The Daily Fix

No drumrolls, scantily clad women or fireworks necessary, thank you. Every day is a celebratory day when The Blog is here to lift the gloom and fog from your bong den!

..."bong den." Although readership would suggest otherwise, this particular site has just hit an all-time low.

REBOOT

...No drumrolls, scantily clad women or fireworks necessary, thak you. Every day is a celibate day for you, when yo


Let's just skip the standard "greeting," and get straight to the "oh, it's so big!" part. Yes, I just basically made the comparison between two passive activities. Live with it, love it, maybe even touch it and get used to it before it goes away. WHEEEEE PRONOUNS

and you and you and you! I saw "Oprah's Big Give" yesterday. You know what might be nice someday? If that fat cunt could actually reach deep within her gigantic well full of gold bullion and maybe actually give some of her OWN money to some type of charity? I'm not even asking for a good one, like saving some type of fucking endangered fish or something, but something flaky and stupid that nobody cares about, like rape.

HAHAHAHAHAHA RAPE JOKE!

"But seriously folks," have you ever noticed how every big charity benefit generally tends to

WAIT... could it be these people don't even CARE ABOUT ANYBODY OTHER THAN THEIR BLOATED, PLUTOCRATIC SELVES???? No!
I WON'T BELIEVE IT!




Incidentally,

So, there’s gun control. A lovely issue full of gravity, levity, and other “-vity”s. Such as depravity! Language is much more fun when it is a dull scalpel, applied liberally to any surface presented in large doses. (I can only think of how this metaphor would be literally applied; a mad surgeon running amok in a hospital with a shaving-razor). In contrast, specific language is as boring and full of drudgery as linguistic skill in useless application is sparkling, entertaining, and full of wit (mirth and wisdom notwithstanding!). Who can deny the pure glee of a sheet of snowy white to scribble over, with no intent or purpose but the defiling of whiteness and the destruction of the peaceful gurgling of the void. Once noise and chaotic letters reign eternal, it can be lauded as “art” and an “achievement,” according to its respective significance and accidental poignancy. On the other hand, applied literature: Christly as this mission may be, there is nothing as frightfully horrorsome as the creation of a purposed, thoughtful essay. Not only might this behemoth of a time-waster take twice the effort, thrice the time utilized, and at least a (metric) ton of thought, but turtles are indeed green, and shall remain so.

Yes, the aquatic creature once again saves us from the looming threat of this piece of writing’s sense of purpose and sensibility, two mortal (mortal!) sins, which can only be avoided by an unnecessary amount of complacency (but if every amount of everything is unnecessary, then why not use it all?). And why shouldn’t the writer be complacent? Here He is, reigning over his eternal kingdom, secure in the fact that his intellectual property shall remain forever His. This is a faulty assumption, of course, for all supposedly original thought is plagiaristic truthiness; denial of the fact that in the course of human history, there have been exactly trillions (if not more) of human beings, making it statistically highly unlikely that you are thinking of anything that has not been preconceived and presented to you in some form or another. This previous thought has been successfully used many times. Just like writing inanities is an applicable solution to a problem.

...And all the hardships that come with it.

In beginning, I would like to take the opportunity presented by this blank (also known as devoid) page to say a few words to you, my comrades of nothing. Nihilism has previously been dismissed as parrot talking, or peg-legged sensibility, a piratical dictionary of the absurd and unkind. This short-changes the noble art of Nonnumism, the practice and application of intellectual will and might towards nothingness. This is not to say surrender, for a saber surrendered is a saber lost, and one must retain one’s weapons until finally one is run through by any pointy objects they themselves have acquired. “Live by the musket, die by old age,” the inventor of the musket used to say (before he was shot with a musket). It is simply the advocacy that nihilism must be applied to life in order to appreciate and understand it; that once nothing really has tangible purpose or meaning it is honestly freed from any type of chains and given wonderful wings with which it might fly confusedly in any of a billion directions at once.

