2003-09-27 - 1:00 a.m.

UNSHELL THE GODS OF RAW!

Now THAT is what I call a cross-dragging, productive Friday.

Began the day by redirecting several Yummy Healthy Frozen Microwave Entrees doled out by toothy, bubbly co-ed flavoured urban candy-stripers to the target 9-5 white-collar crowd. I grabbed an armload and fed them to the cigarette butt smoking refuse we ignore by sheer will. I FED THE HUNGRY! I am like JESUS!

�But I don�t have a microwave!� one man exclaims to me as if drinking beer from pub alley garbage was gauche.

�Cold lasagna. No lasagna. Think about it.� I replied without patience. Some humans are just too fucking stupid to make it as citizens.

Ended the day with me and my lovely Keeper drinking like Vikings and eating sushi off of each other�s unwashed bodies. Drank solid until the GHB I slipped her took effect � just enough to unleash the Beast � and I used her mercilessly as a host to my varied and filthy fucking philias.

Before the ugliness, however, we watched a segment on some entertainment tabloid shows on how much TV sitcom stars are actually worth to us. You know the fucking numbers. It�s goddamnded ridiculous!

At one point a studio exec calls the cast of Friends �greedy� for wanting all they could fucking gnaw off that dying carcass of a 1/2 hour. It�s the blind dogmatism of business that confounds me the most sometimes.

And I�ve heard you say, �I wouldn�t pay them that. FUCK JOEY! FUCK ROSS! FUCK THE FAGS AND FU-U-UCK MARTHA ASSMUNCHING STEWART!� I�M ONE OF THOSE FUCKERS�don�t deny it - even those who choose to keep all that anger deeeeeep down inside have to explode at sometime. It�s little things like $1,000,000 week to a hack actor with feeble timing that set those powder kegs off.

But I digress.

WE pay for those actors to barely make us fucking giggle. We watch the ads. We buy their shit. We�re slaves to shit. I�m a HUGE devourer of shit. I LOVE shit. I�m a veritable consumer corprophiliac. I like taking old shit and throwing it off the roof and taking other shit and throwing it at THAT shit. So I�m not saying I�m not part of the problem.

Fact is there�s fuck all us regular worker drones can do about it. The City owns us whether we likes it or fucking no.

Simulacra and simulation. Like Eden, today�s society was born in the Good Book of the Industrial Revolution. My City is the bitch daughter of an ugly, black cloud breathing fire giant. Our Garden of Eden. My City.

When they finally came to terms with the basics of hydrodynamics enough to make a train move, and once they got to talking over long distances over wires, greed wormed its way into the equation � it was no longer about discovery, it was all da bones.

We�ve been domesticated into this consumer life for generations. We can�t be anything BUT cogs any more than yer ol� Heinz 57 couldn�t be anything but an snotty eyed, drool resevoir.

Sometimes it�s like I can see clockworks winding, twisting and hammering all around me. Sometimes the clockwork looks so fucking massive and I just can�t help feeling like a goddamned eunuch.

But then I remember that �violence� is a part of my oeuvre and that it expected � nay � DEMANDED OF ME IN TIMES OF DOUBT AND CONFUSION AND MAY YOU BATHE IN SATAN SPERM FOR A FORTNIGHT IF YOU CONFRONT ME ON A NIGHT OF UGLY LOVIN�, MUSHROOMS AND FIRE-WATER!

CRY HAVOC! AND LET LOOSE THE DOGS OF WAR!

The night is so young. May a God have mercy on your unexpecting souls.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.

2003-09-26 - 8:26 p.m.

T. G. I. FUCKING. F.

If you wanna experience the full range of humans that a city has to offer, spend a half hour in a liquor store on a Friday night. Walk through the aisles � listen, eavesdrop.

Tonight two middle aged women chose their wine�well, it went like:

�Oooo..THIS one has 13%.�

�Really? That�s a GOOD IDEA!�

�Do you think this white would be better?�

�How much alcohol it got?�

�12%.�

�Not gonna git as much a buzz offa that, are we?�

I turn the corner laughing. No commentary necessary.

