smearing shit on the walls of the asylum...

10:57 PM - last call
Category: Blogging

  the last dozen or so times i've logged into myspace were like entering a bar i used to hang out at. the people i once new were all gone, but their presence lingers on. a few of them stop by, but for the most part, it's filled with the hangers-on, or the new locals, taking over a place i've moved away from.

  it's those last types, the new kids, who've pulled their stools up, and drank down their light beers and their watered down cocktails, smoked their parlaiment lights, and uttered the words we've all heard before, albiet in a much less intelligent way.

  the new crowd is worse than the old crowd, but that's the way it is when the lowest common denominator theory is applied. it's nothing but the base level, child-like utterances of the last generation. the de-basement of the myspace species, the de-evolution.

  it's sad to see the same side-view (profiles) stirring up the same one-sided arguments, at least that's the way they see it, the good versus evil, the heathens blaspheming other people's gods, the destruction of the idols and the icons.

  there's no more fun games, no more ground-breaking ideas, no more originality. i can make this blanket statement, because i'm not here anymore. maybe there was a diamond in the filth, something i might have missed, but, well, i missed it.

   the friends and fancy pen pals i still have here are missed, and i'd like to have a drink with everyone of you, but even you don't break down the doors of creativity's cell. that's not an insult, either. those of you that still write, write down your lives, like a diary, reverting back to what the weblog was all about in the first place. but i hope some of you are still writing somewhere, even if it's just in your heads...

  i don't think i'll ever fully return to this place, at least not with the bag of tricks i once brought in with me, and i doubt my alter ego's will show up like they used to, excreting liquor out of their/my pores like water thru gills, writing rambles with the brambles, and branding abrasive poems into the soft, white flesh of the souls crammed into cattle cars headed nowhere.

  i'll stop by now and then, just because my mailbox is next door, and i'll give it another chance, just to see if the drinks got any stronger, or if the bartenders got any prettier, and maybe the golden rule of bars will apply, that of "thou shalt not argue about religion or politics..."

  and to you, my friends, hang in there. whenever i come back, you can tell me all about your lives. i may not say anything, but i'll listen. and ya never know, with my job, i might just be traveling to your town, and i'll need a couch to crash on (or a bed, hammock, railroad car, hospital bed, desk, laboratory, pile...)

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11:36 PM - retardedness, chapstick, and catching lightning bolts...

category? fuck all y'all...

i'm in texas right now. been climbing big ass towers so's i can fix up that there television crap. basically, i'm the gut changing over all the analog tv, to digital tv. and that's a whole conspiracy of it's own, and it's a really un-interesting one, so who cares. you've all got cable tv anyway, it won't affect you...

yeah, well, i'm in texas. austin, texas. there's so many fuken beautiful, big titted, corn fed fuken girls here... but my sarcastic wit keeps them away from me. well, except for that one. and with her, i wasn't being sarcastic. but, "any port in a storm," right?

no. not really. i feel fuken dirty.

i've been here for, uh, three weeks now, with a two day respite back home, so's i could do my laundry, i guess. and...

fuckit, here's the chapstick part.

i use a shitload of chapstick. my lips? i mean, my lip's have got a lot of talent, and, well, i like my lips, but they get all fuken dried up and cracked to hell if i don't gots some balm to put on them. i mean, if you look at that waxy fuken stick after i just rubbed it across my grimace? you can see the grooves in the parrafin.

but here's some chapstick tips.

when you g...........

wait. why the fuck does chapstick only unroll in your pocket? they should reverse the fuken threads on that worm gear. you kn ow how pissed i get when my fuken chapstick is smashed up into the cap, and i'm just...


what the fuck? why am i doing a whole goddamn spiel aboout fuken chapstick?

call me, yuri chapstick.

ok, getting back to the title, in non-chronological order, the retard part, well, that's just me not being around here at all. it's still the same, but seriously, for you, my readers and friends, we don't need what myspace has to offer.

we're not fuken 12.

now, on to greek gods, or god with a capitol "g," (notice how i didn't captalize that?) whoever is fucken chuckin' those goddamn lightining bolts...

i'm in texas. texas is flat. everything's bigger in texas. blah fuken blah blah. i'm 1 fuken thousand and 93 feet above texas, on a big ass tower, that actually has an elevator.  a rickety ass will wonka fuken thing, but, shit, it beats climbing up that high. you put two guys in it, and well, it's a little too close for comfort, what, with your dicks rubbing against each ohter, but still, ya wanna climb up a thousand foot ladder?

since most of you have no concept of how high 1093 feet actuall y is, pretend you just started your diet, and you lumbered your way up to the 100th floor, where your grey felt cubicle is.

