The proverbial boot of truth circumvents the harsh butt of reality.

If anyone comes across this and wants More, Bigger, Faster then go here for my new rapid desalination project:

http://www.boogeresque.com/

[This paragraph reserved to discuss insole choices of the Third Reich.]

Gub Mint Che

I spent most of last evening reading Bukowski in a hospital waiting room, periodically listening to Lindsay Lohan's alcohol "problems" and a crazy woman prattling on about how much she hates non-American white people. There was no stark realization I reached, just merely half-observing my surroundings of a strange, wholly unfriendly place. I don't get hospitals, and I don't get doctors. Unless your limb is falling off, you don't get much help. Unless your limb dropped behind you 10 feet back, you'll sit there for half a day until you get the privilege of sitting in a different room for the second half of the day waiting around for nothing to work itself out, so you can trudge home confused, angry, and searching for a reason why.

Two years ago I went to the doctor because of pain in my chest. I've dealt with a nasty case of an overly acidic system for years, but this was a new ordeal. New equates to strange, and strange equates to fearsome. I don't do doctors, but I got tired of feeling like a hooker had the business end of her heel burying itself into my chest once or twice a week. After sitting around for so long I began contemplating self-inflicted rectal trauma, I spent a whopping 5 minutes with a condescending doctor who recommended "Motrin, maybe Tylenol," and then unceremoniously shooed away with little more than the explanation of "muscle spasm, don't worry about it." Seven years of med school for that? I should've stabbed myself in the throat and then worked on her before the blood left my body into an ever cooling pile of death floating out of and around in Room 6, if anything just to ponder the surely confused look on the detective's face as he jots down "suicide, then murder???" probably slightly misspelled and randomly capitalized in part I'm sure.

So you'd think an old man dying of cancer would receive slightly more priority than my whiny Motrin-slingin' ass, but last night proved not to be the case. Again. I thought those in the health-profession got into the job because they cared about people, or at least pretended so. I can't get even a smile out of anyone on the night shift.

I went across the country, I found myself an apple

It's been yet one evening since I at The Bran Muffin, and I've been shitting my way back home ever since. There's something magical about a thing that tastes good in a perfectly inoffensive way, then within 4 hours won't let you leave the bathroom for the following 24 hours. It's not like when I go to El Colima and have too much salsa only to be left groaning in pain the next day because it is tearing apart my bowels, but rather a seemingly innocent being whose sole use in the world is to WRECK YOU. Last night before the pooping commenced I ended up writing a first chapter and subsequent outline for a book idea, I'm not even sure where it came from but I wrestled it out of my person and onto paper (I may be an internet junkie but serious writing requires pen, paper, and hand only). I tried writing a book in the past and failed, went in with no ideas because I thought I was just like Montaigne drinking Kerouac Juice, or at least harboUring that type of spirit. This time I told myself no bookattempt until I had a solid idea, and well, one hit me. Of course only if I finish the job will I be able to say "hey, look at this ball of holiday cheese, all covered in almonds," so until then I'll simply plug away when the muse strikes me on the top portion of my testicles with the corner of a book.

So now I'm back at work the next day plotting how I'll be able to sneak out of the 2pm meeting in Newport Beach I'm being forced to attend later this afternoon. Meetings can suck it, in such a way that not only the sucker has no pleasure in doing so, but the suckee only engages in the act itself to make said sucker uncomfortable. It's like a public blowjob after playing soccer for 6 hours: nobody wants to be anywhere near the whole situation.

1854

There's truly only one thing left to do. The only possible explanation for the existence of existence is quite simple. One last time, yet for the first time ever, it shall be revealed. The mannerisms undone by saucy redheads will finally come to fruition. The earth shall quake, and the vanilla shake will be made from real ice cream. This is finally happening. The end is NyQuil. The results are out. The babies have been shaved for the last time. My feet itch. It spells relief with a capital X. She happens upon you whilst cheating on her sister, but you can't even see out your own ojos. Tacosneeze faceplanting Chia-ass. One o'clock, two o'clock, schfourteen o'sock cocque. Everything else is meaningless. Nothing left is flavoUrful. Ants are eating Ents, but nobody told the Dogs of Babel. The answer has come:



I WARNED YE!

