Tag Archives: God

13. Just Kill Ourselves Already.

In most beach communities there isn’t any centralized air to speak of because you live next to the fuckin’ beach.  But, on rare occasions, the dizzying heat of the city will reach out and over these seaside towns like some unwanted electric blanket.  We try to kick off the suffocating sheets, the cotton underwear, the layers of skin.  But there is nothing you can do but sweat your pillows down and hope your wet bed will eventually cool you off.  Last night, I slept with a twelve-inch fan sitting on my bed two inches from the top of my head.  I sleep on my side, so, the fan reverberated into the layers  of cellulose and into my cochlea giving it the sensation of a turbine on a runway.  Sleep came surprisingly fast.  I dreamt I wore a deafening hat of spinning propellers. I just kept yelling out, “I can’t hear you!  I’m wearing a fan!  What?! I can’t hear you because I’m wearing this fan!?  I said I’m wearing this fan!  What?!? Listen!  I can’t hear a fucking word you are saying!  This fan is too loud!  I SAID THIS FAN IS TOO LOUD!  WHAT!?!?  DID YOU SAY, “START UP THE GENERATOR!!!!!!!!!”

Battalion Babbled.

There are lines drawn all over our society that we rarely cross.  We have pigeon holed ourselves into small groups of like-minded thinkers because we love to hear our own words come out of another’s mouth.  That is how narcissistic we have become. “I can’t believe they didn’t mention God in their speech!  How could they?!”  “I agree! They didn’t mention it once.”  “I know! Not once did they mention God.”  “I know! How could they?”  “You have to mention God!”  “Yep! God has to be mentioned!”  “God.” “God.”  “God.”  “God.”  “God.”  “How could they?”  “I know!”

No longer listening to other opinions, we regurgitate our own thoughts onto the faces of our silly shit talking cliques.  We have become poop shooting soldiers that have had our ear drums crushed by the deafening dookie bombs that fly from our ever expanding mouths.  How did this battle field become so god damn rancid?  AND, why isn’t anybody really saying anything?

  As children, we were essentially blank canvases with very simple needs and ambitions.  I just wanted to play outside with other kids.  Pick my nose with impunity and try to rub it on the nearest girl on the playground.  Pretend I was O.J. Simpson (The amazing football player.  Not the shrub jumping human butcher).  And, to become the greatest nap hater the world would ever know!  “OK, everybody!  It’s nap time!”  “Nooooo! I’m not tired!”  “Aaron Douglas, you pull out your mat and lay down!”  “But, I’M NOT TIRED!”  “Listen, mister, you will take a nap along with everyone else!”  “NOOOO! You’re not my mommy!”  “AARON!  GET OFF THE BOOK SHELF!”  “NOT – MY – MAHHHHMMEEEEE!”  BTW, where did the aggressive “mister” come from.  What did you think, I was going to morph into some guy with a suit and 2.5 kids and a mortgage and a sense of shame for watching bestiality videos while making your life difficult?  Listen, you bitch!  Take your Paxil during recess and leave me to my Dr. Seuss books.  Except for you, Miss Techovsky.  You and your librarian frames can pull out the mat anytime you want.

  But the uniformity of youth changed at some point.  Culture stepped in and divided us into small battalions.  My high school became a petri dish of burgeoning definitions.  Let’s see.  We became cheerleaders, jocks, trend setters and preppies.  We slunk into groups of geeks, nerds, goths and emo kids.  We joined the ASB and the Color Guard and the drama department.  We found other secretive homosexuals to hold our hands in tiny closets and hid under football stadium bleachers with all the other Zeppelin loving  stoners.  Some became loners while others didn’t fit in at all.  And then we discovered that hating every other group with a passion was more comforting than trying to understand them.  We looked across the quads and the cafeterias with disdain and began our career as soiled soldiers.  “Look at those burnouts over there.  With their Black Sabbath shirts and their long greasy hair.  I hear they go out to the woods and perform devil worship.  They kill little defenseless kittens and rub the blood all over each other’s faces.  It’s only a matter of time before they come for us and try to kill one of our virgins.”  “Bro, you know some virgins?”  “Well, not on the cheerleading squad, but there are few tasty freshmen that need a cock in their ass.”  “Like those fuckin’ faggots over there.  I hear they go in the band room during lunch and paint flowers on each other’s balls.  And then they talk shit about God after they blow one another.  I heard that they go out on Friday night and suck on horse cocks.  I’m serious.”

  Sadly, this was just the beginning of our misunderstandings.  We are on an evolutionary slippery slope where our ears will eventually close up and our entire face will be one big mouth.  Different social military divisions shooting sharpened verbs and explosive nouns.  We slowly morph into giant sects separated by skin color, tax groups and political affiliation.  For me, this is as ridiculous as a political rap battle debate. I don’t think this is going to be pretty.

Will the Democratic representative please step up to the mic.

Look at that tie.  Look at that suit.  Talking so much shit like you’re a poop shoot.  You’re like a ball sack that will never have fun again.  No one’s at your party ‘cuz you’re a Republican!

