Buttholium and Diddlium

Bastards at the New York Academy of Science won't even look at anything I mail them in a wooden box, ensconced in wire and paper penny wrappers, like my last invention I sent to them, much less read my tracts on natural science. It's a damn shame for humankind. It's their loss. Them pointy-headed fart-biters wouldn't know genius if it walked up their ass in snow shoes. I been on the cusp of discovery, and those nerds is just letting the eye tooth split my ass. And speaking of assholes, one of my discoveries could turn Charles Manson into Albert Schweitzer.

Buttholium ain't on the periodic chart yet because some jack-off in New York been sending my discoveries to the FBI. People who are assholes have a higher concentration than normal of buttholium inside them. Collects in the ass. Causes people to have a personality disorder. I come to this discovery fair and square. I run tests. Diddlium, on the other hand, shows up in people who can't hold a job. If the scientists in New York could find a way to drain the diddlium out of these poor folk they all could find themselves a marketable skill and prosper. That can't possibly happen though till my work gets recognized.

 

The scientific method ain't but a mite different than panning for gold. That's a metaphor. One day I was pouring down some moonshine with kin, and realized that the whiskey affected some people different than others. Why is that? It can't be the whiskey, because we was all drinking the same rot gut. You can't put it down to ethnicity, because we're all related by blood, out here in the boondocks, where it gets so cold at night you can't help but snuggle up with close kin. In any case, being a patriotic and unselfish cuss, I'm giving this information away for free. It's the only right thing I can do.

Flash fiction flatulence

Oh, I don't know how I got on this tangent, or maybe I do know, and I'm not ready to say. I read one book by Melvin Mason and simply went bananas over an economic theory. This could possibly explain the changes that have taken place inside of me. It is as if it was possible to swallow business and industry in pill form. Or to speed read the Bible, and thus create a parallel universe using the blueprint. Maybe it was the day I read in the news that an American diplomat had been sodomized before being murdered, as if it was a trick-or-treat prank, on an anniversary of 9/11, that Melvin's masterpiece meandered up a neuro-pathway. And maybe this should be narrowed down.

People are always talking. Half the time when you tell someone to shut up, they will invoke their constitutional right to free speech. I have been beaten up, and have beaten people up, for saying things either they or I didn't care to hear. Melvin Mason's theory is, in part, that the Constitution is there to protect your right to earn money, and neither truth nor beauty is allowed to reach its greasy fingers into your personal money stash. Of course people are allowed to say anything they want to express. And it's illegal to beat or torture people for expressing themselves. Yet I don't recall anyone so much as paying a fine for an act of violence. The drive to silence people enjoys silent legitimacy with police and judges, so long as the victims are poor enough, or the perp rich enough. When all things are equal more or less, it is often concluded that the victim should have eaten his Wheaties. The trend of the past decade has been less and less wealthy people, and more poor folk, dirt poor, while constitutional freedoms for the masses get more and more like abracadabra, with the outcomes compatible with Open Sesame. Rabbits don't come out of the top hat. Doors stay closed.

The important thing is that I feel both energized and empowered for having read Melvin's book.

Mirror Chat

I am always cheerful, always pleasant. Informal and elegant is the way I like my friends to dress. People who can do both crude and advanced at the same time should be chiseled in between big guys on Mount Rushmore. I am like the Washington Monument when I'm chubby. I'm a glutton for contradictions.

I have my living room closet packed with the least costly office supplies available on both the Internet and the network of dollar stores that I frequent. I have a system in place for purchasing the least costly staple foods available, with an emphasis on maximizing physical prowess. "But why do you have office supplies in the living room?" Someone in the audience is asking. Because I work in the living room. It's not the living room any longer. It's where I go to work each day. I wake up each morning, roll out of bed like a Vietnam prisoner of war and go directly to the keyboard. Would you believe ordinary clerical work is the new pole vault?

