The Daily Fix

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.

rightfully so, i thought we should all be awware that wait! what’s that? it is a televised television commercial, written by and starrring richard gere of the tv! let’s all stop and looka t this! it is not a revolution!

Pointing and then shooting a gun: the video game simulation attempt
i am in a forest. look, a birdie. oh mister birdie, how grievously and shamefully you have wronged yourself. goodness knows there was a time once when your poor, dear old mother could look upon your beaky countenance and regale herself with tales of virtue and chastity, those characteristics being your very own. but now in this light sztreaming from the forest roof, i see that it is not a forest i am in at all. it is a room, sans roof. birdie, did you take my roof? i shall not be angry if you did. there are little letters on my buttons, and i am not amused. birdie, i shall not make pretenses: for this you shall pay penance. the removal of my thatched roof i can exist by the side of, but the placement of white letters upon my finger-buttons has wounded me sorely in an area i was once proud enough to believe myself invulnerable. birdie, must it come to this? must i truly push back the safety, my fingers trembling? must i watch, as the sky reflects on the metallic barrel of my wonderful, wooden GUN is retrieved from its holster and pointed at your feathery head? i must, i feel. it is my duty as a citizen of this great republic. birdie, i am not the killing sort. i will give you, from the depths of my Jarvik Artificial Heart ™ a chance, oh a bonnie chance. do not try my patience, birdie. i know of locations where the darkest-souled fiends devour whole creatures like you, only pausing to pluck, roast, and tear asunde thy tiny body with various sharp implements before devouring you. not whole, for i have been erroneous, birdie, and in any fashion your ending will be similiarly gruesome. better the devil you know, birdie. better the devil you know. and the devil you know stands before you now, with the sun gleaming upon his gun’s barrel and his finger a-twitchin’. i shall consort with you as a foul beast of the forest once more, birdie, and only once. was it you in all your lack of chastity and virtue, your tarnished audaciousness, that took flight through my opened bed-chamber window, through my boudoir (for i, birdie, am no anglified tart. i know of words that are not directly germanic in descent), and into the cupboard, where my shiny black square metal electronic button finger devices were being held, securely, until further questioning? did you then, birdie, as i assume, take from ‘neath your crested plume a tiny paintbrush, coated in white primer of the most foul and wicked nature, and with this primer FUCKING WRITE TINY WHITE FUCKING LETTERS ON MY FUCKING KEYBOARD??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!

I AM NOT PLEASED! THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS, AND I DEMAND RECOMPENSATION FOR THE DAMAGES DONE!

just then, in malaysia, everybody died. and so my leukemia was cured and the birdie was strung up and eaten. as i had planned all along. and now, a pictorial guide on fowl cookery:

a square jaw meets an oval face, to create a whirligig of catharsis and maudlin resentment, with sex and psychobabble coleslaw sprinkled lightly on the side. oh, madam, my sweet darling ruffley madam, did i fail to mention there has been a chocolate garnish earthquake? we are all out of dowagers today. they have fled the enclosure to higher ground. the flood is here. it is a flood of salty liquid. oh. my tears. i am crying! here we are, in bed with a toothache, and the ladies are screaming on their stage, and rhinoceros rhinoceros bladder control mutants and a pipe bomb. i believe i can exercise mind control, over the one right here. jingle jangle goes the little six-stringed instrument that some no-name is eating out. because that’s what this particular form of entertainment is, really. long, drawn-out, hairy, and gratifying to WOMEN. oh, there. i said it. apparently, the oral manipulation of genitalia is not just satisfactory to us of the phallic possession, it is also quite fancied by the briny musseltaints we often know as “loquacia misdemeanoralis,” or as my uncle buck UNCLE BUCK used to say, “damn milk cows!”
except he lived on a farm, so of course he was a paranoid schizophrenic. he had no choice, just as i had no choice but to willfully rent and then view several poor films in a row. such is the working man’s plight i feel. i do admit to feeling the plights of many working men. plight is a euphemism for “earlobe.” they are soft and comforting, like a soft cascade of toddler’s tongues across your midriff. and once again we return to oral pleasure. for truly if nostradamus’ final prophecy has bore fruit (i had a wife who bore fruit once, but it wasn’t mine and thus had to be disposed of in the ocean blue, 1492, a gibbon and a partridge in the guillotine across the table, next to the salt), then you shall be and indeed are as i speak with a turgid tongue OH NO MY TONGUE IS STIFF that you shall inherit the earth. i swear. put down the mace. get off of the dinner table. i understand that thanksgiving is not your national holiday, but we need to be sensitive to those of different holiday celebrating mass. mass. like midnight mass. escape mass velocity. did i mention they had all escaped from the enclosures? even the model trains. they ran right off their tracks into little holes, and now i just can’t find them. i looked underneath her dress, and there they all were, one in each pant-leg. how very odd. it must be christmas after all. anyhow. reading this aloud, to your significant other or child, please first call them a cunt/jewess, and then slap them about the chops. then please not that although you have orally pleased yourself as an antecedent, you too have been giving a small child extreme oral pleasure. by reading. reading, it is literacy, literacy being the highest point of a degree i can earn in a janitor uniform while looking at pictures of transvestite serial killers. why must i wield the executive power of the mop? it is for our safety, which is paramount theaters. do they own MGM? that is a casino. JAMES. BOND JAMES. S&M AND FRILLY CLOTHING ON AN OPERA SINGER’S DEAD DOGS.

