Monday, May 3, 2010

Exorcise the Hatred

Sometimes a handshake should be a hug. Hand gestures can also fall short, we must then use our words. Don't touch me unless I've paid you, I can't stand the following motherfuckers:

My hip hurts a bit as I walk a mile to work in 11-year-old steel toes, chaining Reds all the while yet my lungs never falter. I trample over the lawns of high-rollers who pile trashbags on my sidewalk. Then, I walk across a bridge a guy like me could be jumping from or living under. The goddamn sunshine is a ray of annoyance. Look at these fuckers in Spandex riding fancy bicycles to nowhere. You know they've got leased cars at home. If it's Saturday, I might pass by some Jews doing their thing. "No work on the Sabbath" must mean hike to a fashion show. I wonder if they're out to act righteous like Christians do. Strangers wonder why I always wear my hat--at least I have a reason, go fuck with some Jewish man.

Seeing 20/20 through bloodshot eyes, I bow to the goddamn biometric time clock. Already fatigued, been fed up since I can remember, I pop my first two caffeine pills. I stroll past the elderly floor supervisor. We grumble about how fucked up this store is, with undertones of "damn it all" and "kill me now" before agreeing that the whole world has gone to shit. The lady and I leave it with a laugh and settle on "whatever."

By now, I'm ready to bag at the checkstands, perhaps wishing I were high. The brain feels no pain, yet can scream for opiates louder than a ... Jewish baby getting his genitals sliced. Dimwitted coworkers ask me "what's up?" "Nothing of interest," I usually say. Life is good enough, I got fucked up last night, and I get off on preserving the status quo. These fools play with their cell phones like teenage girls, hoping business will pick up so they won't be so "bored." "Only boring people get bored," my Uncle Danny always told me. Amusement comes from the mind, like any movie you've ever watched. There's many simple truths your dumb asses will never know. I should "get a life?" Y'all get into the non-retarded range ... and I probably still won't value anything you say.

Spoiled motherfuckers, here's the joyous entertainment you asked for. Where I come from, customers are associated with rage and ethanol cravings. Another deluded bitch with a Mercedes key fob asks if I'm "having a good day." What? Just another day, nothing to get giddy about. What the fuck have you been shooting up? Everywhere I look there's nothing but suburban trash pussies and Starbucks queers. Is there Prozac and estrogen in the water over here? You lily-handed cocksuckers are drunk with optimism, yet think me a degenerate when I'm shitfaced on rotgut. With your fat asses sunk down in European cars, you think you're something special and loitering is a bloodthirsty crime. Please, see me on the street with that attitude. Perhaps Far North Dallas should burn like Watts.

"Careful, eggs are fragile," some customer told me as I bagged. "Yeah, I read that somewhere," I assured her royal cuntness. Come to think of it, I broke four on the egde of my skillet last night. My goodness! Customer useless fuck walked off without his sack of grocery shit! "Joe, hurry! Take it out to him," the supervisor shrieked. You imagine I might actually run? I'm still tired from that marathon with your wife.

Nobody ever said; "I want to shovel shit when I grow up." Nonetheless, I never could have envisioned living in such a paradise. People think underachieving is a waste. They cannot fathom why one does not set meaningless goals and whore for useless wealth. "Why not" is an invaild question from which we get bullshit answers many foolish decisions are based upon. Good logic asks "why" and does not require an answer for it's own sake. For many questions, the answer sought would prove reason to give a fuck. Often there is none to be found, the question then dies. Laugh at the inquisitor, knowing that indifference is power.

It's hard for mass hysteria to afflict those who are mostly alone. For starters, quit watching the news as I did three years ago--you won't miss anything real. Look at these motherfuckers duped into debt, chained and goddamned in every aspect of life by their humanity. What of my insanity? When bill collectors call for me, I tell them "Joseph Harris is dead" just because I'm so in love with amusing myself. Yeah, I gave the bastard an OD of lithium, then slit his fucking wrists.

Venturing outside of my brain, let's return to my place of work where boring people irritate me. Our cashiers are chatting during front end's downtime, discover the brilliance. "I can't work in the food industry because I'm afraid my face will break out," a young lady said to a cashier of revolting ineptitude. Beauty princess: are you something plus-size special? You pampered bitch. I slaved in fast food for six years because no grocery store would hire me to even clean toilets, let alone do nothing but stand and read about celebrities' sex lives. What the fuck? I used to look like a purple-faced Elephant Man: didn't whine but did take a drug for it that was later linked to suicide. Fear of acne! Justify your existence, take the headset, and drag your ass to drive-thru for $5.75.

I'm not a total prick, I just want to destroy the illusions that make up your beautiful world. I'll take your innocence and beat you to the ground with it--that's what innocence is for.

The cashiers at my store are the most spoiled, cush job candy asses I've ever worked with. Females in particular believe themselves owed a free ride. Lifting a 24-pack from some customer's cart is hard labor, to be sure. Please don't chip a fucking nail, or think that a gentleman is obliged to give a goddamn. If doing this little job can hurt you, it should. Any ailment resulting from such would not only mean that you are sorry, but that healthy discomfort has been tragically lacking in your life.

