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




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.  




Friday, October 19, 2018

An aspiration. I am composing The Return Of Kazootra

I guess it's safe to share a fulminating, painful secret.   There is an epic project shinnying up the greased inside track of a cosmic stainless steel cork screw that is forever pointed downward.  I hope to reach the synthetic scrimshaw handle, carrying with me a book titled The Return of Kazootra. 

Don't bother trying to plagiarize.  I've already published fragments of the work, with the same title in fat bold Times New Roman.  It's a modern mythology based on stooges I've known too well to let slide out of permanent opprobrium, at least if I can help it.   I feel entitled to some form of justice, something off the grid.   To realize any dream, one has to describe it to people who have the beams and nails to build it for you.  I am constructing greater knowledge of chickenshit losers from the past. 

Return Of Kazootra is mythology.  People are fixated on ancient myth.  It's why Trump is president.  People were reading ancient myth, when they should have had their snoots pressed to this myth, mine, about people who did us all the disservice of being conceived by their pestilential and ambitious mom and pop during the fart-biting disasterous baby boom.   Instead of that, everyone has been drinking main stream media atomic fizz and bilge water while Rome gets conflagrated.  I've decided to post, openly, about the writing project, even though the fucking thing isn't ready to be published.  And, you will laugh, if and when I finish Return Of Kazootra, I will try to hawk it to a main stream publisher.  I wanna, wanna, wanna fat ass book deal.  

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Monday, October 8, 2018

Embedded youtube.com videos




I embedded some old documentary style news video presentations down below, so groove on the history that upchucked now, for time is an enflamed never-ending digestive tract,  that disolves yester years and floats all the fucked up things that are happening.  The future is about stepping over the puke   and about trying to feel better about things, now that something different is happening.  It's only happening because of fore-shit, so we must watch history shows.


Friday, September 28, 2018

Fiction! Not a grain of truth. It's Happy Horseshit.

Drop Me Some Place Awful


You don't have to get into this matter.  It was in the late 70s.  One of those missions where they drop you out of a plane over the Yucatan and you have to eat lizards while getting a start in the local status mill.   Even aboriginals vie for blue blood privilege  in their own really different type of culture.  American bigots think everyone's loin cloth all looks the same.  Ha.  Primitive tribals are an ambitious and highly enterprising cuss.   People don't realize how much they are like the Stepford Wives.

It was a combat mission.  There's still a spot on my left calf where  hair does't grow, from the parachute landing.  The Incas got their dun muscular heinies on the US radar because they were meeting in a centralized location.  Just that.   I don't speak Incan.  No one does.  I do a mean sign language of I'M AN ANGELIC MISSIONARY FROM EAST KABUTTFUCK, gain their confidence, then hike my heinie home to US, with a classified report in a leather wine skin.  There was some other shit.  What's that saw, (ha, ha) about cut off the head and the tail dies.  They say it in most gangster movies.   Some short OC figure had said it somewhere in Florida around the time Kennedy got whacked. Or else some intelligence agency thought it up.  One thought up my visit to the Yucatan.

Me, me,me.  I got to machete a couple committee leaders.   Wet work, titter, titter.   We rag each other about it.   Then, since I don't feel guilty, same as most, I have to find a Jungian myth that fits what I did.   I cut one head off the Hydra.  According to the fairy tale, two heads will grow in its place.  And you know what that means to everyone living in dreamier places then where I was.  It means it isn't really a big deal.  Two heads will grow in its place, exponentially the thing will get more gigundous and successful, we might have to drop more angels of mercy down there.  We may have, but I lost track of the place soon as I got back here.  So did everyone else.  I'll bet they're A-okay.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

You will enjoy reading the output of my rotting mind



I'm still mulling that stupid Brett Kananaugh no-handshake with bereaved gun control advocate incident.   I already said the attempt may have been prohibited on the basis of a security arrangement.  Allowing the two swains to lock hands is an opportunity for Mr. Guttenburg to bite Brett's shiny little  nose off.    It's not freaky for security guards to forbid physical contact.

 There are some desperate assholes out there, and some of them  have a perfectly appreciable agenda.  If I wanted to enact gun control I might not have been as even tempered as Guttenburg.  Brettster isn't anything close to my kind of person.   The reason for my limp wristed centrist position on this matter and loads of others is the sheer and shitty human capital that might otherwise wind up on the Supreme Court.  At this point, shit is shit.   Perhaps  when all options are bad, one tries to be the most pragmatic little shit one can be.   It's what I do.

Happy days, 45 turned in a grade A performance plastering over sex allegation #3.  When a fifth victim comes forward, I think Channel should name a perfume after her.    Okay.  I'm sick.   Maybe I'll get help.   Don't let me have you believe I support any politician.   I'm urging pragmatism with regard to actions that 45 is taking.  One can despise the First Shroomdick  at the self-same time.  Philosophers have spoken of the divided self.  People can compartmentalize this crap. 

Woolly Bully, by Sam the Sham and Pharoahs, is the song of wacky hocus pocus.   Jean Paul Sartre believed everyone has the right to go insane.   One  can keep one's marbles in a tidy sack, as well.   Shroomster has been taking a number of actions we all should be eyeballing critically.  I believe in fair play, the Prez is a first rate bullshit artist, and I don't mind recognizing the brute for it.  Another song comes to mind, goddamit, It's Only A Paper Moon.   Blanche Dubois was singing it in the bathtub, in Street Car Named Desire, shortly before being carted to the state hospital.   What may have seemed normal a few decades ago is only a paper moon.  Maybe our Shroomdick is bullshitting us all someplace nice. 








