|
|
Future Dynamite Museum Member
|
|
|
| Recently, I Wrote this Poem |
[08 Nov 2009|01:38am] |
This poem is about being middle aged.
It's called "Isn't it Stupid that We're Still Poor?"
This is me in my prime,
Whenever I say "I love you," I always think of myself,
I'll have to remember the brand name of that microwave from Costco we both liked,
And, Oh wow, they have peanut butter, bread, oil, salt, apples, bananas, oranges, raisins,
-- No, come on,
Eat what's in the fridge first.
|
|
| Epitaph |
[21 Jan 2009|07:49pm] |
See you in hell, Bush, you bumbling, puppet-faced, obliviously murderous old douchebag.
Good riddance.
|
|
| Random Internet Quote |
[25 Mar 2008|05:21pm] |
"Amazing! I've always wanted to hear 1920's dance bands that played in British colonies in Asia!."
"No, you haven't. That's too specific."
|
|
| There's a Reason Lex Luther's Built Everything in Metropolis |
[23 Mar 2008|01:39am] |
Today, I had a theory about Superman, and so I present:
Superman: the continuing saga of a superhero harassing a buisinessman.
Superman's being interviewed on the eleven o'clock news about the recently laser-damaged Metropolis dam. He turns to the camera, looking stern, and says, "I hope you've brought your checkbook, Lex Luther, because you're going to pay for this!"
Luther's sitting at home watching the news, and when he hears this he snaps up and says, "Oh, man, I didn't have anything to do with that! Shelly, he's doing it again!" That's when Superman smashes through the wall. He grabs Luther, beats him up, punches him in his belly, makes fun of his head, grabs hold of him by the ankle and flies him out through the bay window in the breakfast nook, trailing Moroccan balsa shutters and what's left of breakfast.
Twenty minutes later Luther's dangling over a volcano in Guam, covered in hot sweat and brunch, fumbling around with his cellphone-wristwatch trying desperately to voice-authorize a two billion dollar withdrawl from his account with Metropolis Mutual.
Only two months later the final pieces of Metropolis' new Krypton Memorial Dam are rolling off LexCorp's assembly line, and the cranes are putting in the final touches on the dam's newly retrofitted "Superman Tunnels".
|
|
| I'm Sad About Recent Deaths |
[09 Oct 2007|02:26pm] |
- Tevor Yetchenko, 84, MotoGP racer, complications due to arm wrestling
- Parthepan Chinmoy, 14, famous cat philosopher, feline leukemia
- Elsa "Gravy" Tauser, 111, Germany's oldest person, roller coaster accident.
|
|
| Come Meet The Lunchmeats |
[22 Sep 2007|02:57am] |
I hate seeing people succeed early in their lives or at any time after that. It just reminds me of how little I have, and invariably will have, accomplished. Watching kids half my age write screenplays and invent Bubbleyum flavors is the sort of kick up the ass that you'd assume would inspire someone to become creative in their own right. You'd assume that, but it turns out you're wrong and that isn't true. Shame on you.
Up until this point, watching other people succeed hasn't inspired me to do any extra work, but is has made me feel bad. This recent instance of sad has activated all two of my emotions: grumpy and sleepy. These days I even find myself exposed to feelings in addition to the usual two -- last week I was crabby and the week before that I was in a huff. There are new emotions too, feelings so dark that they don't have names, and which, due to my limited experience with emotions, I can only describe as "Hungergrumpy" and "Sleepcurtness."
Worse than that, all of these bad feelings have started to manifest themselves as rebellious juvenille behavior, leading to bouts of immature namecalling and vindictive bedwetting.
I want everyone to know I'm having a hissy fit.
My acting out hasn't stopped with damp drawers either, this period of acting out has progressed to the point of frequent grouchy temper tantrums, a handful of dummy fits, and many uncalled for instances of sass mouth. Also, at one point I pulled down somebody's pants and kept them down with my foot so they couldn't pull them back up again. Then I pushed that person over and while they were trying to get back up I put a stick of butter between their butt cheeks so that when they stood up their clentching cheeks made the butter smoosh.
|
|
| Yeast Poise |
[03 Sep 2007|06:43pm] |
Over the weekend I scored a modeling contract with America's largest single-site employer of plus-sized models: Dunkin' Donuts. It came as a total surprise. I had hardly finished my Bacon Lover's Tender-Delux Supreme Cheese Omlet Sandwich-Wrapped Pancake Sticks when I was approached by three men and a little lady offering me a chance to spokesmodel: they told me I had "The Poise," and when it comes to modeling only legitimate models catch Poise.
