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Blogging on Christmas eve. Who does this? Why do this? Does it really matter? Your mind is blank and the streets are filled with rubble and as the morning coffee begins to crust in the slow parts throughout your veins, the fingers hit the keyboard and before you know it, damn.... you're blogging on Christmas eve.

I suppose there are a lot worse things that one could be doing. Blogging is healthy enough though. It's not hurting anybody. That is unless you say something that people find offensive, then it chars their fragile minds for a day or so or at least until they find something far more pointless to bunch their granny panties up and bitch about.

I just love coffee. Have I ever told you that? Okay, yeah. Probably about a 147 and a half times. What constitutes a half of a time you ask? Okay, maybe you don't ask but if I keep telling myself that somebody is asking it then I shall be rocking jungle balls of that got my stocking fully stuffed and I'm heading over to the tree to push motherfuckers out of the way and scarf up some free shit feeling. By the way, a half of a time is when I gurgled my sentiment with a mouthful of Italian roast. You might not have understood me. But I said it. Not my problem what comes or doesn't come after that.

What is Christmas? Is it a bunch of people who really don't know a thing about each other on a personal level of any kind but feel an intense sensation to give each other some free shit? Free, yes. You yourself didn't pay for what it is that you now hold in your grubby little hands. Maybe there is reasoning here. Like the fact that you never once thought in your life when you did have a pocket full of money that you actually wanted to buy one of these..... gifts. Ah, gifts. To give freely. Taketh of my shitty offering and act enthused despite the fact that you have been drinking eggnog with 151 all morning and when you ripped the box open, your eyes drooped like an old ladies tit and your mouth did that thing..... you know, that "what the fuck is this shit?" curve you do really well with your lips.

Christmas is not about giving. If you are unemployed it's not about getting either. After all, people with jobs get the day off and what do you get? Another day to sit around and think about how much free time you have and marvel at all that rubble in the street.

Christmas is not even about family anymore if most of your family is dead and the ones that are alive might as well be dead because the ones who died long ago are still more fun from six feet under.

Is Christmas about realizing that another year will be ending the following week and a new one will begin and you will try to be impressed because you have come such a long way since when you would shit yourself and people would think that it's cute?

Christmas is one of the most vague holidays on the calendar because if you sat five people down in a room and asked them what Christmas meant to them each of these self absorbed pricks would say something completely different. This is truth beyond truth. Not in a Valentines day means I celebrate my truest love that completes my being or maybe if I just give the bitch some flowers she'll blow me kind of way. Truth more like a does it really fucking matter what Christmas means to anybody anymore because as the years have rolled on and the wrinkles have widened nothing much really seems to mean anything anymore.

We breathe. We eat. We shit. We get on the internet and tell all 827 of the people that we don't even know anymore or never even knew in the first place on fuckbook that today we are going to scratch our ass like it's nobodies business and then when Uncle Sal is asleep in the chair from all the excitement of farting too much we are going to light his eyebrows on fire and get a circle pit going while chanting "we don't need no water let the motherfucker burn!"

Are we really living anymore? Does anything really matter? Holidays? Any days at all actually? Half off sales at stores that we don't even shop at in the first place. Standing around in lines to see movies that are going to suck anyway. Wondering if Christmas were to fall on a Tuesday or a Thursday would we just get the whole weekend stretch off?

People yell and scream at each other over why we are celebrating Christmas now. It's about family. It's about giving. It's about Jesus. Maybe family is subjective to those who don't live in a cardboard box or only buy an answering machine because it came with a free coffee maker and not because anybody is actually going to call them. Giving can also be a sketchy concept when you consider things like gonorrhea and head lice are somewhere on the list of gifts to be given.

So.... Jesus then. It must be about Jesus for some folks still, right? Unless that happened overnight I am going to have to touch myself in a special place and chuckle inward.

When did Christmas ever become about Jesus? Do people actually sit around the tree and pass boxes in a semi-circle and say "I'm so lucky that Jesus loves me today"? Yay. Yeah, right.

When I was a kid I didn't know who Jesus was. Christmas was about presents. Not having a job of course made it more so about getting than giving and also beings that I was/am an only child that was perfectly alright with me. But Christmas was not just about presents. It was about Santa Claus. Some guy who grabs kids asses all day long at the mall and eats a whole lot of cookies and is unusually jolly for some fat fuck who only comes once a year.

Santa Claus used to be the face of Christmas. Not Jesus. Santa Claus is somewhat of a wake up call for children though because once we reach a certain age we are told that it was all a lie and don't we feel foolish? Somehow things don't quite seem the same after that though. I know I never truthfully recovered from learning that Santa Claus was not real. Between that and my favorite aunt and best friend as a child dying when I was very young I would say that my life was off to a smashing start. Being a fat kid in a skinny kid school didn't seem to help any either.

I'm not complaining though. As much as it sounds like I am, I simply am not and you'll just have to trust me on this one. Trust someone over the internet I hear you say? Yes. Please do. Thank you kindly.

Even when I was told that Santa Claus was fake and the presents all of a sudden were labeled with love from Mom and Dad instead of "your pal Santa" I was never really turned on to Jesus. I tried to read the bible once. Tried. Once. Just couldn't do it. But I tried, which is more than you can probably say for most kids or people in general.

I remember when I first saw a picture of Jesus. It was in someones bathroom. My first thought was who the fuck is this dirty hippie and why is he hanging on the wall in the can? Kind of dampened his relevance for me as I grew older. I remember hearing all that stuff people say. Jesus loves you. Jesus loves me. Hallelujah. I brake for Jesus. Wait a minute..... the guy hanging in the bathroom? What the fuck is up with that shit?

I remember some Jesus freak telling me that Christmas was his birthday or some shit. That got me thinking. Ohhh, I get it now.... it's like that Santa Claus thing. First you tell me that some fat guy in a suit is going to just give me free shit if I don't set anything on fire and brush my teeth after every meal and learn my abc's, and as soon as I find out that it was all a GREAT BIG LIE you want me to put all of my faith in some hippie whose face hangs over a place where people excrete milky way bars and tootsie rolls.

I never really clung to religion. I never paid any attention to it what so ever actually. I certainly feel that everybody is entitled to their own shit. Whatever gets them through the day with their nipples erect and keeps them from going into a mall and punching one of those mimes. I just never really understood why so many people are so fanatical about all of this stuff. Religion. Politics. Sports. Who cares what theory or deity you subscribe to or what lever you pulled or what jersey you wear on Sunday? It's all opinions and nothing more. Beliefs they are called. But let's call a spade a spade.... a belief is really a more sophisticated word for nothing else than an opinion.

I just have always loathed pushy people. In my eyes someone who force feeds Jesus down the throat of anybody is no better or worse than a drug pusher. Not a dealer mind you. A pusher. Dealers make house calls whereas pushers will call your house asking if "You lookin'?" I have largely functioned off of a strict regime of don't call me I'll call you and that works all sides of the habitual round up for me. Just sayin.

But back to the Christmas thing..... nobody even calls it Christmas anymore. People are afraid to say Merry Christmas out of fear of offending someone with opposing religious beliefs.... opinions, rather. I mean, I don't have a picture of Jesus hanging in my bathroom but if somebody were to wish me a Merry Christmas I would be on the grateful side and most definately wish them likewise. It's a greeting. A pleasantry if you will. Like telling someone to have a nice day.

If somebody said "have a nice day" would you be offended over their choice of wording? Would your demented and tiny mind suddenly become unhinged because they wish for your day to merely be "nice" when they should have told you to have a "super-fuck-tastically orgasmic-a-liscious" day? Yeah, maybe if you were a complete prick you would sure.

Having to worry about how somebody is going to take me offering up a simplest of greetings is not in my bag of tricks though. If I tell you to have a Merry Christmas and you are Jewish and fly off the handle because I didn't say Happy Hunkashit then guess what? My "Merry Christmas" just magically transformed into " go fuck yourself." Pretty simple really. But everybody has got to be different. Cutting edge. Cult. Cooler than the other guy. Eh, go fuck a cheerio with your baby dick logic.

Christmas is just another day on the calendar to me. Don't get me wrong, I am happier than I have ever been and I love my friends and family a whole lot more this year because there is more of my heart open wider to do so. Whatever gets you through the day. Whatever you wish to teach the children that dropped from your own snatch. It's all good.

My old boss used to say "it is what it is" all the time. I used to hate that because it just sounded like a cop out. Kind of like the trailer trash version of "whatever." But I have to admit that as I have gotten older I have all but accepted this as my un-official motto of life. It is what it is. Why? Because it just is. What it is, in fact. I don't expect much from anything or anybody anymore. As long as I wake up each morning with morning wood and some hot coffee in my cup I'm good. The rest of the day is what it is. Truest words that have ever been spoken.

I don't subscribe to any religious agenda. I remember once that I read the Satanic bible and I will state that I comprehended it a whole lot more than the other one. I even actually agreed with much of what it had to say. Still, I'm no more a Satanist than I am a Jesus freak. Since I was a small child I have been referred to as a freak in general though. That's cool. I am a freak. I'm a sick fuck. Those who know only this part of me would probably think that I have a picture of Charlie Manson on my own bathroom wall. Kind of ironic actually because  used to be fascinated by that guy. Just like everybody else used to be. Only difference is that I can admit it. But now he is just an old man and someday I will be too and who or what hangs on my bathroom wall and gets me through the day will cease to matter.

