2.11.2008
Book Slice 10: Post-hiatus
Nay, nother drink, another drunk sad and saaaaad staring into the mirror, seeing himself and the rest of you, feeling sorry for worth felt sorry for boy, feeling at least we're not this guy here who got his ass dumped enough to let it percolate and rise through the entire body up until assing up the eyes into looking at the black mirror and realizing Self. Oh, at least they're not me, not of course realizing the A that leads to B happens for every fucking person C, and natch, the two beers' hate therein of me saying all that is somehow neutralized through the following "I have the awfully sneaky awful suspicion":
I have the awfully sneaky awful suspicion that I'll be drinking this and thinking that until the day I succumb to rotting in the ground, that I'll be yes kill him, no don’t kill him, yes and yes and yes this is all an illusion, the fauxity of nonsensical ramblings by replaced virtue of crying like a little bitch into this here beer, that the idea of killing him is some sort of reductometaphoric absurdist plot twist upon realizing here and now that there is no even hint of dream of thought of killing aforementioned forfuckingever Simeon Stylites, just as there is no ability to count the stars in the whole fucking lot of the universe, that it's all some reductometaphoric absurdist jackassery layered upon a steaming pile of asshattery combined sweetly with a sprinkle of douchebaggery, blended up my ass and shat out once again, and once again, and once again into the realization that suck it up, he won. And yet won't win because you'll picture yourself as the most shining star beaming better than a universe-minus-one's worth of stars, and then slice that up yourself, and then pretend like he's worth offing, or you're worth being up to the task, which you aren't, so the entire point is lost, upon traveling in that time machine to kill yourself you realize that the trip was impossible for reason of stopping you from creating the method of your own offing by offing, so you're left as a speck among a universe-minus-one's worth of specks. And you were saying?
Posted at 11:07 PM
Book Slice 10: Post-hiatus
Nay, nother drink, another drunk sad and saaaaad staring into the mirror, seeing himself and the rest of you, feeling sorry for worth felt sorry for boy, feeling at least we're not this guy here who got his ass dumped enough to let it percolate and rise through the entire body up until assing up the eyes into looking at the black mirror and realizing Self. Oh, at least they're not me, not of course realizing the A that leads to B happens for every fucking person C, and natch, the two beers' hate therein of me saying all that is somehow neutralized through the following "I have the awfully sneaky awful suspicion":
I have the awfully sneaky awful suspicion that I'll be drinking this and thinking that until the day I succumb to rotting in the ground, that I'll be yes kill him, no don’t kill him, yes and yes and yes this is all an illusion, the fauxity of nonsensical ramblings by replaced virtue of crying like a little bitch into this here beer, that the idea of killing him is some sort of reductometaphoric absurdist plot twist upon realizing here and now that there is no even hint of dream of thought of killing aforementioned forfuckingever Simeon Stylites, just as there is no ability to count the stars in the whole fucking lot of the universe, that it's all some reductometaphoric absurdist jackassery layered upon a steaming pile of asshattery combined sweetly with a sprinkle of douchebaggery, blended up my ass and shat out once again, and once again, and once again into the realization that suck it up, he won. And yet won't win because you'll picture yourself as the most shining star beaming better than a universe-minus-one's worth of stars, and then slice that up yourself, and then pretend like he's worth offing, or you're worth being up to the task, which you aren't, so the entire point is lost, upon traveling in that time machine to kill yourself you realize that the trip was impossible for reason of stopping you from creating the method of your own offing by offing, so you're left as a speck among a universe-minus-one's worth of specks. And you were saying?
Labels: Book Slice
__________________________Posted at 11:07 PM
1.21.2008
Book Slice 9: Beer pong.
