Grading God
Current mood: shabbatulastic
Category: shabbatulastic Writing and Poetry

Grading GOD

God, the central character of the Holy bible, Torah and Quran, is without a doubt an interesting character. He masters every single degree of human struggle, dysfunction and emotion. In a nut’s shell he represents everything we love and hate about ourselves.

Vanity stands at the top of his list, as the first three of his Ten Commandments reveal. "I shall be your only God, your favorite God and the only one you worship."; sums up his prerequisites for his loyal followers. Of course later, in the Christian sequel (The New Testament) he offers his son as his legal representation with the title of Lord, treading upon his own selfish demands.

Establishing God’s name is difficult and (to some) unimportant. The Jewish faith Judaism, finds his name imperative and yet holy unmentionable. Yod-Hei-Vav-Hei (YHVH) is the formal name Judaism gives to their God. Islam prays to ALLAH, and Christians prefer only God, in it’s simplistic all encompassing form. Although most Christians refer to God as merely God, many argue Islam prays to a false God.

So, while there’s only one true God, we are unsure what his name is and the safe bet appears to be just good ole God. Christians are easily the politician’s politicians and difficult to challenge on the name fence. The Jews penned the Old Testament and can call God whatever the choose, considering they choose to call him at all. We must keep in mind that God (by any name) is omnipotent and knows who you’re praying to, so be careful.

God was very much proactive in the Old Testament, and yet after his son (Jesus) was crucified, disappeared from main stream action. The Jews and the Muslims dispute God ever had a son, so it is difficult to understand God’s lack of "hands on" effort in the last two thousand years or so. Islam believes Mohammad stood in for God and won the electoral Messiah vote over Jesus Christ. The Jews are still waiting for a Messiah.

It seems to me God decided he’s done all he could for mankind and prefers to speak only through his council. In the case of the Jews even council refuses to return their calls. Jesus (the public defender for Christians and God’s son) makes a case before the fickle master, who spends his Sundays summarily granting bail on the fallen Christian’s personal recognance, and rewarding Islamic martyrs with their seventy two virgin reward.

God has all but given up on the Jews after bailing them out of Egypt, and their only hope remains with their Christian prefectures. It’s increasingly clear God has once again passed over the Jews, and no amount of unleavened bread will pay bail on the recent charges.

Crucifying the son of God is a difficult rap to beat and Islam has their eyes on heavenly virgins, so the Christians and their court appointed council appear to be the last hope of the Jews.

As God knows all too well, the Jews are a stubborn lot, and the Christians have their hands full. Although, the Jews remember a much stricter God, who demanded an eye for an eye and burning flesh with penance. Christians are soft, weak, and lazy with their Sunday morning bible courtships and TV evangelists. Perhaps the Jews are God’s chosen people and he will remember the difficult times his most loyal children suffered.

Maybe the Christians are delusional in their belief that their council can cut a deal with the court, regardless of their crime. Perhaps Jesus is no more than an over confidant politician and inexperienced at tough trials. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, unless of course we take the martyr’s plea bargain and his seventy two virgins. JM

2:45 PM - 2 Comments - 5 Kudos - Add Comment

10 people lied
Category: Blogging

and four people died...

11:20 AM - 4 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

Taking my G.O.D. Test

It would appear I'm smack dab in the middle of another GOD test. You know how it goes, nothing's going right everybody's ganging up on me and I've lost my bible again. So what else could it be, but the obvious fact that God has hit me with yet another suprise test.

It's not just that these tests come at the worst possible time, from what I've heard God's tests are really hard too. As a matter of fact it's the main reason I don't believe in him or his tests. They're too damned hard and I don't find them very fair either. Take Adam for instance, the guy obviously liked apples alot and it was unfair to use that vice against him in such a high stakes test.

Also it's not fair that he wasn't given the chance to take another test later. So what would have been his motive for learning that pivotal lesson? None, he was already doomed to be nothing more than the scapegoat of all of mankind. Mind you, this test came after God snuck up and stole one of his ribs while he was napping.

What the fuck was the guy suppose to do, he just had major surgery and there was no pharmacy in the garden. I thought an apple a day kept the doctor away. So he's missing a rib and God's created this woman, left her in the garden with nothing to wear and just took off. He's in pain, she's bitchin about the fact that the only job Adam ever had was naming the beasts and that there's no place in the garden to shop.

She wants some damn fashion accessories and Adam thinks naked is just fine. So the serpent shows up with a JC Penny's catalogue, shows her a little black dress and some bling bling and tells her all she has to do is get Adam to eat a friggin apple. You know he was doomed. Death was probably the good choice, verses hearing her bitch for an eternity about how he was a controlling bastard who only thought of himself.

