shaving

if i were to choose one word to describe my shaving habits, it would be: gorey.
but not that horrorshow-type gore, no sir! the gore of a trained surgeon, that of jack the ripper himself in fact. mine is the blood spurting gore of precision, and perhaps maybe even a little style.
i mean sometimes i just stick to the quick-and-easy bludgeoning, but then it's like "oh, come on, just die already," and on those days i have so much toilet paper stuck to my face i look like a dog in a sanitairy napkin disposal. gross, i know.
but my motto shall forever and always remain, "take no prisoners, unless they have some kind of cool stuff they don't want to immediately part with. or they know how to access the great treasure deeep in the ocean, past the fearsome six-uvulaed opossum of anamanatamaceeya, beneath the belly of the fat guy, over the cross-contaminated kitchen counter of nepenthes dorm room, and buried in the couch of the diaper-wearing uncle. or they are in accounting."

and don't touch my razor. you might have some fucked up disease.

still living with the dead [for kurt vonnegut]

we talk to them. we write them. we know they are gone. ghost pain is an itchy finger on a severed arm. but how does this effect us? how is it there even though they are gone?

2006-2007 was a banner mark year for close friends and family moving on to that crazy disco tech in the sky. ok so some were into blues, and a few liked hardcore, but either way, i can't stop wondering if the cover is really worth it. did they really all go to a place where they can just enjoy themselves and be who they want to be?

wouldn't that be nice. whiskey and a harp, standing bass and guitar, and the whole band wears towels over their halos to keep from ruining the moodlighting. i bet no one is more down than an angel. every one expects the power of god all the time. hearing them practice would be like catching superman shoplifting a hotdog. on security camera. that's probably why they do it underground. the devil tells no secrets.

and i bet john travolta learned his moves from michael. word on the streets is hitler knows how to breakdance. just another useless talent that escaped the history books. by the time the historians got to him he was destroying train sets and beating off to patsey cline.

there is word being passed from eye to eye at The Cloud over east berlin that red skelton was in it for the money. but central control at mount olympus knows the truth. and by the way, hermes does have herpes. but the release of that news story was, in fact, a coverup. if you're listening out there, and you know who you are, that card did say ace of deuces, and technically, you one twice. get that man to pay up now and go buy that house in crete. you've earned it. you and your one-eyed fisherman, and his dog. might i reccomend somewhere on the eastern end, you'll like that.

as for the rest of you, go back to central america. that's where you belong. i will join you soon, that's where i belong too. but first i have a few things i need to take care of.

signing off,
the greatest mind in the world

diverted

sex is passe. eyeballs are amazing.

trendy amphiobious marsupial militant foghat

jaime has a phone. 614.XX2.X222. his friends are lois botambo eddy angelina and amy. they creep in sideways through the fishbowl/ observation-deck type breakfast producing chili resort for mid-morning drunk inbreeders.
god bless camp.
summercamp, wintercamp, spring and death camp, i talked volumes and carved flesh in the bathroom and was reborn here to have more pimples and less care for oral hygene and more care for oral conveyance, whatever the color of the cloud the words ride out on is.

i bought my hat at target. it has a pocket. i know a guy who bought one, and he told me so.

i need a new hobby. i think i will start collecting ghost town web pages. little historical tidbits of information forgotten about by the masses left all over, sewn into the landscape along the information superhighway like lost surgical equipment from the back room of the ronald mcdonald slaughter house and children's hospital.

the idea came to me when i googled the name of my dead friend jello. we were supposed to die together, just like jen and chucky, but stupid is only a cross marketing scam, and we have never crossed the cootie tree over what was a lifetime achievement of wasting time and money and braincells in an elaborate fractal pattern of artful mutual demise...

so anyway, she is everywhere. no one seems to know she is dead. people are still writing her comments, affecting her artwork.

the last entry in the little black book, "from yesterday, i'm drowning." not mine, but i'm sure there is some truth to that. so much water rushing in around the doors and windows you would think the car was in the river as the lights flash behind me. not the first time the streets were so paved with cheese the fede-rats came all over themselves. but as the fog clears inside the vehicle, i can see myself in the mirror, telling myself it will all be ok. we just have to work a little harder tomorrow. and no sleep. coffee, chili, and water. literature must be ferociously consumed, and be thankful for the gifts you are given, don't just go ripping the bow off of every shitlog you're given. that's food you could be appreciating. notice the texture and flavor. notice the color and odor. notice what the body didn't want, and what the body only ate half of. was this meal consumed in a hurry? is this number two of five today?

most officers at this point would have shot me just to return the fog to the horrible taste left in their mind, but i don't tell them this. i just know i would think of anything to keep from losing face on the side of the road amidst those lights, reflecting everywhere like sunlight on the bottom of the pool. hard not to believe this road used to be a canal, harder to believe we're not still drowning in it.

elle vador music

the dark and evil midi-phile saxophonist has you now. you'll never take me alive jazz-gestapo! nothing can stop us from conquistadore-dom in the antidisestablishmentarianistical conformism of entertaining ourselves in all of our split personalities and glory in public places!!

doesn't it make you want to jump up and screech FEAR ME YOU IMPOTENT DRINKERS OF COFFEE while you maintain a poker face in staccato heart beat.

i think the only thing keeping you in your seat right now is the fear of someone else noticing that you have an erection.

the troublewith roomates

they say there is strength in numbers, but without good communcation skills we are all behind enemy lines. stuttering and stammering when your angry means it's too damn late.

but they ate my food. they took over my computer. they smoked all of my plant based brain product.

the meetards came in as a necessity of life originally. they needed us, and we needed them. eventually, they multiplied.

now the cockroaches are moving out. intolerable living conditions. too much wine, not enough cheese.

now the meetards live in my food, now they own the kitchen. now they occupy my bed, and my closet, and my tv. and they are trying to take my dog.

something has got to stop.

i don't know why you looked here

so what if it said don't look. i don't think you should necessarily go about checking underpants in the park either. you really should check that oppositional defiance.

but for now...

i have no idea what i chose this name for[snagroll], but for now it feels like scrounging a place to sleep.

sticto was the word in the blank that i had to type in so that you would know that i am not a robot.

easily convinced robots if you ask me. it obviously doesn't take a robot to know one, but then i can't tell the difference between naugahyde and flesh now, the wave of the fucture might prevent me from knowing what is trying to kill me in the first place.

[it's the v-1000. all models are designed to look like lakergirls and are made entirely of liquid velvet. the human threat doesn't even stand a chance]

as for the "don't look here" business, that's a nice little trap i set up for some folks at my last blogspot, with a terrifying picture at the touch of a button. the [snoozbutton] address is just so you can go back to sleep. realize...it was a ll just a dream...