I put out my cups. Six cups, triangle shape, just like we've always done, Lord knows we've done this before. Tighten the cups cause he'll throw a bitch about it. Tighten em up, he'll say, like a pro, even though I've probably beaten him like 60 percent of the time, but know what, it's just an image he's gotta uphold, like he's played this every hour of the day, but know what, Pynchie? You’d be up and dead that way. (You're afraid you'll kill yourself the way your mother did.) Like I'd even know. She still alive, I'd probably rip him about how hot she was, just to psyche him out. Your sister's going out with Squeek. It’s really an art. Yes, I've thought about it. Yes, probably more than all this. Esoteric? Don't get me started, man. Hey idiot. Slow down. Slow down. With all that.
"What?"
"Hey man. Slow down."
"What?"
"You're pouring that beer too quick. I mean, unless you like foam."
"Oh, fuck. Dammit. Dammit, thanks."
I watch Pynchie. Looking real close at his cups, tongue out, pouring down the center, hoping for no foam. Couldn't stand feeling that on the back of his mouth, I know. Lord knows I can't. As little substance, gotta be some substance. If it's pisswater, let it be pisswater I guess. Haha. Down the throat with something at least. Anyway. He's really getting into this, tongue out eyes squinty but not really on account of the beers, like I gave him a lobotomy or, just, just, you do it to yourself. You do it to yourself, Pynchie. Haha, toast inside to you. But I realize what's all up in this, so I come up with a grin and,
"Let It Be."
"Huh?"
"Let It Be. The Replacements."
"What the sam fuck are you talking about?"
"The Replacements. Let It Be. It's an album."
"No shit. I knew a guy who went to that house. Why?"
"Because. Think about it. The connection."
"Yeah, you think you're smart enough for that?"
"Yeah."
"And legit? Like, some serious cred? From this? Out of nothing? You sure?"
"Why not."
Posted at 11:46 PM
Book Slice 9: Beer pong.
I put out my cups. Six cups, triangle shape, just like we've always done, Lord knows we've done this before. Tighten the cups cause he'll throw a bitch about it. Tighten em up, he'll say, like a pro, even though I've probably beaten him like 60 percent of the time, but know what, it's just an image he's gotta uphold, like he's played this every hour of the day, but know what, Pynchie? You’d be up and dead that way. (You're afraid you'll kill yourself the way your mother did.) Like I'd even know. She still alive, I'd probably rip him about how hot she was, just to psyche him out. Your sister's going out with Squeek. It’s really an art. Yes, I've thought about it. Yes, probably more than all this. Esoteric? Don't get me started, man. Hey idiot. Slow down. Slow down. With all that.
"What?"
"Hey man. Slow down."
"What?"
"You're pouring that beer too quick. I mean, unless you like foam."
"Oh, fuck. Dammit. Dammit, thanks."
I watch Pynchie. Looking real close at his cups, tongue out, pouring down the center, hoping for no foam. Couldn't stand feeling that on the back of his mouth, I know. Lord knows I can't. As little substance, gotta be some substance. If it's pisswater, let it be pisswater I guess. Haha. Down the throat with something at least. Anyway. He's really getting into this, tongue out eyes squinty but not really on account of the beers, like I gave him a lobotomy or, just, just, you do it to yourself. You do it to yourself, Pynchie. Haha, toast inside to you. But I realize what's all up in this, so I come up with a grin and,
"Let It Be."
"Huh?"
"Let It Be. The Replacements."
"What the sam fuck are you talking about?"
"The Replacements. Let It Be. It's an album."
"No shit. I knew a guy who went to that house. Why?"
"Because. Think about it. The connection."
"Yeah, you think you're smart enough for that?"
"Yeah."
"And legit? Like, some serious cred? From this? Out of nothing? You sure?"
"Why not."
Labels: Book Slice
__________________________Posted at 11:46 PM
1.14.2008
Book Slice 8: An ode to a hypothetical Eva Green devotee (for the sake of revenge)
Revenge-inducing person in question.
