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Hollywood, oh Hollywood, you're so fucking pretty, you're like a picture postcard of palm trees, pure blue clear ocean, and a smiling sun promising drinks, laughs, and pussy. But like said postcard, you're a mirage, a delusion, a piece of fucking cardboard held up by fragile strands of a dead spider's web. You're an infection, a plague, a brilliant, beautiful bastion of empty promise and empty eye candy. I fucking hate you, Hollywood, because my gut, my stuttering speech, my frustrated libido, my primitive social skills prohibit me from lolly-gagging in your pristine playground, your sandbox acceptance I always wanted.
Rage, like the nigger in the 'hood, like the kike before the oven, like the Nazi in Weimer, burns ready to engulf my measly body in a shotgun second. It's not the fault of society, of class, of family, of broken promises or of empty nights of desperate lust, it's merely a function of omnipotent Nature's evolution. It wears me down, it makes me tired and sleepy, it makes me wish hopelessly for easier days and nights not maintained by the beneficence of the trusty bottle. So I sit, rigid, frozen by failure and expectations, scared shitless of my meaninglessness.
Fucking you was not a ride in the park, it wasn't a hair-raising, ball-firin', hellish good time for all those involved. It ended up being fucking work, and fucking shouldn't be work. Of course, the booze helped, but it only enhanced the pathetic pain we both tried to assuage with stilted lust. I didn't like you; still don't. I didn't like that while I gladly ate your furry bush, I had to cajole you into smoking my hog. I didn't like that you were fucking stupid and completely, utterly boring in bed. But you were a notch on my headboard...redemption.
An old nigger plays old blues tunes on an old, beat-up acoustic guitar. I envy his deft finger movements; after fourteen years of plucking strings, I still have problems with simple, two-note chords. He plays on, sings on, his big rubber lips, his cracked, weathered face, his bloodshot eyes, all telling of a pain and frustration that makes my own pitiful hurts look like the dust on a desert. I let a one spot float featherlike into his battered guitar case. He looks at me, those red, red, Visine-needin' eyes, and says thanks. No thanks, paco pico pena, no thanks.
Booze, booze, booze, what the fuck happened? Christ, I remember the days when I used to run into your waiting, wanting arms, and you made me feel complete, desired, genteel, superior. Your delusion was the sweetest vision of life I've ever seen, better than any fuck-ass painting, better than any dumb rock song, better than the setting sun after a day of carefree murder and whore fucking. But, somehow along the way, you changed, I changed, and the world changed; the motherfuckers around me got smart to my booze-induced lying. My cardboard reality ended up failing, and so did I.
Shut up...SHUT UP...SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!! My wonderful roommate, "Mr. Wonderful," as I've coined him, is the worst of the worst: an idiot who invariably thinks of himself as the consummate genius. He knows EVERYTHING, he knows EVERYBODY, he's bangin' every broad in every bar in every country of the world. What he obviously doesn't know is that such braggadocio, such self-hyping bullshit, alienates those he wants to befriend. You need to be able to RELATE, to have a commonality, to another person in order to forge a relationship. You simply can't repair a Volkswagen engine with Jaguar parts, ya?
I love your thighs, just LOVE them thick lovely legs, but I won't be putting my tongue and hands on them any time soon, that I know. I've no self-esteem, little experience, less confidence, a hairy, un-mainstream-y beer belly, and the vicarious outlet of masturbation. So, no white fingers in your fresh, luscious yellow lap-flounder, my dear. No dark dinners at an Italian dive with those all-too-typical red-glassed candles, with my hand sliding up those mouth-watering thighs of yours to your quaking coochie, where I'd finger-bang you and your clit into the Elysian Fields, while the wine's drunk deeply down, wet.
Each time we meet, each new dinner or movie or tape or experience, is like meeting you for the first time; again. It's not that you're such a dynamic, dazzling personality, like I see a new, fascinating side of you with each additional interaction (though you are smart, sexy, and have a good sense of aesthetics); but my implicit memory, my instinct, is so bad that I completely forget all the previous times we shared together, and thus have to start anew each time we hang. And that, that dissociation on my part causes the deterioration of whatever we've established.
