The Daily Fix

I have come directly from confidence.
Kicked myself off of its tile walls and careened into the scraped mewlings again.
Quaver and glisten. The convex pressures on the lobes don’t fail to deliver.
Something like an animal that’s eaten its leash.
It’s raining.
Gag on the fiber. Intestine isn’t master’s hand.
Retain peristaltic control. Inferior.
Dwell on the word and its null.
The evidence of people all around. No quick escape.
The smell of fresh dirt and wet.
Sopping flowers like cardboard in the downpour. Why does it always rain?
Already halfway into next year.
Numb feet. Temporary lapse of empathetic nodes.
Suddenly on the wire looking at the ones after the crumbs.
In the dirt.
On the grass.
By the stones.
Surely left a window open. The rain gets in.
Paper flying everywhere. Turmoil.

And in slow motion, the handfuls of sod while some weepy bastard makes his way from a studio straight to the slow-churned loins of every worn emotional receptacle. Receptacles, that’s what they are. Try not to smile, though. It really wouldn’t look right.

There’s nothing in auto-sadism that stings quite like neurotic nurses nurturing niggling nativity. There’s a kid behind me sobbing into a microphone about how terrible education is, but it evokes nothing but the time going on and changing into a lament for tent life. O. Henry seemed to be of the mind that a gasoline lantern and a few inches of solid oak were the best solutions to this young man’s quandaries, but loss is too much to question. The only beast which unquestionably holds court over men is loss, and as tyrants are wont to do it heckles frightfully and makes fit for puddles to turn into cenotes. But Aztec drowning-holes are simply superfluous artifacts sentenced to centuries of siliceous stillness, cenotaphs for long-extinct loss, like the disintegrating Venusian mounts of a Hollywood divorcee taking her rest in a coffin. These surely cannot be beauty.  Beauty, we would be told, is subcutaneous. 

The idiot-savant geniuses of blog.com will stop at nothing in their Napoleonic bid to control all of the internet, which greatly worries me. One shudders to think of the nightmarish dystopia that would result in blog.com’s hegemony over all that is not real: groaning slaves clad in studded leather fetishwear, emitting hideous cries of wearied exhaustion, teetering on the brink of the giant pits of lava which they’ve been forced to toil over. Blog.com, after all, needs magma.

But more importantly than noting that these events are fated to occur and there is nothing anybody can do to stop them is futilely attempting to subvert them via furtive malingering using their own technology and bandwidth. View above, where I have placed for all to see a Grand Pictorial Chart, which is an accurate reproduction of the labors of blog.com’s vast, well-oiled propaganda machine. I shall now critique it.

First steps first: the initial image is that of a bald man, yet in the fourth panel he is suddenly rendered with a Dinoysian shock of chestnut follicular matter, a mane fit for a man gone or going to field. To quash all hopes, using the internet will probably give you cancer, and so your hair will fall out due to chemotherapy. Other than this, there are no insidious facets of subliminal mind control in panel 1.

In panel 2, there is further misrepresentation. Although one might deem it necessary to print, in large retarded-kindergartner text above the little (inaccurately curved) “web page” in order to illustrate the fact that yes, that is a blog, this isn’t Facebook, so we can all read here. This isn’t really evil in and of itself, but really, the fact that they’re saying creation of anything even remotely blog-like with their life-destroyingly awful engine is like your HMO telling you that if you have sex with an elephant over and over again, a human baby might come out: you’re getting fucked over and over again by something that is larger than you, the sexuality of which is infinitely mysterious, and the fruit of these labors will more likely than not be severe depression and a migraine (not a baby). The fact that you are an aged, slack-cunted dowager who’s never experienced the unbelievable miracle of childbirth (miraculous due to the fact that so many retarded reproduce successfully) does not mean you should take either of their advice: the elephant will render you infertile with its immense penis, and nobody wants to read your musings about bran muffins or some shit like that (gardening, maybe?).

Panel 3. There are customization options, it’s true, but in the Byzantine horrorscape that is blog.com, you may never find them. If you do, they will most likely make you blind.

