I’ve been sitting on these for some time, letting the collection grow like magical crystals made of excrement. They’re funnier without context; I’ve mostly forgotten where I found them. Horrible spelling has been left intact.

I used to steam with envy at the two doofii who created youtube and got half-a-billion each from google. Now I think they were underpaid. As this blog makes some people feel better about their own lives, so the subnormals on youtube make my day every day. We begin…

I enjoy things that are not this.

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take your filty black hands off me Nigger I love that line and im black—

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YOU SUCK GREAT BIG GREASY DONKEY NUTS

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Hey..we all need a hobby…..and mine is to come in here and drag your sorry ass throught the pig shit.

You love it, and you know it.

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You suck at grammar. You suck in real life too. Also, you’re not funny.

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Kids talking about bloodshed. This is twisted, but for some reason hilarious…it’s like watching a bear maul someone. It’s horrible, yet somehow hilarious.

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LOL ANGRY PEOPLE AND DEAD BABIES ? Im going to jerk off now =D

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for the record it would have been funny if she had been skiny, but seeing those fat cankles go up in the air was just gravy.

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It’s supposed to be a dream. A really freaky dream. Like she ate a couple of sausage pizzas by herself freaky.

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people like this just have mental issues. it’s not natural to broadcast inner feelings to the known world.?

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You’d be hot, but your nose is like..wow
Fix that

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I’m surprised you can say anything at all, considering America’s cock is in your mouth.

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go rape a llama and take your ego with you

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shut up, youre a pussy, you hide behind the safety of the internet to insult… well guess what its fucking cowardous. So shut your little mouth, grow some balls and get rid of your fucking vagina. woman.

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That’s it…just go back into your balloon fortress…

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When you are truly ready to communicate with somebody on an intellectual level, give me a call. Until then, enjoy living out your grandmothers basement spankin the ham to anime.

P.S. your mother sould’ve swallowed you.

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it wasen’t ment to be coherent, it was just a bunch of statement thrown into a pile of retards, fuck yous and cunts

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Yes!!! Oh my god could you imagine pig hunting with this?!?!?!

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i wana stick my cock in the exhaust YA DIG

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I just broke my keyboard in rage

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some people should not have cameras if they don’t know how to contribute anything worthwhile. This is such an example.

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Don’t bother replying, the internet exists for the sole purpose of conveying what I think.

Moviefone reported here that Monopoly has officially been given the green light, and that Ridley Scott is set to direct. The fact that studios are seemingly out of their minds is intensified when one discovers that Monopoly isn’t the only classic boardgame opted to be turned into film. (Find out which ones after the jump.)

That’s right, according to FilmDrunk, Battleship ,Risk, and even Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em Robots are being considered for silver screen treatment. That’s right kids, no more need for family game night, you can just watch the fun exploits from the comfort of your fat ass…er, I mean couch.

Are the studios serious? Can someone please give an enema to Hollywood and flush out the compacted fecal matter that seems to be clogging executive’s brains? The only thing more absurd than this would be a movie about a girl who hangs out with vampires and werewolves and doesn’t get bitten or scratched even once.

Oh. Right. Nevermind.

The death of liberty.  That is what political correctness brings.

Political correctness stifles the truth.  Political correctness propagates lies.  Political correctness destroys liberty.

Islam is at war with the rest of the world, and especially with western ideologies.  Our leadership is too cowardly to admit this.  It is not a war like any we have faced before.  It is not a war against nation states, but a war against the hateful, murderous ideology of islam.  While the war against an ideology that we won’t admit to being in is not directly against nation states, many nations support this ideology.  Our nations leaders and media provide cover, aid, and comfort to our enemy by laying a smoke screen about “moderate muslims.”  Why aren’t these “moderates” speaking against the “radicals?”  Because they support what they are doing.

The piece of excrement who killed 13 at Ft. Hood was a muslim terrorist.  The people who flew airplanes into the World Trade Center towers and the Pentagon were muslim terrorists.  Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, the takeover of the US embassy in Tehran, the hijacking of the Achille Lauro and killing of wheelchair bound Leon Klinghoffer, the bombing of the US embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, the attack on the USS Cole in Yemen, the bombing of the barracks and murder of 220 US Marines in Beirut, all acts committed by muslim terrorists.

Yet our political leadership, our politically correct media, and increasingly our senior military leadership refuse to admit this FACT.  These muslim cowards hate pigs.  The fact is that they are not good enough to be fed to our pigs.  A pig would crap them out like so much undigested slop.  These muslims terrorists are swine excrement.

US Army Chief of Staff General George Casey made the following statement after the Ft. Hood attack: “Our diversity, not only in our Army, but in our country, is a strength.  And as horrific as this tragedy was, if our diversity becomes a casualty, I think that’s worse.”

With all respect due to a high ranking officer in the United States Military, Sir, you are full of crap.  The real tragedy is that you and others like you continue to bury your heads in the sand and ignore the group that has been responsible for 99% of the terrorist acts in the world while you strip search 80 year old grandmothers at the airport to show that you aren’t profiling muslims.  This is insanity and stupidity.

