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?
Friday, February 13, 2009
I promise that I will update soon
This sickness is really taking its toll on me. I feel like how Kobayashi's vomit would look after the Nathans hot dog challenge.
I've got a lot of stuff I want to write about but getting high, being sick, and watching bad reality just seems more important than making you twiddle your toes in awe at how shockingly coldhearted I can be.
I've got a lot of stuff I want to write about but getting high, being sick, and watching bad reality just seems more important than making you twiddle your toes in awe at how shockingly coldhearted I can be.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Gravesites and Water
I'm at my threshold's gate. My back still holding the weight of failure while staring at the glossy eyes of defeat. So rigorous and epic is the struggle in the grand scheme of things, I find myself tightrope walking my existence between a pit of melancholy and a cliff of rapture. My quest for the top is as heartbreaking as an American quadriplegic frantically wiggling around on the base of the Aggro Crag in the Wrestlemania of Global Guts, yet the only recognition I receive is a mouth full of glitter and confetti, almost taunting me as I see the Russian holding his gold medal while simultaneously shoving his tongue down Mo's throat.
I've not called upon any crutches, so who are these vermin trying to sell me hell wholesale? I've learned your textbook trades, inhaled your smoggy ideals and relished in your banquet of consumerism for too many sunsets. I've walked your beaten path, encountered an intangible amount of dead horses, psychologists with superior acting resumes treading on nike kicks, and only one forlorn backblock of truth. You've entombed me in a coffin of retrospective plague, my battered and forgetful bones wondering if the father of my past remembered to hammer the nails in my pine box. How have you mousetrapped my fire in such an ironic manner?
The cup being half-full is said to be optimistic, half-empty pessimistic. Being full, it seems, has yet to be explained. Where does the other half linger? My head, stifling but kicking, is cautious of treacherous waters now. My heart and balls run rampant with schizophrenia, too eager to fall back to a contemporary Old Navy and GAP-appareled lifestyle yet too apprehensive to chase a new Affliction-riddled outfit. If only my hands were big enough to flip the switch, to switch the halves of my cup. To an untrained eye, my cup appears full. The magician's tricks always tantalize and jeer until you realize it's all backwards. The bottom half of my cup has remained empty, the top (although wise and competent) is diluted like a gallon of water added to a cup of man dream-cream. Without a stable base, anything up top is bound to plummet. Without your passion and your destiny, the knowledge you possess is figuratively futile. The surface of your cup is sure to collapse. We are all born half-empty. We unearth the roots of knowledge that we can to survive, but many of us never unearth the passion that harbors down deep in our rebellious veins to live. The coffins of the courageous will burn and the dead shall walk the earth. If you're only sipping off of the top of the glass, you are dead and sleeping.
Start a fire. Kill yourself. Phoenix in flight.
ps-I think I basically just said I want to be an Affliction kid with a hard-on for water.
I've not called upon any crutches, so who are these vermin trying to sell me hell wholesale? I've learned your textbook trades, inhaled your smoggy ideals and relished in your banquet of consumerism for too many sunsets. I've walked your beaten path, encountered an intangible amount of dead horses, psychologists with superior acting resumes treading on nike kicks, and only one forlorn backblock of truth. You've entombed me in a coffin of retrospective plague, my battered and forgetful bones wondering if the father of my past remembered to hammer the nails in my pine box. How have you mousetrapped my fire in such an ironic manner?
The cup being half-full is said to be optimistic, half-empty pessimistic. Being full, it seems, has yet to be explained. Where does the other half linger? My head, stifling but kicking, is cautious of treacherous waters now. My heart and balls run rampant with schizophrenia, too eager to fall back to a contemporary Old Navy and GAP-appareled lifestyle yet too apprehensive to chase a new Affliction-riddled outfit. If only my hands were big enough to flip the switch, to switch the halves of my cup. To an untrained eye, my cup appears full. The magician's tricks always tantalize and jeer until you realize it's all backwards. The bottom half of my cup has remained empty, the top (although wise and competent) is diluted like a gallon of water added to a cup of man dream-cream. Without a stable base, anything up top is bound to plummet. Without your passion and your destiny, the knowledge you possess is figuratively futile. The surface of your cup is sure to collapse. We are all born half-empty. We unearth the roots of knowledge that we can to survive, but many of us never unearth the passion that harbors down deep in our rebellious veins to live. The coffins of the courageous will burn and the dead shall walk the earth. If you're only sipping off of the top of the glass, you are dead and sleeping.