In panel 4, you are promised “success.” This tiny epigram is rife with misconstruement and falsification: firstly, if you truly are a leering Jewish dwarf like the little disproportionate case for late-term abortions pictured, I have yet to see you and your freakishly tiny limbs. Secondly, there is no such thing as success. Ever. Anywhere. Especially here on bloc.gom, a manichean jungle of hatred and despair where myriad beasts roam at twilight, ever hungering for some new dreariness to occupy their non-absolutist paradigm of self-obsessed existance. Flee, flee while you still can!

http://www.reuters.com/article/topNews/idUSTRE5282J820090309?feedType=RSS&feedName=topNews

WELL THANK FUCKING GOD, WARREN “JIMMY” BUFFETT! I GUESS SINCE YOU’RE SO RICH AND YOU’RE TELLING US ALL THAT THERE’S SOME TYPE OF HUGE GIGANTIC RECESSION GOING ON WE CAN ALL PANIC NOW! GREAT!

ALSO IN OTHER NEWS THE WORLD IS GOING TO END! WARREN “ZEVON” BUFFETT CAME ON THE TV AND SAID THAT THE SKY WAS FALLING! I GUESS IT’S OKAY TO WORRY NOW THAT WARREN FUCKING BUFFETT SAYS THINGS ARE TOUGH!

OH WOW I WONDER WHAT THIS MEANS FOR THE BUFFETT HOUSEHOLD? WHAT IF MAYBE WARREN HAD TO SELL ONE OF HIS GOLDEN 747S (ONE OF THE ONES HE JUST LIKES TO LOOK AT, ALL GLEAMING) JUST SO HE CAN SHOVEL EXORBITANT AMOUNTS OF MONEY INTO THE GAPING, WHIMPERING MAWS OF HIS HORDE OF BASTARD CHILDREN AND THEIR FILTHY WHORE MOTHERS SO HE CAN KEEP ON PRETENDING THEY DON’T EXIST?

MOST IMPORTANTLY WHAT WOULD ANDREW CARNEGIE DO IN THIS SITUATION? I BET HE’D RIDE HIS PERSONAL TRAIN MADE OF SILVER INGOTS AND $100 BILLS RIGHT TO THE BANK WHERE HE’D WITHDRAW AN INSIGNIFICANT FRACTION OF A PERCENTAGE OF HIS FORTUNE IN PENNIES SO HE COULD THROW THEM AT POOR PEOPLE! WAIT, HE DID DO THAT KIND OF IN THE LAST DEPRESSION! OH MAN JIMMY BUFFETT YOU’D BETTER WRITE ANOTHER SMASH HIT SO YOU CAN DO THAT TOO!

Suburbia is so put-upon as the dowdy wife whose children all left home, whose husband’s affections wandered towards the avenue of fat shambles and pleated stains.

Her looks have faded, as have her aprons, but still she resembles a mannequin, although in a different way than she once used to twenty (or thirty?) years ago. It’s become a perverted, obese mannequin, with nervously coiffed matter on its head that resembles the elastic bands which once conquered it, its doughy face belying its age and worries, although this emotional Versace is stretched over her distended face’s belly (the result of one too many crow being eaten).

In suburbia, one has found prefab homes, rows and rows of them. One has found tranquility. One has found the homes of Ed Gein and Joe Six-Pack. One has found the distilled 1950s, lying in wait for their prey on a dusty floor, the glass bottle long since smoked over. I dare you to drink it.

In suburbia, can be found death; underrated by those who would not have it, and overrated by those who would. In hundreds of years, they’ll be abandoned, and due to shoddy construction, largely chunks of asphalt on mud. No museum could contain them, for no man can.

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Now that you can see the world through my eyes, we can begin. How about Politics? Haven’t done Politics in a while. It’s because Politics don’t matter. I do, though.

Politics: a great game of Let’s Identify Ourselves Because We Ran Out Of Nametags, but with potential rewards and crucification (a reward in and of itself) if you can manage to be louder and more repetitious than the other lot of small-penised first grade teachers who delight in taking out their various inadequacies on other people unwittingly, by trying to cure their various inadequacies via dependance on other unwitting people. Politics: a twentieth-century invention invented well before the First Millienium that cries with its cut-out mask holes burning holes on the shoulders of Golems and mute Gorillas, who would do well to listen as whenever the try their hands they add truth and principle to the mix, and then lots of people end up dead.

Whose idea was it to vilify mass murderers? It’s not like anybody but the victims care, and that’s only if you’re too sloppy or sensitive to appreciate the execution of execution.

