tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34524871616113213542024-03-08T13:18:47.083-08:00Philip BramStories, Voices, And Ponderingsphil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.comBlogger504125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-51614336148848444332017-12-13T10:48:00.002-08:002017-12-13T10:48:52.846-08:00Yesterday, I got called an "asshole", a "prick", a "dick", that I "have no soul", that I'm "insulting", that I'm a "fucking idiot", that if I don't "get Prince", then I "don't understand anything about music." Seriously? I have no soul because I don't find this self-righteous little weasel, this arrogant man-child who strutted around with an accessory cane, who, I'm sorry, simply had nothing interesting to say whatso-fucking-ever in his entire fucking life, not a single line of any song that tapped into anything that ever came close to even resembling the ethereal or could even reflect the mere pedestrian level of beauty this world has to offer, as inspiring and as fascinating as you do? A message-less messiah, sticking his tight little ass out like a cat in heat and then having the audacity to preach to others the platitudes of God. I mean, I really wouldn't give a shit, and the man certainly deserves some sort of place in music, but then the little lollipop sucking motherfucker accidentally kills himself and all I see are posts and rants by friends claiming him to be the most important, most creative ARTIST of our time, a visionary, a genius etc,...? Jesus Christ, it makes me fucking sick! How the hell am I supposed to refrain from responding? Once again, you people were bamboozled by a substance-less talent, drugged by a desperate, fame driven concoction of ingredients distilled from the lowest hanging fruit. Why not just go to Giggles and buy a big, fat, veiny dildo and marvel at that? Seriously, what the hell's the difference? His storytelling was some of the most juvenile I've ever heard in song. And if you don't believe me, go read the godawful fucking lyrics yourself. Yes, Colin Cheyne, lyrics aren't everything. The composition of the sound of the instruments is equally important (and I think you're a masterful, highly creative, musician). But if you put 'em in, then you've put 'em in, and you've now put your ass on the line. You're showing what you're made of, what you believe in, what consumes your rotten mind, and just what you've gathered up along this muddy, twisted, beaten up old road called "life". So go ahead, put a goddamn raspberry beret on your fucking head and hop in your little asshole red Corvette and drive that fucking thing like its 19fucking99 in the goddamn purple fucking rain while the doves cry and that psychopath, diseased ridden cunt, Nikki, who probably gave Prince AIDS, masturbates beside you to a goddamn magazine. I'll be listening to John Prine.phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-21566822407258305962017-10-20T12:47:00.001-07:002017-10-20T12:50:11.693-07:00THE KITTENS
We could barely make ‘em out. But they were there alright. Five little blobs at the bottom of a murky pool. That’s all they were. A big C-5 roared overhead, and a blast of hot wind came along and made us fight for our footing. The ripples finally disappeared, and Scott said with a scared, frail voice, “Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. And we knew exactly who did it. Everyone did. But you wouldn’t dare say a fucking word. No one in their right mind would. You’d be fucked for good. Not even my brother would’ve been able to save me.
A few hours later, I was sitting at the dinner table. My mother was back from the hospital. She looked like hell. A big blue network of veins throbbed across her temple. “So what’d you do today, Philby?” she asked as her trembling hand reached for the salad bowl. She still had her hospital band on. “Philby?” she said again. I was staring at our two dogs, breathing against the window, fogging the glass. It was only then that I was able to piece together exactly what had happened to those poor little kittens, what had to have taken place for them to wind up at the bottom of that pool. They were probably laughing while they did it. Someone had to have gone and gotten the duck tape. These were star athletes, giants of football and wrestling, the envy of us all, the prime focus of desire for all the girls. What were the sounds like of those kittens? Did that not even bother them? “PHILBY!” yelled my father.
“Huh?”
“Your mother asked you a question!” I turned and looked at her. She had a strange look on her face. It was her smile. Her lips looked like they were about to crack apart. And her entire head seemed to bobble to her pulse. “How was your day? What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Oh, you must’ve done something?”
