Saturday, December 31, 2016

Mikey Mumbawumba the the Tale of His Haitian Guitar

I will get to the bad news, it's bullshit, Mikey is a lying asshole, has been since his late mother chose not to abort him, bad decision.    The prick was able to perpetrate deception in utero.  It was his fault she felt so horribly blue during her laborious pregnancy to a charming and brutal gambler.   Human personality traits are that deeply knitted in the primordial dust kitties of  DNA.  Think of the double helix as a loosely woven scarf.  In garish fruit colors.  And purple broad brimmed hats.  Even as a zygote he was gas lighting his own mother.

Mikey was doing an acoustic set, and had to make some hairy deal out of it beyond his singing and playing.   Everyone was doing it, one way or other.   Local torch songstress Lavoris Crackman, with the pink healed over bullet hole in her massive cloven chin, would go into long winded monologues about growing up next to a hair dresser.   People would find a seat in the beauty parlor, lift a magazine from the end tables, and die of a heroin overdose.  It's still exactly that depressing around the corner of Herron and Webster Avenue.  But these days, people don't dress up as much.

It was hard to explain why Mikey Mumbawumba was compelled to perform a set of popular broadway show tunes on an acoustic guitar.   Cognitive dissonance is part of an explanation.  There were people at large, on television, doing something similar, for reasons unknown.  It's enough to know that some sort of shit was well received by someone somewhere.  That gives people febrile hope that the same thing will work out for them.  That's a start, but it's not quite enough.

Mikey's guitar was,he told the audience, a Haitian relic from a machete massacre, during which thatch huts were burned, necks were severed like sugar cane, itty bitty babies were used as field hockey balls.   There was a wizard in the village who would play the very Haitian guitar Mikey had with him that evening.  The wizard gave Mikey the guitar, but on a nice afternoon.  Less mayhem.  Nice day to get a free guitar.  Everyone should visit the island of Haiti once in a while.  Mikey began his set with 'Everything's Coming Up Roses.'

What we all need right now is more ugly buildings on the Northside....

I can see the counterpoints.   Aren't there ugly buildings all over creation, like Allegheny Center, and countless inert looking high rise apartment buildings?   Hasn't the inherent natural beauty been soiled by real estate disposition, all over Pittsburgh?  Why is some dolt saying new high rise apartment complexes are the thing to do right now?

Let's talk about the minimum wage, and the service economy that employs stupid, warty, pimply people.  The cost of housing is excessive, all around, but to the low earning scuzz muffins of our land, the burdensome cost of housing permanently destabilizes them.   They have to go on welfare to survive, and have scads of retarded kiddies, just so they can get disability benefits, so they can all collectively pay the rent or mortgage.  Also, people like that have to move in and out of cities, looking for work.     We all need low cost housing, in order to civilize the inevitable low wage worker.

Cheap housing is the only hope for quality of life.   It s also the only hope for a growing economy at the working class level.  I'm proposing the next wave municipal construction be geared expressly to enable the poor folk to earn, spend, and enter into small business.  It is necessary to reduce the cost of living to make this beneficial.   Small business will function better, will be able to sustain better human resources, if said resources has cheap ass housing.  Cheap housing means more spendable income among the wee folk.  And don't forget, there has been a beef trail of high end real estate development all over town just waiting to fail in business and cost the tax payers a fortune.  Why not beat the band for once, and open a trend that makes sense?

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

'Clean' is completely assinine

Of course people are sick.  No natural immunity.  Soon as a new kind of illness comes to town and  unloads it's smart leather valise over top mankind, everyone is sneezing and rushing to the emergency room, reporting to the doctors what's wrong.  They get sick, because they are too fucking clean.

 "Some filthy germ is invading my pristine, gorgeous body," the modern hygienic soul wails.  "And it's so wrong,"  twits will continue.   "When I keep my house and everything within a thousand yards of me completely sterile, using hot water, soap, and commercial disinfectants.  I shower eighteen times a day, using body wash that is 98% bio-engineered, recombinant DNA that kills microorganisms, all of them, like Obama toying with his drones, and let's God sort them out.   And now I have the flu."

