The Figs of June

Through a tree lightly.. I espy such visions of summeresque beattitude that frankly, even a stout hearted man such as myself finds leanings, nay, subdued and long thought dead longings for whole, natural communion.

And what better moyenne, if you will, to achieve such communion, than through eating the fruits of the earth.

Early came the figs of summer.

Though the majority of said fruit ripen near the middle to end of July, there are some that yearn for release under a Gemini sun. These are the Figs of June.









Foolish are those who do the Dirty Work of others, said one Donald Fagen. Tending to agree, I thusmindedly appraised the situation of our early spawned protagonists.

A little wrinkled, for unnoticed go the Figs of June by unassuming human eyes.

The Ravens, however, know neither season nor master.

They feast on the bounty of lazy man, gutting nature of her bounty, leaving exposed, violated remnants of perfection..

.. which are themselves perfect.


Coming soon: The Peach tree of mid July.

Billy Ocean is a Queef Recipient

Suddenly...



... it was Sunday.... Sunday Afternoon... And I had consumed some cool, cold, genuine, draft-poured Coors. Original Coors.

And decided, hey, why not get high? To Reward Myself?

And, well, since it is Sunday and all, why not have a Pepsi and Wild Turkey? Well, maybe a Double? Ok, no bigger than Half and Half?

And why not capture the essence of the moment, the veritable tableau of existence, in a digital photograph?

Why not indeed.

High atop heavenly encampments, Angels wept, bled, orgied, and feigned interest.

Rampant Consumerism, Commodity Fetishism, and the Ducks of Capitalism walk into a bathroom...

Yea, has been many a day since on this blog posted I. No, Tiny Gunpoint Dancer, I was not chained to a radiator - more like an engine block. Virgle, I heard your call, and your worrying was not in vain - I acknowledged it, and thusly held it aloft amongst my beatific visions like a beacon of the grail hovering in heavenly heights to a famished crusader, ambling toward his homeland, besmirched with the blood of the infidel - yet driven by the promise of survival, a simpler tomorrow, and, ultimately, redemption.

But, as Copyranter pointed out, I have been infiltrated by the forces of rampant capitalism.

So, I asked myself, where else hath such terrible penetration occurred? Incidentally, all of my former lady friends have asked themselves the same question. Ba-Dum-Dum (CRASH!).

Naturally, to begin such an investigation, I went to the bathroom.
And what did I see there, mis hermanos?

Firstly, a duck. Resting on the outer banks of the Great Wall of Tubdom. Okay, sure, one duck.. What's the big fucking deal, right? For wasn't it the Dead Milkmen who asked, innocently, "My baby drives a truck, My baby sure is good luck, My baby has a pet Duck, and my baby is a heck of a F......Friend?" Sure, that's a statement, not a question, but who's splitting hairs? Especially when you can pull whole ones off the bottom of that tub?

So I looked above, to the perch where resteth the Shampoo. And what do I see?

Another Fucking Duck.

No, dear Reader, I would not stage such a scenario - There really are two such Ducks in my bathroom.

And really, why not have one to work the top, while the other, well, what the fuck am I talking about?


Product Placement Gurus: READ IT AND WEEP.

I don't know what the fuck Precision makes, but call 'em. Someone in the Biotechnology field wanted me to have these.

And let me tell you, I've had 'em.

Had 'em good.

Squeaky little bitches.

My Beer? Go Fuck Yourself.

Pictures of my desktop - The first photograph in a highly entertaining and heartbreakingly realistic line of portraits coming to you, via this blog, every day for the next six years, until you see the horrific, breathtakingly true, painstakingly recreated (through the power of the medium of film) representation of my own life, and, particularly that of my desktop, aging and living together; a symbiosis of flesh and furniture, wood and man, till death do it's part and render us similarly unliving.

Besides this exciting new project, the greatest thing this blog has to offer simply has to be the link on the right, which happens to say "Currently on tap in the kegerator" etc.

It used to say Michelob.

Now, Original Coors.

I originally decided today that I would not drink any beer in the evening. I substituted ice cream in its stead, hoping to extinguish the alcohol cravings with the cool, soothing over and under tones of frozen dairy. Upon completion of said uberbowl, my housemate walks into the room, handing me a freshly poured beer. 'Tis a sin to refuse the simple courtesy of another, and nay be I the one to break the sacred bonds of beer giving. Throwing caution to the wind, I throw Coors on top of a bowl of ice cream in my belly.

Baccus high on his debauched, decadent ballustrade nods in knowing approval, and whispers solemnly in my ear:



"KNOCK THREE TIMES -
On the ceiling if you want me..
Twice on the pipe...
if the answer is NO...
OH MY SWEETNESS!"


Oh wait. Maybe that was Tony Orlando and Dawn.


"Hey you hip young kids, gogettin' it and making it Groovy! That's right, Tony Orlando here - Dawn too! and Three! Nothing soothes the palate after a day belting out "Candida" then cold beer and a threesome. Our beer? Black and Tans, of course.. Made with Rocky Mountain cold Original Coors.. and Dawn. And Dawn! Remember, ladies - the Tony Orlando Manwich is best served between two slices of choice Dark Rye. Heil Satan!"

Kitchen at night..

..KITCHEN AT NIGHT!











Kitchen at Night....
















KITCHEN AT NIGHT!

OH! BGAAOOO!!!