   

Saturday, September 22, 2018

Cofidentiality Might Be Getting Dicked

It's hard to be pompous.   Deep breath.   Turning red.  I'm being a prig about confidentiality.  I read a news article supposedly exposing 45 as a raving, unfit horrible hephalump from Poo Forest.  An alternative perception of the Rosenstein circle jerk is that it's a deceptive and unethical breach of confidentiality.   The shit said about the 25th amendment may have been a joke or hyperbole. Maybe they were both blowing smoke.

 The article described nutty behavior on the part of 45.   This rounder opines that loose talk spoken with the expectation of confidentiality cannot be regarded as a basis for action against a mop jockey.  The Prez likes to to bullshit.   

The garbage about wanting to fire Comey before he was elected was angry talk, but probably not a genuine position on that matter.  Things people say behind closed doors are usually not identical to that which one goes public with, unless one is very fucking Amish-like.  It's fun to cuss out people who piss you off.  What's wrong with a little happy horseshit?  

The crap about Rosenstein having considered recording conversations is a clam out of season, to say the least, if he actually did discuss it.  Mitigation, dear readers.    Talking about it  in private isn't too fucking far off the grid.  Even shit behavior may be logical.  All kinds of pricks record conversations illegally, all over creation.  Lawyers are peckerheads.   People fib.  One may wish to prove someone fibbed for a spectrum of reasons.   If the jerks were  upset over something, and people get J.O.ed all the time, one or both  might have mouthed off like a punk, but it wasn't intended to be publicized.    That goes for both 45 and Rosenstein. Look at the shit Nixon got caught saying on tape.   Where has everyone been?

A description of Rosenstein's supposed state of emotional distress in the article gave me some agita.  People get jizzed.  Maybe he's a nervous type.  Barney  Fife.  He looks sorta' like him, no?   Anyway, I don't want to cloud up your morning with too much of my bullshit.  I just like to hulk out an alternative point of view.   Why the fuck not?







Please give this a read, and don't let it put you off your waffles. I'm jiving.

I feel like a oogy ogre for scaring up a few paltry counterpoints to the Kavenaugh fracas.   It's possible that a history of sexual assault has nothing to do with his ability to serve on the Supreme Court.   The Constitution  doesn't have tits to squeeze.  The way it may apply in a court case has nada, zito and diddly to do with a possible juvenile offence of any kind.  All right, Rowe Vs. Wade is a big red flag to my counterpoint, and I support all feminist positions with regard to reproductive freedom.  That aside, and if he did grope her, it still doesn't prove he can't render fair verdicts.  

Shitsky, I'll have to back-slide again.  Anything pertaining to the disposition of sex crimes could be compromised if the judges have more skeletons than Ted Bundy.  But Peckerhead Kavenaugh hasn't been convicted of anything, statutes of limitation zipped off, and here's maybe  something, okay, cheesy, maybe relevant:  The victim is a psychologist professor, Ph.d.    Problemo. 

 If the assault even took place, the perp was a juvenile.  I'm not citing law, but it could be an ethics issue that a mental health professional would go public with a juvenile offence.  Those cases tend to be handled with much greater confidentiality than those of adults.   The university to which she is attached could incur damage if she turns out to be a lying sack, and if it's opined her conduct is poor professional conduct for a Ph.d level shrink.  I hate myself for bringing this up, but wouldn't a psychologist be able recover from trauma by now, if the therapy works as good as hoped for one and all, patients at large and her?  I haven't heard one public personality mention the issue of public confidence in head shrinkers.   She could be making them look like assholes.

Another thing. My personal experience with those professionals is that they are quite, quite capable of lying, acting unethically in partisanship, and of course, of being a dirty snitch who is being paid to lie.   Universities and the medical establishment, alike, are  a vast weasel city.  Look what a cunt Big Pharma is. 

That's all the shit that's fit to opine.  Don't let me give you a headache.   I'm just a circumspect  little munchkin.   Try to be broad minded.




Monday, September 17, 2018

I'm still cloning people who deserve it (fictitious BS)


Got it, got it. It's in my locking tweezers, surgical stainless steel artery clamps off ebay, it must cost nothing to get your kidneys retreaded in China, I have some of Virginia Woolf's DNA. It's a very prim, anti-structuralist Kotex, those old limeys used to make the things out of parchment, like the Constitution, and it appears she was a heavy hitter on the monthlies.

I stole it. Dressed up all Brooks Brothers. Rented a dip-shit looking sedan. Made out like I was from the Cape area. Limeys eat that garbage. Now my picture is up at the post office. Cocksucking legacy group hates me bad. One of those bogus Bloomsbury Groups. I can't stand those histrionic posers. They're planning to put my eyes out with a pitchfork. They'll never get past my F 150 with turbocharger.

It appears she menstruated in a flow of consciousness format. There's more than enough hair and  Chef Boy R Dee to clone one of the most important ideals of feminism. Woolf is a literary icon. She was ragging up a storm just before she hiked the sea weed mile and checked out. I may be in posession of the last hurrah.