Although at minimum wage, clues of lavish lifestyles are everywhere in word and deed. They interact with well-off customers as if we all live in the same world, buying the same things. Hey, bitch customer: give me that leg of lamb and I'll let you sample my Rocky Mountain oysters. Fuck the nametag, I've not introduced myself so call me "sir."

We've got a new teenage bagger, he won't work at anything but grab ass and pocket pool. Hey, you fucking faggot: take your Snapple money and get an actual haircut. Pull up your goddamn pants, buy a belt, then hang yourself with it. I'd like to give you the beating your classmates and neo-castrato father never would. The little bitch attends some expensive school, yet was never even taught how to operate a broom. At his age, I had the skills of a housewife. This whitest of boys likes to serenade us with freestyle rap and shadow box as if he's ever beaten anything but his meat. Front end management has brazenly resolved to send him outside to return carts when he breaks into song. The solution I proposed makes more sense: "just transfer him to Pleasant Grove, see how they like his act down there."

Five years ago, I lost my apartment where I slept on a found couch. Down and out in the 'burbs, sleeping on my mother's couch, she told me "you're young and unemployed--enjoy it." I thought she was shittin' me, like I do now when she talks about chasing dreams. Can't stop, slow down, or surrender. Get knocked down and jump back up only because you can't throw the fight.

I've been told I live in a world of my own, but the mongoloids who surround me won't even Google "earth" from planet asinine. Indolent shitstacks: unfuck your sorry selves and do some goddamn work. Spastic faries: shut the fuck up. Snotty pricks: face forward and mind your own goddamn business; the simplest of skills can save your life. "Do you want me to tear your arthritic legs apart," a nice guy I bag groceries with said while bitching of a "fuckhead" customer who disrespected him that day. My smile was gleeful as he concluded his rant with "I see why you drink, life fuckin' sucks." I laughed while holding my cup of coffee, which he said should've been Bourbon.

The indolent, spastic, and snotty are handed the world. I must be garbage to have been desperate for so long; we all know that straight white men can't be kept down or discriminated against. Oh, no! Don't mistake me for an evildoer who takes Rodney King's name in vain. Nobody can flip burgers if they speak English, or wait tables unless they know somebody. Fuck and damn a decent man who's willing to work; they'll lock him up just for trying to sleep in an abandoned car. The success stories I've seen at work were armed robbery and rape of a pharmacy.

Better to be kicked down stairs than move up the corporate ladder. Managers have swollen knees and bad breath from catering to customers. They make the rounds with engraved nametags and bland ties that amount to those bouncing jugs which made Richard Spec popular on death row. Such managers only piss me off, I work best when dipshits get the fuck out of my way. Go back to that office and push some pencils up your ass.

Indeed, life sucks universally and every job is shit. I remind myself this when overwhelmed. Just another day. I've got to have a good night to remind myself why I fucking bother. The online magazine I wrote for instituted a new policy I didn't like, so I sent the Blogcritics group an e-mail. "Dear Whomever the Fuck Ever" now knows that they fucking suck like "candy asses" and that "I'll hold on to my remaining good goddamn." So-called writers brag about their "professionalism." For all their education, they don't know how to think. If they had any opinions, we wouldn't know because all they do is pander. The Cynic, some little bitch website, shot down my submission. "Probably too cynical for you pussies ... and well-written enough to make y'all look bad," I replied. Never underestimate the value of personal amusement.

Fuck it. I'm getting my kicks, we all should. This is as good as reality gets. I could have lost it all yesterday--or maybe tomorrow in which case I would have just spent the last of my money on rent just for nothing. Welcome back to failure country, you've been extradited. Dr. Mengele was never caught, but I think he was always haunted. Fuck it once more, time to chug another goblet.

There's little I don't hate and few people who aren't insufferable. Mock it all indulgently enough and your venom becomes Cognac. "You look miserable," a coworker told me a few times. That's how my face looks, but if he's right then we should all feel like shit. Thought can be colder than a bitch--you can always deal with them by being a prick. Maybe people are the sum of their thoughts, observations, and the conclusions they draw. If you shove your head far enough up your ass, you can see whatever in any experience. Shoved shoulders-deep, you may not see an experience at all.

The world of my own I live in is actuality. Of course I'm end-stage pissed off, what's your problem? No, I don't give a motherfuck, what sense would that make? Just because you're crazy doesn't mean you're wrong. If you're a dumb fuck, on the other hand, you should be taken out back and shot.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Charity: An Opiate for Humanity

When hearts bleed, minds numb. My vitriol is engorged. Sick children, 'eh? I'll cry for Jerry's Kids later. Perhaps normal childrens' mockery of short-bus kids becomes pity in adulthood. If anyone is to be pitied, it's those who are retarded yet well. Worse still are cheerful givers without cause. Charity is glorified in a world of greed and inequity. Makes perfect sense. A "good cause" is a feelgood cause, nothing more. Many causes go unnoticed, the best of them have already been lost.

Our motives for giving, to whom we donate, and under what circumstances all reveal the true meaning of kindness.

Contradictions and hypocrisy elude softened minds amidst happy talk. Leaving my apartment is a daily adventure in annoyance of dysphoric ferocity, but we've all got billionaires to feed. I bag groceries from the conveyor as duped, spoiled cashiers whore on behalf of the Muscular Dystrophy Association.

