i'd like to see the force do this
Sunday, July 27, 2008
rabbits and turtles (or, in the words of a serial killer)
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this one guy i met in prison
told me that when he got the call from the police that they were coming to pick him up for violating his parole by soliciting sex from a cop he thought was a thirteen-year old girl, he immediately ran from his basement apartment to his mom's house up the stairs and cried on her shoulder and confessed everything to her. and when the sirens went from faint to deafening, they knelt and prayed on the kitchen floor.
he said that in that moment, he knew he was saved. he accepted jesus christ into his heart and then he tried to do what all born agains do when they tell you about their new guilt-free lifestyle.
he asked me if i had accepted jesus christ as my personal savior. this, of course, with a special air of condescension that is unique to born agains. even ones in orange jumpsuits in for there third sex-related felony.
jesus communed with sinners and whores, you know.
i told him that was none of his concern and moved on to the next part of the interview. i asked him if he had remorse for his crimes. i already knew the answer, but i had to document it in his own words.
he said that before you knew the lord, he was wracked with torment and shame, but now he felt no remorse, for jesus had taken it from him. he was redeemed with the blood on the lamb, and healed by the marked hands of the messiah. he said he doesn't even want to talk about his past sins because they are no more and speaking of them only invited darkness.
then, again, he did what i knew he would.
he asked me if i was held down by my sins and if i died in my sins, a dark place was waiting for me, as i had not been properly saved.
i then skipped to the last question.
i asked him if he wanted to participate in the sex offender treatment program. just needed to document his words.
he told me that i was just satan trying to get him down. said he'd been saved and man's "therapy" was the devil's tool in disguise. said he was one with the lord, and was sinless.
the whole hath no need of a physician, you know.
then i asked him a question that wasn't part of the interview.
i asked him if he were to rape a child again, if he'd still be saved.
not sure why i did, because i knew the answer. guess i just did it for the same reason i always ask born-agains similar questions. just want to hear it out of their own mouth.
with the most joyous smile i'd ever seen, he tells me what i want to hear. he tells me of course he'd be saved--he's sit on the right hand of the father because he had accepted jesus as his personal savior.
i am saved by the grace of god, he said.
he said that in that moment, he knew he was saved. he accepted jesus christ into his heart and then he tried to do what all born agains do when they tell you about their new guilt-free lifestyle.
he asked me if i had accepted jesus christ as my personal savior. this, of course, with a special air of condescension that is unique to born agains. even ones in orange jumpsuits in for there third sex-related felony.
jesus communed with sinners and whores, you know.
i told him that was none of his concern and moved on to the next part of the interview. i asked him if he had remorse for his crimes. i already knew the answer, but i had to document it in his own words.
he said that before you knew the lord, he was wracked with torment and shame, but now he felt no remorse, for jesus had taken it from him. he was redeemed with the blood on the lamb, and healed by the marked hands of the messiah. he said he doesn't even want to talk about his past sins because they are no more and speaking of them only invited darkness.
then, again, he did what i knew he would.
he asked me if i was held down by my sins and if i died in my sins, a dark place was waiting for me, as i had not been properly saved.
i then skipped to the last question.
i asked him if he wanted to participate in the sex offender treatment program. just needed to document his words.
he told me that i was just satan trying to get him down. said he'd been saved and man's "therapy" was the devil's tool in disguise. said he was one with the lord, and was sinless.
the whole hath no need of a physician, you know.
then i asked him a question that wasn't part of the interview.
i asked him if he were to rape a child again, if he'd still be saved.
not sure why i did, because i knew the answer. guess i just did it for the same reason i always ask born-agains similar questions. just want to hear it out of their own mouth.
with the most joyous smile i'd ever seen, he tells me what i want to hear. he tells me of course he'd be saved--he's sit on the right hand of the father because he had accepted jesus as his personal savior.
i am saved by the grace of god, he said.
most of the time,
when little baby birds are not much more than screeching, wide-open mouths awaiting mom-vomit, they stay put, moving only their little heads up and down.