  It's so wrong.  That's why I quit bathing as often as I used to, and I very rarely wash the dishes here.  I don't sweep the floor.  Trash piles up.  Aging neglected unrefrigerated foods transform themselves from solid to ooze.  The place is revolting, but I almost never get sick, because for the last hermetic, grimy twenty five years, I've been building up immunities by living in my own filth.  People are stupid for washing dishes.  

Don't clean.  You won't get sick as much.  You'll get used to it.

Monday, December 26, 2016

Polar Mission

Certain poor miserable neurotics think in polar opposites.  Everything with these people comes in a bookend arrangement of extremes.  Without many books in between.  Just the instant contention between two opposing forces.  It a bellicose form of Zen. An irritable yin and yang.  It's a budget form.  This is a dollar store.  I am a dollar store, and this is now.

Liberals versus conservatives.   The alt-right staring like a rabid Doberman at members of alt-left.  If one singular nitwit is alone in a room, considering all the yelling between opposing political fringe groups, and, to be nice, pretend this prick cites sources, uses his reference materials, he even has hard bound authoritative sources from when door to door salespersons crept the Earth during the Eisenhower admin, the son of a bitch is still unable to think or speak outside the form of a dialogue between two schools of thought, and each side wears a snotty looking ivy league uniform.
Even the invisible chorus in our own dreams has to wear a forest green felt beanie.  Even the fucking chorus has to compete against a louder, ruder one singing across the street.

This is why I'm working so fucking hard today to overcome internalized polarity.  I'm not, for now, evening blaming anyone for it, even if the New World Order wants the masses fucked in the head, and in tandem, powerless.  Though I think otherwise, evil cabals may not by waging war against low earning humankind.  But one thing is certain:  People have been divided.  One way of dividing them is to demonize ethnic/interest groups, so to mill up hatred and internal strife.  Women are sometimes taught to hate and harbor animosity towards men.  Radicals have been taught to fight against capitalism.  Other suburban milk-heads were exhorted to fight commies.  But bringing it near to now as it gets, the last election polarized Hillary and Donald.  All this stupid piece of work right on the blog here is doing is proposing a fresh peachy new way to live with it.

If I wasn't me, I would have been Bing Crosby.  Here goes.  All people, places and things can be polarized in one simple, affordable way.  It's reduced to two archetype personage.  All people are either a Charles Lindbergh type, or they are Bruno Richard Hauptmann.  The latter type earns less.  No one wants to see Bruno types on television, unless they are under arrest.  Charles types are all super elite, ever wanted, always loved  heros, with the new affirmative action guidelines strictly enforced.  Black people can be Lindberghs, no problem, so all African Americans, male or female, also transgender and gay, can be a positive, productive, accomplished high-living  eugenicist, just like the late Charles Lindbergh.  All bad people  act like Bruno Richard Hauptmann, and deserve to go to jail. Or get the chair.  People worry too much.  They make everything too fucking complicated.

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Evolution: A Whimsical Origin of Species Suppliment

Sure people remember intelligent design, if fuzzy, round about it asserts The All
Mighty may have created Earth, Sky and us through a circuitous and divine  pre-ordained course of evolution.  Fans of this movement wanted to get intelligent design squeezed under politically correct, mystically hygienic radar and into public schools, where the more openly religious creationism was banned, for being discriminatory.   Holy rollers want their form of religion taught in schools.  People wanted to keep kids believing in the supernatural, and adults believing in what church leaders tell them to do.  If schools teach Darwin's evolution, that might undermine church authority.  Intelligent design is a compromise between faith and science, for reasons of keeping the former from giving the latter some type of cosmic coupe de gras.  People are desperate to keep religion in schools.

The stardust is under contention.   Darwinism got panned by some church groups for cutting the All Mighty out of the origin of us, while outright creationism was too conjectural for mainstream science.  If I was  a lot more superstitious than now, I'd munch a few fried pork derivatives  with intelligent design.  Not on the house menu.  Indigestible.

Nice try though.  Intelligent design keeps the church in the driver seat, no matter how people danced out of the elements and turned up last night, downtown, having a breaded chicken sandwich someplace common.   But I don't begrudge those who entertain intelligent design.  I'm sure most advocates are fun to drink with.  This isn't a diatribe.  I'm not being a pecker-head.  Just a dreamer.  Groups like the Everly Brothers used to sing about this type of personality disorder.