"Cough up just another dollar which will be added to the cost of your opulent shopping order, and you'll be a hero whose handwritten name shall be temporarily immortalized on a paper "shamrock." Please tear the $1 Borden milk coupon off your shamrock not as compensation, but a token of humanity's esteem." There goes another exalted soul, answering the call to help the sick. All concerned were pleased to rack up another "good deed," a phrase which means nothing more than whatever the Hell you wish it to.

Mass layoffs do good for some people--selfish bastards. The "selfless act" theory is probably the cornerstone of idealism destroyed most easily. Barring thoughtless mistake, we do everything to either feel good or avoid feeling bad. Common knowledge, but reality can feel good to eschew.

"I feel bad every time I don't do it [donate to MDA at checkout], a customer told a cashier for whom I was bagging. How likely is it that he feels bad for enjoying his middle class leisure rather than volunteering at inner-city soup kitchens? What of the homeless bums such a man perhaps encounters during his white collar life downtown? When prompted to donate by a cashier, the most common responses are "not today" and "I already did." That was a yes or no question and "no" is only one goddamn syllable. How revealing, you people sicken me.

Steaks bagged, paying customers whip out a wallet packed with what they do not correctly recognize as tantamount to wealth. This would be the appropriate time to donate to whatever cause: to reassure oneself that he's a "good person" by ostensibly feeling pity and acknowledging that certain types of people determined by the preconceived notions of that individual donor are indeed less fortunate and deserving of help. Pavlovian dogs.

"Of course not," I responded to a floor supervisor who asked if I would donate ... after searching his eyes in anticipation of a punch line. My feelgood money is best spent on rotgut. "As soon as someone donates $1 to me, I'll donate 25 cents to somebody else. If I'm not getting anything, why should I give a fuck.?" Fun retort, indeed. My contributions are to the few, borderline trustworthy who have shown me such kindness absent of some ulterior motive I found bothersome. To "give back to the community" incorrectly implies I've received something positive from it. Find an anomalous example of someone who has and come after that tightwad. I feel good when things make sense.

If doing good for nobody in particular for no concrete reason gratifies your neurons, indulgence is the clear choice. Just don't be so eager to consider it an act of pure altruism.

What of those Pavlovian do-gooders? Was their heart in the right place after all? Will Western civilization grant exception to a revered cliche and tell us the ultimate result matters more than the thought behind it? As usual, a lack of thought has done the damage. If people really cared about anybody but their own--which of course we don't because we're only human--they would make an effort. Donating some amount which is minuscule relative to your income to some minority with exceptional bleeding-heart appeal really helps nothing. As with voting, you can at least carry on with your little life as if anything at all had been accomplished by your gesture.

Forget about the sensationalistic, think of common problems that destroy everyday people. Diseases of the mind, bludgeoned souls, and the epidemic of poverty cost more lives and dollars than muscular dystrophy or even demon cholesterol. Hearts cry like a Hallmark card over only the sob stories that sell. People think they care just because they feel they must. Callousness is almost as socially unacceptable as smoking. The truth is cold, which many Americans only think they know something about.

Consider the winter parking lot. Perceiving discomfort as calamity, the soft majority seek heat with a frenzy only to bewail their suffering once inside the building. People are obsessed with warmth--bullshit provides an infinite supply.

The Haitians are getting bumrushed, what else is new? Nobody gives a floor fuck about poor blacks in South Dallas; provided we haven't heard their inspirational human interest story on a local newscast within the past few minutes. Hence, these nobodies have no justifiable reason to give those Caribbeans their cash. My bad, Haiti's failure is excused by natural disaster, whereas any broke ass in this country must be a degenerate loser.

No, I don't claim to be any different. If I had a damn left to give, I'd enjoy it alone.

It's logic time. If the Haitians don't like the situation in their homeland, let them flock to ours like the citizens of a Third World country obviously should. They might get more than the Red Cross has to offer. Donate on April 15 with your typical gung-ho generosity. If your income is substantial enough to annoy me on the grounds that you are a pampered waste of space, then quit your tax-time bitching. Third World immigrants take jobs of vital importance from America's Third Estate. Right, we're degenerate losers anyways.

Nevertheless, giving to the genuinely needy makes good sense. Equally true is that they should receive only what they need. The evening before my store began taking donations for the MDA, a horrifically obese family of three procured $425 of groceries at the taxpayers' expense. Quite common. Food Stamps, or EBT as the debit cards are commonly known, in many cases exemplify the despicable side of forced altruism. For a good while, I would spend no more than $1 a day on food. Items like meat and real cheese are a luxury. That such is considered a need is demonstrative of how strongly the "spoiled bastard mentality" is encouraged. People have to eat even when they can't pay, but not ribs and ice cream for fuck's sake.

Selling one's Food Stamps for 50 cents on the dollar is common practice. This is illegal, of course, as attempts at survival often are. There's certainly no moral reason why people shouldn't make money when they can. Nevermind the current recession, the job market has sucked for quite a while longer. Underemployment has always been the economic damnation we hear nothing about. Getting a job is only a fraction of the struggle, as it probably means part-time employment whether you can live off that or not. Forty hours is typically out of the question, 25 being more likely.

