The Artist Formerly Known as Tasty's Journal [entries|friends|calendar] The Artist Formerly Known as Tasty [ website | Click here to hear me rap ] [ userinfo | deadjournal userinfo ] [ calendar | deadjournal calendar ]

Tasty has left the building... [22 Sep 2003|11:10am] I have depleted my deadjournal of any worthwhile substance it may have once harbored. Like a parasitic organism or a raging pestilence, I have infected the host and left nothing but a corpse, forcing me to move on to the next victim. There is nothing left for me here. I have said all that is needed to be said. I have learned all that is needed to be learned. I have met all who I will never truly physically meet. Goodbye. You won't be seeing much of me around here anymore. But maybe you'll see a glimpse of me in a newspaper one day. Or maybe you'll read my obituary in the paper and remember that fucked up kid from Deadjournal. But for now, I must leave before the corpse starts to smell. It was nice to meet most of you. -Dustin 122 comments|post comment

Dog Walking [11 Sep 2003|11:35am] I am under the impression that the world is filled with morons. That idiots and mindless goons roam the streets in a numb fury. That imbeciles smash gavels and dolts write out traffic tickets. My greatest fear is that I may be one of them. Does idiocy have the ability to recognize itself? Can an idiot perceive his own wrongs? Or does an idiot blindly cling with an unwavering grasp to his false ideals that are constantly being besieged by reason? Of course, there are morons that recognize their status as lacking brain power. Recognizing your own stupidity is not the only prerequesite for vanquishing stupidity. One must excercise intelligence to be intelligent. Realizing you are wrong is not enough. You must then seek to determine what is RIGHT. I can see moronic people walking their dogs in the street. The dog leads. It walks through broken glass--you cringe and follow. It walks over hot coals--you cringe and follow. It squats to release dung onto the sidewalk, and you are powerless to stop the dumb beast. It pulls tightly upon the leash and you stumble along behind it. The dog leads you to sprinkled mailboxes, to once marked trees, to fire hydrants that still emit the scent of fresh urine. He pulls you through the suburban wasteland. And you have to ask yourself, who is really on the leash? The leader or the stumbling follower? The dog has his destination in mind, he has his ideals of lifted legs and sprayed urine, but you...all you can do is stumble along behind him, confident and faithful behind the steps of your fervent dog; Confident that your dog will lead you to salvation, while at the same time confident than you can yank his cord if he should stray into any yards of which you may disapprove. The dog knows where he is going, you know where you don't want to go. Consequently you compromise and allow the dumb animal to lead, but you tug on his leash should he lead you to uncomfortable briars and busy streets. You rationalize the dog's destination in your mind. You accept it as right because you pulled it away from anything that may harm your wondorous standards. It is a mutual leash, a form of co-slavery, a symbiosis of oppression. Only later do they notice the odious, anceint, yellowed stains of urine covering their very own walls and warped corners, betraying the outdoor consistencies to which your dog supposedly only lifted his leg. Only later do you realize that you accounted all of the wonders of the world to a mere wandering dog, when that same dog was a product of and a slave to the very leashes and rules that envelope YOU. Yes, the world is filled with morons. With morons who don't trust their own senses or their own judgements, and instead put their faith into the vapid wanderings of a listless dog. You can see these morons creeping through homes and sulking through parking garages, the leashes attatched firmly to their fingers. And they think they are in control. They smoke cigars and drink soda just like you. But you aren't one of them. Oh, no, you will never become a moron. Because you will seek rational answers, draw logical conclusions, and denounce the poisoned fruits of ignorance. You will not only rebel against stupidity, but will endorse intelligence. You will follow the correct paths and leave the urine scented trails of ignorance to the useless hounds! You will destroy all who seek to revile intellect as a curse! Won't you? 37 comments|post comment

Laughter! [04 Sep 2003|01:33pm] Laughter is a solely human trait. It is an odd action that forces the others in the animal kingdom to tilt their heads and stare at us in awed confusion as we laugh when they take a dump. Laughter is a product of humor. But not many people can explain why they find certain scenarios humorous. Most people laugh for no known reason, they have simply deemed certain things funny. When a fat lady wobbles on her feet and topples to the ground, some people will laugh, but when asked to explain WHY they laughed, they will look at you blankly and then dumbly point at the fat lady rolling on the ground, flopping around like a dying fish in a desperate attempt to stand up. When they see that their finger-pointing does not truly explain their reason for laughing, they simply shrug and punch you in the face, laughing profusely once again when you stumble backwards and fall on top of the fat woman, who screams at you and bites at your thigh when she mistakes you for a christmas ham. I am simply astounded by humor. And I am going to try to examine it, to try to explain WHY we find certain things funny, and other things uncomfortably sickening. One of the key elements of humor is uniqueness. We laugh at things that are different, unique, or not commonly witnessed. This is why children will often point and laugh at a baboon's swollen red ass, as it is not every day that you will see a red, swollen ass. This is also why adults will refuse to laugh at George Bush's pointy ears, because they have seen them all too often and the pointiness of those horrible ears has already pervaded their every day life. A subbranch of this type of humor is things that are taboo. Because taboo subjects are considered unspeakable subjects, they are often viewed as unique and humorous, even though they are becoming increasingly more common. When someone mentions their tiny penis in an everday scenario, we laugh, because it is not every day that you hear someone mention their tiny penis in the middle of a dinner at a fancy restaurant. But when someone mentions their tiny penis while removing their pants in the bedroom, preparing to make love to a woman, no one ever laughs, and the woman usually leaves in frustration. Obviously, commonality and uniqueness play a large part in what we deem funny and choose to laugh at. Another element of humor that is often overlooked is cleverness. Cleverness is a rare trait, and it is thus valued. It is also a skilled trait. I am reminded of an argument I once heard in sixth grade. A girl was arguing with a boy because the boy had called her a bitch. The girl made some type of catty response and said something along the lines of "You are wrong. Period." The boy then quirkily replied, "Ohhhh, so it's your PERIOD that's the problem." His response was witty and clever, and exhibited quick thinking. Cleverness is usually associated with puns and word transformations, as the example shows. But not all forms of cleverness are funny, as Hitler was surely clever in disposing of jews by issuing them into "showers," but few would venture to laugh at writhing bodies and screams of terror issuing from mouths who were expecting only a nice drizzle of water. Repetition is another element of humor. People find repetition funny because repetition is funny. Repetition is funny because people are repetitious and like repetitious things. Repetition is funny, funny, FUNNY. Funny. And if you don't believe me, if you REALLY don't believe me, then you had best change your mind and believe me, because, I don't know if you've heard it or not, but repetition is funny. Believe it. This is why we laugh at people who stutter and why Tom Brokaw's hair is so amusing: because it is always the same sound, style, and type...EVERY TIME! Being deceptive is also quite humorous, but only when it is someone else being decieved. For example, we find it funny when we convince a child that a carrot is toilet paper and he proceeds to wipe his butt with a carrot. However, we don't find it funny when a child later convinces us that a carrot is clean and fresh and we take a bite out of it only to find our senses confronted with a horrid odor of feces and a jagged, evil grin breaking across the child's face as we chew the musty vegetable. One form of deception is known as sarcasm, in which case someone will say one thing and usually mean the exact opposite. If someone found this particular entry unfunny, for example, they would reply with a "This entry was soooooo funny," usually printed in italics or with the word "so" elongated to show the sarcastic tone. Obviously, being deceptive is very funny. Perhaps the last aspect of humor seems to be the art of insulting someone. Humor seems to always have a punch line that affects someone or something for the worse. When a fat lady falls on her as and we laugh, the fat lady is the worse for the wear. When we laugh at someone's birthmark that is shaped like a penis, the guy with the birthmark will probably kill himself after years of being called "dickhead." So, naturally, there will almost always be ONE person who does not find a particular scenario funny. These people are the people we refer to as "the butt of the joke." And saying "the butt of the joke" is also funny because it contains the word "butt" which is funny in and of itself. With that said, humor seems to be the art of employing deceptive, insulting techniques that are repetitious, unique, and often clever. However, these elements of humor can be overridden by offense and disgust. Some may find farting on a match and producing an explosion incredibly amusing, but those with a social aversion to farting and explosions due to family upbringings or being in a war with lots of explosives will often find it disgusting instead of funny. Obviously, there is no consistent standard as to what is funny, but most people will find the above traits humorous. Knowing this, I will now present to you the funniest sentence EVER: Jane is such a nun because she has a penis and a big swollen ass and a penis and eats carrots covered in children's poo and also has a penis!!1! That sentence was clever because I say it was, dammit! 26 comments|post comment

