oh, to know joy

Al-Queda's worst nightmare

American flag ball-cap with a bald eagle who is wearing an American flag ball-cap with a bald eagle on it!

A better expression of freedom than a 9/11 tribute song co-piloting an F-14 Tomcat with Babe Ruth, flying over a Nascar game where Toby Kieth (probable date-rapist and confirmed lover of apple pie) is singing the national anthem, and targeting, with the latest smart missile technology, the Iraqi childrens' hospital where Osama Bin Laden has been receiving his dialysis in secret.

I rack 'em up, and I roll!

(mullet and manly mustache, ready for free rides.)

Same pony, twice the tricks

First: Same old game, spitting venomous hate speech into the ethers of Cyberspace.

Second: I have received an awesome-as-shit camera for my birfday, and will now be augmenting this already off-the-chain-badass page with weird pictures. Get your damn self ready for a whole new angle with which to view the things which piss me off. Just to prove I can do it, this first series of digital eye orgasms are a couple of tests to see how much light I need before the auto-flash will stop. I could just turn it off, but since I don't know what I am doing, the pictures wind up blurry if I force the flash off when the camera wants it. I suppose if there isn't enough light the gnome which lives inside the machine can't see all good enough to draw the pictures he sees when the shutter opens. These were all taken from my desk chair, which is quite possibly the most enviable travel destination this, or any, holiday season. Next Guy Fawkes day, maybe you too will have the funds to come take pictures of the filth I live in.


I pointed the camera directly into the light... I am not sure if you are supposed do that.


Opus 13, journal about my feelings, book about 1500c French art, pocket dictionary, olde tyme essays about muzac, Finale manual, flotsam... le Sacre is buried somewheres in that sum'bitch.


See that black and white piece of cloth beneath the dryer sheet and the Beethoven... that, my friend, is a real imitation Miyagi-Do dojo headband (as worn by Ralph Macchio) from the special edition Karate Kid DVD... jealous much?


Book shelf... wanted to see if I could clear the picture up enough to read the titles by using my leet hacking skills on the photo-editing program that my compooter came with.

The Cruel Jokes of Hatefull Gods

I have searched my memory many times, and have yet to discover what tragic miscommunication lead to the events which I here relate... it is likely that in attempt to save itself from madness, my mind has replaced the information I require with a dark blotch, and I shall never truly know what happened. I can only hope that the details I can recall will serve as a warning to all who seek a quick, cheap meal.

It was Friday; one of those blessed spring afternoons when Helios bathes young lovers in light and joy as he describes his arc across a clear sky, and a perfect counterpoint to the mockery a mortal must suffer at the hands of those blind hags and their spinning wheel. My colleague and I were on our way to do some much needed grocery shopping, and decided to grab something quick to eat, as we both felt it a bad idea to procure food as hungry as we were. The most convenient way to do this was to drive-thru the local "Taco Bell," which we have done so many times without incident... given, it isn't the greatest fair, but it will often suffice in a pinch. I ordered, as usual, two bean and cheese burritos, which I have always found acceptable, if only barely, and thought I had no reason to fear.

What I received could only be called a burrito in the fevered and tormented mind of the criminally insane (my hands tremble at the keyboard as I return to this beast in my mind, perhaps it's best I don't proceed, that I take this experience to my grave... but no! I will not allow another innocent to fall prey to this horror when I could have prevented it!). It was wrapped in a tortilla, to be sure, but what lay within seemed like the sort of thing an indigent might concoct in order to mask the dog food he must buy, since his government checks won't cover anything that meets FDA standards for human consumption. There was a twisted attempt at rice, seasoned with what could be best described as dryer lint, a strange detritus that oft congealed into a sick imitation of a chunk of tomato. Mixed in with the fun-house mirror version of Mexican rice were some refried beans, which were bathed in a healthy dose of the sort of nacho-cheese which is found in gas stations by the tub. It must have been shoveled out of Hades sewers by the over-sized, un-gloved paws of some diseased plague-devil, due to its amount, and stench, a stench that clings to the soft pallet like vomit. I doubt there are words in this language, or any, that could convey the taste, suffice it to say: self destructive as I am, I could not bring myself to punish my stomach with the second nightmare which lay seeping its foul contents into the bottom of the plastic bag sitting in my lap. How I managed to choke down the first is a mystery, one whose secrets are best left to fetishists who consume feces, or human flesh, as I now feel more akin to these monsters than those of you who can never know what it is to be truly damned.

