Posts Tagged ‘death’

A brief spike in traffic

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

For 3 days running I had over 100 views to the site, akin to a miracle.  I’m not that interesting, so it must’ve all been for recent Jeopardy! contestant Rachel Lindgren.

It’s my duty to warn you thirsty nerds AGAIN that smart women are not a solution to anything and being a sapiosexual is a road to nowhere.  If she’s smart while you’re enamored (subtract 25 IQ points for each boob and asscheek) you’re in QUADRUPLE the danger of being manipulated.  Not that I overly give a shit what happens to you, you’re probably better off than me.

I believe this blog is now 10 or 11 years old, which means little because I rarely posted after 2009, was it?  It has brought me neither joy nor grief, certainly no money or gavina.  I don’t read my own shit so I’ve forgotten most of it, except to remember impassioned movie reviews about Batman (pointless) or politics (far more pointless) and cussing out my wage slave job while doing nothing to improve my lot in life.

Two things happened in the last 5 years which changed the entire arc of my  inclinations, I got out of the shit job and I “discovered” whores.  Also, my father died  at 73 of natural causes, if you count lung cancer as natural.

The whores saved my life.  Once I was getting laid fairly regularly all the Mysteries of Womanhood evaporated, which was bittersweet, but poetry is either written out of your system or it burns you from the inside out like drinking bleach.  Poetry IS drinking bleach, usually for the reader. 

The women’s humanity made me less of a misogynist, and it even seemed a few of them enjoyed the ride beyond getting paid.  (I haven’t been laid in over a year due to health problems so that’s on pause.)

I’m closer to 50 than 40 now.  I’m not better than I was in 2006, but like to think I’ve learned much the last 10 or 11 years.  I wouldn’t trade my scant “life’s work” of writing for falling in love.   

Here are the final lines from a long ago poem.

I know it’s coming, death or a balloon.

The slitted eyes of a petted cat.

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Poem written in ’07, just as true today

Sunday, 20 September 2015

The heart is a retard
on the short bus
with no helmet or pads,
whacking its skull on the glass
for sheer joy.

The heart is a retard
a pin cushion for bent arrows
halos of barbed wire
hair of flames
and blood-dipped cursive names.

The heart is a retard
now and forever
eating sunbeams and shitting rainbows
shedding glitter dandruff
off construction paper
monstrosities
taped to the fridge.

The heart is a retard
and there’s no special class or program to help,
there is nothing to do.
It’s simple like sand
that cuts like glass.

The heart is a retard and
this poem is drool
from its mouth,
grinning like fishhooks,
staring at butterflies with
diamonds for wings

retarded.

Friendships can die of natural causes

Wednesday, 9 January 2013

I’ve known Dalby for half my life, 20 years. We met on the same job and from there went our separate ways, often for years at a time in separate states.

Now we’re in the same state, although he’s too far away for causal visits.  He’s
lived with the same woman now for about 12 years. I’ve never lived with a woman. He’s into a bunch of stupid shit, I’m into a different bunch of shit, most of it probably stupid to him.

Our friendship is dead. It may surprise one who hasn’t experienced it to have a
friendship die of natural causes. It happens, and why not? Relationships die all
the time, not just the ones peppered with declarations of love and fucking. 

Even before Dalby started seeing a shrink, I knew it was over. Very infrequently did I contact him, nor do I seek his counsel. I cat-sitted at his place while he went on vacation.

The last time I saw him was yesterday and the night before. I drove two hours in horrible traffic and rain but was eager the whole way. I stayed overnight and left yesterday afternoon simmering in anger, anger that only now is beginning to dissipate.

What changed? Well, there’s a core of respect in every friendship, and no longer does Dalby honor it. In every relationship, one person leads and one follows, even if only slightly. The best friendships alternate who leads and who follows, depending on circumstances. Dalby now ignores that equation entirely, meaning even if he’s being passive, he maintains an arrogance too intense for friendship. I’m not the type of person that demands unearned respect, but after all these years I’m not even getting the basics from him.

Those are the long-term problems; the immediate problem is his fucking shrink. I have a feeling she’s full of shit, perhaps no more than the rest of us, except she’s demanding payment for it. It’s not even her that’s the problem, it’s the stink of shrinkology itself.

Have you noticed that everyone who comes in contact with shrinks or shrinkology suddenly fancies themselves studious observers of the human race who automatically know everyone else’s problems and (oh goody!) knows how to solve them? You’re duty-bound to meet someone like this eventually, you might even be that person.

