The Daily Fix

Entrance phases and their faces approach, with seeming unconcern for the fact that all around their weird tiny bodies they’re scorching the walls. BASTARDS. As if they cared they’re ruining my hearth and my home. Invading, quite literally, the last bastion of those who discern between the French and the Polish, who are different. To me.

 This is quite beside the point, isn’t it? We need more, many more so I can complete this finely woven tapestry of guilt. Once we’re done, there’ll be no more entrance whatsoever, in the verbal form. Well, obviously one might speak of it, but to commit entrance itself? Unthinkable.

A work of bigotry, this tapestry. Although one might be guilty about something other than bigotry (in deed and in thought I commonly am bigoted against those who I can’t understand, and only those who I can fully commit to looming over while they prostrate themselves beneath me. Thus being overstood, and not understood), it is the act of guilt which makes one a bigot against one’s self. Never be guilty, and thus be not ashamed. You are perfect. Unless you are me. I am guilty.

 But what sins have I committed that I care to acknowledge the sinfulness of to myself? Is it per haps true that I feel guilt over sinless actions? For if Frederick has truly killed God (“He is dead”), then who is to oversee my atonement? Must it be that every petty murder is bloodless on the hands of the Judge, who cannot exist without that vital juice, that most corporeal of evidence? If I am me without up or down, is there any place to hang my rug on the wall?

The Polish shall undoubtedly know. The French as well. For when furnishing invites itself in unannounced, they are quite moral people.

I, in my infinite wisdom, have decided to review the first line of John Denver’s “Country Roads.”

My detractors and debtors may claim that this is due to the fact that this is the only line that I can currently recall. However, as usual, they are just jealous of my amazing full head of hair.

That’s no joke there. They are all balding baldesque bald freaks of baldery. On with the review! Or you’ll lose your luxurient, tufty, feathered hair, just like that poor Scott Baio boy before he got cancer from a gay!

“West Virginia, almost heaven…”

These are the alleged lyrics. Alleged because nobody has ever really listened to that slobber-flecked mongoloid’s radio-friendly unit shifter. Or have they? I guess if I’m going to review it, I should pretend I have.

Anyhow. Who in the hell believes Mr. Denver’s ludicrous claim that West Virginia is even somewhat close to heaven? I’ll tell you who. Yokels, simpletons, and people who have never actually been to West Virginia (except for me. I haven’t. that’s how horrible it is there.). In addition, Denver’s unyielding belief in the astral qualities of coal minin’ country is undermined by his own efforts to deify any other rural part of the country where they’ll give him meth for free if he writes a song with its name in the title. Not that I’m casting slanderous aspersions on John Denver’s character. You know why I’m not?

Because I’m not!!!!!

Ha! I bet you expected me to make comments about how he has no character to begin with, the preening rapist.

Okay, he’s not a rapist just because he had unconsenting sex with a 12-year-old. After all, everything’s legal in Honduras!

…in conclusion, you shouldn’t get angry because I hate John Denver’s music and I haven’t listened to it. You should just be thankful the man took your warning, saw that you had a shotgun, and didn’t write a song about your state/stayed away from your daughter. God knows I do.

And I am my own daughter!!!! ASAHAHASLDFKJAGLANG’;ELRJWFLASDG!

So… ladies and cocks-with-faces. It seems to me that you weren’t alienated enough by my LAST album review, which was of course of the charming todger-rock masterpiece If You’re Feeling Sinister, by effeminate-Scotsperson Stuart Murdoch and his lovable band of lesbians and crustaceans.  Perhaps the problem was that you were so alienated by my superior prowess in anecdotal music history, that you were inclined to join me in my ivory tower. The problem: you don’t know shit about making people feel bad about the music they don’t know about.  I mean, seriously - you’re name-dropping the Shins in a world where one out of three people have listened to Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music in its entirety. Garden State sucked. The sooner you stop crying, the sooner you can clean your ejaculate off your laminated Zach Braff photo.

I was going to write a long, philosophical, beautifully written piece. Obviously, this piece of shit, two-bit website fucker won’t allow this, because if I spend too long on writing the fucking thing, it logs me the fuck off! Fucking brilliant! Fuck me in the ass, good people at “blog.vom”!!! I don’t care! I’m used to it by now! Oh, yes, life is sunshine and daisies and Pollyanna, at least when various profiteering agencies aren’t anally raping me with their nonsensical and myriad technical problems! That last sentence didn’t even make sense!

In any case, the return that was so tearfully awaited is not going to be beautiful. It’s not going to be full of prose. It will be the usual profanity-riddled pablum that you’ve for so long chosen to eschew (I suppose if you’re actually reading this, then you haven’t eschewed it and you’re an idiot).

Two slugs were walking down the road and one was a-salted!

In other news, are you reading this correctly?
You are, in essence, eating air right now. Not breathing it, but eating it. The ideas come from my mind, but my mind only makes lots of little ideas that link together to form a particular worldview (first person). The conceptualization, as such, is then transferred from emotional vagary to English. It loses a good amount in this translation, but it is still, by all accounts, a concept, expressed in words. Next, this is forwarded (post-haste) to the fingers, who tattoo their morse at a dreadfully slow fashion, until so much has been lost in translation that the natural elegance of the statement must be stretched into paragraphs, pages even, pumped full of eloquence and cheap fakeness to avoid brevity (which is unfashionable). The fingers, however, are but a momentary respite for this already exhausted (in the manner of Ashlee Simpleton, with a quart of semen in its stomach) concept. The digital (yet never pedal) rhythmic dirge is then soon upon a slate of light, little representations of ink smears. They are the children of the electrons copulating on the sandy circuitry, and not of the axons slowly grinding at eachother in the cranial cobbler. Is it possible, that somewhere along the way, might these couples illegitimately concieve? It has been posited.

But wait. You have just et the air. Now, how does this concoction of nihil become even more horrificly transmuted? Providing you read it correctly (no Braille-readers here, I assume? Because those bumps across the monitor are completely incidental, and were you to know Louis’s langidge, it would most certainly in no way resemble the tale of your wife’s transgressions with Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flutes), you now must be of a sufficient mental state to digest this correctly. If you fancy yourself a cynic, then your delicate constitution will not allow you to agree with anything diversive, and if you are a flower child (read: complete and total idiot), you most likely gave up after the dirty words stopped.

So there we are, where we began. The cynic is inapplicable on the grounds that reality is too upsetting, the other, for the same reason but in the opposite direction; two sides of the same coin. In a manner, this process is not unlike fellatio. There are those who spit, and those who swallow. Either way, you’re not appreciating the cum in your mouth.