There are a few things that make a man proud to be a man. The great outdoors, gun powder, SPORTS!, big Shakira-esque booties devouring skimpy bikinis, spurs, and above all, the most tightly wound neatly bound vagina that would make even the most tired war-ridden eyes ready to fight again in all his quadriplegic glory.
Yes, my friends. I do love a barber cut bush. The simplicity and elegance of a wonderfully managed bait shop makes my nose open up the way the nostrils would in a Febreeze commercial. Seeing a clamstand do a handstand is enough to make me want to whistle on american bandstand. Viewing the narrow passageway into the woman's soul honestly gets me so overjoyed that I could sing opera, brave my chest out against torrential waters on jagged rocks, or just hang up silk curtains around the beef ones and take indie contrasting pictures of my martha stewart masterpuss.
I love crotchdigging like beavers like to build dams. I love figuring out Victorias' secret like Sherlock Holmes loves solving crimes. I love feeling the faint drips of holy woman water drizzling on my forehead the way the military loves chinese water torture. The only reason I'm so good at going down on girls is because I'm hoping that if you're good enough, it spits out some sort of treasure chest like how Mario gets a key when he beats a world (I mean...I'd like to believe if you're that good, you do win a key to a woman's soul, whether they admit it or not)
Just picturing a quaint vagina sitting on a hilly sun infused plateau makes me want to break out a ukelele. Flowers in her haaairr, flowers everywheeeeeeere.
If it were my choice, vagina would be the death of me. And I don't mean dying in the sack or choking because the thighs are blocking my airpipes. I mean I want it to be castle times. I want to be dragged up their, ropes binding my slit-sinning wrists. And just before the guillotine is released upon my poor head, the executioner removes the mask and there it is:in all its glory, the 8 foot Hulk Hogan Vagina. I can almost hear the angels readying their trumpets, waiting on the Composer to beam me up to my 40 virgins. ahhh a life born, run, and destroyed by something that sometimes smells like a new york dock. such a beautiful shame.
Ladies, please don't take this as offensive. If you knew how my mind worked, you would understand that I practically had butterflies around my head when I was typing this out. And yes, I did just jot this all down in 5 minutes. You see how much I care? DO YOU SEE? I don't even need to come up with it, its just sitting here. Now lemme say it to the other side of your buttz.
alright go back to your miserable lives ive done enough for today.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Greatest Invention
Fires. Floods. Jews bringing mother earth to her slaggish knees and making she suck the cock of ultimate defeat. The present time can be one that fills deaf hearts and clouded minds with sorrow and regret. The present time can lead to crime, disease, short fuses which produce short thinking, like a midget under pressure. There is no thought, even in these desperate times, that is more rash than the bubbles of ideas that form above the equal heads of the religious that brave this old world amongst us. To fully grasp my opinion on the situation, we've got to go back. Way back. Like the kind of "ago" that you would see in a Star Wars flick.
CAUTION:I was extremely fucked up when I stumbled upon this discovery, so please do not read this wholeheartedly. On the contrary, dump any grain of salt you can find down my hatch because the shit I talk will funk up a George Clinton concert.
Ever since the dawn of man, "why" was always the forefront of his thoughts. What am I doing here? What is my purpose? Why is this girl next to me so damned hairy? Man why is it so cold? Why is my stomach grumbling? If I don't eat something and find some warmth, I'm going to have to scalp ms. teenwolf over here and nomnom down on some neckbone while I rock some authentic woman-made cavewear.
Hol' up hol' up hol' up...I'm flowing too freely down the shit talking turnpike. Initially, man made fire. Then, man made tools. After that, man impressed the woman with his shaving utensils and his knowledge of burning flesh over wood. Indeed, man created love. But when love dims down and the fluid is on empty, what will you have then? When your hunger fades and you have no urge to command any craft, what are you left with?