“Not really. I just hung out with Scott.”phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-49887110804659577642016-09-28T08:28:00.002-07:002016-09-28T08:28:32.565-07:00DAILY CONFESSIONS (And please feel free to join in on the fun, folks!)
I once got caught by a roommate somewhere while I was walking around the apartment, saying, "Pussy! Pussy!... Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!" Over and over again. We nearly bumped into each other in the hallway. I thought I was all alone but he had been in the bathroom. "What are you DOING?" he asked. "I don't know," I said. And I didn't. I STILL don't know why I do that whenever I do it, whenever that sort of madness takes over me. Wait, that's right! It was Miami. I was in Miami.phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-13230459791742496502016-09-28T08:27:00.002-07:002016-09-28T08:27:06.289-07:00DAILY CONFESSIONS
I know everyone's tired of hearing about my little hernia operation from a while back, but I gotta say, it was truly the single most enjoyable event that has happened to me in my entire life. It was more relaxing than my private suit in that posh hotel in the mountains of Venezuela. I probably ordered $500 worth of room service my day off. I spotted monkeys and colorful birds in the trees while I sipped wine in my hot tub on my private deck. It was better than dining with that sweet family on their ancient little farm in the rocky, rolling hills of Italy. I swear, that little boy looked EXACTLY like Gordy does now. But I guess it did get pretty uncomfortable when the man's buck toothed wife started rubbing my thigh under the big, wooden table. I tell ya, it was better than Paris, better than the Caribbean. I've never topped out on a climb feeling more victorious and alive. I've never painted a painting or made an art piece or written a mass of words that could ever come close to that sort of glorious satisfaction. I think I'll do real good when the time finally arrives that this world decides to take my stupid body back. I always knew I had some sort of calling, some sort of gift. phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-25665142790847615312016-04-15T06:03:00.002-07:002016-04-15T06:03:23.731-07:00WHENWhen it's the parked cars that move, and the noisy traffic is like the stillness of a frozen river. Your rotten mind now hollow, a woodwind intstrument to entertain the gods.phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-89256340572255041722016-04-08T03:34:00.001-07:002016-04-08T03:34:02.993-07:00DRIVING GORDY TO SLEEPI was saddened by the sight of an old woman sitting peacefully on her big wrap around porch. A white haired, frail old thing with her hands clasped in front of her, just looking around at it all. It took me by surprise. I had to fight it back. I even let out a little whimper. This is pretty much how I've been lately. I whipped the car around a curve and the bag of groceries fell over on the floor. "GODDAMNIT!" I yelled. "GODDAMNIT!" yelled Gordy. "No, buddy, we don't say that. That's a bad word." "YOU'RE a bad word, Daddy!" He screamed back, kicking his feet against the back of the seat. We passed something dead on the road. A pile of congealed blood like jelly, something somewhat like a face amongst the brown and white fur. Then Gordy started in on his cute little game: "Do you know about fire trucks, Daddy?" "I do!" I told him. "Close your eyes, buddy." "Do you know about cement mixers, Daddy?" "Uh huh." "Do you know about Lightenin' McQueen, Daddy?" "Yeah, I do. Do you?" "N-yes, I do... Do you know about Mater, Daddy?" "Shhhh. Go to sleep, big guy." I watched him take a big long yawn in the mirror. A minute or so later we dropped down and rolled into the parking lot of the park by the river. I cracked a window. A freight train was roaring loud and heavy down the tracks across the water. I kept the engine running and I turned around to look at him. My little guy dressed in all blue was snoring. His head was cocked to the left. His perfect red lips, his ridiculous mop of curly blond hair, his little hands, his everything perfectly still, resting. Outside, the trees were swaying. Clouds were racing in, dark and angry. I thought about my father, my favorite asshole Republican. When would I get to see him again? I need to be near him. Or any of my family? Something was happening, something big. It was certainly happening to me. But I have given up on trying to understand myself. I have given up on a lot of things lately. And it's sad, yes. And humiliating. But while I was sitting here, I hadn't really noticed the birds. They were wild, man, loud as hell. They all seemed to be fucking with each other, darting around after one another in crazy directions like little kids playing tag. A crew was busy renovating a house up on the hill. They were really gettin' after it with their nail guns. The whole world was getting after it. More and more and more and more. What the hell, man? What the fuck are we doing all of this for? How much more more will ever be enough? You know, I had never had surgery before, and I will admit