Being a literary genius, I am often wont to discover the plight of the common man, all the better to portray him in my large portfolio of novels, novellas and novelettes I have thought of. I am interested in the colloquialisms, the consumption of unhealthy mass-farmed vegetables, the use of violence and name calling to settle disagreements, and of course the triumphant ascension of the gifted few from this demographic of rudeness, brawl, and toil into a more genteel and enlightened state of hyperliteracy and interpersonal conscientiousness.
So it was with great interest that I regarded the thin, pathetic shell of a man woefully ringing a bell outside the local Fred Meyer store when I went to purchase some knit mittens along with a fluffy pair of earmuffs, all the better to repel the vile cold weather we've been experiencing of late. (This was on the Friday following Thanksgiving, when store owners reduce their prices so the poor may afford to purchase them. It is known as "Black Friday" in such circles, though why it's not referred to as "Pauper Christmas" I shall never understand.) There he stood in the cold, at once downtrodden and stoic. Could this person be my literary muse, my Tom Sawyer whom I might transcend into life with my literary gift? After several moments of staring directly at him without blinking, I made my approach. The presence of such a staggering literary genius obviously unsettled him, as he took several steps backwards and glanced nervously at the red pot of his earnings suspended in a tripod-like scaffold he had obviously cobbled together with various odds and ends. I had to put this creature at ease if I were to begin the delicate inception of his deliverance from banality.
"I like your bell." I said, maintaining a steady yet warm eye contact, which he seemed very wont to avoid. This compliment actually had the opposite effect of what I had intended, as he began looking to the other Fred Meyer denizens with a frantic expression, silently pleading for aid. A large, burly man with a tight haircut briskly walked by and deposited a few coins in his begging jar without regarding his nonverbal cues, and I think his heart literally broke in that moment.
This was a good thing though, as lower class persons often develop such a degree of stubborn resilience that they often can't be succored until they hit absolute rock bottom. This poor man was coming to terms with his outcast status, and divine intervention had seen to it that I was there to raise him from the depths of his illusory despair. I waited a moment or two, not once breaking eye contact, locked in a social stalemate with this vagabond and letting my genteel presence slowly erode the barrier society had erected between our respective socioeconomic classes.
When I sensed the moment was right, I spoke again in a level calm tone, not breaking my steady gaze. "I like your red begging pot too. That's very clever of you."
I was completely unprepared for what transpired next. He shrieked "Take it, motherfucker!!!" then wound his arm back like a pitcher and launched the bell squarely at my face. To no avail, though. Deep within the refined folds of my hefty brain lies the finely honed reflexes of a warrior, and my motor neurons effortlessly acquired the trajectory of the bell and gently, yet swiftly, guided my hand in front of it to pluck it from it's flight. The bell glanced off my fingertips and hit me squarely in the nose, but after a small amount of scrambling I managed to trap it between my forearm and belt as it fell. A rush of rage welled up, but then quickly subsided as I opened my eyes and saw the poor man's intent stare as he tried to assess the mote of damage he had caused. This was not his fault, these were the death throws of his white trash existence petulantly acting out knowing they were soon to be extinguished.
Of course, now people were staring and gathering around. Phones were coming out, a phenomenon with which I am all too familiar. With grand aplomb I stepped forward, and kneeling as a knight does, presented the bell to him.
"I believe you dropped this." I said, in reply to which he screamed "This guy is trying to rob me!"
This mendacious utterance was the last straw. To sully my reputation in public is simply over the line of decency, and with it the realization that this lousy bum was in fact not worth enlightenment came over me like a tsunami, and along with it a very red hot yet saintly rage fell over me.
"I ought to sue you for slander, you unsightly parasite!" I bellowed. He cowered in a corner while the crowd backed up with gasps and laughter. "Do you even understand the notion of work? This is what real work entails!"
And I snatched his begging jar and heftily threw it's contents into the Fred Meyer parking lot. There was a surprising amount of coin and small bills in there, and no doubt an afternoon of scrounging hurriedly after it would provide him with an appreciation of the hard work requisite to make an honest living. No longer caring for mittens nor earmuffs (my ears were quite red and hot at this point,) I indignantly stomped off. But not before confiscating his bell. "You need not carry hidden weapons such as this, sir! Beg with your own voice!" I snapped over my shoulder as I triumphantly strutted off.
