Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

Another failed suicide attempt

Thursday, December 17th, 2009

My broth­ers hear the crash and break the door down… Absurdly, I men­tally curse Home Depot and their cheap fuck­ing doors. So there I am with a belt around my neck and the entire drop ceil­ing strewed about the room. I fuck­ing hate failed sui­cide attempts. I mean what can you say, “Whoops?” It’s like get­ting caught by your future ex-wife with your sweat pants draped about your ankles wax­ing your car­rot to the Fredrick’s of Hol­ly­wood web site. That has hap­pened to you, right? Please say yes.

I briefly won­der how woman mas­tur­bate. Prob­a­bly with envi­ron­men­tally friendly solar pow­ered dil­dos. I hate Women.

So my older Bro says, “Dick­weed, stick with drink­ing your­self to death, suits your style.” Gotta love my Brother.

So I decide to go out­side, which is a feat in itself because I haven’t left my room in about three months. I find most peo­ple bor­ing — I really hate rub­bing elbows with the fuck­ers. I leave the belt around my neck; I fig­ure maybe I can pass it off as some kind of new sar­to­r­ial style.

I see the mail­man and I was going to tell him to stop deliv­er­ing me mail, I don’t open the fuck­ers– what’s the point. But, I fig­ured he worked for the Post Office and there­fore was in his own pri­vate hell.

So I make it to the over­pass, beneath me is the New Jer­sey Turn­pike. I read some­where; it was one of the most trav­eled roads in the US. I watched the social insects whiz by. I dig the sound. The World is full of songs; you just have to know how to listen.

I notice the inward curv­ing fence and it pisses me off. (I’m always pissed) I mean it’s not like I can’t get some C4 and blow a whole in the sucker.

I know they are try­ing to stop jumpers. Not because they care about human life, they don’t want you fuck­ing with traf­fic. I once saw a jumper splat­tered like sea gull shit on the asphalt. Peo­ple were get­ting out of their cars and kick­ing the dead fucker say­ing shit like:

I got a mas­sage in 30 min­utes I’m late because of you dead shit”

I have a two hour win­dow to cheat on my hus­band and fuck Ted the insur­ance man”

And my per­sonal favorite:

Some­one scrape this dead fucker off the road”

So I mosey down to the local Dot Head store. What’s his name is at the counter. Cool dude but he has far too many con­so­nants in his name. Hence “What’s his name?” Now, he has this pet Ana­conda who he loves, so I ask him if he has any new pic­tures and his eyes light up and says: “I’ll be right back.” He runs to the back room and I run to chest freezer where­upon I start stuff­ing frozen Ice cream sand­wiches down by pants and in my pock­ets. I love steal­ing shit and I love Ice cream sandwiches.

So he comes back and starts show­ing me the pic­tures of his pet snake and in the mean­time my balls are freez­ing from the frozen Ice Cream sand­wiches stuffed in there and let’s face it, who needs frozen balls.

I give him a fake smile and I split and start eat­ing my plun­der. Oh yea, then I went home.

Artist…Wherefore art Thou?

Monday, November 23rd, 2009


From the begin­ning, we have col­lec­tively asked. Who are we?

More to the point, “Who am I?

Let us start, afore­men­tioned query, with my good friend, Sig­mund Freud.

Sig, if I might be so bold, devel­oped a the­ory of the Human Psy­che, Soul, Heart, define it as you will, the following:

  1. Ego, well, one’s opin­ion of him/herself.

  2. ID, a mish­mash of rep­til­ian brain desires, wants, and needs. Kind of like me watch­ing the 24 year old across the street with the too short shorts, half her ass hang­ing out and bend­ing over every chance she gets. So my “ID” says. “Poet nail that hot babe.” Which leads us to the:

  3. Super­ego, Con­science. Can’t do that shit Poet you be a bad boy!!!!

Freud the­o­rized that that Super­ego starts with the parent’s remon­stra­tions to the ego and id infested dick weeds that are the infant human. Of course that evolves into peer pres­sure, social mores and the frig­gin State’s, dare I say val­ues? Back to the infant, well, “Don’t stick that fork into your brother’s eye Poet that is “bad” Savvy?