An proud, elderly black man - dressed like the calendar never flipped from 1944 � greets me a good evening with a wide, white smile. He cradles his plastic half-pint of something clear like the precious thing it is.

Two University students splitting a 12 of MGD.

A party-girl with a pint of white tequila and a bottle of Snakebite.

A woman in a velour track suit buying 4 very expensive sakes.

Two drunk Native guys are fighting at the entrance over a paper shrouded bottle.

Everyone � so fucking DIFFERENT! Here you see the urban primatives at their very best. Just before the legal hit. In that one place, we all have a common bond - one thing, one purpose draws us here together when outside you�d rather take a dump on the shoes of the guy behind you rather than laugh with him like you are doing now.

One thing. We all want to get PISSED!

Cheers, Motherfuckers!

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.

2003-09-26 - 8:55 a.m.

Look 'em Right In the Fucking Eyes.

My Keeper says I have a very 'distinctive' walk.

Fuck that.

I STRUT.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.

2003-09-25 - 10:34 a.m.

Conan and the Big Fucking Wheel.

Out with the extended family last night and I was glowing a little fucking hotter than normal � the result of running the hamster wheel non-stop for 10 br(e)akeless hours at the behest of 25 year old account execs with no time management foresight and even less life miles under the soles of their $60 PermaShine� Tip Top specials.

Find the grammatical errors in that finger-cramping sentence. Go ahead, you lost, sorry-sack of mummy nipples.

But I digress.

On the way back from the Pub Urbane, my Vulcan brother (�Honestly, Jim, these sensations you humans call �Emotions� confuse the fucking shit out of me�) off-handedly asked me something that I�d never realized. While we was smoking a funnel he asked, �Doesn�t getting pissed off at so many things, so often get tiring?�

My brother, who is doing his PhD in Psychosomethingorother. My brother, who works assessing drooling baby-eaters. I believe I amuse him at mine own expense.

Digressing again. Fuckin� fucker.

So, that really got me to thinking. I answered, �Yeah. I guess so. But if I didn�t rant and yell, if I didn�t ingest mass quantities of mushrooms, mescaline and muscle relaxants, if I didn�t wake and bake daily or drink me 5 pint lunches or beat the sparking guts out of major appliances or just generally make people uneasy and uncomfortable, the I�d undoubtedly be the mute demolitions expert subclass sniper for an Anti-Greenpeace paramilitary enclave.�

I think he was looking for a yes or no answer. Silly bastard.

I�ve ALWAYS been like this, in one way or another. For example, when I was still in knickers (they were FASHIONABLE those days in the �Line-Me-Up-At-The-Front-Of-The-Punch-Me-In-The-Mouth-Line� crowd, OK) my grandmother would keep the buzzing colony of children out of whatever supper pre-prepped raw food was sitting on the counter that kids like to eat uncooked. Raw potatoes, turnips, cookie dough, glue, lead paint ALL gave you worms if you ate them before they was on the dinner table.

I believed that for a few years. We all did. Until one day it dawned on me. Why the fuck is my Grandmother feeding us cooked fucking wormy food? I HAD to believe that we weren�t so poor that she�d use grub-ridden grub as a new protein source.

So I approached her - all proud and shit � about my epiphany. She replied by smacking me with a sloppy metal soup ladle. Pissed me off, so I told the other kids about my revelation and they all agreed that it was a sound conclusion.

Grandma had to swing that ironing board in waide sweeping arcs to keep the hoards at bay from that day forward. From that day forward there was also no more wormy food. There was just the gastronomic martial law of the kitchen that I could appreciate as a more honest reason.

So, yeah, being a bastard does take a lot of energy. Procures you some scars and lumps too, but I don�t know any different. Conan turning his big-assed wooden hamster wheel didn�t know any different either. He knew it sucked and he�d rather be doing anything else, but what? And besides�big muscles, man. Fact is he accepted it as what he was, at that moment in Destiny�s Book - that he couldn�t change a fucking thing about it - so he just kept turning.

I don�t know about Conan�but I quite enjoy turning that fucking wheel and�d have it no other way.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.