Standing Oration

Ready? OK!

2010-09-25T09:58:00.000-07:00

Now if you're wondering where the peace stand went, I'm here to tell you, "Hear me, hear me!" Don't go relishing in the emotional dung heap that you roll in nightly. Don't come to me smelling of your stench, like you've been reveling in tench, you dirty wench. I'm not your trampoline that will bounce you back to your obscene fiends that scream "Let's go team!" That's your dream!

If ever you are caught in a funky factory, dance as if you've got no dignity. 'Cause let's face it... you don't. I'm talking of chocking it all up to gawking (but not stalking!), but I get the feeling that you've been mocking so I'll go about mentally clocking your "besty" in the head. If the douchebaggery continues, this'll all turn out dead. I promise. I know. You may pretend to be slow, but I can tell that there's more behind the lampshade; there're problems tossed in the shade.

In the end, I'm just looking to get paid.

Laus Deo

2010-04-13T05:03:00.000-07:00

WHAM!! BAM!! SLAM!!! Broadside by a van. Put a crack in a dam. Grind ‘em down to sand. Man, wacky and tacky and laggy and bored. Whipped cream on the ceiling and now twist the sword. Dark soul unacceptable to the Lord. Seen me? Put on my epics, check out the epeen. What if I prefer my Rhapsodies in Green? Liszt them off one by one, you turn and run, impressive or not, your attention has been got. Wrong punch to the wrong gut, Muhammad Ali says “Waves pound the sand, I beat people up.” What’s “up”?

Mesa Racer I amiss ya, kiss ya. Diss ya. I never would have pegged you as a dirty slut. I’d moon you, but I’d have to remove my garments to expose my hairy butt. Round bound mind not sound, slouch. Baby out with the bath and fire to the couch. Frump it, muppet, slap it, drop it, unskilled filled with a denominational slop-it. I’ve had desires to say, “something that should have been brought to my attention yesterday.” Maybe I’m gay? No! But I’ve sent a few people to go see that show. Untrusting untrustful uncareful uncaring. Make it a frank and the time is caught staring. Intelligence and insecurity through life hand-in-hand, raising their kids from the influence of Uncle Sam. Smart, Charming, Quiet, Depressed, Insane, these are their children and these are their names. A spectrum. A scale. A hostage, A whale. Someday I may make the move up there. Take lake make shake bake from a hotdog comes a raccoon and from a raccoon comes a snakehog. Fake. Time. Three times and no charm. I may be sensible and I may be Brandon Lee, but if it’s coyote ugly I’m saying goodbye to my arm.

Whatever happened to that girl, I wonder? Probably found another guy to get under. Never learning never crying never feeling never scrying, fragrance is lost and turn tree too toss three. Maybe it’s just me? Choke the suit guy. Where do people come up with this stuff? 88 keys and it’s still not enough. Gruff muff slap. Who goes through life carrying a map? At the time you were the best I could get. Why the H are you not married yet? Here’s a little secret, I’ll give you some insight. I cheated on you with two different girls in one night. Not you, the other one. The one who wanted the gun. Butch enough to protect, weak enough to not leave. Opposite with itself is the word “cleave”.

Cleave unto your wife with a cleaver but don’t leave her. Be a man, stick around, idle threats will break it down. Any threats will break it down. Miss the blonde. The boar moves faster than the sow, the squirrel jumps farther than the brown cow. How now? Casewad my man, you’re a stud, but do big black bugs really bleed blue blood? Mud. Truth. None of it is true. I chose to love and now I choose to hate you. I was the exception to your normal guy. Scrawny and slim, best of luck with him. I’m happy for you, success is like a Jew. Basing my experience off of my friends. Light sockets, games, carpets, pooches and pens. Again? That’s the third time this week. Weak. “Wiik”. I could reach that high, but it would be a Long Shot. Spin out and surf out and time tell no deek out. You owe me money. Bat smack breakdance jam. I am the King of her world, I am I am. It’s been a while since I’ve last seen him. Brass knuckles in my hand and I’ll carpe that diem. Do you understand what I say? Oh, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Laus Deo.

