Wednesday, August 31, 2005
So I’ll shut the fuck up for the nonce. Best of luck and (insert deity of choice here)’s graces to all those having a fucking hell of a time in the south. And in Iraq. And in Africa. And everywhere else where people are getting fucked over hard, be it by man, mother nature, their own greed and wherewithalls, or just plain dumb random instances. It shouldn’t take hardcore shit closer to home to make selfish fucks like myself consider it, but, well, it does. And yeah it ain’t worth shit, but here it is anyway. I’d proffer a side of ranch sauce but we’re fresh out. Now I’m going to, a la the most ancient and self-obsessed fucks of fuckville, going to fret over packing for a trip and worrying about my own horseshit like work related fuck all, personal related episodials, and, fuck, I dunno, oh yeah, vital shit like fantasy football drafts.
PS: priorities have become completely fucked, but the world must trudge on, willingly or unwillingly. I should be on a plane to the durrty with a jug of evian, but I check out myself in the mirror with my new sunglasses. God, if you exist, sorry in advance for, you know, this is going nowhere. Just try and save me a seat next to the man-eating lobster men. Yup, in the middle section. Purgieville. Where else would I go? I am gude, I am evil. No, I’m not evil, but I’m not sure I’m a saint. Well, of course not. I am human.
Has anyone else seen that PBS documentary with the Hassidic Jews that go to Poland and they find the family that hid the Mom’s father during the holocaust, of course at severe risk, vis a vis, life & limb, to themselves, and dude never sent them a postcard, despite living on for 60 plus years or whatever, and they’re a little irritated, but take it in stride & understanding, but that’s not really the point. The key juncture is that the grandkids go back and show the pics to grandpa, who hid under some hay for 28 months, and he’s sorry he never followed up, he knows he should have, and they ask him, “would you have protected these people, if you were in their shoes, would you have done the same?” and he says, “no.” with only the explanation that they understand the dangers that would have been involved, he honestly says no, and that in itself may have been the most beautiful & frightening moment I’d seen on television in quite some time.
I respected this man’s honesty and his reverence and his selfishness and his understanding that he would have had to watch out for himself and his family and if he’d been caught his whole family could have been wiped out, and that selfishness was prolly the smart way to play it, the sensible way, and then there’s the beauty that some people didn’t play it the smart sensible way, for whatever motives that they had, and that there’s people living all these varying degrees to this day, putting themselves on the line, people do it every day, some people, for whatever motives, and in the end it doesn’t really matter, although it’s worthy of discussion, but it doesn’t really make a difference WHY you do something, it’s just the fact of that you do it. Not to say it doesn’t matter why, even though I just said it doesn’t matter, but you know, or don’t know, what I mean.
Sigh, I’m babbling, and really don’t have time for this shit. Much more trivial yet important in the moment shit calls. Which puts me firmly in the position of purgatory’s coat-checker. Please enjoy your never-ending meal of semi-pleasant torturous agony.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
I was thinking about it today, and I should be way more famous than I am by now. I mean, I should be like blinging harder than goldie in the land of defunkdified zippy’s chili at this juncture, I mean, I should be blowin' up. But here I sit, ultimately unknown, lack of cognizance of my existence a major issue, moreso than the cash. The cash will come, I know that, dobs of it, and if it doesn’t, well fuck all, but the fame, it may never come, I could be a stranger to the masses as they toss the first, middle, and last shovelfulls of dirt on my nondescript metaphorical coffin.
The Pringles backup dancers dropped by today, fresh off a stint at the mtv beach house, they're sponsored by slim jim, free saran wrap for 3 and a half months, and all this glob's got is a fake add for lawn mowers hidden in the hypertext. somebody call up the estevez brothers for some pseudo garbage collection. In fact, Chuck, hit that button. Sit, Ubu, sit. Good dog.
Monday, August 29, 2005
I got a secret for ya; it’s cuz I’m a thug. Trick daddy ain’t cornered the market, I get strait thuggish, if a ruggish bone is anywhere in my vicinity, and that’s not like what you’re thinking, it’s like, get me some fucking A-1 sauce, that's how much is at steak.
Man, my glasses are getting so they irritate me up to the point I almost will have to get the infinity gauntlet involved. There’s this period of time where it’s cool, and then suddenly, I almost have to defecate on innocent mongeese it gets so hectic. In fact, I have to put in my contacts now.
Ok, they’re in. you can relax now knowing that I am more comfortable, even with little things resting right on my overworked eyeballs. See what I go through just for you? Except not for you at all. For me & mine. One of which you may be. If you’re me, hey, dummie, don’t forget to, uh, fuck, I can’t remember. Oh yeah. Pack.