Well, I was so flabbergasted I almost threw up 99 cents worth of the Sugar Raised Munchkins I was drinking. "Me?" I said. "A spokesmodel?" I continued. "I think you've made a mistake -- I work for the people, not for The Man."
"You can trust us," the tallest man explained, his flesh tanned and supple from years of eating donuts. "We don't put drugs in our food like our hated rivals at Krispy Kreme."
His words got me thinking; why does Krispy Kreme put drugs in their food? I know I don't want opium in my Glazed Fritter, $2.99 for a dozen. "You raise a good point," I said. "I'll do it."
Stiffly we shuffled to the door, a smile in our stomachs, our arteries fortified with fat and bits of cruller. We had a new purpose in our hearts, lodged cozily in our left ventricles; left untreated it would surely give us all aneurysms.
Later that evening I went in front of the review board, and let me tell you, it scared the fritters out of me -- I was shaking in my Long Johns. These people were class acts. Definitely rolling in dough. Plus, everyone on board sported the immaculate coifs that are the hallmark of those who eat breakfast sausage -- I knew I was in good hands. What's more, they knew my hands were good in them. They could sense my Yeast Poise; the Dutch call it "Oliebollen." I could tell immediately that they knew I was filled with the kind of rapacious custard required to make this arrangement work.
The board all agreed that I was sexy -- David Alan Grier sexy -- but did I really have what it takes to sell lard to fatasses?
Yes I did.
|
|
| She's Hot but She's Wearing a Science Bikini |
[26 Aug 2007|07:32am] |
|
If I was on Top Chef and the judges were asking me why I chose to pair my kaffir chiffonade with a cru Beaujolais I think I'd probably say, "Man, sometimes shit goes crazy."
|
|
| Happy Halloween Everybody! |
[27 Jul 2007|02:02am] |
When the crypt goes creak,
And the tombstones quake.
Spooks come out for a swinging wake.
Happy haunts materialize,
And begin to vocalize.
Grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize.
Now don't close your eyes,
And don't try to hide.
Or a silly spook may sit by your side.
Shrouded in a daft disguise,
They pretend to terrorize.
Grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize.
As the moon climbs high o'er the dead oak tree,
Spooks arrive for the midnight spree.
Creepy creeps with eerie eyes,
Start to shriek and harmonize.
Grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize.
When you hear the knell of a requiem bell,
Weird glows gleam where spirits dwell.
Restless bones etherialize,
Rise as spooks of every size.
If you would like to join our jamboree,
There's a simple rule that's compulsory.
Mortals pay a token fee.
Rest in peace, the haunting's free.
So hurry back, we would like your company.
|
|
| Just the Factoids, Please |
[22 Apr 2007|10:25am] |
As an artist, the only thing I've ever learned is that people like art with tits in it. Every really great artist knows this, and they all exploit it. There are subtle, hidden tits in everything. Tits on apples. Tits on pears. A fruit bowl is nothing but an angiospermic orgy of buxom and full-bosomed tree cleavage. The importance of tits can't be underestimated, their influence spans the gamut, lactating inspiration. Tits pop up in such disparate masterpieces as The Last Supper, and Starry Night, and are quietly jiggling around the periphery of great works of literature like War and Peace, and Gulliver's Travels.
Music is subject to the same rules -- that's a fact-oid. Much of Beethoven's work had tits in it. Sarasate used tits extensively. In factoid, most classical music is composed on a staff specifically designed to take into account something musicians call, "Breast Augmentation Acoustits." Korobeiniki has so much tits in it that it should come with a plate of Oreos. Bach's Chaconne? That's just tits from start to stop -- that's why it sounds so good.
Tits were the performance enhancing drugs of their day. Virtuoso musicians like Henryk Szeryng and Jascha Heifetz used to staple tits inside their comberbuns before a concert. Rumor has it that Munch went so absolutely tits one day that it resulted in no less than three different variations on The Scream. Tits are directly responsible for the Dymaxion car, the cotton gin, and the gum in baseball cards.
It's an outright factoid that every great mind of the last ten centuries can be traced back to tits. Shakespeare was obsessed with tits. Buckminster Fuller was shaped like a tit. And Gertrude Stein had tits, allegedly. I guess in the end, tits are like nature's sudoriferous zester, making everything more interesting.
|
|
| Bikini Science Monitor |
[20 Apr 2007|11:56pm] |
My drug dealers are a bunch of cute girls. They're Hot Pot Chicks -- they smoke me out all decked out in pumps and purses, wrapped in dresses and ovaries held together with all sorts of different tubes and bangs and boobs and uteruses. All the normal things a girl has -- teeth -- they got that, and eye-liner. They got it all, really. All those feminine qualities, cheeks and things. They got everything from elbows all the way down to stuff like calves and earings and a strange sense of malaise when it comes to paying for accessories. We smoke from a glitter bong called "Nuh-Uh Girl!" and watch America's Next Top Model together while they gash their three-pound junk bricks into cute shapes for me to take home -- last night I smoked a pegasus.
