A small update for a large waste of time

I’m hesitant to write much because the comp can “die” at any time.

Life is a fucking waste of time and reincarnation just prolongs the shit.

I don’t hate people as much as I claim but overall they’re pretty useless.

A Jewish prayer says, in part, “Thank God I was not born a woman.”   It should add, “And fuck God because I have to deal with them.”

That’s all, fuck you, until we meat again.

I ain’t daid but my comp nearly is

I’m typing to you from the same old craptop, but with a regular monitor hooked into its video output because the screen’s LCD lamp died and its now darker than the insides of Stevie Wonder’s eyelids in an underwater cave.  Then the hard drive wouldn’t load, so I had to reinstall a copy of XP, find drivers, all this other shit.  Windows XPenis kept my files but erased all my programs, including Microsoft Office. WTF, Gates, you idiot!

The craptop now also shuts off suddenly, dead, at random times.  It’s four years old.  Fuck HP products.

A new desktop will be on the way after Black Friday.

Somewhere on M39 I’ve already admitted I suffer/enjoy internet addiction.  BFD.  Everyone is obsessed and/or addicted to something and suffering is as common as sunlight.

I wrote some words about the past week’s intermittent lack of internet access, how it’s actually helped me. I’ll post them later, I’m too tired and/or lazy to find them now.

I thought it was Gwen Stefani

I may have fake breasts but I have a real heart.

~Holly Madison, post-breakup with the Playboy Mummy

eating a mirror

She had big tits, freckles, was dumb.
Too-tall, big ass, big hips, a goofy sort of giant.

I was obsessed with her, but calmly.

Though married, she talked about her sex life with the other guy at the job.  He could’ve fucked her any time except to him she was “kind of ugly”.

I reminded her of her brother.

She moved away.  I left the job.  Life went on.

Lately I found her again, online.
Teaches 3rd grade at a Christian school in the Carolinas, still married, one son.
Signed her class home page, In Him,

Shit!  She was religious back then but not like that.

Half of all marriages fail (I hoped hers did though I had no chance) but not this one.

And now Jesus is getting that pussy!

Ah well, such is life in this world,
eating a mirror
with a hated image,
every day 12 rounds
with both arms tied
behind the back.

Love forever pissed off a cliff
and even lust’s chromium cries
going unanswered.

I’d kill myself but it seems even that
wouldn’t be enough.

In Him.

Fuck.

The hero of the 2008 election is 200 million guns

Some people always have to learn things the hard way, if they learn at all.  Those who voted for Barack ‘Jimmy Carter’ Obama have lit a stick of dynamite believing it was a candle of hope.

History has proven time and again that what Obama stands for (taking national security threats lightly or not at all, moral relativism, excessive wealth redistribution at gunpoint) is incompatible with a free people and nation where government power is designed to be limited.  In its wake, excessive liberalism, the only kind there is eventually, leaves nations weaker, poorer and more divided.

I know people are angry on both sides, and they have every right to be.  McCain was a dud; while not a clone of Bush (those two were often at odds) had he won we’d perhaps have been treated to 4 more years of rudderless, half-baked liberalism disguised as conservatism until the whole thing exploded.  But considering what we’re stuck with now, it won’t be long before even the Bush-haters are wishing for the old days.  “At least under W we didn’t have double-digit unemployment and runaway inflation.”

Mantras of hope and change don’t fill bellies or keep the hordes at bay.

Inspiration without leadership is a motivational calendar, not a President.

The same spiel that gets the used clunker off the lot won’t keep it running.

The hero of the 2008 election is America’s 200 million guns and their owners.  They, and not the goodwill of our “leaders” are what keeps this country free.  Keep them well-oiled.

Egg McMuffin sex romp

Early November, why wait? I’ve already written off 2008 as another year of not getting laid.

As a social autistic that hates people and can’t bear listening to women talk about nothing while not undressing, I have no chance. Call girls around here are $200 and no pussy is worth more than 50 dollars except in the mind of the victim. Unlike Mexico, isolated parts of Nevada and indoors in Rhode Island, hooking is illegal here.

I can’t even aspire to Tijuana, it’s been way too expensive for over a year. It’s the world’s fault for the high cost of plane tickets and oil, it’s mine for having no disposable income or friends in Mexifornia with their own place; my one Spanish-speaking friend who would venture across the border would have to drive his beater a hundred miles at outrageous gas prices just meet me in Sandy Eggo.

Ignoring the cost and horror of actually going to TJ, the #1 obstacle is the new passport card required for foot travel between Mexico and Mexifornia or anywhere else in the USA: costing around 100 bucks, it’s another layer of useless government turdocracy that will stop no infiltrators and another reason I endorse hanging every moon-worshipping savage by his filthy turban (Sikhs excluded).

Without sex with a woman as an option, I turned to Egg Mcmuffins. They were 2 for $2; didn’t even have to leave the car to buy them.

I eat food from Big Yellow M maybe 5 times a year, if that. One of the reasons is cost: the days of 10-cent hamburgers are frozen in black-and-white history; a large cup of orange juice was $2.39.

I drove to a secluded parking lot.

Egg McMuffin! Sex in a paper wrapper. Masterpiece of design and engineering. It belongs in space, floating between the earth and moon. Flip it over, there’s no top or bottom, no beginning or end.

Of all Mcfoods, the McMuffin seems to retain the heat of birth the longest. As I unwrapped the noisy paper I glanced a number on the wrapper. 300 calories? Where? How?

I peeled open the warm “bun”. The glowing orange cheese looked like it had been hugged at the last second by a suicide bomber, a gooey mess filling the cratered moonscape of muffin. The steaming warm “egg patty” was a near-perfect circle, glistening, white, pure. Unlike Yellow M’s survivalist scrambled eggs with a congealed half-life of 3 minutes, the McMuffin egg remained, in its impossible shape, a symbol of life.

The Canadian bacon was a perfect circle (perhaps Canadians made their pigs run around a circular pen).

I poured McDonald’s “Hotcakes” syrup on the egg and bun. McSyrup is the way sex should taste, the blood of the god Diabetes. In Heaven there’s a harlot named Hotcakes and her pussy tastes like this.

I reassembled the Egg McMuffin and bit into it slowly, carefully. Try eating one too quickly and the squishy-firm egg will break off and try to lodge in your windpipe.

I ate the Egg McMuffin. Unlike the Big Mac or fries, the McMuffin tastes as good Now as it did Then.

Four or five bites and it was over. The first McMuffin, seductive, nostalgic, awakened the palate for the second, which is just good rhythmic fucking with a happy finish.

I looked down at my shirt. I’d been careful, but one glistening zipper of syrup with a tiny bead for a pull, scarred my shirt. I looked in the rearview mirror; rivulets of syrup glistened on my chin, the vampire drinks from maple trees.

I washed up with hand cleaner, balled the wrappers. My head was clear while my gut lodged a boulder of egg, cheese, bacon. I wouldn’t have to eat anything else for the rest of the day, or year.