got that? it's about the same as a mother fuken 100 story building.

if i fell, i would reach terminal velocity.

if you fell, well what the fuck are you doing up on my goddamn tower?

so a storms comin' in, and i'm sayin, "let's button this up and get the fuck outta here..."

but i'm not in charge. not in this job.

so when i see the lightning hittin the hilltops less than a mile..

so we go down. in that great steel elevator i mentioned. two guys standing on the top of it, and me and the newest guy inside.

did i mention it takes 20 minutes to get down from 1098 feet?

about 600 feet...

remember those last few blogs i wrote where i just bailed out and went

BLAMMO!

ok, well, there's a big CRACK, and fuken SPARKS flying, static-ing from point to point, my hair's fuken straight up outta my shrivelled testes, and i swear to the fuken god which i don't believe in, but almost just called on him for a safety today, i haven't been that scared since... well, i dunno.

'cause nothin really scares me. everynow and then i get nervous, but i haven't been shit my fuken pants scsred since my mommy took me with her to see the exorcist when i was like, i dunno, 6?

so, next time you think, "gosh, i sure had a hard day at the office..."

fuck you. fuck you right in the spokes.

'cause i got chapped lips, and i survived the wrath of god. bitch.

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10:22 PM - does god believe in you?
Category: Religion and Philosophy

catchy title, no? who cares about the fuken title, anyway.

let's just imagine for a moment, or for however many moments it takes you to get thru this soon-to be-meandering all-over the place shit-pile of assorted letters, and maybe, some moments after, if i/you're lucky...

wait. are you imagining anything yet? 'cause if it's something goood, then just stick with that, quit reading now, pretend i wrote it, and leave a comment.

what i was gonna typo-babble about tonigt, is not the fact that this keyboard is all fucked up, and so am i, but this:

GOD'S STORAGE UNIT IS FULL.

what i'm saying here, is this.

there's a lot of shit in this world, that, according to, well, just about everyone that's not a fuken dirty heathen, was created by god. which god doesn't really matter. god is pretty much god, despite whatever sorta trinkets and ornaments you adorn him with. he's still gonna be the creator, right? even though none of us agree on who this "god" fellow really is, let's just agree on that. even if you don't believe, just humor me.

assholes.

ok. so god makes stuff. then he lets us fuck it all up, because he gave us free will.

yay!

but there's a limit to how much stuff there can be. like, god made it, then us, then we make stuff, right? but it's still made by god.

we make cars, and hamburgers, and disposable lighters, and tampons...

but ultimately, "god" made it all possible.

i mean, if that's what you believe.

so god's got all this shit that he mead, stored up in his little storage unit, and more keeps getting added everyday. shit, that box fulla disasters in china is just about full to the top by now.

but it's not. not yet. there's plenty of room for a few more earthquakes and swine flus. china's been ignoring god for so long, the box marked "china. fragile." never got filled up.

till now.

but this ain't about china. or boxes of china. y'know what? fuck china. and the yaks they rode in on...

this is about all the shit that's just starting to pile up in god's storage unit, and... well... once one of those boxes gets full... well, that's all fuckers.

see, there's a box for the giant asteroid. there's a box for the gamma ray burst. there's a box for the strangelet and the box for rod serling's lung.

and once one of those boxes are full, there's no room for another. you can't fit two fuken giant asteroids in the same box. what are you, a moron? and you can't put a black hole in the earthquake box. it'd fuck up the inventory.

so you got all this crap in boxes, and once one of them overflows?

everything ends. there's no more room. for anything. the extra hurricane, the one that didn't fit in the hurricane box, twirls around the storage unit and wrecks all the other boxes.

get it? it's not that hard of an analogy.

now, wanna know which box scares me the most?

it's the box labeled "man's inhumanity towards man."

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7:46 PM - where did all the giant belt buckles go?
Category: Travel and Places

 just flew into austin texas. sat between a Milf and a Cougar. had some nice conversations, despite my obvious disgust with their jewel encrusted wedding fingers...

   haven't been to texas in a long time. last time was just a drive-thru on the way home from my lousiana vacation with my girl Katrina. the only reason i stopped in texas was for fireworks. and gas, too, i guess. i remember buying one of those gay-ass, pre-warped, brett-michaels cowboy hats from the truck stop. didn't seem as gay back then. but now. gay. totally, pants on fire, freddie mercury in a black mesh shirt, gay. i think i gave it to a bartender. she'd look much better in it.

  or maybe i left it at the aids clinic...

oh yeah, texas...

