Friday, November 2, 2018

You're throwing a bird, and I understand


I've been oozing, gently, like an inflamed facial pore, some thoughts on political centrism.  Like a pustule, some zit cream from the Westview Dollar Tree store could heal it up in no time.  Same way with de-escalation and mediation.   That doesn't cost jack shit.  You run your mouth, or  type words in your tiny, cramped nervous dialog box.  You take joy in hearing diverse opinions on every lousy fucking detail of what is going on here on the big box called Earth.  When your zits are finally under control, it's time to propose a plan, a strategy,  for chrisake, with which to get Washington to quit giving us all gas.  No one has to go along with it.   Hell, people might love it.  

Or, if people seem to be just awful to one another in any capacity, one can gallop close on one's Shetland pony and help them cool their jets.  Try using the humanistic method when dethroning and infantilizing.   I posted an old video of Buckley chatting with Ronald Fucking Reagan.  Not because I'm angry.  Because I want to help people better understand asshole fucked up Now.  You have to bone up on the past.  Enjoy, like a maniac.


Sunday, October 28, 2018

Didactic Old Videos that are Fucking-A relevant right the hell now.




Watch this puppy.   Notice how there is a jinglely jangle of subtle conflict in social politics.  Also, a lot of people are missing a few spokes and are gonzo, then as now.    We must all de-gonzo, and become centrist.  We must hose cold H20 on crazed nut jobs on all sides of popular media politics.  We must learn some shit from the past, and twinkle forth less asshole-like.

Wednesday, October 24, 2018

It's poetry week here on the home front, ingrates!



Kazonga Boingy
Chilling like a Jello sculpture? No, No,No
I blather jolly calypso on the six string Oscar Schmidt
I think Oscar must be encamped among the aboriginals
they must like each other's company
it's a very nice guitar
when I play my American ragas
they and Osc rag each other about their outfits
Mervin Saint Blowjob jackets
Ming the Merciless thinking caps with gold tassels

boom, sha bongo pipe weapons for scaring pussies
raga woot allegations of taboo
wolves, coyote, feral razorback hogs
carrot curls inside my green wiggly form
speak with certainty to fruit cocktail in naturally sweetened space
no mail box here
they can't get me



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Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Two things I feel like yammering on, eugenics and cloning.    The first thing is easy.   Less kids.   Reproduction is completely unnecessary.  People could refrain from having kids.  That would improve the species.   Quietly, as if it wasn't happening at all, eugenics means, too that desirable human beings will continue to breed, in moderation, in gated communities far and away from riff raff.  The easiest concept of eugenics is less assholes, more valedictorians.   How I wish people would stop accusing common sense of fascism.

Cloning is a perfectly logical way to sustain excellence, which, in recent years, took a powder.  

I feel it is imperative, compulsory, if you will, that Diana Ross and Supremes get replicated, to the eye lashes and dance steps, with all penchants and skills.   I wish not to face eternity without Diana, even if she has been Xeroxed.  




Friday, October 19, 2018

An aspiration. I am composing The Return Of Kazootra

I guess it's safe to share a fulminating, painful secret.   There is an epic project shinnying up the greased inside track of a cosmic stainless steel cork screw that is forever pointed downward.  I hope to reach the synthetic scrimshaw handle, carrying with me a book titled The Return of Kazootra. 

Don't bother trying to plagiarize.  I've already published fragments of the work, with the same title in fat bold Times New Roman.  It's a modern mythology based on stooges I've known too well to let slide out of permanent opprobrium, at least if I can help it.   I feel entitled to some form of justice, something off the grid.   To realize any dream, one has to describe it to people who have the beams and nails to build it for you.  I am constructing greater knowledge of chickenshit losers from the past. 

Return Of Kazootra is mythology.  People are fixated on ancient myth.  It's why Trump is president.  People were reading ancient myth, when they should have had their snoots pressed to this myth, mine, about people who did us all the disservice of being conceived by their pestilential and ambitious mom and pop during the fart-biting disasterous baby boom.   Instead of that, everyone has been drinking main stream media atomic fizz and bilge water while Rome gets conflagrated.  I've decided to post, openly, about the writing project, even though the fucking thing isn't ready to be published.  And, you will laugh, if and when I finish Return Of Kazootra, I will try to hawk it to a main stream publisher.  I wanna, wanna, wanna fat ass book deal.  

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Monday, October 8, 2018