Start a fire. Kill yourself. Phoenix in flight.
ps-I think I basically just said I want to be an Affliction kid with a hard-on for water.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Mom said shoot for the moon...thats why I stay high
When I'm loafing around in my bed reading Bertrand Russell books or having a red eyed, sweaty palmed, Hiroshima-proportioned session of self stimulation, I'm always wondering if I'll ever reach my dream. Will my castle in the air ever mutate itself into reality, complete with a mortgage, a cheating trophy wife, and six mistresses all on the side, all with a divergent ethnic background but the same plastic surgeon? Oh how I hope these strife ridden trails will clear of brush and these thunderstorms are escorted out by halcyon horizons, ushering in a new era of euphoria...and boobs.
The majority of the conversations I find myself in have about as much depth as the little ripples of fat on the spoiled spoils that you scale against the amount of alcohol you've consumed on a given evening. It seems that every one's life around me has been reduced to alcohol, scavenging for the super aids, or riding fixed gear bikes. In the bottom of which bottle must I surveillance to find my brethrens' sense of self? As riveting as it must be to sit in the same bar, tip back the same bottle of beer, kick the same pairs of shoes off of a different fling, and have the same neutral conversations, I am under the impression that my worlds' cast have been reduced to zombies...a land of Filbert Turtles forever hearing, fearing, and languishing their "last call" to the Kerplop-it-goes Island.
Perhaps it is not that we have ceased to dream...but that dreaming has just taken a back seat to our repetitive drunken nights. Whatever the case, the sands in the hourglass don't stop for your toast to getting trashed. The light still turns green even though you may be too drunk to notice the red isn't there. The passion has died, the *com* part only making its introductions as the tequila sunrise trickling down your jaw or the white stuff torpedoing its way to a 9 month surprise. You must start to realize that the cheap thrills and photo-stills that you want to remember your life by are the thoughts that will stick with you in self-condemnation when you murmur the question, "what the fuck have I been doing with myself?"
To me, a dream is something, in spite of the turmoils and hubbub that bombard your life, that still gives your eye a glint. Something, that if a door were to make itself known to you, that you would break down full speed, taking the hinges and all with you. Something to truly give yourself a sense of purpose. Something so near and dear to your idea of nirvana that talking about it with someone else makes you feel the slightest bit absurd and out-of-order. That's what I wish we would toast to once in a while. That would make Jameson go down just a Jimminy Cricket's size smoother.
So what's my dream? Well, you know how they have those VH1 love shows with the asinine challenges that somehow represent the ardor you have for your respective inamorata/Romeo? My goal is to eventually land on one of those shows after an illustrius career as a high paid whoever. The DREAM will be the first challenge. I would like to have each Hustler centerfold vying for my heart to get on their knees in front of me as I hold a bottle of Crystal. The challenge is who can profess their adoration for me while I am seductively spraying the bottle all over their face and/or chesticles. Booyah. Maybe when their kids see that at a sleepover the little hussies will also start to chase their true dream. What a cyclical story of happiness.
real dream? honestly...make the world laugh. Maybe Ill be the first guy dressed up as a clown to jump off the empire state building. who nose. honk honk.
speaking of liquor...Pop Off is tonight at the social. FREE WELLS the first hour. If you're a fixed gear queer, there will be bike parking inside tonight. LETS GET DRUUUUUUUUUUUNK!
The majority of the conversations I find myself in have about as much depth as the little ripples of fat on the spoiled spoils that you scale against the amount of alcohol you've consumed on a given evening. It seems that every one's life around me has been reduced to alcohol, scavenging for the super aids, or riding fixed gear bikes. In the bottom of which bottle must I surveillance to find my brethrens' sense of self? As riveting as it must be to sit in the same bar, tip back the same bottle of beer, kick the same pairs of shoes off of a different fling, and have the same neutral conversations, I am under the impression that my worlds' cast have been reduced to zombies...a land of Filbert Turtles forever hearing, fearing, and languishing their "last call" to the Kerplop-it-goes Island.