As I walked home contemplating this damned soul and wondering what kind of cruel God could form such a wretched creature, I noticed several police cars running "code" (that's professional law enforcement officer slang for "driving quickly with lights and sirens aflame,") towards the Fred Meyer. Obviously the hobo was taking his rancor out on the crowd. I shrugged and waived, though the officer couldn't be bothered to return the kindness from his speeding cruiser. No matter, I wish them well in apprehending arresting, and hopefully committing this sick, sad soul to some manner of mental institution where he will no longer waste the effort and charity of others.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Monday, November 19, 2012
Got in a FISTICUFFS with some yokel over Twinkies™
Genteel Readers,
One of my secret vices has always been Hostess™ brand fruit snacks and Twinkies. Now, before my multitude of detractors starts braying about how they're "not organic" and how they're "full of chemicals," let me explain something to you. I am a graduate school drop out, which puts me in league with such luminaries as Stephen Jobs and William Gates. So I think I know what is organic and what isn't. The recipe for Twinkies actually predates chemical additives and preservatives, and the reason why they last so long even in a compost pile or a fire is they're SO in harmony with nature that they peacefully coexist as all enlightened beings/snacks are wont to do. As such, I have been wont to eat several of them every day, purchasing them by the box and stashing them in secret places all over my house so my wife doesn't all of a sudden eat them between waitressing shifts, the selfish harpy. My very best hiding places have included the toilet cistern and under the treadmill (as Katie is never wont to exercise with the laughable excuse that serving something called an "Awesome Blossom" to local yokels is somehow "exhausting.")
Well, you can imagine my dismay and dread when they started closing Hostess™ factories, and then just weeks later shuttered the entire company! For the first time since I was a child, I actually sucked my thumb HIDING IN THE CLOSET, wrapped in my quilt. I will also confess that, upon hearing the horrid news had broken, I lost a few drops as it were. By which I mean I wet my pants. If this is unclear, let me clarify by saying I (mostly involuntarily) peed down the front of my sweat pants. Upon which I quickly snatched up my quilt, dashed into the closet, found my favorite frayed end, and stayed in there sucking my thumb until I could compose my thoughts. I don't know how long I was in this fugue state, (come to think of it, I don't recall having changed pants,) but suffice to say it must have been several hours. As emotion waned and genius waxed, I realized I had to get to the Hostess™ store and purchase all the snacks I possibly could! After putting up with Katie's sneers (she was at the OTHER restaurant she works at, some kind of pancake place with gauche decor and even worse ambiance,) I had a fistful of cash and rapidly power-walked to my destination with the aim of liberating all the delicious Twinkies™ and Fruit Pies™ I could scrounge!
Imagine my horror when I arrived to see the rubes had beaten me to the store, and were scrambling about, shouting at the kind clerks to retrieve goods from the back! After elbowing and scratching my way to the front of the crowd, I very politely demanded that the clerk bring me his reserve of Twinkies and other such confectioneries and that he do so right this minute! Well, let me tell you about this guy. First of all, he looked like Homer Simpson without the jaundice and smelled like cigarettes. I had expected the Hostess™ store to be staffed by clean, pleasant, respectable men in bowties, and before me stood this lumbering cretin. So to get his attention I started poking him in his big fat moobs to get my point across. I needed my snacks and I needed them NOW!
"Sir please," he said, "you need to keep your hands to yourself. I can get you on a wait-list, we have a truck coming in at 6AM tomorrow, I'd be happy to take your name down if you'd like." My readership knows THAT is exactly the kind of condescension from rubes that really PISSES ME OFF! As he turned away I shut my eyes, sharply inhaled, drew my clenched fist back to my ear and launched it for his cheek with all my might! I felt a solid impact, and then a child's scream ricocheted through the small foyer. Apparently, some fat idiot mother had tried to insert herself between Homer Simpson and I when the fisticuffs began, as women are wont to be peacekeepers. And I had in turn punched her three-year old in the face, whom she had been carrying. His nose was gushing blood, he was crying and she was trying to soothe him. I scowled at her for her idiocy, inserting herself into manly combat like that and recklessly endangering a child! "You stupid matinee!" I snapped at her. She looked at me, stunned, so I repeated myself; "You STUPID fat matinee!"