Imagine: Swimming with Dogs! [01 Sep 2003|08:02pm] On the last day that the local pool around these parts is open, they offer a gathering for dog owners and dog lovers to gather and swim with their fine-furred friends. My friend Georgia has convinced me to take my own beloved pet, Moppy, along with me for a swim. My dog Moppy has been known for her swimming abilities, as she once paddled after me when I took off in a canoe on a lake at my grandparent's farm and proceeded to swim for quite a distance to catch up to us. When we pulled her in, she licked me dumbly and shook herself all over, sending droplets of musky dog spray out in all directions and pelting the passengers of my canoe with her horrid odor. Naturally, Georgia thinks swimming with dogs will be great. She tells me to imagine the possibilities. I am a cynic. When I imagine the possibilities, I do not picture a sea of thronging dogs churning the ocean-blue waters of the pool in a synchronized, dogmatic, paddling structure of grinning dog faces and smiling owners immersed in a sea of wondorous fur. I picture one lone dog paddling through the yellow tinged water now plagued with urine, its human owner swimming after it, afraid it may drown, having to dodge the random floating clumps of diarrhea left by the finnicky toy poodle whose stomach did not agree with its meal of beggin' strips the other night. I picture large, orca-like women in polka-dot one-piece bathing suits that cling like polka-dotted, form-fitting leeches to their rotund orbs of flesh milling about in the shallow end of the pool with water up to their whale-like knees, madly gesticulating and beckoning their shitzus and labrador retrievers to waddle into the water with them while issuing playful shrieks of baby-talk and gibberish, keenly replacing all l's with w's and demanding their "wittle angews" join them in the "poolie oowie." Meanwhile, their respective dogs will sit obnoxiously to the side of the pool on the dry concrete paying their madly gesticulating, water-thrashing owners no heed and only becoming distracted from their act of stoic indifference should another dog sidle along beside them wafting its ass odor in their direction that just begs for compulsory sniffing. I picture dogs snipping and biting each other, wildly humping the legs of forty-somethings as they talk about the other dogs in their vicinity, and soiling everything with their uplifted legs. I can imagine the smell of wet dog permeating the entire town of Kirkwood for a five mile radius, causing old men to come tumbling and gasping from their front porches, desperately clutching their portable oxygen masks to their mouths as their oxygen machine mechanically pumps breaths of fresh, non-wet-dog scented air and tumbles with them down the porch stairs. The entire pool will become immersed in the acrid stench of drenched dog, and the people will wobble on their feet as the horrid odor clings to the air and disorients their senses upon entering their nostrils. People will actually be able to SEE the stench before it hits them, like gasoline waves on a hot summer day. The dog owners will thrash about on the side of the pool, gripped in naseuated seizures, whilst the dogs frolic over their dying bodies and urinate everywhere. I can imagine an overweight woman overpowered by tears as she tears her poodle's lifeless body from the hands of a trembling life guard and buries her face in its wet, dead fur as she drenches the drowned corpse in tears because she dumbly threw it into the deep end and it somehow became wedged into the pool's filter. I can imagine tragedies of all kinds, ranging from scent-related dog odor induced owner-cides to the blatant tearing of flesh as two chlorine-drunk dogs madly attempt to devour each other owing to the fact that swimming makes everyone terribly hungry. Georgia probably imagines people dancing with their dogs in the water, holding their legs and spinning them in bliss in the shallow end. She probably imagines doggies paddling to their hearts' content, racing from end to end of the pool. She probably pictures dogs running about, playing with each other, catching frisbees and tennis balls, and all eager to jump into the frigid water. All I can imagine is dog related-homicide, horrid odors, and dogs ignoring the pleas of their owners to join them in the pool. So, we might take Moppy swimming. I'll be sure to let you know how it goes. 12 comments|post comment

No Incentive [27 Aug 2003|03:15pm] I have a desire to be paid for my efforts in dollar bills and credit slips. A smile of approval just doesn't seem valuable anymore. I have lost all interest in pats on the back and nods of approval. They become devalued as soon as your lips begin to curve and your hand begins to sweep down upon my shoulder. They depreciate and stagnate like a car first driven off the lot. I want bill folds and pay checks. I want a home and a car. I want a self sufficient life, a place to live, and no dependence upon those shoddy forms of payment for which I used to greedily search. No more pretend friends. No more vacant smiles. No more empy congratulations. I need something else to keep me going. I have a desire to hold it all inside and not throw away everything to the winds, to hold it all to my chest and let it develop in character, in interest, and then sell it for a mansion. You can't even build a shack out of smiles, no matter how well they mean. I've lost my incentive. 12 comments|post comment