Take gun control, for example. This paragraph is going to be about gun control. Remember that fellow with the musket? How ironic, then, that he was shot with the ply of his own trade, the foul dog run through by the sharp-edged objet d’art that he himself had helped to create: fear not gun owners, this irony shall not apply to thee! Rather, it won’t if we adopt my measures to prevent gun control. It is quite simple, really: it is said that you are highly more probable to die in a gun-related accident if there are guns involved (do not argue with me; I am certain that this may be a fact in certain countries, perhaps not this one but Zimbabwe maybe). This is infallible logic! However, if you shoot a man with a gun, there is one less gun owner to shoot other gun owners with guns (further infallible logic)! So, then, shooting gun owners with guns may appear (deceptively) to lower gun crimes, but in the long run, once they are all dead and you stand victoriously atop a gigantic mound made of smoking muzzles and human bodies (or at least parts of therein), it will have worked out admirably! However, there must be preventative measures taken as well, to most assuredly deprive potential gun criminals of their cruel steel. The scheduled death of any human being that approaches your hill of bullet-dispensing justice should do it.

I have suggestions, such suggestions.

But first, let's have a story!

Once, when I was very young, I was attacked by a rabid, apparently carnivorous infant.

THERE WE GO THAT WAS EASY
So, perhap a tenuous standard of quality has not been upheld with the utmost of vigor lately. I care not for your "standards" of "length, width, and"- oh, wait. That's not a genuine set of morals, that's my spaaaaaaaaaaaam inbox. I find it just hilarious when those little vowely vowels are all stretched out, like cute little kittens in the midmorning sun. The midmorning El Alamein sun! Oh, man... I gotcha there. Yessirree, that was indeed a comeback for the ages, just like... uh... yes. No, not the band, the awkward form of homosexual pornography where two men engage in an activity I've heard described as "Mutual masturbation with Nutella (tm), performed with the pedal organs." Then again, that would be wrong. They're called feet goddamn it, and until my kind are recognized by the U.S. government as a legal tax bracket, we'll do it where we like, when we like! Why, just the other day, I was getting my friend Bo-Bo off with my big toes in Starbucks, and

I've been informed by several authorities that I'm not typing write. Instead of just remedying this by, y'know, deleting the offensive portions, I'm going to have to explain sex to a four-year-old through my blog. Why, you ask? Because otherwise, he'll keep practicing "nasal intercourse."

You see, Bobby, sometimes when you love someone very much, you have to hurt them. And sometimes, there's just no way other to do that than to show them your horrifying body nude, and then rub it all over theirs. Remember, children! This is only a Federal Offense if you do it in the open! Anywhere else, like supermarkets, candy shops, petting zoos- that's all perfectly legal and fi

Blogs: are they experimental fiction, or magic?

...Everyone knows they are magic, this will never work! After all, the Internet is harnessed by the power of millions of wee little men inside my monitor, who must draw tiny pictures ceaselessly.

It was a dark, rainy, damp, wet, precipitous night. I had been "working" at my office all the day long, and the fruits (produce, defined as "leafy things I eat lots of" in webster's) of my labor were resting in my arms: my arms. I was loitering outside the office building, arms crossed (hence the "my arms" thing, get it?). The heat of the day was sweltering, despite it being the darkest night and rainy, and the sweat stained my cotton bib in a not entirely unbecoming way. Just as I was really getting lost in the swirling, deep patterns of the stain, however, a sexy lady passed me, restraining a dog on a long strip of fabric I was later to find out was called a "leash."
"Oh, mama," I drawled in my inimitable way, "I'd love to be tied up on your leash." This was faint, appalling innuendo (a sickly pablum really) compared to my usual, "Baby, let me put a cigar in your rectum," but it would have to do.
"Excuuuuuuuuuse me?" The blonde squawked. Clearly, I had missed my mark. Women. Sometimes they mystify you beyond your wildest expectations. "Do I have to explain to like, you creep, about the Venetia convention?" Now I was really confused. Was she going to nuke me, or was this code for that swhe was going to nuke me?
"Yeah, that's like where all the sausages live, right?" I was showing my inner flair for current events: I too read Sausage-Maker Monthly, and I could feel my prey responding to my tactics, reaching into her candy-apple red valise to withdraw a small, cylindrical object, with a little nozzle perched atop it. "Let me love you, baby!" I cried, and held her inbetween my trembling pythons (as a man of impressive proportions, I feel it right to call my legs "pythons"). Then, she maced me. I chased her through four city blocks, beat her to death, bribed the cops, and did an interprative jig for my Creativity Class which exposed my inner feelings on the matter.