Desire. Every man (and woman, unless life really is a big trick and there are two separate roads for each sex) has a burning inside of him. A yearning to become something, even if we don't know what that something is. To unlock those doors which appear sealed off to us, when there was no knob constructed for it. To claim, to wish, to get, to achieve, to love, to burn, to be. . .to have. Neither power nor pleasure can quench this thirst. This is something truly unachievable. This is not the pursuit of happiness that has remained non-existant. This is the pursuit of God.
Lets backtrack a step to Mr. Geico. After having love, surely a child, and the complete windlessness that you have sought after in your life, IT still consumes your gut. Jimminy Crickett is constantly mumbling in your head, but the muffling is only worsened by the low volume. So, man starts to build. He builds because he feels he has gotten it wrong. The hunger in him is not sustained so he must prove himself to..himself. Tools become man made. We are entombed in breathing cemeteries, storing carcasses up to 30,000 feet in the air. Only in this life can you drive a car you cant afford in a sinkhole. Love has become man made. We will never stop inhaling the intoxicating fumes of another person's thighs, eyes, and lies, complete with a plethora of cards, credits of romantic 90 minute nothings, tears, and anything else to drive you to unfortunate states. Fire has become man made. We trek in a world where we believe that money and glory are what we need to satisfy our aches. Where white picket fences and golden retrievers will somehow numb our brains into believing that this is what it was all for. A blind eye will see no difference in this sentence than from my earlier statment, but alas, everything has shifted 180 gut-wrenching degrees. Who pulled the bait and switch with my fire?
To attempt to make it more clear, man is constantly walking with a void. A dark hole that no dollar amount, no child's love, no mother's love, no friend, no drug, and no lifestyle will fill. In the earliest time of civilization, they had to have asked the same questions each person asks themselves today. You will never figure this out, all you can do is take a shot at it. So then comes the philosophers. The Jesus Christs, the Davids, the Muhammads. The men who took their fire and made it understandable to the masses. When "sensible" people didn't understand it, men were killed for their beliefs. Jesus Christ is no different than a Socrates. If you strictly look at these religious icons in a religious fashion, you are missing the message. The talking snakes and removed ribs are only stories--something to make someone understand an idea more thoroughly. Why do you think so many religions and outlooks of tribes have such similar core messages?
We absolutely are heading to an endtime. It does not take a genius to map out how the world can work. When you build and build and clutter your vision up, so much so that you arent able to even explain what it is you were after in the first place, you are on a one way trip to destruction. We have replaced this desire with ultra religion, sans any spirituality. We have powdered our inner needs with sugary substance, not meaningful material. Eventually, some radical people will also realize my words in their own way. Someone will have to take those 180 degrees and make it whole. Someone will start a fire, some day.
Did fire make the man make fire?
Will fire make the man put the fire out?
CAUTION:I was extremely fucked up when I stumbled upon this discovery, so please do not read this wholeheartedly. On the contrary, dump any grain of salt you can find down my hatch because the shit I talk will funk up a George Clinton concert.
Ever since the dawn of man, "why" was always the forefront of his thoughts. What am I doing here? What is my purpose? Why is this girl next to me so damned hairy? Man why is it so cold? Why is my stomach grumbling? If I don't eat something and find some warmth, I'm going to have to scalp ms. teenwolf over here and nomnom down on some neckbone while I rock some authentic woman-made cavewear.
Hol' up hol' up hol' up...I'm flowing too freely down the shit talking turnpike. Initially, man made fire. Then, man made tools. After that, man impressed the woman with his shaving utensils and his knowledge of burning flesh over wood. Indeed, man created love. But when love dims down and the fluid is on empty, what will you have then? When your hunger fades and you have no urge to command any craft, what are you left with?
Desire. Every man (and woman, unless life really is a big trick and there are two separate roads for each sex) has a burning inside of him. A yearning to become something, even if we don't know what that something is. To unlock those doors which appear sealed off to us, when there was no knob constructed for it. To claim, to wish, to get, to achieve, to love, to burn, to be. . .to have. Neither power nor pleasure can quench this thirst. This is something truly unachievable. This is not the pursuit of happiness that has remained non-existant. This is the pursuit of God.