So he eats the apple, gives her some sexy fig leaf lingerie and prepares to be fruitful and multiply. Of course that big fucking buzzer went off in heaven letting God know the test was over and well you know the rest of that story. So yeah God's test are pretty damned hard. JM

5:46 PM - 6 Comments - 5 Kudos - Add Comment

...nothing really, but thanks for nothing
Current mood: Nothing less than flegfragdandyfooo

Off the inspirational loop and with a whole lot of nothing from thy blogmiester of nowhere, that nobody knows: Micheal aka Babyboy.

The other night I was sitting all alone in the dark, thinking about nothing and possible ways to improve it.

Nothing is really quite hard to improve upon and I came up with much of nothing. They say: "Nothing lasts forever", and they're right. I'll tell you why too, because it's nowhere to be found. As a matter of fact, nothing is a close cousin to nowhere. That's why it's always safe (if you're going nowhere) to take nothing with you. Because nowhere is entirely based based on a whole lot of nothing.

Even though we always take nothing with us when we're going nowhere, we always seem to think we left something there: "I can't find my car keys nowhere." - " I just know they're nowhere and nothing, nobody can say is going to change that!"

It's very difficult to be nowhere and do nothing, because we're always somewhere doing something. As a matter of fact, the only time we even claim we're doing nothing, is when we're caught doing something. Then it would seem, we're always doing nothing, with nothing, (in those hands behind our back) on our way to nowhere, to see nobody. (especially nobody named Joey)

"What you doing honey?" - " Ah... nothing" - "Where ya going?" - " Nowhere really" - "Whats in the bag?" - " Ummm... nothing dear"

But she knows that's your bowling ball and you're going to the "lanes" to drink beer with Joey. Of course Joey never showed up, but then again nobody did, and that was pure luck because she hates Joey.

"So who was at the lanes last night dear?" - " Ummm...nobody" - "Really?" - "Yep, nobody showed up, so I sat there, in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing by myself."

See, nobody is the black sheep of the family. He always shows up at the wrong place and the wrong time. The first one to get there and the last one to leave. He always shows up when you're expecting somebody, and never shows up when you wish nobody would.

"How did your very important meeting go last night?" - "Lousy, nobody showed up!"

"Hey did you hide the house key under the doormat?" - " Yeah, I hope nobody finds it."

"Are you expecting some company?" - " Well, I'm kinda hoping nobody stops by today."

I'm suspect of this nobody, seems the only time nobody's around is when you're by yourself. No wonder nobody believes you when you say nobody was there. Of course, you really can't be by yourself, can you. No you can't, and you can't be with yourself either. Nope, because you're only one worthless smuck, occupying one lousy spot, going nowhere. You can't be: with yourself, by yourself or beside yourself, for that matter.

But remember what they say: "If you keep doing nothing with your life, you're going be a big fat nobody, going nowhere." And when you get there: "Nobody's going to care that you have nothing to do and nothing to do it with." So, get a hold of yourself and get out there and do something, because nobody's gonna do it for you.

Nobody wants nothing to do with helping you go nowhere. You may be sitting there (beside yourself) thinking; why try when nothing's working. Well here's a little something to think about:

'Nothing from nothing leaves nothing and I'm not stuffin', believe you me.- Nobody, no nobody, can do the shimmy like you do, no nobody.' And nowhere, can I find (at least not in semi-nostalgic rock lyrics) where it says you have to settle for nothing.

So come on, there's nothing to fear and besides you have a whole lot of nothing to lose and you've probably got plenty on that anyways. JM

Ashes to Ash Wednesday and Dust to the Wind...
Current mood: Satantastic
Category: Satantastic Blogging

I really feel bad for Satan. I'm serious, because not even Christians believe in this guy. Sure, they say he's in a battle with God over what... some game of five card stud gone awry an eon ago or so, but they don't really mean that.

Nope, because if they really believed Satan was the root of all evil and God was the cure, we wouldn't have prisons, psyche wards and anti-depressants.

We wouldn't need them. When some negro raped a white girl, we would just send him to a priest to get exorcised and castrated. Sure, a priest would cast the devil out of that boy and have him singin in the choir in no time. That negro would get life plus an eternity with God. 

But there have been way too many Baptists on the judicial bench, and they wanted some of that good ole southern vengeance God was always hoarding.

