Sunday, March 26, 2006

Take your Green Friends Bowling.. Take them Bowling.

Strange tidings have fallen over the blogosphere as of late.

I will not expand on this immediate situation, only pausing to say:

I live with this man, and he took Gumby for a good time. Being not present, I was unable to piece together an exact travelogue, but judging from the photographs, I have pieced together a brief synopsis, or, if it suit you so, a precis. For I believe, dear reader, 'twas a calculated effort on Gumby's part to break the bonds of house arrest and head outward toward his destiny. Although the aforementioned housemate thought he was taking Gumby for an evening on the town, it was perhaps He who got Taken for a Ride.

"My Green friend's commitment to Passive Resistance is but one facet of his overall spiritual excellence - I wholeheartedly approve the following."

16:15 : Frolick with the minions at local watering hole. Situate self at least two feet above the seated denizens AT ALL TIMES. Wear Orange before AND after labor day. Labor on the Sabbath. Most importantly, keep on smilin'.

17:38: Be sure to be double fistin'... and not just in your de rigeur bedroom activities with "talked about" women of the night. Raise right arm slightly higher, as if intent on busting move, at moment's notice.

"As one embodying characteristics of the above-mentioned 'talked about women of the night', and relisher of all things unsavoury, I too endorse this message."

18:01 : Act cool, yet not coy; your individual perspacacity, nay, your Propensity for relaxed yet intense moments of quietude masks your greatest asset: humility. Exude this humility; thine nature is both Green and Divine - Deny Neither, Accept Both.

19:24: Use formidable intelligence to formulate plan: Bowling.

"As one who has, on occasion, both bowled, and, of course, Loved, I too embrace the rich potentiality contained herein to propel one's inner daemon to manifest and through Project Auditing of the Highest Commitment, face the spectrum of Destiny without the Hindrance of the Reactive Mind. Read On, young pilgrim of consciousness!"

19:57 : Strap self in. You do not drive; others drive You. Relish the equanimity with which others appraise and accept this facet of thine own existence. Be chauffered and chauffeur none; to be driven by thine own angels is driving enough. Recline.

14:00 : Demand. If there is nothing in front of you, demand the minions present you with a gift, in lieu of sacrificial offerings of a personal and refined nature. Though there be not present these offerings, the power of your Demand be not powerless; Quite the Contrary. For, with the subtlest suggestion of disdain, the universe shall bring forth..

One Ball-a-Bowling!
(Ten lords a leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying..)


"As a harmonius union of five, we, the colorful harbringer of athletic competition and intestinal fortitude, do take thee, to have and to hold, as our lawfully wedded wife."

Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves..

And mo...ther..fucking..Gum...beeeeeee.

Saturday, March 18, 2006

St. Dominic's Review; A Treatise, in which truths are told, homies are shouted out to, and all that is to come is doubly born and ceases to be.

Famine. Pestilence. Sloth. These are the hallmark charateristics of unhappy moments in one's life, be they a collective of persons or merely the trials and tribulations of but one human being. For the people of Irish descent, those who have shared in having former Manchester United and current Celtic midfield enforcer Roy Keane as the captain of one's national footballing team, these moments manifested (minus the sloth, of course; the Irish are not a lazy people) in a terrible epoch of disdain: The Irish Potato Famine.

Yes, this painting illustrates the grim veracity of a life duly endured, calorically deprived, hygenically unfulfilling.

Saturday night, being unable to drink due to the St. Patrick's Revenge coarsing through my internal organs, I reclined and watched "Freddy vs Jason," finding a deeper meaning beneath the cheap veneer of slasher filmed mayhem (and mayhest, for although the word may not exist in the particular canon of this age, I hath decided it needs to re-[or perhaps for the first time]emerge, making manifest the very mayhest we have all been neglecting since the dawn of our adult lives.) In this gem of a film, Freddy, having been forgotten by the people of Elm street, is no longer able to terrorize the very denizens of said address. It seems that Freddy's power stemmed from fear, and the parents of Elm Streets disturbed children hatched a plan to never again mention Mr Krueger, rendering him unable to instill fear since, as no one talks about him anymore, his memory is wiped from the subconscious mind. Pissed, he thusly enlists the help of the immortal Jason Voorhess do go to his old stomping ground of Elm Street, kill a bunch of people, to make them REMEMBER that they were once terrorized by one Fred D. Krueger, thus allowing Freddy significant RECOGNITION to enter the dreams of people, drum up a little fear, and VOILA: Freddy's full power of killing in dreams returns. And this, I must confess, is my plan as well: I will instill fear into the hearts (dark hearts, of course) of the frolicing minions, rendering them succeptible to my subtle (and humble) overtones of domination, and in time my bidding (and through me, thine) shall be served, and frankly, deserved. Because, as KISS once stated, "You got nothing to lose."