  My assertion is that the differing races of people evolved independent of each other, each in it's time frame.  Once whatever comes up the chain before people reaches evolutionary bingo, it is able to mate with members of it's own species.  Each species evolves until such time as it can have puppies with dogs from another country.   In the case of doggies, Great Danes evolved where they cropped up.  Chihuahuas evolved in their arid home vistas, while collies,like Lassie, volunteered for sheep watching on yet another place on the map.  All doggies can mate with one another and make puppies together ( as with people) and they didn't all originate from one single hereditary change, rather evolution takes place as the environment best allows, how ever mutating critters live and screw.   Exactly how is their business.  I'm not the type to intrude.

Evolution yields animals like us in neatly ordered species typings.  In file folders of animals that do the wild thing together, and have babies. Evolution is like a librarian.  Hence the female archetypes for God.  She's a maven for the Dewey Decimal system, but she is managing the fate of Earth and Man.  Evolution is  both random and at the same time, an obsessive compulsive old shrew.  But the system works.

If there's anything to this grab bag of cognition, Asians evolved in Asia, Africans evolved Africa, Milk-heads emerged from central Europe.  Jews and Arabs evolved in the Middle East, sharing genes with other ethnic marvels along the way.  Diversity is grand.   All races can have kids together,any way, any how, in any of six thousand variations of the sex act, and if that doesn't work, there's test tubes and incubators.  No decent recent modernist would object to anything living or breathing, what with all the hub bub round the globe.   Our window displays of diversely evolved humankind dictate that any way in which people live and breath is hunky dorry, unless we are talking about the worst of assholes.  Evolution grows bad eggs, same as good ones.  It's a hereditary bitch. So's the popular opinion that all people have a common source of origin.  I don't think that's the case.  People grew up all over.  In their time.  In their diversely differing global 'hoods.  If you believe in Creationism, that's fine.  You're cool.

Thursday, December 22, 2016

I Hate Food

Having to eat is one handicap everyone has.  After thousands of years, science hasn't figured  a way out of this expensive nuisance. It's costly to eat, and  yields unreliable results.   Some foods make you ill right out of the box, such as with food poisoning.  Others cause slow declining health, like Twinkies, or fast food.  Purported healthy foods may or may not do what they claim.   I still have niggling confidence in fruits and vegetables, but, if you saw the flick One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, the same is said of patients at the state hospital.   They might get out and do well in life, but don't bet the farm on it.

This brings discussion to specifics of flavor.  If your food budget is as sickeningly tight as mine is, there are few specifics.   Very little of it distinguishes edible A from comestible B.  Nothing on the home menu is all that stellar.  Exceptional flavor, or, food sensuality, costs a fortune.  Cheap foods are there to keep you alive, and it is not responsible for your happiness.  This is what free market economists say about the government.   You have the right to live, you don't have the right to enjoy it.  Food is, in this way, much like the US Constitution.

For a solution, best I can figure is to either marry well or get a decent job.  Having failed to do either, food will remain lousy here in Casa Reisner.   There are worse problems than taciturn victuals.  Other inconveniences.  We eat.  We crap.  I wish neither fact was so damn intransigent.  I'd rather not do either.

Monday, December 19, 2016

Dialectic Materialism and National Fuck Up

Using a lovely and popular unnamed banking institution for an example, one could make a case that over the last sixty years the banking biz morphed from capitalism to communism.  The local bank gives it's customers no interest on their pass book account, while it donates generously to the Burgh's sinister cabal of nonprofit agencies.  It also has a professional sport field  named for it, which connects the bank and the sport to city planning, which is also a cabal of city government, nonprofit agencies, and a banking industry in pink shorts.   To some political minds, communism exists in the form of affiliated government and non-government agencies.  In the twilight of the pre-cold war, banks lent money to private business models and paid depositors interest on their accounts.  The new model still lends dough, but the working model is disturbingly borsht and vodka.  Note alarming trends in socialized caviar.

Some cow pokes are intimating there is a mass conspiracy, oozing and sweating a master plan in the Federal Reserve and anywhere else the power elites meet and greet.   Your modern freaky deaky rightist may be suggesting that the real estate melt down of 2008 was the result of a government agenda to wipe out the free market middle class, that home mortgage lending practices were the missiles, and defaulted loans were the kaboom.  That's an awful load of marginalized pop dogma just for a lead in to dialectic materialism.  You're a champ for hanging in this long.

