Badnosejobville

 Badnosejobville

It was a time frame and a town, both, like sugar and aspartame in the same cup of dollar store tea.  Didn’t last long, the town, Badnosejobville.   Gather round, friends and kin, I need to tell what happened.  

If this murk can be rarified, maybe sweetened, towns are chamelionic, fickle.   It is said a conservative is a liberal who got mugged.   Marxists:  soon as they achieve the median income or more they tell poor people to get off their lawn.   They pay top dollar, out of pocket, for gorgeous expensive nose jobs and drive sports cars.  

 I’m fessing to personal bigotry so to better explain mass movements in America.   If I am obtuse, I am representative of a dim, vocal minority,  thus the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights, is obliged, by law and custom, to kiss off to nether regions.   In the manner cogs turn.

There was no ethnic heritage happening at the time.   A heaping most of two hundred years produced working people with jobs and families, and many of these working people had employer health care  coverage.    For my rustic farm belt thesis statement, insurance resulted in dreadful cosmetic surgeries of all sorts.

In the aggie college theoretics of animal husbandry, anything from corn to caviar can be cultivated to the needs and whims of the rich.

Chairman Mao’s Cultural Revolution illustrated how the path to starvation, genocide and enslavement begins with good intentions on the part of stupid intellectuals.  Need to say, here, based on observation, plus geologic history, intellectuals usually need protection from people adversely affected by outside agendas, DEI for instance, that academics and institutions have been inventing and forcing upon society.  Cosmetic surgery was re-invented over time from treating war wounds to improving the self esteem of narcissistic fast food workers.   The crux of it came to nose jobs paid for by employer health care packages.

And now I need to converge upon the rhinoplasty.    In the 1970s through the eighties employer health care programs paid for nose jobs, assuming a real, no bullshit physician, and a half-sane of better psychiatrist and a panel of simpering social workers agree it was in the best interest of the worker, with presumable large or ugly nose, to have cosmetic surgery.

The same problem, different procedure, plug type hair transplants, produced terrible looking people.   The early plug hair transplants people got, paid by employer health care plan, were hideous.  People got scar tissue.   More surgery to correct ugly results.   

A social class of people was created when rafts of working people received lousy, low quality nose jobs.   Eventually, insurance providers quit paying for cosmetic surgery, leaving the victims of trending vanity medicine in the past.  

 I don’t notice it anymore when I’m downtown.   But then again, hardly anyone has a job downtown.   If people are getting bad nose jobs, now, paid by their health insurance, it’s happening elsewhere, maybe another universe.  

Friends, kin, I just needed to vent a little teensy bit about what happened here in Pittsburgh in the distant past.   Insurance paid for bad nose jobs.  For a few years, it was Badnosejobville.

Aphorisms: they ain't all gems.

 Life these days is like a silverfish with fallen arches.  All hundred ninety of its furry disgusting legs hurt, every wiggling run from under my cast iron bathtub on eagle claw tub tootsies.  Feet.  Claws.  The repulsive insects have been living here forever, no harm I know of.   Maybe they belong to a hate group.   If so, they are keeping me out of the loop.

The aging process has made me more like a silverfish.   My formerly smarmy black whiskers,   flowing and smug, like youth, look like the awn covering the serpentine hideous sick cousin of the centipede.   Centipedes also come out of the woodwork.  And from under the eagle claw bathtub I'm stuporous in so much of the time.  

Harmless and ugly.   Thankful for one.  Tolerant of the other.   I am able to picture Heavens, by the bunch,  in the imagination.   An imagination and prayer are similar.  Can be rolled into bales.  Can be related to mindful others.    People are slow on the up-take.

 

Before I squat down and share all my blues, my sadnesses, my miseralities (I'm taking liberties) I want to apologize in advance for serious poor taste.   But the right to free expression is bastard when it gets a wild hair up it's red, white and blue ass.    I'm a tasteless fool some mornings:

I wonder how much the Pope's tumor is worth on the dark web.    

Are Pope tumors relics in the same way was a hunk of the Cross?   

How much to blood stains go for, assuming it bled out of someone more important than common Toms, Dicks and Harries?    I think body fluids are marketable.    Ask a call girl.  

Do bingo beans radiate divine energy?