General Casey’s views and statements expose what much of our senior military leadership have become.  General officers are nominated by a board of their peers and approved by the president and secretary of defense.  As our presidents have become more and more liberal and politically correct, they have appointed more liberal and politically correct SecDefs, and approved more liberal and politically correct general officers, who in turn nominate more of the same.

These six words expose the ignorance of the whole politically correct movement: “Our strength is in our diversity.”

Diversity did not produce America’s strength.  America’s strength is a result of our liberty, which produces excellence, which allows diversity to flourish as a byproduct.

General Casey’s Diverse Army

Ken Russell

The Poop, a subject we called taboo when it comes to discussions.

Of all things I thought about today, little did I realize it will be this shit…

Usually, talking about feces, excrements, or, as we would vulgarly call it “SHIT,” the subject itself is as taboo as how people would treat gore and sex (with the former being obviously less taboo for some individuals), but apparently even with knowledge of their form is crucial to determine whether you’re still as healthy you think you’d be or not.

I happened to have this crossed in mind after going back from the campus clinic today and got the diagnosis that I’ve been hit by food poisoning that causes diarrhea so severe that the constitution of that body waste of mine changed form and color, from what we could consider normal to the one your normal doctors would say that something is not right and will start asking what we have eaten before and when did we eat it plus some other stuff normal people would think that it is very trivial and taboo to some.

And to make my mood drop down further on what is supposed to be a relaxingly nice day was that my diarrhea was to the extent that I soiled my own bed. Very embarrassing since soiling oneself is what is thought to be children’s problem on controlling their bowels and bladder, but it can also mean other medical implications we often cared less about.

Of course, people in the medical science don’t have a branch called gastroenterology for nothing.

And when there’s such a thing like Wikipedia explaining stuff about (literally) this piece called SHIT, I’m starting to wonder if anyone thinks something like telling this to Mr. Poop: “WHY SO SERIOUS?”

… Because it is that serious.

Oh well end of rant. I can rant about this all day long, but it’s pointless if it is about something that’s of the inevitable (although, early avoidance should’ve taken place such as watching what you eat)…

Sad story, my family lost one of our own this weekend. My sister’s 12-year-old dog, Angel, passed away Saturday night, so, needless to say, we are heartbroken.

But, this made me think about how our pets could be greener, too. They are part of our families after all.

Jasmin Malik Chua on the Planet Green website, which is owned by the Discovery Company (Discovery Channle, TLC, Animal Planet, etc…) has a ton of tips for how to make our pet ownership more sustainable.

Of course green pet living all centers around one topic…poop.

If you feed your pets organic food, not only is the development of the food greener, the pets are eating better, and the grass or the dump isn’t getting contaminated with chemicals, because the poop is organic.

Many pet-owners like to recycle plastic bags by reusing them as gloves and a transport mechanism to the trash while on walk. Well, if these bags aren’t biodegradable, all we’re doing is petrifying the poop. All regular dog walkers, or the rare cat-walker, should invest in some biodegradable bags for clean-up, or maybe a plastic toy shovel that can be carried on a walk with you.

Some ambitious pet owners actually compost the animal waste which is quite an undertaking, but takes quite a bit of strain off of the environment.

The statistics on page three of Chua’s piece are particularly enlightening. What I found most interesting was her stat that the more pets we grow up with, the less likely we are to develop allergies to them. Good to know if you love animals and are raising kids!

Hello all, I hope you have been well.

I had the worst case of the runs two nights ago after consuming too many dried apricots (They’re so sweet and juicy!) during lunch. Somebody must have forgotten to tell me apricots have a laxative effect because I went through them like apricots were The Holy Grail of fruits.

Of course, not being much of a fruit person – I prefer vegetables – didn’t help as apples meant as much as an orange to me. They’re round and colourful. Ooh, can I throw it at someone?

So here I was, getting acquainted with the dunny. It was a warm Spring day so my bare buttock didn’t experience a cold jolt upon sitting on the seat.

With half a packet left; the fruit that started it all.

Armed with a laptop on my thighs and a fresh roll of toilet paper, it was all systems go.

In most cases, humans aren’t able to smell their own farts or excrement. Well, perhaps I’m wrong but very seldom do I detect faecal matter wafting through my nostrils.

Well I knew it’s a bad day at the office when the most repugnant stench permeated the air, and I even saw the need to stop working on my laptop just to focus on breathing.

Of course, there was no need to air the toilet. My toilet door was open, as I had no need to be embarrassed or ashamed if anybody caught me doing the deed.

After all, the only person at home was Michele. And she’s my wife.

Before I knew it, there was a yell from upstairs.

“Oh baby that absolutely sthinks! OH BABY!”

Wow, I didn’t think it was that bad.

To make matter worse, Michele had the temerity to share my toilet bungle with her female work mates the next day. Just so happens they’ve known me for several years – I attend their work functions regularly – so at that very moment I knew my credibility as a husband and friend went out the window.

Now everybody pictures me leaving a long toilet paper trail as I attempted to clean my mess.

Woe is me. It’s all a bit of a laugh, but I feel compelled to validate my actions.