Personal Introduction Avoidance [26 Aug 2003|03:23pm] At the beginning of every school year, teacher always asks us to write a paper that describes ourselves, our hobbies, our beliefs, and our goals. Here is what I supplied this year: "How can I relate myself to you? I can list off adjectives that describe me. I can fill pages with superficial descriptions. I can further modify these descriptions with adverbs, with prepositional phrases, with subordinate clauses. But all you'll ever see is the bland outer husk. All you'll ever be able to gather is my eye color, my hair color, my favorite hobbies, my sexual orientation, or maybe even my level of intelligence. These words, these inadequate descriptions, these irrelevant traits and hobbies can never hope to explain myself to you. How do I explain my selfish reasons for living? How do I describe my terrible lack of faith? I am terribly irreligious. I live solely for my own happiness. I cannot expect you to interpret these words into a living, breathing figure, much less my living, breathing figure. There are subtle ambiguities in these words, subtle preferences in your interpretations, and multiple figures that could become erected from these listed traits. Perhaps you erect a hateful, immoral monster, complete with Frankenstein bolts jutting from his pale neck, who stalks graveyards on lonely nights because he was abandoned as a child. Perhaps you see a Godless communist, a grave, stern, atheistic socialist who thinks that everyone is equal, that even God is equal to the lowest vagrant, and that God should give up his gold and his treasures to the pitiful vagrant and the common good or else. If I were to describe myself with a statement as simple as "I am an atheist," your own perceptions and feelings will manipulate the meaning of the words. And that is why these words will never be able to fully explain myself. Even Christians cannot rely on the word they cherish. All that is left is for a figurative straw man to be constructed, a lifeless corpse full of hay waving in the wind, his dull, black, marker eyes glaring through the cornfield. If you really want to know who I am, I will compile a list of adjectives for you to pore over. I will present pages and pages of adjectives, adverbs that modify the adjectives, nouns to be modified by the adjectives, gerunds to give action to my modified nouns, and every other grammatical device that attempts to unearth a person. I just want you to know that your perceptions of me will never be the same as mine." 55 comments|post comment

Fear [21 Aug 2003|01:29pm] My father, the one with whom I used to sit and talk about the illogic of God, the one I used to respect for his intellecutal rebukes of faith, has succumbed. He is dying. He knows he will die. He fears what will become of him in death. And he has thrown away all of our conclusions, all of our rational beliefs, that were borne from our discussions of God. Now he wants to go to church. He wants to be baptised at nearly fifty years old. He wants to live forever. He wants to believe a heaven will await him when he dies. My father has succumbed to fear. His life is now a testament to the power of fear. He has abandoned all his ideals and left them to rot when faced with death. The man who used to believe things for their rational appeal now believes things because he is too afraid to believe otherwise. The man who used to cry against faith now places all of his faith into a concept muddled in faulty idealism. My father no longer clings to reality. He longs to become a part of unreality, a part of the supernatural, a part of something undefined and unanswerable. He would rather believe in the unknown than rationally assert the fearful prospects of the truth. To him the truth is no longer grounded in reality. Reality has become a dream to him. Life is no longer an ends but a means to some unknown goal. And because he will no longer view his life as an end, his life WILL end. He has rejected all that is real for a fantasy world that will pacify his fears. He is a slave to his fear. I remember a time when my father and I would issue numerous counter-arguments to the existence of God together. We would create and mold our beliefs in the name of rationality and logic. But now he only believes what he wants to believe. The truth is merely a trivial consequence to him. Now truth is decided at his whim. What he desires is true and what he fears is false. He no longer bothers to judge truth through rational argument and debate. God exists because he fears a world where no God exists. Heaven exists because he doesn't want to die indefinitely. Now he believes unquestionably in the existence of God. He no longer feels the need to rationally prove his ideals before he accepts them. Now he accepts his ideals without proof and provides faulty rationalizations for his ideas. He accepts ideas with no evidence and molds the facts to meet the requirements of his acceptence when it should be the other way around. He wants to try to wash away his fear by not believing in the truth. He wants to close his eyes to the pain that has surrounded him. Open your eyes, father. I don't want to watch you try to delude yourself into a pacifying state of suffering. I want you to watch it and accept it with stern, perceiving eyes. Don't abandon everything you've ever known just because you don't like the results. I fear for my father's future not because he is dying, but because he is devoting himself to fear. I fear for my father because he can't accept what he knows is true. 58 comments|post comment

The Majority Are Wrong! [20 Aug 2003|01:04am] I am not the type of person who thrives well in a democratic society. In a democratic society, right and wrong is determined by quantity. The majority opinion is deemed the correct opinion. In a democratic society, if the majority of people agreed to prohibit breathing as an immoral action, their opinion would automatically be considered correct, regardless of the logic used in applying it. Ideals of logic and evidence are abandoned as ways to prove something as correct or incorrect, and the decision of what is right and wrong is instead left to the whim of the masses. It does not matter if the world is round. When the majority says it is flat, it becomes flat. I do not thrive in this type of society. When someone tells me that I am wrong because the majority disagrees with me, I tell them that the majority is wrong because they are illogical and stupid. I base my opinions upon rational qualifiers, they base their opinions on arbitrary number games of approval. The majority typically determines right and wrong because the majority has power in numbers and can enforce its tenents. It makes sense that the majority should rule in any subjective pursuits. However, subjective pursuits can still lack logic. The subjective goal of any choice can still be neglected with the purported majority decision. The majority can underwrite its own goals by illogically deciding something erroneous would accomplish their desired goal. When the majority rules contrary to the goals desired by subjective pursuits, the majority becomes irrational and absurd. The majority opinion becomes a worthless opinion. In most western civilizations, for example, ideals of freedom and individuality are usually protected as the highest goals of moral pursuits. Under a system that idealizes personal freedoms, a majority choice to prohibit freedom is irrational. If one states that in order to be free, we must ban drug usage, their logic is faulty. The fact that the majority holds the opinion that drug prohibition should exist does not make the stated effect of increased personal freedom true. When a statement and its desired effect can not be deemed true, logic tells us that the statement is false, regardless of whether the majority supports it or not. The majority opinion is not always true. Truth is not defined by numbers. 15 comments|post comment

