all i wanna do is ride around shinin while i can afford it!

Aston Martin Bulldog: "Daddy?"


De Lorean DMC-12: "Son?"

fuck a Porsche. any rich asshole can drive a Lamborghini. Ferrari?

naw son, gimme this shit. the Aston Martin Bulldog (pictured above), designed by William Towns.

in the words of Dylan, "the retard son of the De Lorean (DMC-12)."

while it's not the cultural icon the De Lorean DMC-12 was (nor was its designer the utter maniac that John Z. De Lorean was; look him up), i've got big plans for this Aston.

can't you hear the DopeBoys callin?

"ay yo yayo, there go Kasai!"

cruising down the boulevard, five-miles-an-hour-so-everybody-sees-me!

wearing a filthy wedding dress, bumpin ManTronix, rockin the authentic Geordi La Forge Star Trek visor. a few eightballs scattered about my lap. running down any pedestrian who dares to look me in the eye.

and with the rakish angle of the hood/windshield/A-pillar, you'd think that old ladies would just glide right off the car. possibly the greatest implement for vehicular manslaughter ever created!

plenty ice round my neck so i don't get nauseous!

go downtown, put the drugs in my body, step back up, i'm the life of the party.

Thieves Like Us - Drugs In My Body.
courtesy of Kitsune Maison.

not on the cutting edge?
then i suggest you punch out some windows like dude in the chorus beat repeat segment of this promovideoclip.
you should be cutting it up with the best of 'em then!

although, i punched out a window at the crack mansion during a blackout once, and the skin was unbroken and bloodless the next morning.

so if you're not an ubermensch-type like me, maybe you'd better get a second opinion.

why don't they let me go home? this is the worst trip i've ever been on.

i've said it thrice and i'll say it again.

i've never robbed a motherfucker in my life (came close to jacking this kid on the way back from a party years ago, but we bitched out), but the first cat i see downtown with an iPhone is gettin the hands.

the fucken hands! you fucken get me?!?! Steve Jobs could get it too!

whoever the sorry bastid might be, i'll smack 'im in the head wit a rolled up Baltimore Sun or something 'til he relinquishes his grip on the gadget, see?

or maybe i'll chloroform the geezer. yeah.

i haven't made up my mind yet. all i know is that i'm doing it. we'll get to the "how" when the time comes.

my motive?

i admit to being a bit of gadget nut, okay, fine. what red-blooded, shallow, materialistic American male could claim otherwise? techno-obsession is in my blood, you see?

but that's not what Operation Trick Or Treat is about.

oh no.

because after i secure the merchandise, the "IT" item of the summer/2007, it's back home for me, sulking about the crowded city blocks, trying to conceal the circuit laden, touchscreen gold bar in my pocket.

gonna flip that shit on ebay for like 3 grand. maybe 4. 'cuz you just know there's gonna be a shortage and shit.

i missed the boat when PlayStation 3 dropped. there was some serious scamming/price gouging to be done back then, and i just didn't man up and "get" one.

not this time friend.

can't knock da hustle!

white lines.

god bless amurrrica! sort of.

courtesy of Economist.com

"The street price of cocaine varies hugely across the world. No surprise that it is cheapest in Colombia, the world's biggest producer of coca: at $2, a gram costs less than a Big Mac. Geography is an obvious price factor. The farther away a country from the main producers in South and Central America, and the more isolated it is, the higher the cost to traffick there. In far-flung New Zealand, a gram costs a wallet-busting $714.30. But there are some pricing anomalies. Although the street price in Japan is several times higher than in Israel, Germany and Britain, the wholesale price in the countries is similar, around $46.40. In Canada the wholesale price is 50% more than in America, but Canadians pay 40% less on the street. It could be that policing is more zealous in some countries, or that there is less competition among suppliers."

clouds up.

"All that can fall within the compass of human understanding, being either, first, the nature of things, as they are in themselves, their relations, and their manner of operation: or, secondly, that which man himself ought to do, as a rational and voluntary agent, for the attainment of any end, especially happiness: or, thirdly, the ways and means whereby the knowledge of both the one and the other of these is attained and communicated; I think science may be divided properly into these three sorts."

-John Locke

what's beef? german defense ministry v. tom cruise/scientology

courtesy of TIME.com:

Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg.

anti-Nazi, German officer. tried to assassinate Hitler in 1944. yeah.

Tom Cruise wants to try his hand at playing Herr von Stauffenberg. tries to get the German Defense Ministry to play along with his make-believe.

stiff-armed.

Cruise: "oh my gosh, why not you guys!?!? is it because i refused to come out of the closet (on South Park)?"

Defense Minister: "no, no Mr. Cruise. it is because you are down with zee Scientology."

if only we weren't so wrapped up in the hollow "freedom" rhetoric of the Constitution and so willing to be the sycophantic lapdogs of celebrities. maybe then we could call our deluded wackos as we see them. we should be so brave. this time, we should think like Germany.

yes.

surely, would-be Hitler assassin von Stauffenberg is granted hero status in this day and age, as modern Germany tries to eradicate their past with the same determination that their forebears tried to eradicate the Jews and other strains of "undesirables."

so we have to be delicate with who portrays our new age hero.

meanwhile...

Cruise is denied permission to play von Stauffenberg/shoot at actual German Ministry locations because, quote, [he] "has publically professed to being a member of the Scientology cult."

cult? strong language Jerry. surely ALL "religions" are cults in their own special ways. but there is something seriously fucked up about a "church" that requires members to spend approx. 16,000 dollars for a "thetan auditing," (a mock evaluation in which members of the "church" determine your "thetan levels," or, how badly your soul is tainted by ancient alien souls. yeah). not to mention the business of quite literally basing your theocratic philosophy on science fiction novels.

at least someone, (matt stone and trey parker aside), has the balls to stand up to these fucks.

also, it prolly didn't help Cruise's cause that his "church" propagates the belief that Germany is [still] controlled by Nazis.

protect ya neck Tommy Boy!

welcome to flavor country: pt. 1

destroy a column of marble (with an implement of your choosing) and what are you left with? mere molecules of crystalline calcium carbonate, colluding to form... dust. to be sure.

destroy a column of time-based sentiment, with your bare hands, and what are you left with? bruised palms and knuckles, yes. okay. but you're also knee deep in the ghosts my friend, wading through the hollowed out husks of the dreams and memories and wants of others. watch your step.

there's a certain stratum that must be broken through (with various palm blows and knife hand chops) to get to the promised sands, light years away from the metaphysical muck of postmodernity.

have no doubt that it is a stark and anemic interface (one of many to be sure), to be deconstructed so that WE may reconfigure. so that WE may give the thing "life."

MOVE, swiftly now, through the weather, sweep the hair from the eyes, and most importantly, tread heavily.

your motivation? your spark, so to speak, figuratively meaning the thing which was meant to be spoken but never heard?

a 20 megaton blast (quite literally) straight to the sternum, rattlin them bones and breakin them stones. down to... dust. to be sure.

stop looking at me that way!

dream dream dreeeeemmmm, dre-ee-e-ee-eem, dream dream dream, of creeeeeeeme. dream dream dream!

i have dreamed a dream but now that dream is gone from me.

Chris Benoit - R.I.P.

courtesy of ESPN.com/AP Wire

FAYETTEVILLE, Ga. -- WWE wrestler Chris Benoit, his wife and son were found dead Monday. Authorities told ABC News that the deaths are being investigated as a possible suicide and double homicide.

Lt. Tommy Pope of the Fayette County Sheriff's Department said the three were found at their home about 2:30 p.m.

Pope said autopsies on Benoit, his wife Nancy, and 7-year-old son Daniel were scheduled for 10 a.m. on Tuesday. It could be weeks before there is a result.

Benoit had missed several appointments over the weekend, leading concerned parties to ask police to do a "welfare check," Pope told ABC News. When sheriffs arrived at the home, they found the wrestler, his wife, and their son dead.

Detective Bo Turner told television station WAGA that the case was being treated as a murder-suicide, but said that couldn't be confirmed until evidence was examined by a crime lab.