If I am lucky, my digestive process will strip some of the more heinous elements from the daemon as it runs its course towards all foods' inevitable end. Otherwise, the corrosive abilities of this unholy marriage of chemistry and black magic will affect indescribable damage upon my apartment... what with the terror already wrought upon my insides it is unlikely I will be able to reach the john when that fateful moment comes. My knees will simply buckle, I will fall to the ground, quivering, blinded, not by the sweat pouring down my fetid brow, but by the agony which will no doubt be tearing me stem to stern; and there, muttering pitiful entreats to whatever angels may be listening, that they may spirit my soul away, like Christ upon Calvary, before the true suffering begins, I will void my bowels.

I do not envy the officer who will be first to respond to the 911 calls of my neighbors, who are doing what they know to be their civic duty in response to the tormented screams that will echo off these walls for ages, haunting those who are touched with the second sight long after I, or anyone who knew me is gone. I shudder to think what images will infect said auxiliary... sitting at home with his family, his eyes will glaze over in that manner which his wife has learned so well, and though she can sense the depth of his suffering, she knows not to ask... but his voice will be added to mine, and, perhaps, together, we can spread our message:

Be very careful when you place an order at "Taco Bell."

...and you are worse

mysteries of the fairer sex

Two gentlemen whose consistent popularity with women will always be a mystery to me.

1. The meth-head that sells me cigarettes at the tobaconist where, without fail, MTV "Cribs" is always playing on the wall mounted, rotary-dial television. I suppose "Cribs" is the finishing acadame that taught him that nothing says class like a t-shirt with Lil' John airbrushed, in rather stunningly life-like detail, on the front... complete with real faux-gold teeth 'bedazzled' onto John's perfectly replicated shit-eating-grin.

2. Any male who has frosting incorporated into their over-gelled, pseudo flat-top. The same 'dude' whose coming is heralded by the acrid stench of a freshly applied 'TAG body shot,' and that unmistakable thick, graceless, plodding step that bespeaks the carriage of the unbearable weight of subconsciously knowing that you have never had, nor will you ever have, a personality. A hard truth, kept barely at bay by the combination of: shopping for cloths that take surf/skateboard logos and cleverly twist them into something vaguely Jesus themed, and mentally punishing yourself for screwing, even though the same deity promoted on your zipper hoody hates you for it.

Take my advice ladies: it is the skinny, RPG playing, geek that will love you with all the vigor and appreciation of a fifteen year-old virgin, but with the added bonus of a sexual vocabulary pregnant with the years of internet pornography that a teenager has yet to experience.

Plus, I've got like, four dollars left on my laundry card, so if you spend the night I can totally wash your cloths for you in the morning.

Should have... sent... a poet

Skateboard Ball Launch Does Not Go Well - Watch more free videos
Watch this about 50 times in a row, and tell me its not funny every freaking time!

live for the sticker... you little bastard

Maybe lack of sleep over this past week has made me paranoid and unstable, but I am getting the sneaking suspicion that the entire world is out to make my life miserable by raising kids who refuse to do anything without promise of acquiring a small piece of colorful paper with gummy crap pasted all over the back. I remember being a little kid and thinking that being rewarded with stickers was ridiculous... they are completely worthless.
Maybe I am living a lie, and stickers are actually the most valuable currency on the world market, and I am just too ignorant of world economics to realize it, and the only reason parents send their kids to piano lessons is to amass a great wealth of these notes.
Stupid me for thinking that the ability to play an instrument was the pay off for taking lessons.

"Flying Free"

...one of the most important entries in the "Dragonforce Epic Lyric Rhyming Dictionary." Who doesn't like Dragonforce? I defy you to make a case against the emotional journey and catharsis that a fast-as-holy-fuck guitar solo, wrapped in the framework of fight-training montage music, takes you on.

