Saturday, March 8, 2014
Yeah, I think we've got this whole thing all wrong. Isn't it the redneck Republican that needs to be painting? Is it not the fat old nun that needs to be fucked? Let's take that precious vegan "celiac" cunt out on a hunt. Shouldn't we all have to participate in some sort of slaughter? Shouldn't we all be forced to gut the pig, to face that ugly truth? Ah, yes, there it is, truth. It's always worse than you think, isn't it? But there are far worse things than truth. Terrible, horrible things which have led me to this. The thoughts of the bank teller as you swipe your card, the gaze of the tollbooth attendant holding out his hand. The pimply kid behind the counter at McDonald's, the bald man in sunglasses, cruising around town in his vet. What the hell does any of it mean? Somewhere, right now, some poor bastard's about to discover a lump or perhaps his sweet old mother's corpse. All these worlds we will never know, sights and sounds which were not meant for us. The nurse sobbing in the bathroom on an 18 hour shift. The truck driver nodding off, the president of the United States whacking off to porn. What the hell's the matter with me? Why can't I just accept what we are and must be? Is this not just the natural progression of things, the obvious conclusion to our course? No, I really don't think so. Something definitely went wrong. I mean, Jesus Christ, no wonder we're all so goddamn empty inside. No wonder we're all so lost that we come here for comfort, for some sort of camaraderie. I'm telling ya, we're dwindling, baby, we're dwindling right down to the nub. Those endless fields of corn as you drive along the highway. Wait, what is that? That's not lettuce I don't think. It looks like some sort of cabbage or I don't know, chard maybe? A strange house out in the middle of nowhere. What the hell do those people do? Hey, let's knock over their mailbox! Bug guts on your windshield, another splat of bird shit and you're out of wiper fluid. What do you think of the new Beck album? Hey, you got any sours on tap? Sometimes I just want to think about tadpoles and crawdads, big thunderheads piling up in the sky. You ever see a horny toad? a dust devil? a tumbleweed? It's amazing how many people haven't. Anyway, all I really meant to say was, I miss things as much as anyone, but let's not kid ourselves, the wind knows nothing of the windmill and we all know all hell's about to break loose!
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
PAGE 38 OF A NOVEL CALLED "MINDCOCK" WHICH I NOW HAVE NO DESIRE TO EVER WRITE. HERE, OUR MAIN MAN, JEFF TURNBO, IS TALKING TO HIMSELF AGAIN WHILE DOING THE DISHES:
"See, man, all this talk is lowering me. It pushes things down, compresses it. Also, what we're doing is gonna flip. You know that, right? It has to. That's what it does, that's how it works. What's behind us will soon be in front and then we're going to suffer through the lowest form of ourselves, for a while at least. Which is pretty fucking deadly for someone in our condition. Yeah, I don't know, it doesn't matter. We need the experience of it all, right? If we're going to do what we've set out to do. Or we could just be like them I guess. Man, everything's so fucking fucked up, I'm starting to think that might not be so bad. We'd probably have some fun again at least… Goddammit! Man, I've got to eat some pussy!"
Monday, February 17, 2014
I don't know, I'm just not that impressed with any sort of athleticism anymore. Of course you will be great at something if you have the luxury of spending all your goddamn time doing it. And then if you're quite gifted, then the sky's the limit. But then what? What the hell does it matter? The agility of your average house cat is far more impressive than anyone on the Olympic gymnastic team. I'm just far more impressed with the daily doings of some poor bastard who has to live with a colostomy bag. Now, if someone played football or were in the NBA with a colostomy bag, you better believe I'd be watching that. Or hey, wouldn't that make for a good season of the Bachelor or The Bachelorette? Have them have a colostomy bag. See how much that pathetic herd stays in pursuit when they finally discover where that godawful smell has been coming from!
Hey, I enjoy all sorts of pleasantries, past and present. I love stupid old movies and television shows, and I'm nostalgic for lots of music that should've never been made. I suppose the difference is that I find myself simultaneously thinking about the horrors of the world or in my own life that were going on at the time. It's like the other day when I flipped the channel and saw that Caddyshack was on. I love Caddyshack, I grew up on Caddyshack. But now, of course, what you must do if you ever find yourself watching Caddyshack, is to also Google "1980s atrocities". Between the two is the realm I'm in search of. Yes, all things must be put into that brutal perspective. GO SOONERS!
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Of course I liked him. Who didn't? I'm just saying I didn't like his music that much. It was just too much of a thing, ya know, too much of a communion. I once took Henry to one of those horrible festivals at the river park and there he was, up there all hunched over his big, long banjo. "Is that Bob Dylan, daddy?" Henry asked. "That's Pete Seeger, Henry. He's a very special person. He lives here in Beacon. He lives right on the mountain." "Oh. Can we go now, daddy?" You could barely hear anything over that crowed. They were all on their feet, clapping, and singing along to This Land Is Your Land. Uh, God, you should've seen those creatures. Few groupings of people disgust me as much as what surfaces at something like that. I don't like be around anyone singing and clapping anyway. I mean, unless you're up there performing, keep your fucking mouth shut. I don't even like it when people sing Happy Birthday. And these people around here. I'm serious, I'd much rather brave the crowed at one of those monster truck jams or something. Their type of positivity should never be trusted. To believe in humanity like that. But, anyway, you know, I still respected the hell out of him. But what I really liked was seeing him around town in his orange hat. I also liked that he always wore Wrangler's. I'd see him shopping for produce at the farmer's market or at the health food store, and it was just the way he picked things up, the way he held things, the way he would study a vegetable or a piece of fruit. That was enough for me. So rest in peace, Pete. You certainly deserve it.