thus concluded the previous day’s question and answer session, providing more answers than there were questions and proving that no matter where i live, whether it be cardboard ten-dollar billfolds or underneath clive davis’ solid gold hammond organ (his penis), (most of us live ‘neath clive davis’ tremendous genital master circuit), we shall all outstrip demand. by supplying. with our demand. we are supplying the demand for supplies!
or else i’ll roast my husband’s heart and eat it, in front of the children!

oh, look, i’m a donner clam.

Know sumboddy’s went and poasted themselfs a missage on a bolg poast ov myne. i wood lick make evurrytihng vary kleer and sai thsi: yuo havv evry rite too sai taht. i bileave in feer speacg, eaven iff yoo doant and waunt mee two stoap saing tihngs. aslo, yuo havv unvailed my eevil plaut, too detsory demcorcacy buy makeign funn off tihngs. manny poeple trie two maek huomorus bolgs, taht are facetious (see? i can spell, yet i am intentionally mocking your horrific spelling! I guess the charade can end now, due to the fact that your dehydrated cranial contents have thankfully just comprehended this, since I spelled it out to you. someone’s gotta, since apparently you can’t. spell, that is), but I don’t want to do something as trivial as that! No, instead of making a light-hearted jest that is well-protected and even encouraged as “satire” under the First Amendment, I’d rather insinuate lies to stupid people, thus single-handedly defeating Barack Obama in the Presidential election. And of course I’m a racist! Because I made a ridiculous, fantastical “story” about Barack Obama being an evil, slave-owning white person, and that means I’m a racist against black folks! I sure do hate that Barack Obama negro fellow! Oh, if only he really was white and evil, and owned slaves! Gee golly, that would be great! What? Liberal? Me? Oh heavens no, I hate Barack Obama, simply because he is black!

In addendum, I’m sorry you “don’t agree” with my previous post. Personally, I “don’t agree” with it either.

Do you know why?

BECAUSE I DON’T BELIEVE IT IS TRUE!
MAYBE, JUST MAYBE NOT EVERYONE IS AS STUPID AS YOU! MAYBE PEOPLE, SOMEWHERE, IN SOME MAGICAL LAND, CAN INDEED WRITE THINGS THAT THEY DO NOT BELIEVE IN! HAVE YOU HEARD OF SATIRE? CAN YOU SPELL IT? (I’m sorry, anonymous, I know you can’t spell it. That was rhetorical, and you do not need to go angrily a-postin’ on this one, spelling “satire” at me).

In conclusion, if you do not enjoy humor of this nature, then you deserve to be offended. This is nature’s way of allowing me to discern between dumb people and really, really dumb people. You, sir or madam, are the latter. And I dismiss you as such, the ignorant, filthy dunce you are and were since your mother unwittingly pushed you from betwixt her loins, thus plaguing the Earth with a most singularly foolish and recalcitrant gnome, the likes of which have ne’er been seen before.

You aren’t writing from the White House, are you?

Remember when Bill Clinton won the Democratic nomination, way back when in the 1990s? He danced with Hillary. Remember when Al Gore won the Democratic nomination, way back in 2000? I sure do! He danced with Tipper. John Kerry probably danced with someone when he won the nomination, but I don’t remember because he wasn’t legally elected like those other two fellows.

(Man, remember the Gore presidency? Remember that awesome cabinet he assembled? Remember how he signed the Kyoto protocols, and thwarted that totally evil terrorist plot to blow up the world trade center due to his having intelligence multiple weeks prior to said attacks, and cured cancer by allowing stem cell research, and then after that, he toatlly was on, like, the cover of Wired? Man, that was great. Everybody loved President Gore!)

Anyhow. Now that Barack Obama has assumed the position of “most visible living target in the US,” what dance will he do?

I know! I know! Let’s ask our friend, “Barack Obama’s illegally-acquired African slave!”

“Oh, suh, yessuh! I just be’s a negro minstrel, but I’se be thinkun that Massuh Barack be’s dancun’ like we nigros down in his celluh be dancun’! Yessuh, Massuh Barack kin be col’-hearted an’ use the whip at times, but other times he shucks and jives jus’ like a real nigroo! Which he ain’t! He’s a white devil, like you, Massuh Maurice! He just done and painted hisself, so he could win some Demagogueic Nombleynayshun!”

Well, there we have it.

Who knows were the money blows when the cold wind goes? I do! Oh, mother! Another precious opportunity for misdoing, also known as Lewis! Louis, Louis, you’ve gone amiss, and I must purchase ammo.

Ammo to shoot things with! After all, you’re not a New England Patriot unless you’re on the payroll, and you’re not on the payroll unless you’re one of two things:

1) An employee of the New England Patriots (r) Organization

2) A vicious imposter who is wearing the skin of Bill Belichick by night and a persian rug by day.