I got the chemistry set spread out on the kitchen table. I got all these nice things for the spare room in the back of my trailer, too. Shouldn't be any problem explaining why all of sudden there's a kid that seemed to come out of nowhere. Most people in this park have worse explanations for themselves and family. If I told them I brewed up Virginia in a mason jar, it would beat their curriculum vitae, I can tell you that. She's going to be president of the United States in just. maybe, thirty five years and change. It's going to be significant. What I'm doing right now is significant. Its for you. I'm doing this for you.

Saturday, September 15, 2018

We need to get cloning.  There aren't any people fit for the presidency left, at least for the next thirty five years, but if the right dead stalwart could be Xeroxed right fucking now, there might be hope for people tuning ten in the next century. 

 I'd clone Malcolm X and groom the little gridder for slightly more centrist world leadership.   Maybe Malcolm didn't choose his friends all that wisely, but he had guts and a rip-snorting good political platform.  I'd vote for him now, but he's dead, so if he still has some DNA to pitch into the stone soup, that would be nice. There are other paradigm shifts to program through practical bio-engineering.  Poetess Sylvia Plath.
 We need to clone Sylvia because she is the only alternative to the current model of feminism that could possibly sell.   By the time Gloria Steinem goes senile and Linda Sarsour retires to a penthouse in Dubai everyone here will be ready for the more diffident Sandra Dennis type of progressive.  We need a Smith/Vassar type.  It's going to be the 60s all over again, with casting couches for all sixteen gender sub-classifications.  Can't wait.  Taking vitamins.   We all need more sex and poetry readings. 

Here's a prima fascia case:  Mark Twain.  There must be a few snippets of his mortal coil persisting against  long entropy.  There's a good old boy I think everyone would vote in, no questions asked.  Clone Mark Twain.  The prick was unimpeachable.







Fresh Intellectual Blithering...same subject as last.

Lord knows I may be a compulsive-ass motherfucker.  Obsessive-ass, too.  Here's a rehash of some dookey I want to go on record saying:   NYT columnist Paul Krugman has shit for a brain, Noam Chomsky is a devolving  sellout and a victim of globalist infantilization, and Tom Steyer is cancer of the do-gooder project.    In his case, it's a community sing-along to get Trump impeached.   He's a puke. 

Vicious and incompetent parasites turn up in all social classes.  Krugman's economics is a fairy tale that excludes most of the middle and all of the labor classes.   It excludes ordinary tax payers who pay for all the programs.  By endorsing guaranteed unattainable wage scales, wage earners don't get shit.    Chomsky and Steyer have been on the inside of a super plush luxury petrie dish for so long that neither can conceptualize reality. 

Steyer trades on wealth for him and unattainable hopes for the poor folk.   He is your space commander, you are his space cadet.   Mean ugly capitalists are persecuting you, and he's using his billions to liberate you from Trump.  It's asinine. 

Daily life since 9/11  has been like Orwell's gloom-orgy novel, 1984.   We are all in a global studio wrestling match with foreign and domestic faces and heels.  I wish Trump was an even mix of JFK, Margaret Thatcher, Virginia Woolf, Malcolm X, Eldridge Cleaver, and Laurence Olivier, but he's what's at bat.  Opinions will differ, no problemo.   Impeachment is asinine, since the whole White House and legislature  is a permanent state hospital for the criminally insane.  It's like jailing a shoe salesman for selling shoes. 







Monday, September 3, 2018


Saturday, August 25, 2018

The New, New New Neo-modern Myth

Holy shit, did you know that anyone can invent a myth?  Any where, any old time.  And with validity on par with any and all fat fuck ancient Greek and Roman authors of myth.   Like that cocksucker, Ovid.  Or fucking Virgil.  Okay, maybe they were poet cocksuckers, but you get the idea.    It was fucking Homer, alright.  Big fucking deal.  Homer wrote the Odyssey, and everyone acts like he's a goddam big shot.  Well he's dead and we are still around.  

 Aesop and his ass fucking stupid fables!   What makes that sweating, toga billowing, fat ass  piece of shit better then you?   You can fart out a fable any fucking time you want, and no shitbird has any right to say you suck and Aesop is fab.  It doesn't fucking work like that.  Not any fucking more.  

That's why I'm totally conceited about the Myth of the Triple Breasted Woodpecker.  It explains perfectly the whole phenomenon of the bird flu virus, such as the one that was all over the news from 1990 till around the end of the dot com craze.  After that, scientists invented a worse communicable illness to scare everyone shitless with.  It was in that crap-strewn era that I had this visual hallucination  of a great and disgusting bird.  It has a long, sharp beak, a short powerful neck like on Stone Cold Steve Austin, and it has on it's powerful chest an anomaly.  Three breasts.   Two little ones on either side, and a great fucking big one in the center.  It's the big one that transmits the avian flu virus.  

The birds fly below radar at speeds up to two hundred miles an hour, crashing full speed into hapless pedestrians.   The giant infectious bird tit slams into the victim's chest, injecting eight liters of pure foul spirits into everyone.  It's a large tit.   And so destructive.  Lucky us, there is a space cowboy at large, looks sorta' like Charles Fucking Bronson, and he's working his heinie off to prevent the Triple Breasted Woodpecker from carrying off its nefarious mission.  There nothing to fucking worry about.