Fiction: Decades In Pittsburgh (it's total bullshit)

 

Decades In Pittsburgh

Gather round.   Everyone needs to hear the story of how I acquired the Magic Pogo Stick.  I hop hop hop around on it everywhere.   The simple mechanical device has become a  part of me.  It is unique from common pogo sticks.  

I am respectful towards all spring operated amusement gadgets and feel compelled to seek special dispensations not granted common stick hopping personage.     

The pogo stick looks ordinary.    Like the one’s sold online now.   Temu sells pogo sticks, and customers have posted glowing feedback about them.   Very good steel compression springs by our trading partners in China.   I’m happy as a Pennsylvania religious snake handler during  groundhog estrus.   

I cannot speak for all pogo sticks.   My expertise is limited to models produced during the Great Depression.   Sears Roebuck sold the things out of their eponymous famous catalogs.  I owned models sold by Sears.   Hopped all over the place on those fine products.  But to my knowledge, and I respect differing accounts by other pogo hopping individuals, magic is not blown into the   tubing  at the factory like aerosol insulating foam.

I was skateboarding on a dreadfully steep incline.   Flying downward, serpentine, on my  board, thunder slammed, chariots in the sky popped wheelies, horses screaming and blowing equine snot,   A hail storm began as if stern vulgar  warnings were in progress.     Bruising hail stonies thwapped viciously on my plastic helmet.     Freezing rain poured like a trillion hateful hoses.  I lost balance and the gushing filty water carried me careening down the incline.   Seconds before an eighteen wheel truck tried to run me over the flood forced me, painfully, down a storm drain.   That was painful.  Freezing cold.   Water up to my snoot.

Choking and freezing down there, treading water to breathe, I injured a foot on the pogo stick.  Reaching to dislodge it from my…self…it leaped magically upward with a splash and bubbles. 

Sadly, the decaying corpse of the guy who used to own the Magic Pogo Stick was still clinging to it, and I had to pry his remains off of it.  But soon, the stick perked up.  We were best of friends.  Placing my feet on the part you put your feet on, the Magic Pogo stick began talking to me.  It said, “Hey Bruce, let’s get out of this filthy putrid storm drain.”

I said, “There you go, Stick, you have the right idea.”   Together, the Magic Pogo Stick and I heaved upward.  And down.  Up again, naturally, until it and I was back on Federal Street, and the sun was shining.   Osage oranges were rolling downward, bumping into things, happy as could be.   The green, inedible warty fruits mischievously cracked into fenders, headlights, chrome grills and windshields as drivers tried to avoid the osage oranges on their ways to work.   I was down one skateboard, it was lost in that disgusting putrid storm drain, that horrid hell hole, and went forward hopping.  Hop hop hopping on the Magic Pogo Stick.   And nothing too shitty has happened so far.

Yes, I could use help of an agent who is affiliated with a paying honest established mainstream book publisher.

 Yes, I want to form a writer's group, with meeting place in Pittsburgh, Pa.   Anyone want to help?

Herbal medicine: Valerian root powder doesn't care if you are a Democrat or a Republican. It treats anxiety the same.

 

It's dastardly, I tell you, dastardly.   The way Democrats and Republicans have everything in common such as eating, shitting and breathing, and in  so many more ways we all bleed and vomit similarly, and with lovely variables among us all that make us all unique and special.    

Individuals of both parties have similar interests and similar goals.   Both might want a higher paying job.   Or to be taken care of by doctors and nurses, when sick or infirm,  who don't cut their throats with a straight razor because they are poor or from a hated ethnic group.  For heaven's sake, equal care for indigent sectors of the lower middle class.   We all hope to convalesce someplace where violent terrorists can't pose as minimum wage earning blue scrub-wearing  buttwipes and kill poor sick elderly us in our farting troubled sleep.  That's an awful lot of drama.

Where did this rant come from?   Intestinal turgor?  Nerves?  Substances?  No, damn it.  The dastardly element is the Dems and GOPs might enjoy each other's goddam fucking company.  They might share info on herbal meds.  Herbal medicine is not liberal, progressive, conservative, fascist, and is not mere pseudo-science and superstition.  People derive real health benefits from herbal teas, infusions, tinctures and edibles.