Of course, the crowd turned hostile at that point. Rubes started hitting me with their purses and other chatelle, nearly knocking me off my balance. I ran from the store as fast as I could, and a few of them followed me into the parking lot. Fortunately, I don't own a car so there was nothing to slash and/or key. These people weren't true Twinkie™ aficionados anyway. They were just selling them on e-bay for a disgusting markup. But at least I won my fistfight. Score one for the manly man of letters!
One of my secret vices has always been Hostess™ brand fruit snacks and Twinkies. Now, before my multitude of detractors starts braying about how they're "not organic" and how they're "full of chemicals," let me explain something to you. I am a graduate school drop out, which puts me in league with such luminaries as Stephen Jobs and William Gates. So I think I know what is organic and what isn't. The recipe for Twinkies actually predates chemical additives and preservatives, and the reason why they last so long even in a compost pile or a fire is they're SO in harmony with nature that they peacefully coexist as all enlightened beings/snacks are wont to do. As such, I have been wont to eat several of them every day, purchasing them by the box and stashing them in secret places all over my house so my wife doesn't all of a sudden eat them between waitressing shifts, the selfish harpy. My very best hiding places have included the toilet cistern and under the treadmill (as Katie is never wont to exercise with the laughable excuse that serving something called an "Awesome Blossom" to local yokels is somehow "exhausting.")
Well, you can imagine my dismay and dread when they started closing Hostess™ factories, and then just weeks later shuttered the entire company! For the first time since I was a child, I actually sucked my thumb HIDING IN THE CLOSET, wrapped in my quilt. I will also confess that, upon hearing the horrid news had broken, I lost a few drops as it were. By which I mean I wet my pants. If this is unclear, let me clarify by saying I (mostly involuntarily) peed down the front of my sweat pants. Upon which I quickly snatched up my quilt, dashed into the closet, found my favorite frayed end, and stayed in there sucking my thumb until I could compose my thoughts. I don't know how long I was in this fugue state, (come to think of it, I don't recall having changed pants,) but suffice to say it must have been several hours. As emotion waned and genius waxed, I realized I had to get to the Hostess™ store and purchase all the snacks I possibly could! After putting up with Katie's sneers (she was at the OTHER restaurant she works at, some kind of pancake place with gauche decor and even worse ambiance,) I had a fistful of cash and rapidly power-walked to my destination with the aim of liberating all the delicious Twinkies™ and Fruit Pies™ I could scrounge!
Imagine my horror when I arrived to see the rubes had beaten me to the store, and were scrambling about, shouting at the kind clerks to retrieve goods from the back! After elbowing and scratching my way to the front of the crowd, I very politely demanded that the clerk bring me his reserve of Twinkies and other such confectioneries and that he do so right this minute! Well, let me tell you about this guy. First of all, he looked like Homer Simpson without the jaundice and smelled like cigarettes. I had expected the Hostess™ store to be staffed by clean, pleasant, respectable men in bowties, and before me stood this lumbering cretin. So to get his attention I started poking him in his big fat moobs to get my point across. I needed my snacks and I needed them NOW!
"Sir please," he said, "you need to keep your hands to yourself. I can get you on a wait-list, we have a truck coming in at 6AM tomorrow, I'd be happy to take your name down if you'd like." My readership knows THAT is exactly the kind of condescension from rubes that really PISSES ME OFF! As he turned away I shut my eyes, sharply inhaled, drew my clenched fist back to my ear and launched it for his cheek with all my might! I felt a solid impact, and then a child's scream ricocheted through the small foyer. Apparently, some fat idiot mother had tried to insert herself between Homer Simpson and I when the fisticuffs began, as women are wont to be peacekeepers. And I had in turn punched her three-year old in the face, whom she had been carrying. His nose was gushing blood, he was crying and she was trying to soothe him. I scowled at her for her idiocy, inserting herself into manly combat like that and recklessly endangering a child! "You stupid matinee!" I snapped at her. She looked at me, stunned, so I repeated myself; "You STUPID fat matinee!"
