Remember, Remember the Fifth of....March

Remember when I used to blog more than once a month? That was great. It's not that I don't have important things to say, it's just that life makes the rules, not me. Perhaps, I shall try to say something noteworthy once a week and set a realistic bar.

So, I've come to a conclusion: I hate my generation. I've commonly said that I belong in another decade, another century, another millennium. I don't know what it is but for the most part, I'm highly disappointed and sometimes even disgusted with my peers. Maybe things have always been this way. Maybe people in their early 20s have always been dismal specks on the earth. Who knows. All I know is that I find it hard to relate to a bunch of neanderthals. It does not make sense to me how those around me are unable to see what kind of state our society is in and where it is heading. Apathy, check. Stupidity, check. Failure to say something sensical without my foot in their ass, check.

I want to talk to people but they just want to speak diarrhea. I don't speak that language so it's hard to relate. Maybe if I defecate in their ear, we will understand each other. Why not talk about religion, politics, and philosophy? Why are these such taboo topics? Ask someone my age and they won't be able to answer with anything other than, "It's not polite" or "I don't want to offend anyone." Anyone who gets seriously offended by intellectual and stimulating conversation deserves to be offended and hung upside down on a pogo stick. We wonder why people are getting dumber by the day. If you're one of the brainwashed believing that we're in this facade of uber itelligence, you're dumber than the average idiot.

Perhaps I just don't understand the weakened minds of my peers. Or maybe I understand them all too well. Either way, I obviously don't belong. I'm moving to a different century. Adieu, twats.

On a Political Note

Yes, it's Super Tuesday -- a day that has more emphasis than Christmas. Unfortunately, this year, 2008, brings many lumps of coal rather than desired gifts. And no, that was not a racial shot at Senator Obama.

As dissatisfied as I am with the candidates of both parties, I am extremely disenchanted by the American people at large. What happened to the revolutionaries that framed this once beautiful country and provided human liberty for the oppressed and just retaliation against man's tyranny? What happened to the logical men and women that used to cast their votes? They're dead, dead and in the ground. Today we have a bunch of flighty ignoramuses who can hardly spell their names. I've never heard so many uninformed people speak about their political views on both radio and television. Take me now, God because if you don't take me, I'm probably moving to Costa Rica in January of 2009. Either that, or I'm taking a nice trip to the Bermuda Triangle.

To be upfront and fair, I am a strong supporter of Congressman Ron Paul. I'm not going to spend time explaining his ideas and qualifications because I'm not a parent and I'm not going to feed babies. You're grownups and you know how to read so you don't need my help. The only thing I will say about Ron Paul is: take ten minutes and research why you don't hear that much about him, why he is left out of the papers, why he is cut off, why he was ignored in the California Republican Debate, why no one knows he took second place in Nevada, why no one knows that Louisiana belongs to him in the primaries, why he has the most military support over any other candidate, why he has raised the most money without corporate endorsements, and why he is the only candidate that sounds like a goddamn constitutional founding father. Look at the media block he has had even though he has outlasted Rudy and Edwards and ask yourself who is really voting in this election. That's it. His name will not come up anymore.

Right now, I am going to either offend or inform a great many people. I'm not looking to do either. I'm looking to make you think. People, especially Americans, don't use their minds much anymore so I'm trying to light a fire under your ass.

John McCain blatantly lies on the air. He says that he has never supported amnesty, which he overwhelmingly has if you research his voting record in the Senate and publicly expressed ideas. Check www.voterguide.org to see how any candidate has voted in the past. Besides that, he is willing to be in Iraq for a hundred years and probably more. Do we really need another lying warmonger in the White House? And can you really trust someone who earlier today swung his West Virginia Primary votes to Huckabee in order to thwart Romney? Is that how we want our country controlled, like a conniving ten year-old who will do whatever he can to win because he knows that he couldn't win the popular vote otherwise? And why did McCain suddenly pop into a race that he was not supposed to even be recognized in? Look at the history book timelines and look at how coincidentally he rose to the status of a "leading" candidate.

Mitt Romney is the flip-flop artist of the decade. When running for governor of Massachusetts, he ran with a pro-choice banner on his head. Soon as he got into office, he was pro-life. He can't even get his answers right about his religion, which is irrelevant. I agree that his Mormonism should be ignored but one should be stable and certain in what they believe whatever it may be. And let's see, we have a businessman in office right now. Is Romney magically going to be a better one? If he could get his story straight, I'm sure he'd give us an answer. Perhaps if he and McCain could stop arguing with each other, they could discuss the issues.