In my past life as a call center phone jockey for CCS (that ungodly skateboard and related paraphernalia train wreck) I was at ground zero of the life altering invention of the Osiris G-Bag. For those who know not what this apex of innovation, this perfect marriage of form and function is, I shall illuminate. Wait for it... wet your lips with anticipation... the Osiris G-Bag is a backpack with speakers sewn into the frame, connected to a pocket where one can place a portable compact disk player (this was early 2000, when the ipod was still reserved for crack-pots who felt that having 28 billion mp3s was far superior to carrying around a ten pound CD binder). Thus, you could pump your tunes out loud, for the edification of all who wander into the sphere of you and your G-Bag.

To my eternal discredit, I never bought one, and now I am incapable of conveniently thrusting my speed-metal soundtrack onto unsuspecting victims at the bus stop. How are they all supposed to know how bad-ass I am without hearing passionately screeched lyrics about flying over mountains and fighting for truth, and dulcet tones blistering forth from gods own guitar at ten thousand beats-per-minute.

I mean, I could just say it out loud, but without the background music I would just look like a jack-ass, and I don't want that. Fact: women will not sleep with a jack-ass unless they are browbeaten into submission by his way-cool theme song.

the real legacy of Jesus Jones

1) White kids getting away with having dreadlocks
2) Trying to make keyboard playing cool by being the most "hip-hop" kid in the whole crew
3) Wearing your hat "taco style' with the bill flipped up famously... a fuck you to the ball cap nazis that said you could only choose between bill in front or bill in back.
4) Electronica... now for everybody

nothing cures a stutter like a good lay

Excerpt from
"Horizons"


If I EVER write a piece as god-awful, vanilla, and ham-fisted as this'un, may the lord see fit to send an eight foot tall Indian (indigenous American) to smother me with a fucking pillow.

I pray Peter Louis Van Dijk wake every morning to the crushing reality of his pathetic failure, and stand, twice hourly, in front of the bathroom mirror shouting expletives at his reflection while wiping himself down with his own defecate.

why don't we say cowabonga anymore?

...added to the list of things which I imagine would be funny, but, in all honesty, aren't:

Ninjas using their ninja skills to accomplish everyday tasks! I had a vision of such a scene, involving toasting a sandwich under the broiler, when it occurred to me that it is dangerously close to the opening sequence from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie (staring Cory Feldman), where they skateboard up to the surface world and use their ancient tactics of subterfuge in order to hide the fact that they are sewer-living freaks from the pizza delivery guy.

things which will always be funny:

references to Thriller

Journey to the End of the Night

Yeah I referenced a Celine book in the title... so suck it... I earned that right by wasting hours of my life slogging through the whole damn thing, even though the first half dozen chapters are the only ones worth reading.

but thats not the point:

the point: it takes me a long time to enter anything into Finale because every time I finish a system, measure, or even beat, I feel I have earned a congratulatory cigarette. Thus, having a project that begged completion, I stole myself for a long night by pounding two entire carafes of coffee, and not the good coffee, but the "buy-by-the-pound" bag of generic swill coffee. What I failed to take into account was that, while it may be almost incalculably small, I do have something that resembles a learning curve, and have completed said project ahead of schedule.

Now I must decide if its worth it to try and shake myself to sleep for two and a half hours of tormented wet dreams.

Moral of the story... caffeine is a drug kids, listen to your D.A.R.E. officer and just say no... unless you are trying to drown out the sound of your screaming insecurities, in which case drugs and violence are very effective.

FACE!

I like the sound of my own voice as much as the next person, so if er'y body else gets to blather on about their petty, mundane bullshit on the world-wide innernette, I want to as well. Although, I was taken aback upon finding out that my images and video clips promoting bestiality would not be tolerated by the fine people at Google. That is like 80% of my being, but "the Man" has decided to keep me down, so there will inevitably be vast holes in the already Burroughs-esque narration of my life... just fill in those gaps with pictures and grainy footage of barnyard sexcapades and the other pieces will all fall into place.

The other 20% is yo' momma' jokes, so get ready to be put in your place by the lashes from my rapier wit, directed at your family, whom you love, but I consider fodder for references to weight problems and prostitution.

Tell your friends... especially about the animal boning, because you only know perverts and they will get a kick out of it.