sometimes, they move more than their heads.
sometimes, they start a floppin' and the next thing you know, they're out of their nest and right next to the sidewalk, on the way to the research building, still all open-mouthed.
sometimes, you look at them and realize they've seen their last maternal-puke kiss because as unfair as it is, once you are out of the nest, you are on your own.
sometimes, you look down and their little beak is so far open you can see down their throat. all this, and it isn't making noise anymore and you know they are almost gone.
sometimes, you wish you had the whatever it is to just squash it right there so it didn't starve to death.
sometimes, you wish you weren't on your way to the research building.
sometimes, they move more than their heads.
sometimes, they start a floppin' and the next thing you know, they're out of their nest and right next to the sidewalk, on the way to the research building, still all open-mouthed.
sometimes, you look at them and realize they've seen their last maternal-puke kiss because as unfair as it is, once you are out of the nest, you are on your own.
sometimes, you look down and their little beak is so far open you can see down their throat. all this, and it isn't making noise anymore and you know they are almost gone.
sometimes, you wish you had the whatever it is to just squash it right there so it didn't starve to death.
sometimes, you wish you weren't on your way to the research building.
most of the time,
monkey mothers bite the umbilical chord, eat the placenta, and stop.
sometimes they don't.
sometimes, you come in and see blood and mom clinging to a headless rag doll of a baby, while she opens her mouth, threatening you with the same fate.
sometimes, you have to figure out a way to get that limp bag of bones away from her so it won't spread disease (that and it's just plain morbid).
sometimes, you succeed, and just before you leave with your quarter-pound bio-hazard sack of baby monkey bits, you realize not-so-small baby skull fragments are laying right next to the now extremely distraught mother.
sometimes, you wish you hadn't left your flask of cognac in the research building.
sometimes, you just wished you weren't a primate at all.
sometimes they don't.
sometimes, you come in and see blood and mom clinging to a headless rag doll of a baby, while she opens her mouth, threatening you with the same fate.
sometimes, you have to figure out a way to get that limp bag of bones away from her so it won't spread disease (that and it's just plain morbid).
sometimes, you succeed, and just before you leave with your quarter-pound bio-hazard sack of baby monkey bits, you realize not-so-small baby skull fragments are laying right next to the now extremely distraught mother.
sometimes, you wish you hadn't left your flask of cognac in the research building.
sometimes, you just wished you weren't a primate at all.
the thing that sucks about growing up
is the there are no girls to torment or play jokes on.
let me rephrase that.
there are no girls that exist that you can play jokes on or scare or torment that will still also let you have sex with them.
that's what sucks about growing up.
let me rephrase that.
there are no girls that exist that you can play jokes on or scare or torment that will still also let you have sex with them.
that's what sucks about growing up.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
this girl once told me
she could forgive her boyfriend for cheating on her with any human, male or female; but not with a female real doll. i found that hard to believe, but she held to her guns.
she said that female real dolls were the worst because they were the ultimate expression of the female stereotype:
basically, she said, everything that she would and could never be.
i saw her point, but it still floored me that she could be more threatened by a hunk of plastic than a human being. not to mention, of course, that she mentioned nothing of the male real dolls...
i told her she must not have much of an opinion of men if she thought a real doll was the perfect expression of their desires. she shrugged and took a long drag from her cigarette.
she seemed surprised when i told her that a lot men feel some of those feelings about vibrators and dildos.
i told her that even after a year, i couldn't get my partner off with just me--it took a machine. and that's not the best feeling in the world if you let it get to you. i told her that no matter how great i was, this 6-inch battery operated hunk of plastic did a job i never could. and that's not a great feeling, especially if you partner is more obsessed with getting off more than journey to getting off.
she said it wasn't the same.
i said maybe not exactly, but its close.
so i told her maybe traditional gender roles make objects of us all. men machines, women lifeless holes. everyone is plastic.
so then i said maybe we should stop believing all the traditional bullshit and just be people.
that's when she told me it was no wonder i couldn't get my girlfriend off.
