a Quickie

Any questions?
This is so far out of control.
You would think the government would have stepped in by now.
You think Cape Cod was a bit slow last year?
Just wait . . .

~m

Clinker

Most of the time I’m able to let the daily bullshit and banter sift through the cranial grates inside my cue ball noggin but on occasion I get a difficult clinker that won’t pass through.
I have to take it out and look at it and figure out why I can’t mentally digest it.
Case in point: the other night I was surfing the net for the latest in the way of books on Alzheimer’s disease; a simple and innocent task, right?
Imagine my surprise (and horror) to find a book titled “Alzheimer’s for Dummies”.
Needless to say, my searching was over for the night.
I’d found a seriously incongruous clinker that fueled my rage against the literary machine.
I was livid.
This was a subject much too close to home for me and to see it reduced to a ‘manual for dummies’ format personally devastated me.

“Dummies” manuals cover a range of topics: Chess, Poker, MSWord, Windows Vista and Grammar, to name but a few.
But Alzheimer’s disease?
Personally, it was unthinkable.

Why not “Breast Cancer for Dummies”?
How would that go over?
Believe me, I know.
I’ve lost too many friends to the disease and I would be outraged at the total lack of compassion and sensitivity used in publishing such a book.

Never mind.
What the hell is going on here?
I must be losing my mind.

I’ve checked out the contents of the AFD book and I’ve no doubt the author’s intentions were good.
But . . .
So this is what’s it’s come to?
Christ in a sidecar, I’m almost speechless here.
File this one under “roll up that manual and insert forcefully into your keester, sideways“.
But maybe there’s a “Dummies” guide for that as well.
Hey, if ICHC can get a book deal, why the hell not these buttmonkeys?
IMHO, those suffering from this disease deserve an apology from these inconsiderate ‘Dummie’ assholes.
Do I know what I’m talking about here?
Yes, I think I do.
All too well . . .

~m

Klaus Nomi (gotta love the bowtie)

I checked my “search stats” today and one caught my eye:

‘beer or smoke – which one is worse for you’

Hmmm . . .
I’d have to say neither.
What’s way worse is too much Klaus Nomi . . .
Too much Nomi will eventually fry your brain.
It’s Charlie Chaplin meets Gary Numan
And then some . . .
Yoiks. (or Yolks)
Happy Easter, folks.
No happy and snappy eggs for you. Sorry.
Hopefully, I’ll see you all back here next week.

peace, out . . .

~m

every secret has a price

Pathological . . .
Lies will see the light of days
Someone knows the truth

~m

Hemorrhage

Broken bones
dark, fragmented, an unknown cause

Where’s the why?

What’s the how?

When was the when?

Questions re-surface again and again, blisters of a blind faith lost
with answers that mean little to nothing, because it’s all shit
But where is the truth?
and the truth turns into it
With my back against the wall, I fight a blackened and diseased system
I kick, and I scream for ice
to soothe a bursting violet bruise, an ever so slightly discoloured rip in the delicate epidermis

And I bleed.
thick, tepid and red,
And for the blessed life of me, I just can’t stop . . .

~m

you will know

I saw this and thought, “What a perfect Christmas post.”
Stuart Shepherd is a good looking and compassionate man but sorry ladies, he’s married.
This will probably be my last post until after Christmas so I’ll wish all of you a day of blessings, good cheer and the surroundings of family.
Christmas Eve may briefly call me back to the blog.
We’ll see . . .
Don’t forget to make the French Toast Casserole
for Christmas morning breakfast. Awesome.
If you don’t make it, you’re missing out on some very serious and delicious calories. (Yoiks!)
Merry Christmas!

paz, folks . . .

~m

What is the square root of eggnog?

It’s always around this time of the year (December 20^th, to be exact) that my brain goes into this bizarre auto-hibernation cycle.
I can’t hear “Jingle Bells” or “Merry Christmas, Darling” by the Carpenters simply because my brain refuses to latch on, refuses to release the adequate amount of acetylcholine needed to make my synapses “see” the connection.
Maybe it sounds Grinch-like, but it’s not.

Around every corner lurks some crazy bastard that thinks I should be incredibly happy, that I should embrace the “wassail ‘n eggnog” mentality of a holiday I’m still trying desperately to understand.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t understand it, maybe I’d enjoy it more but sadly I cannot.
I don’t watch much TV but when I do I inevitably see a Kay’s Jewelers commercial and I’m pretty sure that ‘every kiss begins with Kay’s’.
Ughhhh.
Hey Kay’s! I’m holding some wicked mistletoe over my yuletide ass.
You guys can start there with a big, wet smooch.
Gag me with an unrealistic, smarmy and overtly utopian commercial.

Avaricious companies like this prey on the materialistic and compulsive nature of nincompoops foolish enough to believe that some diamond-studded placebo will make all their holiday dreams come true.
My God, what unadulterated bullshit.