here and now that being "under" was the most perfect time I've ever spent alive on planet Earth. Should I feel guilty about that? I don't know. I don't know much of anything anymore. At this moment as I'm typing these words into my phone, Gordy is starting to toss around a bit. Soon he'll be awake and all hell's probably gonna break loose. Or maybe not? You never know with that guy. A couple just got out of their car with their dog. A big black bear of a thing. A well loved, well cared for, well behaved, pet. And now a big goofy goose goes barreling through the air above us all, literally honking. I laughed out loud: "Haha! Look at that fucker!" "Daddy!" said Gordy. "Hey! Did you have a good sleepy?" "Daddy, do you know about Star Wars, Daddy?" I put the car in reverse as I smiled at him in the mirror. "Yeah, I do," I told him, rolling us back, "Do YOU know about Star Wars, Gordy?" "N-yes. I do.... Do you know about...."phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-74031557308293271712015-09-27T06:26:00.000-07:002015-09-27T06:26:19.305-07:00"Invoking posterity is like giving speeches to worms." -Ferdinand Celine, one of the most miserable humans to ever walk the earth, and my hero. phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-87780109952888899442015-09-19T00:40:00.002-07:002015-09-19T00:40:50.092-07:00SUCCESS, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!Dude, laughter is the best and only revenge. phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-39954972437672740232015-09-19T00:37:00.000-07:002015-09-19T09:25:51.993-07:00OH, YEAH, WELLThat's just the sweetest thing ever… When someone actually thinks they're onto something. phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-5821153800921086282015-09-16T07:28:00.003-07:002015-09-16T07:28:51.029-07:00POOR TEXAS"Poor Texas, carved into like all the rest." -Sam Shepard, San Marcos, Texas. 3/1979phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-59466028128934646682015-09-16T07:15:00.003-07:002015-09-19T09:49:56.460-07:00WALMART, THE AMERICAN DREAMHere's a story which shines a light on the disgust I have with rogue capitalism which, in my opinion, is the seed of most of the depravity in this country: This took place in Durango, Colorado. Walmart wanted in but the town wasn't having it. They tried I think 4 times and got shut down. So one of the Waltons moved in. I forget which one. He bought the largest portion of private land in the area. He got into local politics, got to know the people, gave to all their charities, got himself on the city council and championed their causes. Then, of course, he applied again. And, of course, this time, they allowed the new Walmart. He immediately sold all of his land he owned and moved. Here's the worst part: the land he bought had some sort of stipulation attached where it was pre-set to be bought by outside investors at an agreed upon price with the condition that the Walmart would come to fruition. Another sick thing I recently learned from this old man who lives out there from time to time, who just bought one of my paintings is this: Walmart will build two Walmarts in a particular area, in two different towns, squeezing out all competition, then they will close one Walmart to cut costs, knowing that the people of the one town will drive to the other Walmart. The cherry on the top is the gas station that they will put in only at the new Walmart. Haha. And I'm sure Donald Trump would see nothing wrong with this sort of behavior. My point of all of this is that our entire way of life, outside of a few pockets of intelligent municipalities, is dictated only by big money making more and more money. Drive across America you will see nothing but replica after replica. The same repeating of everything owned by an ever thickening reduction sauce of corporate greed. Each and every one of the restaurants in most of America is replenished by the same silver Sysco truck. Most of those restaurants are owned by the same company and are staged within the same carefully considered proximity from one another. It's hilarious to me how the right is so fearful of "evil" socialism which is so against their American dream that they will blindly support an ever more unfettered hybrid of cancerous capitalism which enslaves them to an extent that at this rate will one day look from the outside like fucking communism. It's all done in defense of a freedom that they're unwittingly tossing right into the diseased mouth of that beast. We are not an intelligent society. Trump is not intelligent. Most Republicans are not intelligent. Power does not equal intelligence. As a matter of fact, it's the more simple, uncomplicated, unimaginative mind in this blighted environment which mixed with access to money tends to get things "done". Progress is seldom progressive and I think we are all waking up from the idiotic stupor called "The American Dream". phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-124416077197126652015-09-11T09:05:00.001-07:002015-09-18T05:00:41.042-07:00TRUE ENCOUNTER"I love your work! So who's your favorite artist?"
