Fiction: Primitive Slumdwelling

The English walnut comes in a husk so thick and vile we are forced to lie to the children.  We tell them that the burning they feel as they harvest the nuts will speed their arrival to someplace a great deal nicer than here.  We are primitive, our agriculture is entirely passive, the climate here is aggressive, and our soil is like a locked ward at Atuscadero.    When there are hoards of little gridders dancing everywhere, and all the grown ups are dead or  in jail, the production of food can become Dickensian.   We are there.

The English walnut grows wild here, in abundance, enough to feed most of us.  They are also scarce enough to impose famine on weaker community activists, such as live a block from here.  The children must work quickly.  We give them disposable rubber gloves and yell, "get the fuck out there and fill these fucking crinkled grocery bags.  We'll die of starvation if you fuck this up."

Days of hard labor follow the gathering portion of our bifurcated life's ethic.  We need all the nuts there are to stay healthy.  Few people over the age of eight believe our bullshit story about the afterlife.   It reduces the work force.   Getting the kids to hammer the meat out of the wrappings has required us to install wide screen televisions.   We tell them that they will get double rations in the next world if they get all eighty tons of walnuts processed before we all have to grab a bat and chase off invading suburban nomads.  It is hard to find food, and rigorous to keep it away from everyone else.  For this reason and many more, we are polygamous.  Though we are not the world's brightest people, we don't let facts fuck us over.

A Horny Dialectic

Sexual behavior has charged like the Light Brigade into the cradled, mewling leftist strategy known as dialectic materialism.   The allegations of horny misconduct schwinging in the faces  of  Harvey Weinstein, Al Franken, Kevin Spacey, and Bill Cosby, on illusory horseback, will, I postulate, serve to displace men in the media, and replace them with women.   Might think of the process as yielding, at the end of the day,  one less Matt Lauer, one more Mika Brzezinski.   Leftists are known to believe all people have equal skills and flairs, and can be interchanged like hankies.  Maybe so.  Too, leftists have been using gender politics, in oh so many ways, to force their generally self serving agendas. 

Assuming so, it makes royally glowing sense to assist historically oppressed interest groups by removing nasty members of the ruling elite and replacing said same with someone belonging to the oppressed interest group.  Leftists talk a lot about gaining control over production, in turn they build political power, and if all goes well they infiltrate government, all the while kicking out oppressive, shitty guys who bother women, shit up the environment or are cruel to animals.  So the grizzled Russians discussed, whom ever controls production controls the people.   Any clever radical should know that he/she/it can serve their cause by learning technology and obtaining a market share of it. At the end of  that ideological day, the left owns production and controls people. 

Some, and surely not all, socialists still attempt to realize dialectic materialism. The method, of late, is to foment a shit storm of allegations against prominent figures in the media and elsewhere, get them fired, and redirect cash flow to women and minorities.      Hope it works great for all.  All human phenomena is groovy, if not in the moment, then over geologic time.  The old watch word was 'it takes a village.'  Now it takes a shit storm of allegations. 

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 the  forty inch diameter 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, intriguing, crenelated, unappetizing and toxic,  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 a few sane seconds, before remembering to hit the gas.  Some day the garish muscle cars will collide.  But for now, stewed persimmons, as only my wife can make.

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.

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.

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.