I love to write BS in the form of a continuing saga. This is more about my imaginary pet ferret, Mr. Bizdick

Slobbo the Kodiak Bear was a lousy animal to mobilize with. I've worked with people who could have better been kept on thorazine, back when people still had pretense to being egalitarian. So stupid. People who dislike what is happening may decide to take it out on you. And you were being a peach. We, Mr. Bizdick, Yodels the Anorexic Rhinosaurus, Slobbo and myself were speeding down Route 279, and we were all on the same mission, so no one was going to challenge Slobbo.

Maybe it's different taking flack off of talking animals who feel they needn't spare anyone's feelings. Slobbo subscribes to the notion that people are responsible for their own sense of well being. I don't think like that. Slobbo had been bitching all the way about this goddam grizzly bear. The beast won an honorary degree from Johns Hopkins, and Slobbo had hated that grizzly on general principle, since it first began riding a unicycle. Riding a unicycle doesn't put food in Kodiak bear feeding bowls. It's completely irrational, certainly hostile. But Slobbo is a dogged worker for any cause on the Kodiak Bitch Register, and the National Anti-Ferret-Felching Foundation is on it's A-list.

Some background...I've become enamored to a ferret, and he has taken over my life. Normally I'm taciturn about world affairs. Really, I'd rather dance. I'd rather snuggle up with Mr. Bizdick on the couch and watch movies. But Mr. Bizdick decided to mobilize, and I have to come along. So we are barreling down the highway to protest perverts who like to shove ferrets up their ass, for sexual pleasure. Sick bastards. I hate them. But Mr. Bizdick is truly a reactionary. Slobbo the Kodiak Bear feels he has to serve the cause, and so far, we all felt obliged to tolerate his rudeness. It got like this a lot back in the Red Army Days. Che Guavera could be a real prick, on a bad day, too. You wouldn't scotch a guy's Cuban beach invasion just because your fearless leader got snotty. Mr. Bizdick was driving, and I was in the passenger seat, looking like a normal type of person. That's why I was there. To make it seem normal. And Slobbo and Yodels. They were nearly the same size, but Yodels is sickly. A gaunt rhinosaurus. A weakling. Though also committed to the cause. No more ferret felching.

The weak. The meek. Slobbo was angry with a grizzly bear. The grizzly wasn't even there, in the back of the van. It was a stellar May first. And it was May Day. May Day. May Day. We knew Slobbo had a history of acting out. But pelting weak, sickly Yodels, again and again, in furious windmill fashion was completely wrong. We had to park the van and have a talk. We decided we would all blame ferret felchers for what happened to Yodels the Anorexic Rhinosaurus. It's a good outcome. It's a chance for us to use one of the false flag tactics in our handbook. Nothing happened inside that van. It happened outside that safe house for ferret felchers. 



Free Hit Counter

I am a monetizing ass motherfucker!  Give me a little time and wiggle space, and then watch for paypal buttons.  No pressure.  No obnoxious, fallacious sales pitch.  Just a paypal button that will allow my readers to help pay the bills.  My bills.   I need money.  Need I fucking explain further?  I live below the poverty level, and need cash flow.  I used paypal buttons a long time ago, and earned nothing, but I'm trying the stunt again.  But now I have to backtrack in my muddled records, and figure out all over again how to do this.

A World of Drama Queens

Like most nights, a young transvestite was savaged, right outside here, his mascara and touch-up kit scattered on the fragrant new asphalt, where the city crew filled in pot holes.   The street, with it's lubricious carnal minge.

 First, I heard the strident, effeminate siren, "get your hands off me, motherfucker," followed with the fledgling sound of spike heels breaking on a raised square of busted side walk.  The thud of a big hand bag landing someplace hard.  The clarion call, "quit kicking me, milkhead."

Gender politics, in the urban jungle, is more Upton Sinclair, more Pearl S. Buck than ever.   Downtown Pittsburgh is going completely post-nuclear age James Baldwin.   Even the ethnic intimidation incidents have settled like moss on  the  antebellum gentility.  Living in this hell hole is like parking your Winnebago right next to Truman Capote's and Harper Lee's squalid, rustic birth place.

I love it here.  All the star dust in Hollywood couldn't make it any better.

Mr. Bizdick is My Pet Ferret

Mr. Bizdick, my adorable pet ferret, and I, have been talking.  He is on a personal mission to wipe out the sick, perverted practice of ferret felching.  As too many ferret lover's know, there are these goddam creeps out there who derive sexual gratification by shoving ferrets up their ass.   It can be curtains for innocent ferrets.  Those that survive felching are often life long sufferers of PFSD, or Post Felching Stress Disorder.   These ferrets bite, like a motherfucker, and they have attachment disorder.   One minute they are snuggling in the crook of a ferret lover's arm, then there is a gruesome, agonizing bite to the jugular vein.   Dead ferret lover.  Blood all over the subsidized section 8 housing unit.  

