The Daily Fix

It has, whether I’d like to admit it or not, been a while, the while consisting mostly of things other than that which is posted here. The collective weeping of the peasantry and callous scum that constitute my base of power had reached my ears mere seconds after my previousmost post, but as craven whoresons they deserved not the delectable morsels which I cunningly lay before them in a little trail leading towards a steel cage. The steel cage contains various devices, nay- implements- with which I might exact whatever punishments I see fit. These vile applications of power wrongfully seized are most often less violent than those of other notable sadists, for while their whips and chains (such groaning sounds from myriad dank cellars have been heard! Such rumor has been verified by a horrified interloper coming upon the deviances so catalogued in journals as esteemed as “Forbes For Sadists,” “The Washington Post For Sadists,” “Sadism Monthly For Sadists,” and of course “Cat Fancy”!)  may excoriate some type of demon only exorcised by excessive flagellance, the true device of torture to any man of cruelty worth his salt (for pouring in wounds- see?) is of course that of the literary bent. One may say many things of literature, very few of them complimentary, but a finer method of mental nipple-twisting has ne’er been invented (coincidentally- mental nipples, in addition to being much more sensitive to their corporeal counterparts, are also larger and therefore generate more PPSI [Pain Per Square Inch] than any other mental organ. In fact, one might consider them to be more like gigantic mental clitorises of the chest). Case in point: I have baited the hook oh so very cleverly, by allowing you to dawdle off into your respective “worlds,” mindful only of your own petty tribulations. You do not consider the fact that there might very well never be another blog post by me. No, I am taken for granted. Then, weeks later, I write something and nobody reads it.

Bad Example.

To elucidate my point (I fear until now such vertices- or should a say, “such a vertex,” seeing as there’s only one, really- have been shrouded in a mist of uncertain stupidity, much my own fault for fumbling about upon these surrogate Scrabble (c) tiles and then not erasing them), I introduce a totally and completely new anecdote with which to dazzle you: a phenomenon I have noted that is more the product of human nature than evil conspiracy (one does remember blog.vom’s tryptich, I should hope). The phenomenon of “note” (only so fittingly and punnily called so, by me) would be just that: a note (see?) that is purposefully distributed to many e-contacts via a certain social networking site. Seeing as the blog.vom hashishin robots so lovingly embrace me in their literally steely death-grips, this social networking site shall remain unnamed. But it does exist, I assure you. As corollary (read: not corollary at all), I shall speak of the notes allegedly stored upon this site. Or at least a certain type of them.

They consist mainly of mawkish poetry, and though I’d love to stretch myself for a stupid rhyme and call it more than mawkish, perhaps even Macaqueish, it would be a disservice to the many Macaques I know whom aspire to scribble at slates with their scaly claws as these mere infants do online. Indeed, such poetry is only redeemable because its bilious pomp and pretension renders it finitely humourous to such a pedantic misanthrope that would find it finitely humourous (making sense here, are we? good.). This type of filler wouldn’t even be fit to wrap fish in, because it’s not printed on newspaper or really anything at all, and you can’t wrap a fish in nothing or it’ll be naked and won’t be able to go to the ball where all the other fish, in their gaiety and costumes, shall surely mock it for its astringent grasp of fashionable to-dos. This is a tragedy, resplendent in the shimmering blues and greens of the naval where was I oh yes the writing is awful and they take themselves seriously and believe they have a whit of sensibility and weldschmerz that makes them so knowledgeable on all things, and isn’t it lovely that they’re there and have everything figured out and all the world’s going to echo with cries once they find somebody, anybody, who will indulge their child-like fantasy that there might be somebody as ignorant as them? Well, everybody’s as ignorant as each other, but that’s an introverted ignorance that sits in the corner by itself in its crinoline hosiery, not quite sure of its ability to revel and bask in its own crass stupidity with all the other band geeks who are perhaps a bit more well-acquainted. The redolence of a phase is overwhelming; indeed, this powerful stench is like ten thousand rotting logs basking in the Ibiza sun, waiting for hobos to carry them off to be burnt. And burnt  they shall be, by the callused, weather-beaten hobos of time and misfortune, until every last one of the little sons and daughters of bitches have been cudgeled into the ground with such brute impunity that it is almost enough to make a completely objective and not bitter at all bystander to cry out some phrase smacking of equality and reverence for a truly leveled playing field. But at that point there will be a whole new generation of spoiled rotten little shits who hold the plastic key that came with their My Little Pony-brand diary who’ve become addled enough by the advertisements to think that they’re really the keys to understanding the world. So these whelps on the cusp of maturity will instead veer off onto a fertile plain not unlike whack-a-mole, where societal forces unbeknownst to anybody under 30 will hammer down upon them until they have all become adherent to ism. The aforementioned cliff that I never actually verbatim mentioned is certainly never inviting, and indeed I suspect that one must be pushed off of it at that age to truly know that it was there at all. Still. That does not make any of this less true.

By the way, the social networking site is Facebook. Don’t kill me, Blog.com-bot! I’m your friend!