There is a major reason for my somewhat apathetic attitude towards the holidays and maybe it’s because I’m just beginning to understand that it has little to do with shiny and expensive things.

But there will always be another commercial, another misguided Christmas song and another 100 reasons for me to hate the things that society thinks will make my holiday grand.

I’m thinking that maybe that’s okay.
And I might just make it through another Christmas without the help of Kay’s . . .
As far as the answer to the square root of eggnog, maybe it’s 42
Though I may have to ask Sarah’s roomate, Kat . . .
I hear she’s pretty good with math.

~m

Hobo, Inc.

He gets to South Station early on Saturday and Sunday mornings and takes out his weather worn piece of cardboard that reads:

Homeless and Hungry – Will work for food

Thank You & God Bless

“Matthew 25:40”

 

And although he really wanted to write “Acts 9:5-6”; the Matthew quote will possibly bring in 15 to 20% more revenue from the schmucks that actually know what it means and that’s damn easy money. Damn easy money.

 

“Help a vet, buddy?”

 

He’s been on the streets for so many years now that it surprises him that he’s still doing it. Sometimes he even feels guilty and that oddly surprises him even more. But it doesn’t stop him.
He does look pathetic, though. Or so he hopes . . .

 

“Any spare change, M’aam?”

 

He’s wearing the same clothes he wore back in ’96, the year he started this whole sham.
The older the clothes, the better he looks, so he thinks.
What a great investment.

 

“Can you help a little bit, sir?”

{a chink in the cup}

“God Bless.”

{Italian shoes, custom-tailored suit, laptop, Rolex and he gives me change. Cheap bastard.)

Hundreds of people an hour, thousands a day and year by year the change adds up.
He thinks, damn I’m smart.
The kids are the easiest; a bit of eye contact with them and he can slow down an entire family.
A little wave, a wink and a nod has been known to fetch half a sawbuck.

But, damn, he’s getting tired.

He rolls up one of his tattered sleeves and gazes at his Breitling Chrono-Matic watch and sees it’s 4:01PM.
Damn, time flies.

He takes his tattered piece of cardboard and skulks back down Atlantic Boulevard, swerves right on East Street where his shiny, jet black, 2006 Lexus is silently waiting.

He sheds the threadbare clothes, a molting snake, shoving the rank threads into the trunk.
He pulls out and drives back down Atlantic Avenue as the lazy, golden sun drips down into the seeping blackness of Boston’s financial district.

It’s been a good day, a very good day and the wife is cooking Coq au Vin tonight.
It just can’t get any better than that, can it?

{This post is loosely based on an actual related story.
Is it true? Who knows? The cynical bastard in me believes that anything is possible in this day and age. Skumsucking people like this do exist.
Should I ever see the bastard, I will lovingly kick him in the junk.
Repeatedly, ad nauseum}

 

~m

 

Irony?

“There would be more of us here but, so many of us are in jail.”
– written on a sign held by a protester supporting the Jena 6

Quite honestly, I’m speechless.
Kinda . . .
Is life weird, or what?

~m

Asshole

A death row inmate in Ohio feels lethal injection is unconstitutional cruel and unusual punishment.
Cry me a river, asshole.
Let me make sure I am crystal fucking clear on this; he raped and stabbed to death a 14 year old girl in cold blood and is complaining about the way he will die.

It’s cruel and unusual punishment?

Really? Come on, you disgusting cretin.

You are so low in the human decency scale that you’d have to climb a ladder to blow a snake, for God’s sake, you assclown.
You have no voice in this, as far as I’m concerned.
Shut the hell up and just die.
It frosts my stones to no end that we actually entertain the thought, all at the risk of political effin’correctness.
Please excuse my really bad French.

My wife served jury duty last week.
The case she was (almost) selected to serve on was fairly clean cut; a defendant was caught red-handed with handguns and drugs and was supposedly associated with a murder.
22 some odd State Troopers were standing nearby to give their testimony against this slimy piece of shit.
Everyone awaiting a jury appointment was asked a series of questions to rule out bias and impartiality.

“Is there anyone here that has already formed an opinion regarding this case?”

My wife {God love her} raises her hand and is called to the judge’s bench.

The conversation went something like this:

“Mrs. Murphy, you’ve already formed an opinion on this case?”

“Yeah. Guilty.”

“Mrs. Murphy? You’re excused.”

There may have been a bit more conversation but that’s all the ammo I needed to write this post.

What am I missing here?
Our judicial system is on way more drugs than Jimi Hendrix was when he was playing Woodstock.
Really, what am I missing here?
As far as Romell Broom goes, screw him.
I say fry his pussy death row ass . . .
And that’s almost too good for the likes of him.
As a taxpayer, I’m so sick and tired of paying for 3 squares a day, a bed with blankets and a roof over the head of slimebags like this guy.
I rant, therefore, I am.
Pissed? Ayup.
Can you tell stories like this bother me a bit?
Please excuse me while I go and vomit.
~m