"And that's how your mother and I met!"



oh, just for you worriers, who thought maybe I'd excluded this, our favorite word, for a few days too long: FUCK.

Why does this man have a speech impediment? Is it simply exemplary of a broken mind, or is his mouth simply refusing to vocalize his innermost genius?

He's talking about going grocery shopping with his paycheck from working at a fast-food restauraunt, his speech a perfect cocktail of "yo" and colloquialisms. About 50/50, actually, with the way he's sprinkling the "y" word so liberally.

Art for art's sake is overrated, isn't it? Oughtn't there to be some auxiliary function? Not a utilitarian one, mind, but some tertiary focus other than something pretty for prettiness' sake. This raises a point if you agree with me; is art that is only based cerebrally and viscerally really any better?

Excuse me, you probably want some combination of the profane and ridiculous; I'm disappointing you.
I can honestly say I can live with that.



[Author's note: I just noticed I don't have anything in italics today! They're going to repossess my house and my family! (The rented ones, thankfully).]

You want to know something?
I assume you don't, since you're reading this, you silly bastard.
I think it'll suffice to be said anyhow: it's difficult to type with sunglasses on. This is becaquse of a curious phenomenon known as, "blindness." Apparently, as well as being a Negro, Ray Charles was also afflicted with this curse. This is not the first time Ray Charles has been mentioned, but he does better without Rob Schneider at his side.

These are things you can think about! When:

-You are removing an earphone to recieve your squishy rewards while stepping off of a moving object

-Strolling down the Champs-Elysees, preferably to the tune "Champs-Elysees"

-Romancing pretty young American tourists from atop your balcony in Rome



Wait! Stop the presses! So that's what that Mussolini character was up to! He was no power-hungry vespa-driver, just an amorous lad, in search of his one true Roman love... ever seen that movie Roman Holiday? Oh, well it's with Gregory Peck, or Clark Gable, or one of those types. Douglas Fairbanks, maybe.

There was nothing fair about his banks! That scall-a-wag! He took my money, put it in a big sack with a $ sign on it (like this: $), and then the cashier raped me. Then, Fairbanks himself came out, and proceeded to display his bestial moustache, before pronounceing, "This is a robbery! Damn you, the first one of you wise guys to call the coppers gets a belly full of lead!" After this, he stood upon the counter commonly used for transactions, disrobed, and inserted a fully lit cigar into his rectum, a la Monica Lewinsky. To make matters worse, he forced us, the loyal customers to watch both of his 20's-era silent motion picture smash hits: "The Mark of Zorro" and "The Iron Mask"!!!! A despicable fiend, in human form! This is when I decided to adjourn from the bank's regular midmorning pornography/dough-nut glut, and instead to take my business to Northfield Savings Bank (tm). "Screw this, I'm goin' to Northfield Savings Bank (tm)," quoth I!

And I meant it.

I could probably be getting money for this, if there was any justice at all in this cruel wicked world.

It's that time of the year again.
Yes, the wonderful moments when the little clams and other wee beasties sieze upon the notion that not only is post-secondary education necessary, it is also affordable and completely feasible!

This post is dedicated to all you dropouts and sex fiends.


Hello, my name is Mr. Dean of _____ University! Kids, you'd better start a-learning! We give scholarships to three types of kids, the ones with Botchilism, the ones who earn straight A Pluses, and the ones who mainline HGH for better Lacrosse! I hate animals, and I have to take all your money so I can buy genetically-purified Aryan kittens to molest on my lap-skins!


Thank you, thank you. I feel I have adequately excised my enragement towards the Dean of _______ University.
Oh wait, it was _____ University.

also, a haiku for you sexy swingers:

quite medicated
the sky is gray, abhorrent
dappling the white ground.


BUT WAIT!!!!
I think since I'm coming off a day in bed, this one deserves even more intoxicat(ed)ing fun!!!
let's write more, this time about Arthur C. Clarke!!!