And there you are, and there she is, and no matter the Hugh Hewittian ad hocitry offered, no matter the preening and self-improvement, no matter the solid and sold within yourself, you're solid and sold within herself to the extent of Just Somebody She Used To Know, or even worse, Just Somebody Simeon Stylites Knows Now, and what's your point, little man? What's your point for being here? For wanting her? For wanting to prove yourself? Of proving yourself? And at THAT point, you realize the concept of killing Simeon Stylites is as fundamental to the situation as the following:
YOU being on Saturday Night Live, performing with a band as diverse as you've been blogging about seeing, with a guitarist fashionista on your right and a pig-tailed punk goofball chyck on your left, and a drummer whose green mohawk is the stuff of sidebars and message board odes, and you're doing something you know you've the range for, Heinrich Maneuver being one that works enough, and you're detached but ironically detached, looking upon your own not caring with a grin here and there, No I DON'T want to hear her thoughts, my God!...knowing that she'd know the meaning behind the smirk, related to the cool-factor difference between swinging you and irrelevant-no-matter her...and you're still going to be the talk of everything regardless through sporting "Marry Me Eva Green" on your shirt. Beyond the music, there's still intrigue, way more than her, way more than her, a thousand times way more than her. And yet.
It's a shitload of nothing. The concept of your intrigue, your beloved buzz and your whorish climbing and Eva Green ogling relevancy, it's all as fundamental to the situation as the following: Killing Simeon Stylites. Because you've thought and planned and schemed and written out enough movie scripts to displace your shirts in your closet about your oh so poignant little scheme, and it's all of what? Just the thoughts in the back of your head, like whether or not you should snare wings from the number on the fridge, or whether or not you remembered to button your boxers after pissing. Just a thought in the back of your head, brought to the forefront by wishing Eva Green would even notice the damn shirt, so you've got even more plus-ones, for the sake of what? The plus-ones. Sucker.
Posted at 11:11 PM
Book Slice 7: An ode to Jonah Goldberg
Sigh.
See, this is exactly what we're having to deal with, this constant ridiculous appalling idiocy of blame America and logic and unrestrained capitalism first, this is the preposterous situation we have to wake up to every day, hurting our ability to say, do you realize what's really important here, it's that Simeon Stylites has absorbed so much ridiculous appalling multiculturalism that he thinks he can actually fit in among one of them over there, but truth be told, if he was some gay satanic midget Mexican they'd hate him regardless, and you can take that to the bank. So keep kneeling, keep non-resisting, keep loving and hugging and having no resolve and the tough stuff of real men past, keep thinking that Simeon, and when your guts are blown all over the concrete, well, ho ho ho, well.
Well well, well we see the inherent risk in the blameocracy and its environs, from the mealy-mouthed no-it's-not-that-badders to the mushy-mouthed well-they'd-do-it-worst-and-do-it-firsters, from the do-nothing aristocratic automatroniton autocrats looming over the boards of trustees, to the Commie-chic witless dimwits holding picket signs for this that and the other, just to make sure the As are As, let that be the end of it, ho ho ho. These are the types that deal with forms and structures as if they didn't even exist, for that's the stuff of grants and circle jerks, devaluing everything to its very core until you rise up from the atoms and cells and universes to realize that the true answer, the one answer that will get you money and prestige in this ridiculous paradigm, is the one that puts the crown on that blowhard in his office, with the fair-trade silliness dumped in his cup, and the stacks and stacks of disproven-by-my-think-tank shit-lit spread out at his feet. This is what we fight for days and days, to be passed over by the ivory towers and moldy basements, filled with disproven theory this and unproven theory that, as if asking the question was any better than finding the answer, which my think tank has, glad you asked. And don't you forget it, not to mention your helmet and earplugs and it's not like they even vote my way anyway. Or your way, Simeon, I'm sure, as I've heard through my sources and studies that you'd likely agree with me.
So to hell with Simeon Stylites, sure, to hell with him is the extent of your argument as constructed by you and fulfillishmentally constructed by me. That's it. I swear. That's what. These. People. Say!
Posted at 11:04 PM
Book Slice 8: An ode to a hypothetical Eva Green devotee (for the sake of revenge)
Revenge-inducing person in question.