Mike Huckabee is probably the biggest tool in the Republican Party. He obviously is trying to keep peace with McCain in order to seek a seat as his running mate. The man refuses to confront McCain on his insanity and has a hard time speaking about the issues. He also has pardoned 12 convicted murderers. When this got brought up in a debate, all he could do was hang his head and wait for it to be over. He is all for staying in Iraq. What good is a slippery former Governor in the White House? No one should stand for someone who can't stand strongly alone. America doesn't need a pastor who is solely relying on the Bible Belt vote, we need a presidential leader. Your nametag says Christian but your face says something different, Mr. Huckabee.

Onward to the Democrats. I affiliate with neither party but Democrats tend to annoy me on a different level than Republicans. They are generally very smug seemingly unhappy people. All they do is constantly rag on Republicans with the same old grievances. I agree that the Republican candidates, and the current President, for the most part are less than desirable but there are so many other things to talk about. They dwell on it so much that it seems as if they don’t know what is really going on Grow up, kiddies.

Barack Hussein Obama is a liar. He constantly states that he voted against the war, misleading listeners. He was not in the Senate and was not able to vote for the war. Granted, he has voted against war support in some circumstances since he was sworn in. But he has also voted against bringing the troops home and voted for giving more money to the Iraq effort. So, what the hell? His inexperience and inability to show a substantial track record leaves only his pretty words that focus on simple ideas like "hope" and "change." Yes, these are nice words but they mean nothing if you have no plan and spend more time tickling people's ears rather than telling them the truth and where you stand. His "Si Se Puede" campaign is a perfect example of him banking on some simple words. What in God's good name does "Yes, We Can" in Spanish have to do with anything rather than trying to pry support out of Mexican voters. Stop worrying about identifying with the blacks, stop trying to identify with the Mexicans, stop lying to us. If Obama would pull off his political mask and prove that he can't be corrupted by the corporate system, which he already has if you check his history with a certain hospital in Illinois, we would be able to see what he is really made of.

Hillary Clinton is something else. She constantly criticizes Bush yet she voted for the war and is quite buddy-buddy with him. And for Christ's sake, she has cried twice on her campaign. I'm not against emotion but what is there to cry about on the campaign trail unless you're looking to attract female voters? Yet, she can throw smug snide remarks out two seconds later. Are we going to replace a retard in the White House with a basketcase? She can shed a tear but partial-birth abortion doesn't seem to faze her. In 2005, she had no problem voting to make sure there were future funds set for Afghanistan and Iraq. Not to mention, she's all for granting legal status to certain illegal aliens who have broken the law. Also, she voted against denying legal status to immigrants that have been convicted of certain crimes. Here's the thing about Hillary: she's just as big business/big government as any Republican or any other corrupt politician. I have a question for all of the Bill Clinton supporters: if Bill was so great and he cheated on Hillary, there must have been something that provoked him. If you trust his judgment so much, why would you now trust someone that he holds in such low esteem? All that's irrelevant though. If you look at Hillary closely, you'll see who she really is. Unfortunately, it looks as though she will be the next president, causing even more citizens to continue living in an America that has been dominated by the Bush-Clinton regime. There are people out there who have never lived without a Bush or Clinton in office. If you don't think they're in cahoots, you're out of your mind and as blind as a Scientologist's faith.

Try and keep your heads up during the rest of the election. I know it's hard because you are being forced to choose between idiots and morons but we can do it, we can pull through. I'll see you all in Costa Rica in January.

The New Ten Commandments

Oh dear sweet Lord.

I love people but I hate them at the same time. And I use "people" in the truest sense of the word -- human beings of the earth.

Twice, that's right twice, was I out today and had the unfortunate luck of coming into contact with other homo sapiens. This morning I was walking to the store to purchase some breakfast for me and my better half. I was well rested and in a great mood. A man in a cap was walking in the opposite direction, sipping his coffee. I smile and gave the generic but friendly "Morning." In return, I got nothing. This ass of a man took the great amount of negative energy it takes to avert his eyes although they were locked on mine and turn his head straight as if a panhandler had just groped him for change. I laughed and let out a completely reactionary "What a tool." It might have been too loud but I hope he heard. No matter, I got my breakfast and the morning kept on going in a stellar direction.

Fast-forward to what is now known as forty minutes ago and a similar incident took place. I was walking back from Starbucks with a delicious venti unsweetened passion iced tea lemonade and a warm chocolate old-fashioned donut. Walking in the opposite direction was a young female Asian adult. I smiled as we passed because she was looking at me but then she quickly turned her head straight at forced herself not to humor my friendly notion. Naturally, I laughed and continued on.

What in God's good green earth is wrong with these people? They live and/or work close to the beach in weather that is in the top five percent of the world and yet they have something to complain about. Why so smug? Even the obnoxious Jersey barista at Starbucks had a smile on.

What is this position that our society has fallen into? Apparently, there's a new ten commandments in session:


Thou shalt not smile.
Thou shalt be smug.
Thou shalt not make eye contact with any other person.
Thou shalt be a douche.
Thou shalt spread an epidemic of thine misery.
Thou shalt be humanly incapable of loving thine self.
Thou shalt ignore everyone and wonder why children who need attention are murdering people.
Thou shalt be a robot.
Thou shalt wonder why they are depressed and have no friends.
Thou shalt live like a turd and die like a turd.


Listen, people. I don't care if you're gayer than semen on a moustache, smarter than a mad scientist on aderol, or fatter than Oprah. You're a human being -- nothing more and nothing less. We're all in the same boat and there's no reason, absolutely no reason, why we shouldn't be conversing on the streets. I'd give one of my kidneys to live in the fifties when people still liked each other. All this "bubble" syndrome crap is getting old. You want to be an ass in private, in your own home? Fine. But when you're out in the world and you walk by a good and honest man who goes out of his way to reach out to the human race by offering salutation, you better damn well respond, sir or madam. For all you know, that was the first words out of that person's mouth in years and you denied them a proper reply. Now they're scarred for life, there name is Ned, and they taste Mr. Jenkins' cat food before they put it in his bowl every night before Matlock.

You're the problem on this earth. Not TV, not video games, not music, not Bush (well, maybe a little) -- You. You're helping create a generation of intolerant sons of bitches that feel that they are magically entitled to something outside of humanity. Newsflash, dumb-dumb -- you're a human just like the rest of us. So wipe that smug face off your head and go say hello to every person you see on the street even if they are deaf. You're turning into Bill O'Reilly and when fools turn into Bill O'Reilly, someone's got to get stabbed.

Deep, Dark & Gorgeous

It’s dark, really dark—the kind of dark that makes it hard to see shadows while playing with your mind; provoking you to presume that things are there that might not be. Something on the cold stale ground sparkles a few yards away. Of course. They’re toenail clippings. Sparkling a creamy, almost fluorescent, yellow is a small pile of toenail scraps that look like strategically placed crescent moons trying to provide a speck of light in this musty black alleyway of the earth.

There must be a hot dog stand near by because through the stench of raw flowing sewage, there is a delightful flutter of Hebrew National franks roaming around, seeking attention. Those hot dogs smell good enough to provoke a hungry man to accost an innocent passerby and possibly take a monstrous bite out of the stranger’s arm. Those goddamn toenail clippings kill the mood though; make you forget about simple things like hunger and hygiene. They bring you right back to this tectonic asshole formed at the ridge of two plates: society and me.

A thick constant stream of smoke, or maybe it’s steam, piles out of a an open manhole. Like an old woman whose had her fair share of late night adventures in the realm of sexual deviance, this gaping hole swirls gorgeous spirals of smoke into the sky like some kind of ritual she performed after an intense orgasm experienced in a dirty motel far away from her and her husband’s place of residence. That smoke is entrancing. It forms pictures over the dark backdrop and fingers you to come dance; fall in its arms; slide down its body; penetrate its core. It’s so thick. Like a child who sees snow for the first time, you want to run through it and totally immerse yourself. There are those goddamn hot dogs again. They must have another batch brewing.

Why do humans do this? They make this perfectly industrialized piece of earth their own and then forget about it. The meandering cracks in the beaten asphalt tell their own stories of what they’ve seen and how good the old days were even though now they are old and falling apart. Some dead grass pokes through some of the cracks; just a couple blades—nothing to write home about. I guess it’s making an effort but it has been overtaken; conquered; forgotten.

A soft breeze keeps sporadically rolling buy. It’s nice because it moves the smell of rank sewer mold down the way but it keeps bringing those goddamn hot dogs. Something’s dripping. Thank God—it’s a distraction from those delicious wieners. Looks like water but it’s black—like the kind of black that blood exudes after it dries on a lightless basement floor following countless months of being ignored. It’s got a nice rhythm—a little uneven but there’s a method to its madness. If Schubert wrote songs with an eyedropper and a mason jar of liquid, this is the melody he would choose. Not only does the gloomy water bathe the air with its song of loneliness, it’s also making a pretty sizeable puddle that’s starting to run amok. Little offshoots of slowly streaming liquid roll around in a snakelike fashion, looking for your dry shoe if nothing else. Just like everything else in this godforsaken place, these glistening lost trails are here and nobody knows it. It’s like all facets of melancholy and grime converged to take over this one place and make it their own; it’s drab and depressing. It’s gorgeous.

