Saturday, October 28, 2006

Everthing's always impossible.

Is the real problem with imperialism and failed states (Iraq, Iraq, Iraq) is that we overestimate the value of the currently more powerful nations and have failed to continue to develop philosophies as strong as the one that formed the American Revolution? I'm just asking.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Bun Control?

A nation is closed system. A world is a closed system. Big Bang. This is where the anti-christ and her husband, shizoid christ, buckle under her vacillating charms and the daggers he unintentionally leaves around the house. Because to try to contain an already contained system is only further the already present violence within the social apparatus. Imperial. School shootings. Dictator. So this seems to be a problem of loyalties. So this seems to breed many definitions to the term enlightened self-interest. What to do about the violence? Is it hippie bonobo time again?

Thursday, August 17, 2006

I still love everything

It's been so long I thought I should post something for all the insects. Thanks for taking care of my mother. I mean it.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Playing Dog

All I needed were two copper pennies, my grapefruit, some wire, maybe a couple alligator clips, a light emitting diode, and I think a couple other things and all the world will be mine. Mine forever. I have a thing for citrus. It tastes good and now it will also provide unlimited power. Why we are in the Persian Gulf and not trying to conquer Florida is beyond my understanding. But never mind. There's a market down the street with a great produce section and the directions say I can also use lemons or other fruits. I can even use potatoes if my Irish friends ever happen to visit. My wife is rather peeved that I, not only tried to power our plasma screen television with a grapefruit, but that I did it on the roof during a thunderstorm. She understands little how the white lab coat can get to a man's head. Who can resist the only manly way to bare your legs and give the girls the naughty shots that you know they want. I wouldn't call my attempt a failure because I really learned something. First, don't take your television outside. It's not a dog. It doesn't need fresh air. Second, the wife isn't too fond of wrestling on the roof. Note to self: If ever on the roof with the woman again, give her a fiddle. She's musical. Instead of snoring she imitates a bass clarinet scuba diving.


Sunday, July 09, 2006

Playing God

They said I couldn't do it. They said I was trying to play God. They cursed my apparent arrogance. Legislators passed laws. Mothers shielded their babies. But it was all in vain. I was a man obsessed. Did I know it was gamble? Only a sane man gambles, not one driven insane by his curiosity and ambition. Oh, she struggled stop me but I nearly knocked her off the roof as I resisted her efforts to stop me. Her sobs had no affect on my pitiless madness. I thrust the grapefruit to the sky. Thunder roared. Rain soaked my lab coat. Ha! All I needed were two copper pennies.



Monday, June 19, 2006

Love Letter Love Letter Love Letter

Do you deserve to read flattering descriptions of how nice it was to see you when you were being such a Jezebel, an incessant harlot, a shallot juicer, a hummus taunter, a big somoan booty launderer? I could go on. Yes, I was overjoyed upon hearing that familiar raspy caterwaul eat holes through the door. True, joyfully erotic tingles clogged my pores upon seeing your iconic profile peaking from that wheeled bathtub. You bulging fluorescent orange eyes still could hold me in trance. But that tongue! Why choose a giraffe tongue. The monstrosity doesn't even fit in your mouth. You must be parched! And your consonants! It's like listening to a Jack Hammer do unspeakably naughty things to left-overs. At least it was a relief to see the poodle still wearing his pickelhauben. My surprise did subside over our conversation on the practical use of annelids in adult education. A subject we practically invented. Yet, you became cruel as the topic turned to my limerick disability. Exposing your new Siamese twin only worsened the mood. The horror of seeing you two fused at the fake breast made me want to flee and eat salted paper towels. You found it all so very entertaining. Slipping a slab of veal in my picture dictionary was an obvious jab at my love of dyslexic Morse Code. How dare you insult the memory of Dakota Fanning!!! Even I have a threshold. Boy did we fight. We fought like Helen Keller in heat. You even held my collection of Official Mama Cass Nesting Dolls hostage. That's when I realized the painful truth. You never loved me. You just loved my plastic fantastic butter knife. A man should only take so much. I was used. I was going to confront you then and there. I was going to pin you down and ask, “what does Fort Knox have to do with gelatin,” but, once again, You had already escaped my life. Tears slipped inside my left nostril as I watched you leap over fences and offend the middle class. You seemed larger than life...like a platypus in Kansas.


Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Love Letter Love Letter

I sit here by candle light wondering what has become of you my misanthropic flaky cake. Why have you not replied to my last letter? Was it because I misspelled the word gwissle? You used to be so understanding. A real trooper. How many moons has it been? Only one I think. Last night I checked and I'm fairly certain that the other object was my porch light. Your eternal apparition still scorches through my mind like a southern man farting fossil fuels. You were walking past the sunset window in that green mylar dress. It's hanging strips kept snagging on the protruding nails of your many failed woodwork projects. We had fought over Lennon and McCartney. I know I was stubborn. Now, I understand that neither were mollusks and neither cleaned our aquarium. If you could see me, you could see the extent of my regret. The depth of my loss. You would see my nose firmly pressed to my wrist and you would see it sniffing with a violent urgency, a sniff to end all sniffs and turn back time just so you'd float back in my arms and I could clean you like a dead cat. Please respond my love. There's a man waiting, sitting by what he pretends to be hearth, and all he wants for Christmas are your two front plooka laka deeka doolies.