Monthly Archives: October 2012

18. The Jerry Sandusky Spa And Inn

Whew!  Just finished polishing my beaver and, oh, is she shiny!  There is nothing I am more proud to show off than my mounted beaver!  That’s the first thing you see when I open up my giant doorway to the ever-expanding hallway that leads to my “Carrie” themed room where we prance around as a bloody prom queen in our custom-made Jovani in front of the fireplace where my hairless beaver is mounted!  Sometimes I take down my beaver and dance the room with it clenched to my dirty pillows.  “There called breasts, mama!  Every woman has them.”

  OK.  So I’m juvenile and sick.  I knew that already.  Though, it seems as if you like staring at me as I insert my vintage Nintendo joystick into my rectum.  You keep shaking your head no, put the bulge in your Calvin Klein’s says “yes!”  Which is confusing because I thought you were a girl.  A girl with the loveliest adams apple.  Cute.

To get back into the flow of these Roundoms, the generator will fire out a handful of them as I swat them down one by one like I was Godzilla.  Or, as the Japanese say, Gahdzirrahh!

  Soooo, I guess that’s all there is to say except for, start up the generator!

Revenge Courtesy.

Yep.  Sometimes it is only right to extend the courtesy of revenge.  Some little pansy somewhere said, “An eye for an eye would make the whole world blind.”  But that’s total crap.  Serving up revenge has got to be one of those moments where we feel most alive.  The rush of blood. The sweat running down your neck. The clarity of focus on a single target with only one goal in mind like a hungry lion eyeing up the prize of a small Ethiopian.  Are there lions in Ethiopia?  Probably over caffeinated ones.  That’s why Ethiopians are so skinny.  There is only coffee and cigarettes there.  “Sorry, Nagasi, but you can’t live on coffee beans alone!  Though they will make you fast as lightning!  So put some of these coffee beans between your check and gums and fill out this marathon application!  You have been running for your life all this time, Nagasi!  Now you can run for gold!  No, you can’t eat that, will you please take that out of your mouth.  Oh.  A lip ring, you say?  Sure.  Why not.  Please don’t lick it.  OK.  Fine.  Whatever makes you happy.

  ANYWAY, as I see it, there are crimes that society will want you to pay for.  Cold blooded murder is revenged, in some states, for cold-blooded murder.  A calculated killing of a human being in reply of a calculated killing.  It seems  fair to me.  I’d actually like to see this done for more crimes against society.  If we arrested a pedophile in the act of his sick acts, we should be able to dress him up in a catholic school uniform and allow a seven-foot, three hundred and thirty pound man with a giant meat hammer for a penis drag that fucker into his van and drive him away for a weeks stay at The Jerry Sandusky Inn and Spa.  “We will wash away your sins one load at a time!”  Isn’t that a courtesy we owe to society?  Yep.  Your welcome, society.  Now let’s talk about you fucking all my friends.  Isn’t that your mother over there?  She sure looks lovely today.  I’m going to go over there and teach her “The Angry Dragon.”

Criticized Collecting.

Collecting items that are valuable to you doesn’t mean anything anymore, does it.  We no longer have impressive libraries to peruse because everything we read is now on our Kindles.  We no longer have the Jose Canseco rookie baseball card because the card isn’t in High Def.  We no longer have milk crates filled with records because Pandora and Spotify are essentially free and my iPod can fit in my pocket.  Eventually we will have a chip in our brain and that chip will clothe us in an ever-changing wardrobe applicable to the person we are standing next to.  You could appear in a suit and tie to your mother while you simultaneously appear to be wearing a gimp mask and a g-string to your gay lover.  All the while the soundtrack to Grease plays in your skull thanks to some satellite that hovers miles over your head.  Before you know it, we will own nothing but information.  But that will probably be free as well.

I just had an epiphany!  This is probably the catalyst for our overwhelming social narcissistic behavior!  There was once a time when you could have a visitor over to your pad and your personality would be represented by all of your collectibles.  What kind of music you liked would be on display on the corner shelf.  The books you read and the movies you watch and the art work you prefer and your style of design all the way down to the type of candles you might like to burn.  All you said was “Come on in” while a room full of your things would convey a certain something about your personality.  We don’t have that anymore, so now we try to convey the same shit by posting it somewhere on the web.  And now we stare at our various Tumblr and Facebook accounts to see who is looking back.  Our cool living rooms replaced by our sad laptops.  All of us sitting in giant rows of tiny rooms with small screens that softly illuminate our needy faces.  “Here is a picture of me playing with little Frumpy.  I rescued him last week.”  Then we quantify our self-worth based on “thumbs up” or insignificant comments.  “AWWWW.  So cute.”  No wonder we fucking suck.

  I had a small conversation with this nice enough guy the other day where he described his lifestyle as “analog.”  His point went something like this:  “I try really hard to read actual books that have paper pages and place actual vinyl albums on actual turntables and, though I realize I couldn’t survive entirely without a cell phone or my laptop, I live a life that isn’t dictated by my Facebook posts or trending tweets or viral YouTube videos.  Those are all cool, but I see them as mere tools to a more tactile life.”  Which I find to be an excellent practice.  Now I will go check on my blog numbers and upload my podcast and, undoubtably, stare at this computer screen to see if anyone noticed.