Lets backtrack a step to Mr. Geico. After having love, surely a child, and the complete windlessness that you have sought after in your life, IT still consumes your gut. Jimminy Crickett is constantly mumbling in your head, but the muffling is only worsened by the low volume. So, man starts to build. He builds because he feels he has gotten it wrong. The hunger in him is not sustained so he must prove himself to..himself. Tools become man made. We are entombed in breathing cemeteries, storing carcasses up to 30,000 feet in the air. Only in this life can you drive a car you cant afford in a sinkhole. Love has become man made. We will never stop inhaling the intoxicating fumes of another person's thighs, eyes, and lies, complete with a plethora of cards, credits of romantic 90 minute nothings, tears, and anything else to drive you to unfortunate states. Fire has become man made. We trek in a world where we believe that money and glory are what we need to satisfy our aches. Where white picket fences and golden retrievers will somehow numb our brains into believing that this is what it was all for. A blind eye will see no difference in this sentence than from my earlier statment, but alas, everything has shifted 180 gut-wrenching degrees. Who pulled the bait and switch with my fire?
To attempt to make it more clear, man is constantly walking with a void. A dark hole that no dollar amount, no child's love, no mother's love, no friend, no drug, and no lifestyle will fill. In the earliest time of civilization, they had to have asked the same questions each person asks themselves today. You will never figure this out, all you can do is take a shot at it. So then comes the philosophers. The Jesus Christs, the Davids, the Muhammads. The men who took their fire and made it understandable to the masses. When "sensible" people didn't understand it, men were killed for their beliefs. Jesus Christ is no different than a Socrates. If you strictly look at these religious icons in a religious fashion, you are missing the message. The talking snakes and removed ribs are only stories--something to make someone understand an idea more thoroughly. Why do you think so many religions and outlooks of tribes have such similar core messages?
We absolutely are heading to an endtime. It does not take a genius to map out how the world can work. When you build and build and clutter your vision up, so much so that you arent able to even explain what it is you were after in the first place, you are on a one way trip to destruction. We have replaced this desire with ultra religion, sans any spirituality. We have powdered our inner needs with sugary substance, not meaningful material. Eventually, some radical people will also realize my words in their own way. Someone will have to take those 180 degrees and make it whole. Someone will start a fire, some day.
Did fire make the man make fire?
Will fire make the man put the fire out?
Monday, March 23, 2009
Ive Seen Death
Lives drifting in meloncholy states like debris rocking in atlantic waters
souls rowing slave oars just to save yours
promises of freedom white picket fences and undisclosed messages
Yeah Ive seen death in many places
From vocal chatboxes protected by intersecting lines lies consume lies, *sanctify*
slut mother reborn mother earth by a dickbeating man of god cant see "it" cause his eyes hurt
Ambition takes back seats crytal clean cleets always in moments piece because the broken dryer cant warm the poison soaked sheets
Yeah Ive seen that shit everywhere
I've seen microfilm love blossom and evolve into blue blood, fake cares close stares end in tears and liquid red crud
Giving up journeys and treks for false futures and doctor checks women turn unglamorous man of the house the boss no hopes no dreams all lost at no cost but this love lost man so no, love lost
Yeah I've seen death
Glutton eyes take olympic deep dives but these days its all for a burger ride
We don't want the farm the barn or the hay, we're impatient we hungry
Ive seen farmers turned drive thru junkies
Raw human emotion pierced paralyzed and processed no differ than lunchmeat
Artists slipping the proverbial brush from a fingerless knob
Run find a family and a fake purpose thinkin its a fresh paint job
Ive seen runamucks runamuck out the poopshoot call it fun in the sun
same ones cop a blue suit badgecap and hard cause he roll with a gun
stop bein fake, for fucks sake. has destiny been taken out of the dictionary or is it just a synonym for hopelessness?