Sometimes when I go over there, they have Nestle Tollhouse cookies baking, and it made me realize that none of my other drug dealers has ever bothered to bake me anything before, not even crescent rolls. So now I do everything over there, and I can tell the girls are rubbing off on me. A month ago I didn't even think I had any opinion at all about Sanjaya Malakar, but you know what? It turns out I'm very opinionated inebriated, and that guy is majestic and horrifying like a carnosaur. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that he's definitely some sort of triassic archosaur bent on chomping through my gullet like a Prestosuchus, I'm just saying that it's weird being strung out in a room where you have nowhere to run if his ponyhawk evolves sentience and starts chasing you. I swear I kicked at that thing for hours but couldn't thrash it away. It's probably bad form, but I writhed away in their bed for hours trying to fight off his hairstyle.
This morning I woke up with my foot jutting out of a Paddinton Bear, and had squeezed my body through a Popple like a croptop. When I walked into the livingroom, the girls gave me cocoa and a kiss on the head.
|
|
| Suburban Vandal Deviancy |
[31 Mar 2007|04:29pm] |
On the road you get a little more snug in your lubricity -- while ridding through the rockies I stopped at a chancy Allsup's and was able to buy a "fresh" Eggs Roulade out of a vending machine which also sold diaphragms. Personally, I don't think truckstop restroom dinning can be beat; where else can you buy both a summer sausage and a condom to keep it in? Life on the road so far has been a repeating production line of streets and streetsigns, capillaries soaked in caffeine and caked with cannabis. Seats full of stems and seeds. Pill capsules and contents. I haven't showered for shit; every time I sit down, I concentrate my body under my nose and just think "feet." Daily living in a car is like pitching tent in a chili contestant's odoriferous, leather lip folds. If I started this journey out with a car unspoiled by sauces soaked into my upholstery, I surely don't remember it. The last time I pulled off my pants they made a crunchy, velcro sound, giving me a full Brazilian and a distinctive piecemeal merkin. After the first four days, my dashboard started attracting animals; even the air-conditioned air tasted like the lining of a Disney character's costume.
Eating at unusual places is still the highlight of any road adventure, and I've sat in the mung-slathered swivel seats of many a dodgy enterprise. In Phoenix I stopped at a hovel called Sack's Art of Sandwichery, right next to the Stickybunnery, and across the road from Art's Corndoggery, kittycorner to the National Bankery, and directly across from the Millstown Abortion Clinicery, I guess. There weren't any booths, so I had to addle up to the counter where for hours I sat transfixed as an old man seduced sticky gobs of chili off a filthy truckstop weeny while his lecherous hotdog pal glistened menacingly in the neon glow of a Labatts marquee. At times I'm sure I saw it smile at me. His girlfriend sat still on his lap like the pickled chaff of a labradoodle; she looked like the tiny idol head from The Temple of Doom, and must have weighed at least as much. Her eyes bulged out so far that I'm sure that had she had them scoop up a heap of hashbrowns she could have maneuvered that mush mouthward. She had the slick, gibbose head of a criminal; it took all my strength to keep from pocketing her like a football. When I went to wash up she followed me into the restroom, and used the urinal next to mine.
|
|
| Culture is How the Government Gets Us Not to Steal |
[20 Mar 2007|09:23am] |
I think, deep down inside, the only thing any man really wants is to be able to punch through a guy. That's it. That's the only thing I ever dream about. Dreaming about punching through a guy makes it hard to wake up the next morning because then all you have to look forward to is spending a whole day without punching through anybody -- I bet that's why so many men die in their sleep.
I've thought about punching through a guy so much that I've even picked out favorite parts of my punching through a guy. There's that one moment where both me and the guy I'm punching through are just both screaming past each other in slow motion, he's sputtering on his ineluctable quietus, I'm wearing a charming bandana, and the camera is alternating back and forth between zoomed-in close-ups of both our screaming faces and my fist jutting out of his back, clutchin' his spine. If you do it right it should be just like poppin' a straw through a grapefruit.
Really though, if there's one thing that differentiates men from women, it's punching through a guy.
|
|
| Dumb is Waiting in the Wings |
[15 Mar 2007|08:40pm] |
When I have the time, I like to steal ideas and information from Barnes and Noble. I like to think of it as bootlegging knowledge. Barnes and Noble is one of the few shops where you can walk in, sample all the merchandise, and then leave without paying. Every single day you can do it. But you can tell they don't like it.