Why be an asshole of the universe and treat herbalism as bolonging to one political party of the other?  Health  is one of all reasons for people to stop sustaining interpersonal rancor.  Presidential politics should never have come to voters blaming voters for the foibles of politicians, who are assholes, assholes assholes all.   Herbalism.   It knows no party affiliation.

...

Maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe people should hate, harm and misadvise each other.   Who gives a shit about well being.  Stay sick, for fuck sake.  Kidding.  Be well, dear readers.  

Aphorism: I compose aphorisms frequently, and present them on this blog. Enjoy, dear souls!

 

The best things in life are inexpensive.   A songwriting genius of eld said 'the best things in life are free,' and the old prick was right about that.  Don't cost nothing to get yer rocks off if two or more parties agree to have sex in a safe private location, no babies or animals allowed in the room, and no one is under age or is whacked out of their mind or unconscious.   Zero tolerance here for sex crime.  

...

Sex crimes against alpacas is on the rise in some parts of the United States.  There needs to be a television show in which a news personality catches people arranging sex with a dog.  With modern AI the late Walter Cronkite could report on an  underworld of animal perverts.  

...

Ferret abusers need to be jailed. Branded.   Like cattle.   They get the scarlet letter branded on their foreheads.   The scarlet letter 'F.' Ferret molester.   How could anyone do that disgusting sex act I heard about once while a guest in an East Coast youth hostel.  You can see why Hitler and Stalin hated intellectuals.   

...

in the best of circumstances people don't need protection.   Dorothea received assistance and protection from forest animals and a blond witch.   

It's better not to need the police.  People need cops, though, calling them at all hours.   All I mean is that if people lived three deep in lovely nice honest people it would get more like a free country.  Sheee-it. Evil destroys love and freedom.

...

Practical elements of religion:  Someone I knew said that she had an intense fear of death all her life, and she solved this problem by adopting faith in Jesus Christ.   Secure in the belief she will go to a better place after death, she doesn't fear it.  And perhaps looks forward to meeting Saint Peter, if he hasn't been replace with an intersectionalist, globalist progressive.   Maybe these days you have to agree with a million agendas, smiling and hoping, to be let into the all new Trump Heaven.  Bill Gates and Elon Musk will be up there, too!  If what people say is true, by Jesus...Jeffrey Epstein might be your friend and neighbor when you enter the Pearly Gates.

 

I don't usually pull this stunt, but I pasted a group of poems I posted on Craigslist Literary and Writing Forum over the last month.    But first, I need to break loud wind about what has become a sick, hostile climate for low net worth writers.    It sucks being poor, and in addition, the business of being a writer has been completely enslaved by corporations, oligarchs, elitists, Marxists and a monopolistic media establishment.  On a time line a plethora of new platforms, social media, came into existence, enable artists and writers to sell their media...and that then it all went in reverse.   It became impossible for the majority of people to make money on the internet, or anywhere else.   It's impossible to sell self published novels downtown while squatting on the sidewalk.  Please enjoy my latest poems published on Craigslist:

0% of this handle's posts in the last 31 days have been deleted.

up to 50 posts from the last 31 days for AdamPugsly:

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--- Literary & Writing (context)
After Much Fracking < AdamPugsly > 2026-09-23 17:07 +5




holy heaven earth cracks vaginal
Mr. Balls falls eight feet down the chasm
the toxic peter pan screams for his weasel life
why you down the fracky hole
he is jeered to
by a stout
and powerful
tribeswoman
Pull me out doomed hiker screams
she says no
you in a fracky she warns
urinal cake she calls him
she squats
he winces

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--- Literary & Writing (context)
Real Monster < AdamPugsly > 2026-09-23 13:26



he has toes like a trombone playing tree sloth
a prehensile foot abnormally long
a rope-like oscillating wang
one foot so normal you'd cry
the other tootsie a badger fourteen inches
needs two pro keds in different sizes
one gigundo
and the Balkan Prince Sparky
is built

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--- Literary & Writing (context)
The Mean Compost < AdamPugsly > 2026-09-21 13:03 +1



a bubble in the fountain grew
it had been a likable element
narrow lapels
a fluid pale as water
like a compound can be subllme
it's the cast of a Broadway extravaganza
soap hatred formed that prismatic film
the bubble of gas
decaying matter
maybe a decaying woodchuck
spontaneous combustion
gas explosion
earth flatulence
gross natures
and I always wanted beauty