she said that female real dolls were the worst because they were the ultimate expression of the female stereotype:
- built to unnatural physical dimensions
- absolutely passive ("to the necro-level," she said)
- the extreme expression of a woman as a sex object
basically, she said, everything that she would and could never be.
i saw her point, but it still floored me that she could be more threatened by a hunk of plastic than a human being. not to mention, of course, that she mentioned nothing of the male real dolls...
i told her she must not have much of an opinion of men if she thought a real doll was the perfect expression of their desires. she shrugged and took a long drag from her cigarette.
she seemed surprised when i told her that a lot men feel some of those feelings about vibrators and dildos.
i told her that even after a year, i couldn't get my partner off with just me--it took a machine. and that's not the best feeling in the world if you let it get to you. i told her that no matter how great i was, this 6-inch battery operated hunk of plastic did a job i never could. and that's not a great feeling, especially if you partner is more obsessed with getting off more than journey to getting off.
she said it wasn't the same.
i said maybe not exactly, but its close.
so i told her maybe traditional gender roles make objects of us all. men machines, women lifeless holes. everyone is plastic.
so then i said maybe we should stop believing all the traditional bullshit and just be people.
that's when she told me it was no wonder i couldn't get my girlfriend off.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
this courses through me
and i try to stop it at times, to varying degrees of success.
but its always there and as much as i absolutely despise it, it is a part of me--and maybe it is the most core part of me.
it moves and i move, it crashes and i brace for impact.
at night it seizes me, and teeth clenched, i await release.
my life is spent, drained, and used up keeping face to all of you, but when i can no longer, i leave.
this is why i left you and you know who you are. you all do. this is why i wasn't there when you needed me and why i never will be. this is why you died alone. and this is why my eyes are empty, no matter how you tried to convince yourselves that they weren't.
it surges in me in ways you will never understand, and i do my best. or at least i try.
its moving in me now, and in these moments i am no more in control than a fisherman's boat on the billowing, raging sea.
its in me, through me, and directs me even now. i am lost in it and it is lost in me. it has its own reasons, though i suspect reason is not its master.
it takes hold of me and takes me away and i fight and scream but i cannot stop it.
even now.
but its always there and as much as i absolutely despise it, it is a part of me--and maybe it is the most core part of me.
it moves and i move, it crashes and i brace for impact.
at night it seizes me, and teeth clenched, i await release.
my life is spent, drained, and used up keeping face to all of you, but when i can no longer, i leave.
this is why i left you and you know who you are. you all do. this is why i wasn't there when you needed me and why i never will be. this is why you died alone. and this is why my eyes are empty, no matter how you tried to convince yourselves that they weren't.
it surges in me in ways you will never understand, and i do my best. or at least i try.
its moving in me now, and in these moments i am no more in control than a fisherman's boat on the billowing, raging sea.
its in me, through me, and directs me even now. i am lost in it and it is lost in me. it has its own reasons, though i suspect reason is not its master.
it takes hold of me and takes me away and i fight and scream but i cannot stop it.
even now.
in a room full of screeching, shit-throwing monkeys
hopped up on enough testosterone to fuel a 100-years war, no one can smell your fart.
so just let it go.
this fact only presents itself as a problem for people like me. since, to date, no one else like me as been known to exist, this means it is only a problem for me.
my problem is i live in a room full of howling monkeys in cages, whose only revenge on the heartless world who caged them is to hurl fecal projectiles and hope to the heavens they land a hit to a mucus membrane and spread their herpes or shigellosis, giving them at least some, albeit perverse, form of immortality.
i, on the other hand, require a fresh atmosphere for my triumph over Death.
the thing that separates me from the asses of the masses is that my farts surpass even the stench of Death itself. If Death died while raping rotting pig carcasses, and was then eaten, processed, and shit out by a leprous triceratops, it would only begin to describe the initial whiff of my flatulence, before it hits you like a Buick full of napalm.