I too am committed to ending the practice of ferret felching.  Don't shove ferrets up your ass.

Disclaimer:  Mr. Bizdick is total BS.  I do not now, nor have have I ever, owned a ferret.

Mass Conformity: How Fucking Dull

So what the crap happened to free thinking in the United States?    A few guesses:  It's poorly represented as a subject, the media isn't pumping it, the media is pumping a globalist amalgamation of ultra dimwittedness,  And individuals don't seem to have the gravitas they once oozed, like maple sap.

 The job market fucked up free thinking real royal.   Try claiming you had the right to free speech next time you get fired for applying it.   You try that stunt, your former employer will resurrect Johnny Cochran from the dead just to prove they fired you for some other reason, like you're a clutz.  And then, try keeping the mind of a chess master while managing a fried chicken franchise.  Chicken fried brains.  Burnout.   And now you  have to sign a nondisclosure agreement,so you can't speak up for yourself or anyone else.  All facts are guarded by shadowy soldiers of fortune.  They can fuck you over for speaking.

And they can fuck up your mind all together.  All brainwashing is is repetition of some message or noise.   Either you are supposed to do something, or not do something, but either way, you are a soft core consumer zombie.  Also, you are probably a careerist zombie, all ambition and no human qualities left.  But nahhhh, forget I said that.  You're swell.  And attractive.  I'm just trying to make a point.  You're a peach.  Get liberated.   Not sure how.  You tell me.

Mr. Bizdick is a cartoon series.

The cartoon series is all BS.  I do not now, nor have I ever, owned a ferret.  

There's a new cartoon series going on here. It's called "Mr. Bizdick."

It wasn't too fucking long ago  I went out of the house and bought my new pet ferret, Mr. Bizdick.  He settled right in, started using the appliances, switched channels on the wall size flat screen television.  Mr. Bizdick was only a week and a half old, and was already able to bargain for control over my collection of DVRs.   He has clear preferences in regards to film.  Sometimes he insists we watch Gone With The Wind in its entirety, no interuptions.  

Our love life grew to maturity within minutes of letting Mr. Bizdick out of his plush ferret taxi.  Cost me a fucking fortune.  But Mr. Bizdick travels in style.  Me too.  Soon as I flicked open the hatch, he ran up my slacks, vaulted staight up off my belt and gripped my face like an octopus in a fur coat.  We stayed like that for a full six minutes, then Mr. Bizdick started looking over the house.   

In almost no time, I noticed I felt afraid to express my views. Mr. Bizdick forms opinions faster than a cheetah crossing the Autobahn. He watches the evening news, then accuses me of ignorance. But it's cute as hell the way he snuggles. He gets in the crook of my arm. Like a shot of smack. 

I think my new house pet is gas lighting me.   He keeps suggesting that my wardrobe is too conservative.  It isn't, and I know it.   Then he tries to undermine my philosophy of life.  I believe that Cinderella makes the sun come up each day.   Everytime I go out shopping, Mr. Bizdick re-aranges the furniture, so that it's harder to navigate.    It's a way of slowly chipping away a person's sanity.  But fuck it's cute the way Mr. Bizdick snuggles.

Our love life improved, all over again.   Mr. Bizdick thinks I should renovate the house.   He's saying I'm retarded for not investing properly.

I'm hopelessly dependent upon Mr. Bizdick for emotional support, which he doles with an eye dropper.

There Is Discord In the Great Formicarium!

As said recently, I'm in foul spirits, largely from the weather.  "April is the cruelest month."   T.  S. Elliot was aces in his poem The Wasteland.   The SOB was right about it this time.

He was a  smart fuck about man's ass-wiping relationship with nature, and about man's grubby impact on it.  And man's impact on it's own quasi-comrades.   Intangibly, as well as materially, communities transform into wastelands from the process of dumbing down and rendering people  morally spineless.     The drive to gentrify the 'Burgh has added ugliness to the visage.  To gentrify is to stretch the elastic human tolerance till you hear threads of jockey shorts breaking.   Soon there is a hole in the collective seat of the pants.  Nearly everyone's ass is flapping in the wind.  But it doesn't bother anyone too awfully, and this is because the forces of waste and poor taste have made people different than they might otherwise be.  People are more like ants.

Left no great care package of options, people have been forced into a condition of programatic conformity.   The commies won.   People are a product of enforced social science. It's a frigging police state, and people can't do much aside from working and tending a domicile.  We are political hot air balloons.  And we are trapped in one big fucking ant farm.  But it's more fucked up than that.

