Spoiled Midget Paradox

An ugly woman is not whom I want

After over a year of being there, one of the ugliest broads at work has started hitting on me. I don’t know what brought it on but it’s annoying and unpleasant.

Earlier the same day Ugly Broad started her doomed crusade I was eyeing the hottest blonde at work, a divorcée with mousy voice, thinning hair, great tits and a weak chin. Even if I had somehow gotten with Blondie, she would be a piss-poor consolation prize to the One I really wanted who I’ll never see again (a blessing like being stabbed with a pencil instead of a bayonet).

I’m not cruel, I wouldn’t tell any ugly broad she’s ugly (believe me, they know) but fellows, even for the shallowest piece of shit among us who’ll screw a fencepost, with Ugly Broad there’s just nothing to work with. Well, she has a fair personality and is not vicious, unlike so many women. But that’s it.

While employed, Roids the Hunk, who banged a different blonde upon his arrival and is now purportedly tagging the big-butted girl with a face like Harold Ramis, also had his share of unwanted attention from the beautily-challenged. It makes my own ineptness feel more natural that a guy like Roids, who all but forced his will on the hotties, had zero skillz in handling the uggos who went after him. An uggo he gave his number to innocently enough when he started working there ended up calling him every single night and harassing him nonstop. His sole defense was avoiding her whenever possible.

I pray to Blind Jesus or whoever the fuck will listen that Ugly Broad by now has taken the hint and won’t bother me again. As bad as I’ve had it, I’ve never harassed any female. I’ve only been too nice and prefer rejection to doing the rejecting.

Jimmy crack Carlin and I don’t care

Well, George Carlin’s dead.

(I’m jealous of the dead).

While Carlin was alive, I pitied him.

He was smart but didn’t make anyone think, except by accident (the only way).

He sold many albums and books I never bought.  I laughed at some of his schtick but overall he just seemed perennially unhappy and unpleasant.

I think the genuinely unhappy are sometimes happy, if only by accident.  I never got the vibe from Carlin that he was ever happy, and that is sad.

I hope he smiled somewhere at something, but I doubt it.

He got his Answers before me.

Hopefully he’ll do better on the next go.

Among the young and younger people

Doof, 19, barrel-chested with a football-shaped head. Graduated high school 2 weeks ago.

I ask him: “Did you look up what ‘brothel’ means?”

“No.”

(Another guy on the stocking crew, 19, who also didn’t know what ‘brothel’ meant wrote it on his hand and still forgot to look it up.)

Cole, 33, asks Doof, “Do you know what a ‘bidet’ is?”

“No. I got a ‘B’ in Honors English.”

“So?”

“So I don’t need to know any more English.”

I pray he’s joking so I laugh.

Just then Vance the home-schooled kid walks past. Not even 21 and he’s battled
skin cancer.
His face looks like
Mars
with acne.

I begin: “Vance, what’s a brothel?”
“A bordello.”
“What’s a bordello?”
“A whorehouse.”
“What’s a whorehouse?”

Everyone laughs.

I’m the oldest among these young and younger people and a bent butterknife,
but when they laugh
I am a joyous sword.

I’m not gonna worry that Doof is the future. Vance will be there and Cole will be there and I will be there
as a butterknife under the hot breath of failure,
prelude to the
wiping away
that shows
polish.

 

 

RSVP

Today died and became yesterday a half-hour ago.  I should be asleep but wanted to see that fucker off forever.

Yesterday was rotten.  The one good aspect about it was the toilet didn’t clog or overflow (but hasn’t in over a year).  Otherwise I’d’ve been happy to commit mass murder and still would be, which doesn’t count as real happiness.

You may have noticed most people are able to function by ignoring the shambles of their lives for long stretches.  It’s more than simple denial, it’s a survival mechanism, tested at all times.

Having to work will ruin anyone’s day; yesterday was the typical one-thing-after-another bullshit, only each blow was a little too precisely delivered to vulnerable areas. By mid-morning the metaphorical fan of good or at least neutral spirits was covered in splattered shit.  I wanted to hang it up and just walk off the fucking job, leave the country and finally the globe.

There is no limit to suffering, no expiration date.  The brain regulates involuntarily functions to keep you alive while the backstabbing mind works to makes life as miserable as possible.   I’ll never understand why the mind is such a defective turd and enemy of the brain and body.

There are some people that kill themselves and those around them say, “I can see why.”   The invitation to this level of suffering is offered by the world every day.  RSVP and come alone.

Talk to the Hand

Quoticle – Happy Fadda’s!

He was more to be envied than pitied, for his sleep was not a lull or an interval but sleep itself which is the deep and hence sleeping ever deepening, deeper and deeper in sleep sleeping, the sleep of the deep in deepest sleep, at the nethermost depth full slept, the deepest and sleepest sleep of sleep’s sweet sleep. He was asleep. He is asleep. He will be asleep. Sleep. Sleep. Father, sleep, I beg you, for we who are awake are boiling in horror…

~Henry Miller Tropic of Cancer

Foreign terrorists now have American Constitutional Rights: more madness from the senile Supremes

Your Honor, I don’t know spit about lawyerin’, but my understanding of war and the rules of war is, enemy soldiers and combatants have no rights under the American legal system. We demonstrated this by executing German spies and saboteurs during WW2.

As bizarre as it sounds to the uninitiated, wars have rules, even if they’re often ignored.

A few I can think of offhand:

* “You” can’t shoot at enemy paratroopers in the air unless they’re shooting at you.
* You can’t smear fecal matter on a bayonet to cause infection/spread disease.
* You can’t fire on hospital ships.
* You can’t use vehicle-destroying hardware on enemy foot soldiers (Timothy McVeigh allegedly took the head off an Iraqi soldier with a tank shell in Gulf War 1.)
* No use of chemical or biological weapons permitted.
* Lasers may not be used to physically blind enemy troops.