I don't think you'll break your beak on too many intellectual rightists.  Among these rare pussy cat swallowtail types, there is lisping discourse on the practice of dialectic materialism.  In short, the method is to teach the ways of business and industry to the poor and oppressed, who then infiltrate business and industry, bringing their portfolio of social justice agendas into the shop along with their lunch box and Maoist military cap.  Yoko Ono used to enjoy wearing one, back in the hippie days.  The new business model is socialized under government guidelines and is re-purposed.  We no longer need nifty luxury items and a high standard of living.  Business and industry is there to support the advancement of interest groups.   And, as rightists bore everyone with at parties, social models are horribly inefficient.  It's evident here.  Milton Friedman's economics don't go over for shit these days, are are not in anyway a quick fix for fucked macro econ.   I don't really believe much of anything.  With the Donald yammering about re-inventing free market economics, least a cowboy can do is jaw on it across the campfire.  Non-aligned misfits should join in.  Winos warmly invited.  I love it when migrant workers play their accordions, all camped out between the river and the railroad tracks.   Free speech is groovy.   Too bad it don't pay shit.

Saturday, December 17, 2016

Don't mind. Alzheimer's. My mind is wandering a little, and I seem to be belching up Platitudinous Bullshit!

Equality is a pink fuzzy rabbit trap.  

To deny that group A got better results than group B may be stupid.  The Rolling Stones were superior to Paul Revere and the Raiders.  You can prove this by selling used vinyl out the back of an old conversion van.

If you sell coffee, and you hire stupid baristas, it may reduce cash flow.

To be subordinate to a shit head is to feel like your lucid angelic mind is an affront to policy.   Stupid people reject good ideas.  They also enforce bad ones.

Over fifty years ago I heard the folk maxim "foolish inconsistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."  Not words to live by.  Words to remember to avoid stupid bastards where possible.

People who produce valuable goods and services are usually too busy to worry about who's President.  Or, at least too busy to spend the whole day being a prick about everything.

More platitudes on request.  Or when I think more up.   Love, love, love.  And over.

Stop insisting you know it all, and listen to people who are really playing with a full deck...

Today's quazi-German sermon is about deferring to greater expertise.   I'm not of German heritage.  It's illusory non-nonsense, for rhetorical purposes.  I'm histrionic.  Anything said with terse authority seems Germanic to me, and this is, for certain, pure media influenced prejudice.  I watched Hogan's Heros from it's genesis.  The neuro-window-dressing could be put out with the weekly paper refuse.   And yet it augments sound reason.  Like leather seats improves your driving experience.

At large  a  daunting national crisis in validity and competence  makes people speak with florid equivocation.   People are assholes for assuming their own cache of knowledge is just fine the way it is, or, worse, is superior to that of people more soundly in the know.  Dim wits have been taught to believe they are entitled to status as smart fuckers.  College teaches people they are bright, exceptional, and deserving of wealth in excess of ditch diggers.  I'm neutral on wage scales, for the nonce, because this is another one of my asshole free market econ puff pieces, and I don't really believe much of this shit will materialize in four to eight years.  There's some theoretical shit I feel should be translated into popular memes.

Social business models operate under an assumption that interest groups are entitled to advance in society by process of dialectic materialism.  They learn the ways of lucrative big business and then assume executive, mid-management, and labor positions with-in business and industry. They assume political power.   The same process is repeated in reforming government.   In an oiled working model, women and minorities replace industry and government through dialectic materialism.  There's a catch.  It only works when people's brains are sympatico with the job description.  The national crisis would make a dandy country western song hook, like 'there are shit heads put in high places, and fucking with everyone's mind.'

These affirmative action hires are fucking up business and industry, both public and private.  The Fed isn't running on all eight cylinders.  This frivolous quazi-German sermon focuses on incompetent people in high places, and people taught to think they are better than the best of egg heads.  Fuck them.  They aren't.

Friday, December 16, 2016

Cranking out election time theories like the Christmas fairy tales social science thrives on

My misanthropic theory, for this December asphalt arteriole arcing toward Christmas, is the Stinking Hypocrite Theory.   It states that social progress is a doomed proposition because liberals, progressives and socialists are as greedy, bigoted and criminal as anyone else.  If they have an agenda to advance status of minority groups, they at the same time despise and fear the minority.  And are aware that the minority poses danger to them.  For added complexity, people are diversely hypocrites.  Some are acting out of fear that the minority will whoop their ass worse if they don't advocate for them.  Other socialists have the foresight to see that their high salary can best be attained by forming a charitable institution, and bilking it.