Honey, I’m not comparing my runs with yours but do you remember all those times I was in the shower stall and you were doing your business in the toilet? Now where did they come from? They absolutely PONG!

“Direct from Colombo!” I always tell her; so vile the stench was I felt it was necessary to make fun of her ethnicity.

We’re also married. I know it’s a woman thing, but why can’t you guys just accept the fact that is takes too long for men to close and open the door. We’d rather remove, sit and be relieved without having to worry about the intrusive invasions of women who have seen us naked far too many times!

This, coming from the same people who wanted their husbands to remove their inhibitions, strip off their cloths and have sex with them as they are ovulating!

And babe, remember our wedding vows to each other?! You took me as your lawfully-wedded husband, which meant you will deal with all the crap and excess baggage that came along with it. You’re lucky, at least this ‘crap’ is bio-degradable and once the smell oxidises, no traces of it remain.

Very much unlike our marriage, for it’s here to stay!

Gallery – work-study job – reading the preface to the Phenomenology in Kaufmann’s Hegel – after one half hour inspired the thought,

“George Clinton is really cool.” Funk-intelechy

I know that if I try to organize my universe in a way that seems fitting to me I will be in conflict with what I perceive the organization of the world at large to be.

I sit on the floor eating breakfast. How could I possibly be? I am instead writing. I sit on a folded metal chair. Passive voice. The chair is a structured support. The chair holds my ass more than twelve feet from the floor, no more, certainly less. I think … do you? what is needed here is a lifeguard chair… a life guard’s chair would bring a completeness, a peace to this job, to this life, I feel has been lacking since they took my television away.

Some online commercial advert shows two young girls looking at Michelangelo’s David on a computer monitor. One girl says something like “He’s kind of cute, I’d go out with him…”

The largest consumer group is of course everyone. Therefor I am attempting to create a product that everyone will buy – only once in ten years. No, this is not a pyramid scheme. It will work, I tell you. I’ve just got to figure out what that one thing is.

Can’t buy me love, oh
can’t buy me love oh

I hope to appal to other people by acting in a manner I myself find appealing. I need to get a really good objective look at myself – perhaps I’ll hire a private detective to film me while I am unaware, with a hidden camera – Yes! another film – Hidden Camera – in which a person hires a private detective to*

I see those eyelashes like ailerons clicking across the hallway.

*to film his or her person, unbeknownst to his or herself. How could this be made into a film – of low budget? Quite easily – and if an actual hidden camera was being used…

Goddamnit! We were on to something there – back in High School – AP English class if only… well – what can I write, besides: Tomato Sauce gives me stinky gas – make that ass gas. As opposed to automobile gasoline.

A majority of people walk right by the first exhibit – Eamon DeValera – which is a good piece – even though the author’s flailed badly (as do most aging white intellectuals who spent the 1960s in college) on their characterization of the event, of Native Americans in general. Yep, I myself have read A Yellow Raft on Blue Water and Desert Solitaire but I don’t go around getting all bent out of shape about the god damned injuns. If you want to know, I’m just as much a native american as I am French – maybe more so – though roughly one sixteenth, which isn’t very much of anything. If you look at a ruler with  the inches divided into sixteenths you will see that one sixteenth is small.

where are the monads?
there should be monads

If anyone ever got it no one would believe them anyway.

I wonder if it would be a good idea to call 1 800 US SEARCH (as seen on tv) and have them find A. I could probably find her myself and save fifty dollars, but I would need a computer link-up – to the information – information versus reality. Information claims certain people are dead who are in fact living, and sends social security checks to dead people.

You, yes you – bastard! Bad penisboy.

When do all objects become symbolic of death?

…

Still October 21st or tomorrow – after twelve midnight. I let the entire evening slip away. Writing class was cancelled again tonight – as on last Monday – but this time I went u to the classroom to make sure – saw an 8 x 8 or so sketch pad on the piano – which turned out to be someone’s diary/ journal – usually about how nothing good happened over the weekend and a girlfriend. I glanced through it briefly – on the way down in the elevator then gave it to the security guard – nothing about me within, that I could see. Back at the apartment I fell into a state of torpor, stifling ennui, perusing porno mags and fantasizing about faceless, nameless prostitutes. Ended up masturbating for the rest of the evening – from nearly eight o’clock until twelve o’clock. Today I purchased an erotic adult comic – for eight dollars – but it wasn’t any good – mainly the story was boring – how this frigid rich bitch turned into an insatiable slut on a rampage with the click of a button.

Yes, I know that sex is destroying me, and my attempt to integrate sex has not been a complete success, having cost money and been physically dangerous. Mentally I’ve lost days, even weeks but have not lost complete months as has happened previously. I don’t want to keep the magazines now. They are an enticement but the act of merely negating those words and images is not substantial – is really just an act – a staged gesture, I’m so sick of the cycle.

