Posts Tagged ‘horror’

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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The snow monster in Hannibal

Tuesday, 29 April 2014

Huge fan of Hannibal.  The show is a beautiful nightmare from start to finish.  Of course, if either Miriam or Beverly had simply left Jack a message (or put it in their own notes) that they were investigating Hannibal Lecter and to arrest him if they disappeared, the show would already be over.

I’m bringing up Hannibal now to see if anyone else saw the “snow monster.”  It appears during the last third of the episode “Shiizakana” when Will Graham is outside his house scanning for the mechanical beast.

I can’t imagine this thing is there by accident.  Here’s the picture.  Looks like a giant monstrous rabbit crouched to strike.

I love the shit out of this show!  Watching Hannibal cook (humans) always makes me hungry.

Hannibal Snow Monster

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t give a shit movie reviews

Saturday, 22 August 2009

Transformers 2: Recap. for anyone who thinks it rocked…5 primes huddling like gay faggots and turning into a mountain.

Terminator Salvation: I once pooped while dehydrated and without enough fiber and swore I was shitting a cactus made of sandpaper.  That was better than T:S.

District 9: space roaches have a giant anti-gravity spaceship and a few cool spaceguns only they can operate, but they’d rather live in a slum, buying cat food from Nigerians and knocking junk out of each other’s claws.

G.I. Joe: Storm Shadow the Japanese ninja is played by a Korean. G.I.Joe lives under the pyramids. Half the team are unlikely foreign Blacks plus a fucking Muslim. Mandatory, totally unnecessary, insulting interracial hookup in this movie  is jive-asshole Marlon “Ripcord” Wayans pursuing a vapid, flat-butted White girl “genius” (Scarlett) who falls for him anyway, proving she’s an idiot. A lot of CGI and nonsense. Rip-off of Firefox. Cobra Commander sounds like Darth Vader. TUH-HANE!

Watchmen: All anyone remembers is that glowing blue guy’s penis. I liked Rorschach. Everyone does.

Wanted: Finally saw it. Too much slow motion. The White guy who almost got eaten by Idi Amin is in it. Angelina Jolie is hot but has ugly hands. Bullets curve around things. Morgan Freeman is Black. The looms were the most interesting things.

Date Movie: Alyson Hannigan, aka Flutepussy, is cute in one scene and ugly the next. A Black Midget. Crunk scene was the only real laugh.

Animated Wonder Woman movie: Tits or GTFO. Peppy. Amazon MILFS. Nothing to jack off to.

Hope you enjoyed this.  If not, it’s too late.


Bizarre dream

Monday, 26 January 2009

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.

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

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

A plague of implausible shit

Thursday, 25 September 2008

I stood next to my car in a surreal neighboorhood. On one side of the street were small houses with well-manicured lawns. I was parked in a GUEST spot of the dodgy housing complex across the street while Julio, a friend from work who was 10 years younger than me, looked over my 12-year-old car. Both he and his still younger brother Sal seemed to love my model of car, they’d turned some of them into racers. They knew exactly what they were talking about while I, with minimal knowledge, was cartarded.

The Florida sun was its typical gluey asshole self, though there was some nice breeze as both young men admired the engine. They’d already figured out the source of a rattle a mechanic 30 years older than all of us I took it to never found. Sal was still tinkering when Julio left to pick up his kids from school.

An 80K Mercedes pulled into the spot on the other side of the empty space where I stood sipping ice water from a plastic pink tumbler the brothers had brought me earlier. Though the Black woman driving the ‘Cedes did not look like she could afford her ride and took no notice of us, I felt shame at my own car’s beat-up condition, even though, as Sal pointed out, I loved it and had it longer than a marriage.

As I took another swig of this and brought the cup down something crashed into my chest, striking my sternum with the force of a flicked pinkie finger. I looked down, saw the color brown and flinched. throwing the cup’s entire contents into the sky, a momentary crystal geyser.

The brown thing bounced away, hit the pavement and began scuttling–a flying roach!–its ugly carapace shining in the bright summer sun. I wanted to scream but I’d just met Sal and the fat Black woman still sat in her cream-white coupe, bumping low-volumed, noxious R&B.

“Kill it!” Sal hollered playfully. I was too frozen, too in shock to move. Horror and confusion were my world. It was 2 in the afternoon on a hot, sunny day; a roach was as out of place as a bundled Eskimo in Iraq. He skittered away on foot (or leg) while I stood frozen. I couldn’t step on a roach, not even with shoes on, and anyway, similar to George Costanza’s “deal” with the pigeons, I wouldn’t kill any insects out of doors (mosquitos excluded).

Julio returned. His cute kids, a boy and a girl, were munchkin-sized with huge heads and went upstairs before the Ice Cream man drove up the street, the (c)rap from his stereo even
drowning out the ice cream tunes. Julio told us the guy was always at the local park on the 1st and 15th, blasting Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.
“On his stereo?”
“No! On the loudspeakers!”
Surreal.

The fat Black woman egressed her German sled and entered one of the duplexes. Julio commented the car was probably a boyfriend’s. Though I didn’t say it aloud, it made cops’ jobs easier to find the drug dealers with cars like that in front of faded duplexes in the ‘hood.

Throughout the day’s ops I snapped digital pics of my beloved car with my Kodak v550, a gift from my editor/webmaster/gifted photographer/longstanding Texan friend. I lifted the cam to take another shot of the disassembled door panel when I noticed the LCD screen mired in shadow. When I held it up to the strong sunlight, the shadow stayed.

I felt my guts sag.

The screen was cracked as if some tiny punk kid inside the camera had hit a home run and a pea-sized baseball had struck the glass, starring it. This morning the cam started out working flawlessly as it had the last 3.5 years. I’d already taken 20 shots (the memory card held a thousand) and there’d been no trauma or anything unusual done to it, in fact, I was holding it most of the afternoon.

I didn’t bother showing Julio the damage. Time ran out. I’d lost a camera but gained a replacement knob for my window crank. More work is to be done tomorrow.

It’s events like those of today that cause one to seriously ponder the sucking undertow under the roiling ocean of life. After years of neglect, I finally take steps to help my poor old car’s infirmities with a too-good-to-be-true honorable guy who enjoys working on my type of car, only to suffer two inexplicable lightning bolts of horror and bizarre bad fortune. Between the roach from nowhere and the undeserving death of my beloved camera, I can’t help but feel screwed, though tomorrow my car may run somewhat better.

More than the big disasters like quakes and cyclones, it’s these little tragedies that enforce the theory of a sinister balance to the universe. Intellectually I understand why shit happens, but I refuse to accept that any shit has to happen to me. How human.

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