Several years ago, I was forced to work only 18 hour weeks and unable to find a second job. I truly considered myself fortunate to live off $470 a month. I could actually pay my half of the rent, so things were alright. Most adults' lives aren't so simple. Where were our silver-tongued and silver-spooned presidents? They'll damn sure make televised appeals to our wallets on behalf of Haitians. Truly moving.

People obviously don't care but few can resist high drama. We've been conditioned to yield to our emotions. This is exactly how power is taken and profits are made.

My employer's last day of collecting for the MDA was March 27. As usual, I got off at 10 pm. On my way out, that same floor supervisor asked if I would donate--this time in jest. He thought it unfortunate that only three hours before closing time, the store was 20 shamrocks short of it's goal. That's what it was all about, a corporation's silly little goal. When it comes to helping others, does anyone have a goal that means anything?

Setting aside my personal annoyance, charity is a good thing. Perhaps we need more of it. However, it must be based in reality. Donate or simply refuse, just think before deciding. Many people would like panhandling outlawed, I wonder how many of them bought a shamrock.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

The Mad Cashier

I am the sharp dressed shit-shoveler with the sexy stoneface. Welcome to my real world and join the rampage. Did I ever tell you how much I hate you and your shopping order? You may have wronged me or smiled and never crossed me. Maybe I didn't like the way you look. Most likely, we've never met and I damn sure like it that way. This is the Mad Cashier reminding you that humanity is contemptable and it's dragging down us all. Allow me to elucidate with this joyfully fulminating litany of hatred.

I took my meds and left the knife at home, what more do you want? I'm capable of being happy and jovial, but y'all won't let me drink on the job. That's me in the hat bagging groceries for the tasteless and the hopeless. Surely some of them are great people and keen minds, but I don't give a damn. I keep checking my Timex and popping pills because I can't stand you, them, or anybody.

Management counsels me about my people skills, but nobody knows which screws I've got loose. I've got a natural stoneface; people think I'm pissed even when I'm feeling good. I didn't mean to suggest that you fuck off but I'm glad you did. Maybe I need therapy, but you should get liposuction and a clue.

At my first retail job I became born again disgruntled, infamous for angering customers and known by the closing shift as a master fulminator. Some people think I should be more positive, but I know how foolish that would be. Sure I'm a pessimist, but they must be living in a dreamworld rather than reality.

I'm well-adjusted in my own way, particularly when I'm fighting through acid reflux to chug down a magnum. You know what else brings me joy? Petting kittens and telling humanity to kiss my crazy white ass.

Intoxication is the spice of life and vitriol is all I know. I've been laying down invective since 2001, punch-typing the truth to loud music while I'm getting drunk. I write for a limited audience because this is what I am and I don't care who doesn't like it. Candor doesn't appeal to most, but they're just collateral damage.

I'm not special, either. I'm one of many lurking in broad daylight and seeing only darkness. You never know who might be one or what we're thinking. Case in point; I haven't been fired or committed recently. I might have bagged your order yesterday or sold you a quarter pounder back in 2000. No, I didn't spit in your food like a coward. I smashed your fries and destroyed your sandwich.

Maybe I was the psychotic ex-Green Beret grill cook who did time for felony assualt. He was a cool guy who shared good weed and claimed to have brutalized some customers at Burger King. I could be the wholesome, pig-tailed girl next door ... who plans to fuck your virgin son and daughter while you're pretending at church and then burn your vanilla house down. Chill out, I'm no arsonist. I'm a vandal.

Damn right, I should never work with the general public. Pull your head out of your happy place, we don't all get the dream job. I got beat down by a man in the mouse suit at Chuck E Cheese when I was a little kid. He should never have worked with children. The difference between him and me is that nobody ever got hurt when I flipped out. If we all had it made, there would be nobody to sell you groceries. So what if I scared a few customers and employees?

I'm living it up at the poverty line. Guess what, I'm not a shiftless pothead and I'm not on the dole. A distinguished gentleman I work with spends his money on weed rather than food. Nevertheless, he'd have a full fridge if the lazy bastard could be bothered to get more food stamps. Genuine losers surround and sicken me. A poor worker can stand proud, but only scum leads the low life with his hand out. From Main Street to Wall Street, we're ruled and served by scum from every echelon.

Cashiering nearly got my head blown off. I was all alone with a masked gunman and his lookout, but my working life has seen worse days. An average day in the fast food maelstrom pushed me closer to insanity. So what if violent crime gave me a little PTSD? It was a calm, deep night and the salt of the earth didn't aggravate me. I've burned in Hell and haven't feared death since I worked at Jack in the Box. We called the cops on dopeheads every week at that grease trap.

It doesn't end when I clock out. Drivers and passengers have thrown drinks and cussed at me just for walking down the street, but never accepted my invitation to get out of the car. Some little suburban bitch ran a red light when I caught up with him. Suck it, Rowlett, Texas.

Am I sober or are you just horrifically insufferable? People always want me to explain myself. Why do I always wear an ivy dress? I like hats, dumb ass.