I don't know what Christmas is about. I don't really care at this point either. That is not at all meant to be taken in a cynical or serial killer manner of speaking. Christmas is just like anything else. It is what it is. It can be about lighting your farts in front of the tree and starting a brushfire. It can be about drinking until you vomit and then realizing that you are empty now and can start drinking again. It can be about giving everybody gift certificates to the house of cheese because cheese is fantastic. It can be about giving people elaborately wrapped empty boxes and laughing as they rip off the paper knowing well what their reaction will be.... that "what the fuck is this?" thing with their lip. It can be about giving and getting and sharing and caring and not wearing any underwear underneath of a short skirt and bending over to grab all the packages under the tree so you can hand them out to all the smiley faces and erections. It can be about one love or love one another or looking in the mirror and getting titty hard ons. Does it really matter who fucks who and why and when and where and whether you clean up afterwards or whether you leave it for the maid or whatever the fuck?

My Christmas is your Honkana. Your Honkana is Amid's Ramalamadingdong. His Ramalamadingdong is Tyrone's Kwanzimoto. Who gives a fuck? It's a day in all of our lives. Have a nice one. Or don't. In 100 years from now do you think that any of this stuff is gonna matter? Santa Claus is still not gonna be real even though people will tell their children that he is. When these children grow up to be adults who are bitter because their parents lied to them about Santa Claus they can always turn to Jesus..... and he'll be right there waiting.... on their bathroom wall.


*****Original post date 12/25/10*****

U' R' NOT GAY BUT U' R' BLACK AND BEAUTIFUL LIKE A SWAN

BALLET IS JUST SOOOOOOOOOOO GAY. It is, really.

I mean, it's an artform. All artforms have their core audience. These are the people that live,breathe,eat and shit their chosen field of fanship. Often times you have people who are known to dabble. A little of this. A little of that. You know what I'm saying.

Then, on the completely bottom end of any artform there are the people who think that whatever is in question totally sucks shit through a straw.

Different strokes for different folks. Not just Arnold,Willis, and Mr. Drummond. For everybody. I get that. Always have. To each his own I always say. But the funny thing about ballet is that it is one of the few artforms where there is no middle ground. No dabbling. You're either in or you're out. You think it's the most beautiful thing that you have ever seen. The music. The costumes. The discipline. Even the lighting probably gives you titty wood. If none of this is sounding familiar then perhaps you just shake your head at all the anorexics hopping around in tights and pull out that straw.

But seriously ....ballet is gay. The dictionary defines gay as "having or showing a merry,lively mood". As in "gay spirits" or "gay music." Okay then. There is also gay as in "bright or showy" - "gay colors" if you will. This all makes sense. I mean, I am certainly not an expert on ballet. But it's gay. You dig what I'm saying?

So, let me ask you this .....if ballet is so gay ....why does everybody in the movie "Black swan" look like they have either just come from or are on their way to a funeral? GAY, PEOPLE! BRIGHTEN UP! LOOK ALIVE!

If you pay attention to current movies at all, you have no doubt seen "Black swan" somewhere. By somewhere I mean EVERYWHERE. It's the "it-flick", man. It's getting rave reviews. There are talks about Oscars all around the table. It's wowing audiences everywhere. Oh, and it's got lesbians in it. But more on this stuff later.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to get me into a movie theater these days? You have a better chance of getting a decent handjob from Captain Hook. But, here I am ....fresh from seeing "Black swan" and I guess the first question I should answer is "was it any good?".

Define good. Good, as in I enjoyed it thoroughly? No.

Good, as in it kept my attention for the most part? Eh. Yeah.

Good, as in it demands a second viewing? Are you fucking kidding me?

Is it Oscar worthy? Okay, back up for a second and think about who you're asking here.

Oscars don't mean shit. They're too politically correct and stuffy to mean anything more than a bunch of people wearing little ties and tighty whities saw your movie and figured that you could use the blowjob. So, here ....take this tiny statue into a closet and get to work.

I'm not a huge fan of ballet. In fact, I am not a fan of ballet at all. Natalie Portman doesn't do much for me either way. She sure doesn't exactly pump my nads or anything of the sort. I'm really not even all that crazy about lesbians. So,why did I go see this film? I'm not sure I have a good enough answer for this actually. Just seemed like the think to do at the time.

Truthfully, I would never have given this movie or that ridiculous looking poster a first glance had I not seen the trailer and been duped into wanting to see it.

These advertisers....they're good. It's a well known fact that any person highly skilled in the trailer making arts can take the shittiest movie ever made and have it looking like something that would make even the harshest film critics wag their tongues and trip over their dicks to get a good seat in the theater.

The trailer for "Black swan" makes this movie look like a dark and sexy thriller filled to the brim with suspense and surprises galore. Is that even close to what the film actually is? Honestly, I'm not really sure. It's dark. Absolutely. There is sexual contact. Lots of it.

Suspense? Not so sure that is exactly the right word. I mean, you don't know what is going to happen next. Mostly because you don't really know what is happening as you're watching. So ....well ....yeah ....okay, I'll give the film that much. There is suspense in some form I suppose. What about surprises then? These questions are making my head hurt actually.

I guess the best way for me to discuss this film in such a way that I can give the reader a true feel for what I sat through is to break it down piece by piece. Will there be spoilers? Since I'm still not entirely sure what I just watched my guess would be no.

NATALIE PORTMAN-

Okay, here is the deal. I am not by any means what you would call a big fan of the actress. But, she doesn't completely annoy me either like some do. Portman tends to star in those artsy fartsy type of films or chick flicks. I tend to stay away from this stuff. So, my feelings for her are neither hit or miss. But she has been in a few movies that I really enjoyed. "Leon" and "Beautiful girls" are actually two favorites of mine. I also liked "Garden state" and "Mars attacks!" That about does it for me and her though.

So, her role in this movie ....it's been gathering a lot of raves and she is an easy favorite to win an academy award. Once again, me and that stuff? Not impressed here. As for Natalie and her performance .....she spends the entire movie with this expression on her face like she just smelled a really nasty fart in an elevator and is on the verge of tears.

If this is acting, folks ....she should win every award that ever was made for winning.

DARREN ARONOFSKY-

I loved his "Requiem for a dream." If you want to be dazzled by a film then check it out. But this guy is far from being hailed as one of my favorite directors. He did that crappy wrestling movie with Mickey Rourke. The parallels between that film and this one are striking. Down and out on his luck wrestler who does some stuff that I couldn't tell you because I turned that piece of shit off after about 45 minutes. Then, here we have a ballet chick ....who does a bunch of stuff herself  ....so her and Mickey ....they have a whole lot in common. My guess would be if you liked "The wrestler" then you'll probably feel the same about this one. Wrestlers and ballerinas both wear tights too. Quinky dink, no?

THE CINEMATOGRAPHY-

This movie is probably the grainiest looking film that I have ever seen. If that is at all what these guys were going for then HE SHOOTS HE SCORES! I felt like I was watching a home movie with a lot of underwear and feet in it. Just sitting in my seat and watching this movie from my chair ....it made me feel like I had a hairy eyeball. You ever get that feeling?

Well, if you go for that sort of thing, man are you going to be in heaven.


FEET-

While I'm on the subject of feet, I might as well keep it going here. Okay look ....it's a movie about ballet. I get that. There is going to be a lot of feet. I get that too.

But this movie is just feet feet feet to the point of being ridiculous. I am not much on this sort of thing. Feet, I mean. So yeah...I wasn't digging on any of this at all. But I know there are a whole mess of people out there with feetishes and I'm here to tell you that your chariot has arrived people.

THE STORY-

I don't fucking know what I watched. Something about a girl doing ballet and she does a lot of crazy shit and sees a lot of crazy shit. This movie was basically just a whole lot of crazy shit going on. That's about all I can say with utmost certainty.

THE LESBIANS-

Okay, I wanna say something here. Not all men go apeshit over lesbians. It's true. Myself personally, I don't really enjoy watching anybody have sex. Even if it were to be myself in a mirror above the bed. Lesbians are seriously not that big of a deal. With that said, if you DO wanna see Mila Kunis chow down on porterhouse steak then your dinner is served.

THE OTHER PERFORMANCES-

 Despite the camera being permanently fixated directly on and in Natalie Portman's face and back and feet and ass and legs for most of the film I do wish to point out that there were other actors involved here too.

Most notably Winona Ryder as a washed up ballet star.

Screen legend Barbara Hershey shows up as Portman's overbearing mother, herself a washed up ballet star as well.

Of course, right alongside Natalie is all the heaps and mounds of praise for Mila Kunis as her nemesis and she who eats at the y.

 Though her character is fairly new to the dance world in the film, something does tell me that if they ever do make a sequel she will graduate to also being a washed up ballet star.

Vincent Cassel turns in a creepy role as the guy behind the production of "Swan Lake" that is being put on here.

He is indeed the man who brings the soap and carries the towels for the stars.

All of these actors do what they have done before except they do it in this movie. So, good going there. But I must drop extra kudos for Barbara Hershey. It would appear that she came back from the grave just to play a supporting role here and that is quite commendable from an artistic point of view.

 I got mad love for the walking babs.

"Black swan" is not a film for everybody. In fact, I can't seem to figure out where all the rave reviews are coming from. It's very weird, but not in a good way, and so over the top that it's kind of blah sometimes. I found myself laughing at more of the film than I did at being thrilled by any of it. It's not a bad movie. It's just not a good one either. I'm really not sure what it is actually.