"Fuck, I don't know… Jeffrey Dahmer?" phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-19810497185995608672015-08-21T07:47:00.002-07:002015-08-21T07:47:40.409-07:00ONE MAN'S DISGUSTING, HARRY ASSHOLE IS ANOTHER MAN'S CHURCH
Fuck it all. I'm moving the family back to Oklahoma. I found a place on Zillow out in the middle of nowhere with a pool. It's a trailer but it's got a fuckin' pool! And a detached little shed type structure I could use for a studio. It's 20 miles from the nearest town which has a Dairy Queen, an Allsup's, and a tiny United Supermarket. I looked it all up on Google Earth. I don't need any of it anymore. I've eaten enough sushi, I've drunk enough good wine and beer. I've had plenty of interesting conversations. The hell with it all. Music, plays, museums, parties, art openings, I don't need any of that shit anymore. Just give me a Bud and that $5 Buck Lunch. Can I get the Crispy Chicken Sandwich with that? No matter where I go, no matter what I do, it's all just nonsense anymore. You can't escape that sickly brain up there, floating around in your skull. I've been all over this crumbling world. I've seen all sorts of shit. I've hung out with Michael Jackson, I almost got murdered once on the side of a road in Venezuela. And then there's the time I wandered into a room at a party in some mansion in Miami Beach and found myself among characters not even David Lynch could cast. They were standing in a circle with cocktails and wine in their hands, looking down at two enormous, muscle-bound, beautiful black men who were fucking each other, mercilessly. You see, I used to think experiences like this were beneficial. I thought they added layers to my story, to my scope of understanding. But now it all just gets in the way. There's just been too much. I had a meeting last night with a successful writer/producer/filmmaker. The meeting went well. It was just a preliminary, feeling each other out sort of thing. But as usual, most of my attention was focused on the pile of dead bugs at the bottom of the light fixture above us. It's one of the few things in life I've always found comforting. No matter where you go, there's always gonna be piles of dead bugs in light fixtures, upon window sills and panes. I would be in casting rooms or on sets, desperately not wanting to be there. But without fail, I could always look up towards the light and see that beautiful, dark mass of collected death, perhaps even some futile fluttering. It was something, something meaningful in my senseless world. GO BERNIE!phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-88596566028687513542015-08-21T07:46:00.002-07:002015-08-21T07:46:41.786-07:00IN RESPONSE TO BEING TAGGED ABOUT PSYCHOLOGISTS RECOMMENDING COLORING AS THE BEST ALTERNATIVE TO MEDITATION
I'm not sure when life's poison became my medicine, my only savior. The side affect is that beauty often becomes nothing more than Evil's dangling fruit, the true path to sorrow. I've always longed to be murdered by my sweet old mother. Why not crush your soul completely? I want to make sure I'm fully pulverized before I go on to the next level. I want to dissolve into it easily, instantly, completely, so that there's absolutely nothing left.phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-60135454894788651822015-08-21T07:45:00.001-07:002015-08-21T07:45:47.874-07:00THE ADVENTURERS
Those are always the ones. The one's who get flipped around in the pan like a fucking flapjack. Me, you know, I was voted biggest "airhead" in high school. And I WAS. You wouldn't believe the amount of stupid shit I did just because I wasn't thinking. And sometimes you DO actually hurt people. I tried to please everyone, to make everyone happy. That was my ailment. There is simply no greater disaster in the waiting than that. I didn't posses the ability to think ahead, to realize people operated quite differently than I did. And I haven't gotten that much better at it; I've just learned to be more careful, to be extremely cautious when it comes to the consequences of dealing with people. My greatest desire in the past was to cultivate deep, lasting friendships. It meant everything to me. Not any more. I still love people just the same but I want very little to do with their lives and vice versa. I think this is why I love Facebook so much. I know it sounds crazy but it's true. It must be an entirely different