glass nuts

Well seriously, I mean this is just getting ridiculous. I don't even know why you're here, and by you I mean me, why I mean what, and here I mean Tetris. I tried to Craig's List a drummer, but so far no bar. I suppose what I really need is to move to a community that doesn't have an overabundance of emo homos because by putting Queens of the Stone Age in the ad I made 86.732% of the viewers cry, and King Crimson as the other half of the equation made the remaining 13.268% say "who?" So as per usual, it's all my fault. I don't know why I bitch about things, anything I don't actively pursue to change myself might as well be the weather because I'm not getting off my ass and finding that fucking dog anyhow. Hey speaking of fucking, I mean dogs, one tried to attack me and my special ladyfriend last night. Well okay not really, but he was big and not friendly, so I was on my guard. He placed no less than 3 vehicles between himself and us before started barking, almost as cowardly as me yelling "you are the one who is the asshole!" 5 football fields too late just like in that one special features commentary (keywords: I think I just filled the cup). I think I'm straying beyond the point at this point so I better point myself back in the proper direction. Who Am I (What's My Name)? I don't even care right now. It's not really nihilism when you still avoid personal discomfort.

In closing, I've never had a henna tattoo, and don't plan on it anytime soon.



Big shoes to fill...
Big shoes to fill...
Big shoes to fill...
Big shoes to fill...
Big shoes to fill...

Woman inserted golf carting.

Sorry, that last one wasn't exactly what I was driving toward. I think the crux of the biscuit about this whole deal is that I'm honest to fucking goat tired of sitting in an office every day, or at least 5 days a week. So tired in fact that I had an EMERGENCY PROJECT to do yesterday, 5 of them actually, that I found out about at 9am and didn't start them until after 3pm. Not because I lacked the time or the drive, rather because they didn't quite smell kosher until the mid-afternoon. So I sat 'round for that few hour gap engaging in work-banality, which I think the elders are starting to notice because I've had several people approach me this week immediately stating "wow, you don't want to be here, do you" not as a question or statement of purpose, rather as one of fact (oops, that F-word rears up once again). Why? Because I'm an idiot for accepting this sidetrack path of life that pays the bills. Just yesterday, for the first time mind you, I thought I should change my major, even though I graduated over 5 years ago. How would things have changed due to that? Well not one bit excepting perhaps one extra quarter of college on top of the already one extra quarter I was forced to take. The kids these days, they think stuff matters when in fact everybody knows nothing does once you reach the ripe old age of 25, everything after that is just variations on a rewind. Personally, I blame Ivan Raimi.

Now if you think this one makes sense more than that whole Defartation biness, you sir are more lost than I can even imagine I would ever end up. Boil yer bottom.

Mandatory Defartation of all Elephants

Well I think I've had it. The time has come to get rid of all the elephant farts ONCE AND FOR ALL. As you can see I'm still ending my sentences by YELLING INCOHERENTLY. Okay well I'm done for now, after this sentence is RAPED BY THE LOCAL ELKS LODGE. Right. I'm assuming that people know what I'm talking about, although I suppose that has always been my greatest flaw: assuming that people know. Hey I'm not going to try and say I'm some elitist brain-using nose-breather myself, I'm just a big of a moron as your average Jessica or Ashley Simpson. Well okay maybe not, because I think last I checked they both still had blonde hair and money, so obviously aren't stupid at all, but rather just "not deep" and I'm "just jealous" of everyone else's "good fortune" on this "plane" "of" "existence" "." Of course, then again, rather, it would seem, perhaps, you were thinking it could be something else, here's the real cheese, the doctor isn't in, your face is ugly, you got beat by your uncle at Parcheesi, but hey, I'm not the one buying you dinner tonight anyhow. That job is left for the unemployed who would much rather toast their toast as they roast their host in a manner most eloquent, succulent, and divergent as to assume that one even knows where that sentence back there (two ago) was going in the first place because even though I'm Behind The Wheel you probably don't understand that it's not even a car but rather that one couch I got high while sitting upon back in '95 and thought I was driving to the moon but in fact I was already there, if in fact you consider the planet Earth as a moon of the sun which is only a star in fact but I don't think the planets work that way anyhow (if in fact we're not talking about Pluto here). You didn't think this was about Harry Nilsson again, did you?



Oh yeah, those are exactly my sentimonies!