oh yeah, fireworks, that's why i stopped last time. well, it was off-season and they were closed.

fuck texas, fuck lonestar, fuck the alamo...

so, what am i doing here? working. we gotta change out antennas and shit on 1200' towers so yer tv's will work after next february. it's not a bad job, if you can get (handle) it. i mean, it's not often you get to hang out up in the air, like last friday, when i was 280' up above the hollywood sign, at mt. lee, with the rain blowing down my throat at 50 miles per...

so yeah, texas. here for two weeks, at least. there's all kindsa chicks roaming around here in austin. which reminds me of the point to this ramblin', babblin' blog...

when i was here in 87 and or 88, on my skateboard, there was rednecks and cowboys everywhere.

now they all look like i did back then. 'ceptin' for that asinine drawl...

this does not mark the triumphant return to blogging by the great yuri todded. this is just crap, written on a borrowed laptop, in a semi-less-than-crappy hotel in austin, after flying all day.

i'll be back soon. (although "soon" is relative. it could be "soon" as in a few days or so, or "soon" as in "the mongolian hordes would "soon" be replaced by america's redneck, in-bred, inept military as the unwanted, un welcomed, and unwarranted invaders of the...")

Currently listening : Beers, Steers + Queers By Revolting Cocks Release date: 2004-10-12

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7:57 AM - it’s all gay. mostly.
Category: Quiz/Survey

i was thinking about writing a blog. i mean, i have a few stolen moments from work before i have to go to mt. wilson, and i thought, "y'know, i haven't written anything in a long time" (for public consumption, anyway) and then i thought, any minute now, my boss is gonna barge in here and i'm gonna have to pretend i'm doing something else, so it's pretty futile.

i smell like a brewery right now. actually, i smell like  a brewery that closed down sometime in the late 70's, and then the cigarette factory next door burnt down and toppled over on it. and then it got pissed on by rebellious teenagers, and jerked off onto by the homeless masses...

well, maybe not that bad. but close. i keep waiting for the blood vessels in my eyeballs to pop, and tears of blood will drip from my sockets. there goes my madonna complex again...

my job is to convert all television to digital, and i have a piece of wire at my house for an antenna that wraps around the living room and goes into the kitchen. i have to kick it around to watch different tv channels. but all i watch is the mexican channels...

as the price of gas goes up, i just seem to drive faster. and i still want a 65 lincoln continental with suicide doors...

three people have asked me if i left a bar with an asian, transvestite prostitute last saturday. i know i didn't, and my friend (and her friend) can provide an alibi, but the more people that think it was me, the more i start to doubt myself...

i'm wasting my life, and i wonder what would happen if i sped up this slow suicide. like, is there something else out there that i'm missing? or is it just more of the same, forever and ever? maybe lil billy will find the answer in space...

now i'm in trouble. bye.

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12:14 AM - there is no way i can harm anyone with an empty BB gun.
Category: Life

remember when Gary Stolman hijacked David Horowitz? if not, read this here link. c’mon, read it. don’t be lazy. it’s a very moving tale of paranoia gone wild.

or is it?

recently. i’ve run into numerous people who just aren’t what they used to be. they’ve changed. or have been changed. i dunno. i thought maybe we’re all just getting older, and that’s affecting their lives, but now i’m not so sure.

there was new bartender tryouts at my bar the other day, (yeah, i typed "day." i work from 6 am till 3pm, so i gotta do my drinking, what’s left of it anyway, during the daytime hours, or "happy hour," as some sad person once coined it...) so anyway, uh where was i? oh yeah, new bartender. at first glance, she was pretty, with a nice set of cans, and all the rest of the parts that go together to make up a bartender, but there was something wrong. it was the way it was all put together. it was after closer inspection i noticed the lines under her skin. not like scars or brands, or other sorts of elective enhancement surgery, but something odd. like the three lines stretched across her midriff, like under the skin, under the flesh. kinda like a cesarean scar, but smooth, not jagged, and like i said, they were under the skin. it was fuken creepy. and i pointed this out to a few people, and then they were creeped out. then i noticed the ones in her arms.

it was like she was put together in segments.

so, since no one else would ask her what those odd deformities were, i did. she said she didn’t know. right. every physical imperfection i’ve ever had, i knew what it was. and i sure as fuck never had something that looked laboratory made underneath my skin, in such a prominent and visible place as my guts. (i mean, there are those three dots in the shape of a triangle on my neck, and that weird hair growing out of my shoulder blade, but i’m alright with those.)

anyways, i don’t think that bartender’s gonna be back. she sucked, anyway. she had the flirty, flakiness down, but she couldn’t help a customer worth a shit.

fuck her.

besides the obvious fembot/westworld connections, i’m honestly starting to think the world is being (re)populated by something not-quite-human. 

in case you were wondering what i’ve been up to since i sailed off the edge of this  flat-screen universe, i’m fuken losing my mind.

now go back and read that link up there. do it for me. it’s my birthday.