So Dalby is attempting to remove negativity from his life. I would argue that it’s more important to recognize and remove obstacles from one’s path, be they negatives OR positives. A pie-in-the-sky hope can be just as crippling as an automatic sour grapes attitude. Dalby and his shrink’s shadow don’t see this distinction. I was greatly offended by two things he said, the first that he remembers my compassion for others over the years being limited to leaving some quarters behind for the next person at a self-service car wash (although he thanked me for it, I also bought 60 bucks worth of food for us over the 1.25 days I was there).

Dalby also remembers the time I invited him to fly to and from our home state when he was on one side of the country and I the other (we both flew into the home state) and put him up my entire week-long vacation, but apparently fails to remember I paid for all of it  (unless things get extreme, true friends don’t keep running tabs on every kindness and coin bestowed).

An interlude: over dinner, Dalby was being rude with his cell, to the point his own girl told him to stop texting her and enjoy our time together. I actually demanded he give me the phone (to put it out of reach) when he got pissy. From the casual reader’s perspective, and most people today in love with their phones, such a request might seem outrageous. The casual reader misses the point: the standoff with the phone was the moment a 20-year-friendship truly ended. It wasn’t about a phone, it was about respect. My recognition of the end was confirmed shortly thereafter when Dalby went on about the girl he lived with before his current girl. Though she was no saint, he admitted he treated her like shit.

“Why did she stay?”
“I don’t know. She thought she could change me.”

It didn’t paint Dalby in a favorable light.

The second outrageous thing he said was more a recounted cluster of events revolving around his being “lost” in our early years, how he’d found my other friends and me and embraced our misanthropy. Dalby wasn’t recounting these tales of youthful angst with any fondness, he was portraying himself as an innocent and duped victim of the negative influences we all generated. More of the shrink’s stinking shadow in the background.

When I asked if a person who pointed out how things don’t fit together is as valuable to the world as the opposite, he demurred, implying his father had been the former and taken the same negative attitude towards his own kids (apparently the shrink is big on having patients talk to their inner child).

He also mentioned a random girl who was a psychic vampire (a term I taught him 15 years ago) who would come over for a few hours, after which Dalby and his girlfriend would just want to sleep. The implication was that I may be having the same effect on him., otherwise why bring it up?

What Dalby doesn’t understand–beyond the obvious that the friendship is over and done–is that a true psychic vampire seeks others just like an extrovert does. I, on the other hand, would be happy never to see or hear about 99.999% of the human race ever again. I don’t need them or him, the bulk of our shared karma is complete, and since he’s turned to shrinkology, don’t want to be near him.

(Another fringe benefit of being a shrink’s victim is feeling completely justified in being an asshole, since you “put in the work” to rationalize your own behavior).

I know when to be kind or at least diplomatic, but I’ll be a son of a bitch if I’m going to waste any time around people who require everyone around them to keep in line, limiting what they’re allowed to say, and sometimes even think.

It’s a terrible world, or if you want to be charitable, a mostly terrible world. Humor and sarcasm are my sword and shield, and if people don’t like it, they’re free to go off and listen to One Direction or suck a shotgun barrel.

So that’s it for Dalby. What to do about it I don’t know. Nothing, probably. He lives far away enough that it doesn’t matter, I rarely see him, and after this last meeting, have no real desire to see him again.

Friendships can and do die. Of natural causes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The War Game

Thursday, 29 November 2012

It was barely a blip in the news.  The red chinese have revealed their new attack helicopter which looks a hell of a lot like the American AH-64 Apache.

It must be a coincidence.

Skip the specs and go right to this:  

US legal action regarding alleged engine software transfer

In June 2012, United States charged United Technologies and two of its subsidiaries, Pratt & Whitney Canada and Hamilton Sundstrand, of selling China software that provides the necessary engine codes to operate the CAIC WZ-10.[8] While the Chinese defence ministry denied that China bought or used the software, Pratt & Whitney Canada and Hamilton Sundstrand agreed to pay more than $75 million to the U.S. government to settle the charges.[9]

 

War is all a grand illusion, isn’t it?  When American troops are eventually killed by these Chinese turdcopters with stolen US technology, 75 million dollars might start to seem a lot more precious.

Or not.

The Apache’s wiki doesn’t offer much hope either; versions of the ship have been sold to many countries I would not consider allies, including Taiwan (aka China).

The word for the day is UNWORTHY.

We already have a welfare-selling president whose performance made him UNWORTHY of a second (or first) term.  A tax cheat UNWORTHY of any office runs the Treasury.  

This bloated, bullying government is UNWORTHY of preservation, and reflects too accurately the crumbling union UNWORTHY of American principles ignored or forgotten.