The new urban Batman comic in the flesh substitutes fiscal conservatism in extremis for the camp muscle mass popular in the 1960s. They were just beginning to understand latent homosexuality at the time. This just now is damn near 17 years past the expiration date on postmodernism. Modern man should be a Giacometti sculpture with a Porfirio Rubirosa dick. As in bisexual, and I'm not referring to a 10 speed. But for now it is best to limit the little man to insertion in normal grown women. Weenie whacking, solo, is venerated.

So it's been thinking about a young Hispanic woman and her memories. "It" being the smart-alecky homunculus in the jockey shorts. All right I remember her as a young woman. She remembers me as a young man. Of course the media was as active in the 1970s as a lizard on amphetamines, but it hadn't yet turned its attention to the frailties of men. It is been so cruel since the Inquisition, beginning with the Ronald Reagan presidency. Oh, you name your conspiracy, I will bruit the one that is nagging my psyche. Manhood has been under siege like by Gertrude Stein with a pair of poisoned pinking shears. But that does not mean that some where a 55-year-old Spanish woman doesn't smile when remembering a quickie that took place no place special. Back when our skin was olive. The blood was still cherry ice cream.

Trouble Masses For His Wardrobe

The clogs I've been wearing for the past 18 months are made of techno-pop synthetic material. I've been noting that I'm the only person in Pittsburgh who wears them in public. Maybe people wear their synthetic black Dutch boy shoes in private. Or the shoes are just too carnal for the average person in Pittsburgh. Or they are a fashion blunder.

　

The shoes look a bit like a foot dipped in tar, yet offer thickish foam toe indulgence. Many times I have been accused of being a frivolous little lamb. The seamless primative shoe. Ga'head, call me a right modern finger-in-the-dike person. I'm in rubber tulips.

I've worn these clogs this long, and today the meaning of the shoes has been revealed. Let me try to help you.

Moments happen when they want to. I stepped into a bar. Ordered a beer. Drank a wee bit. Wee bit more.

Maybe halfway into the beer a man of about maybe 40 sat down next to me. He said "I just have to tell you, you're the first person I have ever seen who looks really good in clogs."

I said, "thank you." Flattery blows. Well that's not really what I mean. It can be gratifying. It can be enabling to some degree. A little bit of well-placed emotional support can even cause people to do things they never imagined possible for them to do. But there is another aspect to draw your four ounce ball-pene hammer back and beat on. That same guiding force can lead you into the grips of becoming a schmuck. They were a hit with the boys.

I did not know that the bar I picked at random to test my fashion statement in was a gay bar. It looked common and blue collar on the outside. I was deceived. There is no hard feelings. But men took great interest in me. Many men took interest in me. It could have been really anything at all but looked like the shoes outed me as somebody they should target as a hopeful homosexual partner. I wish every single man in that bar well every single day in their life. Long life to all of them. But I wanted some snatch. Not the first time this happened.

Recrimination

A man must share his tragedies. I had a plan to accessorize. It was a vision to match cheap- A plastic wristwatches, copped off ebay, like the cartoon coyote, so to jazz up the wardrode. Get mod. More with the times. It was a grand design at the bottom of the wading pool.

The collection of watches, on the desk about a foot from me, comes in bright yellow, orange, blue, coffee brown (a very subtle shade!) and black. So to match any outfit worn, with docile, socially advanced authority, such as some techno-pop music conveys. There's a not-too-nutty credo in aesthetics.

This type of self improvement has been criticized. Compared to waxing the carrot, in the film Fight Club. Some gritty, sweaty truth in that flick. Life also flings some titillating options at ya'. Fashion is macho, mi amigo. Dangerous, too. So inexpensive, bling. And no, not entirely a self indulgent, narcissistic circle jerk.