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9:25 PM - the end of an error
Category: Life

   still don’t have a computer. anyone got an extra laptop laying around? stealing typewritten bits and pieces from a friend, in between smokes, beers, and corn beef and cabbage. no wonder irish people are always pissed...

hanging out with girls half my age. that’s not too bad, as long as we don’t have any conversations. not that we would have any conversations...

didja ever notice that people who tell you about how funny comedians are, are never funny themselves?

carl’s jr. has captain crunch shakes. finally, the fast food industry redeems itself.

my car gets 11 miles to the gallon. i’m still not complaining about gas prices.

why can’t people who rent get a break like the people who can’t pay their mortgages? (at least with all the abandoned houses i’ll have plenty of pools to skate...)

i’m sick of america.

the hollywood sign doesn’t look as cool close up as it does in postcards. it’s just a shabby metal framework with cheap a corrugated veneer/ much like hollywood itself. but the capitol records building beacon light still blinks out "hollywood" in morse code...

i worked 103 hours last paycheck, and gave all the overtime to the IRS. think you could stop bugging me about when i was 1099 a few years ago? howzabout fixing that one fuken traffic light that turns red when i drive up? there’s no one ever there.

if karma’s a bitch, i musta stuck my fist up her ass when she wasn’t quite ready for it...

i’ve become a regular person. just like you.

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2:40 AM - it all sucks, but i haven’t given up yet. not totally..
Category: Writing and Poetry

   The same bar every night. the same stool, the same drink, the same conversation. every night. "lemme have another..."

   The bartender refills the glass as he gets up to have a piss. "clean bathrooms," he inhales, "cleanest i've smelled in any bar..." in fact, you could still smell the bleach, the amonia, the one scent from the last cleaning. "reminds me of when i used to do this," he thought, whilst shaking off the drips, careful enough to not splash them anywhere but the urinal. he took another deep breath, and walked out to greet his next drink.

he left, sometime after one, he had some work to do. the back door of the architectual nightmare/slash/office building, with his overalls neatly pressed and cleaned, walking up flights of disenfected stairwells to the supply closet. hoovers and trash bags, pine sol and polishes, in the cart that made it's way office to office, toilet to toilet.

and the acid, sulphiric? hydrochloric? whatever, it was hidden behind a corporate name brand, and he had the rubber gloves and the paper towels.

the light was on, and jim suckscockski was on the phone. he shoulda left hours earlier, but he was a retarded fuken corporate scumbag, and he was stealing money, fukin underage bitches, and all kinds of other crap, and our anti-hero walked in and then









blammo



sorry. it's all predictable. i know, it's hard to get hit by a bus when you're in a high rise building, pouring acid down some jerkoff's throat, but, you'd never go see the movie if there wasn't mindless carnage in it, would you?

..."jeezus christ, i'm fuken bitter," thinks our cleaner, as he sets his drink down into the same condensation circle left by all the drinks that came before, "but almost gettin' hit by a fuken bus driven by sandra bullocks on the 7th floor of a building is pretty fuken wacky..."

he picks it up, the drink, that is, and with a shaking hand, he curses the dog barking and the car alarm screeaching, downs the drink, and lights a smoke.

a week later, he returns to his home planet and asexually gives birth to the anti-christ.

(i'm seriously having a hard time writing these days. )

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2:49 AM - nonsensical thought about nonsensical things.
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

in the movies, humans always win. we're always out-numbered. our technology is limited, yet we always end up destroying whatever alien race that attempts to conquer us, harvest us, or the one's we just happen to come upon when we're flying around in our mining ships.

it's always mining ships, or terra-farming. it's never a pleasure cruise out into the "great unknown." we need to have a mission, and we're always right.

and we always win.

that whole "spirit of man will prevail" atittude. it's all bullshit. we're a primitive warrior race, and we would be annihilated by any alien with a cool-ass ray gun. we still use bullets. and when we run out of bullets, we resort back to even more primitive methods, and make spears and arrows and shit.

and we always out-smart them.

some alien intelligence, that uses lasers, warp drives, figures out worm holes and hyperspace, makes ships that fly themselves with interactive hologram computers, invisible cloaking devices... and then we, the meat-puppet apemen, figure out how to use all that against them and destroy them.