you see, i'm actually dying inside. my fumes are fueled not so much by my diet, what goes in me, as me and my own personal gastrointestinal atrophy. some people's voice comes from an orchestration of their lungs, trachea, tongue, jaw, lips, and sheer will--mine from three meters of bleeding, ulcerous, polyp-covered tubing aching to give birth to an aerosol assault team built to leave no remains of any conventionally manufactured olfactory system.
and that's before it goes cancerous.
my death is your death, you fuckbags, after my baby gets done with you. it'll curb-stomp your face into the paradox gasping for air while wishing you never had to inhale again.
welcome to my world. now we understand one another.
so i'll end where i began, because that's the nature of things. it's no use being someone and asserting your individuality in here, in this fucking monkehouse. it's fucking useless and if i or anyone else has any farting to do, it just won't matter to anyone but you because once we cage a monkey, it has nothing left to do but throw its own waste and all we have to do is react, and and no farting anyone has to do, even me, will ever matter.
thanks, world. thanks a monkey-fucking ton.
so just let it go.
this fact only presents itself as a problem for people like me. since, to date, no one else like me as been known to exist, this means it is only a problem for me.
my problem is i live in a room full of howling monkeys in cages, whose only revenge on the heartless world who caged them is to hurl fecal projectiles and hope to the heavens they land a hit to a mucus membrane and spread their herpes or shigellosis, giving them at least some, albeit perverse, form of immortality.
i, on the other hand, require a fresh atmosphere for my triumph over Death.
the thing that separates me from the asses of the masses is that my farts surpass even the stench of Death itself. If Death died while raping rotting pig carcasses, and was then eaten, processed, and shit out by a leprous triceratops, it would only begin to describe the initial whiff of my flatulence, before it hits you like a Buick full of napalm.
you see, i'm actually dying inside. my fumes are fueled not so much by my diet, what goes in me, as me and my own personal gastrointestinal atrophy. some people's voice comes from an orchestration of their lungs, trachea, tongue, jaw, lips, and sheer will--mine from three meters of bleeding, ulcerous, polyp-covered tubing aching to give birth to an aerosol assault team built to leave no remains of any conventionally manufactured olfactory system.
and that's before it goes cancerous.
my death is your death, you fuckbags, after my baby gets done with you. it'll curb-stomp your face into the paradox gasping for air while wishing you never had to inhale again.
welcome to my world. now we understand one another.
so i'll end where i began, because that's the nature of things. it's no use being someone and asserting your individuality in here, in this fucking monkehouse. it's fucking useless and if i or anyone else has any farting to do, it just won't matter to anyone but you because once we cage a monkey, it has nothing left to do but throw its own waste and all we have to do is react, and and no farting anyone has to do, even me, will ever matter.
thanks, world. thanks a monkey-fucking ton.
Monday, July 7, 2008
what makes this difficult
is that i rack my brain, intuition, and vocabulary for one solid week at a time before i can be at peace with anything. meanwhile, time passes and my hard drive stays at 10 gigs used, 30 gigs available. ultimately, i just wish it was good enough a writer without all the frills--that ideas meant something. but in the land of the ultimate, 7 dollar, super spicy, triple-patty, deluxe BBQ bacon burger on grilled fococcia bread, frills are about all that sells. truth is, i'm not the next big thing and i never will be.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
two guys unloading a truck full of radiators
"if this is what life's all about, then someone fucking lied to me."
no shit. slide that one over, yeah. there you ya go. ain't we all supposed to be monkey-fuckin' doctors and astronauts by now?
"fuck this shit, i can't budge this motherfucker."
fuck it. leave it there. let's go smoke those those camels jose left in the break room.
"now that's a fuckin' plan!"
say, have you ever smoked a cuban cigar, roy?
"once, when i was a kid. i had this uncle who used to let me take drags off his cubans on the way to the horse races."
i ain't never had one. and i been thinkin' "you know what, i'm gonna get me a fuckin' cuban."