Language Evolution [13 Aug 2003|03:34pm] People seem to have lost all sense of the purpose of language. Some take language to be a type of individualistic self-expression devoid of any influence from others. They engage in acts of subtlety, slang, and incomprehensible jibberish that contains meaning only to themselves or a specific group they have created. The purpose of language is to express yourself to OTHERS. When others cannot understand you, language loses all purpose. When you manipulate words and invent phrases to be "an individual," you find yourself unable to express your inviduality because no one will understand you. To be an individual, you express your individuality with WHAT you say, not HOW you say it. The less people understand you, the more value your language loses. The value of language is determined by its ability to satisfy its purpose: which is to communicate to allow others to understand you. Needless to say, proper english is steadily losing its value, as more and more people are unable to comprehend a complete sentence that contains no abbreviations or acronyms. Or, to put it in a way they might understand: U cant speak write cuz ur werdz r 2 big, OMG, itz called puter talk! LOL. One of the most annoying trends in language is the rise in use of subtlety. Words are no longer being used to directly state a purpose. The meaning of the words, then, is subtly hidden within the context of the statement. Women are prone to use this linguistic approach. They will say something and it is meant to be interpreted as something completely irrelevant or opposite to what was said. When a woman says she is fat, she is not stating that she thinks she is fat, she is stating that she wants your approval of her figure, that she wants you to shout into her face "YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!" Again, the usage of incomprehensible subtlety destroys any purpose language may have served. When others are unable to understand the meaning behind your words, then you cease to produce langauge. Instead, you produce worthless sounds that mean nothing. When a woman says words that appear to have a meaning, but in fact mean something quite contrary to your interpretation, she is essentially speaking jibberish. An example is taken from a recent visit a french woman made to a preschool. Her remark of exclamation "oui, oui" caused all the children to giggle profusely as they interpreted it as English slang for the penis. Obviously, the french woman's language served no purpose if her remarks only allowed the students to misconstrue her as some phallicly-obsessed maniac. However, the problem isn't merely a feminine one. Men are more likely to use subtle language techniques like sarcasm. They will say that something is great and you will be expected to realize that they are actually intending to imply that it is the exact opposite of great and instead quite ridiculously retarded. Obviously, language is moving more and more towards an expression of inflection and tone as opposed to content. It is becoming psychological and self-defeating. Words are shifting shape and meaning. When I said that the opposite of great is "retarded" in the above paragraph, was I implying that great means "intelligent?" No, I was merely embracing a form of slang that alters meaning and destroys coherence. Language is steadily evolving, but we must not lose sight of its true purpose. I can only imagine the future. It will be a world without language. Instead, everyone will invent their own phrases and words. Every statement will be sarcastic, filled with inflections, tones, italics, underlines, boldness, and CAPITALIZATION. We will hear and see words, and judge their meaning from their tone as opposed to their meaning in the dictionary. Dictionaries will become obsolete, and people will instead consult Tone dictionaries in the world of the future. They will look up harsh, terse, and stand-offish in the tone dictionary in order to infer that the statement "Your point is taken" means "Your point is idiotic and I will now ignore anything else you say." Soon, the purpose of language will no longer even be to convey information. Everyone will be so busy waiting for their turn to speak that the act of listening will cease to exist. People will instead mindlessly babble incoherent words that mean nothing except to themselves and expect the people they are idiotically babbling towards to understand them. The phrase "Do you understand?" will gradually cease to exist as more and more people will begin to cease to care whether others understand them. We will eventually devolve into howling monkeys whose sole communication skills reside in the acts of biting, flinging turds, and madly humping. All vocal and written communications will be reserved for individual self-expression to the individual audience. Communication will be relegated to animal actions and language will become an act of non-expression, of self-expression, of guttural jibberish, of verbal masturbation. For the love of God, don't lose sight of the purpose of language, my nizzles! It is up to you to decide if this entry is actually a form of unintelligible sarcasm or not. 26 comments|post comment

A White Person Talks About Black Culture! How Retarded! [10 Aug 2003|11:46pm] I cry everytime a black youth says that he is "down wit his niggaz" while he "drinks his pimp juice" and devotes his life to tennis shoes when he doesn't even know how to play tennis. Black culture is a culture of ignorance, of perpetuated stupidity, of digital shackles and chains that are marketed to the slaves like soft drinks and fashions. They willfully bind themselves to the culture of stagnation. Their heroes are anti-heroes. They look up to ex-drug dealers who compose nursery rhymes about gang wars and drug use. They adopt the ideals spilled forth from woman-hating rap stars and speak in slang words that naturally degrade all women, men, and people of color. The message of black culture is one of clear idiocy: We made our money through the media, yet attempt to delude our following into thinking success came from dealing drugs, killing people, or degrading women. We made our money through a blatant disregard for the rules of society. We had no education, we broke the laws, and we succeeded. But they succeeded only when they embraced the rules of society. When they traded wadded cash for paychecks from a production company. When they sold albums instead of drugs. Black popular culture makes me sick. Their heroes are idiotic minstrels with no brain power. They are forced to identify with qualities like ignorance, immorality, and illogic in their popular culture. They are oppressed by their artistic creeds of crime and stupidity. Caucasian popular culture is equally as vapid, but infinitely less odious in the consequences it produces. White popular culture is a diversion, a distraction, a wasted few hours. Popular white artists do not insist that the only way to fame is to sell drugs, kill police officers, or to speak in broken english. White popular culture is not so singularly pervasive and monotonous that it portrays only one dominant voice of ignorance that must be accepted in order to find identity. Black popular culture is a way of life. Embracing the ideals of ignorance perpetuated by vapid hip hop and unthinking ebonics becomes a rite of passage for most black youths. Most popular culture seeks to shift the burden of oppression into the responsibility of the individual. The individual chooses to mimic and idolize the faulty concepts endorsed by pop idols. I find myself saddened whenever I witness acts of stupidity and ignorance that are clear examples of children imitating the ignorant actions and ideals displayed by the media. I feel a tremendous sense of loss mostly for the black community, which has succumbed to inferiority and creates a self-fulfilling prophecy for all people of color living in urban environments. They feel the white man will always judge them by their skin color, discriminate them and deem them ignorant and worthless on the sole basis of race, and they accept a popular dogma of ignorance in their culture because they feel this fate is inescapable. They feel they can never win so they purposefully throw the game, they purposefully choose to become stagnant and ignorant, to give the white man a justifiable reason to discriminate. When they are passed over for jobs because they are unskilled, because they have lengthy criminal records, because they act out the ignorance and stupidity touted by black popular culture icons, they fulfill their own projected destinies with their own free will. Instead of being destroyed by racism or race discrimination, they allow themselves to be discriminated for valid reasons as they choose to lead lives of debauchery on the streets. Destroy all idols of pop culture that perpetuate false ideals of success and ignorant values! Destroy all pop culture icons that attempt to justify ignorance by stating that things will never evolve! What angers me the most is that people allow themselves to succumb to the pressures of popular culture, to the ideals of vacant, worthless thought. 31 comments|post comment

