Friday, August 11, 2006

Smoke 'em while you got 'em

Guess what! Guess what! Guess what! Guess what! Breaking old news from the world of cycling: Tyler Hamilton’s a cheat—but at least he can go up Mount Washington pretty fast. I know, I know, for all the optimists in the world, it was probably his evil, dead twin from when he was a fetus spent 44 grand on drugs and blood transfusions…

Okay, seriously, does anyone really care about this stuff anymore? I knew guys juicing in the States at the amateur level, though probably not with EPO and blood transfusions—why? Because they are a bunch of hapless losers who seem to think winning the local Tuesday night crit before going to the strip club is their path to glory. I’m just mentioning this to bring in a bit of perspective. On the plus side there’s a cease fire between Israel and Lebanon, and its so effective that when Liverpool played Maccaibi Haifa it had to set at a neutral ground because there is no goddamn way Liverpool management is going to fly their multi-hundereds-of-million pound squad to a war zone. Ho! I love chaos! There’s something about the impeding shit-rain into which this world is falling that brings out a certain type of smile into this paranoid junkie’s afternoon.

A quick scan of the headlines today really doesn’t bring much ire to my evening, and after a week’s hiatus for the Big Brother finale, the Simpsons are back on, so I’m going to have to focus back on the minutia that makes life interesting:

I think I saw Henry Rollins at Starbucks today sucking down a venti-mocha with whipped cream. Big Guy, glasses and tats, kinda loud but smart; it really could be no other—despite the quite obvious contradiction of Henry Rollins actually going to Starbucks. Actually, the image is pretty funny, a hard-core political activist/ex punk rocker sipping down a liquid candy bar in the maw of the fasted growing corporation in the world? Kinda hits you in the cockles of the heart.

Christ, not much else is new on this end; and judging by the last time I posted, not much new has happened, which is not entirely an accurate statement. I’ve been traveling a bit, working a little, having a lot of fun, but not doing much that elicits the type of venom that this blog requires. Fact is, I haven’t been horribly wrecked enough in a long time, and since the University of London finally evicted those phony protester-activist people, I don’t even have anything to smash my hand into after all night writing/boozing jags. It’s hard summoning rage when you’re not burned out, not overly tired and when everything is going well with your job. Shit, everyone should try it.

Okay, fear not faithful readers (if any are left), there is an odd smell in my flat that just started, a mixture of cigar smoke and Raid, that I should go investigate, and I’m off to Whitechapel tonight to pay a visit to some mates, one of whom owes me money, so maybe I’ll yet have a tale to spin before this day draws nigh (which means that I’ve been reading too much Nerd of the Rings…)

Yeah, I’m definitely out. This is gibberish, and not even all that funny: But fear not--I searched the archives and here's one that didn't get posted. It would seem to be an ode to George Carlin written sometime after the most recent bomb plot.


Well, it's taken me a Cotes de Bayne and now I'm on a Cote Du Rhone by 'Matilda,' and still can't shake that feeling of fear and loathing lingering somewhere in the recess of my intuition. The house is empty now so I might have to switch to the rum next and put 'Guns of Brixton' on infinite repeat, loud enough to make my ears bleed until they do actually kick in my front door. What can I say? I'm naked on my couch watching a four hour Kurisawa (sp?) film at 11:57 on a Friday night. Every word, or somewhat coherant sentence that dribbles from my mouth must be inflected by some of my favorite words: shit, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, piss, tits; it's the only way I can describe my feelings about the hapless losers that got us into this mess.

After enjoying a day on the south east coast with a lovely companion, I found myself in quiet English backwater scrambling for a newspaper that would tell me exactly what the fuck was going on in the world of terror--and what I found was some maxi-pad published by World Com or whatever the fuck Rupert Murdoch calls his coorporation now--you got to hand it to amorality. Jesus, two 'fucks' in the same sentence, I must be losing my perspicacity...holy jesus. It's been quite a while since I've been able to convince myself that we were completely and irevocably up shit creek, and not only do we not have paddles, we actually have to dive in head first to free the raft from the fecal infected mire. Now I've done it, broken the primary rule of good, or decent, or perhaps even quasi-readable writing--used way to0 many adjectives, allusion, metaphor, etc. In short, I've shafted you, my dear reader, and for that, I apologise. Why, I'm not sure, maybe it's the fact that my government--those cocksuckers for which I did not vote, but have to respect because that's what this God-cursed thing called democracy demands--is perpetuating, if not actively pursing, a project of terror that threatens the very soul of the world. It makes me wonder if anyone has bothered to ask the 'terrorists' (that is if 'they' exist) why they are so angry anyway. It's not because they hate freedom, or America, or any of that shit the benevolant chairman crams down the throat of the feed lot cattle motherfuckers that make up at least 52 if not more percent of the electorate. The terrorists, in fact, are regular people who have become quite tired of being shit on. Either by the US or UK or Isreal, or anyone else in this world who thinks they have an implicit right to live over anyone else. Makes me think it's time to emply my safe-deposite box of its contents, and head to the hills with a few good mates and a case or 20 of Wild Turkey, get drunk, and welcome in the dawn of a new, apocalypse, almost. I'm naked right now, been drinking for several hours, seething, stewing in my own self-rightous diatribe, and even in my own gifted sense of reasoning and ability to know the score can only conclude that without a doubt, we are all fucked. But, at least, we can thank our department of homeland security for saving the day in the knick of time, again--coincidentally when the occupiers are down in the polls and the resistance is securing a bit of a chance. At least hair gel is banned on the airplane now. Christ, I can't even think about this anymore.

Grab your weapon, head for the hills.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Adam said...

Ben-
The ban on all that crap on planes is simply a "make up" conspiracy from Maybellene. Note: baby formula IS allowed meaning that passengers would rather die than hear a screaming baby for an entire plane ride.

I sense a bit of anger towards our foreign policy. To remedy that, just watch Fox News for a couple of days.........

7:58 PM  

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