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--- Literary & Writing (context)
She Wrongful Packer < AdamPugsly > 2026-09-17 02:52 -5



It is more than the way you load the nganga,
Wanda
it isn't the bill you receive from Hammacher Schlemmer
I am not the Johnson Smith catalog
I pack the musket with stardust
the kind that erodes from stars
witch, wrongful packer
No pyre on this quarter acre lot has Ohio sparkler nonsense
you called me an ethnic prince during that ceremony
soon that fissure cause an old lady to die
it was your poorly assembled nganga that allowed the fissure
thirty feet down that poor old lady fell, terrorized
landing to her death in a mine shaft
witch,
you are a wrongful packer of talismanic objects

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--- Literary & Writing (context)
Witch Unpleasantness < AdamPugsly > 2026-09-17 02:39


couldn't bongo
should load the nganga with talismanic things
lite the pyre
Wanda encroaches upon voodoo
hers
mine
theirs
and with the goddam identity things up asses
you'd bongo shitty too, witch

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--- Literary & Writing (context)
Wising Up A Little Somewhere < AdamPugsly > 2026-09-13 06:13 -10+2




Maybe I'm as vicious as anyone else, and these things are circumstantial in nature, being a sweetheart one year and a bastard the next. might say it's happening at the federal level, the ICE raids for instance. but I'm talking about interpersonal problems.

A dear friend of years back had a simple way of saying a million things. In one conversation at a diner in R.I. I said "I'm a nice guy."

He said, "You're a prick."

I liked the guy way too much to be insulted and ages forward the universal truth, people are pricks when they are, and at other times sweeties, changed from one single card in the deck to all fifty two cards. Any card in the deck can fuck you in a game of anything, and my pal knew that from hard knocks and the advice he got growing up in the Bronx. A guy could choke on too much cultural diversity.

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--- Literary & Writing (context)
Rant < AdamPugsly > 2026-09-12 09:44 -5+5

Gather 'round, hunters, gatherers, cowpokes, jamokes and hard cases. It's time for ya'll to listen to me moan. I moan audible. Not loud. You can hear me doing it. That's what matters. What moves mind and body from material to supernatural sensations. Faith holds congress with belief in sensuality.

I moan for the death of common pool halls. I sure as fuck don't have an eight foot slate billiard table here in my own private East Buttfuck. There ain't no pool halls left open for business in this sorry miserable place not deserving of it's pompous jackass-sounding name. I'm not naming where this violent pestilential behavior is spreading gloom and collective torpor. But there's no chance of operating a pool hall in this district, and most other districts, without assholes shooting someone over a squabble.



People aren't playing pool, I'm not playing pool, and this is only one of the most far away reasons Poorly Rotating Earth is going to shit.

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--- Literary & Writing (context)
reading with music < AdamPugsly > 2026-08-31 17:09 -5




https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFcW18Suxkk

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--- Literary & Writing (context)
Headless Man < AdamPugsly > 2026-08-31 16:26 -5+5





break a tradition with trident
pull bayonette from steel sheath
let your hernia pain you sharply
oooh-eee when a whole century
chiseled your form into Mr. Hairy Lardo
your ears beveled for irregular circling
insanely heavy and lofting with ridiculous ease
too easy talking to historic amazons
one-breasted spear fighters take your suggestions
next month
they are letting men have sex with them
the praying mantis kills males used for mating
wise bitch

 

Brains don't come  with instruction manuals.    They are fickle auto-didactic lobes and crinkles.  The cognitive spaghetti of global domination.   And rocket technology.   Data centers are being built everywhere to store the infinite guano that is human thought and all records of  all other places, moments on earth, on film, digitized, recorded, stored in a neat clean techno wasteland.   I am a great fan of the DSM 5.

Statistics have never been prettier.  Diagnostics are a breath of air after centuries of stupidity towards people sick in the head.    The capital M stands for 'manual.'   A handbook.   That's some wholesome motherfucking shit.   Handbooks are...fuck home base...handy things...useful.   The DSM 5 is an instruction manual.  