The station said that investigators believe the 40-year-old Benoit killed Nancy and Daniel over the weekend, then himself on Monday. A neighbor called police, and the bodies were found in three rooms.

According to Pope, there were no signs of gunshot wounds or stabbing. Authorities are not ruling out other causes, such as poisoning, suffocation, or strangulation.

Pope told ABC News "the instruments of death were located on scene," but would not specify what those instruments are or where in the house the bodies were found. Pope added the department is "not actively searching for any suspects outside of the house."

The house is in a secluded neighborhood set back about 60 yards off a gravel road, surrounded by stacked stone wall and a double-iron gate. On Monday night, the house was dark except for a few outside lights. There was a police car in front, along with two uniformed officers.

Benoit, 40, was a former world heavyweight champion, Intercontinental champion and held several tag-team titles over his career.

"WWE extends its sincerest thoughts and prayers to the Benoit family's relatives and loved ones in this time of tragedy," the federation said in a statement on its Web site.

Benoit was scheduled to perform at the "Vengeance" pay-per-view event Sunday night in Houston, but was replaced at the last minute because of what announcer Jim Ross called "personal reasons."

Benoit, a Canadian native, maintained a home in metro Atlanta from the time he wrestled for the defunct World Championship Wrestling.

The WWE canceled its live "Monday Night RAW" card in Corpus Christi, Texas, and USA Network aired a three-hour tribute to Benoit in place of the scheduled wrestling telecast.

"My relationship with Chris has extended many years and I consider him a great friend," Carl DeMarco, the president of WWE Canada, said in a statement. "Chris was always first-class -- warm, friendly, caring and professional -- one of the best in our business."

the Hardly Boys in, "why the fuck are Amurrricans so STOOPID?"

is there something in our fucking water? there must be right? decades of non-existent oversight/regulation of polluters coming back to haunt us? mass brain damage and chemically-induced amnesia? maybe it's that being "smart," or even generally aware of your spatial and temporal surroundings is unfashionable.

30% of Amurrricans don't remember what year 9/11 happened? what happened to all that "WE WILL NEVER FORGET!" foolishness. do we have to get hit like ten, fifteen more times before shit finally sticks?

there's no point in even writing some protacted commentary on this, because the moving pictures speak for themselves. and us.

prime time of your life!

fireflies don't mind the lies,
they care to skirt the issue.
there's nothing more than merkins here,
cunt wigs made out of tissue.

i don't need anyone.

The Dead Boys - "Sonic Reducer"

"In 1990, a reportedly intoxicated [Stiv] Bators was struck by a laundry truck on a street in Paris. He was brought to a hospital but was reportedly sent home by the attending physician. Reports indicate that he died in his sleep as the result of a concussion. Unsubstantiated rumors suggest that Bators, a fan of rock legend Jim Morrison, had earlier requested that his ashes be spread over Morrison's Paris grave. He had also requested to be snorted by his close friends."

stop making sense: the end of an epoch?

"Jensen. Jensen! pay attention."
(muffled apology)
"MARK!?!"
"2007, anno domini."
"okay."

(clears throat. adjusts ascot accordingly)

let it be known
that
i won't bother with yr piecemeal heartsongs.
oh no. not this one.
bless me with a glistening, shining thing instead.
ANYthing to make these tepid days burn hotter kotter.
yayyy! early CHRISTmas!
CHRISTmas in the Carribean?
The Sudan?
must get going.
just heading out to the shoppes for a moment.
to fulfill some basic needs, you see.
take care.
watch them for me.
those intangible, abstract, matter-of-fact, actual contractual futures that consume so much of our time around here.
a prospector's hopes for golden waters.
that's what's left for us.
when we return that is.
H-O-P-E springs eternal.
burns infernal in the tiny hearts of little men and women.
no matter where you look.
that's what they'll say, when prompted.
but don't be silly Millie.
this is all US babydoll!
fighting for our lives in the storm of the century!
just a few days old, but we're already the odds-on favorites.

vive le cirque!

a time to be so small.

exactly.

this is why although i certainly respect the established and well known artistic geniuses, i have nothing but contempt for the sycophants who acknowledge their splendor exclusively, much to the chagrin of the artist on the come-up. the brightest diamonds often shine on well within the hard, dark shroud of anthracite.

or something like that.

the gentleman pictured above is Brit micro-sculptor Willard Wigan. and put simply, he is a master. albeit a mostly unknown one.

"Perched on a pin head is a $300,000 sculpture. Under the microscope, an eye can see an elephant, carved from a single grain of sand."

any asshole can fashion David or a Pieta out of a half ton slab of marble. but it takes a true Wizzzard to carve a statue out of a grain of sand.

as a child in the state school system of merry 'ol England, Wigan suffered from learning disabilities that made school even more miserable than it is anyway.

"The teachers at school made me feel small, so they made me feel like nothing... I'm trying to prove to the world that nothing doesn't exist."

bring on the miniscule miracles.

Wigan paints with a hair plucked from a house fly's back and admits that the actual work of making the sculptures is a real bitch.

while working on Alice, as in Wonderland, she ended up going down the wrong rabbit hole.

"I was carrying her towards the needle, and then I looked again through the microscope and she'd gone. Disappeared. I think I inhaled her."

the point during the report on Nightline when i really began to fucking trip face was when he said that as a child he built houses for ants but is now capable, thanks to the help of his microscope, of crafting sculptures on the microscopic level. think red blood cells.

a bold claim. i just chalked it all up to the artisan's delusion. until they actually showed the shit! then you're left with no choice but to believe.

balancing Charlie Chaplin on an eyelash was pretty dopesick, but once you start fuckin around on that erythrocyte tip? unstoppable!

sure his childhood was one of isolation and rejection. but don't feel too bad for the bloke just yet. Wigan sold his collection to the tune of roughly $20 million.
and that's what it's all about, innit?

right.

oh yeah? well check this. your face is kinda like nas's esco phase... WAAACCKKK!!! i'm comin for you lennox! ima eat your children!

for Sarah...


now wait a minute.

why the fuck am i minimizing this? forging a doctor's note? apologizing?

yeah.

shut your fucking cunt mouth!

i've been doing coke and lifting weights all morning, stopping only to hop in the whip and head to "the block" to throw AA batteries at the mangy ass hookers who clutter the sidewalks, daring their pimps to fucken test me.

see what you've done Sarah?

you've put me in a spot of bother my dear.

because if you were down there on that "block" earlier, surely i would've run you down with my ALL AMURRRICAN STEEL, decapitated you, and taken your head into the Hustler Club. used it as a fucken dartboard.

don't mind me (throwing darts nonchalantly, occasionally aiming for the eyes). just proving a POINT!

ouch.

Then i'd take the whole bloody mess back home, make sexytime with your headless corpse and put your pharynx in the garbage disposal. then maybe have a nice bowl of ice cream to celebrate a job well done. Ed Kemper style. actually, i'd make Eddie look like a fucken pussy. double ouch.

I KEEEED, I KEEEED!

i could never do that to another human being. sure. i'm probably the most devout misanthrope alive today. but i'm deathly afraid of prison, you see.

narcissistic, eh? gluttonous, huh? pretentious, yeah?

word?

well babydoll, you say those things like they're all that bad. or at all uncommon. i don't deny that all three (and a whole lot worse) apply to me. but from the time you're old enough to understand the sounds, you're told that this is the only way to fly. it's how you'd better fucking get down if you want shit in this hardscrabble, fuck-you-pay-me world of ours. if you're aware of the proper usage of a word like pretentious, surely you're smart enough to realize this? i'm hoping.

besides. what's more narcissistic/gluttonous/pretentious than an mp3 blog? or the people who publish/read them? thus, my vibe should be right down your alley.

so fuck off!

i know, i know. this is all a bit puerile. but i'm going through a lot right now, emkay Sarah?

for starters, my neighbor's being investigated by the FBI and i'm really fucking shook that she's gonna implicate me in her illicit Oxycontin mini-ring. among other things. then there's the stress of my impending relocation. and they just jacked up utility bills 50% here. plus my health insurance just got cancelled, so i'm shit outta luck when it comes to my anti-psychotics. so necessary.

but i'm really a good person Sarah. honest. just a little misguided is all.

i don't expect an apology or even a reply. after that Ed Kemper bit, i suspect that you haven't even made it this far.

but if you can take a joke (and it seems rather clear that you can't) and have pressed on, know that i LIVE for your brand of disapproval, disdain, and bland joylessness. i absolutely thrive on that shit! it's the only thing keeping me from steering into oncoming traffic on the highway each day. for serious.

I LOVE THE HATE. so i guess you can add masochist-drug addict-vindictive sociopath to the list of labels you've prescribed for me, huh Sarah? i don't mind. just call me Moss.

don't believe me?

consult people's exhibits A+B:
"Well I Never" and "Knife Wounds About The Face And Neck!" ("fortitude in the face of folly.").

bon weekend!

go with christ brah. go with christ.

this is a rather binary situation we have here, innit?

we have those that i know personally telling me i need "help." then we have those casual yet distant frequenters of the site, upset by my esoteric and drug-addled approach, that tell me i need "help."

i will never tire of the latter. i actually welcome the latter with open arms. the former just makes me want to torture some small animals.

maybe i need to go with christ?

but someone was telling me that he's really clingy. word? i don't know if i need that right now.

maybe if it was a T-9000X TechnoChrist SE, with like lasers for eyes, and a microwave built into his chest. complete with a 120hz refresh rate, 9 gbps internet connection and a 90 terabyte hard drive in his forearm loaded with niche porn. and a gold chain that had like 10 ipod nanos in different colors all up on it. and maybe if his/her halo consisted of E pills. hovering E pills. and as one of his miracles, he'd sneeze, and an eightball of polvo would magically appear. and there's little better on this earth than free, magical polvo, i can assure you.

i'd even take a DinoChrist. as long as it wasn't a malevolent, carnivorous DinoChrist. there's no overpowering that reptilian brain of yours my lord and savior.

they'll say "go with christ brah. go with christ."

yeahyeahyeahyeahyeahyeah YEAH!

but my mommy told me not to go with strangers. and you are STRANGE! i can't go with you. unless you know the password. and surely you know the password, being an omniscient supreme being and all. so we shouldn't have a problem, right? just go ahead and gimme the password and we'll be on our way to salvation.

(TechknowitallChrist parts lips) thaaaaat's it dear.

wait. wait! where are you going? where-?

(T.C. bounces like a superball)

yeah. uh huh. run like a little bitch. run like you always do. just like your father. always runnin when shit gets weird.

most of these days i'm awkward and plain. you said on a good day, i'm better than cocaine.

your cache of stolen instruments brought in just enough, well, cash, at the pawn shoppe to make for an interesting afternoon. what can truly be said of this kind of bartering? well if you've gotta ask then you ain't invited, friend.

rock and roll of a different sort. your fingertips are blackened, the preexisting calluses now resembling the stark, dead surface of sun-scorned Mercury. but physical appearance is the least of your fucking worries.

there's things to forget, obligations to flake on, expectations to fall far, far short of.

none of you care for what's been set out before you. it didn't make sense 10 years ago and as you draw nearer to the finish line, it still doesn't mean shit.

you watch X as he prepares his kit and it is fucken amazing! his preparation man. the focus. he doesn't even blink! his boney fingers load up the rock with the hurried determination of a revolutionary soldier loading his musket, fervent redcoats bearing down on him, drawing ever nearer, ready to run their bayonets right into his chest cavity.

for god, for country, for spinal bliss. your central nervous system will thank you later.

Y is just as fascinated by X's skill and focus. he spends extended slices of time watching him, half making sure he doesn't fuck up on account of the speed bumps, half waiting in anticipatory silence, like a Nazi doberman awaiting the shrapnel-laden scraps of American war dead. yeah. he's really chomping at the shit. he has a drug test next week.

as for you? you've got your rights and you plan to exercise them.

rock's in. your turn. you hold the pipe at a 60 degree, your knuckles caressed by the sagging headliner of Y's piece of shit Cutlass Supreme. the car reeks of dick, Doublemint, and now, drug smoke.

none of you wear seatbelts. that way if you crash, you'll be more certain to go. take the mystery out of things.

and the way Y is air-drumming on the steering wheel (Hot For Teacher tends to do that to people, especially when the neurotoxins start flowing), a crash seems about as certain as certain can be.

you worry, as you tend to do. but, in a moment of inspiration and genuine goodwill, X throws another rock in.

"Yeah?" he asks, as though you wouldn't approve.

"YEAHYEAHYEAH!"

"i'm HOT FOR TEECHUH!" screams Y at a terrified Arab couple in a hybrid. a role reversal of sorts.

baby on board! baby on board! baby on board! baby on board! baby on board! bright yellow beacon fucking your world up.

little do they know that given the state of things, their cargo's gonna end up riding in the Cutlass Dream Supreme someday, blasting rocks and punching hookers in the stomach with the best of 'em.

and oh boy, oh henry, the best of 'em are in that vehicle. that raggedy showcase of post-oil crisis American craftsmanship. Buy American, Bleed American, Blow American.

this is the 7th straight day you've been at it. you're a real hero, you know that? i wasn't sure about how to go about this, so i'll just ask. do you want to be the godfather of my kid? actually, don't answer now. i'll give you some time to think about it. this is an important thing this. wouldn't wanna RUSHIT.

the world streaks by, seemingly in as much of a pre-mortem daze as you. the windows are filthy, but the streets are filthier. best-week-EVERRRR!

no food, not much sleep. just a healthy regimen of heart-stoppingly wonderful amphetamines to keep the day away. in that plush backseat, you feel like your respiratory function is being compromised. fight through that shit.

Y is going on about how flashing your high beams at traffic lights changes them from red to green.

"it's called Strobe Alert. 911 amberlance trucks use it and shit. for EMERGENCIES."

given that you're all walking, talking, living, breathing emergencies at this point (and at all corresponding points), the word resonates in the hollow cavities not occupied by toxified grey matter and strained muscle, bouncing around like a SuperBall made of pure adrenochrome. you all laugh in unison, tickled pink at the thought of your earth-shattering lunacy.

head thrown back, eyes closed, Y tears through the next interjunctionsection, not really bothering to test his Strobe Alert theory.

you've never heard so much horn-blowing, nor have you seen so much finger-throwing.

he pushes that whip to its limits and it gives as good as it gets baby. the Blue Banshee powerslides into Number 1 Liquors, but not many are in the parking lots to be appalled. you can't fathom that it's 10:17 a.m. doesn't bother you though.

makes you feel like some sort of fucking WarMachine, some sort of nutso, fucked-though maniac jumping out of a plane and slitting like 50 throats before banging out every horizontal cunt in Khe Sanh. then you know what you gotta do right? burn that motherfucker!

yeah that's right. you are the harbingers of a new era. an extemporaneous thing whose sole purpose is to destroy the psychological (and physiological) constructs of homo sapiens sapiens. a nuclear anachronism that, to be entirely honest, couldn't be more timely.

along with a staggering X and Y, you sidle up to Number 1 Liquors, telepathically agreeing to approach the place like you're going to rob it. but when will you stop pretending? will it be at the wheelchair dip in the curb? will it be the sound of the ding-dong at the door that snaps you out of it?

before YOU can decide, X is holding his hand, in a gun-shaped fashion, no more than one inch in front of the asian cashier's face. screaming at her. not really "gimme the cash" screaming. no. more like, "gimme that log of peach skoal" screaming.

you try to stop him, to get him under wraps, but then he points the thing at YOU. what the fuck?! i thought you were my boy and now you point a fucking gun at me?! fuck you dude! you whip out your strap, tom cruise-style and point it at his heart. you've seen a lot of movies. you know what you're doing.

"MOTHER-FUCKER!" Y comes into view, crushing on a bag of pork rinds and drinking an as-yet-unpaid-for beer.

startled, you both train your weapons on him. he drops the beverage and bag of pork snacks, both of them hitting the linoleum at the same time.

the objects hit the floor in that sick, slo-mo fashion that the kids seem to love so much these days. but while you and X were focusing on how cool that fucking looked, Y managed to grab his gat from his leg holster.

the three of you. the best of friends. now all heated and tense and enemy like, guns aimed at vital organs, silence broken only by the rotation of the poorly maintained ceiling fan overhead.

tension. drenched in sweat. most likely on account of the standoff, but that second rock might also have something to do with it. it was pretty big.

the room is spinning, but in your fucked-up headtrap, it feels more like one of those crazy, Jerry Bruckheimer-esque circular tracking shots where like 80 dudes have guns on each other, each one telling the one next to him to drop his weapon.

not til you drop yours man! then the skittish methhead has a miniature seizure or some shit and 80 people get their brains blowed offffff.

an interruption.

"you guys are weird." she's not afraid anymore, though she should be. because this just isn't "normal." she's cute. asian. blonde hair pulled back like a real k-pop superstar. probably gives terrible head though. awkward. you'd have to finish yourself.

she repeats her observation. perhaps because you're all still standing there, stone-faced, panting in uncertain desperation. or maybe it's because you're all still wearing those ridiculously large bras you stole from TJMaxx yesterday.

"are you gonna buy something, cuz if not, you gotta go!" look at her. trying to sound authoritative. "you-guys-are-weird." under her breath, but not entirely inaudible.

like a fucking organic version of the Blue Banshee, X breaks the tension of the standoff, springing up on the counter in an incredible display of athleticism given all the crack he's smoked in the last week. he nearly knocks over the lotto machine, but somehow has the presence of mind to grab it just as it breaches the precipice, preventing a fall.

this is gonna be good.

"WEIRD-" he stammers, adjusting his bra but keeping the gun trained on her. straight-faced, straight laced. all wrapped up. great support. a really beautiful pattern. i can't believe it was on sale! free.99!

he composes himself.

"WEIRD is a dastardly word madame! WEIRD has committed many young, brave souls to their ultimate demise! WEIRD has enslaved entire races and it has burned pre-teen girls at the stake! for its own sick enjoyment! WEEEEYYERDDD, young lady, is a vir-u-lent thing, so i suggest you exercise extreme caution before deciding to USE IT!"

the gun is shaking violently by now; like the rookie cop facing down the FBI's 5th most wanted fugitive at Penn Station.

"so you're not robbing me?" asks the Asian calmly.

"haha fuck no!" you assure her. during X's oscar-caliber mini-soliloquy, you and Y have loaded up on enough grain alcohol, bourbon, and Beast Ice to cause a billion drunk driving accidents. you hoist your haul onto the counter beside X. "fuck no. i don't gets down with dry anal rape. and i hear there's a lot of that in prison."

she feigns understanding.

you carefully pull X down from the counter, taking care that he doesn't slip on one of the scratch offs. none of you have insurance. you urge X to holster his weapon, and he duly complies. atta boy.

the asian popstar rings you up and as you leave, shouldering your load of booze, cackling like hyenas, she wonders if she'd just born witness to something ethereal.

fallen angels? time travelers? crossdressing alien bounty hunter club promoter pornstar activists? or maybe it was just your imagination baby. bad dream. now go back to sleep. we'll figure it out in the morning.

as the poem goes, the world may never know.

all that can be sure is that you're just gonna try to be as weird as you can be. because your best is all the world can ask of you.

Another Reissue: Originality is Dead. Lajos Egri Said So Himself. And That Was in 1942 motherfuckers!

have you ever awakened on a tuesday morning in your own private hell, sun mocking you through filthy, curtainless glass, the inside of your skull being scraped at by an agitated demon with an icy implement, simply because you've decided to "clean up" for the week?

is each week loaded with regretful incidents (usually involving the opposite sex) that secretly bring a smile to your face?

is your creativity flowing into new ways to cop rather than lucrative artistic ventures?

do you often find yourself selling things (TVs, DVDs, IPods, amps, guitars, stolen digital cameras) in sweaty desperation?

is the Kentucky Gentleman always at your side?

ever fallen flat on your face in a crowded American shopping hub, simply because you've neglected to feed the need for a few hours?

do you frequently find yourself succumbing to "rum fits?"

have you ever dreamt of being adopted by Pete Doherty?

do you enjoy the sensation of punching through glass?

is a gallon of cheap bourbon, some eightballs, a blowtorch, a couple of roided-up pitbulls, and a vintage stihl chainsaw your idea of a quiet night in?

are 'forced disappearances' and 'ransom negotiation' parts of your skill set?

do you see the speed limit as more of a suggestion than an enforceable law?

do you prefer intensive farm labor to a few quick sets at your local gymnasium?

have you ever pulled on dozens of car door handles on the way home with your mates from the pub, hoping that some hapless fuck has left his new 3-Series coupe unlocked?

are you considered reckless, irresponsible, or otherwise a danger to those around you?

do you entertain the notion of sending pipe bombs to MTV Headquarters?

can you take a punch?

can you take a bullet?

do you spend considerable portions of the day considering the best ways to pull off a bank robbery?

do you idolize 1989-1995 era Mike Tyson?

do you have a strong aversion to cameraphones?

are you trill?

are you constantly frustrated by the naivete, ignorance, and stupidity of those around you?

do you prefer 5.99 Zelko to anything on the top shelf?

is Hong Kong piracy in your near future?

have you ever beaten someone within inches of their life for no reason other than that you take orgasmic joy from the sight of bludgeoned flesh and shattered bone?

do you wish you could mastermind a heist rivaling Lufthansa, split to Bogata, and join the FARC?

do you consider marijuana an utter annoyance rather than a "hard" drug?

is at least one person after your life?

are you completely alienated from your family as a result of beasting out (or at least on the way)?

no?

kill yourself.

yes?

pull up that chair over there rhyme scheme jr.

we'd like to have a talk with you.


"Substance abuse is the cornerstone of beasting out." - No. 1 Sex Mouth

"Car bombs? Nice try pussy. Jager Bombs? Why not just watch Failure to Launch. Saki bombs? I'm not gonna say it, but you know what I'm thinking. No, no gentlemen, there is only one concoction sufficent for the manical substance cravings of Street Thunder: The Street Thunder Sawed Off. It consists of one shot of horse steroid, one shot of pure mexican black tar H, three lines of high grade cocaine, a vial of pcp, a bandana soaked in LSD (which you will be wearing), a fifth of Kentucky Gentlemen and a bench press set with three plates on each side of the bar. And the process? Pour the vial of pcp into the bourbon, drop your pants and prepare to intiate full bore beast mode: snort all three lines in succession and immediatly follow by chugging the entire bottle in under 10 seconds while your one friend shoots the steroids in your ass and your other friend fixes the H in your non-chugging arm. Finish the bottle, smash it over your head, rep the bar 10 times and then punch a woman in the face." - Dollar Bill

A Surprisingly Relevant Reissue That Reeks of Righteousness! Pull Down Your Pants! Make Me Feel Goooood!

there's been a lot of enemies at the gates lately and i won't fall for their tomfoolery more than twice, got a vice grip on life and i refuse to let them fuck up my shine. put her there buddy. i was raised by pit vipers in the kalahari that'd spit in your eye as soon as lookatcha.

bit me about the face (repeatedly) when i was an infant to make me into a REAL MAN.

no water in the desert, no rest for the weary, and no heartbeat in this chest cavity. just pure fucken fire, got it? an eternal electronic joyride that no one's troubling themselves with lately. they say the universe has no edge but i've seen it. been there, done that, cowabunga dudes, surfin on the edge of righteousness.

messed me up real bad though. because now, like right now, i know i can't die, know that i cannot be fazed by earthly delights and diamond nights with emerald-eyed girls. i'm here for my thrills, so leave the pills under the doormat. i get paid next friday, can't wait to live life my way.

Vote BubbRubb/Lil Sis '08

what? you think i'm fucking kidding? why not turn 2008 into Cali's recall election? i mean, Bush and Co. have fucked up pretty big, but have we really done our (electoral) worst?

i don't think soooooooo. send in the clowns!

since the upcoming presidential election is already proving to be quite unique (read: ridiculous), why not shove that fist all the way up our collective asses? get it in there nice and deep baby. lose your watch in that shit! we wanna feel your elbow bone and shit.

can you imagine what BubbRubb's first "100 days" would be like? he'd make FDR look like a fucken bow-legged, stuttering kid with Down's Syndrome, a cleft pallet, and a tiny dick! so small. soooo smallll. almost microscopic.

yeah, yeah, i know he really had polio. i'm being sensitive. he was great. yeahyeahyeah. fuck off mom/dad.

back to the matter of the day.

President Rubb's first order of business would surely be installing those bama-ass whistles (shown in the video above) in the tailpipes of all federal vehicles. that gangsta shit!

"it's like an alarm clock!"

exactly!

and promptness and expediency are the keys to success in Washington. or at least in BubbRubb's Washington they will be. because when President Rubb says he needs a new crack stem to replace the one he broke while celebrating hitting 4-5-6 in cee-lo, he means he needs a new crack stem YESTERDAY motherfucker! the dice (and the jones) wait for no man, and shit!

i can just see it now. like Puffy sending that motherfucker to get cheesecake. only this time it's the President of the United States (aka Supreme Optimus Prime H.N.I.C. out this bitch) sending him to Southeast, South Southeast D.C. to cop from my boy Pookie.

he does not have it for cheap, so bring some cash asshole. and get me some while you're down there. can you spot me yo? i know, i know. i'll get you back for this and last week on thursday ok? ok? yo? ok? thanks yo. good look.

the second order of business would of course be to outlaw any and all criticism of the aforementioned bama-ass tailpipe whistles. a crime punishable by death. that's right son, BubbRubb don't play! everybody knows that Totalitarian political systems with Draconian punishment structures are like the most gangsterest shit ever!

you may think i'm fucking around, but this shit is real my friend. from the heart. let's keep it real because i'm keeping it real.

the other day, i told an acquaintance that i'd prefer that Obama didn't win the nomination. she looked at me like i was wearing a white hood and holding a noose in one hand and burning a black baby with a blowtorch with the other.

but i'm used to this kind of idiocy, so.

my rationale, of course, is that given the mess made by the Bushmen, whomever is unlucky enough to take the Oval Office on 1.20.09 is shit outta luck.

they will spend their entire term righting the ship, scraping away the refuse, jettisoning the rotting corpses and stillborn foetuses like so much dead weight.

i'd just prefer that our nation's first Black president wasn't mired in such dirty workbusinessstuff.

it doesn't take a visionary to see that should a Black President's administration suffer from relative 'immobilisme' on account of playing itself out of a hole someone else dug, it would be construed as a failure indicative of that leader's capabilities, as defined by his race. thus, for the remainder of this nation's existence, the White House would remain just that. White.

don't play fucking dumb. you know that's how it works.

so yeah. vote BubbRubb/Lil Sis in 2008. if you love America, that is. you do love America, don't you?

more than meets the eye.

Online Videos by Veoh.com
sure.

it could be argued that this cartoon's sole purpose was to market as many toys as possible to kids. toys and all the other shit they tried to sell us during those 7 minutes of commercials each day. but there was more to it than that.

an agenda perhaps?

to be sure, there are parallels between Transformers, a mere cartoon, and geopolitics and American foreign policy/propaganda.

oh you don't believe me? you think i don't know what the fuck to do with it? shit. i been in this game for a minute, kid. i gots the proof. got it for cheap. knfau!

for Starters, the war on CyberTron, the catalyst for the robots' (incidental) voyage to Earth, is driven by Energon Cubes and the desperate search for non-renewable energy. yeah. that's what the fuck i thought. sit down.

after watching just a few episodes, it becomes rather clear that Optimus Prime should be the new title of the President of the United States (that'll get this country back on track) and as a condition of inauguration, he should wear red, white, and blue at all times.

staying true to geopolitical form, Megatron is constantly challenged by StarScream (the way foreign despots are often challenged by frustrated, power-hungry rebel factions). yet on the other end, Prime is the indefatigable leader of the AutoBots. dissent painted as treason i guess.

at one point, one of the subordinate Autobots, Mirage, suggests that they should turn back and bounce to their homeworld of CyberTron, and that they're not fighters like the Decepticons (mind you this is the 2nd episode that he's saying this).

fucken coward!

Optimus ain't havin that. he urges Mirage and the other ObedientBots that "we must not shy from danger and evil," and that we must conquer those who try to do us harm.

sound familiar?

furthermore your honor, his unofficial motto is that freedom is the right of all sentient beings (except Decepticons; they should be killed; but everyone else should live freely).

perfect.

just a cartoon my ass.

god bless vocoders!

if this doesn't restore your faith in humanity, i don't know what will.

we're forever unfulfilled, and can't think why, like a search for murder clues, in dead men's eyes.

will the all-knowing glare of the Fiber-Optic Dodecahedron truly be enough? enough to satiate their feral needs? to quiet the mindless chatter of spoilt children, formerly precious macroorganisms gone all rotten in the high noon sun? oh the stench is an unbearable one.

what are you on about you fuck?!

well.

it's just that, a few weeks ago, i went ahead and created a MySpace profile to spread the gospel re: this bullshit website. and quite frankly, it's haunting the hell out of me. because now, i can admit to a handful of subscriptions to various hypertext panopticons. a fact that of course makes me less of a person in God's eyes. forgive me father.

i guess i've forgotten that the internet is for buying shit i don't need, niche porn, stealing copyrighted material, and obtaining misinformation. nothing more, nothing less.

yet in light of this misjudgement, this affliction (which like my colossal substance abuse problem, i'm working on rectifying), a pandemic has come to my attention. one that must be discussed and in turn, reversed and eradicated:

city dwellers from various locales (l.a., the "LES," greenpoint/williamsburg, etc.) thinking that their shit don't stink just by virtue of their geographic location. surely it doesn't take the internet to tell us that the souls that haunt these urbane hotspots (most of which were crime-ridden and polluted to high hell before investors/consumers/developers ran out of ideas and began pouring their dollars into them) feel entitled to a certain share of praise and reverance.

a visit to any bar/gallery/boutique/club will key you in on that. but these physical locations have spatial restrictions that the ever-expanding interzone does not.

the "cool kids."

up their own asses, which is, i believe, the antithesis of the "cool" they so desperately strive for.

progress by proxy. what have YOU done for me lately babydoll?

i do my best to check myself whenever i happen to fall into their headtrap. the importance of being important is such a strong motivator wouldn't you know it. this website would cease to exist were it not for that push to be loved, lauded, and laughed with.

but surely i don't fancy myself a gang member, crack dealer, or murderer just because i hail from Harm City.

The Edict: you are not your fucking zip code!

it would be foolish to assume the identity of a built up area without first questioning what it is that the city can do for you. cut yourself open and bleed on the pavement a bit. because what's a revolution without a little BLOOOOODDDD!!!

all i wanna do is ooma zoom zoom zoom in your boom boom!

i'm going through a serious classic hip-hop phase these days, because quite frankly, contemporary shit just isn't getting the job done. it's just too bad that hip-hop is such a dynamic genre that its heroes and pioneers more often than not fall by the wayside, forced to manage your local car wash or laundromat, shunned by the art form they helped create. unless they get shot dead of course. then they don't seem to ever go away.

let it be known, that from this day forth, you shall play this song/video ("rumpshaker" by wreckx-n-effect) before any and all partying, as a pump up jam. trust me. you won't regret it.

i wish.

i gave a kid a cigarette today while i was trapped at the light. he couldn't have been older than 15. i know, i'm going to hell. that was certain long before today. not like there's a hell to go to anyway.

but were there a heaven and hell, maybe i wouldn't be so indefatigably hellbound, because it was my second to last cig, and i never give sticks away when i'm down to five or less, not even to chicks with fake tits. and i love fucking fake tits!

so you see, it was an act of charity.

i just wish cigs weren't so bad for you. and i wish chicks' assholes weren't so tight. like trying to stick a nail into a brick. and i wish ferraris were mass produced, toyota camry style, so i could cop one without having to rob a few banks first. and i wish heroin wasn't so dangerous. and i wish you fucks hadn't elected Bush twice. and i wish i knew every word in the dictionary.

but most of all, i wish i was a little bit taller, i wish i was a baller, i wish i had a girl who looked good i would call her, i wish i had a rabbit in a hat wit a bat and a 64 impala.

baggit, taggit, sell it to the butcher in the stooooore, baggit, taggit, sell it to the butcher in the stooooore!!!

John Wayne Bobbitt. god damn. 1993? fuck no. really?

seems like an eternity ago that my parents and teachers were trying to keep the gruesome facts of this case from the grasp of my young, unspoiled awareness.

their efforts were in vain.

in homeroom, we were already on the up and up, constantly speculating, giggling like idiots at this man's agony. Bobbitt was our favorite fucking word back in the those carefree elementree school days. rumors ran amok in our tiny little heads. did the dog eat it? did she eat it? did she really put his joint in a FedEx envelope and mail it? will they ever find the fucking thing?

back then, our young minds were under the impression that severing a penis would go down rather like slicing a raw hotdog. quick and painless. but to be certain, the corpus callosum's not goin' without a fight. i'm no fucking doctor, but i'm thinking that some sort of vigorous sawing motion would have to be employed. grisly stuff.

so imagine my recent shock (and elation) upon finding out that not only was Bobbitt's penis re-attached (respeck to Dr. David E. Berman), but that it was enlarged and that he's starring in porn flicks.

"In 'Frankenpenis,' Bobbitt played a character who was made with spare parts (like the monster in Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley's 'Frankenstein') and whose penis inexplicably comes off during a rousing session of intercourse. Bobbitt then moans, 'Oh no, not again.'"

FUCKING PERFECT! is this a great country or what?!?! crazy Ecuadorian wife chops off your dick, lies on your ass on that domestic abuse tip, and gets acquitted. but you end up getting your dick back and fucking pornstars (i.e. Vivid Girl Taylor Haze). fuck yeah.

so for all the kids out there feeling down on life, the lesson would be this:
if a dude who got his cock sawed off by his sketchball immigrant wife can manage a comeback, then there's hope for you yet. there's a little Cardiac Kid in all of us.

and as for Lorena, apparently she picked up an assault charge in '97 for punching her mother. came away with another not guilty on that one. now she's a hair stylist in VA.

another message.

ladies, battered or not: if you think you can chop off your man's dick without some sort of long-term cosmic punishment, you've got another thing fucking coming. the universe is watching you Lorena. stay sharp.

welllll... i like sunsets, long walks on the beach, and shooting coke into my penis. makes me feel alive, ya know!?!

i'm growing quite lazy. but i feel like you ought to get to know me better before you use your mouth on me. it would make me feel better. i've been on pins and needles as of late. surely you can understand. i mean, the other day, i went to blow a line, and all i had was a mirror, and i hate using mirrors, for obvious reasons, but i went ahead and used it anyway.

so i came up, bill still in my nose, and there he was. grinning like a fiend, fucking staring up and out at me. only his eyes were gone. just pink coves where they should've been. completely missing. nothing to house his soul.

he's fucking trouble.

i mean it!

real trouble.

i want you to stay away from him ya hear?!

can't seem to shake him loose though. damn this photographic memoreee 'o mine!

sooo... for the sake of familiarity, here are some of my interests and favorite activities, as dictated by a certain social networking site i plan on removing myself from in the near future:

rickenbacker basses,
decapitation,
marcy homes,
quantum physics,
100 years,
thrift shops,
the electoral college,
sweaty wet/dirty damp,
dying before i'm 35 in a blaze of glory and gunfire,
burning myself with cigarettes for drug money,
the DEA,
formula one,
life sentences,
starting and purposely losing fights,
ketamine and other tranquilizers,
string theory,
LPs,
making people feel bad,
illmatic,
japanese cell phones,
bunson burners,
atom heart mother,
krav maga,
near death experiences,
used fender jaguars,
zaireeka,
the presets,
crashing '80s proms,
knife hand chops,
babies with 90 dollar shoes,
light years,
used bookstores,
climate change,
freaking out the squares,
teenagers,
clairvoyence,
alchemy,
mercantilism,
structural collapse,
shitheads,
john bonham,
fucking hairy asian pussy,
twilight zones,
making people look dumb,
lawsuits,
destroying social constructs,
four horsemen of 2012,
killing animals to make jackets out of,
snuff films,
phone booths,
jerking off,
vandalism,
lara flynn boyle,
my fucked up ipod,
pbs and npr,
easy rider,
all dinosaurs,
hollistic medicine,
reebok pumps,
closed hi-hats,
hokusai,
geothermal energy,
contradicting myself,
lasers,
teflon,
gulf coast recovery,
interpol's new album,
missing treble knobs,
capsized ships,
guy fawkes masks,
nigerian black paper scams,
one armed push-ups,
handgun hunting,
DARPA,
real club kids,
air traffic control,
new-rave,
go-karts,
the french touch scene,
dream teams,
chucks,
magic carpets,
jade jagger,
the rapture (both the band and the reckoning)
miles davis,
reckless driving,
dj battles,
videotaping sex without prior consent/permission,
The American Century,
eradicating dirty hippies,
Ableton Live 5,
glass jaws,
embezzlement,
diamond smuggling,
party monster,
the 1968 democratic convention,
atlantis to interzone,
chord charts,
digitalism,
jackie brown,
james brown,
caravaggio's murder charge,
sarkozy,
capitol hill,
christian hosoi,
drift racing,
abbie hoffman,
alienating people,
turbo lag,
the rolling stones,
bald chicks,
photoshop,
beat poets,
zeus,
boozing,
movies featuring talking animals,
anthropomorphism in general,
somnambulatory sexploits,
boy-cut panties,
motogp,
lifetime supplies,
nanotechnology,
delta blues,
dogfighting,
birds,
falsetto,
superman,
fingerfucking,
pinky up, pinky down,
any gibson sg,
the distant, distant future,
manipulating people,
circuit bending,
vulcanology,
no-film photography,
ducatis,
synchronicity,
pitch-bending,
biocomputers,
immortality,
small press publishers,
endangered species poaching/trading,
Guns & Ammo,
pretending i can skate,
the tornados,
actual tornados,
the x-men cartoon on fox,
interesting films made by boring people,
misanthropy,
dorm rooms,
ultra-marathons,
nike montreals,
novelty car horns,
the desert,
small breasts (A-cup aficionado),
"shit jokes but not shit stories,"
pre-oil embargo automobiles,
MicroKorg,
wamp wamp,
the hidden tree of life,
apple,
moon bounce rental,
Baltimore free book thing,
bars i can't get kicked out of,
skipping work,
bashing nerds,
calling 911, just to chat,
arpeggiators and vocoders,
people who fuck prostitutes,
the truth,
keef's tolerance,
aphrodisiacs,
the past,
tiny dogs,
hazing,
spell-check,
poorly maintained machine guns,
beat repeat and eq three,
illegal prescriptions,
jack nicholson,
warrantless misogyny,
your mother,
threatening people,
inconvenient truths,
hyperviolence,
epistemology,
nanofiction,
maritime cannibalism,
existentialism,
harp arpeggios,
hatemail and death threats,
sea changes,
norfolk, virginia,
haldol,
materialism...

now fuck off. get outta here! i'll finish on my own.

fuck giuliani.

Matt Taibbi is the only reason i still open the free Rolling Stones that get stuffed into my mailbox every couple of weeks.

"Giuliani: Worse Than Bush" touts his cover feature.

it's about fucking time.

i had just communicated to an acquaintance my dismay over the possibility of Giuliani storming the White House, riding the same wave of Middle American terror-fear that helped Bush get re-elected three years ago. not to mention that this is the same asshole who was at the helm during the whole "41 Shots" disaster.

sure, he "cleaned up" New York. made it "safer." but he did so by turning the NYPD into a sort of Republican Guard, quarantining Manhattan and quite literally forcing the "bad elements" that had previously defined the city out towards the outer boroughs.

one of the thesis statements of Taibbi's piece (which can be read HERE) is that Rudy G. is basically shaping his run for presidency in the image of Bush II. which is of course a problem. por ejemplo, he's enlisting the help of some of Karl Rove's top lieutenants in his various endeavors and even buddying up to the sleazeball "Swift-Boat" campaigners that deep-sixed Kerry in 2004.

additionally, Taibbi posits that no one, in terms of monetary, social, and political capital, has profited more from 9/11 than Giuliani. he reports that in 2001, "America's Mayor" reported 7,000 dollars in assets during divorce proceedings. i'll give him the benefit of the doubt, as it's not uncommon for motherfuckers to underclaim that kind of shit to jerk the ex.

ok.

fine.

but the fact that federal election reports declared that Giuliani's net worth hovered at or around 30 million? about as shady as they come. his law firm, his private security firm, his $2 million book deal: all the result of this bizarre, misinformed image of Giuliani as hero.

perhaps most tellingly (and most Bush/Cheney/Rove-esque) is the following paragraph:

"In his years as mayor - and his subsequent career as a lobbyist - Rudy jumped into bed with anyone who could afford a rubber. Saudi Arabia, Rupert Murdoch, tobacco interests, pharmaceutical companies, private prisons, Bechtel, Chevron Texaco - Giuliani took money from them all."

Chevron Texaco? Saudi Arabia? pharmaceutical companies? FUCK YES! all the things that make this country GREAT!

he goes on:

"You could change Rudy's mind literally in the time it took to write a check. A former prosecutor, Giuliani used to call drug dealers 'murderers.' But as a lobbyist he agreed to represent Seisint, a security firm run by former cocaine smuggler Hank Asher. 'I have a great admiration for what he's doing,' Rudy gushed after taking $2 million of Asher's money."

do we really have to wait til 2008 to elect this guy?

of course there's the fact that, like the larger state and federal spheres (both Republican-controlled at the time), the mayor's jurisdiction was totally in the dark intelligence-wise.

furthermore, there is increasing scrutiny in and around New York concerning the rift between FDNY and NYPD that was brought to light during the attacks. built up during the months preceding that day, many analysts and policy makers (on both sides of the line of scrimmage) are saying that this impasse contributed to an incommunique amongst first responders and thus, an increased loss of life that day, particularly concerning the collapse of the towers.

surely, all this is bad news bears for a politician who paints himself as an astute and effective statesman, an enemy of terror and a leader the likes of which the world had never seen. he wrote a book about himself (with help) entitled "Leadership."

you do the math.

but what good is reflecting on the past unless you're going to learn from its mistakes. let's talk about the future.

and what kind of future would that be if, in essence, Bush is elected to a third term. if "America's Mayor" thinks that he can carry on the Us v. Them (terrorists, protestors, logic-driven dissenters and policymakers, the American middle-class), War on Everything mantra of the Bush government, then we really are fucked. i'm talking 9/11 x 1,000. among other similarly terrible things.

but maybe we're getting ahead of ourselves. even Republican analysts are advising GOP candidates to "abandon all hope for victory" and back the most conservative Democratic candidate: Hillary Clinton.

when it rains it pours.

i just think the GOP's desperate, American Idol-esque search for the next Ronald Reagan is just plain pathetic. they thought they had it in Bush II, but that didn't really pan out. pesky big government. Homeland Security and fucked-up Wars on Terror tend to inflate things a bit, i guess.

quite frankly, this Reagan-love is just plain terrible. i say this because so much of it is born of Nixon's "fuck them, what about us" (us, as in the much-maligned Euro-American class) ethos. pretty much an about face on the equalizing progressivism of the '60s. no big deal.

for fuck's sake!

his Alzheimer's-afflicted-ass said that AIDS wouldn't be that big of a problem. and that was when he was witnessing the explosion of the epidemic from the halls of the White House. i don't know about you, but that pretty much disqualifies him from visionary super-pol status in my book.

but maybe this fear of the former(?) King of New York isn't all that irrational. sure, the (neo-)Conservative base hates on him on account of the crossdressing, pro-gay rights, pro-choice, pro-Pope, divorce-crazy lifestyle he's taken up.

but all it takes is a flip flop and he's in the clear on all that noise.

he's got plenty of time to make us forget. and speaking of forgetfulness, if (and when), god forbid, we are attacked again, who better to rush to the fore to claim the spoils of war? turns out that those who do vote are pretty fucking shook, particularly of threats from rogue Islamic/domestic elements.

don't believe me? well i gotta ask you, Doubting Tomas, who's president right now?

that's what i thought. thanks assholes.

WITH A BANG-UP PASSION... KO-BA-YA-SHI!!!

Robert Smigel is an absolute genius. the "Fridge" Perry cameo is infinitely priceless.

but enough praise for now. i must go. the waters are hating and the village is in needing of my POWER SEEP!

KO-BA-YA-SHI!!!

strip me bare and i am naked.

12 positions. hmm. plenty of downforce if ya know what i'm sayin to ya?

if i were made of carbon fiber, i would totally walk around naked, so motherfuckers could see my fiber weave and junk.

and since i would be 10 times lighter than steel, but several times stronger, i would so just run up on some geezer and be all like, "hey fuck you, you fucken butty man!" and he would be all like, "oy, i don't take no crap offa nobody, 'specially not no twat like you!"

then he'd punch me. wherever. don't matter.

and his hand would break. compound fracture. and i would laugh and take Polaroids of that shit and scan them on my scanner and then put them on Flickr. then i would take his girl and say c'mon baby, you don't want a man with a broken hand and no land. lemme give you some of this carbon fiber lovin. that daddy dik! once you go flak you never go back, ya know?!

old man in a huge balloon bites your hitted hip tenderly.

if japan isn't the greatest country on earth... between this video of "Silent Library," the women, the music, the game shows, Nintendo, Akira Kurosawa, the forgiving spirit following WWII, aibo, the sake, the "theme" clubs, Shinzo Abe, the motorcycle gangs, the motorcycles, PlayStation, the insane population density, mt. fuji, and that festival in Osaka i heard about...

watch the entire video. you won't regret it.

don't fuck wit me cuzzzz ima go get my (water) gun!

Super Soakers!?! oh shit son! i don't how i arrived here, but it's not fucking important. all i know is this was another of the many examples of the paradigm shift that the 1990s represented, marketing-wise.

if you're at or near my age, you have no problem identifying the numerous instances where you were directly and furiously marketed to, with various foods/snacks/drinks, dolls, action figures, vehicles to house said action figures, and movie tie-ins. we were there for the start of this lunacy.

of course, the Super Soaker water gun was an integral component of this plastic and sugar-rich strategy.

honestly, i didn't know the Super Soaker was invented by a black man, Lonnie Johnson. looks like Stevie Wonder needs to re-dub that song of his:

Stevie: "and who invented the most popular water gun of all time, raking in over 200 million in sales for Hasbro, Inc.?"

Chorus of kids: "Lonnie Johnson, a-black-man!"

my parents were extremely trepidatious about buying me any toy that resembled a gun, so it took me a while to get myself into the madness.

at the start, i had the miniscule Super Soaker 30. a sidearm. had to fill it up after every shot. shortly after i got that piece of shit, i got this water balloon slingshot. fucking weak. the balloons were tiny and impossible to fill, and the slingshot itself was incredibly difficult to draw. one day i did get a shot off. nailed a kid right in the face. he cried for hours. didn't see him much after that.

after weeks of my selfish, incessant pleading for an upgrade, my rents finally buckled and copped the Super Soaker 50 from KayBee Toys.

basically the AK-47 of Super Soakers. cheap, reliable, effective and everybody had one. so many summers of targeting the kid who "couldn't get wet," feverishly pumping away, building pressure, forearms aching.

after my 50 was in shambles from a year of mock warfare, i stepped up to the Super Soaker 100. gangsta gangsta at the top of the list.

i must admit, however, that i never got my hands on the 300. this was basically a cannon, with a backpack water reservoir that held something like two or three gallons of water. basically a weapon of mass destruction in the context of backyard water fights. i also wouldn't have minded that MDS shit either. basically a reworked 50 with a swiveling nozzle so you could ice cats around corners. genius.

during my fledgling years of high school, i, along with a few other friends (including one who was on that 300 shit) would drive around, blasting random cats on the sidewalk, laughing our asses off. oh those precious, harmless years of weed experimentation.

we filled our guns with brightly colored, syrupy juices and sodas, so that not only would our victims' clothes be ruined, but so that they would be swarmed by bees as well. fucking hilarious.

but one summer, a bunch of cats on the westside drove around doing the same shit, only they filled their joints with bleach. ended up hitting an infant in the face. bad news bears, of course. apparently babies and bleach don't mix. go figure.

so from then on, the baltimore police dept. was on the prowl for any and all (black) kids wielding Super Soakers.

the end of an era.

but though i've been out of the game for over a decade, it's good to see a new generation of young bucks getting in on what we started. gotta teach these kids to embrace the gun-toting spirit of American masculinity. nice and early.

the power of the internet. web 2.0 working for you!

because it's there, and i wanted to let you know it's there. and because i haven't been 100% irreverent in a while. there is no redeeming value to this. just go with the flow.

god bless Formula Un!

for those who don't know/care, Formula One is the absolute pinnacle of motorsport, a technological showcase featuring ethereal machines piloted by the world's most elite drivers. much like soccer, it's a sporting phenomenon that's wildly popular everywhere but the U.S.

this weekend saw F1 history as McLaren-Mercedes rookie driver Lewis Hamilton, a 22-year old Briton of mixed race, took the vic at the Grand Prix du Canada in Montreal. it was the first time a brown-skinned person had won a Grand Prix event.

Tiger Woods comparisons are being bandied about, which is at least somewhat justified. in six races, Hamilton's finished no worse than 3rd. quite simply, he's dominating.

surely i'm happy for the dude, both inside and outside the context of race. yet in the wake of his win, something did strike a chord with me. listening to BBC World's sports recap, much of the talk was centered around Hamilton's epic win. along with that, a good amount of the conversation also focused on how articulate and personable and well-spoken he was.

hearing all this white laudation of his nicely packaged and easily consumable manner made me kinda wish he looked and sounded a bit more like say, Dizzee Rascal, with the style sense of Ali G thrown in for kicks. see how much cats love him then. shift the paradigm a bit.

because believe it or not, calling me/lewis hamilton/barack obama/etc. articulate or well-spoken is less of a compliment than you think.

if you don't believe me, see Chris Rock's classic stand up "Bring The Pain." like everything else, it's on YouTube.

word.

If the doors of perception were cleansed...

...everything would appear to man as it is. Infinite.

Daniel Pinchbeck, vaunted member of the hallucinogenic pantheon (Leary, Kesey, Hofmann, et al), reading from his book "2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl." Given recent experiences, a guy like this should be my mortal enemy, but how can I hate this lovable fuck? Once those ol' gilded doors open, they can't be shut entirely. not by anyone or anything.


epilogue
"You haven't made it in New York until you've vomitted out of a cab and you've fucked Daniel Pinchbeck." - Some chick in an interview whose name will go unremembered. Welcome to Bat Country

the devil and paris hilton: hands down the most poignant thing you'll read about the miscarriage of justice that is the paris hilton saga.

this was the first picture of Paris i ever laid eyes on. i remember thinking, "what a piece of ass? who is this chick?" what a difference a sex tape/slew of reckless driving incidents/utterance of racial slurs/reality series/probation violation/premature release/courtroom sobbing episode makes.

i guess that head wasn't right. a little too much tooth and not enough tongue, perhaps? because fuck knows that back during the middle stages of all this, at least the judge caught a domeshot from young Ms. Hilton. or else we wouldn't be where we are today.

but, as i'm sure you've heard, our lengthy national nightmare has seen its temporary resolution. and already, the denouement is proving to be hilariously tragic. apparently, prisoner 90210 (you like that don't you motherfucker? of course i stole it!) is not eating or sleeping. she's also been doing a lot of praying apparently.

hunger strike? daily prayers to Mecca? such a beacon. such a ray of light that lass is. a display of determination and self-discipline not seen since Martin Luther King penned his Letters From Inside a Birmingham Jail.

or maybe it's just a healthy serving of simultaneous withdrawal, with a heavy helping of desperation gravy, ladled on nice and thick. did you ever think of that? yeah, that's it. withdrawal. she's freaking out man! jonesing! chronic withdrawal symptoms, on account of the plethora of drugs Ms. Hilton is clearly addicted to. dope sickness is no laughing matter people! though according to Reuters, her shrink has been giving her "psychoactive drugs." you call them psychoactive, i call them Naltrexone and Antabuse.

every step of this seems to have been a slap in the face to the "ordinary American majority."

"'Mom, Mom. It's not right,' she wailed as she was led out of the courtroom. Her mother, Kathy Hilton, also sobbed."

what the fuck? it's amazing how distraught she and her mother have been (mother sobbing; daughter is allegedly on suicide watch; what the fuck?), given the fact that millions of mothers have seen and will see their sons and daughters dragged off in cuffs and jumpers knowing that they won't see them ever again, much less in three weeks.

it doesn't anger as much as it saddens. but along with this being a manifestation of the importance class plays in our judicial system, this is an embodiment of the American Individualist ethos. surely not exhibited solely by the hyperwealthy.

fuck walking a mile in your shoes! i wouldn't be caught dead in that Payless trash!

yet it goes without saying that the "pull yourself up by your bootstraps," "i got mine, you get yours" state of mind has done more harm than good, and quite frankly, is outmoded. has been for generations. with diminshing exception, empathy has all but vanished from the American sociopolitical landscape. and we're seeing that in, among other cases, Paris's bitchass reaction to a class-blind, functioning justice system.

as far as the development, i wasn't indoors to see the Paparazzi earning their keep in front of the Hilton home the other day. but i have to wonder why formerly respectable mainstream media outlets felt that news of a spoiled slut socialite being rightfully remanded to the L.A. County Sheriff's custody was on par with say, 9/11 or the Invasion of Iraq or the VT shootings. or for that matter, the Battle of Los Angeles 15 years before. interrupting my stories for this shit? oh fuck naw.

have we fucking gone mad! someone certainly has.

before entry, paris said that she was going to "serve her time the right way" and serve as an "example to young people out there." good talk Paris. because if anyone's going to serve as an example around here, it's going to be you. teach these girls how to go out there and be somebody. or do somebody. a lot of somebodies. rich somebodies.

an example.

that worked out. surely money alone didn't lead to this delusion, though it most certainly helped. no. the prime suspect in this murder mystery is you. and me. and those we know and love. and those we don't. keep paying attention, keep giving yourself to this, and this is what's going to happen.

i can't really say that i'm glad she's back in jail. not because i sympathize, but because "back in jail" should not even have been a topic of discussion here.

in a state where the "3 Strikes" mandate is constantly fucking up the lives of (Brown and Black) people throughout California, crowding its jails and straining its budget, and given LAPD's repugnant, yet rightfully earned, reputation, you'd think this would be the last thing the judicial system there would allow for.

our need to feed on this foolishness begs a question. one of cultural norms. one that many of us won't be alive to see the answer to.

considering that half a century ago, Elvis gyrating his hips was regarded as obscene by the troublesome and damning American concensus, and given the no holds barred media clime of "today," (i.e. "One Night In Paris" being Ms. Hilton's "big break") where are we headed next?

in the next 50 to 100 years, given that planet Earth isn't more like planet Mercury, how drastically will we, and our sensibilities, (d)evolve culturally? anything goes, maybe? a full hour of "Monkeys Fucking Kids with a Wide-Angle Lens" anchoring NBC's highly prized "Must See TV" Thursday night lineup?

regardless of what "tomorrow" brings, i guess the most comforting message for both Paris and a sickly American mass would be that Hope Springs Eternal. we're gonna get through this babydoll. just gotta know we can.

i guess i'll hold that message dear to my heart should i ever be sentenced, YHWH forbid. maybe i'll pull a Wayans Brothers and hire some Hollywood makeup artist to transform me into a white broad. that seems to be my best hope for this situation, eh? wish me luck.