Friday, March 31, 2017

Thursday, March 30, 2017

A Jizz Moment Can Mean So Much

I was obtaining a kielbasa treat at a popular gas station/convenience store near a big grocery store in a part of town that is like a baboon's ass.

Am I distressed it is ugly as a thirty foot column of dog shit?  No.

The condiments there are excellent and diverse, canned sour kraut and relish in institutional style serving fixtures, the chili sauce dispenser, the cheese jizz dispenser, upside down plastic dispensers of sauces people didn't know of in 1998, as if people less than age twenty five could die of substance abuse without exhausting all his/her food choices, and the coffee there is outstanding.  I will attest of great sanitation, weenie buns cum in a safe-like oyster case, the cock shaped kielbasa units are always fresh and flavorful, fuck it all, that convenience store/gas station is a motherfucking lark.  I was riding my bicycle ten miles plus outbound followed, right the fuck then, with another ball buster in, when it got to be kielbasa time.  That mini plaza, ugly as duck shit, is an oasis.

Twas there that my best moment of the day, of the week, of how ever long I wish to claim it's giggling giddy memory, that two cashiers made my day.  As one lithe exotic beauty was ringing up my weenie purchase, so heavy with kraut, chili, lots of other garbage, her comrade cashier and she conversed in sweet voices, sweet, sweet laughing, feminine voices, the woman to the left saying, as I approached the check out, "they must get a lot of nookie in the back seat of them things."

As the other tall woman tapped the cash register keys, she smiled so radiant, so priceless,  glory of  pulchritude working like a one armed paper hanger, "Yeah.  There was jizz all over the apholstery."

That was absolutely all I overheard of their conversation, and it made me laugh.  It made me laugh most of the way home, which was a hairy six miles, if I felt like pushing the bike, but I lucked out superbly, decided to use the bike rack on the bus, caught the thing, and glory be, the cash box wasn't working so I got a free ride home, with the bike safe as milk on the carrier.   I guess I will content myself they were talking about a limosine, or other public, or private, conveyance, vehicle, bus, car, SUV, Humvee, who cares.  Any vehicle that has jizz all over the seats is living proof of vitality, of one kind or other. Or else there may have been a sex crime, and of course I hope not, I abhor that brand of misconduct, but as long as it was consensual jizz, I'm happy for everyone who had fun.  It can be wonderful to have sex while driving.  And it can take  two cashiers at a convenience store/gas station to remind you.  What could possibly be more life affirming?   A free bus ride, some rip-snorting good kielbasa, and edification.   The North Side.   No where else.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Friday, March 24, 2017

Edification Can Be A Real Big Pill

How concepts wander on the low chaparelle.  Like a bunch of fucking crack heads!  'Twerking' is an internet meme, some famous Barbie Doll either invented it or did it on orders from the Stalinist/Satanic West Coast leadership, and I had hoped not to hear of it again.  No such luck.    It's buttock emphatic, with practitioners hunching forward, ass out, working it.   Initially, it was done to music, but eventually people were able to eliminate expensive and inconvenient sound production.   Screaming and breaking windows is cheaper and easier than playing Bach on your digital cello.  Extending a huge monumental ass and shaking it to and fro is called 'twerking,' and it is growing in popular usage.  I was watching the Jerry Springer Show.

Transgender women were beating the fuck out of each other on stage.   One of them was scary large, another one lithe, over-confident and vicious, but they would converse about daily life, with the security staff at ready, then they would set to slap boxing.  Also fists.  The larger of the two women had a boxing stance unlike most professionals, but was fantastically intimidating.  Heck, I'd pay up if she said to me, "Where's the money, milkhead?"  Security staff had to intervene often.

Finally, it was time to get some audience participation going.  It was a relief.   Some wise soul suggested into the hand-held phallic microphone that the two combatants settle their differences with a twerk off.  The two individuals agreed!  Winston Fucking Churchill couldn't have worked this the fuck out one fucking teensy weensy bit better!  The two fine ladies needed to prove to themselves, each other and the world that their ass was as real as any woman's ass was.   They were women.  Not men dressed like women.  And the truth was in their ass.