or else water or air kills them.

so, lemme get this straight. i'm an alien with all this advanced technology, and even though i know that i can't breathe the air, and the water is like acid to me, i'm gonna attack a planet that's 70 percent water, with an atmosphere i can't survive in, just because... because why?

next tangent...

love doesn't really conquer all.

in the midst of battle, be it a war on other humans, fighting crazy asian drug lords, or trying to save the last tiny bits of human civilization from machines and guys that dress like 50's spys, you still have time to make out with someone, fuck them, or at the very least, hold onto them while they die.

meanwhile, everyone else is dying back home, but you're all good, you're getting some.

then, with your girlfriend dead, you still have the presence of mind to attack the enemy and win. instead of breaking down and crying and being all fucked up and not being able to concentrate.

so, it's not love conquering, it's revenge. kill the bad guy 'cause he killed your wife. first you gotta kill a shitload of other people, but you can, because you were in love.

bullshit.

bad guys, in the rain, with leather trenchcoats, sawed-off shotguns, long hair and motorcycles.

predictable phrases. phrases that people don't really say, not in real life, but they work in books and movies.

dream endings, or even worse, car crash endings. or worse yet, both. ("no country for old men" springs to mind.) the whole, "i dunno how to end this, so we'll just make it a dream, or hit them with a bus..."

and then there's

BLAMMO!!!





  yawn...

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6:05 PM - the ghosts of christmasses passed
Category: Life

i was half sleeping most of the morning, and well into the afternoon, due to massive amounts of alcohol i've been poisoning myself with lately, which i'm about to curtail, but, uh, anyway, i had a million of those unfinished thoughts, and those half formed recollections from my past. christmas thoughts.

christmas, to me, is a ghost. it's a dead holiday that i gave up on when i was a boy, probably about 8 or 9, and the holiday choked itself on a big box of legos.

that's the present i really remember. that huge box, with thousands of bumpy little parts, that unlocked a whole world of "something to make." the set came with a little booklet of crappy structures and objects that could be built, but i went further than that. i wanted to build the helicopters and model T's that the pictures on the box showed. probably built by adults with engineering degrees, and unfathomable by your average 8 year old boy.

but i built them. i counted the dots, figured out the pieces, and made them work, and played with them for years. i had that set a long time, and i made sure that they always went back into their places, and always in the same box, never transferred into buckets, or tupperware containers, or left out on the floor for that oh-so-annoying (and painful) midnight stomp.

i don't remember when i got rid of that box, or why, but when it was gone, so was christmas.

the family aspect of christmas crumbled and dissipated, leaving future celebrations small and uneventful. all i remember is the obligatory pair of chuck taylor's someone always got me. there were no multitudes of cookies, pies, or extravagant dinners with relatives, step-siblings, strangers, friends, and whomever was invited to "share in the yuletide spirit."

it became a day of boredom, where everything was closed, and no one was around. this was fun, for a while, because it was a time to hit up all the freeway ditches and abandoned houses with empty pools, or the bank building in santa ana with the transitioned craters out front. there was no traffic, no cops, and no crowds to get in my skateboard's way.

but that's changed, too. if i leave my house in orange county today, the stores are still open, there's still traffic, i can get food almost anywhere, and it's almost another normal day.

i haven't received a present in years. nor have i given any. i used to, but now, i just don't care. i remember paying attention to my friends all year long, and when christmas came around, i'd show up with the snoopy snow cone machine, (20 years after it's extinction) or that pair of boots you mentioned 6 months ago. i actually put some thought into people's gifts, instead of just buying a gift card at the grocery store, and let you go shopping for yourself. which is an easy, meaningless way out. there's no spirit inside of a plastic card. especially when it's for somewhere you don't need anything from. like the Best Buy one i've had for over a year...

the only thing i liked about christmas for the last ten years, is i got a week or so off, and usually, a big bonus from work. but this year, being unemployed, i got the time off, but none of the money i helped that company make. but, fuck 'em. i probably lost them some money after my departure.

so, this christmas, i shut the phone off,  grilled some chicken on the barbeque, and read a book about Tesla. i still need to finish up my resume and get a job by february, or else i gotta sell my car or something to survive. oh, and i gotta hurry up and get my passport.

but i'm not worried about my future, not really. things always seem to work out for me, mostly because i make them work, instead of waiting for some unknown entity to do it for me. no one owes me anything, which means i can take anything i want.

so i'm gonna take my life. not in the way you're thinking. i'm gonna take it wherever it wants to go, even if it just wants to sit on the couch, or on a barstool for a while. but it's gonna go somewhere big, one of these days.

and i'm not gonna give a shit about christmas...