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17. Lighting A Bag Of Dogshit On Fire

Sometimes you feel like a nut, and sometimes you feel like a meth induced lunatic.  I don’t know what exactly happened in the last eight days, but it happened.  Let’s see.  Maybe I can Nancy Drew this shit for you.  Firstly I have a roommate.  She is a good roommate who doesn’t judge any aspect of my lifestyle.  Regardless if I am raping my guitar with the ghost of Darby Crash or spewing the answers to life out loud like some cranked out, not as funny, George Carlin.  Which I like.  But she decided she was going to visit her mom for a week in Hawaii.  Cool.  I have a free week to write and walk around the apartment free-balling my way to success.  I’ll do the dishes when I fucking want to and blast the new Bloc Party until my anus bleeds.  All good.  What i didn’t count on was the lack of supervision.  Or, at least, a lifeline.

  I dissed my Roundoms and she was not keen to hang out.  Which was fine with me.  I couldn’t imagine rubbing on her noun like nipples at all.  Bleck!  Fuck her!  Fuck that!  I’m not going down that road right now.  I thought about writing everyday, but dismissed it immediately for long sessions of Fifa 13 and giant bottles of Gentleman Jack.  I watched a load of movies like some neanderthal.  I inhaled a small bag of pita bread and an entire container of roasted garlic humus to the warm flickers of “I Love You, Man.”  I slurped up an entire pan of pasta Primavera with pesto and crushed red peppers over the three hours of “The Green Mile.”  I pounded a six-pack of Fat Tire to Ice T‘s hip hop documentary.  And all the while I slowly turned into a mix of Gollum and The Uni-Bomber covered in speckles of random food items and my own drool.  I occasionally took a peep outside, but it just depressed me more as I decided this place was a fine place to curl up to no one and hang out with myself.  Which, I now understand, is fucking difficult.  I just kept drinking more whiskey and ignored anything that was calling my name.  I was sinking pretty deep.

  The interesting thing you notice when you are drowning in the deep end of life’s pool is how serene it becomes.  You are well aware that you are heading south underneath the surface of reality, but you don’t flap your arms or kick your feet.  You look around at the diminishing light trying to break through the surface as you sink like there are huge boulders of regret tied to each ankle.  And all you do is watch it happen.  It’s almost like you are enjoying it.

  “You should try to swim to the surface, you know.”  “Yeah.  I know.  But the water is perfectly warm and there is no one around at the surface.  Who will see me break free?”  “You will see.  Isn’t that the important part?  Do you not want to swim to the surface?”  “I dunno.  I just kinda want to pee right now.  Ahhhhhh.  I’m peeing.  I don’t know why peeing in a body of water is so fantastic.  But I find great pleasure in it.”  “But, you realize, this is all a metaphor.  This isn’t actually a body of water at all.  You have passed out on the floor of your apartment and you are pissing your pants.”  “No I’m not! Am I?  Fuck!  God damn it!  Fuckin’ asshole!  Get up. Dickhead.  I’m glad we have wood floors.”

  I should probably apologize to my Roundoms.  I created her and then hurt her pretty much immediately.  Which sounds pretty familiar to me.  I’m sorry, ladies of the past.  I’m sorry I didn’t fuck you over sooner!  Hahahahahaha!  Sike!  You got what you deserved!  Hahahahaha.  Oh my god!  I’m sorry.  Just playing and shit.  Don’t cry.  You knew I was an asshole.  Didn’t you? Oh.  I guess you didn’t.  Well then what am I, some fucking old shack?!  You thought you could put in new floors and a gazebo in the backyard?!  Well fuck that!  That yard is reserved for all the dead hookers that came before you!  You better run, Sugar Tits, because I have the perfect plot for you!  Right next to dear old Aunt Olivia!  Hi, Olivia!  Remember when I looked up your skirt?  You should have kicked me right away instead of squatting down for a tinkle!  I might have enjoyed it if you hadn’t eaten so much fuckin’ asparagus!  That was disgusting!  Your dietary selections are very important if you want to play the water works game…  Uhhh.  Hmm.  I’m sorry.  Wasn’t I going to apologize to someone?

  Right.  Let’s go over and knock on her door.  “Hello?  Are you in there?  I haven’t seen you come out of your room for over a week.  Are you OK?”

Permitting Think.

Yeah, me too.  Listen, Roundoms, I’m sorry I publicly humiliated you last week.  You challenge me like no other and, on occasion, I’m not up to that challenge.  I’m sorry.  Can we try this again?  No promises.  Let’s just try to work on our relationship one Roundom at a time.  Is that something we can do?

Estimate Treat.

Well, whatever you want.  Anything your heart desires.

Preverified Necessitude.

Well, I can’t assure you of anything I will say at any given time.  This is still a wild endeavor that I don’t know we will survive.  Listen, I created you but I wont debate with you on any of my opinions.  You still have only one roll in this and that is serving up the words as I tear them down with my slanted and enchanted intellect.  You choose the vehicle, and I choose where we go.  That’s it.  Take it or leave it.

Set Magnitude.

I say we set the controls to stun!  Just you and me, babe!  We have a load of work to do.  Let’s light this bag of dog shit on fire and watch their nostril hairs burn down to the flesh!  Fuck ’em all!  Dead by dawn!  Get off my back, dad!  You are crushing my smokes!

Mastermind Duke.

Roundoms.  You’re just so fuckin’ cute.

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