If communist theory worked, everyone would be getting along famously right now, forced as they are into a collectivized dependence on government.  Add to this the new forced complicity, case in point Obamacare, and we are all more like ants.  But ants are famous for coordinating the efforts to sustain their colonies.  People are still too fucked in the head to do that.  We are ants, minus the superior strength and flawless precise unity.   We are an ant farm full of narcissists, and we can't seem to hack it.  We're fucked.

Not really.  Soon as the weather gets good, all this shit will evaporate.  People will seem less horrible.  Places won't seem so disgusting.   Somewhere.  Somehow.   All and everyone.  Over the Rainbow.  Simpering and blithering like a fool.  No matter.  I think it's going to be a fine summer.

April: Fuckin' Aye It's The Cruelest Month!

This April did some damage.  That cold snap that's just now crawling away, like the sated cobra, was a real cruel trick.   It completely fucked up my physical and mental conditioning, which is one of the few things in daily life that I am still able to value in the hail storms and shit storms ralfed forth by nature and Man.  The weather has been like a case of crabs, and then there is the human condition to try to help other people with.   Trust my advice is better than my mood.  I'm sulking.

It snowed, quite bitter and unusual for this time of year, and then there is the too personal emo blunders about love.  Spring is supposed to be the time of year lovers meet, greet and screw.  Minus companionship, this April could be exceptionally hostile.  Not only are hermits of both genders limited to self-serve hand jobs of one kind or other, but green house gasses just couldn't stave off an arctic air mass.  It will cost more this year to run the god damn furnace, and people are locked into Orwellian family structures all guaranteed like a lawn mower from Walmart to keep your lawn looking acceptable.  I don't believe that love is what it used to be, before the Soft Serve Revolution.  Now that the media has completely usurped the human spirit, people meet and greet in much same way as in an ant colony.  And I live in a district where everyone is secreting the wrong kind of pheramones.   We don't fucking get along too ass-fucking well.  Note the homicide rate.

It is for these and other circumstances that this April reminded me too fucking often of the epic poem, The Wasteland, by T.S. Elliot.  The prick was a genius.  A motherfucking genius.  Wastelands.  There are tons of them.  And cruel months.  February usually busts my royal equipment. A truly hot July can fuck you up. If we aren't freezing, we are  dehydrating and getting a brain-demolishing case of heat stroke.  This April has been bad enough so far to put it's picture up at the post office.

  The weather is improving.  The gloom will pass.  I'll get my royal shit back up to snuff before too much longer.  But this shit-ass April is one cruel bastard.   Great poem, Mr. Elliot, and an obscene hand gesture at the first two weeks of this defective, sadistic month.   Fucking hell I hope it gets warm before the wasteland gets any more depressing.  You can read the poem, The Wasteland  by palpitating  the link below.  It's depressing, too.

http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html

Beefheart Beefheart Beefheart

pick yer bard, partner
are ya gettin' rooked on the back end of that doggone incantation?
got aches?
I'd drink buckets of pharmaceuticals on spec
if they poured from that person's inverted water bottle dispenser
those flimsy paper cone shaped cups ideal for H2O
that say 'drink it down then crumble me'
without having to over do it
no prima donnas
the propensity for dancing alerts ass 

Food Envy

I should be more mature than this.  Not.   I had heard on the news the President had had fillet mignon and caviar for dinner one evening, , either before or after performing  something dictatorial towards the lower social classes, details escape me, and it must have been fun.   Dropping bad news on the serfs, maybe a round of golf, drone strike a foe, and then chow down on some damn good eats.  I'm a more modest soul.  No caviar.

I had food envy, so I bought two fillets of something at Aldi's.  They come in an oyster case sealed like Fort Knox for meat.   It said 'fillet' on the package.  Didn't say 'mignon.'   Had bacon wrapping.  Looked real. Don't think it was.  I'm eating both now, or rather, I'm on the second one.  It isn't bad, but is remarkably tough for a rare delicacy.  I'm rating the flavor not bad, but not grand, for all the pretense.  In fact, it's no better than a good burger.  A truly great burger is better than this.   I'm not sure it was beef.   Might have lost at the Kentucky Derby.   There were marks on it from where the jockey was kicking it.  Old joke.  There is worse news than the food.

The food envy resulted in remorse.  I feel shitty for having done something because the President did it.   That's dipshit.    Will get over it.

Why Do Poems Bother With Happiness?

Poem: Impinging Future

pains and banes
and baleful wickets
campaign buttons and yellow tickets
the old man's flannel trousers bulge at the wallet
neck folds gathering in cotton twill collet
snap pocket full of cigars rank as tar pits
breath so vulgar roses die
I've known of this inside person
taking long baths
the steam blurs the lens
but he is there