That is what infants are, a frig­ging pain in the ass!

Every mam­mal infant is born with a too large head and very large eyes, which evokes in all us the col­lec­tive, “isn’t it “CUTE!” Check it out your­self! Look at a baby Rac­coon or what­ever.. Espe­cially you Babes, you girls are hard­wired for that response; else we would kill them! All the friggs do is cry, “I’m hun­gry”, “wipe my ass”, “My tummy hurts” “WHINE!”

We would cer­tainly kill them if they were not so “cute.”

As an aside, I toss to you Freud’s book “Future of an Illu­sion” where he den­i­grates Reli­gion as an “Illu­sion” Not sure if it was he or Marx who called Reli­gion the “Opi­ate of the peo­ple” Of course Sig was snort­ing mas­sive lines of unstepped on pure frig­gin coke. And as he was winc­ing over the “drip” he con­tin­ues…… “The Illu­sion which is Religion”….sniff…sniff…snort….snort….”  Yea, let­ting a coke head tell us who we are is not always a good idea.

Nice try Sig! Sorry, close! But you have not “nailed” it!

Mov­ing on.

The Behav­ior­ist.

Well, these Dudes and Dudetts believe that behav­ior (us) can be reduced to stim­u­lus and response. Given the proper stim­uli a pred­i­ca­ble response will occur. They are in the ball­park at least. B.F. Skin­ner noted “Behav­ior­ist” invented the “Skin­ner Box” of course he really didn’t because a lot of peo­ple before him did the work but he gets the glory. Kind of like Pom­pey being feted and hav­ing his Tri­umph through the streets of Rome while the poor frig who actu­ally won the war winds up being dead. Such price glory.

They do inter­est­ing thing in Skin­ner Boxes’ like: put a lab rat in one, with 2 levers, one which when depressed, deliv­ers food, the other, “poor unstepped on Freudian coke.” Hmmm…. I won­der… Well the rat presses the coke lever every frig­gin time and will starve to death. That is the nature of addic­tion; you con­stantly chase that ini­tial instance of eupho­ria. The brain does that nat­u­rally with Dopamine, a neu­ro­trans­mit­ter; How­ever, Dopamine and asso­ci­ated neu­ron synap­tic fir­ing required to pro­duce eupho­ria are destroyed in the process and you are left with your “Drug of Choice” chas­ing “that”, which you can never again have. Well Death and over dose fol­low. I have heard the ‘song” too many times. Close friends…………………..

Mov­ing on… (Almost done, hang in there. I will tie it up com­plete, rib­bon freely given, in a nice lit­tle pack­age! Have I ever let you down?)

Finally to the “I won­der what would hap­pen if…” Sci­en­tist, who decides to see what hap­pens if we stick elec­trodes into a rat’s brain….Hmmmm….

Well neces­sity dic­tates I get a bit gross here. In the begin­ning they prob­a­bly just jammed an over­sized elec­trode into the Rat’s unanes­thetized brain; which had the liv­ing entity writhing in extreme pain. “Can’t do any­thing with this sucker Bill”… flush….Next!

So they even­tu­ally dis­cover you had to anes­thetize it, peel the Rat’s skull open, expose the entity’s brain and gen­tly place the elec­trode into the brain and find truth! Of course you can not ini­tially go to a med­ical sup­ply store and ask for a “rat skull puller offer” and get an “aisle 6, half way down, right side” response. No, you have to make that shit up as you go. Of course they fried a few brains before they got the proper charge right. Even­tu­ally they go: “Look Fred if I stim­u­late this sec­tion his right foot moves, this sec­tion “Look the frig­ger will not stop eat­ing” They have a good time with that and they all take turns push­ing ‘the” but­ton till the rat dies of overeat­ing. Its’ sati­ety response of course muted by the friggs! Is that not the nature of empir­i­cal sci­en­tific inquiry? They have done this on Humans. Do not doubt me! Inmates, mil­i­tary peo­ple and indi­gents. Had a friend who was in the mil­i­tary who was exper­i­mented on. He hung him­self and is no longer with us. Another sad song I can sing.