Strange though how girls I find attractive sell their flesh for money – most of the American porn stars get the thumbs down, but some of the European sex workers… Of course I’ve never seen any of those girls in person that I know of, and though the physical can’t be separated out from any person’s general appeal  – physical beauty  seems now like a hoax. Everything seems like a hoax – and I am my own victim. How is it that I can be so careless? What kind of mental barely conscious game of chicken am I playing with myself? See my shirt rumpled, thrown haphazardly on the floor. The dirty dishes in the sink, the incomplete homework. Dirty socks, empty bags, piles of notebooks, papers, books and I know not what, unfinished work left until the last moment, this heavy, soft and lazy mindlessness, I could stay awake for hours more simply staring, all this points toward a hectic morning, no breakfast and a last-ditch attempt to finish my 2D design homework when I should be eating lunch and shopping for something to finish off the base of my 3D project – I should have completed my 3D revision already – but have not begun. What happened to my motivation, when in the face of a simple change in schedule do I decide to cease functioning entirely? Was it this confusion I’m suffering about a girl in writing class? Partly yes. And also the deadly if then game, the unrelenting cause and effect forced to mate, an outcome no one wants. Only halfway formulated, something like this “If I read the adult comic I bought today before going to writing class then nothing will happen between me and girl X.” Then in spite of my having forbidden myself to look at the comic – on pain of losing the girl, I of course look at the comic anyway. At what moment am I saying “I dare you?” How did this entire scheme of relating to the world (Which I have so often renounced and still fear) come to be? I seem to be searching for some sort of oracle – and at the same time it’s Orpheus all over again – Lot’s wife all over again, the needless child all over again. The forbidden is thereby exponentially more tempting. Maybe I need to stop thinking of myself as some sort of super hero. Do I think of myself as a super hero? A fictional movie/ literary character, the complex hero, a cast-off bastard stepchild of Romanticism. A real Howard Doark. A cry baby son of a bitch no talent motherfucker. A prime candidate fo successful and worthwhile suicide. A dictionary owning dick slapper. A monkey spanking layabout.

Earlier today while walking around downtown I was in such good spirits I could hardly keep from smiling outloud, laughing to myself inside. But now I’m sucking shit from a straw shoved up my own ass. I’m feeding lifelessly on my own excreta. I’m wasting time I never had to begin with, still sitting on this fence. Must like that fence post up the ass. The only way out to turn all the violence my pornographic vision perpetrates onto myself. To will myself to sit the fence for no damn good reason. Stinking fingers. Ass. I, I really just need someone to talk to besides myself. A friend, maybe two, but people equal only so much trauma, taking Santa Fe as case in point – how many wrong decisions are possible? All of them, basically. I can’t really worry about anyone else right now, I need to worry about myself. Yet I can’t possibly avoid the unwritten conflict isolation draws me into – with myself as both protagonist and antagonist – and also consider my complete failure to adjust to society (at times, though not always) when exiting a period of isolation. At other times the re-entry has been best – that season of change – a season lacking in any but anemic guttering weather-wise in this East Coast metropolis of an erstwhile forgotten ideal. Brotherly Love. The season does not change. I find no feeling the air that proclaims this October to be Autumn – yet October powerfully reminds me of a time once, long ago, I exchanged my leeched and stringy soul for England, and we all know what happened there, the days are well documented in the pages of this journal.

I once knew a girl up in Gunny
who on long distance calls spent no money
her run ins with men
sometimes ended in sin
but in the end it was all sort of funny

There once was an artist in Philly
who had no place for his poor willy
Through this lack of use
grew a taste for abuse
while dressed up in stockings so frilly

She drew men in like flies
to fat, fresh cow pies

So when E called at eight
this made her quite late
cause the things that he said were so funny

If you missed the first installment of this series, please go back and read it here.  As I stated before, I am doing this series at the request of a friend who requested my exegetical assistance.  I’m always happy to oblige.

The passage in question this time is as follows:

You shall also have a place outside the camp and go out there, and you shall have a spade among your tools, and it shall be when you sit down outside, you shall dig with it and shall turn to cover up your excrement.
~Deuteronomy 23:12-13

An easy, modern paraphrase would be this: “Don’t think your *bleep* don’t stink.”  However, this message is couched in much more biblical terms, in keeping with its context.  The point is, keep that stuff covered.  Everybody poops, but no one wants to see it or smell it.  So, if you’re camping, bury your poo out of respect for all.  If you’re not camping, FLUSH!  And turn around to see whether a double-flush may be necessary.

You’re welcome.

Tell me everything you know.

I know that I know more than I know that I know.

Noise, vibrations in molecules known as sound waves, interact with a system known as the ear.

but I won’t continue for  some reason at this moment contemplating; the mechanics of the inner ear disgusts me

my ears itch – but my ears do not always itch

is Telling a state of being? No , Telling is the capital of Spinsylvania. Spinning a yarn, pulling your leg.

I have attempted at times to exhaust my knowledge of a certain limited set of trivia (for example, listing all the punk bands I can think of in alphabetical order) The project was never completed – for 1 – I have experienced the names of more punk bands than I can remember at any given time – even the cumulative recollection of such trivia over a given period of weeks still doesn’t come close to providing the list with the number of names that I know I know

I know that I am tired, and yet I know that I am not asleep. Perhaps my goal is to be able to reach that which is I while that I is in the dream state and ask it this questions: what do you know?

Do I, for example, in my dream state, know how to spell a greater percentage of words correctly than I do in a waking state?