Doctors and scientists can blow me.  The assholes were making a big fucking deal about the supposed 'avian flu' epidemic that no one seemed to have, but that might kill us all and let God sort us out.   We're still here, by George.  Doctors and other medical pros are ass-wipes and they are usually fucked in the head.  Avian flu was sent to  Earth from the planet Venus by a goddam ifrit, a simple motherfucking genie from outer space, doesn't matter which one.   They have magic lanterns, just like on fucking I Dream Of Genie. You try to polish the lamp.  The shit hits the fan.  

 It began with the excessive use of clear plastic kitchen wrap and baggies.   Fucking things are choking the living shit out of Mother Nature, who is another guest celebrity of Myth.  So this evil genie from Venus invented a strain of flu.  He needed to find a way to get it all the way to Earth, and to make sure the virus makes people really fucking sick.  And none of this shit matters, because people are sick assholes with or without avian flu.   The moral, here is that terrible things happen, and I like being the lousy prick I am.  I think this is something everyone, all the fuck over the place, can understand and espouse.  Obviously, I'm better than fucking Homer.  And so the fuck are you.  Thanks for reading.



Friday, July 27, 2018

Here is more peace and flowers shit




Fuck it all, we all must don pastel waffle stompers and transverse the silvered glass.   It only shatters when breached by a dunce.   And the mirror in this establishment is always perfectly intact, with only minor spherical aberations.  Everything here comes cheap yet productive.  It's the House of Libertarian Euphoria.     There are novel opinions on the Presidency to mull the fuck over.

Here in Ozzdisnia, a computer generated bogus princedom, it is conceivable to all residents that forty fucking five may be applying reasonable and effective managerial science, in some garden variety Machiavellian motif, to domestic and world affairs.  The six foot three inch transgender polar bear ran a complex opening gambit, installing dazzling Bettsy DeVos and Linda McMahon, to instill confusion with prescription stardust.   The move successfully wasted the energies of his many opponents, while hiding critical elements of a more isolationist free market agenda.  

 He appoints a bovine cognitive elite farm lass for press secretary, forcing feminists to fuck themselves over.   They can't subject her to ridicule without exposing themselves as bullies with gender bias comparable to that of white males.   The same principle applies with Linda and Betsy.     

The TPB (transgender polar bear)  pulled his downy ass out of the Climate Conference.    Polar Bear haters will say the president is callous to normal, reasonable environmental concerns and policies.  This word slinging cowpoke suggests, for sport, the exit was part of an opening gambit, in both economic and political strategy.   If successful, the move will force the EU to bargain more favorably to US interests, independent of environmental goals.   Clean, glowing libertarian philosophers will pipe in here that conservation is best achieved by individuals, groups and municipalities better than by the federal government, whose job is better practiced in terms  of foreign and domestic relations.   If the whole shit pile composts properly,  the US economy will be able to rectify it's poor, fucked up lousy self, in time, while retaining the ability to negotiate, initiate, produce, and sell  it's happy fucking self into desirable standards of living.  Jesus tits, a conservative free market philosophy may enable the kind of advanced humane happy horseshit that commie assholes have been huckstering for the last century.  Commie assholes won't admit that libertarians can be the cutting edge of humanity. Individuals develop earning power, influence, and the material ability to construct the arts and sciences.  Critics of the political left could refer to it as a parasite on the arm of formal academics.  Most currently, the fuckers have been booting anything libertarian in nature out of universities.  There are nut jobs out there, like me, who want to schwing the free market way back in.   

A transition out of social economics and into isolationist lessez faire is cooking on the front burner.  Whether it smells good, or whether the cooking stinks, it might turn out swell.  Far fucking out!  If it all goes shitty, then everyone who hates 45 bad will be correct.   No hard feelings.  I'm a nice motherfucker.  We all are.  And we all need to  be feisty enough to handle opposing views on politics.  I'll be schwinging out more political essays real soon.   Oh, fucking happy day!

For a little teaser,  when the spirit moves my hairy ass, I'm gonna' chat up on what started out as Steve 'Sloppy Steve' Bannon's strategy.  It was in the media for  geological nana-seconds, and needs to be retrieved from the cosmic shit-pile of subject matter.  There was a phrase bandied real early in 45dom, "administrative deconstruction" that needs to be talked about, like an eight foot tall hermaphrodite in a powder blue frock.  There should be an agenda to remove leftist politics from government and non-government agencies.   This could be a  fat ball buster for a lot of people.   Baby boomers who were forced as small children to read Dick and Jane books in  school may recall how fucking well, Dick and Jane's mom and dad got along.  And then there was this agenda to destroy the American middle class, for reasons of social justice and progress.  Fuck me for blithering.  I'll get back this crap, next post.    Love everything.   It's all the shit-load we have.

Oh, fuck, before I forget, I've been meaning to bring three names into my shiny zinc bucket of beefs and griefs.  Fucking Paul Krugman, Noam Chomsky, and Tom (Rich Eagle Scout) Steyer are three deluded, irrelevant and desperate bastards.    Chomsky did his best intellectual work a long time ago.   Now his brain is tangled up in blue.   Krugman's socialized economics for elites works atrociously for everyone but his narrow school of toadies.  All tax paid high minded marshmellow fluff.  Steyer has been engaged in a collossal do-gooder project, pure middle class noblesse-oblige, like a mental disorder, in which he tries to save the world by getting 45 impeached, his treat.  Like he's buying us all a fucking ice cream sandwich.  I'll be blithering about this and more, next blog entry.  