And there you are, and there she is, and no matter the Hugh Hewittian ad hocitry offered, no matter the preening and self-improvement, no matter the solid and sold within yourself, you're solid and sold within herself to the extent of Just Somebody She Used To Know, or even worse, Just Somebody Simeon Stylites Knows Now, and what's your point, little man? What's your point for being here? For wanting her? For wanting to prove yourself? Of proving yourself? And at THAT point, you realize the concept of killing Simeon Stylites is as fundamental to the situation as the following:
YOU being on Saturday Night Live, performing with a band as diverse as you've been blogging about seeing, with a guitarist fashionista on your right and a pig-tailed punk goofball chyck on your left, and a drummer whose green mohawk is the stuff of sidebars and message board odes, and you're doing something you know you've the range for, Heinrich Maneuver being one that works enough, and you're detached but ironically detached, looking upon your own not caring with a grin here and there, No I DON'T want to hear her thoughts, my God!...knowing that she'd know the meaning behind the smirk, related to the cool-factor difference between swinging you and irrelevant-no-matter her...and you're still going to be the talk of everything regardless through sporting "Marry Me Eva Green" on your shirt. Beyond the music, there's still intrigue, way more than her, way more than her, a thousand times way more than her. And yet.
It's a shitload of nothing. The concept of your intrigue, your beloved buzz and your whorish climbing and Eva Green ogling relevancy, it's all as fundamental to the situation as the following: Killing Simeon Stylites. Because you've thought and planned and schemed and written out enough movie scripts to displace your shirts in your closet about your oh so poignant little scheme, and it's all of what? Just the thoughts in the back of your head, like whether or not you should snare wings from the number on the fridge, or whether or not you remembered to button your boxers after pissing. Just a thought in the back of your head, brought to the forefront by wishing Eva Green would even notice the damn shirt, so you've got even more plus-ones, for the sake of what? The plus-ones. Sucker.
Labels: Book Slice
__________________________Posted at 11:11 PM
Book Slice 7: An ode to Jonah Goldberg
Sigh.
See, this is exactly what we're having to deal with, this constant ridiculous appalling idiocy of blame America and logic and unrestrained capitalism first, this is the preposterous situation we have to wake up to every day, hurting our ability to say, do you realize what's really important here, it's that Simeon Stylites has absorbed so much ridiculous appalling multiculturalism that he thinks he can actually fit in among one of them over there, but truth be told, if he was some gay satanic midget Mexican they'd hate him regardless, and you can take that to the bank. So keep kneeling, keep non-resisting, keep loving and hugging and having no resolve and the tough stuff of real men past, keep thinking that Simeon, and when your guts are blown all over the concrete, well, ho ho ho, well.
Well well, well we see the inherent risk in the blameocracy and its environs, from the mealy-mouthed no-it's-not-that-badders to the mushy-mouthed well-they'd-do-it-worst-and-do-it-firsters, from the do-nothing aristocratic automatroniton autocrats looming over the boards of trustees, to the Commie-chic witless dimwits holding picket signs for this that and the other, just to make sure the As are As, let that be the end of it, ho ho ho. These are the types that deal with forms and structures as if they didn't even exist, for that's the stuff of grants and circle jerks, devaluing everything to its very core until you rise up from the atoms and cells and universes to realize that the true answer, the one answer that will get you money and prestige in this ridiculous paradigm, is the one that puts the crown on that blowhard in his office, with the fair-trade silliness dumped in his cup, and the stacks and stacks of disproven-by-my-think-tank shit-lit spread out at his feet. This is what we fight for days and days, to be passed over by the ivory towers and moldy basements, filled with disproven theory this and unproven theory that, as if asking the question was any better than finding the answer, which my think tank has, glad you asked. And don't you forget it, not to mention your helmet and earplugs and it's not like they even vote my way anyway. Or your way, Simeon, I'm sure, as I've heard through my sources and studies that you'd likely agree with me.
So to hell with Simeon Stylites, sure, to hell with him is the extent of your argument as constructed by you and fulfillishmentally constructed by me. That's it. I swear. That's what. These. People. Say!