"if you want to smoke a cuban just to feel like your life's worth two hairy dog nuts, and you don't spend 10 hours a day haulin' Hummer radiators to and fuckin' fro, then i gotta tell ya, you're headed for a dumptruck full of disappointment my friend, cuz that ain't how it works."
fuck you, cocksucker. i knew you wouldn't support me on this shit. why you always gotta come down on every fuckin' idea i waste on your faggot ass?
"whoa whoa, whoa, easy soilder. i'm just sayin' that cubans are for celebratin' somethin' else, not just for shits and giggles."
well fuck you, dickhead, i ain't got nothin' to celebrate, so that's just the fuckin' way it'll have to be.
"dammit, you dog-fucker, you can't go fuckin' around and change the meaning of something so funda-fuckin'-mental as kickin' back with cuban in the glory of a new born babe or coporate merger--it just ain't right, you donkey raping nut juggler."
you fuckin' piece of gorrila shit--it's called 'divergent motherfucking thinking.'
"oh, here we go! tell, me more college boy! did ya learn that from socrates himself or is that pillow talk your fuckin' professor gives after you lap her cunt like a dog?"
it means that instead of thinkin' the same bullshit over and over--like a cuban has to be smoked only in a certain fuckin' circumstance, that you di-fucking-verge and think somethin' different, dildo!
"well look whose shit quit stinkin' after night classes at community college! you know what you are, goatfucker."
and what is that, roy? please, oh wise and knowledgable roy, please, oh fucking please, expound to me what the fuck i am!
"look around you, you cow fucking pile of shit, this is what we are! we break our backs to keep the fuckin' line goin' at GM. we fuckin' drive forklifts and listen to Conway Twitty. we go the the fuckin' waffle house at 3am and eat fuckin' pecan waffles like fuckin' men. we keep things goin' because that's what we were built for and that's what we are fuckin' good at and that's how things work. and the last thing we need to do is start thinkin' we're somethin' more than your friends, cocksucker."
well if we are all such piles of worthless shit, why can't i at least have the pleasure of a cuban?
"take the cocks outta your ears and listen to what i'm fuckin' saying--because you're tryin' to be somethin' your not. now take this camel and shut your cockholster, ya fudge-packin' queen."
fuck the camels. you know what i want to smoke.
"you're a fucking idiot."
fuck you. i wanna bite that bastard off and light it up because i'm not supposed to. i wanna take that bad boy and fuckin blow smoke like a fuckin' frieght train. and its not to be somethin' i ain't, its to fuckin' show everybody here and there and everywhere on this fucking intergalatic floating horse terd of a world that i got cheated. i was supposed to be somebody, but here i am everyday, up to my fuckin' ears in radiators for a truck i ain't never gonna drive. so fuck you and fuck everyone else. i'm gonna smoke that cuban and i'm gonna walk up to you and blow the smoke in your face, you tampon sucking piece of shit.
no shit. slide that one over, yeah. there you ya go. ain't we all supposed to be monkey-fuckin' doctors and astronauts by now?
"fuck this shit, i can't budge this motherfucker."
fuck it. leave it there. let's go smoke those those camels jose left in the break room.
"now that's a fuckin' plan!"
say, have you ever smoked a cuban cigar, roy?
"once, when i was a kid. i had this uncle who used to let me take drags off his cubans on the way to the horse races."
i ain't never had one. and i been thinkin' "you know what, i'm gonna get me a fuckin' cuban."
"if you want to smoke a cuban just to feel like your life's worth two hairy dog nuts, and you don't spend 10 hours a day haulin' Hummer radiators to and fuckin' fro, then i gotta tell ya, you're headed for a dumptruck full of disappointment my friend, cuz that ain't how it works."
fuck you, cocksucker. i knew you wouldn't support me on this shit. why you always gotta come down on every fuckin' idea i waste on your faggot ass?
"whoa whoa, whoa, easy soilder. i'm just sayin' that cubans are for celebratin' somethin' else, not just for shits and giggles."
well fuck you, dickhead, i ain't got nothin' to celebrate, so that's just the fuckin' way it'll have to be.