Friday, July 13, 2018

Blogs are a groovy way to publish poems. Flowers, Peace, Spirituality, Histrionics.







The Pedestrians


that was how to fail
as if someone wrote a curriculum
we were fed bum steers like that in grade school
try teaching a bat to do something different
I had to compact myself repeatedly
we are aerosol cheese
you have to squat down hard to materialize
the crap about upward mobility produced silverfish crackers
weighing in proudly
with hairy legs



 

Sunday, July 8, 2018

There's a few gems in the compost

Why do I have to explain this shit, like an asshole?   I'm not being a toady.   45 may be applying good managerial science to world politics.   

People are fulminating already.  It's so vitriolic.  I was reading a Washington Post article, and this time they managed to accidentally credit the Dude with novel methods.  The use of cash flow and services to manage EU leadership is reasonable, even if objectionable.  The use of deterrence and incentives  might deserve a blue star here and there on some dental hygiene report in the heavens.  Jack-booting Scott Fucking Pruitt was a nice thing to do.  No one in my preserves are claiming Trump is a far out groovy environmental savior.   The planet, largely our treat, has been awash in toxic waste since decades prior to Trump, Pruitt and Godzilla.  Trump took action in response to public hatred towards Pruitt.  This space monkey wishes to extend a few ripe bananas in advance of the cosmic hope chest.  And of course, lots of individuals may be correct in hating Trump's styling gel plastered coif.  Let's not be rotten towards each other.  I'm a friendly, sociable motherfucker. 

Do I have to sing "Life Is A Bowl Of Cherries?"  Everything is grand.   45  is a fucker, yet there is reason to adopt a passive mind set towards this globalized studio wrestling extravaganza.  It may take a fuck of a long time to iron out all the effects the tariffs are likely to have.   Jobs may be gained/lost hither/tither.   Beware of asshole economic indicators.  Don't listen to Paul Krugman.  This cowboy is anticipating some form of formalized downsizing trend aimed at reducing the scale of federal government.  Rodeo clowns are all singing out loud that this may be part and parcel to Steve 'Sloppy Steve'  Bannon's strategy.  An other aspect of the strategy is to motivate a trend in private cash investment in domestic manufacturing concerns.  If that pops out of Lake Michigan like Moby Fucking Dick, it may mean a new direction in retail.   It's the type of hash free market mavens will sling.

And this is just a load of talk.   Cornelius Vanderbuilt's father called him a 'blatherskite' when he was knee high to a lady bug, and it may have had a painful effect on the lad.  Maybe I'm a blatherskite, too.  Maybe this is a load of garbage.  I'm proud of it.  Burp.

Saturday, July 7, 2018

Butthole Political Essay

To make my point, I must relay a hilarious anecdote that Richard Speck,  the late  blond Flower Power era mass-killer, told  while a rose cheeked older prison inmate.   Adipose and matronly, extra-naturally bathyculpian, the Richard-meister shared the time, as an early adolescent, he was expelled from his church. 

Subdued southern Baptists, each week the minister would select a member of the congregation and ask what three hymns he/she would like the choir to perform.  The Sunday it was Speck's turn, he pointed to hot looking males in the choir as he said, "I want him, and him, and him."   No doubt a homophobic denomination of crackers, it was his last Sunday with law abiding normal folk.  Years later he raped and murdered nurses.  His was a long road through gender dysmorphia, with a mighty train of draft horses.   I'd like to biff-bang cognition towards the subject of social norms.

Immutable fuckers they usually are.   With subsidized pockets of slack.  Usually a bitch, you cross the line in the sand, you get fucked in the ass, in the manner proscribed by community fucking standards.  You may be shunned, ridiculed, jailed, tortured, or killed while some church denomination sues for your fast track to Hell.  What does it take for someone to  fuck a norm and net a personal misery for payback?  Diddly fucking little, let me tell you.

My favorite quote, "foolish inconsistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."  If you really want to work your mental abs, this may explain why Trump is president, also, why, this time around, it's a reason to sustain the electoral college.   Most often, though, it is why shit-heads in the office downtown  object to what you choose to wear one day.   It's not the federal government that pees on your right to free expression, it's stupid commoners, anywhere, that suppress free speech.  Hang out in a dive bar to witness this divination.  Talk out of line.  Get slugged.   But I digress.

 The human condition for the past two years has been one of combative intrusion and contention.  It's a pissing contest among contestants, all trying to be the angriest.  The problem of people violating cultural norms has  escalated a fat shit-load.  People are manufacturing the norms they attack people for violating.  There are both new and old stigmas to strike individuals with.  Per ideal, imagine a pedophile who  issues microaggressions towards adult women.  Imagine how badly such as prick should be hated.  Anyone can incur comparable contempt, quicker than snot in February, via the internet.   All you have to do is deny that Trump sucks horse cocks. 
,
Richard Speck worked hard to get where he wound up.   And now, ladies and gents, all you have to do to be shunned is support a rightist philosophy or political agenda.  You can't be conservative without people hurling their pitchforks and horse apples at you, both hands, the whole family jeering at you.  Hard times, these days.  Fucking bitch.  Free speech.  Free expression.   Responsibility sufficient to keep the planet from going completely fucking ape.  We can achieve this shit.