Labels: Book Slice
__________________________Posted at 11:04 PM
12.29.2007
Book Slice 6
It is the goal of all of us, through the socioecopoliticoreligohomosapiens paradigm shifts through the centuries, to finally massage Bull Connor's dogs and hold his hose for him. That is the end result; the railroaded become the railroaders, and only then are things right, and for the world's sake, knives up and guns out, this outcome will only be ripped from our grasp when the strength of the ages leaves our bodies. Simeon Stylites flirts with death because he is Simeon Stylites, he's the "what is your name?" with a cracked whip or the "speak English" with a cocked gun or "this land I claim for" with a willing drone army to give force to his words.
Oh, the cold heart and empty head of those who speak of due process and the presumption of innocence; have they never seen the yearning of thugniggaintellectuals to be heard, have they never seen the masses ailing for justice in whatever form? Whatever form is Simeon Stylites' form. Whatever form is bliss. Whatever form is every form, from Emmett Till on, as we take Bull Connor's hose from his grasp and hold it for him and convince him that his aim is off. That is the goal: Justice! Freedom! And to hell with Simeon Stylites, his campus culture of mental rape, his genealogical inheritance of absolute racism, the music he listens to at night, the way he chews his food. It is through gangster scholarship that we put his crimes to the forefront and for all to see, discuss, and railroad straight to the inner circles of hell.
Posted at 6:59 PM
Book Slice 6
It is the goal of all of us, through the socioecopoliticoreligohomosapiens paradigm shifts through the centuries, to finally massage Bull Connor's dogs and hold his hose for him. That is the end result; the railroaded become the railroaders, and only then are things right, and for the world's sake, knives up and guns out, this outcome will only be ripped from our grasp when the strength of the ages leaves our bodies. Simeon Stylites flirts with death because he is Simeon Stylites, he's the "what is your name?" with a cracked whip or the "speak English" with a cocked gun or "this land I claim for" with a willing drone army to give force to his words.
Oh, the cold heart and empty head of those who speak of due process and the presumption of innocence; have they never seen the yearning of thugniggaintellectuals to be heard, have they never seen the masses ailing for justice in whatever form? Whatever form is Simeon Stylites' form. Whatever form is bliss. Whatever form is every form, from Emmett Till on, as we take Bull Connor's hose from his grasp and hold it for him and convince him that his aim is off. That is the goal: Justice! Freedom! And to hell with Simeon Stylites, his campus culture of mental rape, his genealogical inheritance of absolute racism, the music he listens to at night, the way he chews his food. It is through gangster scholarship that we put his crimes to the forefront and for all to see, discuss, and railroad straight to the inner circles of hell.
Labels: Book Slice
__________________________Posted at 6:59 PM
12.23.2007
Book Slice 5
So what better (er, so, so, so, so, so, so, really, if I'm sitting on the stool telling you as much this is how I roll, I swear, so utilitarian realism will rule today, I'm afraid, so, so, so, so) than to count forfuckingever? And ever and ever? And ever forever the whole of the lot of time sort of forever? And so the United Nations of the Universe talked and talked and discussed and considered and mulled and pondered until it was, was, was, that all of the known universe should come together and count (together!) the googolplex. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Hundred billion million trillion godinthedetailsillion until you've counted no more, because you'll never count no more, because you'll run out of paper, your neighbor's paper, the world's paper, all of paper, every writing material every fucking material that has ever existed is anywhere will ever existed EVERYTHING, because you'll never run out, because the whole of everything isn't long or wide or tall enough for the wholer of everything, embodied numerically in the googolplex, a one followed by a googol of zeroes. And for fuck's sake, when you step back a little bit further from wrapping your brain around that, consider that to just fucking write it, as if the United Nations of the Universe was to just have the little folks write out zeros (but didn't, self-esteem issues and all) until the end of all things, they'd still be not close. So in dumbass terms,
100000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000is not even close, nor will it be ever close, because this here universe is only finite. Really. Because the everything we know isn't everything enough to kill this bitch off.