What is keeping me awake? The noise, and perhaps the caffeine.

I am afraid that if I close the windows to shut out the noise the room will become too stuffy and uncomfortable to sleep in.

I know that at one time I had learned to differentiate and properly use to, and too, but I seem to have succumbed to the habit of improper usage again

The world is dirty and fucked – and I am dirty and fucked. I suffer from the uncomfortable sensation of having shit my pants. I have not shit my pants – but I can feel the excrement clinging to my ass hair.

An essay on self-reflective functionality and dysfunctionality.

I (at this time) can’t imagine what life would be like without the continual everpresence of money. What was life like before money became the single most important referent to an entire nation (i.e. America?)

Is this a man attempting to pull his head out of his own ass or a man inserting his head into his own ass?

I’m only trying to clarify my own thoughts.

However, when I go back through the Journal I find that I don’t remember having written at least half of it. I also find is amusing, sometimes downright funny. Why are the things I write so particularly funny to myself?

How is it that another person’s mere physical presence can cause pain? Actual physical pain.

I would like a great number of people to understand my joke – the best way to go about this is perhaps through the medium of story telling. Why do I want people to feel as I do?

I usually believe that my to date sum total sexual experience is the major stopping block – because at present I am in Limbo – or held fluctuating between two opposite poles: either total immersion or total abstinence. If I consider my state, or this is what I know to be objectively true of what I think subjectively – it is not what I believe to be eternally true.

That if I have a sexual experience with a person that I also love – and that experience is a total sexual experience – or an ultimate sexual experience in that it far surpasses is scope, duration, emotion, sensation, any previously felt – then I will thereby replace the stumbling block of sex – and its either or dynamic with a pathway of love which has an and/also dynamic

I don’t know if it would be worthwhile to critically examine my own body of knowledge as one would examine another’s writings – but I might have something here – because when a work, a body of work is exhumed – and examined – the body is a fixed known quantity and cannot change in relation to the criticism of it – if an author is living – she is allowed to respond in kind – he has that option – this allows K to incorporate criticism into the body – but often the response is reactionary. So if I were to go after myself with a fine tooth comb, bring as many references to bear on my body, this entire process adds to that body – thus the body feeds itself – I can incorporate myself into my own text as if I were other text.

I could make a film about myself making a movie about myself.

I have always been much more afraid of success than of failure.

Who would play me? Don Quixote. Liv Tyler plays Dulcinea del Toboso. I play the role of Sancho Panza – while no one at all is directing, filming, and so on, and no one knows who is playing Don Quixote.

The street has quieted down now, I will not need to close the window to avoid the noise. I did not realize for a while that the noticable increase in volume, voices, around 2:30 am was the bars/ clubs letting out

There is this theory of the mobius, a twist in the fabric of space, where time becomes a loop.

There is this theory of the addiction, a twist in fabric of beingaction where desire becomes a loop

Does one need to know where they are before they can proceed to where they are going?

I can hear myself ticking, creaking and oozing while machines grumble sigh and throb outside. Workers thrust against large objects of metal which roll and thud with an aching reverberation on the asphalt.

There is this theory of the college student, a time in the fabric of life, where sleep becomes a dream. How do I myself inter-react with reality? Through make believe – either I fashion the real to fit a story – or I fashion some story to fit the real/reel.

example 1. – Pretending that a certain girl and I that I haven’t really ever even talked to are actually one day going to become lovers – and I try to see myself as I would see a character in a story in which the plot I have imagined is the one which takes place

example 2. – which came first, the man or the machine? I imagine the past – in which a machine – a being based on a different paradigm, eventually made (themselves) itself a [wo]man/machine based on a different paradigm (different from/than machine) which is our paradigm – DNA – and we are ourselves now beginning to fashion another set of beings stemming from a binary number system, and they will in turn…

that I am floating in the flux, somewhere in between

And that the Elephant rests on the Tortoise and that the end of the universe will not be the end of Everything.

The ghost of Douglas Adams lurks in my can of worms belief system and many other shadows of works of SF

The set: all things known to all: a ? of the set of all things…

Is the set expanding or only Being rearranged within its own limits?

Do we know all things, except that we know all things?

Dear Chelsea,

Holy SPITIT? Fuck. I am just going fucking crazy. There is a lame dementedness about this fucking place. If I could just break windows. I can’t. Shoot myself. No fucking guns. I run into the middle of the street to screeeeeemmmm. And all I can do is show my fucking finger at the palm tree. There is no sanity in anything. Or the insane is trapped in the cell of this chamber. The bullet doesn’t spit. It backfires. Rotten sewage my mind it is. Have this all spill on the floor. I pick up my mess.. My internal shit fair. The celluloid of daylight dreams. Broken hearts are useless. Just like the purpose that propels the purpose. This madness is mine. And I wanna shit on the window. Smear it for the goddamn world to fucking look in at me. I shall hold up this goddamn mess. Look at my spilt brains you mad fucks. Look into my goddamn window. I fucking dare you. What am I? WHAT …JUST WHAT THE FUCK AM I. The blood off my wrists don’t stop. They keep me alive. Shouldn’t it fucking do the opposite? Where is the fucking holy ghost now you shitstabbing fanatics. My dilemma is the hell you believe in. The fucking paradise you call earth. God is no creator. I am god. I paraded the worst and saw the best. Try and tell me what to do. Let your ghosts speak to me. There is no use anymore. What worth is all this when the smile is just the same as seeping sore on a cows ass. Come in you bastards. I’ll show you my legs. I’m one sexy queen. My vagina is real. Fuck the plastics. You hallucinating bastards. I’ll show you how I live. RUN AWAY FROM…THAT’S RIGHT. I am the fucking abomination. Cocksuckers. Here is your love. IS IT REAAL>>???? I thought so. Now am I a sexy broad? Go fuck yourself.