People are sick.  Not wrapped too tight.   Missing a few spokes.  That's why everyone should be mailed a free copy of the book.   Maybe do it like Welcome Wagon.  Include a sanitary wrapped thin mint, Narcan, a complimentary hundred Haldol pills and a MAGA strait jacket.  Or a pro-democrat strait jacket.  It will look nice.

Bestiality: the new perve celebrated in the media

 Bunny farts, my dear men and women who read this blog.   Asked 'what's invisible and smells like carrots,' a wise man said, "Bunny farts."  In many social strata human flatus is archly considered, likely enough when spoken of, and the more demonstrative sense manifests when  a person walks into a room and lets rip a one hundred eighty decibel ear shattering  fart.

In the 1950s all it took to create a media scandal was an appearance of a possible dalliance.  It looked like two people were fucking without a license.  Once the public tired of weak innuendos, it was necessary to get a person on film committing an abomination, any will do.  

The most recent and long running curse was pedophilia, especially friends and other affines romping on what used to be Epstein's island.   Sin city.    Long before that story broke there had been a satanic panic that gave the world the McMartin case and other famous witch hunts.  True crime shows reveled in ritual exposure and capture of perverts on the move.  Chris Hansen was a new Sherlock Holmes.   But now there's a whole new dance step:  People are being investigated and prosecuted for having sex with animals.

I hate perverts and don't associate with sex offenders.   I dislike witch hunts, too.   Maybe John and Jane Q Public should mind its own fucking business and find productive ways of plodding to oblivion.  No dog and cat molesters will ever be welcome in my private, law abiding nether world.  

I am taking solace in observing people from a safe distance.    Ecce Homo, if you don't mind me quoting a foreign phrase.    I call  it keeping farting distance away from possible antagonists, all billions of them.   A person could count on prayer beads all the bases upon which people don't care for one another.  OTOH, who's counting?

Not for nothing, Anti-Natalism must be brought to open talk in public. It's the only practical thing in Envirnmentalism.

 

Okay, here’s me again being a big fat stupid blowhard about shit that doesn’t really concern me.   I’m a lone flesh Temu appliance among Rolex watches and Maseratis.   Thank you for ambling aboard.

It’s the city’s proposed mandatory paid parental leave.   It will put people out of jobs and out of business, and will deter creation of new private small business, desperately needed here. I’ll shut the fuck up about this in a second, not my fucking business, and I respect the privacy and personal agency of people all over, many of whom want to have baby brats at the expense of society.  Soon as I finish talking about an aniti-natalist agenda I’ll shut the fuck up about the way stupid people insist on having children as the Earth drowns in human waste.     Anti-natalism is a tiny political movement at large with  an agenda to reduce populations by reducing the birthrate, voluntarily,  effectuated through education.  And it takes a healthy pile of gray matter to comprehend my point:    I believe the best and most practicable environmentalism individuals can practice is to have fewer, or no, children.    

It is my opinion that after decades of ‘reducing carbon footprints’ individuals maxed out their options for reducing damage to Earth and atmosphere.  At the same time corporations have continued contaminating Earth, air and water.   News has it the data centers will double demand for electricity.   City power grids have been at risk of overload for decades.   The ways, all many, of producing electricity can be dirty as a vagrant’s underies.   Fracking has damaged the ground and atmosphere no end.   As pollution from one source is abated, new sources come in tow with advancing technology.   

My position here is that the only thing individuals, randos, peons and commoners can do to save Earth from slow annihilation is to quit farting out ugly, stupid obnoxious and tiresome babies.  Stop having babies.   Babies are a pain in the ass. Less people, less ugliness, poverty, ignorance and disease. Are we blind to how ugly babies are? People have been aware forever of overpopulation world wide. Stop producing greedy consumers. A baby could grow up to be the next Hitler. People suck. People are in a global ethics crisis. Less is more.

Artificial Intelligence and the Power Of Positive Thinking

 

The new manic depressive disorder is called dystopian/utopian attitude problem.   It is mostly AI that is effectuating this semantic and performative change in the language of living with technology.     Happy people see that artificial intelligence will provide them all goods and services free of charge as robots do all the work, 24/7, happy as electro-mechanical pigs in shit.  