So they castrated Tyrone on Saturday and lynched him under a Cottonwood the following Sabbath. Satan watched from under a rock, wishing he'd played that Ace of spades long ago, when he had the chance.

Vengeance was never Satan's tool, he was never more than a tin man. An aluminum siding salesman at best, Satan's game was tricking fair maidens while the husband was off prancing about. Slick and slippery was his style, a serpent's tongue his sword. He never coerced, never waged war, these were the anvils of his adversary.

So the next time you hear some Christian talking smack about the devil and God's plan to smite him and restore peace on earth, remind them that God's all out of vengeance and those weren't balls of cotton Tyrone was picking up from the Georgia sand. Tyrone's "two of a kind" follow suit and Satan has himself a spade flush.

So who you gonna put your bingo money on? JM

11:05 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

***$10,000 waiting for You!!!***Click Now!!***
Current mood: blustery
Category: Writing and Poetry

People tell me the government is tapping our cell phones, spiking our water and sending nano-waves in the range of 8.3 Oscillations in reverberating loops at 4.5624hz embedded with high frequency digitally coded subliminal messages, in an effort to control our minds. (Ok I made the last part up, but they could if they had a few 9 volt batteries.)

I say the government has a far better weapon in their arsenal - US! Yep we've digitally mindfucked ourselves to the point we can barely cheat the IRS anymore. WTF? They have my home address, my work address, my email address, my IP address, my phone number, my cell number, my fax number. They know every single website I've visited, all my favorites, and every single porn site I've ever subscribed to.

Bill Gates even put a hidden temp folder - content.EI5, in my computer just for the government. It logs every website I've ever clicked on, and I can't open it!

So the government is armed to the very last follicle on Cheney's bald head, and guess what? They could care less, because they know we are so fucking mind twisted that we don't remember how to cheat anymore. A little white mouse has been calculating my taxes for four years now. **Click here dumbass*** and ***Print confirmation*** Pretty fucking hard to cheat on that little mind twister.

And I swear every single time I have the slightest urge to grab my second amendment from the pawn shop, form a militia and revolt, another fucking **New and Exciting Offer** arrives at one of my fourteen addresses. Every single one is clearly mark **Just for you John Mentalcase** or current idiot

How do these high masters of gigatrimesmerating pixel manipulation know ? Are they reading my fucking blogs? Is there no privacy left on this Worldwide Web? Sure I could refrain from giving out my numerous addresses, social security, bank account and phone numbers to every desperate foreigner with 48 million dollars in a governmentally seized offshore account, but of all the millions of people in my network he picked ME! - 79 times.

My new ezPhone's meta-analysis statistical projection emulator figured the odds of that happening and sent the results in a richtext digitized html code to the ezPhone's *Executive's Choice *EZ-access 524mb *Pentronic Smartcell, and just as soon as I can get some local service, I'm gonna sign in and find out what that number is, but I'm sure it's astronomical.

Yep, nobody cares who you are, where you are, or what you are doing anymore. Fuck no, they have *Youtube for that. What they do know is; if they send 100,000g of spam in units of 10k across the web of 1,018,057,389 (2005 CIA) worldwide internet users marked: ****$10,000 is waiting for You!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! some yuck like me is gonna click.

Meanwhile, deep in the basement of the Pentagon each click of the chattering mice is counted, registered and cataloged. The hourly total is divided by a specific logarithmic unit to arrive at median range for that hour. If the range falls below a predetermined number, an alarm is signaled.

Soon after, the secretary of defense is called and informed of possible public idle time and all access to libraries, schools and educational institutions is shut down. Any venue thought to promote reading and thinking is closely monitored for any increase in traffic.

If necessary *Verizon will be called upon to broadcast Exciting Offers on multiple products. Once the range is restored the offers expire and the chatter regains its harmonious record.

And to think, you were worried. JM

2:21 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

The King and I...
Current mood: Kingtastic
Category: Kingtastic Writing and Poetry

Martin Luther King was very wise, and Mcdonalds would be too if they offered a Mcrib sandwich on this special day. Supersized with a watermelon shake and a side of collards they could call it the: Big Mutha Brotha combo.

I've never been clever enough to adhere to the standards of political correctness and it's getting harder everyday to fake. We have a Baptist preacher, a Morman, a Nigga, and a Woman as the forerunners of this presidential election. Now how the hell is some lame brained, nitwit like me not gonna slip up?

When the Baptist and the Morman step up to spar off, how am I just gonna sit there and listen to these two fine God fearing men tear each other's religion to shreds without saying something stupid? I know God works in mysterious ways but this is just odd.