In defense of it, it did manage to hold my attention and I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I sure would have liked to though. The hairy eyeball thing, remember? But try as I might have and for better or for worse, my eyes were glued to the screen. Still, I really don't know what to say about this movie. Mostly because I'm just not entirely sure what I watched. It's about a crazy chick. Don't worry though, she doesn't boil bunnies or anything.

One thing that I would like to throw out there for anybody who is thinking about going to see the film is this ....forget anything you have ever seen before, this movie has the best dirty old man in film history for what is my pick as the single most awesome scene in the movie. Hands down. Tongue out. If anybody should win an award here it should be this guy.

This movie is a hit. I didn't hate it. I just didn't really like it all that much. But hey, to each his own. Some people have been going to see it multiple times. Good for them. Although, I do think anybody who would sit through this film again is a complete moron.

Still, it's going to rack up praises and awards for some time to come. I actually wish that I could be there when Natalie wins an award for her brilliant facial skills. If for nothing else, I'd like to hitch a ride in the elevator with her and ask her how that rap career is coming along.

*****Original post date 1/8/2011*****

WHEN 'DICTS BECOME 'SHOLES

Ahhhhh, to be an addict. To know that when the air hits you just right it still feels wrong. Whether knee dip in this knowing or swimming in denial there is nary a trace of websters own definition of solace to be found amongst the ruins. Why? Because you can't even think straight. You don't feel proper and often times it becomes even hard to breathe one-two one-two without a little of that stuff. What stuff, man? That stuff. The right stuff. Maybe it's the wrong stuff. Kind of hard to adjust the settings of another.

You, sir (or madam)..... are an addict. You don't need eight hours of shut eye in order to be rested enough to finger an open window and breathe in the stink from outside to complete your puzzled sentiment. You don't require batteries for operational purposes or winding up in efforts to spark the clicker and/or ticker and you won't even be needing the presence of companionship to tweak the old motivational supplement. You just got to have your.... well, whatever it is that made you this way because its your way and baby, we love your way (or not) and all you wanna do is have some fun and live with the lights on and see clearly now because the rain is in somebody elses yard, this all due to you.... why? Because you're not just an addict anymore. You're an asshole.

From your side of the fence the world turns and life goes on ob-la-dee-ob-la-da and it's pretty fucking entertaining when you break wind while wearing your happy pants. Never once sparing a dime for the brother who finds themselves caught in the afterglow of that soul sediment that you breeze downwind and all over the daisies trying to grow in another persons garden. Nope, you're an asshole and you don't care. Why should you? Give you lickety spit and kisses on the dingelberries inside of your dungarees because you is one funny motherfucker according to popular opinion via one way of your own.

Holding out your arm. Mouth open wide. Eyes closed.... or they can remain open.... won't matter. Nothing matters as long as you get your fix because then and only then you will be getting your kicks. Maybe on route sixty six. Maybe even sixty nine if you're really lucky. But here is a thought that never seemed to cross your mind because it didn't feel up to a really good chicken impersonation..... you are on a road to nowhere. It doesn't matter that you forgot to bring your map. Nowhere goes nowhere no matter how hard you turn left-right-left-right-left.  You're only going to breakdown and when you do.... well, then you'll really be fucked because your supplier can't find you.

You'll go into withdrawal and once the sweat settles and your stomach no longer suffers from daredevil irritation syndrome you might feel a twinge or three of discomfort. If you so choose it could be time to clean up that mess you seemed damn well convinced was a life. But what is a life of ones own worth if all around them grows sour mash? Nobody likes an addict unless they themselves are in fact.... an addict. In which case.... YAY. WOW. Group hug.

Everybody does actually like an asshole as long as they're on a screen or in print. Rotten meat for the entertainment beast. But up close? Eh, not so much. Assholes tend to smell funny but not in that ha-ha kind of way. Besides, those outbreak masks have never seemed to come back in style. You could care less about fashion though when you're a hug collector gathering up hugs and hugs and more hugs from your equally smelly peers. The world is filled with addicts and assholes and we all have to watch our step or otherwise it's brown on the shoes and noses curled.

Life is short for those with really short attention spans. These being the 'sholes and 'dicts of the world who are just too damn one dimensional for their own good and certainly for the good of others. For the rest of us the time we are forced into enduring these blips and bloopers society serves up kind of resembles a really long elevator ride with someone who just can't seem to get used to washing and flossing on a regular basis. YAY. WOW. Group hug and three cheers for having three dimensions. A mind that works wonders all on its own. A body that doesn't smell like a putrid pile and a soul that is funkier than Al Green's sweatbox.

*****Original post date 6/18/2011*****

ABOUT A SONG- BUTTHOLE SURFERS

Do you remember the first time that you heard the Butthole Surfers? I know I do.

They had this self titled ep with these weird looking little dick men on it that was released in 1983. I certainly remember seeing that in the record store and thinking "what the hell is that shit all about?"

In 1983, at 16, I was in my full on metal phase, and weird looking little dick men didn't seem very metal to me. Even though I would often buy a record based soley on an eye catching cover, I felt compelled to let that one stay on the rack.

Fast forward a year. 1984. My junior year in high school. I took guitar class as a cake walk. Even though I do love the sounds a guitar can make when others might play it, the only sounds I can elicit from it are feedback. I dick around somewhat, but to this day I don't know one single chord. Guitar class wasn't really about the actual playing of scales and chords for me. It was about going in one of those nifty soundproof booths with a bunch of friends and listening to music, shooting the shit or sneaking a smoke.

I have always been the go-to music guy amongst all of my friends and was forever turning people on to music that would come from nowhere and blow their minds. But even us go-to guys are allowed to have our minds blown at the expense of others good taste sometimes.

I remember sitting in the booth one day with a couple of people. One of them was this younger kid, Sean Augustine. We were listening to something. Can't remember what. But I totally remember what came next. He beams with excitement and says "Hey! I got something you will love!" and he pulls out this tape.Whoa! It was those weird little dick men! The Butthole Surfers. I laughed and said that I had actually seen that record around and was always curious to hear it. Just didn't wanna be seen buying it. He assured me that my life would be changed. Damn it, if he wasn't right.

He popped the tape in and everybody in the cozy and previously quiet confines of the booth would be assaulted with this blast of feedback, before finding themselves either confused or enlightened with these insane lyrics-

"There's a time to fuck and a time to crave

but the shah sleeps in Lee Harvey's graaaaaaave" -

before exploding into a complete barrel of noise and insanity.

Then came more of those great words-

"There's a time to shit and a time for God

the last shit that I took was pretty fucking odd!"

Followed by another blast of lunacy and chaos-

"There's a time for drugs and a time to be sane

but Jimi Hendrix makes love to Marilyn's remains!"

I was no longer in possession of my mental capacities. I felt like I was myself on drugs. Yet, I had not smoked or drank anything. I was too busy having my mind completely blown and my life changed by the Butthole Surfers. Everybody else but me and Sean had gotten up and walked out of the booth. But, I was plastered to my seat. I couldn't move or think. All I could do..... was listen.

"There's a time to live and a time to die

I smoke Elvis Presley's toe nails when I wanna get highhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

The song kept hitting me in the eardrums and penetrating my consciousness with an explosion of psychedelic fury and utter musical (or non-musical, depending on your outlook) pandemonium. It bashed and ripped and snarled and raged. Then, stopped and spit out these insane words that made no sense and yet..... they were utter genius, and the beauty of true genius is often times that it doesn't always make sense. The song kept hitting me and stopping. Up and down. In and out. It was like my head was on a musical rollercoaster that lasted all of two minutes. It was the most meaningful and beautifully ear fucking chaotic two minutes of my life.

The noise would crescendo into overdrive with a demonic voice announcing-

"I am the ultimate God!
God is second to me!
I am number one motherfucker!
Don't even look back
Don't even look upon me
with your naked eyes"-

With my eyes closed and my eardrums being mashed to smithereens, I actually did see God that day. All hail the almighty and powerful Gibby Haynes. Bringer of pea soup for the soul. Rotted meat for the beast. Those funny mushrooms picked for the children from the garden of  heathen. My life was indeed changed. Thank you, Sean. My mind would never be the same again. Thank you, Gibby. Now-

Shut up!

Shut up!

shut up!

Shut up!

Shut up!

*****Reposted from the Musicequalzorgasm music blog page. Original post date 10/8/2010*****

THINKING OF YOU GIVES ME STINKDICK

I ended up in a card store yesterday and I saw something that absolutely made my jaw drop to the floor. It's no secret that these days they seem to have a card for everything. Birthdays and holidays are just a given. But nowadays, the ideas that card companies come up with just seem to be stretching the concept of falling under what a greeting card signifies in my opinion. Greetings are meant to be simple and pleasant, right?

I personally have never really understood why you would give a card to somebody that is standing right in front of you. I mean, okay.... I'm a great big sap, so the whole romance thing I can come to terms with. It's sweet. No doubt.

Giving a card to somebody that says

"I love you"-

"I'm thinking about you"-

"I wanna slurp the sweat off your funky ass like a rottweiler drinking out of a dog bowl"-

I'm a romantic. So, I'm down for all that. Although, I gotta say what is obviously in need of being said here..... if you do indeed love somebody or are thinking about them.... or... that other thing..... why not just tell them?