Yellow hair on my black bed, tits as cold and pure as the Himalayas, snow white skin ripe for a Dove soap commercial, lips, blood red lips, pursing and pouting for a sublime touch of sweet flesh on flesh; you decorate my mattress, like some Marilyn mannequin from a sin-free world. Blue eyes, sapphires, like from a Nazi erotic dream, sparkle towards me like the waves of the ocean. Perfection, that's what you are, absolute perfection. Time and space, ripped open and torn apart by the labors of lust leave us alone in this old mountain cabin. I miss you.
Place, place defines you. Like Woody Allen just bleeds New York, like N.W.A. was Compton personified, like the hippie will forever be molded to San Francisco, so too will you and I be seen within the specter of place. My old place, my home, my lover of lovers, is far away now, dying like the water on the cracked desert's arid surface baking in the hot ol' sun. Green conifers, snow, careless days spent drunk, feet off the edge of the dock in cool, clean water, an imperceptible energy that wild land takes and fuses into your bones, that's home.
Fuckin' A, the Unabomber was right, now wasn't he? Technology makes you a slave, a porcine pug-nosed automaton marching to the beat of the television's commercial jingle. I can't express myself with words without a computer...I can't talk to my mother without the "gift" of phone service that some corporate monolith "gives" me with ass-raping bills...I can't earn a buck without driving some plastic, poorly-designed shitcan automobile put-putting my way to a mind-numbing corporate job, that falls apart should-gasp!-the power go out. Can't eat without a stove, can't shit without a shitter, Hell, can't fuck without a rubber... BOMBS AWAY.
You've got blind faith, a blind beautiful faith that I'm something I'm not. You're deluding yourself, you're too lonely and innocent to see the God-honest truth. I'm lazy. Crazy, too. Misanthropic and, often, unpleasant. A model of wonderful potential and pitiful production. Irrationally hateful and distrustful. Occasionally, though not consistently or originally, funny. And, invariably, horny. And that's it, that's the clear portrait of me that you fail to see and acknowledge. On one hand, I wish you would... it might save you face and self. On the other, I wish you wouldn't, for without you I'm a dead man.
It's not surprising that, when looking at a man from above, his dick sticks out the furthest in front. Why? Because it's the leader; the remainder, the body and head, are just along for the ride, are just there to facilitate hiding that small, throbbing organ in a wet crease. A pussy, an ass, a toilet-paper core, liver in a glass, a plastic fuckdoll, anything and everything that can elicit the stuff of life from the sword of life, so be it. And, so be it. And so what? When the jizz has come, then you best be gone, honey.
South of the border, and things seem a little slower, maybe a little easier, definitely more surreal. The Carta Blancas go down smoothly, the sun drops past the horizon lazily, and all is well. Well enough, I s'ppose. We'll go back to our little room tonight, with the pink and purple walls, with the lone, stereotypical hanging eighty-watt light bulb swingin' in the moonlight, we'll make room for us both on the cot, and we'll fight the fire of the night with a little fire of our own. Your caramel skin, the hot breeze, the shadows, and an unequivocal yes.
I don't understand why you hate the bitch, you bitch. Jealousy? Certainly, I can understand the envy you feel for her fucking the admittedly air-headed man of your shallow dreams. But hatred? A desire to see some broad, who has done nothing to directly hurt you in any way, dead? Over some fucking idiot jock dildo? Get your head out of your cunt, you stupid little girl! There's THOUSANDS of big-dicked, big-muscled, media-manipulated dirt clods out there who, by their looks alone, will impress your equally dim-witted friends. So, save your hatred; maybe, God willing, you'll use it on yourself.