So, with such a train, nay a strain, of thought, we come upon the holiday bequeathed to us all last Friday, St. Patrick's Day. Now I, it must be stated, called upon the traditional tidings of Guiness, Irish Whiskey, Bailey's, and of course, Car Bombs to celebrate my non-existant Irish heritage. If, were it the case, my refined sensibilities neccesitated an artistic manifestation of the Irish tradition of perseverance, they would call upon some form of the painting shown above; a resiliant, defiant mother sheltering and providing for her children, sans potatoes. It was, after all, a potato famine.

Some have taken the onus of humor to reference (and thusly, keep alive) said era with humor, and although I had no hand in the creation of such an atrocity, I thee present the horrible, distinctly reprehensible cousin of Mr. Potato Head,

Mr Potato Famine.

So The following is my own private bridge to Terabithia, nay perhaps a journey, if you will, to Old Ireland. Hop on Air Lingus (the most cunning airline I know) and I'll take you, dear reader, on a journey of both brim AND blarneystone, replete with all the haggis and absence of potatoes you could ever want. Haggis is a Scottish item, you say? Go fuck yourself, you critical leprechaun.

So now, as the Title of this post indicates, I have a little something for you, my faithful reader, with a few specific shout outs (for those of you who have been on good behavior).

For Brandy, I have two things. The first, naturally, is the link to the famed, truthful, and utterly heart breaking ballad, "Brandy, You're a Fine Girl." The Second, and perhaps most impressive dedication, is a picture of our house dog, Buster, wearing a little Irish hat, as he is a fine beastie.

He has that "fuck, the cat is about to kick my ass" look about him. Luckily (one could say, by the luck o' the Irish!) the master's hand lay atop the green hat, ensuring Lucky Charms-n-blarney stones for all the unscarred domesticated animals of man.

Aww. Animal pictures..

"No, I'm not gonna wear this fucking hat."

"Damnit! Take this fucking hat off of me!"

"Aw.. fuck it."

For Virgil, I have a brief tale of woe: I was cockblocked by my own friend, inadvertently, inebriatedly, uncoordinatedly, and unrepentantly. Like 50 cent, I was in da club, but I was neither having sex nor was I in there making love. To make matters plain, a fine young woman was digging on my obviously advanced (and frankly, revolutionary) moves upon the dance floor, when, what to my surprise should occur? Drunken friend backs into said girl, knocking her backwards. Then, he drunkenly smashes into her again, (literally) butting her away, and all I can do is grin and bemoan my abysmal fate as she walks away, confused, hurt, and disheartened. It wasn't just light bumps, but ice hockey like body checks from a drunken and stoned flower delivery man, howling at the moon, under the influence of Irish alcohol (Tullamore Dew) and presumptiously high priced sake-based drinks. (My drink order? "Red Bull Jager." Barman's response, "Sorry, we don't have hard alcohol here. Sake, Beer, Wine." For fucks sake..) I could have gone up and explained the situation to the obviously dissappointed young maiden, but frankly, my dedication to the craft of dance does not allow for rest.

For Melina, I have a picture of a patriotic, slightly Bearded man, for I know that she is a lover of facial hair.

And finally, for She who dances at the point of a gun, (and supports giving underwear to the orphaned), I give thee a small, yet poignant, morsel of verbal decadence: The St. Valentine's Day Haiku.

Corned beef and Car Bombs,
Gastrointestinal Fun;
Black Poop on Sunday.
And for the Irish Whiskey lovers among us, as well as those who love them sum Irish Rock-N-Roll (and Haiku!), tell you what:
U2 Once did Sing:
It's Sunday, Black Poop Sunday;
Tullamore-Ning Dew.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Profligacy Now!

Today, dear reader, was a day of DEFINITION. You see, with a nod to thine own singular appreciation of my etymological situation, I have defined a word, on mine own terms. And that word, my friends, is PROFLIGACY.

According to the alcohol-induced scribbling before me, I define said word as:

A Highly Specialized (And Personalized) Degree of Abundance.

A certain web site defines it differently, yet in eerily similar terms.

It Goes "Squeeze Me.. C'mon and Squeeze Me.. Come on and Tease me Like You Do.. I'm So in Love with You..

Mama's got a Squeeze Box ..

.. Daddy's a Profligate!"

** I was a hand model... once.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Reno, You tasteless Bitch, I've got your money; It's my money now, And I ain't never Gonna Give it back. Sucka.

I was going to begin this post by saying the following:

To all the fucking cities that owe me money - Las Vegas, Nevada, Blackhawk and Central City, in Colorado, Atlantic City, New Jersey, and some in various, undisclosed, European and, frankly, globe-trotting destinations: You can add the distinguished city of Reno, Nevada, to your prestigious ranks.

But nay, dear Readers, that is not how we will begin such a narrative, as 'twould be a false road on which to thee take, an error once done never more to unmake.You see, as the title of this particular word-filled endeavor vaguely infers, I done took me some Reno money. And I ain't never gonna give it back.