I've spent the last few days stealing knowledge; building my brain at the widow Noble's expense. "This paragraph's fine but not on my dime!" is something I like to call to people's attention while the bottom four-fifths of my body revels in the illicit luxury of stolen superfluity, kicking its feet up on a convenient shelving stepladder while the clerks make a specifically cantankerous show of jump-shelving voluminous Middle Earth bestiaries, glaring at me with percolating indignation. Every now and then a concerned bookmarm will addle past and ask if they can help with something; you get one nice hint, I figure -- every inquisition after that will get more and more insistent until eventually you're screaming from the doorway, "You can kick me out but you can't kick out my memories!" before tackling a Kevin Trudeau marquee and marching stridently into the Diary Queen for a Victory Blizzard.
Being kicked out of Barnes and Noble for reading is like being refused a haircut because your hair's too long.
|
|
| Office Temps Cut Loose |
[09 Mar 2007|06:34am] |
I've spent the past two months drunk, high, or despicable, and almost always more than one at once. I keep waking up places with either more or less clothing than I'm sure I started out with. I swear to god, last night I woke up half wrapped in a sack on the road. I think someone might have tried to kill me -- I've got bruises everywhere like I was thrown from a car, it's just that I don't remember any of it. In what I remember as the last four days: I had a beard, then didn't, then came to with a full beard again. I'm obviously missing a few days somewhere.
Maybe my morning sickness means I'm pregnant. I feel bad. My heart hurts when I lift up my arms, my kidneys feel bulbous like they're bulging from my back like a ponch on my ass, and I think my teeth are falling out. Most people have noticed. They have us so crammed together down here that you're practically wearing the person next to you like a Garden Glove. Today, the guy beside me was sitting on both sides of me concurrently. If he were any closer, we could have shared a waistband. Or a kidney. I'm not joking, either; I reached into my pocket for a stick of gum and came out palming balls that were not my own. It would be a dream come true if I liked molding taint into interesting shapes, but until balls pull off newsprint like Nutty Putty, I'd rather sit in my own chair.
|
|
| Distinctly Unlikable -- Wake Me When They're Distinctly Unkillable |
[01 Mar 2007|12:10am] |
|
The nostalgia is unbelievable! You don't understand it; there are memories attached to these things I have. It's not attached to the show, the tape, the movie; its what I remember around them. These things just act like triggers. That's why we keep them around --- they're our catalogue, they're the second storage for our brain, right where we left them when we couldn't cram in anything more. Those philosophical conversations. Zombie movies are political but politics are scarier. Early nintendo music, memories about blowing in the cartriges as surgery for a broken game: blown-in was fixed. That's something someone from another generation couldn't possibly understand. Having a favorite ninja turtle, having a favorite mega man villain. Fighting in the yard using our imaginations. Watching legendary saturday morning cartoons, those ones that came on all week but always started while you were in school -- you'd only ever be able to see them on sick days. Videogame soundtracks were our rock n roll. In class we were very impressed by the kid who knew a lot about Contra, who knew the secret warps in Mario; he was our James Dean. Recess we played freeze tag; there'd be a home base, a safe place to stay. You could chain your way to your friends trapped otherwise, our safety was conducted through our bodies like electricity. Safe salvation from a streetlamp. Making my way through the washroom I felt like I was strolling through someone's intestines. Those horrible orange cobblestone floor tiles were always wet with thick, oily mop trails. I think I'd enjoy childhood a lot more if I could go back there now. It's all I've been thinking about lately.
|
|
| More Bread Machine Magic |
[24 Feb 2007|11:19pm] |
For the longest time, my parents tried to make me believe that my learning disabilities were a temporary thing, the result of a failed public education system that simply let me fall through the cracks, but let's face it; my head is small enough to wear an apple like a helmet. The only reason my head is even that big is because I was born with a lemon in my brain -- sometimes it's hard to think. If you could really condense it, my head could hold a superball; and I don't mean volume-wise -- I mean I could actually bend my head like a glove to grab a superball.
Instead of a skull, like most of you, I have a custardy membrane known as "the occipito-parietal quiche," which my doctor tells me is kind of a "cranial mcmuffin," which makes exercise very difficult, as my head tends to jiggle in the wind like breasts.
Thank God I have my mother to take care of me. She's my protector: I once saw her yank an anvil from the ground with her teeth. Another time she squeezed a potato so hard that when she opened her fist it was full of hashbrowns. She's great at taking punishment, too; whenever we need to dull an axehead or bend a crowbar we just pummel her midsection. In fact, even today as she was sowing up my cub sash she kept screaming, "throw punches into my hips!" and, boy, you better believe I did!
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
hoboism's journal