yeah, you can burn
in hell, too
I've got a bitch of a headache right now, and I don't feel like writing. I feel even less like writing for other people, and more so about writing to make a point. And then I realize, with a small chuckle, how great of an article a small percentage of the readers will see this as.
It's not like I have anything to write about, or even the ability to think about something to. I can just hunch over the keyboard and bang out words, hoping for coherence.
One of the problems I think contributes to my headache is the fact that the contrast on my monitor is now all the way up. Apparently, a new color extension I threw on the system gave me the chance to calibrate my monitor properly - and the first step was to "push the contrast button until your eyes hurt". Hell, maybe I've been doing it wrong all along, but in the darkened quarters that I'm typing from, I almost wish I could go back to the old way.
Almost wish? What's stopping me? It seems right to listen to the people who made the color software, doesn't it? It's not like I'm the color wiz and I can spot the difference between PANTONE 295 and 2995. They should know better, right? As much as I'm sure that is meant to comfort, it doesn't.
Another thing that has helped the headaches along (besides the headaches themselves, there's a sordid bit of reverse logic) is my long hair. Wouldn't you think? Haven't you cared? I've come down with that sick ass Valley Girl "twirl the hair", but don't chew the bubble gum shit. Part of it lends to the idea that I like to have my hands doing something all the time (as if pausing to think for one second is so long that I have to occupy myself), but I KNOW there are much more enjoyable things I could be playing with.
I never thought I would have cared, but I was flipping channels as I was eating pizza the other day (I always have to do something when I'm eating food - it's so damn boring and uneventful) and I happened to land on that stupid ass Monica Lewinsky interview with the old crone. And I watched it. Look at Monica crying about how the media has been so horrible to her, and how she cares so much about her parents and boo fucking hoo. Well, if everything is ok with her (and it should be, equality wise), then she won't mind when I go fuck her dear mom.
People get confused about who the hell to hate first. The "I'm very sensitive about my weight" or the "I'm very sensitive of the American people". Both sensitivities are expendable, don't give a shit about people in general, and just want to get on with their lives. And then we raise a big fuss about how embarrassing this whole thing has been. Boo hoo (no 'fucking' this time). It's embarrassing because FINALLY after 20 years of doing it in our own personal lives, the rest of the world notices it. We should be pissed off at ourselves that we just didn't hold up cue cards and say "Hey! Letter 'A' over here! Get the pins!", and instead decided to wait for the man in Office to do it for us.
Hey, you know, the President is supposed to represent the American people, and if you think about it, he's done a mighty fine job.
Of course, then we get all mad at the President for another reason. He's supposed to be helping the small businesses and the mom and pop's stay afloat. But no, we cry, he's letting mergers take place left and right, creating monopolies under the very nose of the "Trial of MicroNopoly". We've got people whose soul purpose in life is to be a middle man to the phone companies because they have an "in" and we "mortal men" don't.
Let alone the fact that in New Hampshire, we have front pages of our paper bitching that the House has passed an Income Tax and how people are so happy that their long struggle to implement it is finally over. The reasoning? Oh, well, you know, the income tax will help our educational institutions. Oh yeah? Well, on the back of the "A" (there's that nasty "A" again) section of the same paper, we see mention that New Hampshire has been placed second in craploads of educational type things. So sorry that second isn't good enough for you.
My head hurts more and more. It probably doesn't help that half way through the rambling of this article. I turned on Insane Clown Posse. Not that that will make a difference. My sad ass collection of CDs would have been squeaking and fading if they were tapes.
I think I must be getting fat even though I can't see it. I'm a "Hey look! A skinny fuck! He can get the nickel from the drain!" type person. But it's gotta be going somewhere. I figure the only reason I haven't bought any new music lately is because I've been stuffing myself with food from delivery places. Still, I'm skinny. Sometimes I think I should just wipe the pizza all over my ass since it's gonna get there eventually. "How's that for cheese?", I could yell to passerby's.
One of the best ideas that I have yet to see implemented is a delivery service that could get you fries from McDonald's, a Faygo two liter (there's that stupid Insane Clown Posse again) from a convenience store, and that new cheese and onion meltdown from Burger King. Add on another three bucks for the privilege and you've got a money maker.
I don't know. My head hurts, I've got pizza up my ass, a cat on my lap, dead silence (the CD's over and the cat is weighing me down), and I don't feel like typing or writing, much less thinking. I think I'll watch some TV - if anything, it'll put me to sleep, add a few more paragraphs to an already ignored article, or cos me to jump out the window. Whatever it may be, I can only say with a grimace on my face and an attempt at a happy ending:
Burn in hell.
send us an email
let me know how Monica's mom likes it.
You bastard son of a thousand maniacs.
How can you be so incredibly insensitive to the plight of America? This great country of ours, a country built on extensible morality, pliable ethics, and the hard work of the underprivileged, is smack dab in the middle of a crisis, and you choose to malign the weight - and emotionally - impaired denizens of the pants of our senior leadership. Your diatribe upset me so much I just HAD to shoot my cat.
You know, good judgement is relative. It resides, along with common sense, somewhere on the outskirts of Toledo, and is seldom visited and NEVER picked up when hitchhiking. At best, it stumbles upon most of us at inopportune moments and causes us to behave more appropriately (but not necessarily perfectly) than planned.
Good judgement came stumbling in: "Maybe hummin' a few bars with The Man in the executive toilet ain't such a good idea . . ."
Good judgement lost the invitation: "Let's make a snuff film!"
As I type this rancidity, I recall the wisdom of my grandmother, who said to me with credibility 80 years gives you, "Quit fuckin' around, boy! Don't aim that at your sister!" The point: Behavioral impairments are ours to stop. Sometimes we just need a little push in the right direction, or better yet, a surprise visit by good judgement and his buddy, common sense.
Whether it's gobblin' Mr. Crooked Penis or wiping pizza all over your ass, the result is the same. Once everybody finds out about it, you're just a stupid prick without a scapegoat.
Party on, Morbus. By the way, if there was more than one of you, the group would be called Morbi. Hail, Caesar.
Also by the way, can you tell me who the original bastard son of a thousand maniacs was
Interesting DS this time 'round.
Your mind is like a fucking jack rabbit. Slow down or you'll end up like William S. Burroughs - old, famous and ulitmately dead <g>
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Well, if everything is ok with her (and it should be, equality wise), then she won't mind when I go fuck her dear mom.