"dammit, you dog-fucker, you can't go fuckin' around and change the meaning of something so funda-fuckin'-mental as kickin' back with cuban in the glory of a new born babe or coporate merger--it just ain't right, you donkey raping nut juggler."
you fuckin' piece of gorrila shit--it's called 'divergent motherfucking thinking.'
"oh, here we go! tell, me more college boy! did ya learn that from socrates himself or is that pillow talk your fuckin' professor gives after you lap her cunt like a dog?"
it means that instead of thinkin' the same bullshit over and over--like a cuban has to be smoked only in a certain fuckin' circumstance, that you di-fucking-verge and think somethin' different, dildo!
"well look whose shit quit stinkin' after night classes at community college! you know what you are, goatfucker."
and what is that, roy? please, oh wise and knowledgable roy, please, oh fucking please, expound to me what the fuck i am!
"look around you, you cow fucking pile of shit, this is what we are! we break our backs to keep the fuckin' line goin' at GM. we fuckin' drive forklifts and listen to Conway Twitty. we go the the fuckin' waffle house at 3am and eat fuckin' pecan waffles like fuckin' men. we keep things goin' because that's what we were built for and that's what we are fuckin' good at and that's how things work. and the last thing we need to do is start thinkin' we're somethin' more than your friends, cocksucker."
well if we are all such piles of worthless shit, why can't i at least have the pleasure of a cuban?
"take the cocks outta your ears and listen to what i'm fuckin' saying--because you're tryin' to be somethin' your not. now take this camel and shut your cockholster, ya fudge-packin' queen."
fuck the camels. you know what i want to smoke.
"you're a fucking idiot."
fuck you. i wanna bite that bastard off and light it up because i'm not supposed to. i wanna take that bad boy and fuckin blow smoke like a fuckin' frieght train. and its not to be somethin' i ain't, its to fuckin' show everybody here and there and everywhere on this fucking intergalatic floating horse terd of a world that i got cheated. i was supposed to be somebody, but here i am everyday, up to my fuckin' ears in radiators for a truck i ain't never gonna drive. so fuck you and fuck everyone else. i'm gonna smoke that cuban and i'm gonna walk up to you and blow the smoke in your face, you tampon sucking piece of shit.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
"you know,
maybe if you weren't such an asshole, you wouldn't need me to do this."
what's this whole 'anal fixation' you've developed all of a sudden?
"Luke, stop right here, right now and tell me--look me in the eye--the window of the very soul--and tell me that there is the slightest bit of error or subjectivity in your assholishness."
no, seriously, this anal fixation thing is getting outta control, Mark. what was i last week...a sphincter fissure...
"wrinkle."
yeah, what was that all about, you bastard?
"i felt it appropriate as sphincter wrinkles are where colon cancer develops. you are the cause of all that is effing cancerous, shit stain."
ha ha. that's what i like about you, man. even your insults are deep. that and you can analyze handwriting.
"alright, we're clear. hand me the paper, polyp face."
i have it right here, mi amigo.
"you got the sample on unlined paper, like i told you, right?"
hell yeah. i'm no fucking rookie.
"dude, keep the eff bomb on the DL, my mom is in the next room."
she's such a fucking hypocrite. remember that time we tied up your sister and told her we were going to eat her alive?
"yes, i remember, shut up."
something inside me died when your mom caught us and she called us--
"--i said shut up, shit eater. its different now that she's mormon now. now there's no cussin', at least not around her."
i thought it was seventh-day adventist or something all old-testament like that.
"wrong-o bong-o, rectum licker. mormons. just for craps and giggles i took a look at the founder of the religion, joseph smith's handwriting--"
didn't he bone Pocahontas?
"no, fecal muncher, that was someone completely different. he did have several wives though, thanks to an angel who came and threatened his life with a sword if he didn't marry more wives--but that's not what's interesting."
if having angels appear and try to shank you for not boning more chicks ain't interesting, what is?
"here, right here, on the first letter of his first name is the money shot."
the felons claw?! are you shitting me?
"yup, right there. bam. and for the last time, watch your mouth."
the only tell-tale sign of a pathological liar...