Of course, the crowd turned hostile at that point. Rubes started hitting me with their purses and other chatelle, nearly knocking me off my balance. I ran from the store as fast as I could, and a few of them followed me into the parking lot. Fortunately, I don't own a car so there was nothing to slash and/or key. These people weren't true Twinkie™ aficionados anyway. They were just selling them on e-bay for a disgusting markup. But at least I won my fistfight. Score one for the manly man of letters!
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Gingerbread home SMASHED by Puppy Bear!
I count among my crafty genteel hobbies the art and science of gingerbread house construction. Gingerbreads are my bricks, frosting is my mortar, and delightful X-mas ("Christmas" is for fascists, more on this later,) candies my decor! This has not only provided hours of relief from reality, but delicious snacking opportunities as I enhance both my creativity and my pendulous abdomen. This year, I had it in my heart to craft not just a simple gingerbread house, but a gingerbread COMMUNITY replete with multiple houses, several coffee houses with reading/writing rooms, libraries, bookstores, and quiet reading/writing nooks, perfectly manicured parks hosting multiple farmer's markets, kumkwat trees, Xanax trees, anything and everything you could ever want in a higher utopia. I laid out a vision over an afternoon while Katie worked two waitressing shifts, drew up a stupendous set of blueprints, then I walked to her restaurant and hit her up for some cash so I could go invest it in gingerbread house accouterments (her attitude as she handed over the cash was quite poor. I do not care to be sneered at.)
The rest of the afternoon was spent haranguing at sweets store owners as only a true artisan can! The frosting, the candies, the gingerbread all had to be utterly perfect! (Can you believe genteel readers, that the fat, ignorant, buck-toothed trollop had the NERVE to cut my first order of organic gingerbread with the same knife that had JUST been used to cut a non-organic batch of cookies? She was also a sloppy measurer as well - a candy architect she shall never be.) After arbitrarily sending back several orders for contrived flaws, all the better to frustrate the teenage bastard-factory, I finally had the perfect (all organic!) gingerbread substrate with which to build my resplendent confectionery utopia. Unfortunately, I was low on funds and all my credit card are either maxed out/in collections, so I was forced to shoplift several bags of Halloween candy, which I think makes me quite the Dickensian, just like Oliver Twist. I do not know if the candy was organic or no, but it wasn't labelled such. Still, I can't see a confectioner using impure ingredients, so I can safely assume they are free of preservatives and are sourced from fair trade coca beans and sugar trees. I took my "construction supplies" home, and after several dozen minutes of intensely focused effort produced this:
Just as I was admiring my work, Puppy Bear came sauntering over with her tennis ball, as Puppy Bear is wont to do. She dropped the ball at my feet and did the cutest little play-bow dance, tail gesticulating, sharp canine eyes flashing. I placed my creation on the floor and took several steps back to create distance whence I tossed the ball. Then, Puppy Bear being a dog sniffed at the gingerbread house. Anyone who owns a dog knows what was to come next, and so boldly I acted!
I hurled the tennis ball square at Puppy Bear's head! "PUPPY BEAR NOOOOOO!!!" I shrieked. The idiot mutt ran off with her tail between her legs, retreating to the safety of under the bed (she can entertain herself there for hours when I hold one of my tizzies.) I ran after her to give her the spanking she had earned, when I placed my foot directly onto the roof of my gingerbread mansion - no - PALACE! And this was the result, stupid fucking dog!
She crawled under the bed as I pounded my fist against the drywall, screaming at the top of my lungs in agony over what had happened to my candy castle. I tried to lift the bed, but alas I was too feeble (fucking crossfit!) Of course, this is when Katie comes home, starts comforting and cuddling MY dog and doesn't at all attend to my grieving process! I threw the rest of my frosting againt the wall! I threw the gingerbread! I threw the candies!! In my blind agony, I tore up the detailed blueprints I had drawn out! Sprinkles? I THREW THEM AGAINST THE WALL!!