The criminals believe there’s always room for more corruption. 

It won’t be much longer…

Have you ever wanted to kill someone?

Sunday, 21 March 2010

Some men are alive only because it is against the law to kill them. –attributed, various

Have you ever wanted to kill someone?

I came very close last Friday.

My intended target was a vile old bastard, universally despised, with an unkind word for everybody, summarized in this passage from Henry Miller’s The Air-Conditioned Nightmare: “a man, and I say it calmly and soberly, whom I could kill in cold blood.  I could shoot him down in the dark and go quietly about my business, as if I had just brushed a mosquito off my arm.”

There are no clichés or maxims that will save you in the fiery moment you decide someone must die.  I didn’t give a fuck that the bastard himself probably suffered the most from this cruel remarks (not always true; sociopaths feel nothing).  Once I decided the world would be better off without him, fantasy after fantasy about inflicting a gruesome death upon him played and replayed.

It was the hated job where this all took place (too many cameras around) and I’m wondering if on Monday there’ll be any blowback from the events Friday.  The old bastard now knows I hate him, but not how close he came to getting his head bashed in.  I swear to fucking Christ just typing this makes me ready to kill all over again.

But I’ve said too much. The prisons creak with murderers and the only difference between them and me (and you) is they acted on their impulses.

The rude elderly pissant, a coward who likely was treated cruelly by others, is not worth this many words, or any words, as there are millions like him around the globe:  horrible, failed human beings despite displays of wealth or other outward appearances.

A real human being accepts his own depths of hatred as natural and normal, the monstrous power of emotions over the feeble intellect.  Hopefully society provides enough programming that the deadliest impulses stay suppressed.  Hopefully.

If I see the old SOB again–and I’m sure I will–I can’t tell you I won’t feel this furious.  It’s natural to destroy and even more natural to destroy ugly things.  Right now my hatred remains beautiful and alive.  Something’s gotta give.

On many days I simply don’t give a shit

Friday, 13 November 2009

Been wandering the web aimlessly lately. I don’t want to get into it now except to say for every murderous muslim cocksucker there appears to be a gang of apologists and appeasers to justify–there’s no more apt word–to JUSTIFY the evil of the death-cult killers. These fools could just have easily ended up in the crosshairs as the next infidel, and yet here they are, defending the shitbirds.

You can be the most vile piece of shit and commit heinous acts, but those deemed insensitive or politically incorrect are treated even more harshly.

It’s a terrible world.

For no particular reason I watched the 12-part youtube docu about mafia killer-for-hire Richard Kuklinski, “The Iceman”, an equal-opportunity murderer. It was not uplifting. Then I watched a docu about Richard Ramirez, The “Night Stalker”, a craven piece of shit the fucking cops whisked away from mob justice. I’ve been an atheist (and now a tepid monotheist) but with these horrible serial killer bastards running around I understand why anyone would doubt the existence of any god, at least a caring one.

My own life is in the shitter. Not really, but it is. Too much shit left untied, unsaid, while other shit is done sloppily. The past weighs like an anvil on my scrotum. I just hate people and can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m right. I can’t even get the fucking lesbian at work to come eat tacos (ha ha) with me. And no, I don’t want to fuck her, that’s why I can talk to her.

I don’t know if there is such a thing, but there appears to be a dread balance to the world. Things steadily improve but the horrors that counterweigh the good grow heavier and heavier. Smallpox is eradicated, here comes the AIDS. A dictator dies and he’s got 8 bastard sons to take his place. On the rare occasions Good triumphs it’s quickly buried and forgotten so that the next round of fools must needlessly live the same nightmares. I’m so very fucking annoyed with this planet. And there’s work tomorrow, I won’t have another day off till Monday. Work is hell, all work is, but being out of a job is worse (except for the first 20 minutes of waking up).

On many days I simply don’t give a shit. And by “days” I mean “years”.

Struggling for second place

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

“I have found God, and he is insufficient.” -Henry Miller

Henry, I feel the same way. Earth is just a giant waiting room and I’d feel better as a ball of energy than a meatsack human being. This body is nothing but trouble, a festering cesspool for the ego to roll around in.

The mind is a crumpled paper airplane in a hurricane, but the ego thinks it’s a fighter jet.  The capacity for self-delusion is bottomless.  The mind is its own worst enemy; why it throws fear at itself I understand, it’s a survival mechanism. But why does the mind attack itself with doubt?

Life was brutal for the caveman but far simpler: at any given moment he was either alive and afraid or unaware and eaten. Attempts at poetry or deep thought were ended by saber-toothed tigers.  Now there’s nothing to stop bad poetry.