Betsy Ross Smoked More Pole Than A Thing That Sucks Poles! [08 Aug 2003|09:45pm] True feminists are whores. Most people will picture a feminist as a bull-headed dyke wearing a muscle tshirt and combat boots. They will picture a thick-necked woman with ample, bulky shoulders and a blonde buzzcut. They will picture a woman absent of of sexual desire, of lust, of anything remotely seductive. They will picture a woman who calls men sluts and whores, who demands men wear bras and work for a dollar less per hour, who demands men bleed from their crotches at least once a month. When she burns her bra, people shudder and tell her to put her shirt on quickly before their children gouge their own eyes out in horror. But these are not true feminists. Real feminists are whores. Real feminists seek fairness and freedom. Feminists do not devote themselves to repression. They do not define themselves by stifling their sexual appetites, by rendering themselves genderless, sexless, and devoid of any emotion. Real feminists cry and shout. Real feminists burn bras and give blow jobs. Real feminists sleep with a guy and kick his friends in the nuts when they call her a whore. A feminist should not want equality. They should want fairness. When they burn their bras, they burn their bras because the wiry pieces of fabric are seen as forms of restriction, as forms of lacy bondage. They do not want equality if equality means everyone will be equally enslaved. No, they want FREEDOM. If men were obligated to wear tight, nut constricting pants by normal society, women would not respond by wearing tight, chest hugging bras to find an equality in restriction along with the men. They would not make themselves into equal slaves. No, they would strive to free the men from their primitive nut-hugging cages, from their tiny busts encaged in A-cups, from their toil that accomplishes no gain. Likewise, a feminist will never call another woman a whore for blowing thirty guys and getting banged up the ass by a donkey. She will embrace that woman as her role model of freedom. She will stand proudly with the woman who was banged in the ass by a donkey because that woman CHOSE to be banged in the ass by a donkey. Only vengeful, spiteful wenches decry a woman's sexual actions. Only a vengeful wench would firmly soder a woman's sexual chains into place and then cry that men must also be equally chained! Only a vengeful wench would call a woman a whore for sleeping with twenty men and then attempt to apply the same restrictive sexual force to the male gender! True feminists embrace freedom. They embrace ideals free of restriction or compulsion. They disregard double standards and do not fight for an equality that is unjust! They fight for fairness, for an equality of righteousness! They embrace standards of living that make all women unanswerable to the outcries of critics voicing conceited double standards. They embrace cocks like so many handshakes! They eat dick and shit semen! Do not build sexual restrictions and laws around all humanity, cry the outraged, true feminists who dance in topless bars and suck off countless men. The psuedo feminists who attempt to hold women accountable as whores for living as sexual beings are tyrants who wish to live in a world devoid of free choice or free will...a world where every action is considered an affront and every choice is reprimanded with disdain. The true feminists ride cock and realize that their strongest means to power resides between their thighs. True feminists realize the sanctity of their sexual superiority and use it for their own gain. Only a psuedo feminist would attempt to ruin the profits garnered by the sloppy hole. They force women to go through life independent of men, independent of phallic pleasure, only finding solace in happening across a chance orgasm while riding a horse or something. Only a psuedo feminist would call a woman the same idiotic insult as a man. Men call women whores because they feel a need to have a type of sexual prowress over their conquests. They even call their sexual partners "conquests" because of the difficulty involved in convincing a woman to sleep with a man. The burden of sexual choice lies with the female! The burden of choice rests between the moist legs of the feminist! The burden of choice is never a man's because a man is always ready to fuck, because a man is always prepared to have his cock sucked. A man will never complain of headaches and blood flow. His cock could be spurting massive amounts of blood onto the carpet, rendering his penis tiny and flacid due to lack of blood flow, and STILL he would attempt to engage in sexual intercourse by attatching a penis splint and blowing into the wound as if his penis were some type of flotation device. Psuedo feminists want to take this power away. They want to discard the power of seduction for something shameless and immoral. They say they want men to respect them solely for their minds. But in effect they render a woman's physical, sexual being worthless. They restrict a woman's most powerful source of pleasure and deem it an affront to morality. They want men to respect women for their minds by depriving women of their physical being. But men don't even respect other men for their minds! We respect men who have gargantuan cocks! We respect men who fuck thousands of women. We respect men who are always followed by busty blondes in their gucci suits. A true feminist will always be a whore. The stripper dangling from a pole and running her long thighs along the length of the metal is fighting for more righteous equality and fairness than the bull-headed dyke who demands men be labelled as whores and wear bras and live in cages like animals along with women. Men will only respect women for their minds once we have learned to respect their bodies as a holy shrine, as a sexual temple we must kneel before in order to derive pleasure from it. Men will only allow women to be free if women stop restricting and chastizing each other for their sexual actions. Do not strive for an equality that renders humanity slovenly, sluggish, and enslaved. Instead, strive to fuck with the same type of arrogant pride that a man would. Because that is truly the only way a feminist can ever live! 12 comments|post comment

The Prod [08 Aug 2003|03:46am] I saw three policemen on my door step after I opened the door. "Are you the homeowner?" one of them asked. The three officers were all burly and wearing heavy body armor. They had gas masks on top of their heads and one was tapping his night stick against the palm of his hand. "Yes, how may I help...." I was suddenly interrupted by a blow to my midsection. The cop who had spoken had deftly stepped forward and slammed his nightstick into my stomach. "What did you hit me for?" I wheezed as I hunched my body over in pain and looked frightenedly up at the officer. "I didn't hit you," the officer coldly replied. "Yes you did!" I exclaimed, still not believing the cool manner with which the officer denied my claim. "I didn't hit you," he said again, adding, "I forcefully prodded you." "No, you fucking hit me with your club!" I choked out in anger. "Actually, I forcefully prodded you. With my night stick. I didn't hit you with a club," said the officer matter-of-factly. "You hit someone with your hand. You prod with a night stick. A club is a place where you dance. A night stick is something with which you forcefully prod people. I didn't hit you." "Why did you hit me?" I asked the officer in a mutter, my pain gradually receding. "I didn't hit you, I..." "Why did you forcefully prod me?!" I yelled in exasperation. "Because we are arresting you, obviously," said one of the officers in the back. He slowly withdrew his handcuffs. The other police officer in the back stared piercingly into my eyes and slowly tapped his night stick forcefully against his palm. "What? Why are you arresting me? What did I do?" I knew I had not committed any crimes. "We are arresting you because we have a warrant for your arrest. You hunched over after we hit you." The officer rolled his eyes as he answered my questions, speaking slowly as if he were reciting answers to a questioning child. "Aren't you supposed to read me my rights?" I said, sensing something was wrong. "We can't read," said one of the officers in the back as he slyly winked at me. "But we can speak," said the first officer, and he began to recite the miranda rights, but not before forcefully prodding me in the chest once more. "Stop that!" I yelled, becoming quite angry. "Okay." The officer stopped reading my miranda rights and forcefully jabbed me again. "God dammit, stop hitting me! Read my rights, but stop hitting me!" "I didn't hit you," said the officer, and he forcefully prodded me in my face. I suddenly grabbed the officer's night stick. Before I could reach back to throw it in the bushes, I heard a loud shot echo through the air. My eyes went wide and my mouth went numb. I fell back into a dead heap upon my own doorstep. "I thought he had a gun, sir," explained the third officer who had fired the shot. He had been staring blankly into the distant sunset during most of the questioning, oblivious to what was happening behind him on the door step until he noticed that I had grabbed the night stick. "It was my night stick," said the other officer calmly as he pried it from my dead fingers. "But I'm glad you reacted so quickly. He was probably going to prod me." "I was about to prod him, too," said the other officer quickly, trying to convince the others that he was ready to react to the situation. The reality was that he was too absorbed in smacking his hand to have responded so quickly to the situation. "I believe you," said the lead officer, now twirling his night stick. He glanced down at the mailbox on the side of the house and read the number. "Oh shit. This is the wrong house." "Really?" asked one of the others. "Really," the lead officer replied. The three walked across the street and rang the correct door bell, and the lead officer forcefully prodded the homeowner after he opened the door... 18 comments|post comment