Why did you assail me with pleasantries? I don't care how life is treating you, either. “Doin' good” I always respond. I could have been suicidal that day. We're all inveterate liars.

People speak for no reason and pretend to care when they don't have to. Fine, engage in velvet gloved mutual masturbation, but don't expect me to join in. Why suffer the exhaustion of mindless happy talk when dismissiveness will suffice? I'm not the prick, I try to mind my own business and keep getting accosted. My street clothes are dress clothes but my only fashion statement is that white lapel pin flipping you the bird.

Hell yes, I meant it. You pushed me too far and I'm going for broke. Don't like it? Yeah, and it would take a team of psychologists to determine why I might give goddamn. Nevertheless, I hope this rant finds you well and God bless. A parting thought and my final offer—kiss my crazy white ass.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Pipes Supplant Cigarettes

Carcinogens of love burn in my bowl of joy. From a hobby to a reminder of a dead family patriarch, pipe smoking is many things to many people. Cigarettes are despised, yet aromatic pipe blends never fail to charm. Many times, bystanders just toss a glance of mockery or assume the pipe merely serves as an attention getter.

For smokers who know, it's not about winning the approval of non-smokers and certainly not a fashion statement. It's really about the love for the leaf, and a cigar just won't do. Cigarettes assailed my lungs, and then pipes won my heart.

Switching from cigarettes to pipes is nothing new. After buying my first pipe in 2001, I was told my father did the same in the '70s. Him and probably most fail at this; I did a few times until my recent success. Pipes are never to be inhaled; also most blends are too strong for the human lung. As smoking goes, cigarettes are pretty lame, but superior at nicotine delivery, filling the lungs with satisfaction.

Pipe tobacco offers nicotine of course, but only that which is absorbed through the mouth lining. The pipes' true advantage is the smoking experience, not mere addiction.

Common smokers apologize for smoking, smoke "light" cigarettes, and see little else in their habit but feeding a drug addiction. Mostly outdoors, I'm sure. This is one reason why living alone is a must. If you lower yourself to "ultra lights," you may as well quit and suck on toothpicks.

They probably started as part of adolescent rebellion or some such asininity. If this is their idea of smoking, they should just give up. Common smokers have already - at least politically and socially. I have no regrets or apologies. I love the leaf dearly and avidly.

Pipe tobacco is now my poison of joy and for the most popular reason. I live at the poverty line, and giving up cigarettes was my only way out of the hole. Pipe smoking, my favorite smoke, costs me less than 75 cents a day compared to roughly $6.70 on cigarettes. The latter figure is also my hourly wage. I might as well have been swilling Vicodin.

Even before Texas' latest tax hike, it became clear that a heavy smoking habit was unrealistic even for a full-time worker having no dependents, a car, or cable TV. After cigarettes and bills, I only had $80 a month for food, my cat's needs and everything else. Cutting down probably wouldn't help, while any less than 30 a day is just enough to piss me off.

Pulmonary love was dead to me; I no longer needed it. I retired my special chrome cigarette lighter and consulted my pipe rack, a pristine beauty I scored at a thrift store for $2. Prince Albert Crimp Cut is the all-day smoke I crave every day. It's been around since 1907 and the reasons are clear. The stuff burns well and tastes like pipe tobacco should; this is the real deal. At $3 a pouch, money is no object. At present, that is.

I just "Googled" the Prince's illustrious name. Oh, my God. Against all remaining decency in the not actually free world, the blend's image has been unspeakably defiled by present-day vulgarians. Formerly known as a dear piece of Americana, "Prince Albert" is now slang for some goddamn male genital piercing! Damn the purveyors and partakers straight to Hell just so I can watch them burn.

Obviously, "male piercing" is an oxymoron. Jewelry is great; I wear a men's ring and a men's bracelet, but there is no damned piercing that a man should wear. Paying to have your penis mutilated only proves you are disturbed in addition to tragically stupid. Put on a dress and go die somewhere, dolt-ass loser.

Freaks obsessively strive to make a statement and always in the most moronic way possible. You didn't need any piercing; we already knew you were an ass clown. These worthless, degenerate wads of gutter-trash would film a filth fetish orgy on the American flag just to act cute and piss off your mother.

I digress. I couldn't live without mentioning that. Now the healing can begin.

Quitting cigarettes took a bizarre turn. At work in the produce department, I craved the old surge of nicotine. Not wanting to cripple my transition to pipes, I opted for dip rather than smokes. I've always thought of smokeless tobacco as vomitous to witness and only for disgusting losers.

This occurred to me as I spat brown into trashcans in the produce backroom. This became my workplace norm for the week; working front end affords no opportunity to spit putrescence all day. Actually, the "straight" variety is tasty - in a mouthful of poisonous saliva sort of way.

By my second week of dip experimentation, I was dipping at home. By this time, I was looking forward to trying chewing tobacco, thinking this would provide a more intimate relationship with my poison. Sucking on straight, long cut at my computer, I was feeling pretty good. Smokeless gives an even stronger nicotine fix.

A spit that should have been just like any other was "oh, damn!" red with my blood. I spat even more blood into the sink, cleaned up, and swore off smokeless. I'm thankful something saved me from myself, because that was most repulsive and just plain wrong.

