative to Hellery is Teh Donald. My family is very pro-Donald; Slack has already had a Conferderate flag made wit Donald's face on it, and Willy has went aroudn thrownin bricks wit Donald's name painted on em threw people's windows. As far as I can tell, teh main message of teh Donald is that he hates persons of color and likes to grab women by tehre genatals. I was always told taht those were bad things, but I guess teh times, tehy are a changing just like taht jew Bobby Dylan said. Slack says taht when teh Donald becomes furur, everbody will get there own trailer and a tweleve pack of bud light along wit their welware check. SO I guess if yu like Bud Light you should vote fer teh Donald.
Personally, my main issues is what are teh canadates going ta do about all teh trash in my yard? Will one of em send tah secret service to come clean up all tah poo and girlie mags? A bear got in my Uncle Thom's cabin and made an awful mess that's blown across teh valley. It really is an ecological distaster. Maybe teh Donald will make Hellery clean it up after she gets done being in jail. I dunno. Vote wit yur heart, not yur brain.
Monday, October 10, 2016
Boy, this was hard to watch. Why do we do this, by the way? Why do we parade our two presidential candidates out on a stage so that they can try to get the better of each other? Because that's what this was really about; there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that Trump was going to talk about policy, because he can only respond to policy questions with a mess of adjectives like a child caught in a lie. No matter what you think of her, you have to admit that Clinton actually tried to answer the questions asked, whereas the Donald just rambled incoherently until the moderators had to shut him up. I just want to note a few things I noticed while crying inside.
1. Trump isn't running for President. I mean, this has been obvious for a long time, since he's refused to adhere to the norms of respectability presidential candidates usually cling to, either out of incompetence or because of some insane strategy (I suspect the former). He straight up said that he'd appoint a special prosecutor to look into Hillary's misdeeds if elected, and then he said he'd throw her into jail, which elicited a cheer from the brain-dead crowd. Yes, people, let's praise this clown for just threatening to jail his opponent. Dictatorships usually throw their opposition into prison; Trump doesn't want to be President, he wants to be dictator. Keep that in mind when you vote for Gary Johnson because you can't stomach a Clinton Presidency.
2. Donald Trump doesn't talk to or agree with his running mate. Mike Pence is a prick; as Indiana's governor, he's responsible for the misleadingly named Religious Freedom Act, which makes it legal for employers to discriminate against homosexuals because of their (the employer's) religious beliefs. He's also respects women about as much as your average right-wing Republican, though as far as we know, he doesn't grope them in public like the Donald. Maybe the guy's insufferable in person. Trump must think so. When caught by the moderator in a contradiction with his running mate for praising Syrian dictator Bashar al-Assad (Trump said Bashar is killing ISIS; what Assad has actually done is commit genocide against his own people), Trump responded that "he hasn't talked with (Pence) and that "they disagree on issues". Keep that in mind, people. Donald Trump can't even agree with his own running mate, whom he picked.
3. Trump doesn't know shit. Like the first item on my list, this has been obvious for a long time to any sane person. I don't know how you could listen to any one of the Donald's rambling, incoherent answers to basic policy questions and come away with the opinion that he's fit to be President of the United States. He seems to not be aware of how the government works; in an exchange with Clinton about tax policy, he blamed her for not being able to change it single-handedly as a Senator, ignoring the fact that there was a Republican President in office at the time with veto power. Trump also appeared to be ignorant of the genocide being committed in Syria and claimed to "know nothing about Russia." He said that "Russia was new, in terms of nuclear," whatever that means. This man isn't fit to run a hotdog stand, let alone the highest office in the land.
4. None of it matters. To the average viewer at home, it doesn't matter that Trump has no policies. What mattered is that the Donald got a few good one-liners in on Clinton, because the debate format is a reality-show stage, and the only thing Trump is good at is being a reality-TV star. I'm sure we'll see some people claiming that he won the debate, which is ridiculous. When challenged by the moderators, he responded by shouting over them. He interrupted Clinton eighteen times. Not one of his answers was even moderately coherent. But none of that matters. This is a hell of our own doing. Let us hope that it only lasts one more month.
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
Drink it in...man. You're going to get it. I don't know when, or where, or what the circumstances will be, exactly. But rest assured, man. You're going to get...it. And when you do, it's going to be bad.
I'm keeping a list, you see. A list containing all the names of people who are going to get...it some day. A list of bad people who just don't understand the gift. What is the gift, you ask? If you don't know, that may be a problem. Because you might be on the list. The list to get...it.
"It" is the worst thing you can imagine. "It" isn't some stupid clown that is really a giant spider or any bullshit like that. "It" is something unimaginably horrible, like a Donald Trump presidency or a Nickelback album. "It" is like global warming times ten or a used pair of John Cena's jorts. "It" is the smell Kevin Owens releases backstage after he's had eight taco supremes from Taco Bell. What you need to understand is that "it" is super bad. You don't want to get "it."
You know people who are going to get..it? People who hate nice scarves, for one. People who don't appreciate the benefits of DDP yoga, for two. Folks who don't listen to the Jericho podcast, for three. Anti-Canadian reactionaries, for four. The list goes on and on. Most of the people I know are on it, in fact. Maybe that says something about me. Maybe I'm a little hard to get along with. Maybe I make more enemies than friends. You know why that is? It's because I'm the greatest of all time.
Yesterday I was at a Starbucks, and I ordered a white mocha. It took them five minutes to make it, and I had to wait in line with all the degenerates who definitely deserve...it. As soon as my drink was finished, I grabbed a hold of the flunkie with the horn-rimmed glasses who was behind the counter, and I told him that he had to kiss my biceps or he was going to get "it." He just stared at me with fear in his face, paralyzed with the fear of "it." It's amazing what power a genderless pronoun has in today's world. You would've thought I'd threatened him with a loaded gun. Maybe that's the best analogy. "It" is like a loaded gun. You don't want me to put "it" in your mouth.