BLUUUUUURM!!

2010-04-11T22:26:00.000-07:00

Let's get mixed with the who-ha stank! Let's all buy drugs from the back-alley skank! Maybe this time, under the umbrella tree, we'll burn bushes rather than trash. It's not really a matter of "who's who?" but more "whose who?" My undecided major will majorly work for my undecided life. Seattle calls for me and I've never even been there. It's as if I were born to roam with the dinosaurs back in the day but not back in the day but now but not quite now but not in any other time... but yeah. The doctor once diagnosed me with leukemia and I looked straight at him and laughed. I've never even met Luke!

The font on the guitar is enough to drop a microphone in my trousers and see what kind of feedback I pick up. "BLUUUUUUUURM." Now if there were ever a part of me that desired to have any part of me assaulted by Frank's belligerent thrills of rebeliance by dancing naked in the halls of the church while covered in motor oil, all whist attempting to affectionally hug me, I'd just stay at home and stare in the mirror for an hour and basically get the same experience. The oration remains the same: If you don't think the ambiance is enjoyable, then start firing your gun until there is none left. A simple adage by a man that knows his way around 'Nam. They should make that into a game.

Pursuit of Happiness

2009-11-11T23:18:00.000-08:00

The saturated movements make the dancing bears go wild on the west side of Wonkaton, then swim upstream four miles. Spinning under the limelight, they dance and prance and frown, but there's nowhere for their emotions to go, except if they go down. Hunters try to tackle the mystery of the dancing prancing frowns, but all they see are maidens roaming about in frilly, prissy nightgowns. Approaching one is a big mistake, for banshees they all be, and if you get close enough to one, the banshees turn and scream. Rattling your cortex is the least of your concerns. Make eye contact with one and the blood in your heart will churn. Churning and burning is the sensation you will feel, and when you think you've had enough, all hope and sanity they will surely steal. You'll be left in a shallow grave, a hollow shell of your former self. This is your punishment for desiring a trophy to put on your cluttered shelf. The dancing bears will dance their day and the banshees will continue to scream, but in your attempts to lock these things down, alone you will forever be.

Roll Credits

2009-07-12T02:48:00.000-07:00

As this raging world of red inferno flames swirls about the base of the pine trees that have a light-toasted glaze, the overall yield of Beneficial Pact is losing its will to keep itself intact. I'm the champion of my own demise; in control of all things but my autonomous eyes. No surprise that the problems and the doubts from the times gone by are presently in the process of giving themselves rise. These are walls splatter-painted from shouts of "fire." These are future memories tainted with a lack of desire to do as I will, to display my true skill. To fundamentally change the very definition of the verb "to kill." Not a single form of patricide would mistake the place where the faults really lie. I'm like velcro shoes that just want to tie. Chained to the ground and all I want to do is fly. Locked in the darkness and deprived of the sky. Now I'd rather bury my head and not even try. If only in my story, prematurely, I just die.

SLAM-MONKEY

2009-05-23T19:28:00.000-07:00

Fooling the fools in the freaktrain gain of the franchise that has been made for the sole purpose of the things that have been said with an undeniable overtone of gin and mean seems lame. Walking the frozen road of romantic finance, when written on paper, makes perfect sense to an illiterate bunny attempting to read between the lines. I don't care about your outpourings of pretended affection or your lies to my face with your attempted deflection of the questions I ask and the things I insinuate when we're on our fake date with lady luck. All I want is a quick... buck.

So now it's all gone again and I sit here believing that the feeding of greeding even though there's been seeding of cheating within your secret meetings could turn out to be something good. The best apologies are the ones that are never understood. Or maybe the ones that involve food.

