Lovable Grandmother Not Tasered Enough

Madam, you’re a fucking liar and a scumbag. You don’t deserve a red fucking cent, and if the Texas bacon is stupid enough to offer you 40 grand for being a total asshole, they ought to charge you double that for the electricity used to put your rudeness in its place. Fuck you.

While we’re on the subject, why should I give a shit that the perp is old and/or a woman? Where’s that EQUALITY the egalitarian shit-for-brains are always whining about? DOUBLE fuck you.

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.

Seepage

Attempting to write anything of substance is futile when the bad news comes faster than the twitters of a coked-up OCD-enjoyer (that’s right–enjoyer--OCD folks are too busy to suffer).

I like the saying that, ‘it will take 4 years for the people who voted for Maobama to understand why the other half of the country voted against him’ except I don’t think we’ll make it a whole year before something collapses.

I had nothing to my name before this “sudden crisis”, no property and no stocks. Now it seems, once again, everyone is trying to emulate me, even if they don’t want to. I’d say it’s depressing except I already enjoy depression.

You must understand that if The Kenyan and the entire cast of fools in DC were beamed up by benevolent aliens and then beamed into the sun, the nightmare would not end. Half the country thinks they are owed a living from the other half by the virtue of merely existing. There is just as much to fear from the other side as a tyrannical government.

I try not to let it get me down but if you care at all, it will seep in. Learn to accept it. Countries rise and countries fall.

How ’bout a recipe?

Reading the news today it’s as if someone was trying to deliberately encourage me to hate people.

Not that they need any.

Now I don’t hate everyone. Some people have done some very nice things for me over the years, from Tijuana hookers to 3rd party pot providers to the good people at Kevorkian Limited who offered to send the missing piece to the Suicide Home Kit I ordered years ago.

Instead of ranting, how about a recipe? I tried it and found it very agreeable, except I substituted “spinach” with a pound of “ground beef”.

I bought bags of individual “ravioli squares” which I had to arrange. Next time I’ll get the boxed ravs.

“LAZE-ONYA“

2 pkgs frozen cheese ravioli
1 jar spaghetti sauce (e.g. Classico Tomato and Basil)
1 pkg shredded pizza cheese (Sargento)
1 pkg frozen spinach, defrosted and drained

Place ¼ cup sauce in bottom of large casserole dish. Place ravioli in single layer atop sauce, followed by spinach and topped with cheese.

(Each successive layer begins with more sauce).

One layer from bottom up =

cheese

spinach (or meat)

ravioli

sauce

Number of layers depends on size of dish.

Place in 350° oven for 35-40 minutes.

Cheese should be bubbly and ravioli hot throughout.

Where your sorry ass been at?

The first meatlights post of 2009 and Jan is already half-over, a case of so much happening that nothing has happened.

Things are in motion and this time I’m going with them.

Even without writing for almost a month, meat-hits remain constant because of posts referring to ‘norpography’. I should send Marc Wallace an e-card.

We’re less than a week away from the Obamessiah taking the reigns. I’m betting it will take less than 4 years for the peeps who voted for him to understand why the other half of the country voted against him.

I see no reason to give His Highness “a chance”. If someone stated his intention to jump off a cliff and meant it, I wouldn’t need to see him do it to believe he was nuts. Obama’s laid out his socialist “plan” and it’s an ‘end justifies the means’ thing. You’ll see. Buy a gun if you haven’t already.

As for the other side, I deem the Bush presidency overall to be a failure (this from someone who supports the Iraq War) because of the bailouts, which are inexcusable; it would’ve been better to let the whole fucking thing collapse. Instead of “saving the free market” Bush cut the ribbon on the road leading to tyranny, and now Obama as Grand Marshal begins the march.

My friends, my friends, let me remind you that it wasn’t deregulation, free markets or freedom that caused this mess, it was government, which treats its citizens’ rights and money like a subcompact rental car.

Enough about pollytix.

Hope you’re enjoying the new year. It’s ridiculous that a man-made invention like calendar time has the power to transform people (more like resetting a computer with a virus) but it seems to help, a little.  New Year’s Day is a symbolic bullet in the head of the corpse of Xmas to assure it’s dead.

Blessings to my 3 readers of the non-sex posts and to the tens of people who read the dirty stuff. Here’s to more sex and filth in oh-nine.

Klondike Bar in a thought-cloud starts it all

CVS is one of these mid-sized affairs halfway between a real supermarket and a convenience store. I pull in to a parking space with 4 empty spaces on either side. The idiot girl driving a mega-sized truck (no doubt belonging to the absent borefriend) behind me then parks right next to me, so close I have to squeeze out.

But I don’t. I fire up the converters and drive to another space around the corner. Tonight is the second night all year it’s actually cold enough to wear two shirts in lieu of a jacket.

Truck Girl is already in the checkout line when I make it inside. She looks at me. I jam my fist in my pocket so I won’t punch her in the face. I would never do it but the urge is there. Further down, a short blonde Weeble with a scraggly ponytail labors to push a midget-sized shopping cart filled to the brim with stuff; the cart’s so full she really has to lean into it to beat intertia. Christ.

CVS is out of Klondike Bars as well as Drumsticks. Some fatty must’ve ravaged the freezer case earlier. I grab two other frozen things and head for the register. The line is gone, it’s only the Weeble at the counter, now unloading the cart (this is why the poor stay poor, doing weekly shopping here instead of a real supermarket). There’s only one hapless checkout guy. I throw the two frozen things in the beer case and storm out.

I decide on another place. As I pull in, facing the blank-walled side of the gas station convenience store, I see a cop car parked, unoccupied, with its running lights on. That’s all right, the jail’s nearby and the many cops use the convenience stores on this road as watering/donut holes.

I round the corner and find the missing cop. He’s standing right in front of the glass double doors, calmly listening to a fat, loudmouthed woman explain her side of the story about The Accident. I turn around, get back in my car. I figure I really needed something to write about, the gods heard me, and this night is the result.

I drive down to the next store, a Walgreens: half pharmacy/half photos/half food. On the outside wall a strobe light, placed right above a security camera, is strobing. What does this mean? Silent alarm? Wait, a siren!–but it’s only an ambulance whizzing by.

Inside is a display of sassy T-shirts for babies.

I cry when ugly people hold me.

I may be tiny but I’m the Boss.

Society is now so obnoxious even babies must make declarative statements of Asshole.

Walgreens has Drumsticks and Klondike Bars! After my long journey through a chilly hell I appreciate them more. I take one of each plus a third treat, one of those chocolate-covered ice cream bars that looks like it’s covered in venereal warts.

The kid at the register has moved on but has called Kristen to help me.

Kristen is blonde, cute, with a husky voice. Fondling the ice cream, she approves of the purchase. “I need some of these, only I’d buy a carton.”

Does this mean she approves of me?

Her nametag reads Beauty Advisor. The Right Thing to say pops into my head: “You’re a ‘beauty advisor’. They picked the right person.”

I can’t say it. I don’t.

I eat one of the ice creams at the stoplight. The warts one. I am rewarded and it’s good to be alive, but only for now.

Fuck off, Pickle, I don’t like talking to machines!*

No one reads these non-porn posts, but I have to keep my typing skillz up, which means nothing because I don’t type the “correct” way, never have. I’m not fast, but with spell-check and no deadlines, speed has never been an issue.

Like so many who don’t know it, I’m waiting for the perfection of the Orwellian “speak-write” so I can just talk (in)to the damned machine.

I tried Dragon NaturallySpeaking 9 but my comp proved too old and slow and I felt like a fool adding the punctuation: “Quote…I went to the sex market…period.” Also no matter how many times I tried, I could never get the damed program to print the word “sing” on the screen. I must’ve looked like a madman furiously growling, “SING! SING! SING!” into the headset (“Sing” by Travis was jammed sideways into my brain the whole time).

My 13-yr-old car had some work done today and looks better. I feel better about it and myself because of this. More on that later.

I should get back into blogging regularly even if I have nothing to write, like now.

Hatred never dies so they’ll always be something new to write about.

Period.

* Quote from Hamburger: the Motion Picture.

SHOULD OBAMA WIN/SHOULD McCAIN WIN

DISCLAIMER: I’m telling you straight up, I’m voting for John Sydney McCain III and Sarah Louise Heath Palin and this post reflects that POV. If you’re going to vote for Barack Hussein Obama, remember to vote on November 5th. Or be punished with a baby.

REGARDING BOTH MEN: I’m disappointed neither said much about freedom, optimism and America’s unique greatness during this election. I’m extremely disappointed neither man said anything about the Constitution and limiting government power. At least with McCain there’s an inkling of hope in regaining sanity, while Obama thinks, as all liberals must, the Constitution was written on an Etch-A-Sketch and is his to shake away the parts he doesn’t like (or add a RIGHT to everything from free cable to personal bodyguards to stop school bullies).

SHOULD OBAMA WIN it’s tempting to say that America as we know it will pass away. But don’t. There’s plenty to be positive about. We’re not quite there as far as a Second Civil War goes, if only because no one really knows what they’re fighting for or against. Confusion reigns and it’s preferable to anarchy.

SHOULD OBAMA WIN (not by a “landslide”, he’s not the other Hussein) there’s no reason for melodrama or pessimism. Democracy is self-correcting, and Barry’s Ascension might prove a real blessing, galvanizing the Right in a way not seen since ‘94, when Congress after 40 years flipped to a Republican majority, keeping Billy Clinton in check, despite his lack of pants.

SHOULD OBAMA WIN how fast people caught in the middle wake up and realize they’ve re-elected Jimmy Carter with a better tan depends on how fast Obama’s economic schemes are unleashed. My guess is he’ll be low-key for “the first 100 daze”, drinking in the worship of the mainstream media, until even they will have quieted, waiting for the show to begin, SHOULD OBAMA WIN.

No matter how hard the media will try to conceal the ensuing flops and failures of what is essentially regurgitated marxism, the matured internets will be there as never before, documenting every misstep. I don’t mind the ignorance or foolhardiness of the American people, as long as it hurts. Stupid should hurt, and when you put your hand on a hot stove it’s your hand that should burn, no one else’s.

SHOULD McCAIN WIN it will be nothing less than a second chance for America. McCain isn’t a maverick so much as a 3-legged dark horse. He’s going to need a complete overhaul, including a visit from the ghost of Reagan. Republicans have been shitting the cot on their core values for so long that the lies of the left aren’t worth addressing, there’s too much to be done. There are bodies stacked to the rafters in the cellar: compromised, sissified Rightards still in office have no time to worry about a dead dog planted on the stoop by the New York Slimes.

SHOULD McCAIN WIN or even if he loses, these second-chance Republicans better get back to principles or they’ll find they have a very short shelf life; when it’s time to act they’ll either be fresh and ready or thrown away. That’s as it should be. Nothing less than their best will be acceptable, and should they keep on doing the same things they’ve been doing, they will deserve their crucifixions. SHOULD OBAMA WIN, true conservatives, already livid, will be trembling among stacks of wooden boards and nail guns.

I really wish the ticket was Palin-McCain. But you can’t have everything.

The most important thing you can take from this enjoyable babble is this: America was founded by people smarter than you and me. They split the government’s power into thirds so that no President could turn into a monarch, nor a mob of shits like Congress into the Central Comittee. We also have 200 million guns, and despite what politically-correct weenies may believe, we don’t run from a fight.

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!

Talk to the Hand