Sorry God, but I’m ready to go back. I won’t learn anything else here, life is all reruns now. I’m too lazy to meditate, I’d rather sleep.

I’m having trouble remembering why I didn’t commit to suicide when I was an atheist.  If it was all meaningless, why didn’t I end it?  The Satanist proclaims pleasure the greatest virtue.  I couldn’t extract pleasure out of anything except being an observer and surfing over others’ hypocrisy.  Obviously I survived.  But lived?

I was alone then, before then, and now.

My pal Hal swears if he won the lottery he’d build an underground house and never leave it.  Everything would be ordered and brought to his door.  I don’t blame him.  “Hell is other people,” is the greatest line ever written.  Everyone else with a pen or keyboard only struggles for second place while the moon shits cold fire and the women sleep with other men.



Egg McMuffin sex romp

Sunday, 2 November 2008

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.

Jesus Christ versus a pococurante

Wednesday, 17 September 2008

When I first saw him he reminded me of a failed auditioner for a boy band, mostly because of the his white t-shirt underlying a thin print-pattern shirt with open sides billowing as if underwater as he paced, seemingly lost.

When I saw him again he was loudly singing songs referencing Jesus. Those around him seemed disturbed by this, but he was in his own world. He was there because he had a problem with something, and because I was at work, it was now my problem and job to help. As I helped him he asked, “Have you been Saved?” I wasn’t looking at him when I answered, “Well, I’m working here…” Meaning “Fuck No”.

Up close, Boy Band’s face was smooth and fresh but his eyes were puffy and tired. He explained how he was now 25 and had done every drug possible and hit bottom before trying God. And lo, Jesus had Saved him!

While not technically a Christian myself, I believed that Christ Jesus had indeed helped Boy Band, along with the peer pressure of the church, but I didn’t think the experience made Boy Band any smarter or more lucid; whatever potential he had before frying his circuits with drugs would remain lost. Well shit, he was only 25. Why judge?

I was mildly insulted that a “ki-dult” (25 is the real beginning of adulthood) would preach to someone older (me) but Boy Band’s torpid joy seemed real enough, and those Saved early on have a much harder road ahead of them than those who convert later (after fucking and drugging, sins denied me due to hating people).

Being at work, I only offered grunts of acknowledgment. As a customer, Boy Band could say whatever he wanted, while I was a slave. No employee enjoys this imbalance but then, I really didn’t have anything to add to his sluggish exuberance. If I wanted to risk losing the job I would’ve told Boy Band my minority opinion, which as a fundamentalist/former-druggie-now-Saved he would’ve found unacceptable: Jesus Christ is the answer, but not the only answer, there are infinite paths to God.

Boy Band said he’d say a prayer for me that night.

That was yesterday and I feel no different. I hope the positive effects of his prayer are delayed because tonight is another lottery drawing and the pot is 37 mil.

** ** ** ** ** **

Christ alone will never do it for me. I’m personally offended that He would deign to heal broken hearts when He Himself never tasted the pain of a variety of human failures, including rejection from a woman loved.

Now older than Christ at the time of his exit, I await death with the curse of a healthy body. Suicide would just leave God with a way to change the subject for calling Him out on the many, many fucked-up and stupid ways things are run around here.

So I wait, while somewhere out there Boy Band plans to be a counselor helping drug addicts. I am confident God has a few surprises left for both of us. It’s why I own a gun.

The babies

Saturday, 8 March 2008

Mark Twain made a toast to a room of drunks (himself included I’m sure) about babies
I have nothing against babies personally but I’m the last person to celebrate a life. It must be a retard-writer thing, I only see events as a flash-forward of doom.

It would be funny if babies never got older, and had to suffer it all while being only a foot tall: alienation, boredom, manic attacks, trying drugs, cutting their arms, wearing black lipstick, overeating and later getting screwed by the banks, the peddlers, the swindlers, the corporations both evil and less evil, the bad food, the losing numbers, illnesses, the Red Chinks planning world takeover, broken baby marriages.

There’s nothing worse than a baby cheating on another baby.

The very few good events of life have been repackaged and resold thousands of times, so when they happen they feel like a reenactment of a goddamned commercial.

“But you can’t know the future.”

I know enough.

On a spiritual level, a baby is a soul who fucked up and chickened-out, running back to earth because the Infinite scared it. Some argue that karma only allows the soul to see the paths they deserve, e.g. a door to higher realms would look like a wall.

Babies are just future tragedies waiting to happen. They should soak up the love while they can, if it’s available. They already know this.

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