Yes, that’s me. You’ve heard of a naked man with that baseball cap and a handy camera having Leopold’s lunch and dandy too? I cannot profess to having heard of such an imposterer as he.

“Imposterer”: Webster’s diction canary defines “Imposterer” as “The second coming of ‘Akbar the Adulterer’ also known as a blue parrot with a shingle on its head that transmits radio waves at twelve tons of solid waste per second. Completely made up, fictional, not real, false, erroneous, concocted by government agents, sexy (but still a lie), and me no likey the touching of my inky palms to the cool wheaties box of your dank affection. The word of the day.”

So there we have it. The word of the day. Have fun, all you amateur imposterers out there!

All good things must come to an end, I suppose.

Remember the time I tricked Chuck into thinking I had cancer? No? Well, it’s back there, in the archives. I’m sure you could find it. Remember when Chuck thought I was a lady? Well, that too is in the anals.

Yes, the anals. The annals are different. You see, I have devised a clever new way to remember history, involving a dedicated, non-hygiene-concerned tattoo artist, some leather straps, an ergonomic surgeon’s table, and most importantly, Xanax. Lots and lots of Xanax. I think it’s important that Xanax begins with an “x” and ends with an “x,” because otherwise I could not get away with taking them so copiously. “I might forget ‘x,’ the last letter in the alphabet, if only I do not take my Xanax,” I say to Nurse. Nurse is not a tolerant woman, oddly. Curse the Nurse! Lasterday she utilised a heavy quilt in entrapping me, whereupon this grievous incident I was injected in the buyttock with some foul medication. I immediately felt much stronger, and yet filled with an aggression and emptiness I had never known to be inside me. My nipples swelled to the size of grapes, and my testes shrank…

…Twelve months later, in Tucson, there was a grapefruit and then we all ate it. “Sistuh! Sistuh! Come quickly, Y’hear?” I cried, but the truck holding my stuffed animals was departing at speeds I used to think only I could travel at. I jumped on a wheel, went to Omaha City, where the grass was green and the girls were all terrible whores. There, I drunk a whiskey-barrel in three nights and blew a flying elephant from the sky with my trusty Smith & Wesson.

No, a watch. What’d you think? A gun? What? Everyone knows Smith & Wesson make watches and flashlights. In fact, I think I can recall their motto now: “Here at Smith & Wesson, if we do not make a flashlight or watch that suits you perfectly, we will arrive at your domicile with our world-reknowned firearms and shoot you ’til you’re dead!”

I wrote this using Excel.

Warpling & Schuster regret to inform you that you’re dead.

Before you freak out, wonder: just how does a publishing company know I’m dead?

Because if you aren’t dead now, you will be. Later. Or sooner, depending on when you show up on their doorstep with all those illegally acquired publishing-comfits you stole. And the “Warpling & Schuster” racquetball team’s leotards (with tasteful logos).

Yes, the dangerous world of corporate theft. If you ever get shanghaiied by a crazed manager with a staplegun, remember that it’s all your fault there are now metal stapley thingies in your brain.
“But what if I got a brain staple by a surgeon, Maurice?”
THEN YOU’RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH.

What can I say? Whose fault should it be, eh? Do you think the nice people at the Roomba Company (“need someone to help you operate your Roomba vacuuming robot because you’re elderly and thus incapable of manipulating ridiculously simple technology? Then fuck off!”) care about whether or not you’re getting crushed by a gigantic robotic vacuum? Well, you’ll find the answer when nobody comes to rescue you when you’re trapped inside of the dustbag.

How d’you think that’d read if it happened to Jane Goodall? “My Life Among The Dust-Bunnies”?
NO! SHE’D EAT ‘EM AND KILL EM BY GUM LIKE ANY OTHER GOOD AGRARIAN HUNTER-GATHERER

This blog post has been sponsored M.A.D.B., or Mothers Against Drunk Blogging.
See what happens, children! It comes out all funny and painful to read!
The blog too!

I read Time magazine the other day. Not willingly, though. I was bound and gagged(?) and then forced to read their touching testimony to William F. Buckley Jr.

I didn’t know William F. Buckley (Jr.) and Jeff Buckley had so much in common! Like their last names! It’s like they came f- waiiiiiiiiiiit a second there cowboy. What if they did? They didn’t did they? DID THEY????? Oh, wait. That would be silly!

They’re both dead, too.

William F. Buckley (the younger) hated poor people, apparently. Well, that’s unfair. He was a Republican. So OF COURSE he hated poor people. Also, where was the outpouring of love and support for the Buckley family? Remember when Reagan died? Why didn’t people care like that?

Answer: Because Reagan had been legally a vegetable for about a decade before his “untimely” (Who the hell called his death “untimely,” again? What the hell? A cat could’ve beaten him in a wonderlic test! PARIS HILTON could’ve beaten him in a wonderlic test! And then after he was president, he only got dumber! Which is a completely and totally legitimate reason that he should have been dead.) death.

Oh yeah. I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided to let her go. Now the only problem will be getting her out of the well. Precious didn’t sit so well on her.