Hookers or Cake

I liked the internet better before it existed and we’d all just talk to ourselves like crazy people and fall into massive depressions. Back in the day there was nothing to do. You had to wait. And if you were ugly and got depressed, no one would talk to you for weeks. And then you’d have a breakdown and go on a Dr. ordered sabbatical and go on some weird vacation to Hawaii and take mescaline and have a spiritual breakthrough discovering that we are causal joy resonating in the heart of all things, but no one would know what was going on with you, because no faceblog internet clap trap. Then you’d run into a good friend you hadn’t seen in a couple of months at street fair and they’d ask “Whatcha been up to?” and you’d say “Oh not much, you?” “Same ol, same ol,” they’d reply. And you have polite chuckling banter all the while giving your teeth each there own secret names because you are a fucking lunatic who suddenly enjoys being completely and utterly alone.

You remember?

Ahhh the roaring void aint what it used to be.

When I was older I used to live in reverse. I discovered that all great artists were in fact cheap parodies. For instance, I found Prince Rodgers Nelson was still making music at the ripe old age of eighty and living in France. He’d made a horrific French parody record of Purple Rain called, ‘Ze Pourpre Pluie’.  He did it all under an assumed French name and everyone thought it was brilliant. “When I’m younger this will actually inspire and remind me,” he stated, in an interview he did in the late 1920s. He said some other great stuff in that interview too, something about God being a splendid whore who fell in love with an endless contradiction.

The first music I ever heard, or that I remember hearing, was country music. It was in Tom’s Cafe, the bar/cafe across the alley from the house I was born in. I was three yrs old and hung out there a lot, because old Tommy Burke would feed me pancakes. I remember eating pancakes in a wooden booth looking at a red white and blue PBR swag light hearing a man sing about blue eyes and crying rain.
I’ve always meant to see Willie play live but I never got around to it or it was too damn expensive. Well, I looked up tickets again and old Willie is playing just down the street from me in a few weeks. And cinching the deal is that he’s playing with Merle Haggard.

Sorry I haven’t been posting much. I’ve been busy hand crafting a new artisan beer called, “There’s a Tear in my Beer!” Its actually brewed out of the tears of starving children. And it’ll be bacon infused (duh!) using a special bacon that’s cured and smoked right in the slaughterhouse. Mmmmm…. you can actually taste the smoked squealing suffering inside of the regular suffering.
The entire process has been quite daunting though, tears of starving children are actually quite difficult to harvest. Not that there aren’t millions of dying children in surprisingly good local organic supply, but they’re usually so dehydrated that you have to rehydrate them to get a proper tear flow going. And to ensure our organic status the water has to be shipped in from Europe, as the water for miles around is toxic.

Its slow going but incredibly rewarding to crack open an ice cold one while celebrating the birth of your new tattoo or body mod. Also goes extremely well with live blogging that new TV show. Bonus! A portion of the proceeds go to “Hair For All” a charity that designs and builds mustaches and beards for the facially hair challenged. So drink up in good conscious knowing that all that suffering isn’t just going to waste. Six packs available at Whole Foods for just 18.99! And seasonal brews are on the way!

I’ve always felt bad for the monster, when the good guy killed him, like he always does. I’ve always felt for the bad guy so poorly written, like a one trick pony frozen in disbelief, thawing out with a whiskey he never gets to drink.

Maybe Godzilla smashes all them people cuz they won’t stop screaming. Perhaps he just wants to have a few pints before he wanders back into the sea, to the wife and family.

Maybe ol Jason Vohries just wants to be left alone in the devouring silence and not inundated by boring loud horny teens every weekend. Maybe he finds the forest and lake beautiful and humanity a form of blight. Maybe he’s just pruning the garden.

If I was the black hat I wouldn’t even show up to the final gunfight. Let the simpleton good guy rot in that shitty small town. Let him wait for an eternity and ponder the true meaning of evil.

last night
I heard a flower dreaming
I heard an animal howling
but I didn’t see the moon

this morning
I saw my dog sleeping
in my dreams you were alive again
and I was weeping

an open window
a brightly lit room

Bedtime Story

The founders of the great metropolis came from the surrounding jungle starving, they were looking for fruit. They wandered about fruitlessly until they saw something wriggling on the horizon, it was big, and it was pink. As they drew closer they realized it was a gigantic baby, bigger than a house. They proceeded to wonder out-loud just what the fuck a giant baby was doing in the middle of nowhere and the baby itself responded, “I am that which knows the winds secret and I see all of the lines that flow throughout time.” The travelers set up camp right there and prayed throughout the night to the baby, that it might take pity on them in their fruitless search. The baby told them that if they’d keep it safe from the ever encroaching forest, it would in turn tell them where the fruit was.
So the searchers settled there and cut down some nearby trees, building a barrier around the baby. They were careful to leave an opening for the baby’s daily meal. As it turned out, the baby ate nothing but lions. Each day at dusk a red hot air balloon would appear, land in the clearing, and a large ferocious lion would jump out. It would roar and sniff the air, rushing the baby. The baby would giggle and coo scoop the lion up as one might a miniature housecat and play with the savage beast until it tired of it and then rip off its head and devour it whole.
Many moons went by and the city became modern and no longer relied on fruit. The baby was more of a financial adviser telling the bankers where and how to invest and thus the city was quite prosperous. Though the baby still feasted on lions. Each day one would land somewhere in the city and make a beeline for city hall, where the baby lived. The city people no longer had to keep the ever encroaching forest at bay in fact there was barely any trees left at all. And one day the last tree was cut down. No one thought much of it but that night no lion showed up. It grew dark and just before midnight the baby asked, “Where’s my fucking lion?” The mayor stalled by saying the lion got hit by a truck and had been destroyed. He offered the baby all sorts of food, but the baby just began to cry and cry and cry. People lost their minds for fear and in their panic people began to riot and start fires and fights and even killed each other. The baby cried all night but come morning it was silent and fast asleep. As evening approached everyone fearfully waited but again there was no balloon and no lion. Finally, when the baby started to whimper was when I put on the lion suit.
The baby laughed at what a pathetic lion I was. I put up the best fight I could and the baby humored me for a time until he popped off my head with his thumb like a flower. He gobbled me up and thus started a new tradition of the sacrificial fake lions. The fake lion couldn’t be too shitty though or the baby’s advice would become slipshod and the city would lose a shit ton of money on penny stocks from Thailand or something. So a fake lion guild was formed, the baby was fed and life went on as normal in the big city.

Last nights office holiday party may have gotten a tad out of hand.