Dick

Things I’d like to write about while I’m asleep. I think about them when I’m asleep. Sex. Always…women. Tasty. Soap and suds. Men, occasionally but not in the way you are thinking right now. Like last night, I had though about Bukowski. How his wisdom appeals to me at times. I see it as the center of some other center. Where we are orbs that revolve around it. like last night for an example. I read one of his short stories on lsd. I don’t remember the title. I was having a bad day. Not entirely bad, but the kinds of days where you reminisce shit. You know the good and the bad stuff. Then you think about love. If it is just a word, or something to say to people to make them feel better. I mean, I love to hear that I’m loved at times too. But then again, too much of anything is always not enough and the least you hear them — could possibly lead to bliss or either….or neither…maybe contentment or contempt.

Anyway reading Bukowski, did shit all over my perception of the world. No matter how nihilistic he is at times. His worldly contortions are rather blasphemous yet comforting. Our existence is rather shitty if you could come to terms with it. What is better are the good times and realizing they are not always there. Sometimes we just put ourselves in a trap. Rather to accept that we are not in one. Good to know though, that we are prisoners anyway. And beauty is not always sought for in the preconception of beauty. I could just as well be a drifter and be trapped. Rather than be a banker and have a free soul. But I think the truth lies in the acceptance of contradiction.

I know how like certain elements in life. In the more physical aspect like making a concrete monument for the executions of humanity and prosperity of consumerist death. Bricks have to be laid. Then there is the cement that holds together. All these things always supporting each other to make a point. A structurally cohesive point. Something that we could touch. See with our eyes. Enter and exit with our bodies. The nature of words too. Like for eg. Words that come together to project an emotion or meaning or a point or some sort of logic that the other person could perceive. Then he will take that and make it his/her own and project out in to his/her world. So the web of things may branch out so extensively and always finds its way back to us.

So there is really no reason to, be selective in what we use in order to project. We could just as well use coffee mugs and plywood and paper to build a monument. And that conception would have just as easily be derived from somewhere else. Striking at first. Awe inspiring. But then later when least attention is projected onto it. All that had made it what it was just fades away. Nothing is new. Nothing is old. Really. I just think nothing really exists. Bukowski sees this.

Fuck be bothered to be loved. When we truly know that we are incapable of loving for every moment and every minute of our lives. There is always hatred too. There is always sadness. Then happiness. Then love again. And why expect the same. Everything is words. Words…words and more fucking words. Language is a twisted medium and one never should have faith in them anyway. Silence should have been the one and only virtue.

Then I wake up from my sleep and want to write shit like…. I want to drink the pleasure from your lips. Run my nails through your hair and exhale my warm chocolate breath on your exposed shoulder. My tongue will surge with blood as it salivates you pores and taste its sweat. Gushing from all sides of you soft skin. The tongue will exert itself on your neck. teeth gently nibbling on its stretched skin as your head falls back into my hands. As my hands move and caress with the gentle touch of wet fingers the insides of your thighs. Now I just want to kiss you and feel the blood collected within your supple lips and run my fingers through your spine illuminating the electric from within.

I put the pen down. Still words. Dangerous. Capitalizing. Have not faith in them cause they only last as long as you read them or remember them. So what is this love anyway just plain desire. Or the pain within desire. Or wanting. Or needing. Or not being able to live without. I have stopped smoking. Wish I did. I should just watch some porn instead. Even knowing it would never complete me. The leviathans of the world drink from my cup again. Goodnight.

These two pieces are similar in that they introduce a second voice to the reader. Lint’s “Battlefield: hope lost” personifies the clenched muscles that are integral in removing waste, providing voice for otherwise silent warriors. In contrast, J$’s “Green Gold” leaves much more ambiguity; a Sues-esque rhyme is followed by a puzzling response from an unexplained source.

Battlefield: Hope Lost
Back on the bowl…
Will this relentless cycle ever cease? The muscles deep in my back have grown weary–they feel there is no end in sight. I tell them, “Push on!” and they do, but the relief of each excrement has become nothing but a chore. I myself am not sure if this battle can be won…

Green Gold
Two turds with one squeeze makes my shitting experience a breeze. “Green Gold!” they yelled. Yes sir, I reckon.

