Posts Tagged ‘Rant’

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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Your new God is the absence of Light

Monday, 6 October 2008

As the world burns green they tremble at their lost money, but it’s the end of their world, not mine. I’m already inside the Singularity where nothing matters. I’ve been here for years, numb. A handful of cake or a handful of shit, it’s all the same to me. I eat both. Stealing or giving, kissing or killing.

All the same.

Nothing surprises me for long. Death is nothing, a shift in fortunes and pale energy. A body dies, the maggots win the lottery.

You are getting exactly what you deserve. Should I rise while you fall, it’s meant to be. You believed this when you were on top and I was down.

Now we are both down.

I’m getting the last laugh and I stopped laughing years ago.

Ha.

BIGFOOT, please

Saturday, 16 August 2008

oh, the voice of reason is trying his best to ruin my dream of being alive when they discover that bigfoot is real. bastard. Dirty Howie

.

Got this email from Howington after I pointed out the suit in the freezer recently found was probably a hoax to sell some new movie (or as it turns out, $500 “Bigfoot” tours from the hoax-holes who “found” the creature).

If you think about it, why do they have to test the DNA of this thing? You could just cut off an arm and skin it…no special effects people on earth could fake all the necessary bones, blood vessels, muscles, tendons, etc., as well as DNA.

Anyway, of all the legends and unsolved mysteries, BIGFOOT is the most worthless.

Does BIGFOOT have a spaceship and alien technology that could solve the energy crisis?

Does BIGFOOT have a time machine or live underwater in a cool place like Atlantis?

Does BIGFOOT have the secrets of quantum physics or keys to unlock hidden worlds and dimensions?

NO.

Know what BIGFOOT has? BIG FUCKING FEET. Oh, and he’s COVERED in HAIR at a time every queery-bare-chested, pretty-boy dickweed in media has NO body hair (update Dec 2008: add Obama to the list of dauphines).

BIGFOOT is a REAL man’s legend lost in the 70’s with Burt Reynolds while the mascot for the 21st century is a giant, gay, vegan, non-smoking pink dolphin.

What if we did catch a live BIGFOOT? He can’t speak, draw, write or play basketball. He probably can’t even wipe his ass…the government will just put him on the Endangered Feces list and lo, another USELESS WELFARE ANIMAL Joe Sixpack has to pay for.

BIGFOOT should stay gone unless he’s got a working fusion reactor in his cave.


MARCH

Tuesday, 4 March 2008

The hour smiles as it flees, tagging the next with an outstretched minute hand.  I am free of those motherfuckers for 2 days, 2 glorious days.  Some of us are in prison every day.  Freedom means nothing, it’s a Japanese kite with no instructions.  I can no more fuck a woman than a man behind bars.  Hell, have you ever driven by a place where inmates are allowed visits by their wives and girlfriends?  Such pieces of ass you’ve never seen, it’s disgusting, you’re disgusting, your face is a sad turd under a bowl of hot evil sky.  Oh how I wish hell would take a break, rest its charred burning buttocks on the bench and let me remember what it felt like to breathe icy cool air to the bottom of my lungs and not worry all the fucking time, worry about this fucking joke, this life, this fate, this karmic krud.  Now here is freedom like a hungry bear, like constipation, like the next hour smirking around the track.  The second hand slices the thin air inside the gasping clock.  Your life drips like an IV into a mummy of dissatisfaction. Like the handsome fag at work said:  “What are you prepared to sacrifice for your dream?”  He leaves me alone in the break room with wondrous silence, the lying, cheating vending machines and the “family” newspaper with an action photo of a champion 13-year old water-skiing girl with the ass of a gilt goddess.  I am so fucked, body and soul, I could be tried and convicted of murdering my own virginity of everything except being stupid.  Big tits leave the best shadows, I could follow them forever.  One heavy footstep follows the next, the shaky legs of my brain carry the story forward, one ache at a time.  March. 

Complainers

Wednesday, 30 January 2008

broken over the knees of phantoms
bleeding resentment
angry at what can’t be changed
angrier at what can,

not giving a fuck or taking one
hearts afloat in bitterness
like sponges at a high school car wash

raising funds for the funeral of hope.

they don’t want to hear it
they already know it
they’re eating themselves
with needless rage,
fine,
except they always
chew so loudly.

Marc and Me: a love/hate rant

Sunday, 11 November 2007

Way back in the early 90s, the four major Cocks of the Compass were Peter North, Marc Wallice, Tom Byron and TT Boy. Of course even then there were many other fellows (and hundreds more now thanks to the web and Cialis) but back in my Time of Pre-jaculatory Innocence it was possible to be familiar with every major starlet’s work and know the names of all the main cocksmen without being Rain Man.

As anyone who’s seen more than one porn movie knows, only the female faces change, a fact “mostly true” even today.