"as stinky as a terd sandwhich straight from the bakery."
so did ya tell yer mom?
"no way, she's way nicer now. plus chicks come over with cookies all the time. as long as i pretend to listen to some thees and thous they treat me like a superstar. plus one has really huge jugs."
dude, what about the handwriting you are supposed to be analyzing for me, though. anything yet?
"this isn't the greatest sample in the world..."
just tell me what i need to know.
"well, her lower section dips a bit."
yesssss...
"don't get a hard-on yet, that crap is a double edged sword, man. she may love to get freaky, but that's because she likes to feel good, which is rooted in selfishness."
i'm not gonna marry the bitch, dude. just tell me if its low enough that i can count on a--
"dude, shut up!" (points at wall)
"i can't really for certain, but if i was a betting man, i'd put my money on it."
why can't you tell for sure?
"the 'n' is too small--i need a larger sample, i need more power..."
translate that out of dork-speak for me.
"it means i need a bigger sample of writing to make me more confident in my analysis, captain colon."
i told you this was the best i could do for now. what else do you see?
"she's running from the past--look at her left margin."
sweet! dude, maybe her father fucking abused her or something. there's nothing like sex from a daddy's girl. choke 'em, piss on 'em, crap on 'em--dude this one chick i knew--
"you make me sick, i'm not doing this anymore."
oh, oh, what about the future? what about the other margin?
"it's your lucky day--she's stuck in time."
fuck yeah!
"DUDE!"
sorry, (whispers) fuck yeah.
"she's running from the past and the future, because one hurt and that means the other probably will too."
anything else?
"like i said, this sample is just rabbit shit. i need a rhinoceros pile if you want anything conclusive."
dude, you fucking rock.
what's this whole 'anal fixation' you've developed all of a sudden?
"Luke, stop right here, right now and tell me--look me in the eye--the window of the very soul--and tell me that there is the slightest bit of error or subjectivity in your assholishness."
no, seriously, this anal fixation thing is getting outta control, Mark. what was i last week...a sphincter fissure...
"wrinkle."
yeah, what was that all about, you bastard?
"i felt it appropriate as sphincter wrinkles are where colon cancer develops. you are the cause of all that is effing cancerous, shit stain."
ha ha. that's what i like about you, man. even your insults are deep. that and you can analyze handwriting.
"alright, we're clear. hand me the paper, polyp face."
i have it right here, mi amigo.
"you got the sample on unlined paper, like i told you, right?"
hell yeah. i'm no fucking rookie.
"dude, keep the eff bomb on the DL, my mom is in the next room."
she's such a fucking hypocrite. remember that time we tied up your sister and told her we were going to eat her alive?
"yes, i remember, shut up."
something inside me died when your mom caught us and she called us--
"--i said shut up, shit eater. its different now that she's mormon now. now there's no cussin', at least not around her."
i thought it was seventh-day adventist or something all old-testament like that.
"wrong-o bong-o, rectum licker. mormons. just for craps and giggles i took a look at the founder of the religion, joseph smith's handwriting--"
didn't he bone Pocahontas?
"no, fecal muncher, that was someone completely different. he did have several wives though, thanks to an angel who came and threatened his life with a sword if he didn't marry more wives--but that's not what's interesting."
if having angels appear and try to shank you for not boning more chicks ain't interesting, what is?
"here, right here, on the first letter of his first name is the money shot."
the felons claw?! are you shitting me?
"yup, right there. bam. and for the last time, watch your mouth."
the only tell-tale sign of a pathological liar...
"as stinky as a terd sandwhich straight from the bakery."
so did ya tell yer mom?
"no way, she's way nicer now. plus chicks come over with cookies all the time. as long as i pretend to listen to some thees and thous they treat me like a superstar. plus one has really huge jugs."
dude, what about the handwriting you are supposed to be analyzing for me, though. anything yet?
"this isn't the greatest sample in the world..."
just tell me what i need to know.
"well, her lower section dips a bit."
yesssss...
