�

Glenn Reynolds Says

"Gon' git me some KY and do me some GOB's!"
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2003-09-21 - 9:50 p.m.

A Headbutt Fer a Butthead.

Still higher than a motherfucker. Jeebus Christ. What WERE those fucking berries?

A short few moments ago a mini van passes our GT on a blind corner forcing an oncoming SUV to swerve precariously close to the roads edge and scaring the shit out of my Keeper who decelerates from 80 to 10 in about 3 feet.

My muscles scream for action. My brain screams back that it�s busy at the moment trying to restore the control of my instantly loose lower bowel.

From my passenger-side restraints I see the fuckers in the back seat of the offending mini van looking back � pointing and laughing.

Wrong response you little douche bag cock drippings. I tell my Keeper to follow. She tells me to let it go, then looks over at me. Every good keeper knows when to let go of the leash.

We follow them into the parking lot of a beach not too far down the road. I bolt out of the Mustang straight over to the 18 year old case of cockrot who is looking at me from the driver�s side with that look on his face that he�s ready to play my game.

Before anything can be said I Kung Fu kick the opening door on his legs and with adrenaline laced blueberry cocktail that is my blood pull the waste of skin from the van by his long golden locks and kneel my weight into his lung cage.

I rumble for his post pubescent pecker puke pals to back the fuck off or they�ll be doing CPR on this sorry sack of shit for the next 24 miles.

I lean into the labouring meat sack real close and say, �I don�t give a flying fuck if you can�t drive. I don�t fucking care if you actually CAN drive and choose NOT to. In fact I hope you and yer fancy boys keep it up only because it�ll guarantee that you drive off a fucking cliff and rid us of your fucking pathetic stink. But the fucking minute you put me and mine in fucking danger is the moment I rip the eyelids off your fucking face and fill all eight sinus cavities with acid piss.� Nose to nose now, �You hearing me Cunt?�

And I headbutt him. Then I get up and move to kick the sobbing bastard when I see he�s pissed his pants. He�d have gotten worse had I actually shat my drawers, but I got my point across. He�ll remember my face every time he passes a car.

I turn and walk back to the car smiling smugly to myself. Back in control my Lovely Keeper merely shakes her head. I�m sure I�ve not impressed her one little bit with this tantrum. She may just be correct in her assessment that I should seek anger management counseling.


Spit it OUT, Snapperhead!

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.


old shit. - newer shit.

2003-09-21 - 10:32 a.m.

Heading The Fuck Out My Head.

Came down to the Cove of Gaia�s Frustration this morning before we were kicked out by an anticipatory inn-keeper and watched the tide roll out. Ate me some blue berries off a tall shrub. Soon thereafter I felt like my skin was a size too small, stripped off my polyester armour, jumped into the ocean and swam for salvation about a horizon�s length away.

Was worn the fuck out after about 7 minutes of thrashboy stroke, turned around for shore, left my clothes on the rocks, climbed up the 70 stairs to the inn and walked naked through the dining room bidding the Swiss and German breakfasters a good morning.

Back in our room my Lovely Keeper reminded me that blue berries don�t grow on tall shrubs. It then dawned on me that blue berries aren�t hairy either.

I don�t think they were blue berries at fucking all.

I do think my Keeper will be driving today. I have a pocketful of these hairy blue bad boys to get through before we hit city limits.

Wonder if�n I can find me a nice, slimy, likable tree frog?


Spit it OUT, Snapperhead!

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.


old shit. - newer shit.

2003-09-20 - 11:11 a.m.

A Weekend Off.

I�m sitting on a bleached spar of whale-bone driftwood settled into a 10� black mound of razor bladed basalt overlooking a Pacific cove designed a few hundred thousand years ago by an ancient and pissed-off Gaian terraformer who decided that this plain ol straight-line coast would look better all craggy and broken. So she puked Hellsperm on it. If she hadn�t of been so pissed at what she saw, had she been more complacent, we�d have paid a few hundred dollars less for our nearby room.

But that�s just it, innit? Sometimes you have to burn It to glowing fucking embers knowing that at sometime in the future your children may just quietly thank you for it.

It�s a great fucking day and I feel unusually at ease � and in and of its own is making me a li�l uncomfortable.