When I opened my eyes I thought I was dreaming. I was in my candy paradise! Colors and frosting and lick-able architecture! I whimsically danced through the house! Kaloo! Kalay!! I opened the door to the master bedroom, and to my horror saw a shaking puppy bear and a Katie with tear streaked eyes.
"Oh, it's YOU." I said flatly. I realized she did not appreciate the cathartic creation of my utopia. The rage precipitated by Puppy Bear's idiocy had been transformed and transcended by me, the artist, into a living paradigm of paradise. And all she could do is cry and scold my about my temper. All Puppy Bear could do is sit there quivering, and I think she peed under the bed because there is the awfullest smell coming from under there at this time right now.
I do have a new idea for a book. It's a series of (get this!) prequels to Twilight AND Fifty Shades of Grey! The nexus between the two universes? It's FRANKENSTEIN! I will have Edward fall in love with a Frankenstein! This is going to sell, people!
The rest of the afternoon was spent haranguing at sweets store owners as only a true artisan can! The frosting, the candies, the gingerbread all had to be utterly perfect! (Can you believe genteel readers, that the fat, ignorant, buck-toothed trollop had the NERVE to cut my first order of organic gingerbread with the same knife that had JUST been used to cut a non-organic batch of cookies? She was also a sloppy measurer as well - a candy architect she shall never be.) After arbitrarily sending back several orders for contrived flaws, all the better to frustrate the teenage bastard-factory, I finally had the perfect (all organic!) gingerbread substrate with which to build my resplendent confectionery utopia. Unfortunately, I was low on funds and all my credit card are either maxed out/in collections, so I was forced to shoplift several bags of Halloween candy, which I think makes me quite the Dickensian, just like Oliver Twist. I do not know if the candy was organic or no, but it wasn't labelled such. Still, I can't see a confectioner using impure ingredients, so I can safely assume they are free of preservatives and are sourced from fair trade coca beans and sugar trees. I took my "construction supplies" home, and after several dozen minutes of intensely focused effort produced this:
 |
| The Nascent Paradise! |
I hurled the tennis ball square at Puppy Bear's head! "PUPPY BEAR NOOOOOO!!!" I shrieked. The idiot mutt ran off with her tail between her legs, retreating to the safety of under the bed (she can entertain herself there for hours when I hold one of my tizzies.) I ran after her to give her the spanking she had earned, when I placed my foot directly onto the roof of my gingerbread mansion - no - PALACE! And this was the result, stupid fucking dog!
 |
| Stupid Goddamn Dog! |
When I opened my eyes I thought I was dreaming. I was in my candy paradise! Colors and frosting and lick-able architecture! I whimsically danced through the house! Kaloo! Kalay!! I opened the door to the master bedroom, and to my horror saw a shaking puppy bear and a Katie with tear streaked eyes.
"Oh, it's YOU." I said flatly. I realized she did not appreciate the cathartic creation of my utopia. The rage precipitated by Puppy Bear's idiocy had been transformed and transcended by me, the artist, into a living paradigm of paradise. And all she could do is cry and scold my about my temper. All Puppy Bear could do is sit there quivering, and I think she peed under the bed because there is the awfullest smell coming from under there at this time right now.
I do have a new idea for a book. It's a series of (get this!) prequels to Twilight AND Fifty Shades of Grey! The nexus between the two universes? It's FRANKENSTEIN! I will have Edward fall in love with a Frankenstein! This is going to sell, people!
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Mother Earth Strikes Back Against The Machine!