Friday, June 29, 2018

Offensive Little Fables

There lived, hundreds of eons ago, or more recently, fuck it all, a short-lived gathering of Native Americans.  The Cunnilinguas were mostly gay squaws, wisely they had a low opinion of braves, and the squaws would be fucked if they were going to let men get ahead of them, technologically speaking.   These women  knew from day one that male social structures lead to nukes and groping incidents at the office.  They weren't having it.  Why build computers when you can grow and squish corn?

Naturally, it took a while for this enclave to go into decline.  Braves were failing to mate with women, after a few centuries of vicious allegations.  It was like what happened to Harvey Weinstein. And the bastards deserved it.  Just for being born.  Men are rotten snakes, and I agree, women should hate their guts.  But the tribe has been extincted for a fuck of a long while now, and I got that first hand from a fellow I picked up hitchhiking. 

This sociable outpouring of bullshit leads us all to modern reproduction.  There's no need to marry.  Monogamy lowers your chances of producing a maverick.  Why risk striking out?  Then we visit the other side of the rainbow.  There's no need to even bother fucking when you have modern scientific insemination.  Perfect, smart, tall, handsome and employable men sell their sperm to sperm banks.  You can buy yourself a frozen tube of gorgeous genius jizz at fair market prices, and make like Thanksgiving with the turkey baster.  This method can't fail to produce people who are completely fab.  No assholes, no shit heads.  I may be idealistic, but there are shiny bullet points for either approach to eugenics, the polygamous law of averages, and the more pinpointed artificial insemination technique.  It's all good.  I think everyone can relax about the future.

Wednesday, June 6, 2018


Saturday, May 19, 2018

A Date With Gina

Equality is a many splendored ideal.   It has a nice ring to it, as might the  Liberty Bell.  The bell, last I heard, has one big crack in it.  Egalitarianism has a shitload of smaller ones.

  Among cracked liberties, equality is sometimes seen as equal status granted people who are incompetent, to the annoyance of people who  know what they're doing and can find their ass in the dark.  At least in the area of invention, few people are equal to Edison or Tesla.  Both Prince and Hendrix played guitar a great deal better than I do.  What if Jonas Salk's vaccine had been passed over for reasons of affirmative action? 

Forced equality can have a stunting effect on progress.   Great leaders aren't selected like cans of Campbell's soup.  Equality means equally dim.   People, through their rosy hipster glasses, may view it as a good thing that opportunities are granted to poor hopeful jerks.   And it can, in a whole other frame, mean that men and women are  about equally perverse and despicable.  I'm dreaming of Gina Haspel.

She's probably the new head of the C.I.A., soon enough the lass will get a bouquet of roses,  a gold diamond studded cattle prod, and a tiara.  Here she comes walking the runway, blowing kisses to tyrants and sadists everywhere.  Wealthy, infuriating ones.  She has a face like any of many black widows on Forensic Files.  If she wasn't committed to a lucrative, fulfilling career in 'rendering,' torture, mind fucking and Christ knows what fucking else, she would  be poisoning her eighth or ninth spouse by now to collect the insurance.  She's a creep.  A sadist.  Men are known to be sadistic criminal scumbags.  Lesser known, yet painfully true, women can be filthy perverts, too.  I wish that didn't rhyme. 

It's been policy here for the last I don't know how long to not get too fucking upset about all the disturbing political crap that is going on.  I'm not.   It helps, in a pestilential little way, to know that men and women have achieved equal status.  Equally dreadful. I want to air my theory that Gina was appointed expressly to scare the living shit out of potential terrorists.  Trump made a televised speech insisting that, contrary to popular humanism, torture works great for getting info and or squelching enemy activities.  Who the fuck knows, our new CIA personage may scare school kids out of doing their little mass homicides.  The new appointment may even be a first step to dismantling the spy organization.   She's a scorpion.   She might kill all her bunk mates.  This whole fucking thing might be fun.  But on the return trip to reason, this is some scary shit.   She's a sadist.








Saturday, March 31, 2018

New Blog Feature: A Little Common Sense With Bruce

I've given the matter a lot of thought, and I have the solution to gun violence in public schools.  As many  manic Appalachian folk have shared with me,  the truth is so simple no one thought of it before.  Sports.   The javelin.   An often under-rated field sport.  When was the last time you got horny over a really stacked javelin thrower?   That's so wrong.   Javelin throwing is a graceful sport, and for some reason I feel as though it is the activity of the hour.  The epidemic of school shootings.

 A lot of inner city schools don't even have track and field sports.  They're not insured against human imperfection.  So troubling.  I propose public schools everywhere revitalize the sport, and stock all class rooms, like trout in a cement pond, with javelins which can be thrown at school shooters.  Some nut case comes in the room with an AK, everyone grabs a spear and goes to work.  Hall monitors could get in formation and say, "Halt, who goes there."  This could really raise a lot of positive school spirit.