Purpose [07 Aug 2003|02:16pm] I cringe at the people who utter cowardly sentiments and devote their lives to no purpose. I wince as they devote themselves to nothingness because they see no purpose in trying. I can't help but feel hatred for those who waste their lives away for nothing simply because they have doomed themselves to failure. Why try if you are only destined to fail? Why live if you are only destined to die? These are the battle cries of lost souls, of empty lives. They don't bother to think because they think absolute knowledge is unreachable. They don't bother to try because they only see the world through a concept of failure. They don't bother to live because they are too busy dying. These are the people who proclaim that everyone is a moron. These are the people who do not value their lives, who do not value the lives of others, who would slaughter the innocent without a care simply because they cannot envision a world of success, of improvement, of steady growth, and instead devote themselves to destruction. The purpose of life is not to live indefinitely, but to live well. Our lives are not meaningless because they end so abruptly. They are filled with pleasure and pain and sweet smiles and as much purpose as we allow them. All too often people will reason that the purpose of life is to survive. To prolong your life for as long as possible. To pass a part of yourself on through your progeny or through your ideas. But the purpose of survival is not rendered obsolete because no one survives, because men are forgotten and ideas are slowly eroded away. No, the purpose of survival is retained through the act of trying to survive, through the act of living for a purpose. The purpose of life is not only to survive. We live our lives not to survive; We survive to live our lives. We survive because we do not want death, because we will not surrender to death like cowards. Even with full knowledge that death will prevail, we still struggle to survive. Because the purpose is not rendered worthless by death. The purpose remains strong and absolute across the centuries. The fight for that purpose must always remain in order to produce growth, to produce conflict, to produce a reason to survive. For why would we strive to survive if their were no conflict to survival or if it were guaranteed to us? The struggle remains the purpose forever. When it ceases to be a struggle, it ceases to have purpose. Consequently, the idiot who gives himself up to meaninglessness will necessarily consider everyone else meaningless. He will wander aimlessly about and criticize everyone. He will sentence all to death because death is inevitable. He will refuse to recognize that death is the purpose to strive against, but will instead embrace it because he thinks he will become victorious by siding with the ultimate force. Instead he finds himself stagnant and broken. He finds himself as a parasite clinging to death like a flea only to be starved to death for feeding upon rancid blood. The difference between the idiot who devotes himself to meaninglessness and the man who strives against death is that the man with purpose will attempt to reach some sort of intellectual potential...while the idiot simply wallows in self pity because he lacks the drive, the intelligence, and the reasons for existing that any self-respecting individual would possess. Men strive to adapt, idiots sit in tar pits and become the fossilized remains of cro-magnon man. The idiot devotes himself solely to survival, to memory, to faded history. He reasons that because all men are eventually forgotten, because all men eventually cease to exist, all their grand purposes and achievements in life lose value. The idiot devotes himself to non-existance because he knows people will not care about nor remember his achievements should he strive to exist, to accomplish. But the idiot lives for the thoughts and opinions of others. His own criterions for greatness render his opinions worthless. Those who are great to the idiot are those who are loved by others. Those who are great to the idiot are those who manage to gain the approval of the world forever. And the idiot knows that no man will be remembered forever and reasons that no action can be valuable if others refuse to remember it. So he throws his life away. Real men do not live for the opinions of others. They do not judge their actions as great or important based upon the reaction of mobs, of history, of time. What is great to them is that which they alone consider great. It does not matter that others did not care they existed. A man does not live for the vain approval of others. It only matters if he cared that he existed, and that he felt he lived a worthwhile, productive life. Men could care less what idiotic parasites would think of their lives. Just because idiots live by the premise that greatness can only be achieved through the eyes of others does not mean that men should embrace that same premise. That premise for life is a partnership with death, stagnation, and stupidity. That premise for life does not recognize conflict as a reason for living, and devotes itself to bland antipathy. True greatness can only be achieved through individual eyes. The collective eye sees nothing. The collective eye stares at the eyes of others instead of looking at the object that holds the others' attention rapt. The collective eye stares at the finger pointing to the sky. The collective eye is blind to everything except the worthless approval of others. Having the support of others can bolster your confidence. Having an effect on others will influence your thinking. Debating with others will lead to knowledge and growth. But that does not mean self-worth is based entirely upon what others think. It does not mean that we must live solely for others and neglect our own lives. We do not feed off of others, we let them choose to feed us, and we select which morsels will sustain us. So do not become the idiot who lives without purpose, who seeks no knowledge because he thinks truth is unattainable, and who chooses death over life because survival is impossible. Devote yourself to the struggle, because without struggle all purpose ceases to exist. 9 comments|post comment

Community Whoring [06 Aug 2003|05:57pm] Anyone who enjoys being creative and witty by coming up with funny captions for strange pictures should join my new community: caption_contest. THANK YOU, suburbangrump! And join merry_elitists, too if you are an elitist. 7 comments|post comment