Bored out of my mind and going a little crazy creates an atmosphere of fear for all those that are lazy and refuse to pay respect to the greatest mind to ever grace this side of the QT-Town. Slightly altering the flow-waves in the deepest caves of your id saves time in the long scheme of things. However mentally incapable I suspect you to be right now, it doesn't compare to the wrenches that I wedge in my own system. Just stay away. Go away. Be away. I don't know you.

Flogging Fools

2009-04-29T10:50:00.001-07:00

Standing with the sing-song, whittling with a wing-wong. The Chinese man named Ching-Chong flogs fools with his ding-dong. I'm like a dank tank wafting in the stank. Snorting the crank. Yanking your flank. Like a humming bird singing to Bill A. Bong. Peering over the shoulder of a columbian slave. Dallying in the white powder cotton field all day long.

Every now in a while in my brain's eye I slam that burger in my pig stye. I'm like the mold growing under the fat belly flab. I'm like a homeboy rapping with the gift of the gab.

I often drink the fresh water of bottled diversity. I have strolled the forest-covered sunlit path of pathetic slanderings that cause normal people to freak snat-lanked dice. Bump and grind and squeak. Not I. Nay, I daresay. In my ideal mind the people and the mice team up to take down the dude downstairs that falls asleep to Enya every night.

Big finish.

Sulfur sniffer

2009-03-10T02:38:00.000-07:00

Spending time with a cricket makes Jimmy a sad puppy. He'd much rather hang with the boys down by central park and piss off the locals with his jibber-jabber and sulfur. His address book is full of all kinds of green downtown boogans that slap each others' asses and call each other Mabey. His compass doesn't point quite north in the summer next to the bignits we all like to call "safety".

And so it goes. Like a river under water watching a shark tank full of adolescent hooligans playing with their wii-ners.

Wobblesnout de muerte

2009-03-08T20:35:00.000-07:00

As the wiggles willfully wank down the seaside bitter plank, the dolphins in the water chant with an unexpected gusto, "Gi' me mo' strike, o' ya'll is goin' pay, ya hea'?" The cackles are brilliantly deduced from the groin of a grutchank during the festive spring gallows of decorate lynchings buried underneath the autumn twilight. "Discs and circles" the mobs belt out in 4-part harmony protesting the inauguration of the president of "Bootcamp Diddy's Happy Pad." Helplessness. Defeat. Magnifying glasses burning rodents' tails that never wanted more than to be a real boy.

Ninjas got dem mad skillz of flips and wall kicks and whatnot. Can they see why I love Cinnamon Toast Crunch? It's all about the code that you'll never know. The doorknob? The geist. The catalog? The sheist. Alpha posters with scissor snap coasters of the ups and the downs and the walks and the runs and the unipolar happiness and the bipolar mood swings and the tripolar personality disorder and the quipolar disillusioned bewilderment that many doctors refer to as "Nirvana". The idea of a perfect state of peace and living outside of any feelings of desire or greed or want is nothing more than modern-day depression.

Da browns wit da greens wit dem curtains an' duck spleens don makeded me bust out dem moves like I be a villain wit no dream. Ya know what I mean? Da breakdancin' an' da min-maxin' an' da hobnobbin' be enou' to dri' an ol' man to hi' bungalow. Dung-gonna-glow. Grum-biddily-bo. Sant-siggty-so?

Shotgun Weddings and Petty Squabbles

2009-03-04T04:59:00.001-08:00

Often, when caught in the middle of a thought-provoking sofa session, I wonder to myself if the cat in the attic really can cook a mean brisket. I mean... really now, what kind of self-respecting organism believes the sinkhole distributing, sock dripping motions and gesticulations that make all mankind hokie pokie with a firearm? "You put your shotgun in, you put your shotgun out, you put your shotgun in, and you blow the motherf***er's head off!" Har har har. The uneven ceiling might cause a misjudgment of trajectory, but in the end... who misses with one of those things? Not Officer Bigwell. No. Who's that, you ask? I answer your question with another question.