Happy birthday. Have a nice holiday. Have a nice day. I just think these are all things that sound better and far more personable rolling off the tongue than being handed to somebody in an envelope like they are being summoned for jury duty. Well, unless of course the card has money in it.... then, yeah.... I'm totally down for that.

If somebody lives next door from you and you just don't feel like walking over to knock on their door and say

"Hey! Fucker! Happy hope you get a job soon so you can go buy a lawnmower and stop stealing mine day!"

Then I certainly can appreciate the significance found in a card. I just have always felt the need to say something I thought up myself and pulled from the heart gallery rather than send a card to some distant relative.... and by distant I don't mean geographically challenged or genetically speaking, but rather distant as in they live five minutes away and I still haven't felt the need or urge to speak to them in 15 years.

Cards are so syruppy and ridiculous to me. I mean, I am a very passionate person. I'm romantic as fuck all. I am somewhat of a poet too, so I guess I just find that the sentiments oozing from these cards would be better left unwritten or unspoken in my opinion. What I think clearly doesn't mean shit though since the greeting card industry is like a monsterously well endowed porn star when it comes to making bank. An idea made reality alone by all the douchebags who try to get laid on Valentines day and go buy a sloppy sweet confection card loaded down with some gag inducing prose written by a fat old lady who probably hasn't seen a penis since they cancelled M.A.S.H.

Of course, if one is trying to indeed gain sympathy for being a casanova who with-holds the cock for the other 364 days of the year, your chances are made much better if you throw in a teddy bear, a bouquet of roses hand picked straight from the counter at 7-11 and some chocolates that will make your honey pot of love shit all night while you're trying to squeeze a few blasts of dick cream in between her toilet visits. All part of the business of romance.

I rarely buy cards though. If I want to wish somebody a happy Hannukah or a fur popping groundhogs day I just go over to their house and do it or call them on the phone. I'm pretty basic with my sentiments and always honest with my sappy shit factor. I don't hug my male friends. So I don't feel like I should buy them a card that says

"Man hugs for you and you and only you, my sweet man biscuit."

Oh, and these greeting card makers seem to fancy themselves quite the poet. First off, dudes do not give other dudes anything that rhymes. Even if it's something as simple as

"You're a guy. So am I. My heart it tugs. Sending hugs."

 Not gonna happen.

Besides, this shit is not poetry. Poetry comes from the heart and speaks to the heart. A greeting card comes from an envelope. It also says things like

"When I think of you and smile, it's just for a little while. After all is said and done, my bowels flair up and run."

Yeah. Not poetry. Cute. It rhymes. But not poetry.

But the greetings just keep greeting and the cards keep coming for anything and everything that one can think of. Graduation, having a baby, you're old, you're young, you're well hung. Or not. They got cards to pets. From pets. Hey, look.... I love my dog. But..... SHE'S A DOG!

The novelty of a card is somehow lost when its given to or from an animal. Especially when one might consider these card stores often implement a NO PETS ALLOWED policy via a big sign on the fucking door!

I saw a card once for a woman that just had a baby that said something like "Wow! You just had a baby! And your boobs look great!"

Okay, first off.... why would you give somebody a card for having a baby in the first place? I mean, a card like that basically says

"You went off the pill, you got poked on a hill. Add another to the batch, like the one that just squeezed out of your snatch."

Does somebody need to be given a card like that? Yeah, I didn't think so either.

As for telling somebody how amazing their knockers look..... eh, okay... I'm a guy. I'm down with that. But I'm a firm.... huh huh huh huh... firm... believer in equal opportunity. So if you're gonna tell someone how great their rack looks I only think it's proper etiquette to not leave out the.... uhhh.... not so great.

Maybe a card that says

"Your tits are literally out of sight. At first I thought they were a bug bite."

But yesterday.... that took the cake. I guess it's been a while since I have been in a card store and I saw they now have a chemo section. That is what it says on the divider. CHEMO.

Yep, now you can buy a greeting card for all your friends who are currently dying of cancer and undergoing chemo treatments. How special. Nothing says that you care more deeply to someone who is losing their hair, expelling from every orifice on their body and has lost all their energy like a card that says

"You have cancer! Please don't die."

Maybe add a little sad face for extra added effect.

Lines need to be drawn at times and there just should be no place for greeting cards that say

"Gimme a C.... gimme an A..... gimme an N...." ..... Yeah, you see where I'm going with this.

But, once again.... hey.... down here. I'm just a dick dangling on a blog site. Who cares what I think? Certainly not the card companies or even the card buyers. Even though I am one myself.

Is nothing sacred anymore? Doesn't anybody draw the line anywhere? Greeting cards are light. They are meant to lift spirits. But, sometimes.... some things.... you know what I'm saying? Some stuff is just better left unsaid.

Anything poop related.

Sorry you can't poop. Sorry you can. Sorry you poop too much. Too little. Too watery. Too solid. Color. Texture.

Period. Anything that references bowels or their creations or lack thereof is just not something that I want to see on a greeting card. To or from.

Std's.

This would probably make a good gag gift. Especially for the people who have a whole lot of one night stands and also happen to have a twisted sense of humor. But, who the fuck wants to be seen picking one out and purchasing it? Should they ever decide to give this idea a whirl, I am thinking the internet would be the way to go here.

Puberty.

Everybody loves kids. Well, not me. But everybody else it seems. They got communion, graduation, and off to college cards. All noteworthy rites of passage. So, why not celebrate that deepness in voice, change in body, and those first tufts of hair in new places? For extra added effect they could make a musical card and have an audio clip of that Peter Brady voice changing song. Remember that shit?

Come to think of it.... if they made a card like this I would buy it! I'd totally wanna give that to somebody. Hell, I'd give it to somebody I didn't even know just for shits and giggles. Okay, yeah.... that would just be creepy. Scratch that.

Losing your virginity.

While we're doing the kid thing here we might as well work our way down those priceless rites of passage. Maybe kids these days don't value sex and virtue so much anymore. But, pre-teen hussies all over the globe are just begging to be given a card at the next family get together that says

"Cherries bleed, and so did you. If you get pregnant your life is through. Love and ((((HUGS))))).... as if you didn't already have enough of that."

Erectile dysfunction.

The true measure of a man is like that beauty thing. Or fugly thing, depending on just who we are talking about here.... in the eyes of the beholder. But, I'm here to tell you that us men sure do love our junk with a passion that defies description. Mostly because it doesn't need a description. It's ours. We love it. Pretty simple, really.

Not being able to make the grade because your ruler won't rule is a sad fact of life for many. Why not make these droopy dick sumbitches feel at least a little bit better about their worthless excuse for a life by showing just how much you care.

"Life is hard, but not for you. Here is a card, for all that you can't do."

I would become all choked up from such a touching array of sympathy, and that would totally make me forget about my softness issue and keep me from wanting to put a bullet in my brain.


You're old.

They actually do make cards for old people. But, hey.... while we're making the cancer patients feel better about themselves as they wither away, why not make the real old schoolers feel better even if in fact they feel like poop because.... well, maybe they in fact can't poop... this is something that just begs to be made more fun.

"Thinking of you as you mold. Don't worry Grandpa.... you're getting old."

Hell, that could be the front of the card, and then you open it up and it says "I SAID YOU'RE OLD!!!!!!!!!!!"

They will thank you for being so thoughtful, and also for the fact that they have not gone blind. Hey, if the person isn't deaf maybe give them one with audio for those relatives that are extra special and worth the shout out.

They got cards for depressed people. Cards for people with bad breath. Cards for people with excessive body odor, such as stink dick or swampass. There are cards for recovering alcoholics and drug addicts fresh out of detox. Actually, I might have made a few of these up.

But, who knows? Maybe these types of cards can't be far off. There seems to be such an over indulgence of under indulging when it comes to stuffing your face. Maybe they could benefit these poor souls with a line of anorexia or bulimia themed cards. You know, for the kids. For charity. All the proceeds could go to the BTMFAC foundation.

You know, to Buy These MotherFuckers A Cheeseburger.

Like I said, cards seem so impersonal to me. But that is just me. Maybe sometimes people like being afforded the option to say things they would never say to people they would never even speak to in the first place. Why not add some flair and imagination to the mix? Shit man, the possibilities are endless.

I love you.
I hate you.
I miss you.
I diss you.
Wanna go steady?
Wanna do the horizontal bop?
Let's get married.
Let's get divorced.
Let's buy a dog.
Let's get a horse.
The house needs work.
Sorry I'm such a jerk.
You're hot.
You're not.
You're all I got.
You're all I need.
Wanna buy some speed?
Let's get naked.
Let's get drunk.
Can I put my tool in your trunk?
Wanna go out?
Wanna stay in?
Auntie saw Christ.
Let's put her in the looney bin.
My goose is cooked.
On smack I'm hooked.
You're better than that job.
Sorry you were overlooked.
Kill yourself. Kill your boss.
I'm hiv positive.
With a happy face.
Think I'll get a job at the Red Cross.

After all, if you can not have a life at least you can give somebody a card and make theirs less pointless.

*****Original post date 8/14/2010*****

MAMA HAD A BABY........

"How big was it?" The woman asked at the Taco bell drive-thru becoming increasingly annoyed.

"Que' ?" Was her reply. A question with a question. In another language at that. This was just great. Just then she caught herself.