Shooters can  be teamed up on by school kids wielding modified sports harpoons in a spectrum of bright candy colors, much like those lovely rifles athletes shoot during winter Olympics skiing rituals.  Kids can be encouraged to charge in like Zulus and spear the assailant to death.  And holy jeepers, nothing works better than a common ordinary stick when you need to disarm an asshole with a gun or knife.   The SOBs have been known to work wonders.   Bashing people over the head with sticks has been carried off successfully many times, many places.   It makes me gag the way people are immune to the obvious.  

And never forget, football is a military sport.   That's all for A Little Common Sense With Bruce.







Sunday, March 25, 2018

Readers, bloggerites, I am obliged to divulge that I have been having Elvis sightings, right here, my place, my space.    The last one happened three o'clock this morning, I had dined earlier on twelve fried peanut butter, bacon and banana sandwiches with extra Crisco, I awoke from slumber flatulent, and as fragrant molecules permeated the bedding, Elvis transfigured his corpulence from out of the texturized drop ceiling over head. It was a message from the Great Beyond.  "Ya'all quit whining like a hound dog, Bruce.  You just hush your mouth and compose frivolous entertainment features, like your doggone Fashion Report you do on facebook.   And shut the fuck up about politics."

Right on, Elvis Presley.   Things are so urgently fucked up here on Earth that he transported his flabby butt all the way back here to inform that people are giving themselves and everyone else a pain in the ass.  Political activism ain't nothing but a hound dog these days.  Cryin' all the time.  

Right before he left the building, sparkling  off in his powder blue dream-mobile, he said a few parting words.  "Goods and services.  Produce the motherfuckers.  It's more ethical than protesting shit you can't find your ass the long way around in."   

You can see why I have to share this crap with everyone.  It came from Elvis.  He means it.  Quit obstructing and get to constructing things.  Widgets.  Invest in a Quick Lube fanchise.  You will do well.


Saturday, January 20, 2018

All poets should allude to old situation comedies.



Abstaining


I will never vote again
till the Martians take over and then
I will choose the buffoon  who is prettiest
wear slogans for the goon that is fittest
for the job of reigning has-been

Not the type to use force
nor am I a work horse
it leaves me the need to meditate
to claim ability to levitate
to josh with the locals, of course

I will no longer endorse
anything more assuming than a horse
I will watch old reruns, of course
I'll watch Mr. Ed till the end

Thursday, January 18, 2018

Rhyming All Over the Place!

 Talking My Situation Rag
thrumming a tune in the mauve lagoon
bubbles forming nipples, taking air
zither with slide whistle
imported from Saskatoon
comes up with pelts and hair

raucous party below will be ending soon
been talk of liberation gone slow
chartreuse balloons rising from the party tunes
dancing with dance hall octoroons

friends and relations grown immune
to sun and sky and moon
living it up below
one minute before terminal noon

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Is You Is, Or Is You Ain't, Free Thinking?

Secularism and the organic need for spirituality meet and chat over tea and crumpets once a month in another solar system.   Heck, pals, I know that much from gazing in the crystal ball. I pick up some of their ruminations through tarot, seances, and most primarily, the crystal ball.  They're not total light weights beyond Alpha Centauri, yet I could use a bigger ball to render anything close to a determination.  Fuckers remain abstruse.  

 More pragmatically,  the system that's hosting my blog, titled "An O.K. Corral of Thoughts," runs the same bill of goods, same dilemma.  One may be both an atheist and a seeker. Or, too, a rigorous moralist.  Or a jagg off.  All things considered, like the PBS slogan.  A nonbeliever is at liberty to engage in prayer, to any object, any purpose.   He/she can join any believer at all in prayer, much the way lawyers and senators can call a courtesy vote.  A courtesy vote is a shit-bird practice in which wealthy, powerful people take voluntary leave of their moral spine at the behest of a corrupt and desperate colleague.  Conversely, to join a group in prayer is good civics. I can join any group at all in asking Jesus to yield a free powder blue Cadillac to any  & all deserving souls, mine included, if there is such a thing.  I can share the damp, chill emotions when the car doesn't magically appear.  And the mania of their next spiritual initiative.    


On this planet, I'm a hermit with a flair for ratiocination.  Like a gardening tool, I like to put this trait to use when the weather permits and the urge presents itself. There is room for both natural and supernatural, everywhere and anywhere.  Either precept can hide under a thimble.    Though one can't hide the Empire State Building under a thimble.   There's some aspects of materialism people should try to straighten out.  I've seen a few believers fuck up their finances for this spare, paltry thing.  Jesus doesn't pay the bills, stop bullets in mid-air, 
 or take out the garbage.   

One can be passively respectful towards the religious practices of any and all, in a diversified, civil United States of Pure Attainable Pleasure.   Free-thinking, such as is identified by some with the Founding Fathers, is a not-too-aggressively endorsed watchword here.  All precepts and watchwords are small enough to print on a standard business card, and all can be printed, online, for about ten bucks.  Validity is about two inches by three and a half, usually on semi-gloss plain card stock. 