(note to self God rhymes with odd, what's that all about?)

I just know the 'N' word is going to slipout too. I mean we're working hard at it, rumor has it even the KKK has been skirting the issue, but 10 1/2 months is a long funckin time to grind our teeth on that chunk of ebony. I think Hillary will be the one to slip (or crack) up. It's got to be hard for a politician, belonging to the largest minority of the world (bitch), to take the high road and treat the negro as an equal

With words in the political arsenal like: figure and bigger, a Freudian slip is just down around the corner:

"We can improve our great nation's economy with higher wages and by placing a nigger bet on taxable income..."

I don't bet, but I'll wager we'll need a 'bigger net' to trawl the muck left by these misfits. JM

3:08 PM - 3 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Coming back for less, including six ways to fuckoff...
Current mood: wannafucktastic
Category: wannafucktastic Blogging

She said "I'm tired" I said "You look it, ya wanna fuck?"

She said "I can't find my keys" I said "That sux, ya wanna fuck?"

She said "I'm hungry" I said "Me too, ya wanna fuck?"

She said "My mother died" I said "I'm so sorry, ya wanna fuck?"

She said "My head hurts" I said "Awwwwww, ya wanna fuck?"

She said "I'm horny" I said "Look, I found your keys!"

10:59 PM - 4 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Tug of Hearts
Current mood: blustery
Category: Writing and Poetry

A million gigabytes away she tugs his heart and he tugs back. A fair game they say to themselves. Soft words, and an imagined smile appears on the avatar. An "lol", a semi-colon followed by a right parenthesis... ;) and the tugs grow stronger. Ah, but the heart is clueless, the eyes are blind.

And who shall win this tug of hearts, memorialized by the pixels of lost fonts? Who can tug harder at the heart so drawn in by the anticipation of new mail? Who shall be the one left waiting for this little red symbol, that has brought such a longing for the next.

Each click of the mouse becomes a step into the unknown.  He waits... then she waits.. while their hearts beat unknowingly, holding unto every beat as if it were the last. How shall the glorious fonts arrange themselves next, with glowing adulations or sweet poems of daily routines.

Even the most mundane rings of shakespear, as these tugs continue. A picture is sent, a joke is told and "heheheheheheheeee" is destined to be published in Websters.

And then it comes.... she had no way of knowing... how could she?  The words could only mean one thing....

As he reads this new mail, his heart repels and convulses. He does not realize he has quit breathing, as he stares in a confused haze at this new message. Could it be...its over?

Yes, the picture leaves no doubt, men have been called this many times. Pain quickly turns to anger and he reacts hastefully, as men do. Fits of deletion and she's gone, gone forever. Three more clicks of his mouse and he draws the final curtain.                       

His illustrious self-portrait, crafted upon the canvas of megapixels, resigned to cyber oblivian, he leaves to heal his foolish heart, beaten by this game of tugs.

She waits in amorous anticipation for the little red symbol that never comes... not realizing the typo... she did not notice that under the picture she sent of her dog, where it was meant to say: "It's Rover", she had missed the "R".  JM

6:21 AM - 2 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

Calling Uncle Wolfe (Analogy of Iraq)
Current mood: polifantastic
Category: polifantastic News and Politics

Calling Uncle Wolfe (Analogy of Iraq)

Once upon a time not so long ago, white knights in shining political armor, gathered together at the foot of the royal king, and set about the gallant gesture of freeing mankind from tyranny, proving for all the world to see that nightmares can come true.

Imagine you're sitting at home one day and you receive a call from the other side of the country. On the line is a person who identifies herself as Lola, the personal assistance for Benedict A. Wolfe. Lola explains, in her soft seditious voice, that: "Uncle Wolfe", as he's known to friends and family, has wonderful news for you.

For reasons you can not fully understand, it appears your Uncle Wolfe, a wealthy capitalist you've never met, and further removed from your family tree than the neighbor's hound dog Rocco, is sympathetic to your plight. As Lola explains the details of your plight, the distant bells of truth are amplified by the childhood giddiness of ice cream promises, and Christmas morning anticipation.

Lola tells you that your uncle, (although recently elected CEO of UnTrust Sting Ass., and currently submerged in a whirlwind of controversy over his appointment as CEO of USA), has cleared his busy agenda, and wants nothing more than to free you from the tyrannical thumb of your despotic father.

Reminding you of the sordid details, and dysfunctional characteristics of your childhood, Lola promises you freedom from the rule of this dictator, along with a new asphalt driveway, and swing set for the kids. Tickling your ears with glorious stories of Uncle Wolfe's new age Dr. Spockian theory of family dynamics, she explains your father's: eye for an eye, discipline is cruel and outdated.