Politics: toddlers throwing the bones into the frenzied, bloodlust of an afternoon’s traffic in Calcutta, and the ones whose parents love them chasing the scapula fragments to see who could possible do it more.

I got the feeling that bloating and flaking up in bits in a tub full of sludge for hours on end at the hottest temperature possible wasn’t healthy after I entered an eerily melatonin-tinged coma induced by the thick, velvety ropes of steam draped across my face and chest in a fashion usually more familiar to suffocation victims. Three hours later, I arose, the water at body temperature and beads of moisture on the vast swaths of linoleum available for perusal through my semi-open slits. The smell of decomposition was in the back of my throat. I had no right to it.

Talked to sternly, a man might divulge more of his hurt feelings than if hit with a stick. Vinegar will often catch flies, but not as much as industrial-strength solvent will. Just remember to stay clear of the fumes. The bigger the stick, the more likely your adversary’s insensate reaction. There’s some mathematical formula about the stick-size-to-beating ratio, but it’s all bullshit; I mean those mathematician-types are hardly capable of killing a man with anything but logic.

In this case, then, what deadly logic must a man whose own intellect abandons him (and indeed, it is oft questionable whether or not it was ever really there for him at all, vis a vis a latchkey parent or at least a drunken, irresponsible one might) grasp at clumsily over and over again to recover his dignity in the eyes of other, more balanced individuals? Is there a line? Might it be crossed so soon, so tenderly, without the dreaded descent into squalor and misery so proliferated amongst the collective consciousness of the chronically frightful that one might assume the devils of our overrriding sub-subconsciousness are taking too many pamphlets from all the wrong peddlers of ideology? This is, of course, all rhetorical.

Brassiere, nightclub, second to the left, and on your back. Does that seem to be familiar? Who knows. Questions, questions, and no answers: oooooh, how mysterious.

If I unscrew the top of the hourglass and pour all the sand down my throat, does that mean I might be crowned victorious over all of time and space, left to crow atop a mound of my enemies’ corpses?

How many words can I eat before they march out of my belly and stride one-by-one down my tongue?

Does a nun that is shot out of a cannon from a fortress into a river have the advantage over a navally-deployed nun?

Whose donkey?

A woman once told  me that if a gigantic cat ever burst through her wall of cannabis which was really four walls and a ceiling (more like a cage), she would most likely reach for her insect repellent. A year later, when one did do that, it ate her and left the Acapulco Gold to its cousin, who was a Mexican dope dealer. This is all well and good, but in Canada, where this woman lived, the Sperm Cat (I was trying to do a cross between a Sperm Whale and a cat there, but it didn’t really work; unfortunate feline) had to have three visas and a passport photo before it could even think about crossing the border, and had to have a job at Tim Horton’s before the marijuana was applicable to anything but pain and alienation. Furball decided to become a barrista, but couldn’t pass the bar without drinking, and so became a full-blown alcoholic gigantic kitty with at least twelve pounds of high-grade Gateway Drug on its paws. This could be a problem to some, for it’s very hard to work at Tim Horton’s while drunk and worried about your conspicuous stash, but Furball persevered until she (he?) met the trucker of his (her?) dreams at the end of a rope after a sullen AA meeting where everybody mostly directed their intense self-hatred and pity at their shoes, tucking away furtive glances of the more attractive attendants during the awkwardly swollen pauses and sniffling. It’s alleged that the tires were purposefully slashed, but for whatever reason the trucker got married to Daisy, a nice girl who worked the shift before Furball’s at Tim Horton’s. The two settled down and swam upstream a lot, but a Kodiak always seemed to snare Daisy from her coital preoccupations before the real spawning started. The trucker smoked all twelve or so pounds in a month, ounce by ounce. He left his bowl only to eat and to watch dirty videos Daisy rented on the way home from the convenience store she now worked at. At the end of the month, when Furball hit bottom, the trucker put some slack into his routine. Not enough, apparently. His lungs gave out, and at the hospital, he conceived a child with Daisy before promptly dying of cardiac arrest. The cat took all its money back, convinced Daisy to take abortive measures and then call it in the morning, ditched the morning, and then shot itself in a rented Chevy Malibu in front of a cornfield. When the coroner found out it was actually an escaped mascot for the local high school, he called upon three plucky teens: one fat yet uproariously gregarious, one socially awkward and sexually frustrated, and then one hot, wet, gorgeous, and just 18. This quickly devolved into smut.