Shame [06 Aug 2003|04:59pm] Why do we ever allow ourselves to fear embarrassment? Why do we allow ourselves to feel shame for the actions we enjoy? Why do we fill our thoughts with worries of guilt merely because others deem our actions unacceptable, especially if we feel our actions are justified? The feelings of guilt and shame serve a function. They are the natural reactions to any act of hypocrisy. They are essential to any self-governing entity. Someone who believes strongly that murder is immoral should necessarily feel extreme levels of shame and guilt if he murders another person. These emotions are primarily beneficial when related to your own thoughts and your own values. But guilt and shame become an obstacle to your own self interest when you allow your feelings to be manipulated by the values of others. If you feel guilt for enjoying something, the only logical conclusion is that you also find that particular enjoyable action immoral or wrong. Why would you feel crippled with grief for an action you feel is justified? Why would you view a self-justified action as immoral? Would you roll around in bed at night unable to sleep for smoking marijuana and breaking a law if you truly felt there was nothing wrong with smoking marijuana? A homosexual who feels ashamed of his sexuality, an atheist who is too afraid to admit his beliefs, or a man who refuses to give money to his lazy, alcoholic brother all feel the pangs of unneccessary guilt. They feel their actions are wrong merely because others condemn their thoughts and ideals. A homosexual admits his crime of being homosexual if he allows himself to feel guilt for his sexuality. An atheist admits his faulty religious beliefs if he feels a deep shame for not beleiving in God. All these people condemn themselves at the whim of other's beliefs. Why do people regulate themselves with concepts of right and wrong that they do not consciously accept? A fear of punishment should not produce a deep self-hatred. It should produce a hatred for all who attempt to mold and stifle your personal ideals. Instead you absorb yourself in a deep animosity for all your personal beliefs. I am not ashamed of anything I enjoy that is justified under my personal values of freedom. I am not ashamed that I have a tiny penis. I do not feel guilt for my rare use of illegal substances. I am not embarrassed that I look at porn depicting women sucking off horses, that I receive horribly aching woodies from looking at chicks with dicks, that I wet my bed only two days ago. No, I refuse to feel guilt or shame for anything I may have done that does not violate or contradict my personal values. And may your values be damned if you think they can apply to me! 16 comments|post comment

Uncle Mike [05 Aug 2003|08:01pm] My uncle shot himself in the face with a shotgun. I can only imagine the thoughts that were racing through his mind as he held the barrel against his chin. I can remember vague occasions of meeting him long ago. He was an eccentric. He invented catch phrases. He was an ex-drug addict. We went bowling and he said he had a glitch in his giddyup whenever he rolled a gutterball. I wouldn't expect him to be tearfully holding a shotgun to his face in front of his very own father. I wouldn't expect him to pull the trigger, his eyes streaming with agonizing tears. He was probably cold and stoic when he did it. He probably didn't even flinch. I'd like to think he shot himself without even trying to block out the consequences raging through his mind. I'd like to think he blew his head off knowing full well what he was doing, completely sober, calm, and collected. But I know he was probably feeling an immense pain shredding his insides. I know his hands were probably quaking as he wrapped them around the cold steel. He probably shook with fear because he didn't really want to die. He was probably driven to that state by the demands of the world, by the harsh realities that can seem to overwhelm us. I want to imagine him doing something he wanted to do. I want to imagine him heroic and prevailing. But all I know is that he was probably shaking and cowardly when he finally did it. All I know is that he probably gave into fear. And I can only imagine the trembling, absolute hysterics that entered his heart as the bullet ripped through his skull. 31 comments|post comment

I Woke Up In A Pool Of Urine...Naturally I Have To Post About It [04 Aug 2003|03:32pm] I remember my lone incident of wetting the bed quite vividly. I had been curled into a fetal position, dreaming sweetly of summer camp. Suddenly, I found myself dying to urinate within the dream, and I quickly walked into a dream-bathroom and proceeded to dream urinate. As I began to urinate quite forcefully, I found that the urine was splashing against the urinal and stining my eyes, so I backed away from the urinal and continued pissing. The last thing I remember is standing five feet away from the urinal and a forceful jet streaming from my penis. Then I woke up in a puddle. I had had a wet dream. And not the kind of wet dream where you dream of the Sears Catalogue models or your mother's friends. No, the kind of wet dream where you piss in your boxer shorts and soil your sheets with urine and gag at the acidic, salted smell that permeates across your room. It was one of the lone incidents of wetting my bed. I quickly grabbed my dog and told my mother that my dog Sheltie had urinated on the bedsheets while I was petting him in my bed. I had to come up with this crafty scheme because I do not know how to clean things and I am quite stupid when it comes to scrubbing urine out of sheets. Yes, that time I wet my bed is one of my most vivid memories. I remember this morning as if it were yesterday! 13 comments|post comment

Worries [03 Aug 2003|12:46am] I constantly worry about the sun rising and setting. I worry about the strange concept of time. I worry about passing years and encroaching futures. I want to avoid it all. I want to freeze the motion of the universe and crawl into some inter-stellar cubby hole with my thumb in my mouth, hiding from all reality. But I can't freeze time and I can't crawl into an inter-stellar cubby hole and I will ruin my teeth if I put my thumb into my mouth and suck upon it for long periods of time, so instead I plod along through my existence as if I am some sort of confused, indecisive horse walking along a trail that becomes fuzzy and distant and unknown upon the horizon. I worry about fiscal matters. About jobs and wages. About income tax rates and bank accounts. I worry about these things because I know nothing about them. I have led a sheltered existence and know nothing about money. I fear my credit will be ruined because I forgot to pay my home mortage. Or maybe I will make only the mininum payments for the loan I took out for my car and end up paying it until I am sixty because I was too stupid to pay attention to the interest rates. I might fill out my tax form wrong and have the government charge me with tax evasion because I accidentally claimed by dish washer as a dependent. Sometimes I wonder why I don't just give it all up, end the cherade. I am not a modern male. I don't know about cars or technology or money. The only thing I know about money is that four quarters makes a dollar, thank you, have a nice day. The only thing I know about technology is that it sure is neat. And the only thing I know about cars is that they usually have four wheels. Usually. I could easily drop out of college and pursue a life independent of such fiscal worries. No job means no money means no income tax. I would no longer have to worry about my home loan because I live in an abandoned car. I would no longer have to worry about my pension because I live off of apple rinds I find in park garbage cans. Instead of worrying about money, about man-made apprehensions, I could instead worry about starving to death or being killed by vagrants. I could handle these types of worries. We are physically equipped to deal with these types of worries. These are natural, completely sane fears. I can look stavation in the face but I shudder in horror when I think about paying taxes and opening bank accounts and using credit cards. I could sell my blood to blood banks, my sperm to sperm banks, my kidneys to kidney banks, my urine to people who will buy urine, my manure to fertilizer corporations, and my body to anyone willing to take it. I would sell my soul if I thought it would be worth anything. I can live in sewer drains and scavenge food from grocery store dumpsters, from the back alleys behind restaurants, from smashed in vending machines. I would be known across the nation as the unismasher, breaking plexiglass for fritos. Maybe I will become a househusband and I won't have to worry about these complicated matters. I can clean the house and dust the furniture and meekly allow my wife to dominate me in the bedroom. I can be slapped and told to shut the hell up and fetch his slippers and I would fetch his slippers obediently. As long as I wouldn't have to worry about dreaded monetary decisions. As long as my only worry is a black eye or a blackened turkey or a dusty house, I can live in peace. If only I knew how to grow my own crops and support myself in the natural world I could live without overbearing worries. I am going to search for my cosmic cubbyhole now. My third year of college starts in a few weeks. 17 comments|post comment