Genteel Readers;
I must warn you, the following video is graphic and disturbing in the extreme. Just watching the first part caused me to bite my fingernails down to nubs, (Ba Tran, my nail lady, is going to be furious with me!) But wasting gas like these guys are and putting CFCs into the atmosphere is simply unforgivable. But then, then mother nature strikes the most horrific blow I've ever seen. To wit;
I literally fainted when I saw this. Fortunately, I had time to limply put the back of my hand to my forehead first, which is the universal sign for fainting. (Afterwards, I called 911 to report I had fainted. The paramedics were at first annoyed and then spent most of the ambulance ride making fun of me. After I had a hysterical melt-down in the emergency room, they discharged me without letting me see a doctor. Obamacare my ass, all I wanted was a Xanax or two!)
It is obvious that Mother Earth is angry, and is striking back against these rubes with a vengeance previously unforeseen. So now we have Katrina, Sandy, and this as evidence that Earth is mounting a psychic attack against those who deny the truth of global warming. Even my small community (Bellevue,) is likely to see temperatures BELOW FREEZING tonight, and it's only November! Genteel persons of the world, I fear for our future. It appears as though I'm going to need to suck my thumb wrapped in TWO quilts tonight, as I am loathe to waste energy on heating my home, as true environmentalists are wont to do. Be well, for as it says in the Bible, these are just the beginnings of birth pains!
I must warn you, the following video is graphic and disturbing in the extreme. Just watching the first part caused me to bite my fingernails down to nubs, (Ba Tran, my nail lady, is going to be furious with me!) But wasting gas like these guys are and putting CFCs into the atmosphere is simply unforgivable. But then, then mother nature strikes the most horrific blow I've ever seen. To wit;
 |
| He just can't stop staring at it! |
 |
| Mother Earth's Revenge! |
It is obvious that Mother Earth is angry, and is striking back against these rubes with a vengeance previously unforeseen. So now we have Katrina, Sandy, and this as evidence that Earth is mounting a psychic attack against those who deny the truth of global warming. Even my small community (Bellevue,) is likely to see temperatures BELOW FREEZING tonight, and it's only November! Genteel persons of the world, I fear for our future. It appears as though I'm going to need to suck my thumb wrapped in TWO quilts tonight, as I am loathe to waste energy on heating my home, as true environmentalists are wont to do. Be well, for as it says in the Bible, these are just the beginnings of birth pains!
Thursday, November 8, 2012
The Presidential Election
Genteel Readers;
Do you, in your private thoughts, ever speculate about a time in the future when the genteel and intelligent and intellectual persons of the world will finally tell all the crazily acting and backwards persons of the world to rot in hell? I do. I am wont to do such things all the time. But we must remain steadfast and strong, and extricate ourselves from their lunatic "whooping" and name calling. We will not create a better world by hurting the feelings of persons with whom we disagree! Even if they cause us to go into a livid tizzy of nerves! That will just create further ruckus and fuss, exactly the things of which we wish to rid the world! But there is hope yet, and I hope with this post to offer some inspiration and genteel hope. Not fake "hope" like The Machine does. But real, human, loving hope. As Jesus would in times of yore.
Like all my intelligentsia and literati brethren, I voted for Jill Stein and the Green Party. Because she is the only presidential contender who is an actual Doctor (and therefore is quite learned,) and also because she wants to protect the Earth and all the living things in it, rather than exploding things and shooting guns at poors and otherwise good people who made a series of honest mistakes. There is, after all, only one true law, NATURAL LAW.
As it so happened, Jill Stein got only 377,536 votes. 104 of which came from me. 118,462,645 people voted for "The Machine" (and probably went to McDonald's in their Wal-Mart sports attire afterward to whoop it up and get domestic beer drunk,) and 1,134,830 braying idiots voted for some fucknut then went home to make sexual love to their machine guns.
My state also voted to get stoned on reefer like a bunch of twittering hobos. (And I am NOT talking about the social network. I'm talking about laughing at NOTHING! And using freight cars as your primary means of transportation!) I think this is outright barbaric.
So here is my final analysis;
Am I better than the vast majority of people? Yes.
Am I smarter than the vast majority of people? Also yes.
Am I more moral than the vast majority of people? Quite yes.
Am I stronger and more courageous than the vast majority of people? Absolutely.