"don't get a hard-on yet, that crap is a double edged sword, man. she may love to get freaky, but that's because she likes to feel good, which is rooted in selfishness."
i'm not gonna marry the bitch, dude. just tell me if its low enough that i can count on a--
"dude, shut up!" (points at wall)
"i can't really for certain, but if i was a betting man, i'd put my money on it."
why can't you tell for sure?
"the 'n' is too small--i need a larger sample, i need more power..."
translate that out of dork-speak for me.
"it means i need a bigger sample of writing to make me more confident in my analysis, captain colon."
i told you this was the best i could do for now. what else do you see?
"she's running from the past--look at her left margin."
sweet! dude, maybe her father fucking abused her or something. there's nothing like sex from a daddy's girl. choke 'em, piss on 'em, crap on 'em--dude this one chick i knew--
"you make me sick, i'm not doing this anymore."
oh, oh, what about the future? what about the other margin?
"it's your lucky day--she's stuck in time."
fuck yeah!
"DUDE!"
sorry, (whispers) fuck yeah.
"she's running from the past and the future, because one hurt and that means the other probably will too."
anything else?
"like i said, this sample is just rabbit shit. i need a rhinoceros pile if you want anything conclusive."
dude, you fucking rock.
religonists are hedonists and i can demonstrate it
good vs bad
happy vs sad
if doing good makes one happy, then the righteous are seeking their own pleasure, just like the sinner who is seeking their own pleasure via sin.
ergo,
perhaps there isn't morality as much as variation in what makes people happy.
(of course we all know that religionists aren't happy, at least not in the sense of the world old-fashioned hedonists are. religionists pride themselves on the principle of sacrifice, that their delaying of gratification will pay off in the afterlife with a roughly the same interest rate as my american express card. i simply point this notion out to demonstrate that we all seek pleasure, no matter who we are, and there is no escaping that.)
happy vs sad
if doing good makes one happy, then the righteous are seeking their own pleasure, just like the sinner who is seeking their own pleasure via sin.
ergo,
perhaps there isn't morality as much as variation in what makes people happy.
(of course we all know that religionists aren't happy, at least not in the sense of the world old-fashioned hedonists are. religionists pride themselves on the principle of sacrifice, that their delaying of gratification will pay off in the afterlife with a roughly the same interest rate as my american express card. i simply point this notion out to demonstrate that we all seek pleasure, no matter who we are, and there is no escaping that.)
the plight of modern scholars:
there is no Mephistopheles!
no angels, no devils, only neurotransmitters
(and they only talk shit)
no angels, no devils, only neurotransmitters
(and they only talk shit)
i'm on a hero-quest
to find some incentives.
something worth expending energy for. some relic worth pulling some levers for. something to reward me. something to do to get something to reward me. something to pull or push me.
something.
something worth expending energy for. some relic worth pulling some levers for. something to reward me. something to do to get something to reward me. something to pull or push me.
something.
in a notebook i once wrote:
in_dependence:
republican/democrat
conservative/liberal > casualty of supposed dichotomy
> truth
> reason
> temperance
> sanity
> love
> empathy
w_hole:
reason/humanity
science/art > casualty of supposed dichotomy
> truth
> life
> understanding
republican/democrat
conservative/liberal > casualty of supposed dichotomy
> truth
> reason
> temperance
> sanity
> love
> empathy
w_hole:
reason/humanity
science/art > casualty of supposed dichotomy
> truth
> life
> understanding
there is blood on my hands
just like there is yours. there is no escaping this fact:
we must all kill something in order to live.
period.
the further their dna and modes of oxygen consumption differ from our own, the less we feel guilty about the slaughter, but at the end of the day, something we know as life must cease its however insubstantial work that we may extend our own.
we must all kill something in order to live.
period.
the further their dna and modes of oxygen consumption differ from our own, the less we feel guilty about the slaughter, but at the end of the day, something we know as life must cease its however insubstantial work that we may extend our own.
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About Me
- Ex3
- not the kind of person you want to share your ice cream cone with...or anything in a cone for that matter...