In the wee hours of the dusklight, the waves crash on the Hawaiian front of a war being fought by bamboozlers and prostitutes. Their hard drives are sufficiently scorched as they wield weapons of mass destruction. Namely bombs. The problem is that prostitutes don't know a whole lot about explosives and end up singeing off their own curly curls. The bamboozlers are not familiar with their own name and make a quick stop at a library to look up such an obscure word. Upon gaining such knowledge, they wage war with whittling their weapons down to a finite dust and letting the wind do the rest. With what do the bamboozlers fight? Scathing words posted on public forums of internet sights that are pro-anorexia. They exist, you know. And they're very popular.

But amidst the war-safari the hangers in the kitchen don't quite match the reddish crimson lighting that makes my heart melt. Of course... that could be the lit candle that I ate. That's not the point. The point is that the dark legacy continues to permeate my very being. The being that has yet to cease being bold in the eyes of the legitimate proposal presented by Officer Bigwell at the "apply here to be chief for a day" convention. Officer Bigwell is actually 13 years old. And his name isn't really Officer Bigwell. That's just his internet alias. His real name is Jackson Schmiter. And he's a schmuk.

Arsehole

2009-02-26T22:27:00.000-08:00

Today I submit to you that we secede from freedom and form our own quizzical quasi movement of polytheist pandemonium that precedes the gnashing and crashing that makes this economy what it is today. That's right. We're going all Machiavelli all up in the hizouse. If you don't fear me, then I will make an example of you. His words, not mine... but I wish they were mine.

Infomercial

2009-02-12T02:49:00.000-08:00

2009-01-29T00:31:00.000-08:00

Figgity-nastic, the cars are on the tastic. There's little room in the dugout for men who snap all drastic. There's no drama involved, just cheerios and stars. If you don't watch out for me, then Slim Gander is gonna starve. Few things are seldom left to interpretation, but when the opposite is presented, super heroes are sent packing.

Will walks with wibbling cheeks as he struts his stuff for the mall-walking geeks. Window shopping has had its time and now the moment of action has arrived. Drumbling and bumbling, the cat is all a-tumbling but the choice is never left to chance. It's very probable that the possibilities are endless. Forever drones on for hours at a time, but right now is when decisions are urgent; sublime.

Bending at the waist and tucking up the knees, my feet rest sloppily on the ottoman. Glaring vision of things far off swirl about them as if a violation of privacy wasn't entirely socially unacceptable. Maitland is pissing right now.

So in the end, the moral of this whole drabble is that when worse gets to worse, I can imitate a cow picking its nose.

Urinine Rocks and Rhino Dung

2009-01-18T21:32:00.000-08:00

The contemplation of it all is enough to make a man wallow in his own urine for months - with no change of urine. We're talking multiple-month-old, asparagus wafting, ghetto snorting urine that has been boiled to a crystaline rock and snorted for hallucinogenetic reasons. That's right. Urine snafted for research. Some dedicate themselves to cancer, others to watermelons, but me... I'm going for the good stuff. The rocks, man. The rocks. With the failing of certain institutions, people will need a place to turn for artificial happiness. They're not ok with anti-depressants, so urine rocks are the way of the future. What will the snorting be done with? Here's the beautiful part - Hardened rhino dung. The chemical reaction of rising urine rubbing against the dungwalls makes for a doo-daddy sensation that's guaranteed to burn the image of my face into your brains.

I can see the advertisement already:

Are you lonely?

Do your feet sometimes hurt after walking for a long time?

Do you wake up and wish you could sleep a little longer?

Do you shower?

Do you like the TV show Friends?

Are you poor?

If you answered any of these questions, then Urinine is for you!

Urinine - the all-natural happy place that you've been searching for!

What Now... Phitch??

