Marmalick

Hey, I’m trying to write here

I ate three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches around midnight. I’m going to have bizarre dreams, fer sure.

I’m trying to write 250 words minimum per day about anything. I’m not there yet but am trying. Anything is a terribly limited subject.

Butterflies have “powder” on their wings, according to some dudes at work. Mess with the powder and they can’t fly. I just looked it up online. The “powder” is really microscopic scales. I suspect the butterflies can still fly after the powder is messed with, but they should be left alone.

I’m wary of women with butterfly tattoos.  Even if they have huge tits, they should be left alone.

It’s better to read a book than surf the web to fall asleep. The pages of a book don’t glow bright like computer screens, which wreck everything.

I still have to shower before sleep. And floss and brush. That’s a lot of work.

At least I have Sunday off.

I recently returned to exercising regularly. At the moment I neither love nor hate it. Exercise is something I have to do daily for the rest of my life, like taking the meds that keep me unpsychotic. I hate others at the gym more than ever.

I’m up to 189 words with more to follow as I type. I’m going to stop now, well short of 250.  No one will read this anyhow:  it contains no references to p0rn, Marc Wallace, Mia Powers. Kaylan Nicole or Flo from the Progressive insurance commercials.  Good night!

Life Explained in 6 words minus the ending

“Satan is King!”

“Sometimes He is.”

THE END

Thoughts deeper than you

“Could any Hell be more horrible than now, and real?”
— Jim Morrison

I’ve been thinking about suicide lately with the same conclusion Sam Kinison had about wife-beating: I don’t condone it, but I understand it.

I won’t kill myself.

For one thing, at my age there’s very little left to kill.  (- Bukowski)

Life is painful, unpredictable and typically just plain fucked-up in both meaning and execution: it’s unreasonable to believe that suicide would bring an immediate end to suffering from such a warped existence; suicide is the gleaming cheese in a mousetrap.

Suicide means physical death, but I don’t want death, because death means MORE: more suffering and more pleasure. I want neither, in favor of annihilation.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience this annihilation, which is not an empty void but The Void, filled with Everything which is really only One thing. I could only enter this state of No-Mind under the aegis of a meditation master capable of projecting spiritual energy. The meditation group I was with only got to experience it perhaps a dozen times a year.

One minute I’d be sitting in my folding chair, the next there was NOTHING, all the chattering noise and nonsense composing the modern mind wiped clean like a giant eraser swiping across a dry erase board. Other types of meditation had different effects but coming out of the No-Mind sessions I always felt oddly refreshed.

No-Mind has been called ‘the only true final Enlightenment’ and if you’re lucky enough to merge with it beyond death, you win, that’s all, no more suffering, no more anything. Compared to this state, a heavenly afterlife seems ridiculous. If you can have limitless pleasurable experiences in Heaven, it stands to reason one moment will feel better for you than another. How is that Heaven? You’ll still be striving for MORE, even if by definition, in Heaven you always Receive it.

Nothingness sounds scary, I know. To a 300lb co-worker I presented the choice between a guaranteed immediate merging forever into nothingness or a chancy afterlife. His answer was, “I like existing.”

I do not like existing. I am trapped here, with none to rescue.

Another Jeopardy! Ball-Churner

There hasn’t been a hottie on America’s favorite trivia game show in awhile.  Kara more than makes up for this.  She would’ve made a better Supergirl than the eponymous ‘Kara’ on Smallville.

Kara lasted two days on Jeopardy! to my none.  She’s a high school history teacher and, being as hot as she is, has great potential to end up on The Smoking Gun.

She told Alex one of the two foreign language phrases she used while vacationing was something to the effect of:  “Is it OK to swim naked here?”  I think Trebek went home and masturbated furiously.  Wait, that was me, except it couldn’t have been, since Trebek had to go home and I was already home.

Bizarre dream

WARNING: MATURE, VIOLENT CONTENT.

Had a dream last night where a gang of young punkasses stole a handgun belonging to me. The dream ended with me cutting one of them repeatedly with a machete, including burying the blade inches deep over his right eyebrow. He died with his eyes open.

To make it stranger, I then dropped the weapon and pressed my palms together in the perfect image of praying hands and asked Lord Jesus Christ to forgive me for my sins.

I didn’t consider it a nightmare because when I woke up I had the day off. Also, spiritual progress is typically signified by violent dreams. The most harmless, soft-spoken girls in the meditation group would dream that night–after a full day of meditation–about mowing down people with an Uzi.

I’m not reading anything into it, but I did receive an odd piece of junk mail today, advertising for a good luck cross. Included was this image, which immediately made me think of the old, OLD comics’ joke about how thrilled Christ returning to earth would be to see his followers wearing crosses.

Any Spirit Being is always welcome to get my ass out of a jam. Amen.