experience for me than most people. I would much rather interact with people on here than in person, to have to look into each other's eyes, at their faces. I get stuck on their nose hairs, on their strings of spit, on their clogged pours like little strawberry seeds. It feels disrespectful, unholy. I find it no less repulsive than if we had to turn around, bend over, reach back, and spread our ass cheeks in order to communicate. And that goes for private messaging on here too. I DO NOT LIKE IT! Anyway, yes, those are the ones, the people I adore. The ones who've at least once, felt that big, flat spatula slip beneath them and flip them up in the air. Tragedy and loss, betrayal, these are the most important events in our lives. I know we're all different, of course, that it takes all kinds, but it's extremely difficult for me to comprehend the existence of anyone in their late 20s, 30s, or 40s who hasn't gone through horrendous bouts of suicidal depression. I had the strangest, most beautifully shaped piece of wood engraved in my first show. It was maybe 4 feet tall, rising up like a staff or a spear. It said, "Wisdom is the byproduct of adventure." It sat alongside a large rock I touched up to look like a kind, wise old Buddhistic looking man. I even gave him barely visible little hairs on his chin and on top of his head. I spent hours, maticulously gluing them on, one by one. I don't think anyone even noticed.phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-29425497526578371482015-08-07T07:28:00.003-07:002015-08-07T07:28:18.386-07:00THE NIGHT I WENT OVER TO THE GREAT ARTIST'S HOUSE WITH THE OTHER GREAT ARTIST TO WATCH THE REPUBLICAN DEBATESWell, what happened was, I went over to the great artist's house to watch the Republican debates. I went over there with the other great artist. There was a ton of people there which I didn't expect. You should've seen this place! He truly is a great artist. His art is brutal and impeccable, it faces death and futility head on just like I like, and he has built the most beautiful life and home around it with a calm confidence I know I will never achieve. My favorite piece was this headless little pig on its side by the door. You couldn't figure out which end was what. I laughed out loud when I saw it. I hadn't had much to drink. I ate a little. Then we watched the debates which were hilarious. But then I felt myself getting sick. I tried hard to keep it down, to ignore it. Beads of sweat kept running down my face and back. Finally, I slipped out and walked down the hill and climbed the tall fence guarding the unfinished bridge and I carefully walked across the roaring creek along a steel beam, hoping not to slip and fall and die, bleeding upon the rocks. I made it and began my long walk home through the darkness from the edge of town. I fought it off for a little while but then I surrendered. The puke shot out of me, splattering at my feet. I started walking again, but it kept coming. I puked maybe a dozen or so times. I think what had happened was that I realized nothing would ever save me from my self. The great artist possessed nothing useful for my debilitating condition. His art, his life, as amazing as it was, would be completely wasted on me. It was a terrible truth to swallow, to keep down. What the fuck have I done? I've turned my back on everything to follow this ghost, this hunch. I've put my kid's well being at risk. And now I knew even if I were to accomplish the things I wanted to accomplish, it would do me no good. There was no cure to be had. I would still wake up every morning just as I have now, frightened, weak, dumbfounded, exhausted, plagued with a brain so sickened with sadness that I doubt even the rats nor the worms would dare take a bite. GO BERNIE!phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-68255248275275460862015-08-06T08:13:00.001-07:002015-08-06T08:13:58.292-07:00I sort of got briefly interviewed yesterday at work by a lady who remembered me from my modeling days, who used to hire me for some of my best, easiest fit work, and who's now the editor of one of those worthless parenting magazines nobody reads:
"So you were living in the city, and then you and your wife moved up here when you got pregnant with your first child."
"Yeah. But Sarah Bram had a broken leg too. She got run over by a car just before our wedding."
"God. That's terrible! Poor thing."