Posted at 1:24 PM
Book Slice 5
So what better (er, so, so, so, so, so, so, really, if I'm sitting on the stool telling you as much this is how I roll, I swear, so utilitarian realism will rule today, I'm afraid, so, so, so, so) than to count forfuckingever? And ever and ever? And ever forever the whole of the lot of time sort of forever? And so the United Nations of the Universe talked and talked and discussed and considered and mulled and pondered until it was, was, was, that all of the known universe should come together and count (together!) the googolplex. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Hundred billion million trillion godinthedetailsillion until you've counted no more, because you'll never count no more, because you'll run out of paper, your neighbor's paper, the world's paper, all of paper, every writing material every fucking material that has ever existed is anywhere will ever existed EVERYTHING, because you'll never run out, because the whole of everything isn't long or wide or tall enough for the wholer of everything, embodied numerically in the googolplex, a one followed by a googol of zeroes. And for fuck's sake, when you step back a little bit further from wrapping your brain around that, consider that to just fucking write it, as if the United Nations of the Universe was to just have the little folks write out zeros (but didn't, self-esteem issues and all) until the end of all things, they'd still be not close. So in dumbass terms,
100000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000
0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000is not even close, nor will it be ever close, because this here universe is only finite. Really. Because the everything we know isn't everything enough to kill this bitch off.
Labels: Book Slice
__________________________Posted at 1:24 PM
12.18.2007
Book Slice 4
business cards! what are we going to do about the business cards if we were to dare change the masthead or the way news is featured on the front, what would my neighbors say, what would the homeowners associations say, how would i conduct myself in familiar company when they’ve opened up their morning papers and realized that things aren't at all what they have been before? you talk about connecting to readers, but what about the ones who want to hear about what i want to hear about? silent majority, what about them? what about the true movers and shakers, regardless of whatever influx silliness you'll have me believe, what about the reality of this place, what about the upper 1 percent that makes this community sparkle and shine and exist, exist, exist? our fate is sealed, i'm sorry, we ordered this box of stationary and we’re not about to throw it out, these things cost money, i'm sure you never learned that in j-school but you're learning here in life school, that’s what i call this sort of thing, life school, and it's time for you to take a few classes. business cards! that's where we are in this community, we’re the sign out front and the business cards and the daily update on developers and rezoning laws, that's what's expected of us, for god's sake, don't ever change, that's what i always took from life school, don't ever change, don't ever change, repeat it with me, don't ever change, don't ever change. change, differ, die.
Posted at 12:40 AM
Book Slice 4
business cards! what are we going to do about the business cards if we were to dare change the masthead or the way news is featured on the front, what would my neighbors say, what would the homeowners associations say, how would i conduct myself in familiar company when they’ve opened up their morning papers and realized that things aren't at all what they have been before? you talk about connecting to readers, but what about the ones who want to hear about what i want to hear about? silent majority, what about them? what about the true movers and shakers, regardless of whatever influx silliness you'll have me believe, what about the reality of this place, what about the upper 1 percent that makes this community sparkle and shine and exist, exist, exist? our fate is sealed, i'm sorry, we ordered this box of stationary and we’re not about to throw it out, these things cost money, i'm sure you never learned that in j-school but you're learning here in life school, that’s what i call this sort of thing, life school, and it's time for you to take a few classes. business cards! that's where we are in this community, we’re the sign out front and the business cards and the daily update on developers and rezoning laws, that's what's expected of us, for god's sake, don't ever change, that's what i always took from life school, don't ever change, don't ever change, repeat it with me, don't ever change, don't ever change. change, differ, die.
