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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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!