In the film Wallstreet, capitalist pig archetype Gordon Gecco says,"Greed is good."  It isn't good, but socialists are as greedy as capitalists.  With social methods so often publicly funded, the leftist model of greed means paying social execs  a premium while withholding cash from the poor.  Too sad that equality is such a bore.  Even socialists know that if you give enough money to poor people, they morph into the middle class and upward.  Then they develop the same political influence as the majority's.   On a time line, eventually peoples' lawn and garden parties get combative.  Lawn jockeys are over-turned.  Swimming pools get peed in.   Membership in country clubs gets unruly.  People's kids get knocked up.

Then comes the bad news.   The newly minted middle class, from out of Motel Six and into the gated communities, is as flawed as the old middle class that invented the new one.  A vortex action flushes everyone downward.  Happy Holidays.  The old guard of conservative thinkers believe that free market methods better enable the advancement of women and minorities than do social methods, for reasons I'm trying to explain.  The Stinking Hypocrite Theory is my own special little crock.  Thanks for reading.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Hope you enjoy this and benefit, in some way, from, it......

...But I'm posting my old theory here, so there's a record of it, with a date when first yelped out from the airborne dust specks of Whoville.  I want credit for a butt-kicking cool 'origin of the behavior' theory.  I want the Prize, damn it, the fucking Prize.  It always goes to some jerk.  Okay, Bob Dylan deserved one.  Obama didn't.  Paul Krugman didn't.  Never mind.  ADHD.  I jump topics.  My theory i-i-i-i-is:

Some people, not all, a relative few, have a hereditary tendency to pontificate.  I'm like that my self.  Once I get on a subject, I have to talk about it.   I want to expand on the subject, and relate the subject to other subjects, for comparative analysis.   It could be any subject at all, once I'm on the SOB, I am compelled to talk about, and to convince people of it's validity.  For now, let's talk about how an organic tendency effects the practice of religion.

The biggest chunk of my theory is that the practice of religion has been formed by individuals born with the gene for pontification.  An individual with said genetic tendency might find an outlet for the tendency by preaching religion.  I believe it is a hereditary trait that makes Southern Baptists boogie to gospel rock and roll, and makes Jews sit painfully bored listening to their Rabbi.  Rabbis, some of them, have the gene.  I'm not saying religion itself originates from the gene, it is the way it is practiced.  Religion is directed by people holding the gene delivering long, passionate sermons.  If it wasn't  about religion, it would be science that someone won't shut up about, and who demands everyone capitulate.  I'm suggesting that academic science is directed by people most inclined to argue the subject.  The way shit is taught in college may be a product of a gene to pontificate about the subject.

There.  Now fuck me pink.  When you are not working for a college or a church, people have to dump their goofy cognition here, on a blog.  The slums of the human intellect.  I thought of this shit all by my fucking self.  And don't give shit about the 'God gene,'  I didn't think of it, and it isn't relevant here.  The God gene renders people amenable to the existence of the supernatural.   Big fucking deal.  It's the fuckers who convince people of its validity.  They have the gene I'm cherry picking here.  I have the gene, too.  I'ts why I get to be such a fucking bore.

Sunday, December 11, 2016

Wahoo, My Search For Inner Peace Landed Carp

No where to fish but  the aquarium.    Whirly with fly reel across the rugs.  A dainty plunk.  Bubbles.   The burbling of the electric water airation assembly.   Your catch is small and not well regarded by commercial fisherman.  You, sir, are not a champ.  You are a small fry.  I have been told this so often I came to believe it.  I keep it to myself.  I hide my emotions under a size four and half Stetson.