And now the Republican representative.

It’s all so very simple.  Where do I start?  Wasting all you’re time with your bleeding Democratic heart.  My bank account’s snow balling, getting bigger.  But you’re just another lazy broke ass (nigga!).

HEY!  Take it easy!  What’s wrong with you?!  I can’t believe that this shit still goes on!  “Sorry.”  No.  I’m sorry.

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7. Better For You Than Free Porn.

Listen to the audio version at iTunes  or  Stitcher  or  Libsyn!

  I have to learn to be more professional.  No more long-winded soliloquies about my baffling personality.  Nose to the grindstone and all that.  I hope there is some coke on that grindstone.  Right.  Start up the generator!

Inventive Resentment.

“Listen hear, Rosa Parks! If you don’t move to the back of the bus right now with the rest of the coloreds, I’m gonna call the authorities and remove you from this bus forever!”  “I’m not going back there!  That fat heffer Oprah Windfree has been letting off enough anal oxide to kill a horse!  No sir!  I’m not going anywhere near the back of this bus!”

  Everyone harbors resentment.  I don’t care who you are.  Even Gandhi had resentment.  “Everyone must respect everything and love all that is both good and bad.  Except Pakistan!  I hate those low life Pakis!  But everyone else is love.”  Perhaps your wife has gotten a promotion and she has a new business smart wardrobe.  And look at that!  She has lost a few pounds.  While you run in place at your crappy job with its glass ceiling.  Plus, she is probably sucking off her new boss, right?  You sad, depressing little man.  How long until your resentment ruins your marriage?  Which is typical resentment.  Not the good kind.  Oh yes, there is a good kind!  And I’m here to tell you it’s as great an invention as sliced bread and free porn!

  Most people are narcissistic pricks.  Like me.  So, they can’t see beyond their own bullshit at the inventive resentment.  Typically, your shallow self would be resentful of things like marriage, siblings, pregnancy, addictions, and the garden variety “She thinks her shit don’t stink” bullshit.  Which is the dangerous side of resentment.  I’m not saying you have to invent new things to resent, but to invent new things because of resentment.  Where would this world be if Johnny Rotten walked happily through life.  “Learn to enjoy every minute of your life.  Be happy now, you wanker.”  No!  He resented the upper class and the crappy music he was hearing on the radio and, perhaps, almost every aspect of a society of blind sheep herders, or something like that.  This resentment led to the invention of punk rock.  I’m not saying J.R. was the seed of a movement, but he and a group of equally resentful individuals led to some sort of social change.  A “wow” moment.  All thanks to the great and wonderful inventive resentment.

  My mind races to other inventive resenters that have had an effect on the world.  Like Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, The Unknown Rebel at Tiananmen Square, Nelson Mandela and Thich Quang Duc (The guy on fire on the Rage Against The Machine cover.)  Or writers like Poe and Bukowski and Baudelaire!  Or movies like Taxi Driver and A Clockwork Orange and SLC Punk!  Or bands like Public Enemy and Fugazi and Bikini Kill!  Shit, almost everything I associate myself with is born from a beautiful resentment!  And conversely, I take a great joy in despising the complete dregs of manufactured popularity!  Fuck you, Justin Bieber!  I hope you drown in the kiddie pool from the giant gold chain around your neck and that you’re discovered by a salivating TMZ reporter!  AND, Piss off, Glee!  You have homogenized homosexuality and now I hope my cross dressing beauty of a pal Frederick rips your anus clean open from his massive cock!  AND, fuck you Adam Sandler for making millions of dollars off the worst films to ever be called films!  The price is wrong, bitch? If only Carl Spackler ran out on the green and split your head wide open with a nine-iron, we could have been spared the embarrassment that is Grown Ups!  Woooooooo!  I feel great!!  I could do this all day!  I don’t know if this is comedy anymore, but I feel like laughing out loud!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHahahahaha ha ha ha haaaaa.  God, that felt good.  Hehe…  woo.  I think I need a cigarette.

  Now, I know motivational speakers and posters and quotes help people along through their days, weeks, and lives.  I see them everywhere.  The “hang in there” kitty posters.  The Obama “Hope” t-shirts.  The “Collaborate and listen” stickers put on stop signs.  Perhaps there is a particular quote that stirs in you some profound meaning to life on the day you have discovered heartache.  Maybe it’s “Bitches aint shit but hoes and tricks.”  I dunno.  Whatever energizes you and moves you through your day.  My problem is this:  In this particular climate, people want their motivational moments to be positive.  A sugar-coated bitter pill.  Like, “If you want to lift  yourself up, lift up someone else.”  Or, “Don’t worry, be happy.”  Or, “All you need is love.”  “Aww, shut up, John!  Sometimes I need to squish a fuckin’ otter between my toes!  Maybe tomorrow, but I won’t fall in love today, ok?  God, you’re so annoying.”  Happiness, or at least, toleration is definitely necessary to our well-being.  Which, I must say,  is fine in small doses, but surely can’t be a day-to-day accomplishment.  We need emotional moderation!  We need to give a reach around to the dark side!  We need to rage against the dying light!  Sometimes, but not all the time, we need to rape and poison their pleasant designs.  Thanks, Baudelaire!