"Sorry. I mean... how big is it? The grilled pig and pecan burrito? I just want to know if I should order two or not."

There was a pause and then-

"Eh?!"

Seriously, fuck this she thought. Deciding to take advantage of no cars being in front of her and boxing her in Rhonda pulled around and would just place her order inside at the counter. There would still be that language barrier obviously. But there was also a picture menu and she happened to be an ace at pointing.

As she entered the door a very smelly woman, who was obviously not an employee, pulled her aside and began blabbering incessantly. Even before the dirty hands would touch her the stench of filthy human invaded both of her nostrils and nearly caused her to retch.

"Do you wanna buy a baby? It's a boy in case thats important," These words from her mouth seemed to emit a putrid smog as Rhonda's jaw hit the floor and bounced back up to her face like a rubber ball.

"Excuse me?!" She roared through her irritation.

The woman began leading her over to a corner by the hallway that lead to the ladies room and pointed down towards the floor where there laid what was obviously a newborn, and surprisingly sedate, baby wrapped in a blanket.

"He's for sale. I am trying to find this young fellow a good home. Some place where they won't chop him into pieces and make cat food out of him."

Rhonda was almost stunned into silence. Almost. She was already late for meeting up with Jerry because the person at the drive-thru must have mistaken Hazel Dell, Washington for somewhere over the border. This had managed to piss her off greatly. All she wanted to do was get some greasy toxic sludge wrapped to go and be on her way. Now she had some crackhead trying to sell her a baby for... well, for what exactly? Money to buy more crack? She could not figure out if she was more disturbed by the fact that some crackhead had bothered to pro-create in the first place or that now she was trying to pawn off her hellchild so that she could get high. The more she thought about it she was sick on both counts actually.

Rhonda gulped for air before blurting out her extended rumbling.

"You are fucking disgusting you know that? Not because you obviously have an aversion to soap but because people like you have no right spewing out children to begin with..... and so here you are."

The woman began shaking her head and protesting.

"No no no. You don't understand. I am only trying to help this child. I am not the mother. Just a concerned citizen."

Rhonda erupted into a fit of laughter.

"A concerned citizen?! What do you think I am? You. Make. Me. Sick. Is this some kind of joke? Is there a manager here?"

This got a rise from the woman who was now on the cusp of full on panic mode. Tears shot from her eyes as if they were bullets from dual pistol barrels and she pleaded with Rhonda.

"Please do not call the manager. You must believe me. I am trying to help this poor child. I admit that I snuck into the kitchen to steal some food but what I saw made me nervous and I had to grab this baby or else something awful was going to happen."

The woman did seem like a freak but this got Rhonda's curiosity pumping iron barbells.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

The tears seemed to instantly dry up on the skin of her face and she spoke softly though still visibly shaken.

"I can't tell you what I don't altogether know. I do wish to save this babies life though. I just can't take care of him myself. I'm also hungry and need to get something to eat. That is what I came in here for. Plans have changed. Donations are necessary."

Rhonda was done. This was sounding more ridiculous by the minute.

"I believe you. You are just trying to prevent something awful from happening. Like maybe having to get your shit together or even worse...  maybe having to take a bath. I can clearly see what is going on here."

The woman bent down to pick up the baby but Rhonda gripped her by the arm in mid-motion. She knew what she had to do.

"Stop. Stop this right now. I'll take the baby and you can be on your way to wherever it is that you people go."

The woman straightened up and her lips broke out in a cautious smile.

"You will?"

Rhonda reached into her pocket and pulled out her wallet. She wanted to help the baby too. But even more she wanted to get her food and get out of here and go to Jerrys, who was probably blowing up her phone right this very minute.

"How much?" She queried with the wallet already open.

The woman contemplated for a brief moment.

"Well I am only trying to get something for lunch and maybe for dinner too. I am not picky. I rarely stray from the 99 cent extra value menu at most places. Let's say.... ten dollars?" She closed her eyes and held out her hand.

Though Rhonda truly felt like punching the fucking bitch in the face she knew this would be over soon. Alerting a manager right this second or calling the police would only prolong the whole ordeal. Besides what was ten dollars when you were trying to help a poor and innocent child who never asked to be born into such a life? As she handed over the crumpled bill her conscience cuddled itself and allowed her to smile knowing that she was doing the right thing. This was confirmed even greater when the smelly baby making crackhead eagerly ripped the money from her grasp and raced out of the door. Rhonda shook her head and even though she knew perfectly well he would not understand her, she whispered out loud to the baby as she picked him up from the floor.

"Lunch or dinner my ass." She laughed and with that the baby burst into chaos. She slid her wallet down into the blanket and began to attempt quieting the screaming demon from Hell.

Just then a woman approached her. Wearing a Taco bell uniform. She was short, rather wide and of apparent Spanish descent. She also had an intense fascination with the baby as she could not take her eyes from him. Before Rhonda could say anything she held out her arms.

"May I?" She asked.

Handing the child over seemed so natural. As the woman held the baby in her arms he seemed to quiet himself.

Rhonda briefly wondered if the smelly woman was actually the mother after all. Looking at both calming child and beaming woman she decided that she didn't much care as long as the baby was away from that crackhead.

As the woman indulged the now seeming to be content bundle of quiet Rhonda hoped that she could get her eat and drink on and then be on her way.

"There was a lady.... the mother I think. Can you see that he is taken care of? He will be much better off without her, I know this."

The woman displayed a very serious look on her face.

"I know who you are talking about. She comes in here and steals food. Causes trouble. This time she went too far. Thank you for getting the baby back for me. I can't believe that I almost let him get away."

"So you are the mother then?" Rhonda asked through her smile.

The woman just stared. Fuck it. Rhonda didn't need details. She was just happy to be able to help. Of course now that she could go about her business there was that matter of her food and that drive-thru fiasco. As everything came flooding back to the pools of her mind she remembered there was a little gold pin on the womans breast. Though now obstructed by the bundle of baby Rhonda knew very well that meant she was a manager. This was most helpful.

"I was trying to get some food earlier at the drive-thru but the guy had a.... communication problem." The last part was squeaked out in embarassment. She imagined hardly anybody here spoke much English as seemed to be the case damn near everywhere else these days. She was actually with impressed with the woman, who paused before she appeared to be heading towards the kitchen and laughed.

"That is Pedro. I am very sorry about that. You go up to the front counter and tell Carmen that Maria said to give you whatever you want. Free of charge, of course." They both smiled at this.

Just then the baby erupted into a screaming frenzy. Maria pulled him closer to her breast and started back towards the kitchen.

"Somebody is cranky. I will take care of this. You have a nice day...." She stopped and turned back for a  moment,"....And thank you again."

Rhonda smiled and headed to the bathroom so she could wash her hands before going to get her food. On her way from the bathroom she realized that she had left her wallet in the blanket with the baby. She looked around the restaurant and saw no one either out in front or behind the counter. No big deal she thought. Maria had been going towards the kitchen. She would certainly still be there.

Walking down the hallway towards the kitchen Rhonda noticed a poster on the wall that advertised the countdown to a new menu item. Chick-a-dee taco bites. She would have to remember that for it sounded damn tasty.

As she drew closer and closer to the kitchen she became aware of singing. A familiar tune that she couldn't quite place. Then standing in the doorway it hit her. Both the song and what was going on in the kitchen before her. Maria was standing overtop of the baby on the counter and held a meatcleaver in her hand as she sang "Mama had a baby and his head popped off." Just then the cleaver dropped and cut through the neck of the baby. As the blood sprayed from the tiny neck stump Rhonda stared on in horror and confusion. She still didn't know if Maria was the mother of the baby. But as the thought of chick-a-dee taco bites sounded less appealing than they did only seconds ago, the babies head did in fact pop off and then roll onto the floor.


*****This was a result of an old scribbles writing challenge that I never posted. The challenge was to write something that started with the line "How big was it?" I actually did 2 stories for this challenge. I think I posted the other one. I don't really remember off the top of my head. I know this was one I kept to myself though.*****

IT DON'T MATTER IF YOU'RE BLACK OR WHITE

The old black man named Jack White sat not so high up on the hill top and strummed his four string guitar because those four strings were all that he had left. He had broken another one somewhere down around Clamville. All this did was make him laugh and keep on playing whenever the urge struck him to do so, which was damn near all the time. You see, Jack White was a beast of the blues. He used to stand with his back towards Meg2000's drum set that she purchased at Oui Oui Toys over in the French quarter of the fry district and yell to his dwindling audience just prior to leaving bloodstains permanently splattered not only onto but into the stage. Black and blue blood that is because when Jack White picked up a guitar, no matter how many strings were left, he bled the blues and the blacks. That was all there was to it. Four strings though? Well, even a man who says his prayers by candlelight and makes the dark scream "man meat is murder!" in whorehouses all over the country begins to have himself a little trouble getting some decent enough tread action and blues power with only four strings on his doll rod.

There he sat, pissed, and grumbling lyrics that he had just made up because he knew that soon his prized honey wouldn't have any strings at all. Baby needed new strings and today he was headed into town to get them any way that he could. He was out of money but not even close to running dry of ambition. This week had pretty much sucked him off hard and swallowed without so much as exhibiting a gag reflex. But those new strings would be strung and new songs sung. Some might think that it was his own fault what had happened. That last string would never have broken had it not been for a couple of nights ago when the redux of the old duo was playing that club he had an uneasy feeling about even before setting either of his feet on the same side of the street where its foundation lay crumbling and rank. Payment was usually up front and down center palm before even plug in or the first notes. It was a big mistake not forcing this particular ideal to stick on and hang straight. Still, he knew that how it all had gone down was not his fault because he was a blues man and that was just how he rolls. 