Sunday, January 7, 2018

Duplicity
come and get me, Flipper
dolphin don't leave me in the plastic in the ocean
whip up suds and tow away the island
composed of discarded notions

Don't be cajoled by the fishing pole
the diving bell
the spear gun
the swell sporting gear from Sebastopol
you can trust me, television fish
to grant your wish

Now you can't catch me, Mr. Dolphin
don't need you any more
and I'm long gone
don't be sore
 Attrition


dwindling has become a hobby
losing weight as I stand in the lobby

losing touch has become an ambition
silence, an act of sedition

allowing the house to decline
rewarding inverse of a diamond mine

I've let all tired morals
grow porous and pink as sea coral

as snakes and pack-wolves lunge
we grow tired and throw in the sponge

Saturday, January 6, 2018

More poems. Admit it. You need them.


Follicles
I've had this obsession with hair
falling from a barber's chair

and with it's progress on the face
a beard might improve social grace

on the head it might make me a tiger
handy when climbing the Eiger

on others it drives the libido
hirsuite propeller on the wan torpedo

does this make one a perve?
why no. the very nerve

Thursday, January 4, 2018

essay: The Mind is an Appliance, And It Needs Some Grease to Work Right

Holy shit, I still get acid flashbacks, and the tragedy is that they keep getting shorter. It's been so long since Owsly. Leary passed with the true calling. Even that sabre headed shrink from Canada, the one who said LSD is great stuff, is either dead or infirmed by now, so no one gives a flying fuck if I have to go to my grave without ever having another decent acid trip. Fucking tragedy. It's never been more needed.

Miraculously, I was having the best, brightest and longest flashback just last night, like a gift from Jerry Fucking Garcia. I still have a few of his neck ties. Next time I steal a Brooks Brother's suit, I'll make a point of accessorizing for drugs. Back in the day it was cricket to talk to as many people as possible about the drug experience, now people don't talk about shit other than Game of Thrones, so you can see that fantasists are in liberation-limbo. Free the mind, my ass. I was alone in my hospital chair, best furniture in the hovel, watching old television reruns. LSD is a godsend to people who have little to do but suffocate in the arm pits of yesteryear. I was watching a rerun of Welcome Back, Cotter. 

It was the episode in which the blond teen bombshell, Bambi, moves from L.A. to the Bronks, enrolls at Low Comedy Central Highschool, and creates havoc among the horny teens. At one point in the episode, I thought Arnold Horschak was going to spray Vinnie Barbarino with an AK, and maybe take out Juan Epstein, the Jewish/Puerto Rican hoodlum who charmed us all so. He should have nailed Beau DelaBarre first, in my opinion, but Arnold didn't really have a gun, it was a hallucination. Maybe it was his lunch bag. Time and space is plastic when one is tripping. There's no way of confusing relativity with shithead stasis. The lines separating Twinkies from Tomahawk missiles perforate , like the lower portion of your heating bill, and carefully tears away. The universal mind cannot live by common perceptions alone. 

As usual, Horschak doesn't get poon, Vinnie learns something only a television comedy can teach, the foolishly handsome Beau comes to realize that he is better off with lower hanging fruit, as beauty is a bear trap. He decides to date someone homely. But the universalist learns more than the object of observation. You learn history from fossils, a fossil learns nothing from you. And a book on the shelf is always beating it's meat. Only the mind can deliver you from cognitive paralysis, and the poor mass of reason needs something extra these days. Acid. It should be legalized. It's fab. 

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

A whole new OK Corral of Poems, all penned this freezing horrible week





Meeting Someplace Rotten
everyone deserves
their day at OK Corral
had me a few
hi, my name is Al


had me a hassle
worked it out at the Corral
now the shit over
drinking with my pals


don't stay mad
don't be that way for long
at bad ass bastards
seven billion strong

got my toys from Sears Roebuck
my duds from L.L. Bean
folks is royal fucked up
worst I've ever seen

everyone deserves
their day at OK Corral
stewing here at home front
and my name ain't really 'Al'




An American Sufi

stock market is up
great white whale spumes the Atlantic
wooden boat with teeny sailor
reading the New York Times
his/her sextant mutilated by misguided custom
his/her maps whacked off on by a dazzled quorum
lens of collapsing brass telescope smudged with goo
the boat goes nowhere
sailor should drown
and doesn't
the seeker calls the Coast Guard
 






Driving Through Vaseline

windshield wipers raising walls of ooze
eyeballs crackled with crazy booze
weather advisory from vindictive cooze
flakes of psoriasis fuse

moon and planet balls specked with confetti
meatballs red sauce vino and spaghetti
from the deep aluminum vaults stirred by Betty
the bubbling heart of the Mongolian Yeti

bumpers slamming petroleum jelly
windows open inside the booze veined belly
caustic juices aborting the little 'felly'
drowned in the arm pits of Machiavelli







The Old Moralist

The last dark hair surrenders to gray
the torso billiows in it's adipose way
knee caps crackle when kneeling to pray

skin caves in at a crease in the canthus
cosmetics pool in a cell with St. Francis
a quiet melanoma growing on Dorothy in Kansas

the brains and beauty that had been guide post
sluff the stuff sweet youth will hide most
leaving the man and his life to roast

Morals never get old
as common ethics fold



 Doomed

of course the horse is made into glue
the gator that ate your dog becomes shoes
now the oldster's minutes are due

raised on fables with Timmy and Lassie
stars drink poison from a demi-tassie
perverts lust for Edith Massey

sealing the envelope with horsey adhesive
sending last words plus or minus cohesive
wearing the mark of the Beastive
tootsies sinking in Earth