  Wow, I feel alive right now.  And, I feel pretty happy.  I have told people on many occasions that I am emotionally dyslexic.  I can hear Slayer’s “Reign In Blood” in its entirety and feel nothing but calm, sweet elation.  And, I can get in an elevator and have my day ruined by the muzac version of “Right Here, Right Now.”  I guess it is important to ride on the knives’ edge of these two extremes.  You can’t make blanketed statements like, “Resentment is an obstacle at living a good life.”  Tell that to Che Guevara or to Abraham Lincoln.  Sometimes you need to slap that resentment back and forth with both hands, be careful to shape it perfectly, and throw that baby on the grill.  I like mine medium, please.  Just a little blood or the frenzy becomes unbearable!  Oh, and a cold Corona would be nice.  Yes, John.  Sometimes all you need is a cold beer.

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Roundoms 0 (Begin the Begin)

 How do we begin?  It’s always awkward when you meet someone for the first time.  Your judging, they’re judging.  Ultimately it takes time to build a positive relationship.  But one wrong decision will destroy one.  These moments can be fleeting, yet they can get under your skin for years.  You just have to open up to new relationships with a very thick skin.  This could be one of those relationships.  A quick, meaningless conversation over, say, a cappuccino.  An innocent flirtation.  “BTW, you look fantastic today!  Did you cut your hair?  I like it.”  I’m the type of friend that notices these things.  Do you like me as much as I like you?  A little is alright.  Thanks, Pete Townshend.

  My name is Aaron Douglas and this is Roundoms.  Roundoms is essentially a way for me to do five minutes of comedy based on a random verb/noun pairing.  But it’s much more than that.  It’s a way for me to converse with myself.  A way to justify the madness of mumbling out loud and laughing suddenly for no discernible reason.  A way to put thoughts to paper that coalesce because of two random words.  If I can tether a couple of ideas to this concept, then I have won!  I don’t win anything tangible, really.  Just the satisfaction that I can corral the monkeys in my mind into a synchronized swimming team that holds up signs in the correct order that read, “I’m That Fuckin’ Not Insane!”  Close enough.

  Roundoms will happen twice a week every week.  This blog will go up every Tuesday and Friday with an audio version every Wednesday and Saturday.  I will rest on Sunday.  Just like God.  Or was that the eighth day?  I can’t remember.  BTW, he took an entire day to “rest.”  I can picture him now.  Sitting on the couch, bong in hand, watching animals copulate and accidentally eating peyote.  Or had he invented those things yet?  Probably.  Personally, I will “rest” a Bodingtons in my hand and I will “rest” some pie of a shepherd on my tongue.  And when I pass out, I will “rest” some more.

  For the randomly generated words, I will use a site called watchout4snakes.  It’s not the only site where you can generate words and phrases, but this one is the best.  Until they find out what I’m using it for and send me a cease and desist letter.  To some, a stoner god just might be mortifying.

  What I like about watchout4snakes are the variables they offer you.  From a random word to a complete sentence.  You can also choose how common or obscure you want the words to be.  It’s pretty clear they were very thorough in creating the site.  Though I don’t know why they chose the Prince-like domain name.  But, I must say, it’s 2good2btrue!  Thanks, creators of watchout4snakes!  Your site rocks like an accordion playing librarian with knee high socks and cat frames around her come hither smokey eyes.  Well done.

  Enough procrastinating.  But first let me be clear.  Each installment will be a single Roundom.  But let’s do a couple short ones for giggles and shits.


We used to have a thing called “The Trifecta” which is roughly the same as a treble.  The Trifecta is when you sleep with three different woman three nights in a row.  My friend Mike once tried to correct me saying a trifecta should happen in one day.  But that sounds dangerous.  Maybe it could be a horrible wart on your genitals.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cocknshtuff, but you have an advanced case of Chimed Treble!”

  But I’d like to think it’s a bell you chime at the end of night three of your completed treble to announce to your Yorkshire village.  “Ha ha!  I did it!”  The woman would give you a double thumbs up followed by handing you one of her loose teeth.  “Good on ya, son!  It’s too bad the first two were sheep.”

That was fun.  Let’s try another one.


That’s when you pull off her panties and the stench is unbearable. AND, she tries to push you down there.

Go down on me.” “Oh, I can’t.”  “Why not?”  “I just had a root canal and my dentist specifically told me no cunnilingus!

I just dodged her equatorial area.  Thank you.

Anyway, I was going to do a few more, but I’m running out of time and space.  But you get it!  Those few were a bit sexual, no?  I don’t know why.  Maybe I’ll discover something about myself through this process.  Maybe, deep down, I’m a horny thirteen year old boy.  I don’t feel like one but perhaps I’m supressing it.  Maybe I’m just an old pervert.  I doubt it.  I just say these things to see the look on your face.  Just to see the look on your face.  Thanks, Anthony Kiedis.

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