But Soft! What light through mine own charcoal-encrusted soul doth break, a dove like beacon of hope and understanding, beckoning and demanding universal peace and love? Yes, t'is true. I will give something back, Dear Reader. I'll give back the one picture I took while I was in Reno, truly, the ONLY picture.

Actually, it only snowed one morning, and I quite liked it: Hence the picture. I just had no other time where I managed to take a picture, out of sheer laziness, unwillingness, and commitment to the cause: Roulette.

You see, I have a love affair with the game of Roulette. I have a roulette table in my kitchen. T'is true; I also have Franken Shredder, the world's singularly most awesome Paper Shredder that man hath seen, and that the human hand (and mine) hath wrought.

And speaking of gambling, notice I didn't say Foxwoods, nor Mohegan Sun, in Connecticut. Let me tell you one thing: The only time you will catch me in those bastions of bile is when I go to evacuate mine own bladder upon the still burning embers which once comprised the shoddy, exploitative framework embracing the aforementioned dens of iniquity.

But getting back to the gamesmanship - First night, play blackjack, lose sixty bucks. Pretty much my standard gambling special - Down sixty off the bat. Sometimes, it's sixty in the first moments of the night, breaking the once taut hymen of victory with the casual disregard of one reckless with hope. Sometimes (fortunately) it ends as just Down Sixty. This night was no exception, so I cut my losses and listlessly slept off the gluttony of a company paid meal.

Second day, no dismay, I always say. Following the dubious day of loss, I approached the Craps table, and through the rolling perspicacity expressed by a particularly unsavory appearing moustached man, (not pictured) I got back onto the right side of the night, and emerged, twelve dollars richer, in both wallet and spirit, bringing me back to a net total of MINUS FORTY EIGHT.

The final night, bleary eyed, but full of youthful vim and vigor, I approached the Roulette Table, 22 oz Coors Light Can in hand, and knew my destiny: $1.00 Minimum Roulette, bitches.

Suffice to say, The number 11 did me right. As did the first 12, and the middle third. And I walked away from that table with $66 more than I started with, bringing me to a net total of PLUS EIGHTEEN ($18)!!!! With that, not desiring to inflict too large a deficit into the impoverished Reno economy, I fled the premises...

.. Straight to the Grizzly Maze! With Timmy the Fox! And Chocolate, the Bear!

You know, ever since I saw Grizzly Man, there's one constant thought in my mind: Timothy Treadwell Fucking Rules. I don't care what the fuck you could possible say bad about him: He got in a fucking tent and lived on a veritable island, doing whatever the fuck he wanted, believing his own fantasy, and ultimately doing good in his own way, communing with Bears. He probably knew more and related better to that animal than any man before or after possibly could. Sure, he's got that "I just might have taken too much acid back in the day and although I have it 81% together, there's this lingering 19% part of me that is UTTER BATSHIT, watch me eat this pile of Bear Shit!" thing going on, but all in all, I feel the power of good flowing through him.

And that, dear Reader, is Reno, Nevada. Nice mountains, Lake Tahoe nearby, beautiful scenery, Emus, ducks, that whole lump of shit. 19% Vegas, 41% Central City/Blackhawk, 24% Atlantic City, and 16% Cow Chip. But with a river of good feeling and love flowing right on through.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Black Gold.. Texas Tea.

Yes, a post of Reno to come soon. Too tired; needs to further gestate for mine (and thine) own appreciation.

In the interim, however, I realized that while away I have been "tagged," as they say, and since I am a good sport, I will let you all in on a few secrets:

Four movies I could watch over and over:
1. Clash of the Titans
2. The Shawshank Redemption
3. Indecent Wives (whoever has it - give it back!)*
4. The Dinner Party (for the Three Nurses Scene)*

Four jobs I've had:
1. Full-time
2. Blow
3. Part-time
4. Hand

(sorry, yes, well..)

Four places I've lived:
1. Vermont
2. California
3. Deep within mine own Psychosis
4. France

Four TV Shows I love:
1. The Biggest Loser
2. SportsCenter
3. Nancy Grace (for the Natalie Holloway coverage)
4. Fox Football Friday (on the Fox Soccer Channel, natch)

Four places I've vacationed:
1. Mazatlan, Mexico
2. The Hall of the Mountain King (on drugs)
3. Key West, FL
4. Pompeii, Italy

Four of my favorite dishes:
1. The Blue one
2. Guacamole
3. Boston Creme Donuts
4. Brie Cheese

Four sites I visit daily:
1. A shallow, unmarked roadside Grave (just to make sure... please, move along... nothing to see here, folks..)
4. Definitely No Adult Themed Sites

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Paris, France
2. Amsterdam, The Netherlands
3. Seas of Chum
4. A Turkish Prison (for the Turkish cigarettes)

** Denotes Porn