Labels: Book Slice
__________________________Posted at 12:40 AM
12.07.2007
Book Slice 3
and i just think, i could just fly through the ceiling, song’s sentiment but true, been said before but true, i could stand on my chair and kick it out from underneath me and i’d be hovering and pushing up towards the ceiling and the roof and the sky and up and out and above GA 316 and I-85 and georgia and the south and the universe and everything, can’t help the feeling but if i could i would, but can’t, thinking i’d push against the ceiling and punch it until my knuckles bleed and expose bone and scratch it until paint chips slip underneath my nails and my fingers melt to broken stumps, and i bang my head against the fluorescents until my brain caves in and out my eyes oh just fuck it oh just why did i even try it oh just sitting still would have been just as good, instead of this bloody mess spilt all over the floor right? besides this sort of shit’s been covered elsewhere by people smarter and better than me, fincher would have me starve myself and have my ribs sticking out and then that would have made it happen, that would have been real and this ain’t real, no one flies, can’t help the feeling that i got the sentiment from the song and that’s all right, quiet, quiet, just sit, don’t let anyone know you’re rising out of your chair in your mind, can’t help the feeling, i could just stare at the ceiling until someone says what are you looking at and oh nothing is the only obvious response.
Posted at 9:25 PM
Book Slice 3
and i just think, i could just fly through the ceiling, song’s sentiment but true, been said before but true, i could stand on my chair and kick it out from underneath me and i’d be hovering and pushing up towards the ceiling and the roof and the sky and up and out and above GA 316 and I-85 and georgia and the south and the universe and everything, can’t help the feeling but if i could i would, but can’t, thinking i’d push against the ceiling and punch it until my knuckles bleed and expose bone and scratch it until paint chips slip underneath my nails and my fingers melt to broken stumps, and i bang my head against the fluorescents until my brain caves in and out my eyes oh just fuck it oh just why did i even try it oh just sitting still would have been just as good, instead of this bloody mess spilt all over the floor right? besides this sort of shit’s been covered elsewhere by people smarter and better than me, fincher would have me starve myself and have my ribs sticking out and then that would have made it happen, that would have been real and this ain’t real, no one flies, can’t help the feeling that i got the sentiment from the song and that’s all right, quiet, quiet, just sit, don’t let anyone know you’re rising out of your chair in your mind, can’t help the feeling, i could just stare at the ceiling until someone says what are you looking at and oh nothing is the only obvious response.
Labels: Book Slice
__________________________Posted at 9:25 PM
11.28.2007
Book Slice 2
let me shake your hand, how are you, how’s your family, what are the stocks doing, love your lawn, who did it, ah he did it, i’ve found he does excellent excellent work, like a real professional, not like us, but as best as he can be, you know these things, oh, you did enjoy that story, well we worked hard to squeeze that out of our writers, you just got to kick them in the behind sometime, you know how it is, oh i’m sure you do the same thing, what’s that, oh yes, never change, never change, never thought of it, where else can you get this sort of viewpoint without any interruption, certainly not that fish rag downtown i’ll tell you that, oh ho ho, i know, yes, we are doing a story on that new neighborhood, yes, i know they’re coming in droves, not much we can do about it, we just report the facts, right, nothing any more than that, that’s what’s asked of us, we’ll let you do the doing and then we’ll write about it, and let me be clear here, we’ll let you and just you do the doing, that’s what we serve here, the upper 1 percent that makes this community sparkle and shine and, right, exist, exist, exist, oh you didn’t understand that headline, well i guess we’ll have to do something about that, that’s what we do here, straight from your mouth to their ears, i promise it, let’s shake on it even!
Posted at 10:14 PM
Book Slice 2
let me shake your hand, how are you, how’s your family, what are the stocks doing, love your lawn, who did it, ah he did it, i’ve found he does excellent excellent work, like a real professional, not like us, but as best as he can be, you know these things, oh, you did enjoy that story, well we worked hard to squeeze that out of our writers, you just got to kick them in the behind sometime, you know how it is, oh i’m sure you do the same thing, what’s that, oh yes, never change, never change, never thought of it, where else can you get this sort of viewpoint without any interruption, certainly not that fish rag downtown i’ll tell you that, oh ho ho, i know, yes, we are doing a story on that new neighborhood, yes, i know they’re coming in droves, not much we can do about it, we just report the facts, right, nothing any more than that, that’s what’s asked of us, we’ll let you do the doing and then we’ll write about it, and let me be clear here, we’ll let you and just you do the doing, that’s what we serve here, the upper 1 percent that makes this community sparkle and shine and, right, exist, exist, exist, oh you didn’t understand that headline, well i guess we’ll have to do something about that, that’s what we do here, straight from your mouth to their ears, i promise it, let’s shake on it even!