Though I look and “act” nothing like him, over time I “came” to identify with Marc Wallice the most. Wallice’s sexual adventures served as surrogate for my absent, nonexistent ones. I never liked him and still don’t, but as a familiar face in an ever-changing world of cunt, Wallice became sort of a “comfort cock”, exposed to as wide a variety of vaginas as a master chef’s menu.

Chalk it up to inevitability that Wallice as well as the other three aforementioned cocksmen fucked my personal favorite porn starlet several times over the years, leaving me with a permanent welt of blasphemy and loss.

(Aside: When a girl I knew described her feelings about the dudes in porn as “watching someone’s Jewish Dad”, I knew she meant either Wallice or Randy West).

It was already the 21st century when an acquaintance I’d met mentioned he once read an interview where Wallice described being in early morning LA traffic, smirking and gleeful that all the poor slobs around him had to go to some shit job while he was going to get laid and paid.

Whether or not that anecdote is true, I was the last to know that six years earlier, karma visited Wallice with extreme prejudice: he was discovered to be HIV+ and suspected of taking 6 or 7 pornettes down with him, making him a permanent porn pariah (though as late as 2003, it’s rumored he’s been directing/editing with his name off the credits).

My favorite line of the Wallice bio:

Sexually, Wallice cast himself out, and spent much of his time masturbating to magazines and past porn dalliances.

To this day I cannot say, “Past porn dalliances” without blasting the room with hard laughter. (Googling the above emboldened quote you can access Wallice’s personal story on Google Groups).

Over the years my pathetic life has been witness to Wallice’s many conquests, sadly lived vicariously through him; that the pornettes eternally spread their legs only for money is irrelevant. I was amazed and saddened to learn of the end of Wallice’s active career…without him I am alone, adrift on the treacherous sickening seas of present porn without his (Peter?) North Star to sail by.

I was also, of course, filled with only the finest schadenfreude that Wallice, lanky, hook-nosed, pony-tailed bi-sexual fuck machine was cast out of the pornosphere at last, as if now I somehow have a chance of catching up to the 1000s of vaginas and rectums his hooked horn has dipped inside.

What a truly pathetic and non-gay love/hate letter to a man I’ll never meet or want to meet.

FUCK FLORIDA. A Canadian-free* rant

Tuesday, 23 October 2007

It’s not right to shit in one’s own nest, but Florida has it coming. For many years I’d escaped this place, but being a failure has brought me back.

When I left, there were no jobs and a shit economy. Now there are tons more idiots and massive growth…and STILL no jobs and a shit economy!

The place was a Paradise when I was a kid, and it had truly been a Paradise 20 years before then. But the gears of destuction were already a whirring blur…air-conditioning and WW2 training awakened the locust human to the nectar of Florida, and they’ve been buzzing down here ever since, the massive out-of-control growth unstoppable.

I avoid Outside, but even I mourn the loss of natural beauty to condos, cubans, shitzakistan ethnics and the price of bread tied to a rocket to the moon. The housing boom bubble, now a bust, obliterated any hopes of cheap rent ever again.

The hordes never have a POSITIVE impact on anything. There’s no culture, night life, etc. Sure I hate all of that anyway and never go out, but still…

Everything closes down by 9PM like it was fucking Mayberry.

Fucking New Yorkers (which my parents were, but they moved here long BEFORE it was cool) sell out Yankees practice games, and their fucking asshole politics…good Christ. You can own a gun and even pack heat here, but how long will that last with these liberals constantly moving to town? Even the lowliest New Yawk shithead can sell his shit-shack for 200 grand, which can buy a nice McMansion down here (no state income tax). Their fucking cawps retire with disability pensions from New York, often claiming a debilitating injury, then come here and go back to work again (What does New York State do about this fraud? Nothing! They just raise taxes). Oh, and this place is so OVER-policed, the fuckers are snoring in their cruisers on every street corner while the streets themselves all have speed limits 15 MPH slower than they should be. The thing that infuriates me the most about Yankee transplants is their high taxation and liberal approaches to crime and other problems is what made their home cities way too expensive and crime-ridden to grow old and gray in, so now here they come, having learned NOTHING, and fuck up Florida. We don’t deserve this. Mr. Smith from the Matrix called humans a virus. The pixel-nigga was right.

No one in FL can drive worth a shit, except me. Over the decades the myriad driving styles from retard transplants across the country have not fused into anything civil, logical or safe. I felt safer doing 90 on the LA freeways in my Geo in a sea of SUVs then I do here driving a few miles at 35. The weather is fucked like a Thai hooker…it’s almost the ass end of October and it’s still blazing hot like it was July. Fuck YOU, Sun! I’d also like to add that I’ve never gotten laid e.g. fucked e.g. had sex within the State of Florida, and I’ve lived here most of my miserable life. I can’t even begin to describe how much I hate worthless humanity for that one. Fuck Florida. I’d burn this place to the fucking ground if I could, sparing only one palm tree and one manatee. The rest can go to humid hell, ‘cept it’s already there.

* I lied. Fuck Canada…quit clogging up Costco, assholes! Those cheese samples are for AMERICANS.

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