Jack White was actually much more than a bluesman. He was an outlaw whether his hammer was juiced on amplification or not. This meant that loud and proud or a riot thats quiet he could sure enough fuck shit up. It was this very thing that had gotten him into trouble a few towns back there in Haleys comet. Gone daddy gone though. Like love potion sliding right down the sewer. For now all that he wanted was a bottle of tequila so he could finish writing them new songs he had been kicking around for yet another mix tape that would probably go un-recorded because nobody would buy it when they could just download it for free off the intersect. This was reason number 812 why he had found himself so bitter in his old age but Jack White would have his final revenge when he would record his new record in his head and leave it there. It was a changing world and technology ran over old black and blues men who used to be successful and white like Jack on a John Deere bulldozer. But even at the age of 72 and some change music stilled flowed through his veins and gurgled from his intestines. Besides, he still could not allow himself to part with the term "making records."

He needed those strings to make his brown eyes black and blue again. As he sat there on the hill top strumming and humming not really to himself he heard a laugh that blasted through the air like a buffalo fart. His sneer crinkled up way past Elvis or Billy Idol lip because even though for the beaten down life of him he couldn't work up enough reasoning as to what brought him here he knew the voice buried in the heaps of that laugh could only belong to one person. The same person who was stepping up the hill and crowding him with the shadow of a royal jellied fat cat.

He kept on playing because despite missing those strings like an old friend sent off to battle the riff he was strumming was found to be a more than suitable companion. With the entire sun now blocked out and the fat man breathing a heavy vapor born of grilled onions and some sort of dead animal the only thing keeping his hair from flattening was the pre-existing layer of chicken grease he had smeared on after leaping from the 409. He looked over at his guitar case to check if it was closed tight. This fat cat was a well known klepto-maniac and Jack wasn't about to  have any of the few possessions he had left taken from their place. If that were to happen he would find himself breaking another string.

"Well God damn!" The man yelled so loud that it could have shaken the hill, "I once knew an old son of a bitch who could play the blues so tight that a horny baby doll couldn't fuck it with a pinky finger and a jar of vaseline! He was white though. Jack White to be exact."

Jack remembered that not everybody knew he had gotten a rawhide transplant at the voodoo blues festival last year. Nobody cared much about a decrepit old hasn't been in too damn long. Jack had always wanted to be black anyway so why not he thought? Might as well complete the transaction. So there he was re-fitted with skin coating made from a mixture of old negro flesh and shoe leather. The flesh had been preserved in a jar of the basement of some old blues hound and was rumored to have belonged to Curly Weaver. It hung down a little low when he slouched or sat like he was doing now. But the shoe leather cut in kept him from sweating and that was a blessing all its own to a real blues traveler.

Jack leaned back in an effort to stretch out of the shadow and into the sunlight and his guitar hung between his forearms and his knees. He spit a glob of phlegm within inches of the mans bare feet that resembled Fred Flintsones in post braking mode.

"I'm Jack White. I know who you are. You're Jack Black. Not sure what you're doin' 'round these parts though."

He could see the eagerness building a fort from the wrinkles and dimples on Black's face as he paused. Then he coughed up more ferocity from his lungs and gave the phlegm a playmate.

"I imagine against my wishes you'll tell me though," he said clearly uninterested.

Black laid his own guitar case in the grass and sat right down next to him. He immediately began sizing up White's guitar case.

White sat his guitar down on top of the case and pulled a smoked pepper stick from his shirt pocket.

"I ain't lookin' fer' no trouble Black. I done had me enough that and I don't need no more for the next hundred years should I figure out how to live that long. I can't keep you from eyeballing what little I got left. But you put your hands on any of it I'm gonna do to you what I did that club owner that wouldn't pay me couple nights days back."

Black laughed so hard that he rained spittle all over White. White didn't seem to mind though because it had been a few days since his last shower. After his jelly rolls stopped dancing he glared at White in silence until he realized that the old bastard was not going to continue his story without some support.

"Soooooooo.... what did you do him?" He asked with rabid fervor.

White hadn't seen Black in well over ten years and in just scant minutes he had become more peeved than a man his age ever needed to be. He figured it would be a smart idea to flee the company of his nemesis before he had a Lalapalooza flashback and broke his only guitar over the assholes skull. As he started to move his old bones upward Black pushed him down and began to blubber.

"Come on man, I know you are pissed off about what happened between us. I would be too. Did you know that me and KG no longer jam together?"

White looked on blankly for a moment and then grumbled through his teeth.

"No shit. He's dead isn't he?"

Black laughed.

"Well, yeah. But if he was alive we wouldn't be jamming together anyway. I would forgive him though because that is the Christian thing to do."

White felt an army of phlegm soldiers gathering their legion and heading towards his throat.

"You ain't a goddamn Christian ya fuckin' cabbage catch cow ass!" White yelled.

Black looked somber for a moment and this caused White to settle back down into his seat on the hill.

"Why do you have to make fun of how big my ass is?" Black asked him seeming on the verge of tears.

White just listened because he knew very well what was coming.

"You always were mean to me. I never did anything to you. Well ..." He stumbled his words.

White laughed.

"Yeah, well.... no shit well...." He manage to spit out before Black started up again.

"Look it was Lalapalooza and I was on acid. I said I was sorry on yotube. What else do you want from me?"

White felt himself easing up a little. Fuck it, he thought to himself. That was a long time ago. Lalapalooza had sucked anyway. Black's little charade might caused Meg to skip out on the band and force White to hire that robot Meg1000 to finish the tour. But the real Meg was starring in dirty old lady porn in the Ukraine now and cashing in on White's name. Her name wasn't Meg White anymore. Her name never was Meg White in the first place. It was Black. Like the fucker who was sitting next to him and sinking in the grassy knoll. Couldn't have two Jack Blacks out there kicking it. Besides, White had always thought the Black stripes sounded too urban, but in a bad way.

White looked down at Black's guitar case.

"What kind of axe ya got there?" He asked with the genuine zeal only fellow guitar geeks can exhibit with each other.

Black beamed like a spotlight and reached over to unhook the clips on the side.

"KG ripped this right off the wall when we played at Club Hell-"

Just then, White turned from Black and red and back into White again.

"You guys played at Club Hell?" He almost stuttered.

Black laughed.

"Damn right we did! We were the house band for the main man himself until Lady Gogo came along and fucked up everything."

White looked confused.

"Lady Gogo? What does that bitch have to do with Club Hell?" He really wanted to know.

Black looked at him as if he had just stepped off of a spaceship from Mars wearing Ziggy Stardust underoos.

"Her mom has been the devils old lady for a while now. I thought everybody knew that-"

"Lady Gogo?" White interrupted.

Black clamped his mouth shut and then popped it open again like a spastic puppet.

"Bingo! The one and only."

White shook his head.

"I haven't seen her since we used to fu-"

Black started shaking his head and waving his hands in the air.

"No no no no no no I can't hear you. La la la la la la la la-"

"Alright alright," White said, "You don't have to be a fuckhead about it."

As soon as he said this White took a good look at who he was saying this too and realized that yes he did and yes he would. Some things never change.

"That was how Lady Gogo got her career practically handed to her on a silver platter and guys with talent like me and you got sent up the river and told we needed to dry ourselves out," Black shook his head again," As if you can dry out in a goddamn river."

Though White was sometimes prone to episodes of dementia he was beginning to see the crystal ship clearly approaching.

"Hey when was the last time you been to Club Hell?" White asked him as he began to haul himself up for sure this time.

Black's mouth fell open and the smile he wore on his face looked as if it could swallow a bowling ball.

"Are you serious?" He asked though clearly his expression hoped what the answer would be.

White just smiled on as he finally pulled up onto his feet.

"You know that fucking with the devil ...." Black paused, "...and Lady Gogo could finally get us old bastards into our coffin beds for good, right?"

White looked straight into the sun as if he were greeting a long lost friend all over again. Mostly because after being clouded by Black he knew that he was. His leathery new complexion curled just slightly in its rays and he spoke clearer than he had in years.

"Black, White, don't matter much. Crazy is crazy.... and me and you," he motioned towards himself and Black and emitted a smile that easily could have rivaled both Black's smile and those sun rays, "We is gonna finally show that red footed son of a whore what crazy really is."

*****To be continued*****


*****Being a writer is fun because you never know where you will find inspiration, and even then, you never know what you will find when you find it. I'm not sure if that makes sense to anyone else, though it makes perfect sense to me because it happens all the time. In this case, I saw a writing challenge somewhere. Might have been the old blog site. Don't really remember at the moment. The challenge was to do something based on the theme of black and white. The first thing that popped into my head was how cool it would be if Jack Black and Jack White got together and fucked shit up. I wrote the story, read it, and wasn't that pleased with it. I put it aside and broke it out like a year later and thought it was actually not so bad after all. In fact, I'm very fond of it. It just didn't go at all in the direction that I had wanted it to. As a writer, this also happens quite a bit. I have the start of another story with these two laying around and, one day, hopefully I will finish it.*****

BURRITO JUICE

The screeching of a gown wearing, testosterone fueled monstrosity named Susan Boyle spewed forth from Leslie's television, invoking in her a wave of nausea. There she had been sitting on her bed, ready for the dutch oven cooking hour and instead found herself smashed in the eardrums with tuneless warbling that resembled her senses being gored by jello butt sprayed gut brownies. Her evening in anticipation of her favorite show had been otherwise rather deadpan and the assault on her hearing forced her to catapault from her mattress to the volume knob in efforts to relieve her every being.