Perplexed.   I had ordered from a stainless steel biker ring that was supposed to look like the Hindu god Ganesh, and I received what looked like scrap metal from a terror incident.  It was miscast.  Or so it looked.  It was ugly.   No further comment.  No, I mean no detail could be seen.  It was not Ganesh, the elephant headed, person bodied, lotus poised Hindu honcho.  But there occurred to me a precept:  What if I had gone short term vision impaired, the day the ring came in the mail?  That idea came just now.  Until that doubt cropped up:

Suppose there was a mass of soot from having cast a highly detailed image of Ganesh still clinging to the stainless steel likeness?   And over a three day period a non-Hindu man wears the ugly formless-looking ring?  And over that time, the soot wears off of the ring?  It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone.  First, I wrote back to ebay, complaining that I received a shitty ring.

I set the lousy, formless, ugly ring by the computer, found the 'return policy,'  went through it, took and sent pictures of the ugly ring, with part of my mug behind it cause I used a web cam, and two days later I got my money back, easy, breezy, cheesy.   The seller said I didn't have to return the ring, and was gracious about the refund.  I had been gracious in my return procedure communications.  I feel almost honorable for being so post-free-trade-agreement hip. ' Look at me negotiate on the Internet.'  So there's that asshole ego, that stupid media saturated mentality that I would honestly like to overcome, fucking with my pale, over-stimulated little mind.  Boo hiss, you soon will agree is in order.  Here is why:

As soon as I determined, in the My Ebay section of the web site, that I got my money back and still owned the ring, and I wasn't going out any place nice, I had no reason not to wear the ugly, shitty ring.  There is no one here to dislike the appearance, or to like a pretty one, for that matter.  I'm a free agent, on the dim side of the moon.  Folks don't all beam from the same power grid.  So as I wore the ring, and figited about as I normally do, neurotic, OCD, I'm always fishing in my pockets, like a dork, the soot on the Elephant deity came off, atom by atom, so it took most of week for the detail in the ring to emerge.  But as it emerged, I took notice, in short snips, like an ADHD case.  On the final day of transformation, I had placed my right mitt on a door frame and leaned forward to look at something that had fallen on the floor.  Doesn't matter what.  An old gas bill.  Could mean something.  From the spirit world.  Just before picking up the bill, I noticed the ring in front of my puss.  All the detail in the ring had emerged, the rest of the dirt had fallen off, and Ganesh was looking right at me, giving me the message of inner peace.  "Took you long enough," Ganesh told me.  "You're not wrapped too tight, are you, junior?" he said.

Perplexed again, I asked, "But Ganesh, you are all about peace, it seems that you are P.O.ed at me."

Ganesh smiled, bowed his great head from the lotus position and said, "Back home we eat shit like you for lunch."

There's a moral to the story, if you don't mind wiping off the soot.  A belated message of inner peace doesn't sound as good as when you land one more promptly.   One should be quick about shit.

Friday, December 9, 2016

A Word Crawled Up My Butt, And It Really Wants Out

The word is 'narrative.'   It came into popular use in the media a few years ago.  Can't recall what term was used before that for the crap that comes out of the snoot.   The term is used for the public statements politicians make.   Other professionals, academics among them, are using the term for a person's bag of words spilled in print and television media.  I have a few ideas on why the new use of an old word.

Politicians have always been known to lie.  So do a lot of other people.  Business people lie.  Information gets bolixed.  I think the term 'narrative' is used because people have become so pervasively dishonest that what is said can no longer regarded as statements of fact.  It's about the difference between what dishonest people say, and what they or their people do.  Their narrative may have little, or nothing, to do with what is really on the slate.  Our government is known to perpetrate deception.  Businesses perpetrate deception.   It is  no longer sensible to believe what is said.  People listen or read, and wait to see if what was said jibes with what happens as a result.  When a public figures speak, we are not hearing the truth, we are hearing their story.

An example:  In Hillary Clinton's narratives, the Clinton Foundation raises money on behalf of social agendas.  In most working models, the money is distributed to nonprofit agencies, which pay themselves to act as a surrogate God.  They will provide for the poor and rescue the oppressed.  If that doesn't work out, and it rarely does, a sector of the middle class gets a nice salary while pretending to help the poor and oppressed.  In all narratives, the organizations claim to be great humanitarians and philanthropists, intellectuals, scientists and freedom fighters.  In my crabbed, miserable experience with nonprofit agencies people were jerk offs, professional or otherwise.  Most were there for the money, few had much regard for the poor and oppressed.  Embitterment can be degrading.  I'm down there.