Finally! The long awaited atop-the-bowl blog is here! To help get things moving, lint will be posting the original (and much coveted) “Deep thoughts from atop the bowl” collection with commentary–absolutely free! Daily posts will take fellow bowl-philosophers on a sinuous ride through lint’s and J$’s now epic collection of prose. Feel free to comment on any of the deep thoughts–add to them–let them grow–remember, excrement is never ending. Send in your original Deep Thoughts to have them posted–keep’em comin’ and you can even be an author on the already critically acclaimed atop-the-bowl blog!

Un ouvrier japonais, stressé dans son travail, a été arrêté pour avoir jeté ses excréments sur deux passantes en circulant à moto, a annoncé lundi la police.

Tatsuya Moriguchi, 39 ans, s’est présenté de lui-même au poste de police, après avoir commis dimanche son deuxième forfait à Settsu, une ville dortoir de la région d’Osaka (centre-ouest), a expliqué un porte-parole de la police municipale.

Cet ouvrier du bâtiment avait mené sa première agression le 3 août au petit matin. Après s’être soulagé en plein air, il avait enfourché sa moto en tenant le guidon de la main droite, ses excréments dans la main gauche et avait bombardé une jeune femme en arrivant à sa hauteur.

“Le suspect a expliqué avoir fait ça car il se sentait stressé au travail”, a expliqué le porte-parole.

Moriguchi a préféré se rendre à la police car il ne pensait pas pouvoir échapper plus longtemps aux autorités.

“Je n’ai aucune idée du type de peine dont il pourrait écoper”, a reconnu le porte-parole, confiant n’avoir “jamais entendu parler d’un cas comme celui-là auparavant”.

via lepoint.fr

Image by Kettukusu via Flickr

Did I mention that my mom had her 50th Birthday party extravaganza yesterday? I didn’t? Well, let me enlighten you on the details of the day’s festivities.

I woke up yesterday (on my day off), at 10 am. This was an extremely reasonable hour of the morning considering that the first threats of bugle sounding were slated for 8 am. How I got to sleep-in until this ripe hour, I still don’t know, but I soon paid for my two extra hours of pillow hugging.

My mom was in fine form, boisterous and in high gear; she was chopping zucchini and opening cans of crab meat when I walked into the kitchen. I sat down to my bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and soy milk, when the first order of the day was shot at me like a WWII artillery shell… Ok, not quite as forceful, but it had the same affect on the “patience” region of my mind.

“After you finish breakfast can you and Garrett go to the church and pick up 50 chairs and 5 tables?” my mom “asked”, mid-chop.

“Yup,” I said, after a moment of silent protest.

“And, after that I need you both to pick up the branches in the cow’s pen and take them to the dump.” she didn’t even take time look up from her yellow squash, she was in the zone.

“Sure,” I said, in the sugary sweet tone I save for especially rude customers at work.

“Oh, and the washer. Can you throw that in the truck and take it to the dump? Also, there’s piles of grass I picked yesterday, they’re in the front, and, I want those branches you and C.E. trimmed in the back, to go too.”

“Got it.” I shoveled in another bite of soy-cereal.

Parties at the Casa always mean two things: yard work and kitchen work. Joel, before he abandoned me and my 15 year old cousin for a weekend in Texas, had this to say for encouragement, “So, I did the front and back lawns, but the fields will need to be mowed on Thursday before the party. Have fun with that bro. I’ll be in Texas baby!” What a bum.

The cousin and I sluggishly made our way to my step dad’s truck. A part of me was glad to be out of the house where three controlling women were going to be decorating, and the other part of me was wondering when the “go big or go home” philosophy had saturated my family’s mentality. Was a small gathering of grandparents and children (all 15 of us) too minuscule and mundane for our elevated and ambitious taste?

Garrett and I found a Mexican radio station, cranked the volume and opened the windows. If anyone was determined to live above the stress cloud that now hung over the Casa, it was us.

After ogling two Porsches, and loathing the fact that we didn’t have enough money for a breakfast burrito, we made it to the church. The small sheet-metal building was as empty as an American soccer stadium. We knocked on the door: nothing. We sat down on the tailgate, and let our legs swing underneath the truck for a few minutes , then I pulled out my phone and called the mom.

“What do you mean no one is there?” she asked, as if I had just told her that penguins miraculously learned how to fly.

“The lights are off, and no one is here.” I replied, calmly.

“Did you knock?”

“Twice.” I said a little too enthusiastically.

“Oh, crackers. Ok. I’ll see who I can call. K, bye.” I could picture her frantically punching numbers on our ancient cordless phone, a knife in her free hand, and that look that said, “Is it really that hard to go and get chairs from the church, son?” Almost thirty seconds passed, and then a white haired man poked his head out from one of the side doors.

“You guys need some chairs?” he asked, with the classic, “You get a flat?” tone.

Seven minutes, 50 chairs, and 5 tables later, cousin and I fell into the truck seats, sweating.

We had made plans to detour to a yard sale that we had seen earlier, but the dark menacing rain clouds shooed the “Huge Yard Sale” box back to its’ home. Foiled again.

We unloaded the chairs and tables, while the girls stuffed roses and lilies into vases, and crab into chicken.

“Hey, Ben!” my sister yelled from across the house.

“Yeah!” I yelled back.