You all know me as a rollicking rowdy free spirit...who loves to play pool

 

Gather 'round, hunters, gatherers, cowpokes, jamokes and hard cases.   It's time for ya'll to listen to me moan.  I moan audible.  Not loud.   You can hear me doing it.  That's what matters.   What  moves mind and body from material to supernatural sensations.   Faith holds congress with belief in sensuality.

I moan for the death of common pool halls.   I sure as fuck don't have an eight foot slate billiard table here in my own private East Buttfuck.   There ain't no pool halls  left open for business in this sorry miserable place not deserving of it's pompous jackass-sounding name.   I'm not naming where this violent pestilential behavior  is spreading gloom and collective torpor.   But there's no chance or operating a pool hall in this district, and most other districts, without assholes shooting someone over a squabble.

People aren't playing pool, I'm not playing pool, and this  is only one of the most far away reasons Poorly Rotating Earth is going to shit.   

 

Do you hear the sound of amelioration?   I do.  It is like a Niad singing while doing the back float behind Cleo-fucking-patra's fucking barge.  I realized there is no such thing as a good politician.   The be-bop coolness of what used to be representative democracy has given way to dance club synthesizer pulse, flashing dance floor oligarchy.   Like a calypso singer, who cares?   Shoo-wop-diddly.

There is no liberal.  No conservative.  No Dems.  No GOPs.   No pathetic stupid third political party, that everyone should already know splits tickets and loses elections.   Third parties can accidentally or nefariously cause one of the two other parties to win. 

This is about acting on the basis of ethics.   Vote quietly, don't campaign too much.  Little is best.   Absent of honest happy representative government the best thing voters can do is to write to legislators and newspapers and magazines and television stations, asking they support the agendas you hope to realize.   That aside, I suggest, quietly, docile-like, radical politics of recent yesteryear appear to be sobbing in the powder room.  Quit the rough stuff, do power of the pen.

 

Sorry.  People are un-inventive twits and this is burdening progress.   With food prices astronomical no one is suggesting the government release cows, horses and pigs in urban areas like here.   And it is imperative that live stock be allowed to sink or swim in the local forests as people spear the animals for their dinners.

 Everyone should be practicing with a sport javelin, in their back yards or at the city parks, so to prepare for the real event.  Hunting and gathering.  Surely someone from CMU knows how to grow fruits and vegetables in a miserable excuse for a town, such as here?  To fill out our miserable diets, now that a  one pound bag of rice costs eighty dollars?

We should all be eating free ham.  Feral pigs!  Why not?  Free range ham, if you will.  And beef.  Horse meat, too.   Why do people assume commercial beef is better?    And the hunting and gathering will help obese hunters and gatherers shed those bulging love handles.    This is gonna' be great.   Release farm animals in city parks.  Also, we need more apes and giraffes.  I know we can swing this.  It'll bring tourists downtown to see the beasts.    

 

 

Normally no one invites friends to have an unpleasant visit.    I am talking interiors.   And personal failings.  

I am not a hoarder.  I am not unsanitary.   I’m a filthy bad house keeper, and I can’t afford to redo the interior of my house.   I’ve lived in shabby places galore since adulthood.

I accept and understand   social norms and common human needs.  

No judgment is made against people who hate the interior of my house.  They are as much as maybe half mitigated in so feeling.

I am respectful and tolerant toward  shit-eating human frailty.

Don’t visit.   You’ll hate it here.   I’m a disgusting housekeeper.  The furniture here is disgusting.  So’s the lighting.   There’s no rugs at all.  

I am a happy soul in my hovel.  I’m made for this dump.   I would like everyone to forgive me for being an awful housekeeper. Why does Jesus Christ look like Ted Nugent in the late 1970s?

I don’t invite guests here out of respect for others.  But that could be taken many ways.  Suffice no one visits here

Holy huge rat pellets, Batman! I reminded myself, like a cruel typing teacher might do, in class, and it's...it's...it's traumatic, really. Prounonce that 'really' 'rilly' It's painful...rilly. I just remembered what the antidote was for ugly interior design. Alcohol. I would walk to a bar, commence drinking, chase some skirts, maybe meet a female who wants to do the wild thing. I like doing the wild thing. Nothing queer. No rough stuff.

Alcohol was essential, and bars made it possible for bad housekeepers to socialize.

