The Daily Fix

This blog is described as being a mixture of many things on Technorati, including the Marquis de Sade. This is fundamentally wrong, as reading this blog is a very masochistic thing to do. I suppose were you to do percentages, it would be more of a 50% Marquis de Sade/50% everything else mix. Now, get those nipple clamps back on and fetch the chains, there's blogging to be done!

If you are new to The Blog, this is a new look. This is exemplified by the flowers in the background, the Rolling Stones album, Technorati links, and more fun and games in this binary jungle that we know as the Internet. Do not be quick to discount the effort it took to complete this cosmetic retouching. It was hard. There was clicking, perhaps even typing. There was a frantic search for Big Pictures that could be put in the background, and there was a needless scurry for a funny new header. Perhaps it is, perhaps it ain't. Sadly, there is no way of telling, as the masses that come and go by this URL refuse to comment. This is acceptable, as it is often painful to read the grammatical rape of the Egnlish language that is so often proliferated on the Internet. Still, it is awfully lonely to do this all alone, like an inner-city welfare mother. On crack.

But who, Clark, who?

Where is the pleasure to begat when there is no pleasure to be found?

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?

There is no answer to these questions, because in reality they are not questions devised for answering. They are questions devised to challenge your world-view, the perception of the ordinary. If Slavador Dali can paint melting clocks and feces, who's to say you won't see such things in person some day? Me, actually. And that's life, isn't it? Always chugging along, waiting for something crazy to happen, which it then processes within the boundaries of sanity. Only psychotic idiots have fun, and sadly, all of those peole are in the White House. This is exactly why, in my opinion, the neo-eugenics movement needs to focus more upon smart, talented white people, and less upon the mentally retarded and Injuns. If we kill off every person that is trying to make sense and uphold common order, then society will devolve into a Dionysian frenzy, where only the pleasurable survives, and all else perishes. Either that, or those in positions of power will abuse those positions horribly. That is far more likely.

Police are investigating an accident involving a pedestrian. A man who was running from dogs ran into the path of an oncoming school bus and was hit near Davison in Detroit.

When emergency crews arrived, they said the man was alert and able to speak. The man was transported to Henry Ford Hospital by EMS.

Hospital officials listed the man in critical condition.

 

SOMEONE IS GETTING PLEASURABLE EXPERIENCES

Be it known:

I have been empowered by a higher power to make all of you very uncomfortable. This will commence immediately. Possible uncomfortable measures may be taken if you are not uncomfortable enough. These procedures will include ensuring that all pews in all buildings dedicated to me shall be made of solid wood. Grown men will not have sexual relations for their entire life past the age of fifteen. Children shall make their parents most uncomfortable through their camping trips with the reverends. Only men who represent me shall wear dresses, those found to be usurping this right shall risk death by painless injection or be subjected to sleeping in an unusually lumpy bed. Be warned now, for after this date, there shall be no more degradation of the church. The final solution is at hand

Since I've been away for so long, I owe the particularly small-brained ones who take the time to check this blog so much a long one. To wit, I shall give thee a story, a modern parable on the evils at large in our post-9/11 world.

 

Once upon a time, there was a younger, cleaner, and generally less manic-depressive Maurice. This is what the nice nurse tells me when she comes by my bedside for my bi-monthly sponge bath, at least. That is, when she's not gagging. Little Maurice (that's what we'll call him) was a good boy, and often enjoyed taking scenic walks around the French countryside, back when you could go and see a hanging for just ten cents. I often did this, but once I had to go to my terrible American cousin's house in Troy, New York. There were poor people there! My horrible cousin was often playing "gangsters," and no operas were playing, so I chatted from time to time with my elderly Uncle Buck, who enjoyed smoking pipes and wearing slippers. Uncle Buck would often tell me about mythical creatures, such as the "Japanese," whom apparently he fought in a far-off land he liked to call "The Pacific." He would speak at large about De Gaulle and his wondrous inventions, the horse-cart and the French-men all day until I became fatigued, at which point I would go up to a room and rest my tired little head. Ah, what times they were! Anyhow, I can recall a tale of wonder that Uncle Buck's that I can still remember at least half of, so I shall tell it to you.

"Once upon a time, I fought the Japanese. They were tricky and clever, and they built big boats. I had to take a flamethrower, and then I made me some Barbecued Jap for dinner, hoo-wee! I remember Iwo Jima. It's all so clear to me now, how the Corporal let me stay in the tent while everyone else hoisted flags and did the work after the battle. He said it was because my legs were shot off. I knew better, though. Corporal knew how hard I fought keeping our precious rock free, instead of under tyrannical Japanese rule. They'd-a made Tamagotchis and cute Hello Kitty toys out of you and me if it weren't for me and my men's brave fighting. We fought bravely, you know, especially the time that we all hid behind that rock for three days because we thought wer saw a Jap move. Never a muscle did I move, until me 'n the boys found out it was a rabbit. Then we laughed and laughed, for we had learned a valuable lesson that day, boy. And after we praised the sanctity of life, we shot that rabbit, and George made me the prettiest pair of little rabbit-foot earrings that you ever did see."

And to this, I replied, "Venerable grand-father, your slippers are caught on fire again." And he would sit there, his slippers aflame, and grin for a moment before beating me within an inch of my life with his naugahyde belt.

Ah, the olden days.

A naugahyde belt, such as my Uncle Buck would beat me with.