There is even one sec­tion of the rat’s brain that, when stim­u­lated, will pro­duce a Lib­er­ace, meets Fred Astair with John Tra­volta on steroids Salsa dance. I mean the frig­ger is on his hind legs and danc­ing the night away. Well, I am flu­ent in sev­eral ani­mal lan­guages and they tell me this.

What does this mean? Well the Sci­en­tist seeks to define the inde­fin­able! They seek truth and find only knowl­edge. It is the Heisen­berg Uncer­tainty Prin­ci­ple. They know one fact but, by know­ing, they can not know any­thing ELSE!!!!!!! As much as they try to quan­tify, alpha­beti­cize and cat­e­go­rize us, they can not!

You see we are neb­u­lae, enshrouded in mys­tery, con­tain therein, is an ember, faint, yet glow­ing, in the dark­ness of our night. It is the spark of the Divine!!! YES!!!!!! We are a thread in the weave of the uni­ver­sal cloth. Call it the “Soul” if you so desire. We are indeed Divine and we do live on when our hearts stop pump­ing, when we “shed off this mor­tal coil”. It is you! The Poet, the Musi­cian, the Painter, the Sto­ry­teller that sing our Truth, our Divin­ity. And it only you, who can teach us and tell us “who we are.”

So wield thy Quill Poet! Sing your song Musi­cian! Paint your mas­ter­piece and tell your story. Then and only then will we truly know Truth!

Artist!… Is that not what you do?

I take my leave with Yeats haunt­ing words, “Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” Ahhh! Is that not Beauty?…Truth?…..

I remain, ever constant,

The Odd­est of Poets

Epistemology

Saturday, November 21st, 2009

I will get through this piece with­out a sin­gle F bomb just to prove to you I can do it.
I will use frig, ass, shit but that will be it, so the “sen­si­tive mem­bers” of my read­ing pub­lic will not be offended.

As a species, the human race has an over­whelm­ing desire to acquire knowl­edge; it is hard wired in us.  We have to Know.

When in my first col­lege I started a move­ment to get the frig­gin busi­ness majors thrown out of the school.  I wanted the whole busi­ness pro­gram removed.  If you want to be a cor­po­rate whore go to a cor­po­ra­tion and do it there, do not taint this place of higher edu­ca­tion with your foul whore like busi­ness prac­tices.  I felt strongly about it and I friggen meant it.  I got thrown out of that col­lege.  Oh Well.

When the State gets involved with the acqui­si­tion of knowl­edge we are frigged.  It is usu­ally to find bet­ter ways to kill each other.  We are never sat­is­fied; we need big­ger and more effec­tive ways of doing it.  It is what we do best.  Started with sticks, stones, swords, cat­a­pults, guns, artillery, mus­tard gas, germ war­fare right up to what I call the big fire­cracker: The Atomic bomb.  Even med­ical advances were fueled by war­fare.  The object of war is to kill more of them than they kill of us.  So, we had to save as many of our guys as we could, not because we care, only because we want to win.

The big fire­cracker.   Robert Oppen­heimer is cred­ited with being the “father of the atomic bomb” He only ran the Man­hat­tan project, which devel­oped it.  The Knowl­edge required was cumu­la­tive, sort of like “dialectic(s)” I’ll bas­tardize it with: the­sis, antithe­sis and syn­the­sis.  This is an idea, a counter idea and new knowl­edge as a result of the argu­ment.  This shit goes on and on and that is how knowl­edge grows.

Back to the fire­cracker.  Ein­stein and sev­eral other sci­en­tist wrote to Pres­i­dent Roo­sevelt about how the Ger­mans were build­ing a really, really big fire­cracker.  So Roo­sevelt says” “How big?”  “Well big enough to destroy a city.”  Roo­sevelt replies: “we GOTTA get one of them!”  Oppen­heimer heads the project and the bomb is devel­oped.  Dur­ing the ini­tial “Trin­ity test” (irony?)  He is pur­ported to have said, “If the radi­ance of a thou­sand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splen­dor of the mighty one. Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”  Proud of that one aren’t you Bob.
Always wanted to send him a happy father’s day card dur­ing the anniver­saries of the drop­ping of the bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Well I am, as I told you, a real ball breaker.