Ever since moving into this new house her life had pretty much sucked and this Tuesday night seemed to be oozing the week onwards into the putrescent hall of fame. A new school had managed to strip away her reputation as a sophomore moderately cool enough to warrant exemption from bullying and now she found herself desperately slipping through shadows and gathering throngs in hopes of drawing attention and falling victim to princess induced bloodshed.

Though once far from popular she had now been branded a new prospect for humiliation. Most notably, Cindy Bergertits. As if all this wasn't buzzworthy enough to have her life now skewered and ready to be laid atop a frigid plate of rice she had to put on her happy pants and wear them with pride for some douche bagel that was now boning her mom. Tomorrow night was dinner with douche and tonight all she had wanted to do was marvel at some fine cuisine. She knew that cuisine ala mom, even with guests to impress, meant beans and weenies scraped from the can with a side dish of spam yams.

Lounging on her bed, she had begun to immerse herself in drawing a man spitting up dicks because he had penis breath and so she had somehow managed to miss the announcement that all of tonights programming on every channel in even the most remote corner of the universe was to be pre-empted by the simulcast of Susan Boyle live in concert from the Gitche Guru Goat Gazebo.

Susan Boyle was a horrifically untalented hairy beast rescued from the jungles of Moo Goo Gai Pan that upon apprehension had began squealing in some foreign tongue that had at first shocked and grossed out her captors as they shackled her for zoo duty. But then something bizarre happened. All those present reported moisture in their private areas and ever softening of already soft spots and before the rest of the world knew it they all developed mad love for the hairy jungle beast with a penchant for snorting and defecation. She would be shaven down somewhat and named Susan Boyle on account of it used to be lazy like a susan and had many boils popping through it's ass hair that was never shown on television because the broadcasters felt her front side was way more hypnotizing to the general public. But Leslie knew the truth. Susan Boyle was actually a close relative of sasquatch and the mindless zombies of the public had taken to showering her with affection instead of peanut brittle. She was not fooled then and as she scrambled over her crumpled sheets to twist the volume knob into mo' better she was not being fooled now.

With silence again joining her like a long lost friend she contemplated drawing a picture of a woman with vagina breath but then decided that the crayons she was using were hardly able to afford her vaginal sketches that would do justice of any kind. All her musings of private parts brought her back to the douche bagel and she wished there were some way she could bring on either his death or her own so as to get out of having to sit in a dining room and try to keep food in her stomach knowing that as soon as the plates are licked clean so shall be her mother by the tongue of Tom Foolery. This actually being his name and not a way of life.

Her thoughts penetrated her as deep as a set of anal beads might be able to had she been older, kinkier and even knew what anal beads were at the time. Like all young rascals who find themselves poised on the fence between the yards of mischief and smiley faced wow she lost herself in her own mind and when her ears and eye bulbs popped open wider than ever before she saw two tiny figures standing on each of her shoulders smiling at her. One was as vanilla as whip creamed tortellini filling and the other one sort of looked like chocolate pudding brown diarrhea sludge. In fact, when she breathed in their presence she realized the darker of the two was diarrhea sludge and she almost gagged until she remembered that since she was a little girl she knew that poop was cool. Especially diarrhea sludge.

She had often taken to advice seeking via the friends in her head and here were two she had never seen before because they were exclusive to this crappy abode she was now inhabiting. On her left shoulder was a veritable angel of decency that wore smiles as snow white and pure as the smock that was worn underneath a perfectly positioned pair of insect wings. Apparently angel wings were not on the spread in this locale.

As the stench of excrement familiarized itself she couldn't help but find herself enormously infatuated by the newly discharged pal that had hatched on her right shoulder despite that it left a dark skidmark in the previously unblemished cotten of her favorite nightgown. The dirty friend had only random clumps of hair knotted above it's shoulders mixed in with a head that resembled a crusty nugget of shit. In fact, it's entire body was made from smearings and clumps of bung butter.

It was the angelic haired butter nutter that spoke first.

"You look like you could use a friend, Leslie. Why so glum, buttercup?"

Leslie just stared at the billowing wisps of fancy follicles that adorned the cranium of the annoying voiced little quip and before she could respond the smelly antithesis coughed up like gooey phlegm.

"What up, bitch?! Hey, don't listen to this jack off. We both know why you're pissed instead of blissed and we know who you can call. It ain't ghostbusters and it ain't panty crusters," Then a pause met with copious chuckling,"Though panty crusters is a close friend of who you're looking for."

Leslie broke out into laughter of her own as the good humor of the smelly shit angel infected her like an anal plague.

The boring pale angel hmmphhh'd and turned sideways as if to suggest that it was pissed off. This all rather ironic considering the catalyst of it's annoyance more so looked like a nutty buddy.

"Who are you guys?" Leslie asked filled entirely with wondrous whoop whoop.

The vanilla wanker cone stayed pouting as the excitable piece of talking fecal matter bounced atop Leslie's shoulders and upper right arm gushing it's bouyant exchange while trailing more skidmarks.

"I'm Shit Stain", it declared proudly before motioning over to the left,"and that is Hiney boo boo. We live here."

Leslie didn't want to slap her forehead in fear of smearing shit on her face should her hands begin to roam so she just raised her arms in mock surrender.

"Ohhhhhhhh, okay! So that is why I have never seen you guys before. You only live here."

Shit stain stopped bouncing around and seemed to deflate.

"Yep. This is us. Home sweet home. We was beginning to think that nobody worth knowing was ever gonna come around and liven up this dump. Just some old lady who already poops herself lived here before. That is no fun. I mean if she already poops herself, what good are we?"

Leslie could not stop laughing. She really liked her new friends. Well, Shit Stain at least. Hiney boo boo seemed like a dick. She wondered if he knew Tom Foolery, her mom's sugar daddy douche bagel.

Shit Stain floated right in front of Leslie's nose and she could see in the texture of the poo that he was actually smiling. By that time she was completely oblivious to the rancid smell. It was neat.

"We know about your mom and her new dick daddy. Hiney boo boo over here thinks we should help you set up some whoopie pin cushions and dumb shit like that. But me? I know what you need. This douche bagel is gonna take extra special measures to get rid of. You need to call a professional."

The skin between Leslie's eyebrows wrinkled all the way up her forehead and into her scalp.

"A professional what?"

Hiney boo boo jumped from her boring side and dangled in her face with his arms stretched wide in pleading accent.

"Please Leslie, we know you are angry at your mother and Tom Foolery. But you must never call," He slumped,"Him."

Shit Stain shooed away only in dismissal of Hiney boo boo and not at all in the unwelcoming of any flies that would find themselves enamored with his yum yums.

"Eh, don't listen to that bird turd. Make the call! Make the call!"

Hiney boo boo stormed right up into Shit Stains air space but made plenty sure as to stay back far enough that his pretty gown could remain sludge and smudge free.

"Who you calling a bird turd, baby bubba? I'm trying to save these people's house from certain destruction. You know how.... he gets."

Shit Stain laughed loud enough to send brown cloudy waves flying towards the walls.

"You're a bird turd, numb nuts! Bird turds are not even real turds and me and.... him.... our true colors are worn with brown pride. You're of the ass. But, you're dumb. Even your name is dumb ass."

Hiney boo boo continued shaking his head in refusal.

"No no no no no no. You got it all wrong. I am beautiful and you are two abominations."

Hiney boo boo stopped shaking his head and beamed light in a pose befitting a runway model.

"I was created in the image of our lord and masters master George Clowney. An image of perfection and beauty. You," He pointed both fingers at shit stain and chuckled,"Are just a stain on the underpants of the over and underworlds. Hence your stinky name."

Hiney boo boo smirked as shit stain trickled with rage. Leslie was sort of becoming annoyed.

"You both are ass hats. Literally," She laughed,"But I like you guys. You're different than all the other friends I have talked to before when I need help. This guy my mom is seeing sounds like a dip shit. No offense."

"None taken," Both replied through simultaneous glee.

"She seems hooked and that is bad. We just moved here and I got enough problems with this bitch at my school trying to make my life miserable. I don't need any more grief than I've already got going on. Desperate times require desperate measures, fellas."

Shit Stain perked up and Hiney boo boo looked down as if they both knew what was coming next.

"Now, what were you guys talking about? Who is this ...." She gulped,"Friend I can call?"

Hiney boo boo sat down on her shoulder and sighed in defeat as Shit Stain eagerly took the filthy floor.

"Well, we are but servants of a higher power. A power that frightens most but I can assure you is quite efficient when dealing with extreme cases of.... doucheness."

Shit Stain flew over to the television where Susan Boyle was still confusing symphony with agony and blipped the volume knob. Within seconds the room was filled with tortured cries that resembled operatic roadkill calls and Leslie raced back over to relieve herself from massacre.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" She screamed.

Shit Stain laughed and smeared himself lovingly all over her finger in his campaign to prevent her from turning down the hideous Susan Boyley sounds.

"Noooooooooooooooo!" He cried.