They turned away from each other, then back stepped carefully, each leaning forward, hands on the knees, the ankles rollicking to a drum beat.  The two asses engaged at center, no talking, no senseless debate over ethics.  They both worked their ass, cheek to cheek, with comparable conviction and power.   With equal gender experience.  Parts of the audience was overcome with sensuality.  They remained locked at the buttocks for a full minute, both working their ass, nay, I say, 'twerking,' now that I'm ready to call it by its rightful name.  The two transgender individuals were twerking, and when they finished twerking, I felt certain they would be able to resolve their differences and become better transgender women who twerk.  And I'm glad I saw it all happen.  Thanks for reading.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Poetry Corner: Screwed and Glued

Screwed and Glued
oblique and sparking on a power line
the aluminum siding crackling
smoking like a party girl
the gutter helmets at liberty to walk downward
the mailbox porcine and lazy
holes in the roof let rodents in and out
some so large they block the moon light
the penumbras are never on kilter
even cosmic rays here are uncoordinated
you have to keep reminding them why they are here
'you are a particle, you asshole,' I have to shout
'you have cosmic authority to act'
no use
they hate they way I talk

Saturday, March 18, 2017

poem: Seismic Pain

Seismic Pain 
wango desperation interior bongo
hermit zipper stay up for another few hours
him taken in with the news
he keep hands still hearing ice cubes melting
the Marsh Wheeling stogie burning a hole in the fabric
Charybdis whirly up from cold war era cushion
Old Crow sideways on ovular throw rug
thick glass bottle neck pointed like he needs to kiss something
his eight foot taxidermy bear looms over his health status
a water buffalo head on a plaque is tipping forward
the man's myriad antlers chatter in the low grade earth quake
all the kings antenaes
most of the jack-off's knick knacks
rattle and talk to one another on the oak shelves
the guy's dentures talk fluent English

Thursday, March 16, 2017

poem: I Love This Motherfucking Slum

how charmingly normal there is broken glass
some old guy's basement dunks like a donut into the rocky hillside
I've discovered an honest clean love for poison ivy
it deserves credit
it grew without asking permission
I check my own reaction to it each year
some are worse than others
but I don't begrudge the rash
you see the slum dog with flair for nasty
never gets poisoned by nightshade
no form of lead toxicity reaches stupid level
we are stainless steel
we own water supplies only a muskrat could find
watch us twirl our flagella
I learned to love the dive below
where the warthogs can't get you
bullfrogs wink
trout size gold fish don't go belly up
ground hogs are remarkably well grounded
mice read the newspaper lining their cage
can't get better

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Monday, March 13, 2017

More of my continuing saga, The Primitive Way

The Primitive Way (continued) 

I was reading Chekov/Saul Bellow shit, not those authors, but comparable literature, you've read their crap at school, don't fight, but I think it's why I've had a change in my evening habits. For some reason I can't say 'habit' without thinking 'bowel,' it's the way some people grow up, or else there's a gene for asshole, but I've taken up the violin. Oh, it's not a Stradavarius, like some junky just happened to find one at the thrift store, I got this accessory off the internet, forty two dollars, color of a shaving cut. Plugs into the Fender Champ. Real loud.

I was practicing, like a habit, in front of the television, when I got the visit. It's Eastern European obsessive compulsive disorder, like a nationally famous breed of prickly pear, first some asshole reads some garbage in a magazine, book, might watch some bullshit movie, and soon the poor prick emulates some character or situation. Sometimes this shit is pre-ordained. Sometimes it's something the SOB does. Either way, they ride their scooter to the crossroads.