 

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3:22 AM - un-easy rider
Category: Writing and Poetry

yeah, i know it's half way thru it, but jeez, it wasn't me. fuken captain america. pffft. "lookit me, i'm captain america" i said, in my poofty voice, and my limp wristed hand motions...

so, yeah, he picks up this sargeant pepper lookin' mother fucker, and we rid out thru these bumpy ass dirt roads to their little  "commune."

dude. there's fuken mimes there. and grizzly fuken adams.

y'know? i'm the only sane one here. i'm not a dirty hippy like the rest of you. i mean, sure, i'll dose you all with some acid, and i might dance with you, but yer planting seeds in sand. yer fucked. the cap'n thinks you'll make it, but me? i may be fucked up, but i can still understand reality. not like that fake rolex wearin' mother fucker.

so fuck this, fuck grizzly adams, and fuck this place. i ain't stayin'. we gotta get back on the road.

fuken hippies.

parades, jail, and that guy from the shining in his football helmet. and now? my momma never fucked no gorrilla...

i don't get this. the captain with his thousand dollar leather outfit, all patriotic and shit, with a tankful of drugs, and what were we, was he, supposed to do with it?

"purple haze, all in my mind....burble burble blah blah blah...take, me out, to the baaaaallllll game...."

sorry about that. i had a dream we was playin' some hippy baseball...

fuck you. kill me. fuken hick...


y'know? dennis hopper was the only realistic person in that movie. that movie being easy rider. i mean, he mighta been a dirty drug addict, but after i watched it just now, he was pretty much right on through the whole thing. peter fonda was all drugged out and dreamy through the whole thing, detached and grooving, while dennis, as the fucked up sidekick, was actually the straight man to peter's "unconventional one percenter."

oh, i forgot the "freak out" bordello scene. dennis just wants to get laid, and peter gets all philisophical, despite his gucci sunglasses.

maybe i'm just going deeper than the pro and the antogonist aspect of it all. peter in black leather, and dennis in suede. who's the enemy? the hicks? the establishment?

i think peter looked at it like "i'm the angel" and dennis was his devil.

and now we're in fuken mardigraw? well, at least i'm fucking karen black. she fuken ruled in "trilogy of terror," with that crazy little pygmy bastard...

then it gets all "i dunno what to do next, lets waste some film" but they call it arty.

i hate getting older and watching movies that i used to like.

easy rider sucks.

Currently watching : Easy Rider (35th Anniversary Deluxe Edition) Release date: 28 September, 2004

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2:27 PM - the retard inspector
Category: Goals, Plans, Hopes

i'm back, for a few days, at least. still don't have a job, and my goal of winning the lottery isn't working out. so far, anyway. it's been just over two months now that i've been unemployed, and i've gotten used to the unproductive alcoholism, the sleeping till noon, the lackadasiacal attitude toward everything...

i wrote a lot, but now i'm stuck. it's hard to write down the film that plays out in my mind. it's all there, it just isn't working out on paper. which is odd, that never really happens to me.

i think i just like being lazy.

and then there's television.

tv sucks. i haven't watched much tv for the passed 15 years or so. when people talk about the new hit shows, i'm always blissfully in the dark. and i still am. but lately, i've been watching shows like scrubs. i don't know why. i don't think i've laughed at it once, but for some reason i think it's, i dunno, witty?

it's not. not really.

now, my dreams are commercially produced, quick-cut, scene-spliced garbage. i used to have adventures when i slept. now i just have episodes. special effects. disjointed gobbledy-gook that makes no sense. and that sucks, since i sleep all day. or at least till car alarm practice and tiny dog yodeling forces me to get up.

at least i'm not gaining weight.

it's time to go back to work, and inevitably, i'm gonna be climbing towers again. it's what i do, and there's plenty of money in it. sometimes it's even fun.

but it still sucks.

what i'd really like to do, is be a retard inspector.

it'd kinda be like the FCC, but, more logical.

i want someone, or everyone, to pay me to travel the world, and give my approval as to whether or not you, your company, or your product is retarded or not.

like, why are there at least four cans of coca cola products, 3 bottles of water, and what appear to be blurred out beers in your carl's jr portebello mushroom burger commercial, when there's only 4 guys, who are happy to pay twenty bucks each to the one guy who's just being a swindling prick to his coworkers?

i could go to each and every one of the almost 50 percent of people who thought they could afford a home in california, and now that they're in foreclosure, and they want the government to bail them out instead of taking responsibility for their own stupidity, and kick them out on the street.