The Prince and I are happy together along with my rack of straight brairs. I carry a pipe all day and keep lighting up with my specially ordered solid brass Zippo pipe lighter. Whether I'm taken by cancer or natural causes, smoking is my favorite indulgence and I'm keeping it for life. It's great to finally be at peace with the right smoke for me. It'll be damn fine to spend that extra $50 a week - on booze, of course.

Pipe smoking is at least worth a try. You've got Internet access, so I recommend researching before smoking. Maybe you're one of those lost souls who should try quitting - again. Whatever your smoking preference, keep it burnin'.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Civilization's Weather Obsession: Please Shut Up

Texas is just a warmer version of Hell. I burn in the Nazi war criminal section. In a region where the weather changes continuously, one might expect that people would tire of talking about petty cold and heat. Sadly, weather trumps war, impending global depression, and all manner of human suffering on planet entropy. Ultimately, people just need to talk about nothing for no actual reason and to dissect the obvious. I work with the general public; I get to hear all about it.

I've never understood the popular obsession with the weather. Aside from sports, weather is the most trivial segment in any newscast, yet Americans just can't live without an update. Many disbelieve meteorologists' projections and listen to them anyway.

I've also never found any good reason to follow the weather. I ride a bicycle to work and go shopping on foot. I should know the importance of weather conditions more than most drivers. Who in reality ever holds a picnic? Nobody ventures to parks unless it is to do "cardio" in the gayest outfit possible or to attack said joggers. Clearly, America is placing quite a value on what amounts to chump change.

North Texas has been stricken with what passes as a heat wave this time of year. Customers blither with joy over the sunny pestilence and expect me to join in on "praise and worship." Warm weather, excellent. Perhaps we'll see putrid man feet spreading over those damned flip-flops John Q. Dirtbag treasures so. Already we see the cotton vulgarity that is the T-shirt littering the streets of Dallas like used condoms and syringes.

I rant because they rejoice. How intolerable of them.

Is nobody bothered by that sickening sweat? How about the insect plagues enabled by warm weather? Inexplicably, some people look forward to the heat of the year. By the same token, squalor abounds and many filth-enrobed hands will never feel the lather of those bars they were forbidden to embrace.

Scantily clad women often don't elicit thoughts of a tactile sampling. All the wrong bodies are showing too damn much. Shake what the Arches gave ya'. There you have it, a walking cautionary tale akin to waving lung disease photos at us tobacco fiends. Emphysema is looking like a real winner.

The concept of dressing for the season always struck me as ridiculous. This would mean leaving half of the wardrobe you went into debt for lying dormant at all times. I own no short sleeves, only dress shirts and the obligatory wife beaters. My solution is to wear exactly the same type outfit every day and keep a trench coat for winter. Besides, the popular idea of summer clothes burns tastefulness at the stake.

Nature's everyday trivialities get more airtime than hyped up hurricanes, but reality scoffs at the obsession. We spend the bulk of our time indoors where centuries of innovation provide the comforts we call necessities. Few lives are claimed by the daunting sojourn from office to air-conditioned car. Sure it was hot, but there's little whining at the bus stop. Seemingly, those with the greatest luxuries bitch the most about their discomforts.

I've made three-mile walks under Texas heat. I didn't whine because it didn't seem worth lamenting. The pain and purple hands dealt by wintry winds, rain soaked clothes, and even the miseries of summer I loathe are soon dismissed. Dwelling on the uncontrollable makes it unbearable; it must therefore become irrelevant.

We resign ourselves to seasonal discomforts and keep moving. I'm referring to Dallas, Texas - not any region home to hockey fans or the French-speaking. In your locale, you just might be screwed.

If conversing must be a nervous habit, perhaps we could talk about what we may actually be able to control. If that's insurmountable, we could at least exchange real viewpoints and observations. If none of these options are suitable, then everybody shut the Hell up, because we have no reason to speak. I'm damn tired of listening.

How many people did they discuss the weather with before accosting me? Afterwards? Either weather conditions so captivate the forefront of their consciousness or they just favor the popular excuse for interrupting a bystander's train of thought.

Show me someone who was actually thinking of the sky's hue and I'll show you a bag of liquorice with greater intellect. If they weren't senselessly blithering, a worthwhile thought might have made it out alive. Only God knows how many brainchildren were aborted.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Neo-Illiteracy

R U illiterate? Sure, our educational system sucks, but school is a mere half measure. The greatest threat to modern literacy is the 21st century itself. Technological advancement has exacerbated age-old dumbness, as the lowest common denominator writhes in glee.

Essentially, we learn all the English we need in elementary school. That's right, not even indolent dropouts like me have an excuse. We all have a responsibility to grow intellectually rather than let our minds shrivel up and die.

When the Hell did Dickens or Hemingway ever write in pigdin English? As a conscientious literary mind, I gasped in horror upon cracking the “LOL” code. Freshly evolved gray matter reverts to ooze. Mark Twain wants to see us all in Hell. There are neither “Xs” nor “Os” in “hugs and kisses.” Both forms of human contact are too much to bear, yet not enough to get me there. How does an intellectual pig write, “go die somewhere.”