souls rowing slave oars just to save yours
promises of freedom white picket fences and undisclosed messages
Yeah Ive seen death in many places
From vocal chatboxes protected by intersecting lines lies consume lies, *sanctify*
slut mother reborn mother earth by a dickbeating man of god cant see "it" cause his eyes hurt
Ambition takes back seats crytal clean cleets always in moments piece because the broken dryer cant warm the poison soaked sheets
Yeah Ive seen that shit everywhere
I've seen microfilm love blossom and evolve into blue blood, fake cares close stares end in tears and liquid red crud
Giving up journeys and treks for false futures and doctor checks women turn unglamorous man of the house the boss no hopes no dreams all lost at no cost but this love lost man so no, love lost
Yeah I've seen death
Glutton eyes take olympic deep dives but these days its all for a burger ride
We don't want the farm the barn or the hay, we're impatient we hungry
Ive seen farmers turned drive thru junkies
Raw human emotion pierced paralyzed and processed no differ than lunchmeat
Artists slipping the proverbial brush from a fingerless knob
Run find a family and a fake purpose thinkin its a fresh paint job
Ive seen runamucks runamuck out the poopshoot call it fun in the sun
same ones cop a blue suit badgecap and hard cause he roll with a gun
stop bein fake, for fucks sake. has destiny been taken out of the dictionary or is it just a synonym for hopelessness?
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Too genius to not point out
Last night I was working at backbooth, getting my 80s dance on and watching drunk pussy juice slow motion splashing all over the klinks of the bottom of some jello stomach's oil striking high heels. Anyways, my shit talking isn't what is being put on display. I won't name a name but I heard the funniest shit last night. And it went a little something like this:
First you get the money
Then you get the power
Then you get the women
Vroom vroom on my moped
I think the funny in me is having a spell because me and the genius are probably the only ones who holster 8 year old funnies.
First you get the money
Then you get the power
Then you get the women
Vroom vroom on my moped
I think the funny in me is having a spell because me and the genius are probably the only ones who holster 8 year old funnies.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Asians...the pet eating geniuses
I just got this thought in my head. If the entire world is practically a giant hand-me-down to the technological advances of the Japanese and those other surf ninjas they have over there, wouldn't it be a trip if they made every daft product just to see if western civilization would eat it up? Tamagachi, hello kitty, that weird cartoon porn with 90 foot wide Betty Boop boobs, DDR...the list is endless. Just the other day, out of curiosity, I asked Jeeves what the main export was out of Japan...he said "everything". That's some daunting information to learn. Every Christmas that your child/future demonspawn will hammer your pride into financial submission, you have these bastards to thank.
As a matter of fact, I bet that their eyes aren't even naturally thin and slanted...they are just cheezing at the fact that they are making a fortune off of stupid Americans. If we let these rice noodles dictate our spending and our future scientific applications, we are doomed to live in a world of John and Sarah Connors. Soon our church relics will be replaced by Godgirras (that's Godzillas, for those who don't speak merrow yerrow), administering the body and blood and holy liver spot of Christ through monster energy drinks and those cute 100 calorie bags of fake ass oreos. Our schools will transform themselves, but all that our children will be learning is bonsai tree sculpting. Our markets will be gutted from the inside out, leaving behind only green and blue caffeine ridden substances and Pocky sticks. Obama will swiftly be ejected from office, ushering in a new age of terror, replaced by a mechanical Hello Kitty, complete with war strategies and free hugs. Soon we will know the true *Irruminati*, when the skies are patrolled by Skynet and the streets are scanned for any infidels with some sort of original thought aside from combining an xbox, playstation, and a red bull machine. We will know Armageddon. Our sun will be forever shaded dark, blocked by our Amazonian leader, the 200 foot tall Hello Kitty. Soon we will all have to bow down to the pussy, dykin or not. With my last breath all I'll ask for is another four years of Dubya.
Hang on a tic. http://garo-snap.blogspot.com/ . Alas, I was mistaken. Asians aren't any sort of super species, they want all of the same things Americans do! Stupid clothes, caffeine splurges, and dreams of becoming a rock star while looking like you should be in a Bed Head commercial. Hmph...close enough. I think I meant for this to be about the seven Jew bankers. Oh well, it still makes me hate Asians more so here's for win-win situations.