Lola explains that the family's trust fund, your father currently controls and disperses, belongs to you and your siblings. Lola tells you that Uncle Wolfe has proof that your father is pilfering the fund, and he wants to return control of this fund to it's rightful owners. Just before ending the call, Lola informs you that Uncle Wolfe's team of counselors is on the way, and suggests an offering of flowers may be appropriate.

You hang up the phone, a short wave of giddiness is interrupted by another ringing of the phone, it is your sister. Uncle Wolfe has publicly announced his plans to free you and your family from this despotic rule, and your sister calls for a family meeting. Stopping by the florist's along the way, you drive across town to your sister's modest home.

Sitting at the table with your five brothers and three sisters, you learn that Uncle Wolfe has taken control of the family's trust fund. Uncle Wolfe argues, this first order of business, is necessary to keep your father from stealing the money. Uncle Wolfe promises to return control to the family once order is restored. Your oldest brother Ray, tells you that Uncle Wolfe's team have visited his home already.

Ray says the team came looking for your father, busting down the door and breaking out all the windows of his small mobile home. He tells you that a group of five men stand guard with guns, over the uninhabitable wreckage. Ray explains he has no choice but to leave his home town and find another place to live. Your younger sister Riana, shares a similar story.

Bill, your oldest brother, and political science professor at FICU, reads from a stack of literature he removes from his briefcase. Bill reads a story of possible vendetta, Uncle Wolfe harbors against your father. You listen as Bill reads a story of how your father and Uncle Wolfe's father, once close friends, had became enemies. Uncle Wolfe's father was once CEO of USA, and some claims have been made that Uncle Wolfe's family have been targeting your family's fund for a very long time.

Confused, you pick up the flowers you purchased along the way, and head home. Arriving home, hoping to find the new driveway and shiny swing set Lola promised, you find instead, six armed counselors guarding a pile of ashy rubble where your home once stood. At the front steps lies Scout, your six year old German shepherd, and best friend. The family's protective canine sleeps, seventeen M16 freedom holes seeping blood.

Laying the flowers next to Scout's lifeless body, you hear a guard tell another they found your father in a hole. Celebration is in order, the despot is gone. No more strong admonishments from the tyrant on how to live your life, freedom is just around the corner. The cell phone in your pocket rings, it is your sister again. She tells you that Jimmy, your youngest brother, was gunned down by these counselors of family unity, when he failed to stop his car at a checkpoint.

The cell phone falls from your hand, tears fill your eyes as you look up to the sky, and scream your uncle's name. On the other side of the country, your grand uncle smirks for the camera and reports progress, warning against those nay sayers that cry: Wolfe.

10:50 AM - 2 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

Ode to HeGhor
Current mood: Ghorific
Category: Ghorific Writing and Poetry

By today's standards, Ghor was not much of a poet, but as the pioneer of rhythmical prose, in the dawn of mankind, he was the best they had. In fact he was all they had. It really was no fault of his own, this lack of polished metrical form, after all, he had no predecessors from which to study.

7:07 PM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Detour Ahead - Southbound Memory Lane take Exit 66: Highway to Hell.
Current mood: predisciously ambremiguous
Category: predisciously ambremiguous Writing and Poetry

How many times must mankind bruise his Achilles heel on that slippery slope, where the tides of time churn in perpetual turbulence, against the shores of tomorrow, before he slows down his race to get there? At what point will he cast away his whimsical machines, equipped with: nine ply, steel belted, hard driving, 42 trillion gigabyte, flat screen super chargers, that quicken his departure from yesterday, spitting mud pies at sibling rivalries, only to go back with sticky glue and cellophane tape, in hasty attempts to repair the damage, when his irresponsibility breaks mother's porcelain vase?

Can he remove the comforts of his mask, provided by the scholarly experts of semantic convolution, seduced with the tainted gold of his deeds, and face truth? Or will he continue to trick himself, whirling about in fits of denial, shoving the contrived essays of these hired men, into the face of his opponents under outrageous headlines like: Pulitzer prize winning Swedish physicist, Imso eFn Brilliant reveals: Molecular crack in porcelain cause of breakage in Mother's vase.

Does he not understand he only chases the very tail he surrendered to evolution, and pasted on the coin of chance he haphazardly tosses, in vein attempts to predict what he left behind? Calling heads while listening to tales, he recklessly heeds the advice of procrastinators posing as oracles of truth. These deceivers of time and worshipers of a false god, tickle the ears of men with glorious prophecies and their mythical god's majestic declaration: And he said unto them, doeth today, whatever your experts can blame on Mother nature Tomorrow.