First I read this ethnic fairy tale about a fiddler. Then I bought an electric violin, off ebay, with accessories. Then it became habit to play the fucker. Never mind for now how well. That's still in the fumes. Rollie Satan made one of his comical appearances, he loves period costumes, always out of time, but resurgent, the way some garments come back in style after all the assholes who first went in for the look died, and now it's some miserable excuse for a new age. He's back to wearing a pompadour. So fucking unoriginal.

"Your playing could improve a lot, there, little Brucie," Rollie was saying. "I see a world of ass-fucked potential."


No one wants you to suffer any worse than you have to.   The ditty is painful.  That's because Rollie is holding up his end till my check clears.  Assholes are always slashing their own achillles tendon and paying with a bad check.  I'm desperate. Not dishonest.  Weak spine.

Soon as Rollie gets his paycheck, I'll be sounding a mite better on this disposable musical instrument.  You have to be patient with people learning how to play the violin.  It could drive you to scratching glass with your finger nails.   A really bad fiddler is a living hell.  I'm not sure why I decided I wanted to play the violin.   Had it never been invented, it would have been some other weakening force of desire and pretense.  The last time Rollie came into the picture, I was hoping to get good at riding skateboard.  Before that, I was hoping to pass third grade, but I have dyslexia.  In that paradigm, you might consider Satan is an eye doctor.   I think the character problems people wrestle with are not of this urban rehab zone.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Fiction: The Primitive Way...a saga in short chunks

Had a serpentine career under many wet rocks. Short stint in the military. Cashiered. The early '80s were a primo time to get kicked out of the army. They truly didn't care what you were doing. They just wanted people like me out. I'm still warm to their position on a thing people used to get Xed for. Best of all possible worlds, when your timing is good. I'm a royal fuck up, admit it, no longer sensitive, I learned as an undergrad that I am entitled to basic human dignity, and it's in the bindle, along with can opener and my beans.

Now I'm in Late Life Program, some bogus pro-geriatric continuing education garbage that only benefits people who aren't expected to produce the next better brain transplant. I get the shittiest stipend and health care package there is, also the worst high-rise unit available, because the nicer ones are reserved for people better liked. The project is nearly over, and I shall have to, for the 93rd time, vamonose to someplace else. A few weeks to go. If I turn in a decent report, I might get referred someplace nicer. For now I will stay focused, like my unit leader tells us all, on my anthropological study of a Pittsburgh shit hole.

I think they hated my guts at the state college. Other undergrads were recommended and referred to cush ass jobs in a corporation, almost like a gift for a great blow job, and it often was. In perpetuity. All puffing parties trading boy nookie for wampum beads and health coverage. In less oral/anal predatory times, people sufficed blowing one kind benefactor, then off forever to a private institution. Instability. We don't produce anything. We can't retain our worth in a company through useful labor. We don't do it. No one wants us. The new free will requires first legislation, then an organization that enforces it. We enforce lethargy.

What I wanted to share, since I don't get a book deal, is that I've been working a completely frivolous graduate externship in a Pittsburgh slum, can't say which, privacy, but I am still, until the crossbows rip my ass, more or less at liberty to concoct a farce.

What I have to do, and think of Orpheus, is sit on a bright orange fabric couch in a subsidized housing unit, and observe the inhabitants. The report I'm clicky-clacky on right now, when I'm not snowing your air waves, if I didn't have to measure words, for the real report, like Idi Amin was on the review board, is a sickly boring utilization review, I determine if these individuals are being well served, or being fucked six ways till Sunday. I am at liberty to profess that every ass fucking soul in the sub-philum has potential for growth of some sort. If Cecil Fucking Rhodes was alive and right here now, I believe he'd blow me for this development.

Friday, March 10, 2017

The Saga She Continues, Like An Asshole on Speed

The Primitive Way (continued)
Ho, ho, ho. Mine relative he teach at university, 225 square feet of hut space, all for we learn to be less barbaric, ho, ho, ho, we not completely stupid. We not so fucking stupid we beat our spears into mop handles. Uncle Bogopurchase, he teach-ums how a mon have one Glock and only three bullets, how he keep assholes from fucking us completely over. "Three times bang," I say to him, "then we throw-um spears. We all laughed."