As a matter of fact, I bet that their eyes aren't even naturally thin and slanted...they are just cheezing at the fact that they are making a fortune off of stupid Americans. If we let these rice noodles dictate our spending and our future scientific applications, we are doomed to live in a world of John and Sarah Connors. Soon our church relics will be replaced by Godgirras (that's Godzillas, for those who don't speak merrow yerrow), administering the body and blood and holy liver spot of Christ through monster energy drinks and those cute 100 calorie bags of fake ass oreos. Our schools will transform themselves, but all that our children will be learning is bonsai tree sculpting. Our markets will be gutted from the inside out, leaving behind only green and blue caffeine ridden substances and Pocky sticks. Obama will swiftly be ejected from office, ushering in a new age of terror, replaced by a mechanical Hello Kitty, complete with war strategies and free hugs. Soon we will know the true *Irruminati*, when the skies are patrolled by Skynet and the streets are scanned for any infidels with some sort of original thought aside from combining an xbox, playstation, and a red bull machine. We will know Armageddon. Our sun will be forever shaded dark, blocked by our Amazonian leader, the 200 foot tall Hello Kitty. Soon we will all have to bow down to the pussy, dykin or not. With my last breath all I'll ask for is another four years of Dubya.
Hang on a tic. http://garo-snap.blogspot.com/ . Alas, I was mistaken. Asians aren't any sort of super species, they want all of the same things Americans do! Stupid clothes, caffeine splurges, and dreams of becoming a rock star while looking like you should be in a Bed Head commercial. Hmph...close enough. I think I meant for this to be about the seven Jew bankers. Oh well, it still makes me hate Asians more so here's for win-win situations.
There is nothing worse than running
I got up early this morning so I figured that I'd go run in my woody lakefront area. I don't know what it is about runners, but the faces that they wear when Richard Simmons is shouting words of encouragement in the back of their head drives me nuts. It's like this mixture of an "IT" surge plopped together with a look of determination to lose that extra biscuit batter/make it back to your bathroom in time before you have an accident at your kid's bus stop.
I hope nobody throws hot coffee on my eyes. Fuck that I hope I don't get nabbed and wake up spleenless. I just hope I don't run over fresh dog shit, actually.
I hope nobody throws hot coffee on my eyes. Fuck that I hope I don't get nabbed and wake up spleenless. I just hope I don't run over fresh dog shit, actually.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Kodak, Nikon...you're still showing me what my eyes are capable of doing on their own
When I started indulging my drug tooth (I have a sweet one, don't I?) in Willy Wonka's world of weed berries and mushroom sours, I started getting into looking at pictures of architecture and intriguing visual scenery. It must be something about spiral staircases, repetitive hallways and sacrosanct surroundings paired with tripping out of my one track linear-with-a-crackhead mind that just makes me enjoy it that much more. Now that I ponder, I can't think of ever caring about such mystical thumbelina mumbo jumbo when I'm not abstracted by drugs that grow out of cow shit. Speaking of shit, my topic of discussion-hipsters and photographers.
I have so many judgemental things to say that I can't even dip my foot in this vat of empty lives and dead eyes fueled by bad clothes, bad hair, bad brains, STD chains, oh oh...and an expensive Nikon camera. I don't know if it's just me, but I don't see one bit of talent in photography. Pushing your image and selling yourself as a photographer, as someone who actually has a unique skill set? That is the equivalent of a heroin junkie staggering while simultaneously hurling his way up to you and saying "Look at what smack has done to me! I deserve some recognition and a paycheck for what I've accomplished." Listen here Tyrone Biggums, just because you wipe your ass with used diapers and eat broken-winged pigeons does not earn you any authenticity, because every crackhead eats Tweety and sulks around in pamper shit. Just because you took the needle, it doesn't make you a wielder of the needle. That nigga T-Dog with the good brown shit for cheap, two for five style (watch out for the cops, though) is the true brandisher.