2008-11-29T12:18:00.000-08:00

Marking the spanktastic wiggle-word of the century leaves me unweary of all things listed in the Book of Palabras. Unfortunately it didn't pass the test. Chaffing wasn't worth it, but the dog walks upright. In the summertime, Old Bill enjoys a naked dip in the sunshine bath of grieving hotloaded wenches who's biparted hubbies were brutally massacred in a waste-walker wintertime blunder. Sometimes I want to slap a dirty ho.

Let's talk a bit about "crazy". Wimbleton accessories make it impossible to definate, but I think we can at least paint a basic picture. Of course... when I say "definate" I really mean "defecate". See what I did there? Johnny enjoys jumping to the soundtrack of the new hit movie "Crang". It's about some guy who gets figuratively bitch-slapped every time he picks up the phone. That's the whole movie - SLAP SLAP SLAP. He ends up drowning in his own puddle of blood after calling his wife fat. She said she was contemplating suicide and he retorted with a witty "SUICIDE??? MORE LIKE 'CHEW-ICIDE'!!! MORE LIKE 'GOO-ICIDE'!!!! MORE LIKE 'MOO-ICIDE'!!!! MORE LIKE 'YOUR BODY GREW-ICIDE'!!!" Justified? Hell yeah... dawg. Anyway... they both died. Is it too soon to whisper Oscar?

They say that the human psyche is made up of "nature vs. nurture". I'd like to edit that with one more category: "Aliens". A viable explanation for the behavior of the those who think that random phone-bitch slaps are acceptable. We're going to, from now on, call them Phitch Slaps. Now I need to dust off my britches and merrily skip my way to the tune of Loop-De-Loo while convincing the Alien part of my brain that this is normal behavior. Not the dancing... The Phitching. We all know that Loop-De-Loo will never go out of style.

The Man From Eepaweena

2008-11-26T16:14:00.000-08:00

While touring the Amazon Basin I heard the fable of a cracked-out sage that lived in a cage of the tip-top parrot-befriending neverending canopy trees. There was a mad aboriginal flocking from miles abroad to gather and consume the wisdom-bestowing droppings from the amberseed-created moppings of the sage-cage worshipping treetop town. After chowing said droppings, the warring factions would dance and groom at a meet-and-greet and sing Kumbaya. True tale. Paul McCartney would have a hayday with that little tale. A true inspirational destination of truth if you were to hypothetically question anyone involved in the antidegrading hating incident... Word.

While professing at a higher-education institution I gifted a test to the various wide-eyed post-pubescent pre-adolescent grinning smiles of the post-night wilds that made them almost throw in the towel. One person of the opposite gender with a white-yellowish tint of the dead cell clump scribbled the following response to the non-proven fact "Which man-made object can be seen from space?" Her response, and I [fecal matter] you not, was "The Great Wall of Berlin". If that's not neo-nazi, mussolini-playing yatzi games with this fine countral institution, sent on a mission to counteract my patriotic blubberings and non-substantiated bullhockey, then she's got another think coming. So I failed the sorry ho, and on the terrorism-supporting burn-worthy test this is what I wrote:

"I know a man in the deep Amazon Basin that could help you realize the error of your obvious attack on my patriotic jumpsuit. Although my assignment to you does, in fact, require the willful consumption of shit, it WILL wipe that shit-eating grin off your comunistic face. The wise old butt-cook that lives in a tree's bowels will shake with glee as his pipe-dreamed halitosis-stricken warzone of a conversation-maker converses with me. I will tell him of your slanderings on my ex-purple mountained majestic mountained marauding mission-milked man-created constitution of the rebel-ridden offspring of stuckup nobility. He will literally crap in your mouth. No joke.

"But the enlightenment bestowed upon your brainwashed thinker-machine will only be rivaled by the defeating of the dingoes that are currently chewing on the rotting remains of the fastest of your 250,000. Yeah. It's THAT good. You will be corrected of your disgusting, foul sling. Until then, I am stealing your gank-crank from the clank of the lock and grab the hunnies and, if the mood so fits me, beat you with a coin-filled sock."

The nerve of some people.