i won't do anything to all the people who thought they'd make tons of money in the home loans business, because everytime they bus a table or flip a burger, they know they were retards. except they think it's someone else's fault that no one can pay for the homes they couldn't afford in the first place. i bet some of those hucksters are mowing the lawns of the homes they sold.

wielding the retard stamp would be awesome.

it would be a rewarding experience to say, "sure george. you need 46 billion dollars more for your little war machine? no problem. let's go to the bank and i'll have someone count it out for you. in cash. will hundreds be ok?"

seriously. 46 billion dollars? give or take a few billion? that's not even a real number. i mean, yeah, it's real on paper, but how do you count that? where do you cash those checks? even if you spread it around, it's still unimaginable.  and the total cost of that "war?"

i hope they kept the reciept.

every car commercial you see now basically is telling you you can get a free car. no payments for 6 months, a year... that's because no one has any money, including the car companies. so in 6 months, or a year, there's a shitload of used cars, and more people in debt.

everyone who's broke, but still has good credit, should go to volkswagon, sign, then drive, and then smash the fuck out of that car before the money needs to be paid. you get a car for free for 6 months, then wreck it, and put the insurance companies out of business, too.

don't worry about what happens to you, because we're all gonna be broke and fucked anyway.

on a side note, after the apocalyptic fires that destoyed much of southern california, where did everybody go? thousands of homes in san diego were totally destroyed, but you never heard a word about the people that used to live in them.  for months, shit, years after katrina, they're still talking about where those poor people ended up, but the san diego-ites just disappeared. is it because they had money? a second home somewhere? and jeez, with the price of homes these/those days, that's another few billion dollars, up in flames.  

and what are people so upset about these days? not being able to buy a Wii for christmas. the writer's strike.

the writer's strike? jeezus. y'know how (much more) fucked up our economy is gonna get because of that? they've based their livelihood on entertainment, and now? caterers, florists, gaffers, drivers... they're all screwed. and the people bitch because leno's in reruns, and niptuck won't have any new episodes.

every late night talk show is in re-runs. why? because the hosts aren't very funny. not on their own. they're just actors. they can "read" funny. shit, if i had my own talk show, i wouldn't need writers to keep you people entertained. i'm sure i could easily do an hour or two a night just insulting people. it'd be a hell of a lot funnier than conan.

our retard society is basically just getting what it deserves. i think that's why the history channel's so popular, and all the doomsday and apocalyptic scenarios interest people so much. they still want something else to take the blame for their destruction. comets, volcanoes, floods, black holes...

it sure beats trying to to explain to the few of you left, huddled around burning plasma tv's for warmth, that the end of the world was your fault.

i no longer think the world will end in a bang. it'll end quietly, like the last breath of a suffocating retarded child, abandoned in the old days because he wasn't good enough for the circus.

gotta go. scrubs is on...

Currently listening : Last Scream of the Missing Neighbors By Jello Biafra w Release date: 18 May, 1990

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1:55 AM - what makes a man start fires?

so, you know by now i'm unemployed, and have no desire to ever get a job. what i've been doing with my time this last month, is learning to work on my impala, and writing a book. a real book, that no one will read, because no one reads any more. yeah, sure, you read, but you, you're like 10 people. hardly enough for a best seller...

  and if you've read any of my blogs, there's a shitload of them that have to due with my acceptance of the end of the world. the apocalypse.

i seriously believe that i will be alive to see the demise of mankind in my lifetime.

and i relish in it.

so, to begin...

everything was orange, at first. orange, bluish white, whatever that color is when your eyes are closed so tight that you can't see anything but pain.

i slowly opened them, with a squint, and a tear, and that orange, that bluish-what the fuck ever, slowly dissolved, like in the movies, into shapes, and colours, and some kinda weird focus, like your digital camera...sepia, i think, and then there was ash, and the stench of burnt pork.

i licked my back teeth, and heard that annoying clicking sound in my jaw, the noise that clenches my teeth in my dreams, that never goes away, but's never really there, and, well, fuck my teeth, that's not important. nothing's important anymore.

i tamped my last cigarette on the exposed steel toe of my engineer boots, and twisted a bit to my left, and with the smoke clenched between my whitened lips, i tilted a smoldering wingtip to it, and sucked in the first taste of blackened feathers.

you never get to see this part in the movies. it never ends like this. there's always something, usually some bullshit kinda faith that saves humanity. something that opens up in someone's heart that proves the goodness of mankind, and the world is saved, the fires go out, the demons evaporate, and life as you know it goes on.

but that's the movies.

but the reality, the truth, the empirical fuken truth, for fuck's sake, is that bullshit glimmer of hope is all gone now.