"You really should see this."

Leslie stopped and stared at him in confusion.

"See what? A boily assed hippo-potamus attempt to out gross Celine Dion? No thank you. I turned that down for a reason. The only reason I didn't turn it off altogether was because I was kind of hoping the bitch would deflate and maybe the Dutch oven cooking hour would come back on."

Shit Stain zinged back and forth.

"I loooooooooooooooooooove the Dutch oven cooking hour! It's so.... disgustingly elegant."

Then he stopped and his beady little bowel eye bowls stared her up and down.

"You need to see this though. The master is going to make her pay for all the suckage that she has wreaked upon this filthy planet. She doesn't even suck in a good way. Besides, you want a demonstration of what he can do, right? Well feast your eyes on-"

Shit Stain looked at the television and then the clock and began counting down.

"3-2-1-"

Susan Boyle suddenly stopped screaming though all her forehead veins still prodded her skin, which had now changed hue from fire engine red to swamp frog green.

Shit Stain laughed and pointed.

"Get a load of this," He paused, "Literally."

Flies began to form a halo around her face and an eruption of brown soupy muck cascaded from her ever widening mouth. There were sounds of both laughter and horror as what was presumably one of the camera men was clearly heard saying to stop filming her face and showcase her buttocks because it seemed to be the safest area to showcase for television audiences. When the camera panned and scanned her fetid ass crack all of her blistering boils were revealed and a test pattern replaced what would no doubt be the swan song of Susan and all of her boils.

The room erupted in laughter and Leslie threw herself onto the bed.

"O-M-F-G! What in the name of glory be and glory hole was that shit?!" She somehow managed to choke out through her giggling.

Shit Stain set himself down in the rolls of her blanket and Leslie was so excited from seeing Susan Boyle shit from her mouth that she found herself past caring that she would either have to change the sheets or lay in shit herself tonight.

"That, my new friend ...." Shit Stain had to compose himself and when he stopped laughing he continued,"Was our old friend and master and all around smell of a guy. The one who is going to handlo your problemo."

Leslie stopped laughing and sat up in query.

"Who was that exactly?" She asked.

Hiney boo boo came flying over and stood next to Leslie in her sheets that were now soiled from all the fecal fun.

"You see, Leslie ...." The angel stammered,"You must understand that when you deal with.... him..... there is no turning back. You saw what he just did to that poor wildebeast Susan Boyle?"

Leslie threw her hands up in the air and screamed.

"Hell yeah! That was awesome! I wanna make that douche bagel Tom Foolery shit out of HIS mouth!"

She jumped off the bed and began dancing in the middle of the floor.

"Better yet, make him shit from his eyes-"

Shit Stain began pouncing in the air to the beat of Leslies elation.

"-Or even from his ears-"

She paused and pondered.

"-Or his nose-"

She began dancing more furiously than ever but then she stopped.

"-Make that shit head bleed rectum sludge from every orifice and maybe even invent some new ones just for shits and giggles."

Shit stain had stopped dancing and was glaring her only down and not up with his shitty peepers. As he did this Leslie realized her blunder. She had insulted Shit Stain and Hiney boo boo by equating their shitness to an amateur offender like Tom Foolery.

"No offense," She said.

Shit Stain smiled.

"Ahhhh fuh-ged-about-it!" He laughed and they both resumed dancing as Hiney boo boo looked on concerned.

Leslie picked up on the party poopers mood and she stopped. This made Shit Stain stop as well.

"What is the big deal?" She asked Hiney boo boo.

Hiney boo boo looked at Shit Stain as if to signal a proceeding explanation.

Once everybody had calmed down the explanation came.

"The thing is, Leslie.... our master is a little," There was a moment of pause,"Extreme."

Leslie feigned shock and laughed.

"No shit!" She caught herself,"No offense."

Shit Stain didn't even say none taken and only continued solemnly.

"I suppose that the only way you are gonna learn the truth is to just dive in the bung here. Literally."

Leslie looked on more curiously now than ever.

"Our master helps people in the most extreme of all that is extreme. He's the shit and all. Literally. He just can be kind of..... well, you saw what he did to that rhinoceras fart on tv. Once he gets going there is no stopping. I'll bet she is still chunking up bowel residue."

Leslie was determined to destory her mothers relationship with Tom Foolery and nothing was going to change her heart or mind. Not even the threat of an ocean of diarrhea washing away the whole town.

"Bring it," She said sternly.

Hiney boo boo sighed and hung his head low and Shit Stain sizzled and popped stink ink all around the room. After seeing Susan Boyle shit herself though she was so excited that she was beginning to enjoy the smell of poop and for a few seconds wondered what it was like to live in Germany, where they ate it for breakfast.

"Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," Shit Stain beamed,"We're gonna bring it alright. The master is unlike anybody you have ever met."

Leslie looked around.

"Alright, so where is he?" She asked.

Shit Stain huddled in close and whispered.

"He is very close. In fact, he is here and can see everything we do and hear everything we say. You just have to call his name 3 times and he will be at your service for as long he feels necessary and not a moment shorter or longer."

The moment scratched to a halt like a needle screeching from a record.

"What do you mean until he feels necessary?" Leslie asked.

Shit Stain laughed and paced back and forth.

"You see, the master is..... uhhhh.... well, he's shit ya see? Literally. But, a different kind of shit. Like me but not like me. He is way more," He paused in his search for the proper term,"Anal. It's what he is. Who he is. Everything about him. It's just the shittiest."

Leslie looked on and Shit Stain continued.

"Shit hangs around as long as it wants to. How many times have you had diarrhea and wished that it would go away and it just hangs around and round and round-"

"You see where he's going with this?" Hiney boo boo interrupted.

Leslie shook her head yes.

"Well, there you have it. In a nut shell. When he feels like his work is done he will move on. Then and only then and not a drip or a drop before."

Leslie was beginning to see the danger in this invocation but still she licked her lips from hankering.

"So that is why boo boo over here wanted you to be very sure that you want to do this because once the master is summoned there is no turning back. Only retreat when he good and feels like it."

Leslie smiled and nodded her head to a stop.

"Bring it."

Shit Stain began to quiver with anticipation and his excitement dripped syrup all over the floor and bed sheets as he spun around in the air.

"Okay, well you see.... you have to say his name but we can't tell you his name. You have to...." He stopped and smiled,"Do it yourself."

Leslie felt assured in her guessing duties.

"Okay then, but how do I know what his name is?"

Shit Stain stopped spinning and smiled at her in a literal shit eating and spitting grin.

"It's easy. We will just give you clues and you will figure them out."

She clapped her hands together and sat back down on the bed.

"Okay! Okay! I'm down for that. Do I have to say his full name? How many words is it?"

Shit Stain smiled bigger than ever.

"What number am I?"

Leslie jumped up and down.

"Two! Two! Number two! Two words. Okay, okay, this will be easy."

Shit Stain seemed to think for a moment.

"Think of really 'scusting Mexican food. Tacos, nachos.... think like what a bandito might eat."

Leslie thought for a second and then jumped up with her finger pointing.

"Burrito?" Heads bobbed up and down with their smiles," A burrito! His first name is Burrito!"

She calmed down as he held up a stinky finger.

"Verrrry good, my dear Leslie. His first name is...." He motioned to her.

"Bur-ri-to," She said slowly through all smiles.

"Now, think of what you might drink in the morning. Not milk or coffee. But-"

Leslie scrunched up her face as tight as a pair of ass cheeks.

"Juice? Is it juice?"

Hiney boo boo came over and both shit angels were bouncing up and down now.

"Burrito juice?" Leslie said and then scrunched her face up even tighter. "His name is Burrito Juice?"

They both looked on and beamed with anticipation.

Leslie caught on.

"You said that I have to say his name three times. All at once orrrrr....."

"All at once. Three times," They both answered.

Leslie paused and then let loose like the stream of diarrhea that had erupted from Susan Boyles mouth.

"Burrito Juice! Burrito Juice! Burrito Juice!" She screamed and then sat down on the bed again after standing back up as the room began to spin.

A geyser of shit gushed from the floorboards and spread all over the ceiling before pouring down the walls and coalescing into a single blob of brown mire. The blob had some sort of parts hanging from it. Limbs that waved around and sprayed shit with every movement. It stood on stumpy legs made of more shit that oozed across the floor in the place that it stood. Its head resembled a peanut shape and as Leslie marveled at the disgusting splendor of this man made of rancid diarrhea sludge a hole opened up in its face and a voice flew out.

"Did somebody call my name? Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh shit is in the house and we're ready to get extra lumpy and dumpy like a dirty house party! I hear somebody has an unwanted dinner guest tomorrow."

Leslie gazed in awe and her tongue felt like it was clogging up her mouth as she was rendered speechless.

"Well, lets get started on a special ca ca casserole. I'll make that boy feel like he has high fructose corn syrup running through his veins. We'll make the river of vile run out of his ass like it was the Nile and have him dancing in doo doo. Lets get this shit started. Literally."


*****During my final months on the old blog site myself and another blogger hosted a weekly writing challenge. Since I was becoming so annoyed with the site my participation gradually began shrinking and eventually coming to a halt altogether. I stopped posting on the site but I continued to do the challenges for a little bit afterwards. I never posted them and only kept them for myself. This was one of the last ones that I did. It was a word salad challenge and a tribute to me and my weirdness from my former challenge partner in crime, Pastormike.*****