Think about it...I know we are all supposed to say that we don't give a shit about drug dealers and they are scum and yadda yadda...but they are stacking money so high Lil Wayne would write a shitty chorus about it. Now, one thing we can ALL agree on is that we have no sympathy, empathy, only dyspathy for baseheads and belt biting derelicts. MY POINT BEING...with all of the Gaudis and Gehrys in the world actually building and accomplishing things, photographers are their biggest fans, they're *junkies* of these individuals' works. Just like the junkie, I see no reason to give standing ovations to someone who does nothing but snap a shot at someone's lifesblood of a project and pass it off as their own art. I'm not saying that I don't appreciate a soothing photograph. On the contrary, nothing makes the blood rush to the head of my wee wee more, not even free drunk pussy that won't ask for answers or breakfast in the morning. What I have no awe for are the ones who are content with this and proud of themselves, as if they truly done something spectacular, like move a canyon or hit Jesus in the face with a lemon meringue pie in the most climactic moment of him parting the sea. I have so many friends that I know that do photography as a hobby hoping to animorph into a profession that it makes my nuts tingle to tell them that I think all of their *hard work* is, in essence, stoopid. The fact that I have to be out of my head high from drugs that came from cow shit to enjoy your so-called art is enough of a dagger's point for you to see that it is not really art at all. I don't need you to make a book of sunsets, I see that shit every night. I don't want to see the Atlantic Ocean with a sailboat at its end, because sailing is for people who wear short shorts, high socks, and faded white and baby blue shirts. I don't need to see the grass with a bed of roses in the distance, because I know there's dog shit huddled down somewhere in that old pervert's lawn. If you really want to impress me as a photographer, dig up graves and put them in sexual positions and shutterbug that shit, cause nobody has the balls to go there yet. You unoriginal pieces of artsy fartsy shit.
Hipsters. 85% of my friends/downtown cohorts are hipsters, whether they want to admit it or not. My definition of the term won't even be the clothes you slap on your battyboi frames, because frankly I am tired of talking about flannel. Kurt Cobain is dead, let his wardrobe die too. I will not talk about your horn rimmed glasses or the flashy Terry Shaivo mindset you wear so proudly. If Tim Burton conducted a reality fashion show, hipsters would be his choice candidates. A hipster, in its simplest terms, is a follower. Whether you're following your cronies in the "live fast, die drunk" lifestyle or just walking around with that self-evident stench of depression and failure as some new wave country/punk band rings off choruses in your tequila flavored psyche. Trying so hard to be an individual that you are a carbon copy. Your tattoos are taken in the same vein, all in vain. Trying so hard to please yourself with miniscule bullshit, you miss out on life and its opportunities. Traveling the world never felt so good from an armchair, says the hipster. Your lives are a constant uphill battle that you've created in your own mind, flooded by opposition, opression, and ovary housing. Trying to be the garden of eden and ending up garden-variety. Struggling to see the perfect sunset before you lay your tattered bones down, you walk the thin line between heartbreaking tragedy and spit-worthy laziness. So intriguing and pointless become your lives that the photographer above could stand to make a pretty penny out of that picture, if he/she only possessed the talent to sculpt your tale of dread. Only the photographer doesn't, because he/she too, is a flailing, failing hipster. Fuck the photograph and fuck your drummed up sunset. Die Hipster Scum.
EXSKRA EXSKRA
Everytime I see a clean cut black guy on TV I have to double-take, because I always assume it's BRRATATATAT Obama, when half the time its the Allstate Insurance guy. If that's racist that I see every black man as the President, fuck you for calling me racist about such a thing. Everyone always has to complain about something, don't they?
I have so many judgemental things to say that I can't even dip my foot in this vat of empty lives and dead eyes fueled by bad clothes, bad hair, bad brains, STD chains, oh oh...and an expensive Nikon camera. I don't know if it's just me, but I don't see one bit of talent in photography. Pushing your image and selling yourself as a photographer, as someone who actually has a unique skill set? That is the equivalent of a heroin junkie staggering while simultaneously hurling his way up to you and saying "Look at what smack has done to me! I deserve some recognition and a paycheck for what I've accomplished." Listen here Tyrone Biggums, just because you wipe your ass with used diapers and eat broken-winged pigeons does not earn you any authenticity, because every crackhead eats Tweety and sulks around in pamper shit. Just because you took the needle, it doesn't make you a wielder of the needle. That nigga T-Dog with the good brown shit for cheap, two for five style (watch out for the cops, though) is the true brandisher.