The shock occured when I was in a hurry to catch a bus this morning. Out of the house like a bat, I grabbed the blue watch on the way to the door. A seeming minor errand, returning books to the library, though anything can turn baleful. Hours later I was in a coffee shop, when I noticed that the blue watch clashed in the worst type of way with the earth tone outfit this victim was sporting. The coffee colored watch would have slayed. But I looked like a jerk. The net effect of the watch and the duds was muy malo, as styling Spaniards may attest.

Guess I could try to strengthen my case for tragedy. When one goes many places in a hideous outfit, he is ugly every mile walked, every place the ass sat in. See this for what it is. A possible infinity in which all frames are fashion victim. This state of affairs was on my person, my wrist, acting like a germ, sickening some otherwise fly rags. It was the awareness of this. The awareness and the agony which tags along, complaining, malicious, in a dysfunctional bonding between selves.

This victim is grieving the mishap. Tomorro, no dressing like a moron. A plan has to  stretch, like rubber. Like the candy color bands on the watches.

Alternative transportation whinny

I'm talking into a microphone like an executive. Minutes from now, I will use voice commands to take my browser to eBay for a shopping trip. Acquisitions. Disbursements. I am business lightning.

Well, for Jesus, there is, to climb, a dirt embankment loaded with broken glass, from beer bottles, whiskey bottles, soda bottles, soda cans, even broken commodes and 7 inch ceramic pipe. There's a huge lapidary of broken and jagged shards from those pipes. I have to push my bicycle up the same embankment to get to the back of my house.

So, one of my hopes for the future is that someone will produce an affordable, lightweight gas powered moped .

Tell me the rodents aren't so

Listening to the online instant radio, I was pleased to hear a panel of zanies discussing a range of subjects that reminded me of a swarm of fruit flies. No one seemed to be getting to any type of point, and they were presenting a decent case for that being unnecessary. They were empowered to do the show by virtue of free services.  I am wearing earth tone, Earth mother print theme tunics and pantaloons to convince anyone this shit makes sense.

　
　
On more sedate afternoons, soft flesh robots talk to each other in a sort of trance. It's a shared trance. Perhaps they're all on opiates together. As if all studied together in the same
corrective facility.

Very little information escapes the 3 inch speakers plugged into a fire engine red plastic netbook out of which I am enjoying the radio show. Maybe I should call it a podcast. Disappointed.

　
　
Note: seems like you have to stick this microphone in your mouth, same as the other one. This garbage is being written using voice recognition software, no shit, I'm talking into a tiny microphone held in my fist, like bird felatio. Like rock'em sock'em robots blowing each other. too, for the consternation. Allowing for more advanced and more miniaturized technology. Annoying.

　
Well. People's vacuous, derivative prattling is as grand as the hanging Gardens of Babylon.

Have I woken up angry again? Is this merely the work of a not too social person? Have a cup of  coffee, and read a passage composed just for you, here at the not too social hour. It's what I call the house. I call my house "the not-to-social hour."  It is both the theme and an affectation.

The runtish microphone I am talking into is reminding me of a mole. Or maybe a mouse. The kind  of little vermin that leaves droppings. Not the computer apparatus.

　
　
I put out a fresh tray of rat poison in the kitchen, and felt a sort of motherly concern that perhaps some of the little rats weren't eating.

But actually, I am certain that all the rats are eating their share of the poison. And sharing it with friends and family. I've been a happier man since I started sharing poison with the rats. There's a rat problem in the city.

An old lady who lives in Polish Hill was telling me, one fine afternoon, the city came up and put out industrial-strength rat poison in the field beside her house. It came in a container that looked like a World War II grenade. Civic weapons  worked great because she could see the rats frolicking on any afternoon before they put out the poison and it was like just plain old barren weeds afterwards.


I encountered a small group of dead rats in the sports field in front of the Observatory this afternoon when I went out on the electric bicycle to throw boomerangs.  They were flattened.   Desiccated .  I didn't mind. I'm not one of those ingrates  who go crying that there's dead rats on the lawn and someone in authority should come and pick them up, as in "who's responsible for these dead rats being here."    I'm glad the city poisoned them.