more paint squirting re: Donnie and Stan Saga

Juan finished his set with the 70s classic song Having My Baby.  He sang the Anka song with all the heart he had put in it when singing it for paternity courts nation wide.  Much of his software engineering wages were lost to child support payments, yet his singing was pretty as it ever was.  You can't steal pulchritude, no matter how many kids it had out of wedlock.

The three songs Juan sung cemented his position as a comrade in the beach commune that inhaled Pacific Ocean germs and irritants.  He had no intention of stealing that Adam Levine guitar.  He had innocently pined only to make music with it, like the way the Maharishi Maheshyogi said 'unposessive love.'    Juan was a social beach crooner.  As he returned the instrument to Maria, an overgown horse shoe crab emerged, standing tall on scrawny hind legs, it's right fore arm held cross its bony, scaly green wet breast plates.

Dribs and Drabs of the S and D Saga I'm sweating over....

A wrapper off a pack of Nutty Bars blew down the filthy beachfront, away from the eight illusory comrades.   Too much flavored vodka, and one of the guests began unraveling.  The mustache, two feet wide and weighing eight pounds, with liquor residue included, was a fooler.  Buttwhack Morgan couldn't hold his liquor any better than an upper middle-class Asian/Jewish second grader.  He was blithering.  And crying, in bouts, when not self agrandizing or else indulging a private sentiment you'll find examples of in the DSM 4.  He's an S and M maven.

"I was in a real, a real, a real fucking comic strip.  A regular main character.  Same as fucking Superman."

Stan was the more sensitive of the two former duplicate key merchants.  "Superman was the more dearly loved of the two, Buttwhack.  You can't do shit about popular trending.  It's what fucked me and Donnie out of the key business."

Buttwhack's former companion in adventure, the young Rod Stsudley, was in the witness protection program, something about a ring of perverts in Albania.   The comic got dropped from syndication.

Back to my Stan And Donnie Saga

If I hadn't got side tracked with the silly rant below, about politics (assholes,) I would have sooner gotten to Juan's need to play Maria Von Findrich's guitar, which had been designed, approved and mass marketed by Adam Levine.   Go Adam.  Damn nice guit-box,  for lite lucre.  It was among Juan's fascinations.

Buttwhack Morgan was the first to notice the stranger approaching, a whole side of BM's giant handlebar mustache pointing to the fatigued intruder, the five dear comrades sharing their variegated afterglows from respective coitus and other treats.  "I think some sumbitch is approaching," he observed.

"Vy ziss good be da' 4th horfman de la apocalypse, by Yeezus!" the three Von Findrich sisters croacked out all at once.  (Why, this could be the forth horseman of the Apocolypse, by Jesus)

Stan and Donnie were two good Americans.  They didn't jump to any rotten bigoted conclusions.    A life together making dupicate house keys in a two by nothing small business taught them to judge not and let people get their duplicate keys.  "Hey, asshole, what the fuck you doing here?"  Donnie called to Juan, as he reached expectorating proximity, as snuff dippers from Harvard might say.

Maria's guitar grew hot and began smoking as Maria tried to play and sing a tune.  "Ouch, Dis ztingking guitar is burning mein fingers off,"  she complained.

Juan snatched the guitar from poor, smoldering Maria Von F, snapped the ax into playing position against his vertical striped  pantaloons, and launched into his Paul Anka songs.  He started with, My Way.

Rant-a-Roo

I'll get back to my continuing story of agonizing making-do, featuring Donnie, Stan, the Von Findrich sisters, Empress Cornhola, and Buttwhack Morgan.   But it's time for a circuitous rant about what's fucked about Pittsburgh grass roots politics, if there is such a thing.  On principle, hoards of people whining together about disparate hostilities doesn't alter the conduct of Monsanto, the NSA, the  military-industrial complex  or plump, soft headed legislators with pockets bulging with bribes.

The same hoards have been pretending there is hope for the Occupy Movement.   The late Beatle, John Lennon, on a video interview, said that Flower Power, of the hippie generation, didn't work, and people needed to change tact with regard to social reform.   Flower Power was deliberately neutralized by all the tactics the Fed has up it's sleeve, such as divide-and-conquer, selective subsidies (these bastards get $, those ones don't, thus they hate each other and do the Fed's job of fucking up the agenda,)  commercialization (we have a product or service that will enhance your leftist social status,) and anyone can demonize anyone for any reason, or for no reason, because a major problem with grass roots politics is that people are assholes, irrespective their hopes and machinations, and like much of the middle class, people need to prove they are better than someone, irrespective of any scale by which 'better' can be evaluated.   Maybe they sell environmentally friendly cosmetics, or they read books by famous radicals.  More nauseating here, Pittsburgh is rife with living legacies of the more radical past, and these kids and grand-kids of American Leftist Fun serve as status symbols for people with no connection to a past more exciting and impassioned than now.