Inside the Mind of Doctor X

Well, it is time to spout off some more lies in order to make people feel good about themselves and better serve my fellow man. My preference would be to pull out a Mossberg Maverick eighty-eight and unleash a magazine or two of steadily shot hollow points into the unsuspecting faces of the whore sheep that herd closer and closer together with their: cameras, tape recorders, notepads, and all the other mental masturbatory devices used to record falsities. I stand here, fingering the podium; shuffling papers; ready to hang myself. Press conferences bore me but you know what they say, "sometimes—" Well, you know how it goes.

Look at them. I have literally become God to these people over night. Just like the Hebrews in the day of Moses, these slaves of Western idealism and disengaged consumerism have been itching for someone to release them from their unnecessary bondage. The only difference between these twits and the Hebrews is that the Hebrews supposedly didn't deserve it. I wasn't there so I can't really say but I know this—these dolts deserve every bit.

Five till ten. All right man, pull it together. See, this is always my problem. I get so worked up thinking about the true purpose behind my endeavor that I become lost in my own world of genius. It's time to put on the dead smile and suck the souls out of this ignoramus crowd. My toe taps rhythmically—always a good sign. There must be at least a hundred reporters stuffed into this tiny lobby, staring at me like dogs tend to do. Look at that obtuse blob. He should paint himself white, add a couple dozen black dots, and change his name to Roley. And her—would it kill her to tame that frizz just a bit? I guess I didn't realize that this was an open invitation to fast food gluttons and creatures from the Black Lagoon. God help me.

Four till ten. I stare at the floor, trying to hide any tell that might give away my true intentions of destroying all of these worthless kumquats, their children, and their children's children. It's not that I wish any true harm to the youngsters of this world. It's more like I'm offering a gift of salvation—something that would deliver these kids from their future misery. As for the accursed adults, shame on them for bringing excess lives into their society of excessiveness.

Callahan, the organizer of the event and monetary provider of the cause, steps up and quiets the crowd. I wouldn't mind jumping on his back and grabbing that hideous imperial moustache with both hands. Then I could ride him like the ass that he is and spur him in the side until his kidneys fall out. I know it's not often acceptable to say such things about a well respected politician and former war hero that funds your project but come on, he's still a politician, which means I've got lines in the wrinkles of my scrotum straighter than Nietzsche over there.

Listen to him. He speaks like a constipated baboon. He can't even say "rhinovirus" right. I guess it could be "rheenovirus" if you're an autistic child playing checkers by yourself under a bridge. Sweet boneless Christ. How long does it take to explain the rudimentary processes I utilized to form the cure? It's not rocket science. It's just an answer to the oldest virus that has plagued man since day one: the common cold.

He's starting to wrap it up. Okay, focus. Whatever you do, just don't go mad and start blurting obscenities at every media rapist in sight. Keep cool, Doctor. But I ever so badly want to watch them spontaneously combust now. Six years after they take my vaccination seems entirely too long. I've never had a knack for patience. Oh great. They're clapping. I wish a band of Roman soldiers would just burst through the door and nail each and every hand of all these overwhelming charlatans to one giant blood-splattered cross. Okay, no more of that.

The claps stop and I swallow a nice pool of saliva that I've been saving a while to ensure my mouth doesn't dry out. Then, I switch it to autopilot and I start to speak. I don't even know what I'm saying. I just read as I imagine the audience being avid Fleetwood Mac fans, singing, "Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies. Tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies." What’s hurting them more—this or the truth? Honestly, I don’t care.

Remo

What the hell is he wearing? Are his thumbs really popping through self made holes in the cuffs of his sweatshirt? He looks so dirty. Those fingernails are a quarter inch too long. They’re going to start curling back soon. Jesus. The least he could do is scrape the gunk out from underneath. He must be a smoker because those bad boys are creamy, and not the good kind of creamy. Perhaps he had a sadistic breakdown and went to town on his mitts with a pair of pliers. That would explain the cracking and random white streaks.