Think about it...I know we are all supposed to say that we don't give a shit about drug dealers and they are scum and yadda yadda...but they are stacking money so high Lil Wayne would write a shitty chorus about it. Now, one thing we can ALL agree on is that we have no sympathy, empathy, only dyspathy for baseheads and belt biting derelicts. MY POINT BEING...with all of the Gaudis and Gehrys in the world actually building and accomplishing things, photographers are their biggest fans, they're *junkies* of these individuals' works. Just like the junkie, I see no reason to give standing ovations to someone who does nothing but snap a shot at someone's lifesblood of a project and pass it off as their own art. I'm not saying that I don't appreciate a soothing photograph. On the contrary, nothing makes the blood rush to the head of my wee wee more, not even free drunk pussy that won't ask for answers or breakfast in the morning. What I have no awe for are the ones who are content with this and proud of themselves, as if they truly done something spectacular, like move a canyon or hit Jesus in the face with a lemon meringue pie in the most climactic moment of him parting the sea. I have so many friends that I know that do photography as a hobby hoping to animorph into a profession that it makes my nuts tingle to tell them that I think all of their *hard work* is, in essence, stoopid. The fact that I have to be out of my head high from drugs that came from cow shit to enjoy your so-called art is enough of a dagger's point for you to see that it is not really art at all. I don't need you to make a book of sunsets, I see that shit every night. I don't want to see the Atlantic Ocean with a sailboat at its end, because sailing is for people who wear short shorts, high socks, and faded white and baby blue shirts. I don't need to see the grass with a bed of roses in the distance, because I know there's dog shit huddled down somewhere in that old pervert's lawn. If you really want to impress me as a photographer, dig up graves and put them in sexual positions and shutterbug that shit, cause nobody has the balls to go there yet. You unoriginal pieces of artsy fartsy shit.
Hipsters. 85% of my friends/downtown cohorts are hipsters, whether they want to admit it or not. My definition of the term won't even be the clothes you slap on your battyboi frames, because frankly I am tired of talking about flannel. Kurt Cobain is dead, let his wardrobe die too. I will not talk about your horn rimmed glasses or the flashy Terry Shaivo mindset you wear so proudly. If Tim Burton conducted a reality fashion show, hipsters would be his choice candidates. A hipster, in its simplest terms, is a follower. Whether you're following your cronies in the "live fast, die drunk" lifestyle or just walking around with that self-evident stench of depression and failure as some new wave country/punk band rings off choruses in your tequila flavored psyche. Trying so hard to be an individual that you are a carbon copy. Your tattoos are taken in the same vein, all in vain. Trying so hard to please yourself with miniscule bullshit, you miss out on life and its opportunities. Traveling the world never felt so good from an armchair, says the hipster. Your lives are a constant uphill battle that you've created in your own mind, flooded by opposition, opression, and ovary housing. Trying to be the garden of eden and ending up garden-variety. Struggling to see the perfect sunset before you lay your tattered bones down, you walk the thin line between heartbreaking tragedy and spit-worthy laziness. So intriguing and pointless become your lives that the photographer above could stand to make a pretty penny out of that picture, if he/she only possessed the talent to sculpt your tale of dread. Only the photographer doesn't, because he/she too, is a flailing, failing hipster. Fuck the photograph and fuck your drummed up sunset. Die Hipster Scum.
EXSKRA EXSKRA
Everytime I see a clean cut black guy on TV I have to double-take, because I always assume it's BRRATATATAT Obama, when half the time its the Allstate Insurance guy. If that's racist that I see every black man as the President, fuck you for calling me racist about such a thing. Everyone always has to complain about something, don't they?
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