I socialized in bars, drinking holes, years ago, and yielded many interesting sex lives in many filthy apartments I rented. I'm a god-awful house keeper, I like pussy, and with enough beer and whiskey pre-existing in sex partners such as mine...their doing... not mine...bliss finds a way, with no arrests or abortions. I dated many low net worth female alcoholics. Best was having sex in a new partner's clean apartment. Naturally, dirty joints were okay, too. Proud. I'm proud of my history.

And I socialized zillions of low net worth men asexually and para-fraternally. Some of whom were gracious guests in my shabby dirty apartment full of dirty dishes and ashtrays and I don't own a vacuum. There were bars in walking distance everywhere I lived until I moved here.

The Northside is a cesspit of addiction and abuse, but there aren't any bars in walking distance, and I don't drive drunk no matter how boring it gets anywhere. So these days, I just don't receive guests. How shitty. Thanks for reading,

 

Years ago, when I was still working, I recall people collecting money, everywhere, to save whales from extinction.  Dripping reasons why the  Marxist concept of history is working magic, allow me to relate  theory to Herman Melville’s novel, Moby Dick.      

Marxists apply the concept of history to explain how capitalists are always wrong and communists are always correct.   Mother Russia was  like Gorgeous George in drag.    Stalin was a peach of a guy.   Chairman Mao, too.   They all cared deeply about the Rainbow.  

 Marxists prefer not to go there, in a discussion.   Their concept of history places them, folks walking about among us all,  on  the correct side of all moments, happenings and events since Genesis.   They were on the appropriate side of all wars, world over, and were correct about the Central American Sandinista/Contra conflict of the ‘80s irrespective of what actually happened.  .  They despise whale hunters historically, and feel even worse thoughts about modern Republicans.   Allow me to slide in Melville’s book about the great white whale.   

 To some voters and politicians, anyone who voted for Trump is a dreadful person.    Not fair or logical, but it’s possible to presume all people who voted for Trump have forebears,  distant great-great uncle fascists, who speared whales for a living.  LIke  Captain Ahab.  Gregory Peck, in the film.  In this way, the Marxist way, everyone who voted for Trump harpooned Moby Dick.   Captain Ahab got what he deserved, and that would have been an awful way to go, roped to an injured great white whale.  

In Marxist thought, history proves that communism is  inevitable, humane and scientific.  Capitalists, and Republicans, side with fascists to get and stay rich.   For the trillionth time, Republicans are responsible for all  loss of life and hardship.    Stalin was no big deal.  Let me tell you about the whales.

   People who vote GOP are worse than Captain Ahab.  And people to the left of center, all happy zilliion of them,  are as lovely and temperate as a summer’s day.     Best yet, it is impossible for Marxists to be wrong about Moby Dick.  

Republicans, all of them,  harpoon whales.     Democrats rescue whales just like  Moby Dick from  slow gruesome nautical demise.        Marx was nice to Moby.

A little narcissism won't hurt

 

Being a prick is a full time job.   A cynic, let's say.   People love generous productive people who make them feel good about themselves. In a sickening social appeal this could mean common crummy people gain from ambient well being shared with them.  Bad people can be fun.

By contrast, too many sick assholes of the universe impose their unpleasantness on others, and detract from collective happiness.    People I know too well spread gloom.  The purpose in 'splaining this is a cynic can be harmless, possibly didactic.  Unless the individual is a complete asshole.  

It has been, for me, hard to grasp that people are good for one another, in the main.   If the only author a person read, while isolated from polite society,  was William S Burroughs, and the jerk studied exhaustively, the poor asshole might have a raft of problems socializing among people who live and breathe Winnie the Poo and Alice in Wonderland. 

Rolling the gurney back to start position, a person might isolate deliberately, aware of being toxic to other people.  Persons I've associated with were  more likely to express to other people their negative opinions and irrational, hateful demands than to provide therapeutic emotional support.   They always need the cooperation of people to whom they feel superior, if only everyone was smart enough to appreciate whatever nonsense the finest of imaginary people believe and practice, by way of their obligation to the ugly american.   

Surely people exist silently aware of  great and perfect humans who didn't amount to much and deserve fame and fortune.  If so, they need to get the lead out of their ass.  Help.  I'm going nuts here.