Where we are staying there are no TV-Devil Boxes. No theatres. No goddamned cell phones. The batteries on my old Nomad just died and if only for a short weekend, I�m content to sit on my �Yorkshire moor� � listening to the tides. And if for only a day, I�m taking a break from being angry because from atop my 250,000 year old perch�

�there�s nothing to be angry at.


Spit it OUT, Snapperhead!

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.


old shit. - newer shit.

2003-09-19 - 6:24 p.m.

I Hate You All.

On my lunch breaks I forgo the urban pigeon park and go down to the waterfront just down from where the cruise ships berth. Near the SeaPlanePort or whatever the fuck it�s called. I sit on the granite tide breaks and read or write or stare at the sun-yellow sulfur piles across the harbour. Listen to a Tom Waits or a Stevie Ray Vaughn play list. In the summer I�ll take siesta. It�s sort of a squatters Fortress of Solitude made of driftwood rather than crystal.

Yesterday I was wandering aimlessly from boulder to boulder and there it was. A big fucking turd. A big fucking turd with matching fast food napkin arse wipe.

And I thought to myself, �Ain�t that the fuckin� deal?�

I�d a been well off not knowing that there was man-shit a few boulders off to my left. Lunch break was unofficially over. Had too much to fucking do at work, anyhow.

Ignorance would indeed be bliss. I just can�t fathom how near Zen-like it must be to go along with the crowd � seeing obstacles but becoming used to avoiding them instead of knocking the fucking shit out of it with the nearest signpost. I think that a huge number of people will live and entire life without ever knowing what �Getting It� will smell like. And it�s illegal to castrate the rest.

It�s a wonder I still have the restraint to keep myself from clicking the �Buy It Now� on my EBay tracked Bandolier of Fragmentation Grenades (12) Item # 2369982932. On my door they�d arrive like army green Easter Eggs ready to hide in the homes and domiciles of all whom I deem necessary.

But I digress.

In his novel American Gods, Neil Gaiman introduces us to a pantheon of gods for a New Age. The new gods of Western decline: the gods of Media and Television, Sex and Currency and Celebrity. They were gearing up to kill the remaining Old Gods.

Neil gets it. He hit the nail square on the fucking head.

The up here in Canada, the US pretty much owns TV. Except for a few fucking great programs, Canadian TV sucks. In a matter of a few months it is very probable that it will legally possible for 3 media syndicates to own 100% of the airways. That means 3 head offices for thousands of stations. A few years ago a station was unable to control more than 10%. If whatever legislation (name eludes me) gets passed, this will be increased to 45%. How the fuck does this not bother people?

You ever actually read what the Home Security Act I & II says? If you�re an American and you haven�t throw yourself off an abandoned bridge into a fast running river so your corpse will not pollute my fucking water you ignorant sack of shit.

You guys were fucked in Florida. The shit the assholes in your �White� House rain down on the rest of the world is the fault of both � in your own inverse ways � the voting and non voting plebe. When the Dub got the reigns, you threw yer fucking rights on the curb for his Trash Gestapo to rifle through and store what they deem necessary. Yer rights are that to Dub � personal trash, effluent.

No, I don�t expect very many of you will get this right away. Right now I�m an anti-American, conspirator, left-wing, Nazi-Hippie fuck with anger management issues and the 2004 Unabridged Jenny�s Book of Little Used Euphamisms to patch hes pore gramur skils.

Stay tuned. As time progresses, your opinion will probably not waver a dead dog�s fart. But let�s get serious for a second: How often does the opportunity to read the diary of the utterly Insane? Where else will you read accounts of someone needing 3 blowdarts in the arse to stop from hob-nailing his TV set (oak armoire and all) into the goddamned basement garage because of something he heard on Access Hollywood? Administered, of course, by his lovely and patient keeper to whom � and with utter sincerity � I apologize for what I have begun� and now must carry through to the fiery and ugly end.

Spider Jerusalem? FUCK Spider Jerusalem. Welcome to the Setting Son.

Happy Birthday to Me.


Spit it OUT, Snapperhead!

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.


old shit. - newer shit.


Y'can't Keep a Fringe Man Down. - 2005-08-03
So Long, Fucko's. - 2004-02-02
Feedback. - 2004-01-31
Chapter 1 - Clang-Bang - 2004-01-30
The Tattooed Infant - 2004-01-29

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