and i sit here, with a carbon-coated sword, and a lucky strike, and the burnt up revelation of some forgotten bible bastard at my feet.

and the funny part of it all, i mean, funny to me, is that, a few hours ago, i was just one of you. well, not really "one of you," but, i was among you, and i had no idea that i was destined for something more. something much, much more fuken more... 'cause, like think about the christ for a minute. he had no idea he was the son of god. and then, sometime between twelve and thirty, all-a-sudden, he's the fuken messiah? jeez. that's gotta be tough. but he handled it alright. i mean, if you call getting yourself nailed to a cross in order to save mankind "alright," then, well...

but how would you handle it? fuck christ. how would you feel if one minute you're pissed off at the bartender for shortchanging you, and the next minute you're handed a sword and told that you, YOU, are fuken death. and it's the 21'st century, so you don't even get a fuken pale horse. you're outside the bar, and fuken wings burst out of your back, and the next thing your half-drunk ass knows, you have become death, the destroyer of worlds. and earlier, all you wanted was a blowjob.

then the tidal waves of fire come...


the end. really. that's the end of mankind. it's not the end of the story i'm writing, and re-writing (case in point, everything i typed above, i haven't written yet, and in book form, will be quite different) but that's the jist of it. i just hope i can cash in on it before december 21, 2012.

seacrest, out...

Currently listening : What Makes a Man Start Fires? By Minutemen Release date: 06 August, 1991

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9:31 AM - Thanksgiving throughout the ages.
Category: Life

(all the pictures i stole from google are disappearing, so this blog is just getting worse as the day goes by...)

Thanksgiving, 1500ish...

..God? this sucks. we're hungry and freezing, little help? We need some help, because we're morons.


..hey! you guys hungry? you look a little pale...



Thanksgiving,  1600ish...

Dude, pocahontas is fuken hot, for a 12 year old...


(Actually, the 2nd "Thanksgiving" (in the U.S.A.) was celebrated by the Dutch governor of Manhattan in the year of 1641, offering thanks for the first "Scalp Bounty". This was broadened by the Puritans to include a bounty for Natives fit to be sold for slavery. The Dutch and the Puritans (with Bible passages in their hands to justify their every move), joined forces to exterminate all "Natives Savages" from New England. Woman and children over 14 were captured to be sold as slaves; other survivors were massacred. The Natives were sold into slavery in the West Indies, the Azures, Spain, Algiers and England, where ever the Puritan traded. The slave trade was so lucrative that boatloads of 500 at a time left the harbors of New England. So, the 2nd "Thanksgiving" was to celebrate the victory (massacre) over the "Heathen Savages". During the feasting, the hacked off heads of Natives were kicked through the streets of Manhattan like soccer balls as part of the celebration.

Later, several Puritans ship owners in Boston began the practice of raiding the Ivory Coast of Africa for black slaves to sell to the proprietary colonies of the South, thus founding the American based  slave trade.)

Thanksgiving, sometime later...

Here, buddy, you look a might chilly. here's some smallpo... errr,  blankets fer you and yer squaw...


Thanksgiving, today-ish...

Welcome to our casino. please enjoy the buffet...


And tomorrow?

It's Black Friday!!!


but what about me?

No, i don't think "Margaritaville" is the best song ever...and nice suit, by the way..."

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10:41 AM - coming soon, to a gas station near you...
Category: Life

i just quit my job today.

no more company phone, no more company computer, no more work truck to tow the neighbors outta my driveway.

i'm at the point where i dream about work. and it's not like they're weird dreams, they're just dreams, about working.

and then i go to work.

it's like i never get away from it. i wake up tired, when i can sleep, because i worked all night, in my dreams.

and that's not right. that's fucked.

so i'm done.

it's nothing special. it's the same shit almost all of you are doing, and after i run out of money, i'll be right back with you.

but for now, fuck it. all of it. this is the only way i can take a break, a fuken breath, and i'm taking it.

and i've got no plans for the future. none. no nest egg, no retirement fund, nothing saved for a rainy day. i've got enough for a few months, and then i'm fucked.

but i'm ok with that, at least for now.

this also means, i won't have myspace, and myspace won't have me, because this laptop isn't mine. it's going back, with the truck, and the phone, and the 10 years of my life i've spent climbing up towers.

i've felt this coming for awhile, sneaking up the back of my neck and hovering behind me, and today, for undisclosed (to you) reasons, i said, "y'know what? fuck it."

now i gotta figure out how to get off this bridge, since i lit both ends on fire.

guess i'll just jump...

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