Perhaps it is not that we have ceased to dream...but that dreaming has just taken a back seat to our repetitive drunken nights. Whatever the case, the sands in the hourglass don't stop for your toast to getting trashed. The light still turns green even though you may be too drunk to notice the red isn't there. The passion has died, the *com* part only making its introductions as the tequila sunrise trickling down your jaw or the white stuff torpedoing its way to a 9 month surprise. You must start to realize that the cheap thrills and photo-stills that you want to remember your life by are the thoughts that will stick with you in self-condemnation when you murmur the question, "what the fuck have I been doing with myself?"
To me, a dream is something, in spite of the turmoils and hubbub that bombard your life, that still gives your eye a glint. Something, that if a door were to make itself known to you, that you would break down full speed, taking the hinges and all with you. Something to truly give yourself a sense of purpose. Something so near and dear to your idea of nirvana that talking about it with someone else makes you feel the slightest bit absurd and out-of-order. That's what I wish we would toast to once in a while. That would make Jameson go down just a Jimminy Cricket's size smoother.
So what's my dream? Well, you know how they have those VH1 love shows with the asinine challenges that somehow represent the ardor you have for your respective inamorata/Romeo? My goal is to eventually land on one of those shows after an illustrius career as a high paid whoever. The DREAM will be the first challenge. I would like to have each Hustler centerfold vying for my heart to get on their knees in front of me as I hold a bottle of Crystal. The challenge is who can profess their adoration for me while I am seductively spraying the bottle all over their face and/or chesticles. Booyah. Maybe when their kids see that at a sleepover the little hussies will also start to chase their true dream. What a cyclical story of happiness.
real dream? honestly...make the world laugh. Maybe Ill be the first guy dressed up as a clown to jump off the empire state building. who nose. honk honk.
speaking of liquor...Pop Off is tonight at the social. FREE WELLS the first hour. If you're a fixed gear queer, there will be bike parking inside tonight. LETS GET DRUUUUUUUUUUUNK!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
I DONT CARE WHEN THE CHICAGO BEARS' FIRST TEAM TRIP WAS TO DISNEYLAND
Ever feel like the some of the things that you do/say on a daily routine belong on a television show? I know that when I'm steadily cruising the dark demeaned streets of UCF, chucking eggs at runners and kicking over crotch rockets definitely give me the spunk I need to line MTVs pockets with hair gel and spike belt coinage. When you realize that you're not going to suck the liver spotted cock of a mini Ted Turner whose Spartan-like, lionhearted case of Alzheimer's will probably have one of you forget the sexual eruption that occurred in Mr. Cheese's suicide doored Lamborghini behind the Studio C Starbucks, you can finally ground your KB Toys' dreams and bask in the success of nothingness like the rest of us.
The one thing, though, that I cannot get out of my head, are the hordes of buzzards that use my technique of C4'ing the funny bone and write it off as their own humor. These little ferrets have no mind of their own, taking my monkeyshining and making it plankwalk into a pool of rhino shit. I see these little bastardos jock my style from the way I talk to the way I dress (kids really dress as half-baked as me, believe it), to the way I talk shit. If they could watch how I lay the proverbial "pipe" down, they wouldn't hesitate to have their bed partners calling them King Louis either. The way I see it, my humor is somewhat like a unicorn. Mythical, some people don't believe it nor can they believe it when they see it. In this world, there are people who will bring you down and transfuse your qualities into their own broken down, pathetic vessel. These are the individuals who would like to rip the hallowed horn off of my head and plant their Pennzoil smelling member right in its back door...the unicorn, not me. This basket of simpletons carry not one ounce of originality in them. Their idiocy safeguarding and shooing away any speck of on the trigger thinking, as a raincoat shields the bottom rung sleaze queen shooting a bukkake scene for her first breakthrough role right out of junior high.
I know I can't possibly be the only person who has their own fan club of dick riders. They don't even have to jock me...anyone who sees something new and immediately tries to imitate it/take it to the furthest extreme is a goddamn loser in my book. Suppose you listen to a certain artist/watch a certain sport that you are crazy about. The depression dwelling alley cat that we've been discussing is the type of mangy bottomfeeding slime that would, initially, belittle and badger you for even waltzing with the idea of listening to that artist/watching that sport. Pretty soon, when they see that a lot of people are into it, they themselves must cannonball right in the deep end, knowing damn well they forgot their Barney floaties. You know the saying...if you can't swim, then you bound to drizown. All of a sudden, you find yourself in the middle of these conversations with this sack loving sack (get it?), wondering how and why he/she managed to learn every chasm of information about whatever the fuck it is that you like so much within an overtime injected work week.
I don't know what to label this group of people...they bite styles and they have to seem interested in everything that their cohorts consume their time with. They have to feel on the top of the food chain when they wouldn't think twice about a grenade up their ass if I just convinced him/her it was hemorrhoids. The type of hatred I breed for this specified spectrum of seascum can be considered a cause for concern. It's the type of animosity to where I wish I could persuade them into believing loading your mouth with habaneros and not drinking water was the latest rage. The type of abhorrence to where I would go out of my way to toss my cookies by rolling around in the cinnabun encrusted bedsheets with a foodcoholic just to see them follow suit and fuck someone the size of the guy who died on Jerry Springer when they were forklifting his trailer-cache ass to a butcher shop.
If you were to look at this on the other side of the story and say "I don't know what you're so bitter over, they just want to indulge themselves with new life material", you clearly have not encountered one of these vamps of newfangled farce or had your favorite song/sporting event interrupted by facts about the band/team that you really couldn't give less of a shit about...maybe one of those misty rainforest shits...but thats it. Just one, quick poot. Nothing more.
Basically, get your head out of your ass. I have an almanac so I don't need a parrot to boot. Get your own jokes and stop saying nigga like me, I'm the one who's not even white. These people are walking fucking quagmires. Rid your life of them before they drain the sanity out of your feeble bones.
ps...everything I put on here is off the top of my head and most likely written before 11am. if some aspects dont make sense or some words are misspelled, kindly give me a fucking break. There is only one Ben Stein and you all need to worry about winning your own money, nahmsayin?
The one thing, though, that I cannot get out of my head, are the hordes of buzzards that use my technique of C4'ing the funny bone and write it off as their own humor. These little ferrets have no mind of their own, taking my monkeyshining and making it plankwalk into a pool of rhino shit. I see these little bastardos jock my style from the way I talk to the way I dress (kids really dress as half-baked as me, believe it), to the way I talk shit. If they could watch how I lay the proverbial "pipe" down, they wouldn't hesitate to have their bed partners calling them King Louis either. The way I see it, my humor is somewhat like a unicorn. Mythical, some people don't believe it nor can they believe it when they see it. In this world, there are people who will bring you down and transfuse your qualities into their own broken down, pathetic vessel. These are the individuals who would like to rip the hallowed horn off of my head and plant their Pennzoil smelling member right in its back door...the unicorn, not me. This basket of simpletons carry not one ounce of originality in them. Their idiocy safeguarding and shooing away any speck of on the trigger thinking, as a raincoat shields the bottom rung sleaze queen shooting a bukkake scene for her first breakthrough role right out of junior high.
I know I can't possibly be the only person who has their own fan club of dick riders. They don't even have to jock me...anyone who sees something new and immediately tries to imitate it/take it to the furthest extreme is a goddamn loser in my book. Suppose you listen to a certain artist/watch a certain sport that you are crazy about. The depression dwelling alley cat that we've been discussing is the type of mangy bottomfeeding slime that would, initially, belittle and badger you for even waltzing with the idea of listening to that artist/watching that sport. Pretty soon, when they see that a lot of people are into it, they themselves must cannonball right in the deep end, knowing damn well they forgot their Barney floaties. You know the saying...if you can't swim, then you bound to drizown. All of a sudden, you find yourself in the middle of these conversations with this sack loving sack (get it?), wondering how and why he/she managed to learn every chasm of information about whatever the fuck it is that you like so much within an overtime injected work week.
I don't know what to label this group of people...they bite styles and they have to seem interested in everything that their cohorts consume their time with. They have to feel on the top of the food chain when they wouldn't think twice about a grenade up their ass if I just convinced him/her it was hemorrhoids. The type of hatred I breed for this specified spectrum of seascum can be considered a cause for concern. It's the type of animosity to where I wish I could persuade them into believing loading your mouth with habaneros and not drinking water was the latest rage. The type of abhorrence to where I would go out of my way to toss my cookies by rolling around in the cinnabun encrusted bedsheets with a foodcoholic just to see them follow suit and fuck someone the size of the guy who died on Jerry Springer when they were forklifting his trailer-cache ass to a butcher shop.
If you were to look at this on the other side of the story and say "I don't know what you're so bitter over, they just want to indulge themselves with new life material", you clearly have not encountered one of these vamps of newfangled farce or had your favorite song/sporting event interrupted by facts about the band/team that you really couldn't give less of a shit about...maybe one of those misty rainforest shits...but thats it. Just one, quick poot. Nothing more.
Basically, get your head out of your ass. I have an almanac so I don't need a parrot to boot. Get your own jokes and stop saying nigga like me, I'm the one who's not even white. These people are walking fucking quagmires. Rid your life of them before they drain the sanity out of your feeble bones.
ps...everything I put on here is off the top of my head and most likely written before 11am. if some aspects dont make sense or some words are misspelled, kindly give me a fucking break. There is only one Ben Stein and you all need to worry about winning your own money, nahmsayin?
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Put that eclair down, son. Nice and easy. Atta boy.
If you were to ask me why I am so bitter about everything, I'd probably tell you to go put a lemon up your ass. For the years that I have been using my words as weapons of your-self destruction, I seldom look back at anything that I say in regret. If the dress you were wearing brought my lunch back up, I'm going to let the world know that you should not have chanced the likelihood of potentially ruining everyone's evening with your hippo in a cat suit garb on a coin toss. That's just the person I am. I sorries.
I don't know what it is that bugs people about individuals who speak their mind. If I have to sit and read your shitty myspace surveys or your one sentence bulletins depicting how your heart is sinking faster than the Titanic because some short skirted strumpet is fucking all of your neighborhood fellows, I should not be bedeviled by you artificial flavored bleeding hearts for the berries of brass tacks that adieu my piehole. For the plethora of ridiculous verbal garbage that I hear everyday, you would think that the lighthearted yet painfully true thoughts that I harbor would be taken in like a breath of fresh air in New Jersey. The idea that everyone is truly ashamed of themselves is becoming more and more tangible to me by the day.
To walk around a half-assed downtown and see the real trash that merrily drifts along without a care in the world really is beginning to take a toll on my evaluation of my own self worth. What is the "real trash", you might ask. Picture (and this is mere coincidence that this was my first example) a morbidly obese woman in her 20s at a college campus. A real foodhound. A woman so infatuated with caloric intake that she and Jared from Subway could have their own segment on the next installment of Beef dvds. Shitbomb could not label this woman correctly. I'm pretty sure the only moniker that you can marshal from the bowels of your upset stomach is a face crossed between sucking a mega sour lemon and having one of those number two catastrophes where your face resembles Terry Shiavo. If you have managed to drum up a visual in your head, we can move on to the problem (aside from her astonishingly appalling yet applaudable weight):the clothes. I don't know what it is about uglies that need to sport duds that read "Hottie" all over your dumpy, flapjacks all day, crisco courting ass. Not only do you look like you killed a cheerleader and took her clothes, but now you've also adopted her stupidity for wearing clothes with misspelled words on them.***read the end, just forget what you think I may be an idiot for.
This is just an instance of self loathing. Why would someone who clearly has an eating conundrum defile her self esteem and her wits with lewd inappropriate clothing...because its "cuuuuute teehehe"??? No. I am about to break down the clogged arteries and syrup induced bloodstreams that is the fat person.
Eating is an addiction, just as bad as your worst drug or your best piece of booty. If bitches aint shit to you, pussy will never have a stronghold over your mind and more importantly, your balls. If you do drugs and don't let drugs do you, the golden wonka ticket that is marijuana will never steer you wrong. Eating is the same way. If you take something and make it out to be bigger than you are, you have set yourself up for failure. Anyone who succeeds in life will tell you that you cannot have a cannot attitude(yeah yeah shutup). Don't make a mountain out of a molehill. The only thing that eats at these dimwitted cattle (apart from the late night thoughts about gastric bypass), is that they cannot overcome their bad habit, so they combat their frustrations and heartache with...duh, FOOD. With every morsel of lip smackingly delectable treats that this menace to the food pyramid sends into his/her parody-like stomach, the chance for turnaround diminishes. The mountain grows higher, the brain still thinking about licking excess frosting off the bowl. Exercising becomes difficult. Jeans get tighter. Looks from the opposite gender turn from intrigue to disgust. You spend your entire life chasing burgers and when its too late you realize that you're never going to be a Big Mac(k). Just a Big Mceater.
In the end, when the only thing that is saving you is hospital tubes and re-runs of Jerry Springer, you have nothing left to understand except that food was your devil and your god. Food was your love and your hate. By making food out to be a larger-than-life concept, the only thing you could do was eat to keep up. As big as food was to the fat person, the fat person must defeat all the food first (at least thats what I think goes on in the hamster wheels of the obese). You'll just get bigger and bigger in a race against food to prove that you are number one...and soon enough, food will outlast you and you'll just be an overweight loser with loads of untapped potential. Some people just cannot see things for what they are. If you truly believe in yourself and believe that you are in control and larger than life, then everything else comes easy. Personality and confidence are a motherfucker, and I can't find that anywhere these days.
See. This is why I hate fat people. And not fat people alone. The fact that only about 3% of the world are probably doing what they would truly love to do is a scary thought and, in my eyes, the reason why we are as fucked up as we are. Our imperfections create our defense mechanisms. Our defense mechanisms will fire at anyone who hints at cracking our deep secrets and our worries. All this does is chain react hatred and breed more ignorance.
I used to weigh over 300 pounds two years ago. Food was my nigga. Chicken wings and marshmallow peeps and hot chocolate ohhh joy! But then I realized that I was ugly as hell and asking my mom to help wash my folds wasn't very mature of me. I used to be mean to everyone...and now that my weight is gone, my entire demeanor has changed for the better. Whatever you have dubbed in your head as "impossible"...its all in your head.
I think I've decided what to do with this blog. Maybe every couple days I'll find a type of person I want to talk about, dog them out, and then relate their problems to my own life. Humor is the only way I know how to convey my thoughts...as harsh as I may be, some of my looney tunes thoughts make a grain of sand's worth of sense.
By the way, my mom never washed my folds. That's just gross.
AND NO...do not think because you are overweight, gay, illegal immigrant, retarded, handicapped, etc that you are a loser. If you only take half of what I say, you're getting the wrong half. My humor is a savior to the wise but an ignorant funny button to the fucking stupid. Please don't be the latter. I hate stupid people.
***IM AN IDIOT***
Hottie is spelled correctly, if that bullshit can even be considered a word on a fat jowled mutant's ass. So I guess I'm not an idiot. I just beat fat people and won one over on the American language. May Shiva bless your days, my hateful little Americans.<--deep
I don't know what it is that bugs people about individuals who speak their mind. If I have to sit and read your shitty myspace surveys or your one sentence bulletins depicting how your heart is sinking faster than the Titanic because some short skirted strumpet is fucking all of your neighborhood fellows, I should not be bedeviled by you artificial flavored bleeding hearts for the berries of brass tacks that adieu my piehole. For the plethora of ridiculous verbal garbage that I hear everyday, you would think that the lighthearted yet painfully true thoughts that I harbor would be taken in like a breath of fresh air in New Jersey. The idea that everyone is truly ashamed of themselves is becoming more and more tangible to me by the day.
To walk around a half-assed downtown and see the real trash that merrily drifts along without a care in the world really is beginning to take a toll on my evaluation of my own self worth. What is the "real trash", you might ask. Picture (and this is mere coincidence that this was my first example) a morbidly obese woman in her 20s at a college campus. A real foodhound. A woman so infatuated with caloric intake that she and Jared from Subway could have their own segment on the next installment of Beef dvds. Shitbomb could not label this woman correctly. I'm pretty sure the only moniker that you can marshal from the bowels of your upset stomach is a face crossed between sucking a mega sour lemon and having one of those number two catastrophes where your face resembles Terry Shiavo. If you have managed to drum up a visual in your head, we can move on to the problem (aside from her astonishingly appalling yet applaudable weight):the clothes. I don't know what it is about uglies that need to sport duds that read "Hottie" all over your dumpy, flapjacks all day, crisco courting ass. Not only do you look like you killed a cheerleader and took her clothes, but now you've also adopted her stupidity for wearing clothes with misspelled words on them.***read the end, just forget what you think I may be an idiot for.
This is just an instance of self loathing. Why would someone who clearly has an eating conundrum defile her self esteem and her wits with lewd inappropriate clothing...because its "cuuuuute teehehe"??? No. I am about to break down the clogged arteries and syrup induced bloodstreams that is the fat person.