So he squanders the present, abandons the past and races toward an illusion, only to find fragments of porcelain scattered along his trail, and more points on history's scorecard . He sets back to the drawing board, adds another four ply, better steel and another trillion gigabyte, determined to score a few points against the past. He rinses and repeats, another day on the slope, and another molecular crack in mother's vase. When will she learn? JM

4:04 PM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Learning to play the congas...
Current mood: congotastic
Category: congotastic Writing and Poetry

Learning to play the congas.

"Stopping to smell the roses", dwarfed by the massive hands of a craggy lumberjack from Pennsylvania, who I suddenly realized towered over me like a California Red Oak on steroids, settled any future courtship I may have entertained of - literal poetic translation and psycho-tropically induced knee-jerk reactions.

Looking up at the angry lumberjack, his enormous hands clinching the fragile bouquet my face was buried in just seconds before, fear quickly replaces the notions of holy redemption that caused my knees to jerk toward the rosy vision.

A surge of adrenaline and any traces of dopamine, the scurrying neurotransmitters could squeeze from the corners of my well worn pleasure track, reset my faculties to their last known operational configuration.(apparently sometime in 1978) As each of my chemically dulled sensory rejects come online, the faint beat of archived disco ringing in my ears, I realize only four of these "retro-configured" misfits could be accounted for.

In my infinite flash of heightened awareness, where time frolics in the valleys of quantum oblivion, I was reminded of my wager with the Jewish Wicca the night before. The Neo-Pagan in beet red Rastafarian dreadlocks, came to my door promising perpetual harmony in an utopian consciousness with his paper magazine and a two dollar donation.

The magazine he held in his hand, the "Watchtower" logo clearly protruding from the corners of a yellow post-a- note bearing a crude drawing of a Jewish Mezuzah, along with the "Vote for Ike" badge pinned to his lapel, should have alerted my suspicions. But what the hell, the "shrooms" I wasted my last four quid on were obviously duds and I was bored. Besides, no neo-liberal, zionistic, oracle of perpetual contentment, in a Shirley Temple mullet, ever murdered anyone... right?

So the lanky semitic guru, who addressed himself as Ramachandra, sat at my kitchen table and babbled on about: fulfillment, contentment, and utopian consciousness. Offering the magazine for a two dollar donation and assurance of everlasting contentment, Ramachandra in his beet red dreads, and a distinct Canadian accent, concluded his exhortation.

I gave my last four quid to Santo for an eighth of shrooms. The slippery Puerto Rican swore on his mother's life they were "killer" shrooms smuggled in by his cousin. The only killer effect of his cousin's shrooms was the pulsating headache creeping up the back of my skull. I apologized to Ramachandra, explaining I kept no cash in the apartment what with all the druggies loitering about the place. I was certain the killer headache, pounding through the top of my head, was going to cause it to explode any second.

Ramachandra, without saying a word reached slowly into his black lapel and produced a small bag of green herb and laid it on the table. In his Canadian accent, he asked for two cups of boiled water. I boiled some water in the little tea pot my mother bought me when I first moved here. I keep my stash in the tea pot when I have some, although it never stays there for long.

I sat the two cups of boiled water in front of Ramachandra just as another wave of killer pain slams into the top of my skull, and retreating to its fortitude at the base, unable to break free of its cranial prison. Ramachandra pinched two small leaves of the green herb from the bag and placed one in each cup of boiled water, the tiny green leaves with six symmetrical points curling up under the heat. The juice of the green leaves tinted the boiled water producing a slight musky hue. Ramachandra slid a cup in front of me nodding in the direction of my cup, as he picked up the other cup and sipped the musky tea.

My head pounding a Puerto Rican symphony of congas and bongos, I drank the herbal concoction, cursing on Santo's mother's life. The green tea is surprisingly sweet, and in a matter of seconds the first wave of euphoria courses through my head, taming the band of wild Puerto ricans and cloaking them under its utopian umbre. Ramachandra smiles from above his cup, as he slowly sips the magical remedy.

In less than a minute I've soared past cloud nine on direct course for destination Utopia. The Puerto Rican migraine a distant memory, surges of euphoric giddiness envelope my inner core, the walls of my dingy apartment melting into glistening crystal, and the nappy floor turning to gold. Angelic voices sing euphoric lullabies in the halls of this enchanted kingdom. Looking down on the table, I see a huge pile of Coca Negra, or "black cocaine". I bury my face in the glorious substance and fill my nostrils.