Labels: Book Slice
__________________________Posted at 10:14 PM
11.15.2007
Book Slice 1
Everything after the bombing of The Dres Den, sponsored by the analysis of analysis of anal leaking truth-unseeking allied forces, was to retroactively make sense under the No Shit Sherlock Act, which made sense anyway because the Act was reactionary, not aggressive precautionary batshit body eclectic (homophobes and militant LINOs and Bill Kristol, oh my). So when Kurt Vonnegut™ rose from the ashes of The Dres Den to shovel all the blood and guts into a nearby river and wondered aloud what all the blood and guts was really about, oh wait, the destruction of civility and promotion and blood and gutsness and making trillionaires out of billionaire millionaire small-clubbed men of small clubs carrying big clubs, and the destruction of the world, oh always the destruction of the world, well, if you hadn’t already fucking knew that was going on anyway, you’ll know it now, and that’s how Kurt Vonnegut™ rolled batshit body eclectic. So it goes™, now in t-shirt form, wear it, live it, love it, wash it, and So it goes™ won’t come out unless you’re washing your clothes with motor oil, because at least that’d take you on a trip to somewhere else rather than Hey, This Guy Sees It The Way I See It, and oh no, He’s Dead, What Ever Will I Do Now?, because No shit, Sherlock has you looking at yourself in the mirror, seeing that your face is decayed, making you rip it off wholesale into the sink, and realizing at the end when you’re just bones and bones that you didn’t know anything. Because you don’t want to know anything. Because the poltergeists were too busy doing a whole lot of jack shit to watch you raid the fridge and be scared of decay, not that they’ve got important things to do anyway, at least according to Mr. Vonnegut™ we’re to be like those ever-tinkering poltergeists and pay attention to what we’ve already known in the first place, without slapping your head (instead of peeling it off) and saying hey, NO SHIT, SHERLOCK.
Posted at 8:56 PM
archive, blogger!
Book Slice 1
Everything after the bombing of The Dres Den, sponsored by the analysis of analysis of anal leaking truth-unseeking allied forces, was to retroactively make sense under the No Shit Sherlock Act, which made sense anyway because the Act was reactionary, not aggressive precautionary batshit body eclectic (homophobes and militant LINOs and Bill Kristol, oh my). So when Kurt Vonnegut™ rose from the ashes of The Dres Den to shovel all the blood and guts into a nearby river and wondered aloud what all the blood and guts was really about, oh wait, the destruction of civility and promotion and blood and gutsness and making trillionaires out of billionaire millionaire small-clubbed men of small clubs carrying big clubs, and the destruction of the world, oh always the destruction of the world, well, if you hadn’t already fucking knew that was going on anyway, you’ll know it now, and that’s how Kurt Vonnegut™ rolled batshit body eclectic. So it goes™, now in t-shirt form, wear it, live it, love it, wash it, and So it goes™ won’t come out unless you’re washing your clothes with motor oil, because at least that’d take you on a trip to somewhere else rather than Hey, This Guy Sees It The Way I See It, and oh no, He’s Dead, What Ever Will I Do Now?, because No shit, Sherlock has you looking at yourself in the mirror, seeing that your face is decayed, making you rip it off wholesale into the sink, and realizing at the end when you’re just bones and bones that you didn’t know anything. Because you don’t want to know anything. Because the poltergeists were too busy doing a whole lot of jack shit to watch you raid the fridge and be scared of decay, not that they’ve got important things to do anyway, at least according to Mr. Vonnegut™ we’re to be like those ever-tinkering poltergeists and pay attention to what we’ve already known in the first place, without slapping your head (instead of peeling it off) and saying hey, NO SHIT, SHERLOCK.
Labels: Book Slice
__________________________Posted at 8:56 PM
archive, blogger!