Saturday, January 19, 2019

New flash fiction, and as is my custom, it is all B.S.



Cosmetic Advice
D' Americans, day come to us and say, "how you people have such smooth and lustrous skin?"

O, ho, ho, ho, dat take us all many huntings and gatherings of fact to answer. Da' wily goddess, Truliheinous, she quip, "No hope, baseball fans, you people born ugly." She say simple answer beat circuitous explanation. We have primal beauty, you have the heart break of psoriasis. You have crags and bags, we can't help you. But not so fast the unwillingness to be of service.

You have no octopussiroot, an herb we use in our ceremonies. Without this herb we all shrivel up and lose teeth. We no get psoriasis. No bags. No crags. Your life expectancy is pitiful 85, ours is 142. And dat include infant mortality and spouse poisonings. You bozos calculate without bullshit, you're all no good for more than early fifties. But my people, we understand your insecurities. Television say 'Wring around the collar,' and everyone turns to Whisk detergent, as if that could make you half of us. No sweat on the collar of our Brooks Brothers. We no dry clean Armani suits. Only da' baseball fan freak about invisible barriers to bliss.

But it seems our radiant skin you envy. Da gold and diamonds you wear resemble a zoot suit on a pecary. We wear gold and look fab. You wear gold, you look wrinkled. There is no hard feelings. None at all. We will help you with your baneful cuisine, your cosmetic tragedies. Ask away, honored tourists. We have time. We have time for your bullshit. So ask.



Sounds and Herbs
Wingo nonis proverbo, octopussyroot. We have sustained our youth and beauty with herbs and incantations. You silly Americans have no understanding of sound. Even your teensy jagged morphemes fail to change molecular structures! It's your language, and not ours, that has sent Manateena into this kind of bitter rotation. She drills the Earth to Ulan Bator and back, if you will pardon my outrage. On her return she pronounces her sentence on America. "You get the orange Cheeto, you assholes," she wailed.

I've given you the name of that herb that can fix a slack jaw. It can repair a spastic colon. It will undo your failed cosmetic surgery and your parts that passed their warranty. And it will increase longevity, if you find acumen for avoiding the slip and fall. If you don't get eaten by feral hogs. If you avoid country music in a gun free zone. If all that, our octopussyroot will help you. Do not be timid. The herb is swallowed, en masse, after an incantation, without which, you still have a double chin. Repeat after me, and keep repeating till your toque floats:

Ooogie raga, octopussy, big one, horny apex. Ooogie raga, nonis proverbo ratso nofuckum. Ooogie raga.

Friday, January 18, 2019

Flash Fiction: total BS, you'll love it.


Exotic Foods
Mugi rictus pontifucker plexmash, dear reader! I have shared with you all some recipes from my native land, and I have presented snits of the language my people natter-natter upon. The English language is a Mary Poppins to our Jerry Van Dyke, if you will comply with reason. The words we say walk on the surface of necessity. I am sure you already know this. You are tri-colored, while we live by our creed, said first by our greatest queen, Shiskabula, "Ooogie Raga, maxifacialtic."

We have changed some of our recipes. There be no more coca plants for us here. You silly bastards with helicopter. Ho, ho, ho, bastard agent orange our sweet Maryjane, you evil ones. To zest our comestibles, we buy thousands of X pills from a German missionary, we mash them with manioc and canned tomatoes, and pour liberally into our non-stick cauldron. I had shared with you all our delightful thootzi, which now has an added kick. Don't change nothing, oh kings of gustation, only buy from us this base we use for everything we choke down. Your family will thank us.

Our two most famous dishes are: ugamaho and thootzi. You may use the recipes I gave you many solar eclipses backward. But substitute for blow and weed about a cup of mashed X. You will be gracious! Ooogie raga!
 

Thursday, November 22, 2018

The Unibomber's manifesto is more famous than this one, but look where he is.


Kay bingle oogie raga! The New Linguistic Order wants to thank everyone like they pitched in cash. You showed up. That's plenty for now. I feel like talking, and you're here to talk to. Oogie raga!

First of everything, this beanstalk growing up my ass is theory. It's for non-believers, mostly, with an aphorism or two for everyone else. I believe heavily in organic personality traits. One may be a pugnacious born blowhard or hard wired healing angel of mercy. Some hot studs are born with a natural tendency to pontificate. Or to moralize. A tendency to either believe or doubt almost anything, corporeal or illusory, has been socked onto the same platform with hair and eye color. 

It's still impossible, in all cases, to levitate or walk through walls. But there have been millions of poor dumb suckers, since Genesis, who were made to believe it's possible. People are born with the ability to instill belief and fervor in others. Some of these folks do it by pontificating. Preaching, mayhaps, as in the case of religious leaders. My theory is that religion itself, and the practice of it, originates and sustains because some people have a hereditary trait for pontificating, which in preachers, takes the from of sermonizing.

Whether a leader is a delusional snake-handling Baptist, a dogmatically self-riteous rabbi, or a constipated methodist minister, the origin of the personality is moon walking within the double helix. They got that way when mom and pop did the wild thing. How the Earth got here is science. How one deals with being on it is linguistic. People are bargaining, negotiating, interacting ass motherfuckers. We shape life by writing and talking.

The New Linguistic Order is another shot at making a substitute institution. Churches are impractical. Too much up keep. The internet is where the new alternative is located. It's a humanitarian charity share of bandwidth. As near as anyone I know gets to power over the universe is in their ability to describe it, hence quazi-religious faith in linguistics. Also, in heredity. And in silliness. Nonsense words matter, because they sound fun. Like the NLO official slogan, 'oogie raga.' It doesn't mean shit. I just like saying it.

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.