Ramachandra sits upon his high throne in white robes and golden crown, ruler and master of his utopian kingdom. I run across the golden floor and, looking up at Ramachandra from the foot of his high throne, I beg him for more of this mystic tea. Ramachandra, looking down from his magnificent throne, reminds me I have no money.

Desperate for more of his majesty's holy beverage, I offer him any of my meager possessions. Growing more glorious with every second passed, Ramachandra considers my wager for a moment and decides he will accept one of my five senses.

The fit of desperation consuming my every thought, I count each of the five senses on my fingers, making sure I don't miss one: Sight... sound... touch... taste... and of course... smell. When all are accounted for, I carefully consider the value of each one. The choice is easy - "SMELL!" I shout up to the king. Ramachandra nods in acceptance of my wager, and in one wave of his hand, my sense of smell is gone. He then points to a small room to my left, where I see a bed with satin sheets and four large pillows resembling the octangular pizza boxes from Pizzatos

Ramachandra tells me to sleep and when I awake he will take me on the long journey to the field of green herbs. I lay down on the bed surrounded by the four pillows and drift off in dreams of Ramachandra's green tea.

The sun, piecing through the shaggy curtains of my apartment, blinds my eyes as I wake. My head is pounding again, the Puerto Rican band has returned for an encore. I scan my apartment and see no sign of Ramachandra. Jumping out of my bed filled with empty pizza boxes from Pizzatos, I run through my apartment calling his name. Passing through the kitchen, I see a paper magazine with a yellow post-a-note lying on the table. I stop and pick up the magazine looking for a message from Ramachandra.

The Jewish symbol is no longer on the yellow slip covering the Watchtower's logo. Instead a message in blue ink is written:

- Bobby, I'm having your brother drop this magazine off to you hoping you'll read the article on page twelve. I worry about you Bobby and those crazy drugs your always taking. Much love, Mom -

On the table next to the magazine sets two empty cups and between the two cups lies a plastic bag. Had Ramachandra left the remainder of the powerful plant that soars beyond cloud nine and to the glorious kingdom where he rules upon his mighty throne? Picking up the bag, the congas and bongos pounding louder inside my head, I check the contents and bring it to my nose. I chuckle and shake my head, reminded of the fact I can not smell.

A sudden knock on the door startles me out of my confused haze. I answer the door and there stands my little brother Ricky grinning from ear to ear. He sees the plastic bag in my hand and shakes his head. "About time you come back to the living, you've been out for three days solid" he says. What? I think to myself... "Yeah dude, I came over on Friday night to drop off the magazine mom sent - you were drinking some tea you made from Santo's shrooms." Listening to my little brother, I try to piece together what he's saying, but it was not fitting.

"Man you were flying dude, I had a cup of coffee and you kept calling me Ramachandra" my little brother continued. "Dude you were zonin! - at one point you poured the black pepper from the shaker on the stove into a big pile on the table, and bet me you could snort it all." I shake my pounding head in disbelief. "You just about did it though, but man you won't be able to smell for a week"

"Oh and by the way, Santo says he told you those were some killer shrooms" Ricky says, as hands me the container of soup he's been holding. "Here this is from mom, she's worried about you, she says you need to stop and smell the damned roses." My little brother turns and leaves.

My head pounding harder with every passing second, I look for some aspirin but I have nothing. I look at my dingy apartment, cluttered with empty pizza boxes and beer cans, the place is a disaster area. I head to the store to get some drugs for my head. It seems I've spent a good part of my life getting drugs for my head. I think about what my mother said about the roses. Maybe it is time to slow down, I think to myself - the incessant pounding of congas, drowning out the oldies station on the radio of my 93' Toyota.

I make it to the store, grab the aspirin from the shelf and head for the checkout. In my foggy haze, still full of Puerto Ricans desperate to break out, a bouquet of beautiful red roses catch the thin slivers of eye peeking out through my perpetually drooping eyelids Certain it must be a sign of holy redemption from God himself, and forgetting my olfactory nerves are rendered useless, I dash up to the roses and shove my whole face into the glorious pedals.

...and here I stand, looking up at an angry lumberjack, whose about to offer the Puerto Rican percussionists freedom from their cranial prison. In this most awkward predicament, in my drug induced haze, I can't help but ask: What would Hunter S. Thomson do? JM

12:15 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Tripping the unicorn or so they say...
Current mood: unicorntastic!
Category: unicorntastic! Writing and Poetry

Tripping the unicorn or so they say...