Foreign terrorists (aka Gitmo detainees/suspects) and their organizations are not recognized by any official body or country, therefore not even international rules of engagement apply to them, much less American laws.

Imagine if Syria or Iran said, “Yeah, those guys that tried to attack New York are ours.” At our discretion we would then return these enemy soldiers to the giant glass craters formerly known as Syria and Iran.

The Supreme Court hasn’t been interpreting law so much as writing it, which ain’t their job. They’ve been out of control now for over 50 years. The other two branches, cowards that they are, have accepted this unlawful expansion of Court power because when packed with a few more guys from their side of the aisle, they themselves can get away with more. It’s easy for the other branches to openly hide behind the Supremes, who are apparently incapable of being punished, certainly not by the people.

Supreme Idiocy: just one more chapter in the unfolding history of the Second American Civil War.

Meat Lights and the Shrinkdom of the Crystal Skull

Disgusting humid weather this month better be compensated by a cold-ass winter; wasn’t too bad when I got up early to drive to the VA.

Every 3 months I must go discuss nothing with a pleasant but useless elder Indian (from India) VA shrink. It’s not her fault she’s useless (except for prescribing medications). The world is batshit insane and everyone’s life is in some measure a disaster. We’re coerced to live this life on earth or suffer dire consequences on the Other Side for trying to crawl out the dog door of suicide. There’s nothing A Doctor of Brain Firmware or anyone else can say or do for you. I understand writer Louis-Ferdinand Céline already covered all this but was not clever enough to call it the Céline Solution.

The only reason I played the VA’s head game was to keep those anti-depressants coming.

Doctor India neither cared nor was indifferent about me. She was doing her government job for probably less money than someone with a private practice. Being older she will likely die before me and reincarnate into another Indian body. I wouldn’t mind coming back as a vampire bat or box of tampons in the Playboy mansion.

Today I arrived at her office exceptionally happy for some reason, maybe because I was going to get to see the brain again.

On a high shelf in Doc India’s office was a model of a human brain made of clear heavy glass, sitting in an open-topped plastic skull (minus jawbone).

What good was a model of the brain in a shrinks’s office? I’d never heard of a shrink pointing to a spot on a plastic brain and explaining, “Your problem…is this area here…the Sea of Apathy is too mushy…” It was a prop, like a beaker filled with colored water bubbling from dry ice, indicating a mad scientist at work in a B movie.

Doc bid me to sit specifically in one of two identical chairs on the other side of her desk. I assumed this was some sort of psych test to determine compliance. Or maybe she was anal retentive, I had little time or interest in diagnosing her.

I was still chipper as I sat. I looked at the brain and realized I got it backwards, it was the skull base (minus lower jawbone) that was made of glass (or crystal, so this post can be connected to the new Indy Jones movie) and the model of the brain was cheap plastic. A shame, I thought, that I don’t have a glass brain. People could look at each other through the distorted glass halves while I ignored them. When I got depressed I could pour ocean water in the halves and drift away. I guess my skull and head would also have to be glass for this to work….
“You seem better,” Doc said.
“I feel better.”
“What changed?”
“People say you should ‘be yourself’, which is useless advice…I suppose I just realized to accept who I am.”

What I left out was that I’d given up. Fucked in every way but the one you pay dearly for and only I can unfuck myself. So it goes for everybody, with the tale of the tape being most people die with their gifts unused.

Most of the time I didn’t care, the mentality of a drug addict minus the drugs. Useless society, useless world, 98% drones awaiting another 1% to write about the antics of the final 1% of criminals and celebrity fuckups. Instead of doing anything to get out of the hole, I’d simply learned to appreciate every second away from people, a consolation prize version of nirvana.

Doc India said, “I think you’re ready to be discharged from the program.”

Program? What program?

I agreed as long it meant getting to keep my prescrips.  Now I won’t have to make the drive  to the ole VA every 3 months (parking is impossible) and deal with the Black working the check-in desk (fortunately not there today) who hated me for reasons unknown. I never looked forward to dealing with his bad attitude. How stupid do you have to be to start shit with people with mental problems?

The woman taking the Black’s place didn’t stamp the discharge paper NOT CRAZY. Nor should she have.

Flowers in the Sciatic

The art of life is the art of avoiding pain. – Thomas Jefferson

Though disgusted by my recent bout with sciatica, I’ve been really enjoying these narcotic pills I have, so good they’re addictive!

Within 5 minutes of taking my (unprescribed) medicine I feel a spreading joy radiating out from my stomach, as if my muscles were made of knotted diapers soaking up an exquisite, urine-like warmth. The feeling of ax blades chipping at nerves in my legs and hip dissolve, the pain muting into a midget mime tapping in helpless silence behind his invisible wall.

If I notice any part of my body while drugged I feel only pleasure, a total absence of pain.  Compared to these painkillers marijuana’s high is too random, its euphoria waning quickly after the burning coughs.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do when the pills are all gone. 😦 Probably nothing.  The sciatica is 90% gone anyway; last week the fickle demon completely left one leg for the other, where it hasn’t been nearly as bad.

I’m embarrassed to admit I figured out the cause of this recent pain. My Rockport work shoes are over a year old and look like they’ve stepped on IEDs. They provide no cushioning, unacceptable when you’re on your feet most of the day. I tried looking for new Rocks last week, where I usually buy them every 6 months. The rude assholes no longer had them. I must find new assholes to save my feet, legs and back. Anatomy.