"But milkhead bastard he have-ums four rounds in his pistol. Perhaps he kill you." Again, peels of laughter.

We conduct funerals all day everyday. We don't get too fucking worked up. Sometimes you knit the woolly mastadon's cardigan sweater, some times the beast escapes extinction long enough to crush you to death. We are alive. We love. We laugh. As we learn at the madrassa, long ago the existentialists all say we be fucked. We say, "You fuckin' right, Frog Bastard."

New Dystopian Fun Fiction, in continuing saga format. Look for more real soon.

A Primitive Way

Ona conga mandingo, everyone! It is tropical. Like a fruit punch. Long straggly straws dey hang down my long, long puss as me hat disintegrates, I am itching 'down there,' longing all the while for my Hunamunger, she fly off on her broom, fuck me sad. Government tourist agency pay me (lucky, lucky, lucky old me!) to sit in a plantation chair wearing white white white linen plantation suit. Lovey go run away, say I beat her. Oh, no. Many men beat-ums wifey. I no beat. I tell her I love her. I say, "You make your fine ugamaho, from crushed and sun dried feral pig. Dey get run over, we eat well. She say, "Why we no have no napkin rings?"

I say to her, "You roll napkin, Bugarama punish you. He say you are a dangerous and anti-social puke wombat. And you tell lies. But I smell the ugamaho cooking over a steel barrel. You are tolerable.:"

Her nostrils flared, she grab wooga stick, shake the stick at me three times. She hiss, "Ring. Ring."

"No," I say. "you no rings. You no roll napkins. We both wipe our snoots in pleasure."

That last time we co-habit.


Gracious good luck, my Hunamunger has come back. She go away, cool her jets. At market she buy herself a new baby. No shitty nine months. She need that wiggling baby.

"When he is four," she say to me, so proud, "he will go to work sixteen hours a day at the circuit board factory."

All tiny children love vats of molten lead and eight by ten foot sheets of fiberglass. They are needed. Bad. To sharpen the cutters. No cutters. Many starve. Our baby will be very good with cutters.

When he die from lead poisoning, we are proud. We get new baby. We feel good again.

3.    (Frightening Academics, a digression)

Wacky pranky television crew with camera and small money ask nubile you go put this glowing warm lotion on nuveau chic dissident puss, tee hee, chubby thigh diplomat keel-ums on sidewalk, oooof, over. Girlie in hoosegow, two good kidneys, a liver, other keeshkas for market value. 

Now mail order wifey tell me yo ho, titters, you Brucie-ums, let Zina-kins put-ums sex oil on my fu manchu. Wrong'ums. No retard-ums. 

Me doctorate holder. Wiff bweeef caithe (lead poisoning, 'with brief case'.) Dey gimme a diplomatic pouch. Them say, "See, Brucie, you put-ums our crap in your bag, you fly-ums any-the-fuck-where."

I carry bag-ums. Dey call me de 'bag man.' Way proud. Fucking honor, in this world. Woman. She want kill me. Insurance. She no put lotion on my snoot.


Lordy, dere be mala en se. One spouse, my troubled yet penis-companionable Hunamunger, acquired a new baby, we are in agreement it was a wise purchase, we should prosper, for all babies, on reaching age of four, will work in the circuit board factory. All day long she smoosh bananas and spoon-ums into wee baby gullet. I say, "Woman, you see baby go ralf? You make-um bambino puke, with your brusque handling of the ragawango spoon."

"Ha ha ha," we both laugh. She know she do wrong-ums. Everyone do things gross. We crap. We fart-ums. We throw spears at wandering missionaries who say we no buy babies. Ha! How we get good late model SUV? How we convince the government, all two men in white, white, white linen and a burgundy felt fedora, they stay fat long as we make circuit boards for the NSA? We X missionaries. We buy-ums little factory laborers.

I play song. I play,on my two remaining stings, some shit by Stevie Ray Vaughn. Spears perforated my guitar, a gift, from a Haitian wizard. A real smug jack off. He buy shit-head guitar off the fucking internet. Made in the Phillipines. Sounds like two out of six crying wildebeasts. Our baby looks fed. My Hunamunger blows a kiss, says, "I be back soon. I kill food. We eat good tonight." 

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Elizabethan English Is Spoken Here!

Deareth me, I musteth needs to embeddeth a termperate mother of video.  Fucketh me if you hateth this turkey.   Calleth me a big fat jerk off.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Here's a new rat's nest of recondite ideation....

Won't say whose, but I've been watching a youtube podcast regularly for a few months, and today, weirdness.  The person doing the show announced he is taking time away from his daily news and views production, for personal reasons, saying, mostly, that it's a personal crisis, is emotional in nature, and isn't anything listeners/subscribers should freak over.  It's disturbing.   The show is about politics.

Just yesterday I got a weird notice on my youtube, saying there was some sort of rule breaking on my account, not clear what I did, but it said my 'favorites' folder was being disabled.  Sounded like something I viewed is being called foul.  The notice said that none of my videos were being taken down, or I think that's what it said.   This happened right after I posted on my podcasts, this one..

Well, I'm still podcasting.   Hope all is grand.  I'm slightly weirded out.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Last month I mail ordered a dozen bandanas in a new color, and the slum dog inside me was awakened.  Burgundy warmed my gelid, chilly winter blood, this freakishly temperate winter.  A color can be successful, proved easily in that the same item, a large cotton snot rag, flatters me more so than others, given a choice of a dozen fruit patterns
.  Most people can learn which color best compliments them.  There may be rigorous trial error, for those who don't just throw their shit together.  There are slum dogs who do.  Not me.  I assemble my outfits with care.

Listen to me fuss and blither.  Maybe you are right.  Maybe I'm stupid.  I feel insecure and uncertain when left-handedly discussing Steve Bannon's big bomb, the term 'administrative deconstruction.'

A shift in administrative attitudes, from obstructionist to cheerfully networking, may be a step towards socio-economic rejuvenation.  If it was as easy as hiring a motivational speaker, great things would have happened while comedian Chris Farley was still alive, mocking motivational speakers, in the 1980s.   SNL.   Politicians have hired enough consultants to build a bon fire for Washington cannibals,   People have been negotiating their little ass off.    A careful process of disassembling partisan political structures was in order decades ago, and so far, no one I know of pulled it off, let alone even suggested it.

I like the idea.  Pittsburgh should have performed it decades ago.  Instead, it conserved what little economy and culture was left of the steel mill days, all the while doling resources to friends and relatives of the establishment, a febrile, crooked, dim one.  It took forever to initiate a revitalization, and my take on it is that it should start failing in few years.  We don't produce shit.  It's all service industry.   Most of it is tax subsidized.   We network like assholes.  Now would be a grand time to deconstruct partisan politics at the local level.

I'm conjecturing that if the Trump Brand deconstructs a partisan system of quid pro quo, this will reduce obstruction to economic growth in the private sector.  It could increase efficiency and reduce operating cost.  Free market econ opens opportunity.   Regulation inhibits it.  So does affirmative action. And torts.   People have been carping about tort reform  shit since the motherfucking Edsel.  If, like now, social economies inhibit  free market methods, such as through taxes, intervention and regulation, it may be effective to apply administrative deconstruction.   Nobody wants to be a lousy mean bastard, just less amenable to outside intervention.   This is part and parcel to conservative isolationist philosophy, which dear Trump is currently being accused of, in the media, of being.  If the media crap is true, so may be my bullshit.  Shazam!   Excelsior!