Eating is an addiction, just as bad as your worst drug or your best piece of booty. If bitches aint shit to you, pussy will never have a stronghold over your mind and more importantly, your balls. If you do drugs and don't let drugs do you, the golden wonka ticket that is marijuana will never steer you wrong. Eating is the same way. If you take something and make it out to be bigger than you are, you have set yourself up for failure. Anyone who succeeds in life will tell you that you cannot have a cannot attitude(yeah yeah shutup). Don't make a mountain out of a molehill. The only thing that eats at these dimwitted cattle (apart from the late night thoughts about gastric bypass), is that they cannot overcome their bad habit, so they combat their frustrations and heartache with...duh, FOOD. With every morsel of lip smackingly delectable treats that this menace to the food pyramid sends into his/her parody-like stomach, the chance for turnaround diminishes. The mountain grows higher, the brain still thinking about licking excess frosting off the bowl. Exercising becomes difficult. Jeans get tighter. Looks from the opposite gender turn from intrigue to disgust. You spend your entire life chasing burgers and when its too late you realize that you're never going to be a Big Mac(k). Just a Big Mceater.
In the end, when the only thing that is saving you is hospital tubes and re-runs of Jerry Springer, you have nothing left to understand except that food was your devil and your god. Food was your love and your hate. By making food out to be a larger-than-life concept, the only thing you could do was eat to keep up. As big as food was to the fat person, the fat person must defeat all the food first (at least thats what I think goes on in the hamster wheels of the obese). You'll just get bigger and bigger in a race against food to prove that you are number one...and soon enough, food will outlast you and you'll just be an overweight loser with loads of untapped potential. Some people just cannot see things for what they are. If you truly believe in yourself and believe that you are in control and larger than life, then everything else comes easy. Personality and confidence are a motherfucker, and I can't find that anywhere these days.
See. This is why I hate fat people. And not fat people alone. The fact that only about 3% of the world are probably doing what they would truly love to do is a scary thought and, in my eyes, the reason why we are as fucked up as we are. Our imperfections create our defense mechanisms. Our defense mechanisms will fire at anyone who hints at cracking our deep secrets and our worries. All this does is chain react hatred and breed more ignorance.
I used to weigh over 300 pounds two years ago. Food was my nigga. Chicken wings and marshmallow peeps and hot chocolate ohhh joy! But then I realized that I was ugly as hell and asking my mom to help wash my folds wasn't very mature of me. I used to be mean to everyone...and now that my weight is gone, my entire demeanor has changed for the better. Whatever you have dubbed in your head as "impossible"...its all in your head.
I think I've decided what to do with this blog. Maybe every couple days I'll find a type of person I want to talk about, dog them out, and then relate their problems to my own life. Humor is the only way I know how to convey my thoughts...as harsh as I may be, some of my looney tunes thoughts make a grain of sand's worth of sense.
By the way, my mom never washed my folds. That's just gross.
AND NO...do not think because you are overweight, gay, illegal immigrant, retarded, handicapped, etc that you are a loser. If you only take half of what I say, you're getting the wrong half. My humor is a savior to the wise but an ignorant funny button to the fucking stupid. Please don't be the latter. I hate stupid people.
***IM AN IDIOT***
Hottie is spelled correctly, if that bullshit can even be considered a word on a fat jowled mutant's ass. So I guess I'm not an idiot. I just beat fat people and won one over on the American language. May Shiva bless your days, my hateful little Americans.<--deep
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Calm Before the Storm
READ BEFORE YOU GO ON:there is nothing here to make you any wiser to the world. Nothing on this page will breed an intelligent idea out of your Mr. Planters pea-brain. This is a blog dedicated to eradicating the hatred within you and slamdunking that bad boy on your grandmothers glass coffee table, all the while puttin those dirty nikes ON the plastic. This is ignorance at its finest. This is road rage on a PCP binge. Im comin for mothers' heads and stayin high like a knotty dread. This is my outlet so that I don't fill my jawline with buckshot. If anyone's feelings happen to shatter like a bride walking in on her beloved pounding a bridesmaid in a wedding dress, so be it. My fortitude for grounding a hothead is unmatched. My determination for crushing your emotions are parallel by comparison only to a nine year old Asian DDR defending champion. This is chicken shit for the brain when you asked for chicken soup for the soul. Take what you can stand because I'm giving all the hatred that I can. Semper Fi. Hoorahhhhh bro. Hoo fuckin rah.