Arthur C. Clarke's name was actually spelled with a "u," I think. I don't know, because I just read his book. The scene with the monkeys was a lot longer in the book. Mr. Clarke raped me with a monolith and his large moustache.


That was satisfying. But wait, that's not all! A limerick for Barack Obama

Barack Obama, he swears, is not racist
Mike Huckabee is a good bassist
Then McCain got applause/ for low'ring his drawers
I think this limerick should end now.



Ah, Edward Lear is rolling about in his damn limey grave.
Do they make British people get buried in caves? Limestone? Limeys? Get it? I'm such a comedian, they made me get in a little wooden cage and poked me with sticks! GUM SOO MAO?
You know what the problem with The Deer Hunter was? If I don't use italics in every post, they'll hurt me. With knives. Also, Sylvester "cocaine problem" Stallone (as he's known to his closer friends and prostitutes) wasn't in it. How about that recent Rambo movie, by the way? (There I go again, caged but un-molested by the knives. That's the second use of the verb, "molest" in this post, by the way). Verb! It's what you do, unless you're Mr. Lear or Mr. Clarke, both of which are dead and can't do anything! Except rot, which is less of a verb and more of a way to lose lots of weight in small amounts of time. Hey, that could be big! "exciting new weight loss plan! when you're done getting addicted to our latest form of speed, try curing yourself by shackling your carcass to the roof of a small smokehouse, and staying there for at least a decade!" They do that with wine, too, I hear, but less hairy men and thatch huts and more moustachioed Frenchmen and scary cellars full of bats and hunchbacked apprentices wearing tights!

DAMN IT IGOR!!! STOP WEARING MY PASTEL NO. 5'S, YOU DEVIANT!

Time to end the post, my Ice-Cream Truck driver/henchman is prancing about my eeeeevil underground wine cellar with my crotchless pink tights on. Again.

Hey, you. Yes, you, asshole! Yeah, you think you're some kind of funny man? Some type of comedian? Think it's funny, standing around nude from the waist down wearing a little ribbon tied around your cock?

Oh, wait. That's just a mirror, not some smart-aleck who thinks they can best me at my game.

Anyhow, good morning to you, you, and you. It's good to be loved and appreciated, and since I'm going all Norma Desmond, how about an anecdote? Will that be alright? CAN YOU HANDLE IT?

Ah, Friday, Friday. Yes, today is Friday, which means the end of the week is coming. Or, has come, if you are of the European persuasion (I most certainly hope you are not). There are fine gentlemen in hats surrounding me on all perimeters, the smoke of the hookahs enveloping our dirty business in an intoxicating fog of cancerous emissions. Or that would e how it is if I were in a brothel full of gentlemen in hats, with pipes. Instead, I'm not. Sports are looking dull. Politics are grim. Saddam Hussein's dead. Teenage boys have annoying voices, all creepy-like. Epson makes printers. I don't like dogs. ESPN used to play badminton, back when it was a good channel. I don't get cable. There's an entire book about penises, about 100 or so pages. I think I'd read it, but I'm afraid of talking or otherwise anthro(that's not quite the right term, but I don't know what else would be)pomorphised genitalia. If it's dog genitalia, I guess it would apply! That reminds me, Dog Hustler hasn't come for a while. Possibly because I murdered the mailman to feed the belligerent squids I keep in my bathtub.



Thus tying my previous two posts together, I have inexorably created a rift in the time-space continuum! Now, whenever you're jacking it to canine pornography, you'll also have to deal with getting ink all over you while you're dressed as a mailman!


Whether rain, hail, sleet or snow, the federal mail service marches onwards, delivering all manner of disgusting things to innocent citizens of our great republic. Why, just the other day I recieved this horrible "bill" from "Verizon Wireless" asking that I pay them my money. I know better than that, you despicable fiends! I'm going to burn my house down, claim the insurance, and buy as many "Monopoly" sets as I possibly can, take all the money, paint it green, and then send it to your evil con-man "company," and then you'll learn not to mess with honest, god-fearing Americans! Ha!