"Oh, it was fine. It made the wedding, her hobbling down the isle on crutches. We lived in a 5th floor apartment with stairs inside. There was just no way to do it. I kept getting flashes in my mind of her burning up in flames because she couldn't get out, my little unborn child boiling to death in her belly."
"JESUS!… Um, okay, so you used to commute into the city but now you just work here. How do you like it? I mean, do you miss the city, the traveling?"
"I don't know. I don't care what I do anymore or where I live as long as I'm able to write and make art."
"So you're able to do all of that now from here?"
"Fuck no, not at all. I can't do anything. I'm completely fucked. I have a new studio over in Newburgh and I've only been there twice in the past couple of months. I have commissions that I haven't been able to pull off. All I've got time to do is go on Facebook and make a total ass of myself and get in trouble. It's like death by a thousand cuts."
"What's that?"
"That's how the Chinese used to torture and kill people. They would tie you up to a stake and slice off little pieces of you over time."
"Ewe… So your wife and kids are up in Canada right now. You must miss 'em."
"Of course I do."
"You think you guys will have any more?"
"Absolutely not! No one should be bringing children into this world anymore. I will never forgive myself for having my two boys. What a terrible thing to do to somebody."
"You really believe that?"
"Absolutely. It's a pathetic, selfish act, having kids. But, you know, then I guess, what the hell else are you going to do? I just don't know how anyone does anything anymore. Like you work for this magazine about parenting… I mean, what's the point? I know everyone needs to make a living but… I don't know. I love my kids dearly, I love them TOO much! It's crippling. And that's what I mean. They're too good for this world, for what we've done to this world. All children are. And then what happens to them? They just become us, these flickering souls, staggering around through the fog of this horrible, horrible world we've created. It's atrocious… Hey, do you want another glass of wine? It's on me?"phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-30853048434453751702015-07-19T21:39:00.002-07:002015-07-19T21:39:35.425-07:00THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN DO IT
Make it thin. Make it just barely there. Make it no more than a memory, a vapor already gone. Keep well out of their craw. Be gone before they ever knew you were ever there. That's how you do it. That's the only way you can do it.phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-55224655495996075512015-07-17T06:46:00.001-07:002015-07-17T06:46:05.131-07:00FRANKFrank awoke at 3:00 A.M.. He only looked at the clock to verify what he already knew. It was always 3:00 A.M., exactly 3:00 A.M.. He reached down and felt his cock. He thought about masturbating but didn't. The light coming in through the window allowed him to see a few things: the dresser, the door which was slightly ajar, his towel hanging from the top, the heap of the blanket which had wound up at his feet. He thought about his two little girls, 9 and 6, who were sleeping at their mother's, the filthy fucking whore. He smiled, thinking about their sweet little eyes, closed, sleeping, dreaming. What were they dreaming about? He hoped it was something good. He hated them having to exist in this ever worsening world. Maybe he would one day get rich on his writing and be able to protect them somehow? Does that even happen anymore? No, it doesn't. And even if it did, it wouldn't be enough. Nothing would be, not anymore. He heard a car drive down the street. He thought about masturbating again. He reached down and felt his cock. It was sad and limp, cold and clammy. He played with it a bit and gave up. He then felt his balls. They were uncomfortably tight. It's so true, he thought, the state of a man's cock and balls is always in direct correlation with his mind, with his spirit. Just then, an image flashed through his mind: An elephant tumbling down a cliff. It was the saddest, most grotesque thing he had ever seen in his life. The elephant kept falling, contorting through the air. Frank winced as he fell back to sleep.phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-84344033869442337632015-07-16T10:04:00.002-07:002015-07-16T10:04:15.412-07:00THE EPIDEMICI think there's just not enough self hating Muslims out there. That's always been the best course of treatment for these sorts of diseases. Look at the Jews, look at all the giants of comedy, art, theater, film, literature etc,. that's blossomed out of that prickly bush. But it's definitely the comedy that's been most effective, that has done the most good. It's the pre-emptive hysterectomy or mastectomy. What they need is a modern day Muslim Kafka. Yes, Kafka. I've always found that brave little butcher hilarious. But then again, the