Who wears their hair like that? It’s so greasy and stringy. He might as well duct tape some wet angel hair pasta to his tiny little dome and let that flop around in the wind. Always sitting by himself: observing, coughing, and seemingly never blinking. No one really knows his story. What the hell a guy like that is doing in the commissary of a prosperous law firm is simply beyond human reason. He never leaves. Not once, do you see him opening or closing any of the entrance doors. It could be that he slips in and out the back but that’s doubtful. He’s not that inconspicuous. Where does he get the money to buy lunch everyday? He could be a janitor but where’s his broom or his bucket or his gingivitis infested teeth? The man has an immaculate set of chompers. That’s the only clean or presentable thing about him. Good work, Remo. At least there’s one thing about you that draws attention away from your careless grime.

What’s with the snakeskin boots? Cowboy kicks are stylish and acceptable but not if they have a whitewashed pair of tapered jeans stuffed into them. One of the more interesting things about this cat, though there are many, is that he carries a little orange umbrella around. He hangs it off the back of his jeans even when there’s not the remotest chance of rain. Maybe it’s full of poisonous gas like the Penguin from Batman and he’s masterminding some devious plan to kill us all while we enjoy our lunch. That would certainly explain a lot.

Is he done eating already? That’s one minute and thirty-nine seconds earlier than his annual average from the past five years. He’s moving quickly now and keeping his arms tight against his abdomen as he usually does. Come on, Remo. Do something else out of routine. Someone just called out his name. No response—typical. And like that, he’s gone into his hidden world of mystery. You’re a weird fella, Remo—a weird fella.

Tea

I like tea.

She likes tea too.

I like that she likes tea.

I like her—and tea.

Chaz D. Balantine

Look at him—that sexy little swine. Fingertips still glistening from his fifth hand wash this morning. It’s barely noon. He’s been up since seven; he hasn’t really done anything besides get black coffee and a whole-wheat bagel but he’s up. Good morning Chaz D. Balantine, you lucky bastard. Who would have ever known that the dust from the rodeo clown days would finally escape his now flawless pores? It’s really no wonder that he’s as built as he is. All of that fleeing from angry beasts and submerging yourself in a ring of testosterone would transform anyone into a lean piece of devil’s food crafted by the hands of Zeus himself. Some people are just chosen, I suppose.

If you would have asked me five years ago where I thought Chaz would end up later in his life, I sure as hell wouldn’t have told you the underwear business. You can’t walk down the street without seeing a bus cruise by, promoting his boxer brief covered phallus. What really blows the mind is how a man in his late twenties can be so completely hairless. In his photos, they airbrush his nipples because they are a little too dark but that’s it. Everything else is au natural.

I went to his house once. What a place. The man’s got a penthouse in the East Village that would make the average American cream in their socks. It’s pristine. Two maids alternate during the day and they run a tight ship. There’s never a smudge or fingerprint on the countless granite countertops and there’s four boxes of lint rollers in the cleaning closet. It almost seems like the obsession to become the object of the public’s perception of perfection has transformed his home into something also equally as “perfect.”

I don't watch him because I'm gay, or because I have some weird obsession, or because I idolize him. He just interests me, that's all. I've known Chaz for quite some time (not in the Biblical sense) and I just positively know that there is something else to him that no one else sees.

For a guy who only wears boxer briefs in photos, he sure has an interesting fashion sense. He doesn’t even wear underwear outside of work and he seldom can be seen in a tee shirt. Lintless polyfiber long sleeves are what cover his muscular upper body. I’d wear 1980s tank tops if I were him—no substitutes. So, how does an alcohol abstaining high school drop out get blessed with such an awesome set of junk and a perfect life? That was the question that plagued me quite some time. Then I realized that the answer was simple. He used to be a rodeo clown and like every single rodeo clown on God's good green earth, he sold his soul to the devil.

Kari and Kari

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The Last Revelation

The following was published this morning on Six Sentences (www.sixsentences.blogspot.com):


The Last Revelation

It wasn't until I felt the burning sword of revelation in my subconscious that I thought something may be wrong. As if the constant intellectual masturbation wasn't enough, this sharp edge was the one thing that could bring me to insanity, bring me to a state of peace, or utterly destroy me without any consequence whatsoever. The worst part is that I have no control - powerless. If I could control these thoughts and impeding revelations, my neck wouldn't be suffering rope burn from the proverbial noose. Unfortunately, I am powerless and have no idea how to accept this sad truth so I write these last words as oxygen fails to fill my lungs and as I make a statement to show that I do have some control. I apologize for the messy writing but you have no idea how hard it is to transcribe your thoughts coherently as your body convulses and your dying thigh serves as a desk but I shouldn't digress and waste my last words making excuses for why I can't properly express myself.