So you see, genteel readers, there is nothing to fear. We are as a light in the darkness, pushing the darkness back with our brightness. And if you voted Green as did I, I offer you a figurative organic kumkwat in salutation to your superiority to the inbred rubes of the world who do nothing but go to some banal job every day and raise ragamuffin inbred rube sperm into mature rubes. There is SO MUCH MORE in life that is SO MUCH MORE important, like literature, exploring far away and exotic locales via the internet, and of course writing NEW literature to inspire the little people of the world.
I am working on a new one right now! It is a novel about two transient farmers, one retarded yet strong, who is shot in the head by the other after he fondles a farmer's daughter to death. Thoughts?
Do you, in your private thoughts, ever speculate about a time in the future when the genteel and intelligent and intellectual persons of the world will finally tell all the crazily acting and backwards persons of the world to rot in hell? I do. I am wont to do such things all the time. But we must remain steadfast and strong, and extricate ourselves from their lunatic "whooping" and name calling. We will not create a better world by hurting the feelings of persons with whom we disagree! Even if they cause us to go into a livid tizzy of nerves! That will just create further ruckus and fuss, exactly the things of which we wish to rid the world! But there is hope yet, and I hope with this post to offer some inspiration and genteel hope. Not fake "hope" like The Machine does. But real, human, loving hope. As Jesus would in times of yore.
Like all my intelligentsia and literati brethren, I voted for Jill Stein and the Green Party. Because she is the only presidential contender who is an actual Doctor (and therefore is quite learned,) and also because she wants to protect the Earth and all the living things in it, rather than exploding things and shooting guns at poors and otherwise good people who made a series of honest mistakes. There is, after all, only one true law, NATURAL LAW.
As it so happened, Jill Stein got only 377,536 votes. 104 of which came from me. 118,462,645 people voted for "The Machine" (and probably went to McDonald's in their Wal-Mart sports attire afterward to whoop it up and get domestic beer drunk,) and 1,134,830 braying idiots voted for some fucknut then went home to make sexual love to their machine guns.
My state also voted to get stoned on reefer like a bunch of twittering hobos. (And I am NOT talking about the social network. I'm talking about laughing at NOTHING! And using freight cars as your primary means of transportation!) I think this is outright barbaric.
So here is my final analysis;
Am I better than the vast majority of people? Yes.
Am I smarter than the vast majority of people? Also yes.
Am I more moral than the vast majority of people? Quite yes.
Am I stronger and more courageous than the vast majority of people? Absolutely.
So you see, genteel readers, there is nothing to fear. We are as a light in the darkness, pushing the darkness back with our brightness. And if you voted Green as did I, I offer you a figurative organic kumkwat in salutation to your superiority to the inbred rubes of the world who do nothing but go to some banal job every day and raise ragamuffin inbred rube sperm into mature rubes. There is SO MUCH MORE in life that is SO MUCH MORE important, like literature, exploring far away and exotic locales via the internet, and of course writing NEW literature to inspire the little people of the world.
I am working on a new one right now! It is a novel about two transient farmers, one retarded yet strong, who is shot in the head by the other after he fondles a farmer's daughter to death. Thoughts?
Sunday, November 4, 2012
My Spouse and Our Relationship
Genteel Readers;
Now, important to any genius is a diet of nutritious and delicious food (I find the two often go hand in hand,) all the better with which to whimsically spin fanciful tales which inspire you, the little people, to live moral and fulfilling lives. Anyway, my spouse (I prefer "spouse" over the degrading, sexist and barbaric term "wife") has made the little error of choosing to be a vegetarian, thus depriving her of one of the four food groups (the meat one.) Obviously, this is deleterious (bad,) for both her health and vitality. However, not wanting to stifle her creativity, I must at least feign to support her vegetable-loving tendencies without letting her starve and waste away for lack of animal products (all organic and raised cruelty-free, mind you!)
Fortunately for both her and I, she tends to sleep with her mouth open. I will admit that, early in our marriage, I would take advantage of this in the worst way. I did so by feeding her long-dead flies in her sleep when she angered me, which was much more often than I care to admit. I must have cleaned out every single outdoor porch light in the first few months of our marriage. I got vindictive satisfaction in the form of watching her eat crunchy dead flies, while she never had to experience the outcome of my rancor. Nowadays, we sleep in separate beds in different rooms, (actually, she sleep in the bed and I prefer the quilted coziness of the couch.) She has her three waitressing jobs, I have my writing career, and I am pleased to say we have reached a steady yet loving equilibrium.