It's a calm, quiet night tonight, and I'm glad...I'm not a big fan of the wind, nor of the cacophony of the dumb, post-pubescent teenagers reveling in fucking Smirnoff Ice and Mike's Hard Lemonade. Just you and I, us two old fuckers, sharing a coupla bottles of cabernet on the porch, as the night finally kills the day. Christ, we're like two ol' geezers out here on this bench; at least, for now. Later, we'll fuck reasonably well and for a decent, passionate duration, quelling any image of us being old fogies. Then, a satisfied silence...no need for words anymore.
Little kids? YUCK. GRRRRR. When I look at the little drooling, snot-nosed, cacophonous, ugly leeches, I dream of being an S.S. officer, lighting the ovens of Auschwitz for a baby barbeque. And, although impossible, their lame-brained parents ARE EVEN WORSE. "Oh, Tyrece is just SO fucking special...Baby Jane is the most beautiful little girl in the world...Connor is ADVANCED for his age, for he learned to walk at two! FUCK YEAH!" Yeah, you psychotic bastards, your fucking ill-mannered rugrats are so special, pretty, and smart that they'll end up hockin' paper reams at Office Depot for $8.25. Brav-fucking-o, you roaches.
Barbara Crampton, you are such a luscious, luscious, lascivious, beautifully-breasted woman that, after watching your fine performance in the romance Re-Animator, I had to stroke my schlong to spermy heights of vicarious loooovvveee. Even though Doc Hill's severed head marred the perfection of your pink-nippled cans with his greasy, bloody suckling, still, your fragrant femininity, wafting from your heaving bosom through the television screen to my aching nostrils, had enough power to induce the erotic flow of the Fertile Crescent to the fore of my esoteric experience. Truly, you are a wonder of the world, a Heaven of Heavings.
I've got a goddamn headache, so NO, okay? I bought you that fucking tool so that when I'm tired, sick, bored, or disgusted, you can wail away on your whale away. So, SHUT UP. SHUT...THE...FUCK...UP. I don't shove my dick in your face when you have one of your vicious migraines, so don't stick your Amazonian jungle in MY mug when my brain is about to explode. Why don't you do something productive, like diet until you're a skeleton? Why don't your sandblast your face with the latest toxic skin cream? Better yet, go elucidate some masculine wisdom from Cosmopolitan.
Howard Stern, what the fuck happened? You used to be so fucking funny...you were one of those rare performers, so needed in our brain-dead society, that exposed the stupidity, hypocrisy, and banality of our most cherished institutions. The plague known as the Kennedys. The vapidity of supermodels (isn't it odd that those bulimic bimbos always try to affirm that they're not stupid?). Racial stereotypes and sensitivities; you understood, and exploited, the fact that the tenets of racism are ludicrous, and therefore not to be taken seriously. But now? You're just a hard-dicked frat boy, kissing the ass of American triteness.
What difference does it make to know what's going on in fucking Niger? What difference does it make trying to "fix" the environment by eating a fucking tofu burger instead of a bloody, greasy Double-Double? What difference does it make if I throw my fucking beer bottle into the trash can, as opposed to the recycling bin? What difference does your idiotic vote make? What difference does your inane, unsupported, fantastical opinion matter when plastered up on your narcissistic blog? Fuck, what difference do YOU make, your dumb words, actions, work, huh? I'll tell you...NONE. So, SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Decay settles in, and not like plaque, mein frau. No, it seeps into what's left of my brain, it eats away the synapses, it uses failure and hyperclarity and delusion to slash and burn my mental capacity to ribbons. Ribbons, tied in your brown hair, twisting in the wind spearheading a cruel, winter storm that never ends, playing in the pasture, oblivious, joyous, with a love as yet untarnished by betrayal and violence. A blue sky, a white sky, then a stoic grey, floating in to take away that which we didn't even know we had. It wasn't your fault.
