Thursday, November 16, 2017

Fiction: Local Cultures

I am alone with my wife, Harumpafa, and we are engaged in a dinner production.  People will pour in, soon as Harumpafa whacks her steel gong  with her long stainless steel spatula.  Stews are stewing, organic spices slough off their unguents, persimmons are arranged in a row of bound hajibs, to prevent excessive rolling around.  We get nervous.  Angry neighbors hurl osage oranges through the kitchen window, hoping to land one in the stew and poison us.   "The unbound food item kills," my wife often reminds us all.  

'We all,' as Harumpafa refers to us, are some type of ethnic group, doesn't matter which. There is no immigration status in this occupied territory.  Only rancor among disparately configured folk.    I and mine are tall and willowy.  The wife and I wear the exact same size clothing, and it saves us a fortune in haute couture.  We are despised by short, squat built quazi-keffir types, and the taller obese Fellaheen all think bigger is better, hence my people regard them as pricks.  Both outsized rival factions resent us for being so motherfucking elegant.  We exude musky charm.  We are asked to pose for a spread in this year's athropolology text. Envy drives the lower classes to rioting, like always, when nothing more was done to them than passive excellence in the pesence of their active repugnance.  Persecution is not reserved for  only the poorest pieces of shit.

There.  Another osage orange, intrigueing, crenelated, trespassed  into our wholesome kitchen, in another attempt on our lives. Harumpafa grabs her street sweeper and fires round after round of bird shot, hoping to alter reality.  We hear the runts fleeing through our azalias.  I say to my wife, "I think this is where we strike the gong."  Our people were tired of lilting in the front yard.  They needed some eats.  

Our foods distinguish us from individuals who prepare and consume differing meat and eggs.  Attempts on our lives during meal times prove that world peace isn't too fucking anxious to come galavanting out of the walk-in closet.  This places our divine Cadillac in a flagging chicken run facing off with the profane souped-up pimp mobiles of the lower classes.  Each time Harumpafa feeds our encampment, she presses the  foot brake just a little bit.  The vehicles slow down for few sane seconds, before remembering to hit the gas.  Some day the garish muscle cars will crash.  But for now, stewed persimmons, as only my wife can make.

Monday, November 13, 2017

Essay: The Late Michael Jackson's Nose

Megablocks of material is available on the internet about Michael Jackson.   An amazing performer who suffered a Greek tragedy style downfall.  He faced nasty, nasty, nasty allegations, and had, maybe, drug problems, health problems, public image crap, the man was probably pretty through the wringer when he bought the business off a sleeping drug.  Sad.  Tragic.  There are moments of inspiration.  People throw fits.  There is dancing. Recriminations.  And nose synthesis.

Early in Michael's teen years the inestimable talent began showing a cosmetic bugaboo.  His nose was getting larger.  Something similar happened to me.  I never had surgery, and still got  a big one.  Mister Jackson took a series of treatments on his large proboscis.  You will see in the embedded video that at that juncture, it was medium sized, very handsome, I'd pay a few bucks for one like it.  Subsequent surgeries over his salad performing years yielded incrementally smaller noses.  It did not, as some pundits may logically conclude, reduce in size to nothing.  But it was purported to be at risk of necrosis.  For non-medical types, the organ of scent was dying on his puss.    And then he finished the job, with the help of his since convicted not too fucking good personal physician.  His doctor killed his ass with a sleeping med.  Very fucked up.

His nose, at it's zenith, defied nature.  Neither Zeus nor Zoroaster could produce a nose as cool as his.   He had the only model that looked like that, and maybe the whole process was worth it.  Combined with immense talent, it intrigued all hairy, horny hell out of the listening, viewing public.  It was fucking magical.  Maybe we should all get our nose fixed and have a few sleeping pills, to commemorate the late, fab Michael Jackson.

Friday, November 10, 2017

The Bat Robbins Show: a pen name project

Why do mainstream news reporters need to be attractive?  Isn't it enough to get the news?  Might our piggy American minds be getting cognitive diabetes from watching too fucking much eye candy?

Back in the day, news anchors of both genders had large hairy moles and long nostril hairs.  Some had the Hanging Gardens of Babylon growing out of their old, gnarled ears.  People were homely, yet more wholesome and better informed than newspeople of now.  I'm resisting trends, like a motherfucker.  Please fucking watch my latest video presentation, posted on youtube under my nom de plume.  I'm ugly, ill informed and fucking proud.  Watch the video.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

more youtube productions using a webcam

Isn't  that lovely?   No?  Shocked. Shocked.  I had so hoped for a more favorable outcome.  My dick is in the wind.  And it shouldn't be.  Ask the police.  They'll tell you "reel it in, Buster, or your up the river for indecent exposure, you creep."   And the officer will be right to say all that, if you walk around with your what-not hanging out of bomb bay.   Mine's been where it's supposed to be, no place I can be arrested for, it's mostly at home, far from anyone who might object to it, not that many people would.  It's a nice old unit.   Check out my latest short subject video.

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Shitty Values At Large

 People may be in a relatively weak position within their communities, as if there is such a thing, and at the same time there are philosophical and pragmatic universals.   Individuals have always needed protection of one sort or other, kicking it off with trogs fending off rival trogs using sticks, woofing forward to the nuclear arms race.  If everything was really hunky dory 'round about WW2,  Hiroshima and Nagasaki might still look like black and white pictures taken in the 1930s.  The latter doesn't matter on this blog entry, because this entry deals with a further  backward fact of life.  One can always pay people to protect them, e.g. body guards, security personnel, goons, ex convicts, gee whiz anyone needing dough and  able to guard you and yours.  Including things you own.

Let's us suppose some fool holds great hope for the future of a pile of dog shit.  He has earned, stolen or inherited great wealth.  Enough to keep a time share unit in Vegas for a lifetime. Maybe the creep won the lottery.  He may be mental, and think his pile is of great value, but he can afford to pay an A-team of professionals to keep his crap safe from thieves, saboteurs, copy cats, stool pigeons, et al.   He is at liberty to take his precautions, even if he is a complete asshole.  If there was such a thing as a free market economy, one could say, " Holy fuck, that asshole is doing nicely for himself.  He has a groovy little spread out in the flats, goes to church, and he's paying a posse to guard shit.  That fellow is a motherfucking pillar of society."

He is a pillar of society.  A bunch of people are on that jerk off's payroll.  Last I heard, that fine motherfucker was in compliance with labor laws, and in parts of East Buttfuck it's legal to taser people for trespassing.   If no one was there to zap thieves with a stun gun, the bastards could rob people blind.  Why, fuck it, it would be damn near obstruction of justice not to do something to people who fuck with your personal garbage.  Thanks for fucking reading.  It's fucking decent of you.

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