Jews never had the bright idea to discipline their own people by publicly cutting their heads off, which I'll admit, certainly raises the stakes. But I've always felt it can be far braver to hop on that empty stage than to storm a beach. You know, unless you were to storm that beach, naked, with a big raging hard on, that purple headed thing waving back and forth like a silly stick. I would've done it. I'm serious, I would've. I don't care if you don't believe me. I know some people reading this will. I once ran naked through the streets of New York and some border town in Mexico, hurdling large cactus plants. Two of my greatest accomplishments in life. I would've done it singing "Oklahoma" or some shit at the top of my lungs because FUCK IT! Fuck all this stupid shit we do and are as humans! I resent it. It's beneath us. And I will never forgive myself for being so stupid cruel as to bring two more beautiful souls into this monstrous world. Anyway, speaking of Oklahoma and getting back to the Muslims, I just got back from Oklahoma recently, and I must say, aside from the blowing themselves up and the beheadings and shit, from what I can tell, there's just not that much difference between your average, conservative, Fox News watching Okie and a radical Muslim. Both these creatures are immune to humor. GO SOONERS! Oh, and do any of you Beaconites happen to have a confederate flag I can borrow?phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-72550966889298606812015-07-16T10:03:00.001-07:002015-07-16T10:03:26.475-07:00TIMTim looked at his toes as he laid on the couch. He looked at his right big toe in particular, the one that had been giving him so much trouble. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it. The toenail didn't look ingrown. There was no redness or swelling or anything. "Hmmm," he thought. He then tried to think back to a time in his life when his mind wasn't completely preoccupied with the idea of killing himself. But those days were just so long ago. So much had happened that the effort became too frustrating. He heard a text come through on his phone. He thought about getting up to see who it was but he didn't. He knew soon enough, one way or another, he would. It wasn't the sadness anymore or the pain and confusion. He had gotten used to the absurdity of life and he was truly not the least bit interested in any answers. He was simply exhausted. He was tired of all the sounds. He was tired of having to wipe his ass every morning. He was tired of lusting after women, of masturbating. Even fucking was just animalistic and stupid. He felt ridiculous eating. He hated putting his shoes on only to eventually just take them off again. He hated brushing his teeth, finding clothes to wear, finding his car keys. "Why the hell can't someone just place a bomb in my car so I can blow up?" he thought, "like in the movies". Problem solved. No more anything. He was still on the couch when his girlfriend, Kara, walked in the door. "Why won't you answer your phone? I've been calling and texting." They stared at each other for a moment. "I can't believe you're still on the couch?!" she yelled. "I know," he said, and he let out a long fart. "You're disgusting!" She went into the kitchen. "You couldn't even clean the kitchen? Jesus, Tim! What have you done all day?" Tim thought about it as he looked at his toe again. "My toe really hurts," he said. Just then, he heard the mailman lift the metal lid to their mailbox, drop a bunch of mail inside, and slam the lid back down. He cranked his head around and through the window, watched the mailman walking away down the sidewalk. His legs were skinny and white and Tim really liked his socks.phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-86379503657531778402015-07-02T10:13:00.001-07:002015-07-02T10:13:21.165-07:00What makes me happiest is the saddest thing of all. phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-80624656006196893192015-07-01T22:30:00.003-07:002015-07-01T22:30:51.912-07:00TOUGH MUDDERWe have literally reached a point where it's far healthier to be an absolutely disgusting, morbidly obese person than be someone who does one of those goddamn Tough Mudder races. phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-87918131171580358832015-07-01T06:22:00.000-07:002015-07-01T06:32:56.948-07:00ASS WORSHIPERYeah, fuck 'em. I've always done that. Even modeling, they used to ask you your religion when you filled out the forms when you signed up with an agency. And that's what I would put: "Ass worshiper". It's true. phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3452487161611321354.post-29130176494411574062015-06-29T21:56:00.002-07:002015-07-01T05:18:44.198-07:00DOWN THEREI feel like I can do almost anything. But up here, man, I don't even like to breathe in the air.
phil bramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03516209694934911080noreply@blogger.com0