“Can you and Garrett move the couch and chairs to the back?” she asked, in the exact same tone that my mom uses.

10 minutes later, cousin and I had successfully moved all of the lawn furniture (soaked with rain [it adds about five pounds to each upholstered chair]) to an out of the way corner of the patio. We were ready for our next task: tree limbs.

If you’ve never had the pleasure of throwing soaking apricot limbs into the back of a chevy truck, while your feet are sopping wet from standing in the grass, well, let me tell you that you have yet to live a full and productive life. Everything was going as well as could be expected, until we found the pile of branches on the other side of the fence.

A conversation that C.E. had with me in passing a few weeks earlier, came back to me with the subtlety of a peal of thunder, “I don’t know what’s wrong with these cows. I keep feeding them grass but they’ve still got the runs.” You guessed it: diarrhea. Picture “Sweet Pea” Gerber baby food… all over the branches. If flies had a Mecca: this would be it. In retrospect I should have abandoned ship, and called for reinforcements, but I didn’t, I’m too stubborn and too proud for that. I didn’t even wait for gloves. Cousin and I were already so infuriated and soaking that we just dove right in.

I was doing alright, you know, trying the whole mind over matter thing, until Garrett (bless his heart) sideswiped my face with a branch. I wanted to grab him by his skinny white ankles and throw him headlong into the truck bed. I resisted the urge.

Driving to the dump and unloading the truck took us the better part of an hour, and we were spent when we finally got home. We took turns showering the green memories off of our hands arms and faces. When we then flopped down on the couch and played a quick round of “Nazi Zombies” on the Xbox: even boys need therapy.

I had almost forgotten about our little impressionistic cow-art experience, when I heard my mom deliver her next set of directions, “Ben! Can you pooper-scoop the yard, real quick?” You have to ‘effing me.

Reason #1 why I never want pets: because they can’t clean up after themselves. Babies are alright, you are on butt wiping duty for, at the most, two years. No matter how old the dog gets, it will still need you to scrape its’ doodie off of the lawn.

I think pets laugh at us. Guaranteed there is some rich little Great Dane in a fit of giggles while he watches his “masters” shovel a world record turd off of the driveway. Indoor cats all around the cultured world strive to eat the most obnoxious and obscene house hold items, just for that moment when their “owners” finally come back from the gym, “Oh, my God, what is that smell!” Score one for the smelly cat.

I mean, do we really stop and consider how trained we are? If we were really in charge, the dogs would be the ones forced into cleaning out our septic tanks. I’ll never own a dog, or an inside cat, about the only thing I’d consider is a goldfish. Have you ever seen a happy goldfish when he is thrown onto a tiny plastic cup and set on a countertop, while he watches his house get the Poseidon treatment? That fish is thinking, “I’m dying here! Where are all the bubbles? Ok, small meals: portion control. I’ll eat more of my poo off of the rocks so he won’t have to clean the tank for another six months.”

By the time I had “pooper-scooped” the backyard, I was fuming and fighting the urge to vomit. I shot the stink eye at any passing quadruped, knowing that all 7 of them were laughing on the inside.

So, that was my day. Just another sunrise and sunset in the life of Benjamen, and the next time you think that your cat, or cow, or gerbil is sick… take a minute to ask yourself if they could possibly be doing it on purpose.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/michael_hughes/sets/346406/

http://www.hughes-photography.eu/

Grande Bouffe, La
★ / ★★★★

“La Grande Bouffe,” or “The Big Feast,” directed by Marco Ferreri, was such a huge disappointment for me because I’ve heard a lot of good things about it, especially from critics and bloggers that I look up to for recommendations. Since my expectations were a bit hyped up, while actually watching it, it was such a letdown because the characters that came from different backgrounds–a pilot (Marcello Mastroianni), a chef (Ugo Tognazzi), a judge (Philippe Noiret) and a television star (Michel Piccoli)–were so uninteresting for such an interesting premise. The four friends hired prostitutes and had orgies in a massive getaway mansion as they ate more food than they could digest in one sitting. Just when I thought that the story would evolve into something more, I felt like it actually tried to stay in one place and featured more images of sex and gluttony. Admittedly, I’m the kind of person that can endure watching pretty much all kinds of sexual acts but this film made me wince repeatedly. I’m not quite sure if that was the kind of reaction that the director had it mind or if it was supposed to be genuinely sensual or erotic. But since it’s a dark comedy, I’m guessing it’s the former so perhaps, in a way, it succeeded on that level. Morever, for having such a group of supposedly smart gentlemen, they sure acted like adolescent morons for most of the picture. I didn’t see any scenes where any of them offered some sort of insight that made me think of their situation (or any situation for that matter) any differently. I felt like writers just had this one idea of excess but never quite broken from that in order to reach the next level. (And for a picture that ran for more than two hours, there was absolutely no excuse for that.) I also did not appreciate the slapstick that involved scenes with flatulence and excrement. I’m not a big fan of slapstick in the first place because they tend to rub me the wrong way so this film became that much worse in my book. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the final scenes that revealed the fate of the four main characters felt completely forced and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. It was a complete waste of my time and I almost wished I never saw it.