Dear Stephanie Courtney (the exotic girl from the Progressive insurance commercials)

(I tried making this post “Private” because I felt like it. It didn’t work, people could still read it, [turdpress FTW!] so here it is, no different. Please worship Satan).

Dear Stephanie, (MAY I call you Stephanie)?

As your character “FLO” from the Progressive commercials gains notoriety, I’d like to say that I think you’re the spun sugar in cotton candy and remind you that all of your other male admirers are gay.

Only I see/saw through the FLO character’s heavy makeup, lipstick and stylish sex-hair to the ebullient soul that is You hiding within the role, swaying like a flower floating in ginger ale.

I just want you to know that if we ever meet really soon, and things went so great that we’re in my room playing strip chess, I’d never demand you dress as the FLO character as part of our bedroom role-playing, because that’s a little too forward right after getting your autograph. These things take time, like waiting for Mother to go out of town so we can have the house to ourselves, you and me, forever!

That said, I eagerly await the next Progressive commercial starring you as FLO, joyously hawking insurance, which everybody needs just like they need…love.

Love,

Meat

P.S. You’re so cute you shit kittens. Please find them a good home!

“Sitting ducks”

Somewhere some group is always being accused of being sitting ducks. Well, let me tell you people something. DUCKS NEED TO SIT DOWN ONCE IN AWHILE. It’s not all quacking and swimming and flying in V formation to Miami! Who are YOU to demand ducks always be moving around? They’re not sharks, you know.

Time to let ducks be WHO THEY ARE.

Sangria Dogs, or how to make an alcoholic weep

A trick taught to me by a masterful female chef.

When grilling hot dogs, boil them in sangria first; they’ll stay juicier, turn a beautiful dark red and best of all, lend a sublime fruit-flavor to the meat without making it gay.

Or do what I do, skip the grill, boil the dogs in sangria and enjoy. Unless you’re a competitive eater, I recommend limiting your intake to 5 in one sitting or you’ll die. Painfully.

The Ponytail Man, 1992

Apologies to the few who already read this post. I never thought to youtube the Ponytail Man, whose purported name was “Denton Walthall”.

I put this up so that people who initially remember Denton the Ponytail Man from a “town hall” meeting will have a slightly easier time finding or referencing him. Very likely the Ponytail Man (aka Ponytailed Loser, Ponytailed Asshole, Ponytailed Mamaluke, Ponytailed Chooch) was an audience plant working for the Taxocrats.

Link to the full debate transcripts; click here or below:

http://www.debates.org/pages/trans92b1.html

“Denton Walthall” aka Ponytail Man

October 15, 1992

The Second Clinton-Bush-Perot Presidential Debate (First Half)

This takes place in the first half of the Richmond debate. The October 15th “town hall” format debate was moderated by Carole Simpson.

PONYTAILED LOSER: And forgive the notes here but I’m shy on camera.

The focus of my work as a domestic mediator is meeting the needs of the children that I work with, by way of their parents, and not the wants of their parents. And I ask the three of you, how can we, as symbolically the children of the future president, expect the two of you, the three of you to meet our needs, the needs in housing and in crime and you name it, as opposed to the wants of your political spin doctors and your political parties?

SIMPSON: So your question is?

PONYTAILED LOSER: Can we focus on the issues and not the personalities and the mud? I think there’s a need, if we could take a poll here with the folks from Gallup perhaps, I think there’s a real need here to focus at this point on the needs.

(After Bush 41 and Clinton both idiotically agree)

PONYTAILED LOSER: Could we cross our hearts? It sounds silly here but could we make a commitment? You know, we’re not under oath at this point but could you make a commitment to the citizens of the US to meet our needs, and we have many, and not yours again? I repeat that. It’s a real need, I think, that we all have.

I’m ashamed to admit that way back in ‘92 while I watched this live, I believed in what the Ponytailed Plant was saying, his begging our would-be leaders for assistance that, per the Constitution, he was not entitled to receive and they were not entitled to give him. It was the naivety of youth that made me believe this gross display of spinelessness was worthy of a free people, or that it would have any heart-softening effects on men (and women) the Constitution was put in place to protect us from.

In answering this simpering hippie doofus, George Bush Sr., perhaps not understanding how stupid and outrageous the Ponytailed questions were, totally shit the cot. Perot did only marginally better. Only Chill Clinton seemed prepared to soothe the poor long-haired “child” in a convincing manner.

To the best of my knowledge (a few dozen Google searches) Ponytail Man has never been heard from again, suggesting he was indeed an audience plant to make Slick Willie look good.

That was then. Today there’s less need for audience plants; the useful idiots of the mainstream media have given up all objectivity and are the direct descendants of Ponytail Man, existing only to make the Taxocrats look good. Today you are instructed to vote for Obamarx, the latest loving father who promises to take care of you, the infants.

MEET OUR NEEDS! WAAAAHHHH!