E-mailing forged barren frontiers. Reading a friend's e-mail can be like finding him with a corpse and shovel. Bewildered like a kitten in snowfall, dimmer wits use their keyboards like preschoolers drool on finger paint. To their credit, the little tikes are more likely to wash their hands after licking. Cruel imagery. Why do I nauseate myself?

I suppose some people thought the term “spell check” a chat room come-on. For decency's sake, this basic word processing function was made with their cerebral desolation in mind. It's also for stoned writers - so I've heard. Commas are a myth and periods are obsolete, as the only punctuation to be found are streams of exclamation points. Damn you, dullard scum! That's an exclamation point in its proper place and one is all it takes.

Although a star reporter as a college freshman, I kept failing English 101. Terms like “participle” and “gerund” are meaningless. I don't even know what a damned predicate is, nor do I care. Education is overrated and college English is no different than that of grade school. A fifth grade education is all we need to write a proper e-mail. Intellectual growth and rejecting popular sloth is the key.

Knowing how to write wins supporters and opens doors simply because most people lack that ability. During my practice as a student entrepreneur, a dolt I affectionately addressed as “Hooked on Phonics” was my biggest buyer of college essays. No deadline was impossible and no fee too low as I laid it down for nimrods who found it easier to pay than think. That's true sloth.

We use money and technology when brainpower trumps them both. Thought is bypassed with acronyms and teenage girl-esque slang. Even a dog's bark is a language. Is alpha grunting the next hot fashion?

If letter writing is indeed a lost art, true literacy will succumb to the domino effect. Skillfully writing an e-mail is an utterly basic way to make a good impression and even distinguish yourself. Yeah, this is my good impression; in person I just seem pissed and insane.

Our great language is found everywhere, yet competent usage eludes so many. Slang is used whenever possible: I prefer old-fashioned profanity. Books are available at supermarkets, yet only tabloids are sold. Many Americans subscribe to Christianity, yet are unaware the book of Proverbs calls them “a fool.”

Before cable TV and the Internet, it was either dull TV shows or a good book. I read most of the classics; read them again, ran out of books, and resorted to encyclopedias. Yes, I'm a scholar of useless information, but you have to give a damn about Shakespeare to be on Jeopardy!

Five minutes later, every youth is plugged into one idiot box or another and engaged in techno-mindless activity whenever possible. A new variant of illiteracy is poised to pervert the way we use language and intellectually maim our country's future. What a Hell-bound future it is.

How can one have any genuine train of thought when playing with a goddamn cell phone at all times? I write down more thoughts than I blurt out as if it were urgent business or the meaning of life. I've got a cell phone, but I can't figure out text messaging for some reason. Oh, yeah, that's because I'm fully literate. I've read more cogent statements on bathroom walls than on cell phones. Convenience store owners use less broken English.

Future generations are pretty much screwed regardless, and adults' minds are just as easily influenced. Whether scholars or nimrods, we became literate by practice. Practice can also have degenerative effects on the mind.

Writing ability and intellectual growth itself is a lifelong process. Articles of mine that were hailed in college I now see as preschool finger paintings. My developmental milestones since then have been my sweetest moments. Nothing would please me more than to see my mind grow further.

America is fine with becoming fat; shall we grow dumber as well?

Monday, July 14, 2008

American Democracy: Suicide by Representative

America is the new Russia. As weekend patriots backed up freeways and blew off their hands in remembrance of the rockets' red glare, they should have been reminded of the black haze in lower Manhattan. The fallout of September 11 is the fall of the United States. Why revere the desecrated flag of a vanquished nation?

Just like oppressive Russia and Commie-ass China, our "land of the free" is listed as an endemic surveillance society by civil liberties organizations worldwide. Given a disaster on American soil or a tidy false flag operation, our president has full legal authority to unilaterally transform the 50 states into a police state. By "police state" I of course mean a nation ruled by a dictator and raped by martial law as dissidents are whisked away to concentration camps. Executive orders are a bitch, just like our impotent Congress.

Without Congressional oversight, George W. Bush is whoring for a burgeoning conspiracy to form a borderless trinational government with Canada and Mexico by 2010, complete with a unified currency. Barack Obama and John McCain support the plot. Anyway, let's all wallow in complacency and find out the hard way; I hear compulsory biometric identification is way cool.

These and other velvet gloved bitch slaps were dealt under the pretext of saving us from terrorism. Enjoy the security.

Freedom doesn't come free. Is the price to be paid solely by members of the armed forces, or will average citizens ante up? Who will bother to vote in November, or has the democratic process become irrelevant and our ballots a punch line to the ruling class? These byproducts of capitalism hate our rights and have declared war on the American people. The elite among our elected officials are silver-spooned treasoners. Those who undermine the Constitution have been glorified at rallies by patriotic Americans. Half measures are the offspring of cowardice and sloth — voting itself just won't do.

Neither will CNN. I gather that a great many Americans wouldn't know what much of this article refers to. Dismissing it all as conspiracy theory born of psychosis would feel soothing. The feel good approach is the American way. Conspiracy, yes; but all fact. In the 21st century, a conspiracy theorist need only point out the blatantly obvious. This and much more is readily available from reference websites, credible sources and independent journalists. If they seem insane, go to the source and take note of our fearless leader's executive orders. At this website, you can even subscribe to an online newsletter. If you want the real news and have a Google account, I highly recommend using Google alerts.