My perspective is flat, but that's okay. It turns out kaleidoscopes are not all that great for your eyes -especially in the dark. The man in the mirror is mocking me again, and I suspect he's stealing my socks. Sometimes I want to run away, but you know what they always say: "Turn around and put your hands in the air!" It suddenly occurred to me that, while we all know what they say, we don't know who they are, or why they say it. I think they play with kaleidoscopes in the dark, and are buying my argyles from the man in the mirror.

They say there's a God up in heaven, and they say pray to God and he will show you the way, lastly they say give 10% of your money to God. So I prayed to God, up in heaven, to show me they way to some money, and I promised to cut him in for 10%.

I wish God would pray to me sometimes. I know I don't have all the answers, but I've got two, and they're pretty good ones. I would tell him to immediately take all the Christians to heaven, to live with him forever. I'll bet we would have a new bible in less than two months, and shortly afterward Hell would be so full of Christians, even atheists wouldn't be carded at the pearly gates.

They say Christ was a carpenter. If Christ really was a carpenter, I would love to find his tool belt. I'll bet it's worth a fortune. I think if a Jew found it, he would sell it really cheap, because Christ was just another carpenter in their book. Actually, he's not even in their book. I guess he couldn't compete with Noah's ark building talent. The Jews already had a fine carpenter in their book, and Noah could count by two's too!

Christ was never very good at math (somewhere between Matthew 14:19 and 15:36, his five loaves turned into seven), so he had to walk on water to impress everybody, and prove he really was the Son of God. The Jews laughed at the Christian's carpenter, saying it was good he could walk on water, because he could never build an ark, and if he counted animals like he counted loaves, the world would never see a unicorn again.

The Christians responded: "Well let's see your precious unicorns walk on water." It turned out that the unicorns could neither walk on water, nor swim, and were soon drowning in the Sea of Galilee. Christ walked out on the water to save them but, unable to count by two's he saved just one, and the only other unicorn to survive the flood (thanks to Noah's arkmanship and spectacular math skills) drowned. Later, Christ tried to split the unicorn, as he had the loaves, and yet again he lost count. The Jews saw to it that the unicorn was Christ's last supper.

They say the Jews hollowed out the unicorn's horn, filled it with gold flakes and gazed to the sky on starry nights, hoping to see a sign of Kaleido, their brave unicorn. The tradition passed from generation to generation until one fateful night, a young Jewish lad known only as: O'Leary, a maker of lamps from imported lava, inadvertently began spinning the scope while looking into the sky. They say the shifting flakes of gold, reflected the star light in such a profound way, the boy swore he saw his sister: Lucy in the sky that night, wearing diamonds. The boy's Jewish/Irish immigrant parents, were shocked by their son's revelation, and stated profusely that he had no sister, promising to get the boy some counseling. *Some say Kaleido's scope rests on the bottom of the Sea of Galilee in perpetual search of the unicorn, although thousands of sightings are reported across the globe each year, mostly by Christians complaining the gold flakes are unsuitable for children three and under.

O'Leary, joined a Jewish cult and wondered the desert for 40 years, searching the sky for Lucy's diamonds, and later settled back home in Ireland on a cotton plantation his uncle Oxy farmed. Quoting they, he once admitted that, while pharming Oxy's cotton eased the pain and offered comfort, it could never compare to his first trip in the desert, and what he often referred to as his quest for Lucy's Sky Diamonds.

Whoa… I think I just heard someone rustling through my sock drawer, it's dark in there and I can not find my kaleidoscope anywhere. Well, you know what they say… JM

* Some: a subgroup or fraction of they, generally not considered an authority or representative of they.

3:48 PM - 7 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Selfless soul
Current mood: flabertanistical
Category: flabertanistical Writing and Poetry

You promised things would be so much better once we left the baggage of our flesh behind. You blamed your faults on cell tissue and hair follicles. But now that we've arrived to this perceived utopia, I see your arrogance and self pity has survived.

How shallow of you to believe  it was the demands of cartilage and marrow that fed your ego. And what now, as we float upon this cloud number nine, with nothing to stir and no mechanism for your devices? How shall I stroke this impossible ego, with no bon bons or trophies?

 Do you  miss your mirror and the reflection of your golden locks? What do you have now that the vanity of your image has vanished? How shall we feed your narcissistic tendacies? How then will you greet this maker of things, with nothing to primp... naked...and no language of the body to disguise your true self?

I see now that this eternal life shall be a very long time...JM

7:32 AM - 4 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment