Right is Right, and Other Racist Hand Slogans

Flippy is a solid name for a whale, I'm convinced of that now. Initially I thought it would be cliche but really, how many whales named Flippy have their ever been? Flippy is good, Flippy works.

Flippy would be a fantastic whale but not in that conceited human-centric way where he/she has some pointless goal that it works for. No, Flippy would be a fantastic whale in the sense that he/she always bred successfully and lived a long, generally pain free life in a very pleasant part of the ocean. Flippy would never eat more than necessary and would trouble no other creature in the ocean. One day, while watching those show off dolphins, Flippy sees one do a flip and the inclination to do so comes over him/her. But because Flippy is a fantastic whale, practicality wins over and the notion of flipping is soon discarded into the pile of forgotten memories that are buried in the graveyard of the whale's mind.


I'm writing all of this with a busted hand by the way. Iris I love you. I wanted to see how well I could write with one hand after falling down the stairs. Not very well, but I can make do. Just like Flippy would in the event that he/she was ever captured and forced to perform at a theme park. Flippy wouldn't escape. Flippy would make the best of the situation.

The Sexy Post

I read some of Cosmopolitan magazine's sex advice and realized that no qualifications are needed to get hired on as a consultant at Cosmo.

That fact had weighed heavy on my mind the other night and at some point between the whiskey and the crippling nightmares I was convinced that I could get hired onto Cosmopolitan magazine as a sex advice columnist and started stockpiling tips on fucking that matched the quality of the ones that were published.

Before I start I want to be absolutely serious for a moment and let the dear reader know that I am deeply ashamed of all that follows. My posting these terrible things here serve not to entertain but to punish myself. Like a monk whipping his own back with a cat o' nine tails this will be my retribution and my reminder not to mix terrible nights, powerful stank drank and a google search of Alyssa Milano from Double Dragon ever again.

Cosmo Sex Tips - Unedited and Unrevised
Cosmo Sex Tip #422: Nail his scrotum to a small plank of wood and then twirl it in such a way that once enough tension has been built and you release the plank it will spin around like an airplane propeller. Be sure to position your breasts in the path of the spinning plank and gurgle as if drowning underwater so that your man imagines he's a WW2 pilot who's crashed into the ocean and is being seduced by a mermaid.Cosmo Sex Tip #392: Saw the end of his penis off and then try to reattach it with your spit.

Cosmo Sex Tip #762: Have a snake bite your vagina and start screaming for your lover to suck the poison out. After several tense minutes admit to your lover that it was a boa constrictor which isn't poisonous. They'll be overwhelmed with joy that you're not envenomed that they'll give you the best sex you've ever had.

Cosmo Sex Tip #291: Fill a pair of gloves with ice cream just in case you're in public and your partner wants to lick ice cream off your fingers. Let him know the glove is always at the ready.

Cosmo Sex Tip #758: Challenge your lover to a farting contest where the winner gets anal.

Cosmo Sex Tip #674: Thinking of sending sultry pictures to his phone? ;) Why not send him poloroids of you masturbating WITH his phone so that every time he makes a call he'll imagine that he's talking into your vagina.

Cosmo Sex Tip #555: Write "vagina" all over his car so when on his way home from work you're all he can think about.

Cosmo Sex Tip #2Niner4: Announce that you have to use the bathroom really really badly. Then, before shutting the door call to your mate and ask them if they "wanna help" in as sexy a voice as possible.

A Year Later He's Still A Hack

-Name withheld-, right now you are the most important person in the world to me, and I truly mean that. You are my purpose, you are my reason, you are my beloved reader.

I am writing these words specifically for you, and as you read them you are letting me become a part of you. The words and the thoughts I express exist in your mind now; a part of my thinking resides within you and in that way we are connected as you read. I am putting a part of myself in these words, I live through them, and as long as you read me you will keep a part of me alive, always. Even if I were to pass from this world, all that it would take for me to live on is for you to read these words I write for you. It's our connection to one another, and though you are a complete stranger to me I am not afraid to let myself cherish you for giving me life beyond death, for giving me a reason, and for giving me a place within yourself to dwell, even if for a moment.

I am a writer and if I do my job well then I will give you a piece of myself that you will want to keep with you, and in my mind that is a concept too beautiful for words. Dearest reader, I would take a bullet for you. For you I would shine a warm light in the coldest, darkest night. I would always keep my hand ready should you want to reach out for it. If you were hated by the world, I would stand with you and if everyone started throwing rocks or loosing arrows I would wrap myself around you. You make me what I am, and I mean every word of what I've said.

All the love in the world pulses through me as I do what I am supposed to do.

Now begins my sacred work…

Two hats are hanging on a hat rack when one turns to the other and says, "you stay here, I'll go on a head!"

Did you ever hear about that soldier who came back from the war after being exposed to mustard gas and pepper spray? Yes, he is a seasoned veteran.

Seriously though, I took my puppy Bowser to the vet's office the other day because he hurt his paw and the vet picks him up and looks him over and says "Mr. Moses I'm going to have to put Bowser down," so I said "but why?!" and he said "because he's very heavy."

Oh, and you know I got a new book about Glue, I couldn't put it down!

But you know what really makes my blood boil? A crematorium.

We are now connected through love and painful groans.

Good Ol' Courier

I look without seeing, listen without hearing and breathe without living. Afflicted with a first world problem and only able to express it in high school words I sit outside my cell making smoke signals to people who cannot see the sky through the smog.

Plus it's hotter than molten hate out here.

I am also carrying around what may be a credible feeling that the end soon approaches. Either the molecular rebellion in my brain tissue will leave another beautiful corpse on the field or soon comes revelation of some sort. Well, I suspect that it would be the personal type of revelation. People on the whole have too many parasites and ideas to make it easy for them to stop for a moment and look at the big picture. And even if they could see the big picture they'd be mistaken because there isn't even a picture to be seen.

There is no stage, no path, no tunnels, no plans and no reason. I feel sorrowfully content and miserably enlightened.

I need to laugh.

But dammit, there's not enough bread to spare for wetting and tossing at cars.

I also miss Ham and Korrin. I've treated everyone so badly that perhaps I could find reason enough to give a shit in the pursuit of seeking forgiveness and making things right by them. Neither of you let me off the hook on this. Were you to forgive me willy nilly I'd be back to square one, one spelled "ennui" and we all know how I hate French terms and privilaged conundrums.

There seems to be a rational response to my current predictable predicament, I shall fight adaptable contentment with pain and suffering. But I'm too unconquerable to find myself wanting. The want, the drive, where'd it go. Perhaps I left the wanting in drive and it rolled off a cliff with several suitcases of care.

Gadzooks I've poisoned this...

Initiate wound sucking and venom spitting.

No good, it's entered the blood stream. Cut it off and give the patient some rest. There's no need in forcing it.

Schindler's List 2: Schindler's PISSED

Having conquered my longtime nemesis, the inability to ride a bicycle, I feel assertive and energetic.

I feel like making a list, but not just a list a motherfuckin list. A list of things I goddamned love. The thought that I never seem to have a favorite anything has come to me and I want to slay it with certainty.

Hail to the king baby.

My favorite book is The Brothers Karamazov by F.M. Dostoevsky. All the things that make being a human being grand are in that book. I want to be buried with this book.

My favorite piece of music is the first movement of Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven.

My favorite food is Speghetti. Fuck you, but not speghetti.

My favorite drink is whiskey, more specifically Johnnie Walker Black Label (scotch yes) for socializing and Fighting Cock for hooning the shit out of an evening.

My favorite academic subject is astronomy. Motherfucking galaxies.

My favorite sport is American (gridiron) Football and my favorite team is the Pittsburgh Steelers even though I genuinely wish the Cleveland Browns would go back to the Super Bowl for immature reasons.

My favorite athlete is the boxer Jack Johnson, not because he fucked Mata Hari, not because he was also a bullfighter, not because he had a drinking contest with fucking Rasputin, not because he openly dated white women during a time where that would get a black man lynched, not because he was the best fucking boxer of his time, and not even because he was probably the first superstar athlete and fist fucked the hell out of the racial barrier, but for all those reasons combined as well as this anecdote:

"Once, when he was pulled over for a $50 speeding ticket (a large sum at the time), he gave the officer a $100 bill; when the officer protested that he couldn't make change for that much, Johnson told him to keep the change, as he was going to make his return trip at the same speed."

My favorite president is Teddy Goddamned Roosevelt.

Another one of my favorite things is to leave this list short with the intention of updating it later:

He Lives... In A Truck

Suicide 2: Electric Boogaloo was a failure at the box-office and in a literal sense. But of course you already knew that. Who else would be writing in journal?


Chet?

OF FUCKING COURSE NOT CHET I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE FUCKING CHET IS ANYMORE!

Sometimes you people make me sick with how stupid you are regarding my life. That's alright though because there are so few of you out there right now reading this... no... actually it's just Ham right now. Ham, I must ask your forgiveness for many things, not the least of which is what I did your sheets, counter, rectum and pillow case. I have a feeling though that as time goes on I will be able to rectify what I have damaged. (Especially that rectum... damn near killed em.)

Well, Malin may still read this. Malin warms my heart and does not lie about me being ugly. Who else... Korrin? Korrin if you are reading this then I must apologize for rectal wreckage as well. I should just fill a fucking pillow case (one of the clean ones I stole from Ham) with apologies and go around every fucking town I come across just tossing them at people because at this point I have wronged so many that I would be hard pressed to find someone who has not felt the sting of my recklessness.

It could be a holiday for the new religion I am inventing for the sole purpose of altering the way people see the world. You see, in this current horrible world people do not give me money for no reason. I seek to change this. I am still in the middle of deciding on a name and a prophet and a story but it probably won't take long because it does not take shakespearean caliber words to get people to believe stupid shit. All it takes is a handsome man (Muhammad despite not being pictured ever, Black Jesus, and Mel Brooks King Of the Jews) and a few silly words. It's full proof, and might I add that it helps me feel a kinship with whoever it was that created and propagated the other religions for I too am filled with divine inspiration and also never want to work again.

I'm worried about my sweet tooth though, I think it may be developing diabetes.

There, right fucking there in one sentence I have evoked painful moaning in SOMEONE who read that. God damn the power of carefully chosen and organized words. Makes me feel all good and stuff.

I wonder though if I will be able to actually convert my speech patterns to E-prime and if I can adjust to using lower case 'i' instead of upper case when talking about myself because honestly I don't think I've earned the upper case just yet and I am not so arrogant to think that I could just pretend that I have. I'm not a fucker like the rest of you English speaking bastards. You all make me sick. Anyhoo, give me money once I get the Church of the Grand Bastard off the ground and into a giant lake of money and concubines.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8Nc8RCLy1s&feature=autoplay&list=PL65A3B93B84A50BE2&index=176&playnext=2

Attempt to kill self failed. Bungled. Botched. Fucked up as usual.

Will try again, if successful I will have made some sort of headlines.

"Inconsequential dipshit does humanity a favor: Tonight at eleven."

I've burned everything and started drinking heavily. This post serves only as a clarification of my intentions when confusion sets about. It was more than I could bear. I would ask forgiveness but this moment, my memory and everything having to do with me will be forgotten in a few weeks. You will feel better soon enough.

Signed,
Sorry in two ways