One last point on the big fire­cracker.  We are so figged up as a species that we recently devel­oped a “Neu­tron Bomb” Kills all the peo­ple but does less dam­age to the real estate.  We are a prac­ti­cal lot.

The Famous Shaman Crow­beak, world renowned mys­tic and meta­phys­i­cal pur­veyor of absolute wis­dom.  Well what peo­ple do not know was that Crow­beak was walk­ing around eat­ing magic mush­rooms like he was pop­ping tic-tacs!  He was so spaced out he would stag­ger around say­ing shit like “When leaf falls from tree and touched mother earth, grav­ity is thus proven.”  Some­one over­hears him and says, “What did he just say? Sounded pretty deep.”  Then, “When cater­pil­lar eats leaves off tree, tree dies, and then tree knows it was alive.”  Pretty soon you have a friggen horde of peo­ple fol­low­ing him around smack­ing there fore­heads say­ing, “this guy is bril­liant”  peo­ple are writ­ing his shit down yelling “get me more paper”  Point being, even if some­thing does not make sense the human mind will wrap itself around it and force it to make sense.

Rhetoric, which means I know more shit about a sub­ject than you do.  I am/was very good at this because I had a secrete weapon” The Dis­tin­guished Pro­fes­sor Wil­helm Von Schwimm.”  Well he did not exist; I made him up, but would often call upon his exper­tise on what­ever sub­ject mat­ter I was debat­ing to prove what point I needed to prove.  “Well accord­ing to the Dis­tin­guished Pro­fes­sor Wil­helm Von Schwimm Bla…Bla…bla…“
Well, point here is peo­ple do not like to think they don’t know some­thing or some­body and will accept what you tell them because they do not want to look stu­pid.  Try it.

Hang in there almost done.

Socrates! My main man devel­oped the Socratic Method.  You can read a whole bunch of bull­shit on this if you want but I can sum it up in two sen­tences and a quote.  In fact Socrates whole life! Not many peo­ple can do shit like that, well I am the Poet. Here goes:
1.People don’t know shit.
2.When forced to talk long enough they will prove they don’t know shit.
I will need to call on Oscar Wilde for the quote, “Oscar if you would, please.“
“When you want to tell some­one the truth make them laugh, oth­er­wise they’ll kill you.“
“Thanks Oscar, you can go back to the grave now.”

That is basi­cally it.  And they killed Socrates because he was a ball breaker and he did not make them laugh.  For exam­ple:
A bunch of Athe­ni­ans are in the Parthenon talk­ing about the lat­est play ‘Danc­ing with the Nymphs” (And you thought ours was the only vapid cul­ture? No, Vapid­ity has been around for a long, long time.) “I believe Themis­to­cles dance with Nymph Amalthea was superior.”…“No dear Ducea­nees Lato and the nymph Arethusa were much bet­ter.”  Well in walks Socrates and the whole Parthenon rolls their col­lec­tive eyes up to the sky and say, “Oh shit, here comes that ball breaker.”  “He would ask well what do you mean by bet­ter?” Ducea­nees would say “I mean supe­rior…. “  Well pretty soon Socrates would have Ducea­nees throw­ing his arms up in the air say­ing, “Alright I don’t frig­gin know leave me the frig alone!”  Well they killed him!  Bastards!

What does all this mean? Well we have come full cir­cle, right back to the Exis­ten­tial­ists: Noth­ing, life is absurd!

Twenty Five years ago a young Father was dri­ving down inter­state 95 with his two young sons in the back seat, it’s Christ­mas eve, and they are singing Jin­gle Bells and Joy to the World and all of sud­den an ass­hole in a pickup truck with the tail­gate down and a large unse­cured motor in it, hits a bump, motor flies out, goes through wind­shield and decap­i­tates young Father (giv­ing cre­dence to the the­ory that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time) A mir­a­cle the two young ones sur­vived.  YES! Life is absurd.