But that is beside the point of this essay, which is to discuss how I manage my partner's health in spite of her gauche vegetarianism. The mechanics are simple, and consist of Spam blended with water in a turkey baster, surreptitiously gavaged to her at night in her slumber. Originally I did have to use an eye dropper, but as she grew accustomed to me dripping emulsified spam into her mouth as she slept, I was able to use a higher throughput method. Additionally, making sure to slip some benadryl into her dinner helps her sleep soundly through her nocturnal feedings (I shall make such an excellent father one day!)
She has of course attempted to thwart my efforts. Can you believe she actually thought a LOCK on her door would deter me? Ah, no! Locks are simply a mechanical expression of cunning and sensitivity, and I possess both in spades! After several nights of unsuccessful attempts to pick the lock, I simply stole the key during the day and had it copied. So is my formulae; benadryl in the soup, hidden key to her room, and a turkey baster full of spam and water.
Katie's favorite pastime is nagging. "We never go out anymore." and "I've been on my feet all day would you mind going to the grocery store?" and "A 35 year old should not need Cialis." are the skewers she uses to distract me from my writing craft, as spouses are wont to do.
Other than that, we occasionally watch some television.
Writing a Romance novel, more on that later, perhaps.
Now, important to any genius is a diet of nutritious and delicious food (I find the two often go hand in hand,) all the better with which to whimsically spin fanciful tales which inspire you, the little people, to live moral and fulfilling lives. Anyway, my spouse (I prefer "spouse" over the degrading, sexist and barbaric term "wife") has made the little error of choosing to be a vegetarian, thus depriving her of one of the four food groups (the meat one.) Obviously, this is deleterious (bad,) for both her health and vitality. However, not wanting to stifle her creativity, I must at least feign to support her vegetable-loving tendencies without letting her starve and waste away for lack of animal products (all organic and raised cruelty-free, mind you!)
Fortunately for both her and I, she tends to sleep with her mouth open. I will admit that, early in our marriage, I would take advantage of this in the worst way. I did so by feeding her long-dead flies in her sleep when she angered me, which was much more often than I care to admit. I must have cleaned out every single outdoor porch light in the first few months of our marriage. I got vindictive satisfaction in the form of watching her eat crunchy dead flies, while she never had to experience the outcome of my rancor. Nowadays, we sleep in separate beds in different rooms, (actually, she sleep in the bed and I prefer the quilted coziness of the couch.) She has her three waitressing jobs, I have my writing career, and I am pleased to say we have reached a steady yet loving equilibrium.
But that is beside the point of this essay, which is to discuss how I manage my partner's health in spite of her gauche vegetarianism. The mechanics are simple, and consist of Spam blended with water in a turkey baster, surreptitiously gavaged to her at night in her slumber. Originally I did have to use an eye dropper, but as she grew accustomed to me dripping emulsified spam into her mouth as she slept, I was able to use a higher throughput method. Additionally, making sure to slip some benadryl into her dinner helps her sleep soundly through her nocturnal feedings (I shall make such an excellent father one day!)
She has of course attempted to thwart my efforts. Can you believe she actually thought a LOCK on her door would deter me? Ah, no! Locks are simply a mechanical expression of cunning and sensitivity, and I possess both in spades! After several nights of unsuccessful attempts to pick the lock, I simply stole the key during the day and had it copied. So is my formulae; benadryl in the soup, hidden key to her room, and a turkey baster full of spam and water.
Katie's favorite pastime is nagging. "We never go out anymore." and "I've been on my feet all day would you mind going to the grocery store?" and "A 35 year old should not need Cialis." are the skewers she uses to distract me from my writing craft, as spouses are wont to do.
Other than that, we occasionally watch some television.
Writing a Romance novel, more on that later, perhaps.
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