Garbage [01 Aug 2003|02:51am] I want to live an unproductive life. I want to relish my unachievements and cherish my non-effectiveness. I will probably live in a shabby apartment building and eat microwaveable dinners for every meal. I will put buckets under the holes in my ceiling and delight with watching them fill to the brim with rain water. I will sit silently on my bed in the dark room and listen to cars sweep by on the city street. I will have an obsolete job that remains in existence only because the unions have fought hard to preserve it. I will be a worthless, inadequate teacher whose purpose has become skewed by a looming sense of purposelessness. I will read kids books and teach them trivialities. I will fill their minds with worthless gerunds, literary themes, rhyme and meter, and classic literature. And I will continue the process every year, only to watch them grow and leave me, to have their minds filled to the brim with literary information slowly rot away. Soon their minds are car parts, mortages, job schedules, and your wife's bra size. I will teach English, read important books, dissect the classics, and watch them use the informatoin I taught them to fuel a fire within their minds. An all consuming fire that burns and devours everything irrelevant in exchange for useful ash that will cultivate and fertilize looming thoughts about business and politics. I will read the classics and watch the classics disappear from dead memories. Because the classics don't have a union to protect them from obsoletion. The classics will dissolve from memory and students will eat, sleep, and live. There is no force to keep the irrelvant works alive as unproductive as they are. They have already been replaced by movies, by magazines, by a vapid fourteen year old's poetry stored on a personal computer. But I will stand tall before the chalkboard, even while knowing they don't need me to read books or to dissect themes or to live. And I will simply shrug and spout trivialities knowing the unions will protect and preserve this dying, decaying beast. And I will shrug and collect my pension stolen from the same children who no longer use the worthless information I filled their minds with. I will live my obsolete job and go home to a precious home. I am going to stretch across decades like a decadant feline yawning on life's window sill. I will go to work on Monday and pray for Friday. I will pray even though I do not believe in God. My Gods are time off, fifteen minute breaks, and paid vacations. My deities are simple pleasures and subtle nuances. My religion is a confession of relaxation. My existence will be defined by crevices. I will live for voids, holes, pits...all waiting to be filled. I will devote myself to pleasure holes and frothy mouths filled with robust amounts of foods. I will sigh in exaltation before the non God between her thighs. Naked classrooms become clothed in words. Empty tanks become filled with fuel. And I will live to deplete them. Fill and deplete. Build, obsolete. And it's only fitting that it will all end in an empty grave lying barren and dirty on a hillside, a pine box slowly lowered to fill the final pit. The body decaying, the wood warping and disentegrating, the ache and pressure of centuries depleting everything that is left of me. Then I will become the void, and I will wait to be filled. Perhaps I will love a girl whose face is vibrant, whose eyes effuse a shine of glorious life. She will be beautiful and robust. She will walk down city streets in high heels. She will greet the faces she recognizes with a sing-song hello that dances from her throat. She will lie with me at night on the cold mattress and listen to the buses slowly lumbering down the street. I will live wrongly, devoting myself to the non. To voids, absences, and vacancies. I will waste my life away stretching long and dreamily upon a bed, pulling at the sheets with my taut body in a state of supreme careless relaxation. I will live trivial and obsolete. Some will say that my dreamy existence is pointless. They will compare my life to refuse, my body to a garbage pail. But I will exalt in my state of non effort and waste. Because there are hills waiting to be filled with refuse. There are whole mountains waiting to be created and shaped. There are heaps and towers of rubbish ready to be molded. There are trash landscapes that light whole towns. There are whole families walking upon decades of filth stomped down and compacted; filth filling a massive, gargantuan canyon beneath their feet. You will tell me that I am wasting my life. But even garbage serves a purpose. 13 comments|post comment

Garbage [01 Aug 2003|01:43am] I don't want to live a productive, energetic life. I don't want to live effectively or to succeed. I want to live in a shabby apartment building and eat microwaveable food every day. I want a government job that has been rendered obsolete yet still exists because the unions complain loudly that the computers should not take away human resources. I will do something pointless and counter productive like read books and tell kids what the books are about and then make them write papers about the books. I will produce garbage and trivialities. I will fill craniums with nouns, gerunds, and meter only to have these minds filled with literary information metamporphasize like a butterfly emerging fromt he cocoon as the literary ideals are replaced with knowledge of car parts, of home mortages, of wages and salaries, of your wife's bra size. I am going to stretch across decades like a decadant feline yawning on life's window sill. Go to work on Monday and pray for Friday to finally arrive...pray even though I do not believe in God. My Gods consist of weekends off, paid vacations, the drive home in my car from a pointless day at work. My deities are solid and concrete pleasures, completely worthy of my devotion. My messiah will be a woman. A beautiful, robust woman whose face effuses life. A beautiful, flighty woman who walks quickly down city streets in red heels, who greets the faces she recognizes on the street with a sing-song hello floating from her throat. My entire life will be lived for crevices destined to be filled. I devote myself to voids of dark space, to pleasure holes and frothy mouths filled with edible delights. To the non God resting between her thighs. I fill dusty classrooms with words. I exalt in the supreme pleasure of filling, fueling, devouring. I live for the feeling of plunging into a void and rendering it something whole and tangible. How appropriate that it will all end in an empty hole excavated from the ground, filled with a pine box slowly lowered. Another pit to finally live and die within. I will live wrongly. I will live just the way everyone told me not to live. I will waste my life away and cling to the trivial, the obsolete, the forgotten, the underrated. I will listen to old music tremble from the speakers as I stare into the streets from the barren balcony. I will lie in bed and stretch the sheets out as I extend my body and my appendages across the mattress in a state of supreme relaxation. I will do nothing and I will do it well. I will live a life of refuse and waste. Because there are hills that need filling. There are whole mountains and engineered landscapes to be created. There are heaps and piles that fuel whole towns with pulsing light. You will tell me that I am wasting my life. But even garbage has a place to go. 13 comments|post comment

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