The snow monster in Hannibal

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One step closer to revolution

From the comments section of a random website responding to obamarx’s new commiecare bill:

I think this man said it the best and will let his comments speak for themselves.

It has been said the greatest volume of sheer brain power in one place occurred when Jefferson dined alone. — John Kennedy

The democracy will cease to exist when you take away from those who are willing to work and give to those who would not. — Thomas Jefferson

I predict future happiness for Americans if they can prevent the government from wasting the labors of the people under the pretense of taking care of them. — Thomas Jefferson

My reading of history convinces me that most bad government results from too much government. — Thomas Jefferson

To compel a man to subsidize with his taxes the propagation of ideas which he disbelieves and abhors is sinful and tyrannical. — Thomas Jefferson

When we get piled upon one another in large cities, as in Europe, we shall become as corrupt as Europe. — Thomas Jefferson

Love poetry, or Trying to Turn Shit into Chocolate Cake

You can write love poems—even good ones—for specific women as long as you don’t expect the words to work. Because they don’t.

I have a friend who already has self-published one small book of love poems. The cover looks cool, it looks like a real book, but the poems within are the opposite of good: riddled with clichés and trite expressions like dead bats hung on a clothesline of pretension.

Worst of all, they beg.

A wise woman already knows a man who confesses to love her is completely vulnerable, no matter how tough he acts. Supplicating makes a man seem weak. Really, if you want to do well with women, remember they are Klingons at heart. The few that have hearts, ha ha.

Sad to say the woman my poor friend Can’t Live Without™ whom he’s known for years, is an Asshole, a sanctimonious, “spiritual” cruella who hates him for some reason he’s never quite explained. Judging from the fury of her words, you’d think he raped her and left her for dead; I think he deceived her about something, but nothing close to cheating on her.

I’d offered to edit his first manu, but halfway through he up and self-published it, full of spelling errors and all.

I suicidally offered to edit the 2nd one and heard nothing more about it. Then out of nowhere, last week he asked if I’d looked at it. When I told him I never got the file he flipped, then sent it.

Now I’ve flipped.

Love Manuscript #2, aka More of the Same, almost 140 pages of short-yet-hard-to-stomach poems. I don’t even envy the prodigious output, it’s all terrible.  I’m trying like hell to make his stuff work, but secretly I hope he ignores my editing. I love my friend and hate his needless suffering, and not because I have to suffer his poopoetry. If I could magically erase the cruella’s horrible personality and reprogram her or create a magical fuckbot in her image, I would. I’ve already dared tell him in a 500-words-or-less essay why I think this woman is a disaster, that even if she saned-up he still has no future with her and should be glad for it. But he can’t listen to reason any more than his poems can un-suck: the poor SOB is in love.

Some people are just fucking machochists, I guess. Like me, trying to turn shit into chocolate cake.

(If you ever find this blog, my friend, you’ll have to forgive me. You’ve suffered enough).

The babies

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.

Never fight tears

If you’re close to crying, do so: tears release chemicals, including natural painkillers.

If you don’t feel like crying, don’t go here. You really have to be tortured by your own thoughts to go that way, to hit loved ones with the force of a bomb that won’t kill but put them in Hell all the same.

A few of those left behind, shell-shocked and numb, dare to imagine the suffering that drove the beloved dead to finally act.

All of the the dead look like anybody you might meet. They are.

After shutting down the cursed computer I was ready for sleep. My eyes were sticky red bulbs.

Giant white dogs the size of small bulls chase me around a massive supernetwork of highways spread across a steroidal Los Angeles.

I kill one of the dogs, slashing its muscular belly open. It sprays barrels of blood as it corkscrews downward between still more freeways, stacked in infinite levels. Some fat fucking son of a bitch like a White sumo wrestler appears, yelling for the authorities. He wants to kill me to avenge the dogs or himself. I don’t know if it was his dog but more dogs lurk out there, seeking revenge.

Wherever I try to hide, children recognize me, laughing and asking innocent questions about the dogs. I answer their questions, angrily amazed I’m stupid enough to be stalled.

I merge onto a 15-lane freeway, making my escape on a scooter as worthless as the Faggio from GTA. It won’t go faster than 35 as white dogs thunder after me down the busy freeways.

I blink, teleported to another safe house, a small apartment…

I woke up before I had to wake up, an hour to go. I can’t figure out how an hour of sleep can be made to feel like a steak-eating contest.

A few hours left before work. The real nightmares always begin with sunlight.

The Bed Effect

Sis brought the greatest gift of all this year. No, not Xmas cheer, Xmas Cannabinizzle my rizzle.

Good shit. Rolled, filtered marijuana cigs from the Commiefornia State legal “pharmacy” (gourmet shrooms too, but those are for later and not from the State).

I was sober when Sis and I ventured out to shop. I didn’t like the thought of her going alone to a mall at 11PM (as in “all” female brains, Sis’s compassion module takes up an extra slot where common sense goes…the reverse being true for men) so I went along as bodyguard/Big Bro.

What you see below was bought under the influence of whatever the hell she was on…not cannibizzle but hyper-caffeine (she wouldn’t shut the hell up). We found it in the “As Seen On TV” section of the non-ironically named drugstore.

Notice how the hyper-gay-looking boy on the box seems a little too excited for anyone’s good, then realize the whole product, box and all, is useless and insane. BED EFFECTS. You mean, there’s a whole line of products out there to pimp one’s bed?

I love LEDs but this thing is just…WTF. For 5 bucks it would’ve been cool, but they wanted $15 and got it…from Sis.

Like 99% of things in life, the pimp strip was a con. The LEDs are all white don’t change colors. See the small type: “changeable gels”. You have to manually put the half-tubes of colored flimsi in place to switch colors. Here we put two gels in it, thus it is dim.

The “wacky” curve in the thing is probably to keep fat cats from using their own homemade gels. Xmas, treachery is thy name.