I've finally broken down. After much rallying by you all, I have decided that I will create a blog. For anyone that is a first time reader or anyone who doesn't know much about me, entertain this writing to be the precursor to your cognition's Apocalypse. Whatever has allowed you to schlep your unproductive never moving always snoozing carcass here, whether it be my god awful reputation, my cherubic yet oddly spot-on opinions on overweight women or bulimic floozies, or just simply because you enjoy seeing me take an Elephant-sized mind dump all over the toilet paper you use to pat off the child potty that is your brain. Welcome to the circus. Welcome to the shittalk. Welcome to the never ending abyss of self esteem squelching assessments and instances of taking you, me, and everything in between down a peg or two...or ten...whatever it takes to make you realize that you are the same steaming pile of shit that my dog delivered to the Earth this frosty morning. Welcome welcome welcome.
Whatever has brought you here, you should be sure to regret, no matter how much it makes you unknowingly toss Doritos down your chompers as you're rocking back and forth simultaneously laughing while contemplating if I am a heartless piece of mother nature's puzzle or if it is you that is the racist, sexist, anti feminist, anti humanist waste that just got a Bosnian lesbian lighting a *wo*man made fire under your ass. If a friend or a work cohort prodded you in my direction, make sure to cast heavy stones at their mothers the next time you see them. If you are just a regular John/Jane Doe that happened to find my site on your child's computer while you were searching for the homosexual erotica he/she may have, I would block this site immediately, for my words of unseen wisdom will be the big Mandingo dick your son has been quivering and aching over for so long/the venomous dagger spitting, black hole vagina that your angelic daughter has been contemplating Sinead'ing her hair out for. Do not expect to receive anything out of my writing except for tenderfoot ideals ignited by lots of marijuana and a short fuse all wrapped up in a brittle, big head little dick syndromed Humpty Dumpty shell that is a funny motherfucker who just doesn't shut his mouth for anything. If you've read this far, in spite of me saying I took a boo boo on your head, proclaimed my hatred for trolls, bleeding hearts, and anyone who makes a myspace survey (and managed to keep a smile on your face), you're probably here to stay. Tell ya friends and ya mammies. Break out the peanut butter and call Rover over, the tomfoolery is only beginning.
I'm doing this because everyone has a dream. Just ask Clark Dense up here.
I've finally broken down. After much rallying by you all, I have decided that I will create a blog. For anyone that is a first time reader or anyone who doesn't know much about me, entertain this writing to be the precursor to your cognition's Apocalypse. Whatever has allowed you to schlep your unproductive never moving always snoozing carcass here, whether it be my god awful reputation, my cherubic yet oddly spot-on opinions on overweight women or bulimic floozies, or just simply because you enjoy seeing me take an Elephant-sized mind dump all over the toilet paper you use to pat off the child potty that is your brain. Welcome to the circus. Welcome to the shittalk. Welcome to the never ending abyss of self esteem squelching assessments and instances of taking you, me, and everything in between down a peg or two...or ten...whatever it takes to make you realize that you are the same steaming pile of shit that my dog delivered to the Earth this frosty morning. Welcome welcome welcome.
Whatever has brought you here, you should be sure to regret, no matter how much it makes you unknowingly toss Doritos down your chompers as you're rocking back and forth simultaneously laughing while contemplating if I am a heartless piece of mother nature's puzzle or if it is you that is the racist, sexist, anti feminist, anti humanist waste that just got a Bosnian lesbian lighting a *wo*man made fire under your ass. If a friend or a work cohort prodded you in my direction, make sure to cast heavy stones at their mothers the next time you see them. If you are just a regular John/Jane Doe that happened to find my site on your child's computer while you were searching for the homosexual erotica he/she may have, I would block this site immediately, for my words of unseen wisdom will be the big Mandingo dick your son has been quivering and aching over for so long/the venomous dagger spitting, black hole vagina that your angelic daughter has been contemplating Sinead'ing her hair out for. Do not expect to receive anything out of my writing except for tenderfoot ideals ignited by lots of marijuana and a short fuse all wrapped up in a brittle, big head little dick syndromed Humpty Dumpty shell that is a funny motherfucker who just doesn't shut his mouth for anything. If you've read this far, in spite of me saying I took a boo boo on your head, proclaimed my hatred for trolls, bleeding hearts, and anyone who makes a myspace survey (and managed to keep a smile on your face), you're probably here to stay. Tell ya friends and ya mammies. Break out the peanut butter and call Rover over, the tomfoolery is only beginning.
I'm doing this because everyone has a dream. Just ask Clark Dense up here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)