Can never, never get that out of my head it is burned in there.

Here it is:
1.We have to know shit.
2.Killing each other is a large moti­va­tional fac­tor in the know­ing of shit.
3.Even if we don’t know shit we will force our­selves to know shit
4.No one wants to admit they don’t know shit
5.When push comes to shove no one knows shit
6.What is the dif­fer­ence because life is absurd.

Well all wrapped up in a nice pack­age, not bad, even if I say so.
Life is absurd, how­ever find your own mean­ings, make it moral, be good to one another and choose your own God or higher power and believe.  Else, I will be forced to come to your fuck­ing house and pull a Socrates on you fuck­ing ass.

Yea, I lied about the F bombs.

I remain, never humbly,
The Odd­est of Poets

Conversation with God

Friday, November 20th, 2009

Photobucket

To be or not to be” Any of you Dudes out here truly know what ques­tion the Bard asks?
Well, not many peo­ple think about mor­tal­ity. Don’t blame them.
Back to “The Bard” six words that defines the nature or essence of our existence.

I am the only jerk off, I think, who will call God a Dick­weed! Just did it, not smited yet, (guess that comes later)

Any­way, I go to Heaven, and there is God, drool­ing and snor­ing on his recliner, remote on the floor, a Hus­tler mag on his lap.

So I wake the fucker up.

God, wake the fuck up, your “Cre­ation” is in dire need of your omnipo­tent services.”

Well, the fuck snores away, well on the 7th day he rested. I did not take that to mean a fuck­ing per­ma­nent vaca­tion. I am forced to slap his fuck­ing noggin!

Well, I did and he finally wakes up, thun­der, light­ning the whole show!

The Archangels have blades drawn on my throat and even those fag­got Cherubs are bit­ing my ass. Cause I pissed him off.

Poet”, he says, as he wipes the droll from his lips, “did I not kill you? Or, at the very least, it has to be on my things to do list.”

Well, that did not give me a warm and fuzzy.

God, Ulti­mate Dude of Dudes, A lit­tle help is needed on earth.”

Poet! Ass­hole, The only rea­son you exist is because you are a funny fuck!
Don’t push it BABE!” “And, being omnipo­tent, I bequeathed, free will upon ye. Which, ulti­mately means…You’re on your own.”

God! Alpha and Omega, hear me out Dude. I under­stand the free will con­cept; but, maybe some guid­ance, a mir­a­cle here and there.”

It’s a mir­a­cle you are still alive!”

I know God, Emperor of all Cre­ation, I am an ass­hole, freely given. But how bout some mir­a­cles! Maybe cure every child suf­fer­ing from can­cer under… say 12?”

Must have struck a chord, because I could see his Divin­ity thinking.

I took the time to sur­rep­ti­tiously kick one of those fag­got bit­ing Cherubs in the groin. I swear if God was not there I would have kicked all those lit­tle fuck’s asses

Poet, I see your point. But I hes­i­tate to inter­fere with Human­ity. Free Will I have ordained”

I dig it, Big Chief of the Uni­verse, But Satan’s run­ning ram­pant on earth, war, dis­ease, famine and Repub­li­cans have been run­ning the show!”

REPUBLICANS!!!!!!” I could see the big guy was upset; how­ever, he continued.

I see your plight Poet, but free will rules the day. I can not inter­fere and that is final!”

God, head hon­cho, think I can get in to see JC?”

Poet, you are very close to being dead! get out of here. You are not com­ing here any­way!” “Nor can you expect an invi­ta­tion in the future.”

See­ing that I was out­num­bered, and the fact that he was right.…and.…. God did not give a fuck. I was ush­ered, not too kindly, I might add, from Heaven, And Poof I am here.

Gee, aren’t you lucky. Well, think­ing of a way I can cru­cify myself. Got the wood, know I can nail my left hand to the cross, the prob­lem is hav­ing, said, left hand nailed, I am unable to nail my right hand to the cross! Which requires me to plea for help!

Ring.….…..

Hello” “Ehhh.….Don, I need a hand.“
“Poet…watts up, Dude!”
“Don, I need a hand.”