It is actually quite easy to spot the morons and wack jobs among us bloggers. They are borderline illiterate and use phrases like "dastardly deeds." Although references to 1984 get old fast and George Orwell was clearly an optimist, they are typically not indicative of a rebel without credibility.

Clearly, you have Internet access. What do you know about: NSPD-51, FEMA camps, the John Warner National Defense Authorization Act of 2006, the Protect America Act, Oliver North's REX-84, RFID, and the Real ID Act? These are the complete foundation of an American dictatorship, and all are undisputed fact. That's right, think of Stalin and the Schutzstaffel.

So, the FEMA camp theories have been debunked? Debunkers are after every cabal, including the Holocaust. I refer you to the YouTube report recorded at a FEMA camp and encourage you to fit a Google search into your day and draw your own conclusions. Our logic is that theorists are morons and debunkers must be right, yet denying the Holocaust — which I do not — is considered tantamount to blasphemy. Ignorance abounds, everybody has an agenda, and the truth is often difficult to accept.

What's more troubling than concentration camps is how we may arrive there. National Security Presidential Directive 51, an executive order, gives the executive branch supreme authority in deciding what constitutes a national emergency and when the emergency ends. Sounds trite and harmless, but prepare to wet yourself. In the event of such an incident, whether it be another massive hurricane, demonstration or "terrorist attack," martial law may be declared by the president with nothing more than a signature from the attorney general. Under martial law, the Constitution would be suspended and FEMA would assume control of the government.

Such a coup was engineered by Iran-Contra conspirator Lt. Col. Oliver North in Readiness Exercise 1984, code named "REX-84." Under this contingency plan, those deemed a threat to the government would be taken to FEMA camps. The list of potential detainees dates back to J. Edgar Hoover's "security index" in 1950. Hoover told the White House that in the event of an emergency, those on the list would be detained. The list, which includes writers and scholars, was allegedly maintained and updated until the '80s, when it was turned over to FEMA.

Paranoid Hoover suspected thousands of being pinkos and dangerous radicals. According to one ostensibly credible source I know of, some 8 million American names are currently listed in a master database referred to as Main Core. Numerous sources state that approximately 800 FEMA camps nationwide stand ready to detain these citizens. Nevertheless, the exact figures remain unknown and little is known about Main Core — including the database's true name or if it actually exists. Other such lists, however, we all know of. In post September 11 America, technologically advanced, ruled by lawlessness, and under surveillance, all bets are off.

Under martial law, the legislative and judicial branches would have no actual power, making the executive branch the only authority. Just as detailed in REX-84, military commanders would assume control of state and local governments. In this event, the president-turned-dictator has every right to cancel the elections.

Imagine Bush's delight as he's mocked as a buffoon on comedy shows. If he did take the short bus to Air Force One, he'd be too harmeless to rape the nation and get away with high treason. By a majority vote, we're the retards.

The John Warner National Defense Act of 2006 made the illegal perfectly okay, allowing the US military to be deployed on American soil in the event of a "natural disaster, epidemic, or other serious public health emergency, terrorist attack, or incident." Incident? Seems like they'll find any excuse. This was passed in 2006, when the nation seemed safe again and "terrorism" was little more than a word thrown around by government officials.

I merely pretended to know what I was talking about when I decribed NSPD-51. In reality, none of us know how far it's gone. Congressman Peter DeFazio, a member of the House Homeland Security Committee sought access to "classified annexes" in NSPD-51. DeFazio and the chairman of that committee were abruptly denied access.

"I just can't believe they're going to deny a member of Congress the right of reviewing how they plan to conduct the government of the United States after a significant terrorist attack. Maybe the people who think there's a conspiracy out there are right," DeFazio said. This poetic declaration was made just before he bowed to the beast and encouraged us to trust our government. Accountability is obsolete and corruption is accepted, yet we should have faith.

If this is news to you, you're what's wrong with America. Perhaps you heard the theories, maybe you dismissed them with a snicker. That was my reaction — then I did some reading. Why should we bother? This could never happen; a decade ago we must have thought the Twin Towers invincible. Screw it, let's hunt for money and sex, watch TV, and let the nation we take for granted go straight to Hell.

By law, this great country could be transformed into a police state literally overnight with the presidential election canceled. Our sellout mass media remains silent as typical Americans are reveling in couch time rather than protesting. Obviously, we deserve absolute subjugation and have done less than nothing to make us worthy of enjoying Constitutional rights. So long as this remains the case, patriotism and Independence Day will remain a national joke in the eyes of pragmatism.

Lowlife Bush is not the true culprit and only a delusional person could think Obama or McCain will save our asses. No government in whatever utopia would volunteer to relinquish the powers of a police state.

The real problem isn't gas prices or even the war. I'm an unskilled laborer, not some scholarly, lily-handed prick with a thesaurus under his pillow. Perhaps America can still be saved, or whatever. Her fate will not be determined by the powers that be, but by commoners like you and me. Let's try not to screw ourselves over.