Another example is very recent, just came up, fresh as a turkey egg, on Facebook.  People have been talking about Ben Carson's narrative.  I don't recall him saying he grew up in public housing, but it seems from the banter that at some point he did, and now the word is that he didn't grow up in public housing.  If he lied in the course of a statement of fact, this would illustrate my point that what he says is more fiction than fact. Hence the term 'narrative.'

For alternative theories, the word might sound more sophisticated, more literary, than what the previous term for bullshit was.  Lots of people like to sound more sophisticated than they are, and words like 'narrative' sound more intellectual than 'speech' or 'the hash that prick was slinging.'  It all means the same thing.  Another thought is that the word makes politics sound more humane and advanced, though people are still a load of vicious barbarians, with credentials.   The US has become a silk purse made from a sow's ears.  Only possible now with advanced technology.  We are too far removed  from the body politic to observe what is being done.  We rely upon narratives to understand what is being done, and the information is unreliable.

 We are told stories, on the news, before we go to sleep. Sleep well.  Dream in a beautiful, warmly illustrated narrative.  Your dream is probably nearer to fact than the bullshit we hear in the news.  The nearest substitute for the word 'narrative' is 'bullshit.'

Saturday, December 3, 2016

Jeez, people are thinking like losers.

The Donald wins the election, and people are convulsing inward like a punctured jellyfish.  The win is an opportunity.  A basket of opportunity to flump your personal agendas inside out, shake out the bugs, and revitalize like a motherfucker.   Re-contextualize, fuck it.  Re-frame shit.   Ask what it will take to get heavies like Steve Bannon to support your agenda.  Hint:  Don't talk like a pussy.  Same agenda, no lisp.  Tell fucking old Steve to let gay men kiss in public all the fuck they want.

Which brings us all, you, me, and visitors from outer space, the supernatural, leprechauns, to my agenda.  Not that I'm one myself, but I'm putting a plug for the betterment of exhibitionism.  Lot's of people, all genders, all creeds, like to flash their private parts on subways and in alleys. People beat the living shit out of exhibitionists sometimes.  It's a rough and risky sexual orientation.  I think exhibitionists should be included in the LBGT umbrella grouping. Everyone should be getting equal protection from harsh treatment.  Especially geriatric age subway flashers.  They're a dying breed.  Like the Wahoe Indian.

Mr. Trump purports to care about American ideals, and I'm not about to prevent the incoming Prez from bowling all strikes in this ninth and tenth frame, in a bowling tournament with a long history of gutterballs.  I support everyone's right to jerk off in theaters.   A woman's right to flash twat will be respected.  Bring back streaking.   Nude protest rallies.   Bra burning.  I'm getting a chubby from just thinking about all the social progress.

Most important though, don't let the last election get you down.   Look at me.  I'm up. 

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Sometimes, maybe often, when it is impossible to reason with people...

...who are sorely fucked in the head, people stop bothering to make sense, or to tell the truth as they see it, or to support social causes kept in the hands of irrational, angry alt left/alt right bigots, an individual on the fringe may resort to pure silliness.  No need for substance, no one is responding to it.  I'm just fine with this national social disaster.  Please enjoy the nonsense I composed the other day and pasted below.  Cheers.

Bongo Dooma, Dear Friends

A new sound has come into my days. The sound of something like a drum, you might envision bongos, and that's just fine, for now. Up the pike you will amend vision. It is not a bongo drum. It bongs, it is struck with the hand. If you didn't bring one, there are extra here, in the chapel.

Bongo Dooma is chanted while drinking orange juice sweetened with ripe figs. From a ceramic mug. From Dollar Tree. It is our shrine to the things we must buy, one item at a time, a dollar a pop. We get bread from the Goodwill Store, where it is left out front for the vagrants. I, my dear cousins, am a vagrant.

The Bongo Dooma only now can be revealed, for true. It is this noise, the noise of bubbling amniotic jizz, heard while in utero, and remembered, in spite of conventional forgetting. You always remember, but you fuzz the fuck out of it, for you have other shit to do. The Bongo Dooma returns, grateful to be accepted in your head dress. You are at peace. The fluids you pickled in during gestation evaporated long ago. But they are are still here. They are here. Condensing on a burned out light bulb. Dripping behind a loose sheet of wall board. Dampening the futon you sleep on. No fluids, no joy. You are happy, you see. I am certain. Thank you. You are standard.