Quick answers are dreadful, but can help:  Mass, highly focused, litigation.    Enforcement of existing anti-trust laws.   Expanding definitions of anti-trust law, with timely change in the way monopolistic competition is fought against.  A better case for equality.  A resurgence in generousity, without demanding tax exempt status or deduction.   Less bullshitty NGOs.  And now, for a cartoon....

Last Night at Von Findrich's

With all the commotion of an orgy followed by a group sing along, no one noticed the mysterious stranger treadling the dead horse shoe crabs and syringes littering the filthy beach front.   Good choice of sandals on this mendicant.  Few needles were getting through the soles, and his chances for living into next year were decent.  It was Juan.  Juan was a displaced software engineer from Silicon Valley.   His catamaran exploded months earlier, a jerry-rigged pontoon had filled with some evil gas, and Juan likes to puff a blunt.   His asshole was blown six feet across, and he now wears a bag, inside of a wine skin, but it's a colostomy.

Juan had been told of the music.   He too shopped Kmart, and had lived in Westview, Pennsylvania, at one time.   There is no honor left.  No professionalism.   Only a nation of dirty little snitches with a name tag.  Juan asked, and was gleefully informed, that it was the Von Findrich sisters who had purchased the very last Adam Levine guitar, when that Kmart store discontinued music.    From the day Juan saw Picasso's painting of an old guitarist, he dreamed of sitting on a filthy, polluted beach with an ax like the duffer in the painting.  For decades he rented guitars from mean inner city music stores while he took his lessons, skipping lunch for his hour away from his day job at the leather tannery.  With each new season, the rent on his guit box would be hiked, and he had to stop eating breakfast.  When he completed learning three Paul Anka songs, he quit his lessons, and began his long, agonizing search for satisfaction.   For Juan had been told, through his people, that there was an Adam Levine guitar at that clearance sale, and he rode his sting ray bicycle, prepared to tie the guitar to the basket.   A Levine, for just 19 dollars and change, drives people to do this desperation.   An Maria Von F wheeled her walker into that very Kmart, and copped that Levine that Juan so badly needed.    Months later, he got degree, online, worked like a slave in Silicon Valley,and was let go  so the company could better steal Juan's intellectual properties.  But he was a damn good sport about that.  It was the Von Findrich sisters that he couldn't forgive.

Virility Hazards

Some of the most virile kids in my high
school class kicked early from heart disease in their early fifties.    It's been reported by talking heads and columns there is a correlation between early puberty and early croaking, so, me, having been a 'wuss,' can gloat freely for having an enviable circulatory system now, and a half bright future, as opposed to none for the more popular, better liked jocks who are now toast.  Some of the decedents had been super studs, while I was still a lisping, puny, weakling on the perifery of social orders too obnoxious to compete in.   The lisp is now deep and sonorous.  I'm taller than most former super studs.  It was an optical illusion, squished in time.   The new evolution is limpid.  

Stan and Donnie saga...

The barge, formerly rowing in the distance, was real close to shore, and the five dear pals  were almost certain they knew who it was.    So certain, they didn't spare a second snatching up five leaf rakes to shoost aside all the dead horse shoe crabs, straggling algae encrusted acrylic wigs, and shot syringes covering the beach.   As the barge pulled up, boa striations in the filthy sand, from raking, created the illusion of nice-ness in the beaming  red cloacal sunset.

Empress Cornhola, and Buttwhack Morgan, both from Rhode Island, originally, were saluting on deck of their barge.   Assholes went the whole way around the Cape of Incomprehensible South America, near where Mengele hid out from the Israeli  secret police.  Scenic.  Frugal.  Nice way to travel when jobs are scarce.  Plenty of eats in the ocean.    Everyone on the beach rushed to the boat.  A couple hundred slaves poured out the back and took a piss against the side of the barge.  Everybody hugged.

Buttwhack was a notorious S and M personality, used to be in a comic strip, it was dropped, he became parapetitic, not unlike Stan and Donnie.   The Empress, too, had a mean streak burried under the Queen's formal manners, running a twelve step program for junkies.   It's where she gets her slaves,   She gives them a bottle of methodone, they agree to row the barge.   Works better than an Evinrude out-board.  Right about then her slaves were all working on number eleven in the program they were forced to adhere to.  Soon they would all get a certificate.

Naturally, there was instant group singing to the thrum of that little First Act Adam Levine six string, and later, there was group sex.   By superb freak of genetics, one of the three sisters, identical triplets,  liked flagellation, and Buttwack was there for her.  The other two loved to watch, and I'm leaning to the view that this is a healthy deviation in their trebbled gene assemblage.  The Empress whipped slaves, while Stan and Donnie busied them selves in a variety of supportive touchings.   They kept a book about massage in the van, under the boxes and boxes of Nutty Bars.  Soon, both men recovered their long lost libidos, long ago weakened by a diet of Nutty Bars,  and the females present were all too happy to  let the two displaced, marginalized comrades hop on top.  Then more singing to that sexy musical instrument from Kmart.