What?“
“I am try­ing to cru­cify myself and I need a hand.”

Christ, Poet are you into one of your to be or not to be moods?” “Fuck you!” Click.….

dial tone…

Well.…That IS the question

The Origin of the Modern Day Wake (Death Party)

Friday, November 20th, 2009

Dead peo­ple are a real bum­mer, espe­cially when the fuck­ers owes you money. I remem­ber Richie had the gall to up and die whilst owing me $100.00, the fucker. Being freshly dead he was not yet pack­aged; so I make a bee line over to his crib­bage to check the thing out, you know to see if he was try­ing to get out of his debt. You’d be amazed the lengths peo­ple will go to get out of pay­ing me.

So I bust in and there is the perquisite mourn­ers cir­cle and there was Ritchie who was no longer Richie. And my $100.00 was no longer my $100.00 so I take a shot and start rifling through Richie’s pock­ets. Too late Aunt Sophie beat me too it. The bitch was a big­ger thief than Ritchie. The circle’s eyes widen in hor­ror as I start punch­ing Ritchie’s corpse and then they start scream­ing, all except Aunt Sophie, the bitch. I turned to them all pissed off and say: “What am I doing… hurt­ing his feel­ings? The fuck­ers dead!”

So I book and start think­ing about death.
I’m like every­one else; I don’t want to think about it. Death is like the fart in Church, no one wants to admit it’s there but we all can smell it.

The prob­lem with death is it reminds us that we will all even­tu­ally be strapped to that one man seat. Death is the ulti­mate one man show, no sup­port­ing acts, strictly solo. We are so frigged about death we want to get rid of the body as soon as possible:

Get that frig­gin stiff outta here!”
“But Ward! It’s the Beaver.”
“I don’t give a shit June, tell Wally to drag it out to the garage and call those Under­taker creeps.’

Under­tak­ers– Nice name– I use to think Sur­geons were fucked up peo­ple but Under­tak­ers got them beat. Yea some­thing def­i­nitely creepy about a voca­tional choice involv­ing dead peo­ple. “How do you make a living?”

The first Under­tak­ers were fam­ily who washed and cleaned the stiff and pre­pared for the rit­ual mourn­ing of the dead. You had to make it quick, things can get smelly. The prob­lem was no one was sure if the per­son was really, really dead. I mean it looks dead, but…

That was the prob­lem, his­tory is replete with sto­ries of the dead com­ing back to life and a uni­ver­sal fear that is cross cul­tural is being buried alive. That will keep you up at night might even stop you from dying.

The first Under­tak­ers were Fred and Ernie. They vol­un­teered since they had no life and no one wanted the dead end job. The first order of busi­ness was to estab­lish was it dead? So the slap test was devel­oped.
“You want to take first shift Ernie?”
So Ernie starts slap­ping the shit out of the corpse.
“Seems dead”
Fred starts slap­ping the shit out of the corpse.
“Sucker is dead to me”
“We got to be sure this time can’t have a repeat of last Sat­ur­day”
“Old man Grady get­ting out of the cof­fin was not a good career fuzzy”
Luck­ily Aunt Martha had a heart attack so they could at least have a wake.”
“Yea, the keg was already tapped would have been a shame to waste it.”

That was the prob­lem and it was Fred who had the solu­tion.
“Eureka! Be right back!”
Fred gets a shop vac and evac­u­ates the corpse’s bod­ily flu­ids
Ernie’s eyes widen in amaze­ment.
Ernie’s riffs on Fred’s insight.
“We can put Uncle Bob’s spe­cial sauce in the stiff”
“What’s in it?”
“I think formalde­hyde, methanol, ethanol and a whole bunch of nasty.”

They did it! If the sucker wasn’t dead before it was now and the stiff keeps for at least a week. The mod­ern day Wake party was born. And we owe it all to Fred and Ernie.

Now leave me alone and stop mak­ing me think about this shit. I hate think­ing about death.

Think I’ll watch a hor­ror flick… Cool, George Romero’s “Night of the Liv­ing Dead” works for me…

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