The old clichÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â© rustling leaves, the old clichÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â© babbling brook, that lingering slate sky, the cold breeze, the sting of the icy water on warm, dry flesh. This is it, this where it all began and will end. Never enough, ya know? It was never enough just to want, never enough to think the good thing, because the bad thing always happened. That ol' law of entropy, slowly sluicing away the vestiges of sanity. Water like glass, ever flowing over boulders that don't move, won't budge, refuse to let change affect their beings, refuse to lose the vacuum of inertia.
People who will end up in the gas chambers once I am Dictator of the World: Julia Roberts (horse-faced, talentless hag), George Bush Jr. (do you REALLY have to ask?), John Kerry (just for the sake of equality), anarchists (AKA fucking brainless retards), Rosie O'Donnell (ugh), all hippies (I love the environment, so I own every conceivable consumer product known to man, BUT I DON'T EAT MEAT, so Momma Nature loves me, no?), all strippers who claim they're DANCERS (yeah, guys throw you bills to do a fucking pirouette), Steven Spielberg (What? There really ARE no happy endings?), Nelly (nice...
People who I will bestow lavish gifts upon once I am Dictator of the World: Kathy Liebert (bitch don't fuck around, and is oddly attractive for a fat broad), Jennifer Tilly (it's the tits), Adrienne Young (another piece of ass that has more than just her ass), Steve Albini (just for being such an anti-P.C. prick), Eddie Izzard (for Dress to Kill), Dave Chappell (for picking on niggers AND honkies), Boyd Rice (merely for skewering the whole concept of equality), Howard Bloom (for the clearest perception of humanity yet presented), Black Francis ("Abstract Plain," "Brick is Red," "Stupid Me," "Caribou"...perfection).
Sometimes, MANY times, I question why the fuck I'm throwing up my words on this cutesy little website. After all, all the garbage that emanates from my keyboard is all shit that has been said before. BUT, once I start reading YOUR self-important, self-delusional, pompous and meaningless shit, shit that YOU invariably think is just so fucking special, I'm FORCED to open my foul mouth. YOU need to be taken down from your straw pedestal, YOU need to be punched in the face by reality, YOU need to stop fucking whining about minute details and start worrying about BIG SHIT.
I don't know what the fuck I should do about the both of us, us together, us sharing time and space. I'm a leech on your soul, I know that, and, on first glance, that seems unhealthy; but, really, my little lamprey-like wound on you is just limiting the bleeding. Like it or not, we don't HAVE anyone else, like it or not, we're STUCK together, and that's why I can't leave; the good things we give each other exceed the weight of the bad things. And that's the truth...but my conscience won't stop BUGGIN', won't shut the fuck up.
So you said you had to go, and, as I'm a big boy and understand that all healthy relationships need solitude for each partner, I have no problems with that. Of course, I'm sure you're out sucking off some big-dicked nigger in a dingy old hotel room. That too I'm pretty much cool with...we've been together for a long time now, and things haven't exactly been like a roller coaster 'round here. Quite frankly, our fucking has become more routine than ritual, akin to eating a fucking rice cake instead of some delectable, moth-watering filet mignon. Just use protection, eh?
I dream of murder, I lust to bathe in the sweet blood of humanity, I yearn to feel the life leaving some shitbag's body as I ram the knife in to its hilt and twist it home. I wish upon my lucky star that one day I'll awake to a fully armed Russian tank in my front yard, will gleefully hop in its saddle, and ride its doom and gloom all over your superfluous asses. Shotguns, assault rifles, revolvers, bazookas, napalm, mustard gas, all lovely, noble things built to make the world a better place. Open up, my dear writers...
You're just an outline, like the chalk form left from a homicide victim's dutiful detective, just waiting for the world to come and give you your colors. Unfortunately, your painter ain't got no palette with a rainbow of flavors for ya; Hell, the dumb bitch doesn't even have a brush. So you grow to be invisible, you grow like a single blade of grass in a big ol' lawn, only to get mowed down again and again. I wish I could say it's wrong, I wish I could to make you feel better, but I can't; really, nothing is wrong.
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