Okay, Darling Peoples. This is looking real good at this stage. Sure, it looks like a fucked-off tangled up in blue spaghetti
scheisseries and covered in waffles'n'cigars sauce--but, if you know quality produce and you have met my Fruitier -and- know the current secret
toteshake, you'll know that is Irving's special this week. So really, a good omen. (Looks messy, tastes worse, from what I've heard. /totesshrug You know you're still going to throw it in a blender and guzzle it down, because what else are you gonna do, go back to flossing and brushing? Bwhaahaha, yah,
right.)
Now, the matter at hand:
my debrief. You may know it as "a podcast." Pffft. What a dumb name. What a silly anachronism. Let's change floppy disk drive assignment letters... no, you can't have a floppy disk drive assigned to D. (Standards.) Why would you even want a floppy D drive? Think, McTavisham Emme V, think.
Anyway, I have a 460MB .mp3 file with the audio of the 7hour jamfest slamtossed pastry party. (Go bionic bears, they're gonna tear Steve Austin's arms and legs off and beat him to death with them right after they get the hibernation sleep out of Fergie's cornflakes--just in case we all, one day, have to get her together to get her shit together too/as\well; which looks to be an increasingly more likely to be necessary future event these days, in my view from here. What is this, the fuckin' Apocalypse or something? Someone get these fucking kids on my lawn so they can start mowing it--the old-fashioned way, by sharing a set of George Washington's dentures as a pair of grass clippers without a written schedule--mowing by rote, Kids. That's how they wanted to do it in my day, too, and now, that is how they do it, enjoy, Baby.) Now, stay with me here--I know this all seems completely insensible. Well, it is, mostly... except, with The Key, you unlock Our Knowledge.
We'll get around to unlocking My Grapefruit in the future. She's not my area, and of course: EMERGENCY. (Sorry Baby, it's like this: with special mendacity comes special privileges, and just keep those knickers twisted tight, believe it or not, I'm not walking on air at all, and this shit is -still- working. And, while D.I.D. looks like a great disorder to have for anyone interested in a lively, rip-rousing career in hosting children's balloon-animal knot-tying parties, number one, I'm not going to one of those parties ever again, myself. Not after last time. Not without an ice-cold six-pack of AnonHomonKuli and a dirty ashtray to use for my own needs, because I fuckin' guarantee you, there won't always be dead rats lying around all over the place for you to kick around and/or put your cigarette butts out in forever. Not like the old days. Not anymore. Not with those new bi-racial purity laws that have just been introduced in Roppongi West Park Place, they're fuckin'
brutal what they're doing with acetone and rubber truncheons, just for one (1) violation. Ugh. Right up the bum. And with not just a twist--
TWO (2) TWISTS. (What if I told you... The Andromeda Strain was merely a phasers-set-to-sniffle dress rehearsal, and all those elephants in the room, they're all about to shit out actual Trojan Horses instead of just whore's manicure supplies with extra manure?
Imagine the smell. That's a lot of burnt latex, there's probably only 19 or 23 usable prophylactics left out of a shipping container that once held a full thousand bulk-count-condoms'n'femidoms w/attached bunker buster barbershop pole attacher attachements, and, boy! Howdy! Let's hold off on the rushing pell-mell to thoughts and talks of coitus for minute, okay? (I mean, yeah, flattered, but I'm at work right now, and isn't that the sound of Hell freezing over? Or is it... the ice cracking and the Olympic rising up to float on the backs of sweetly mournful violin music again. It really could be both, frankly, as I guess someone is creating a new oubliette dimension (new, like the 'new' McD.L.T. /groan), which is great news for Team Advantage. (Hot side: smokin'.) Which just reformed. (Cold side: Also smokin'. Because I.C.E. is
burnt.) Hi, Team. You
-are- awesome. Keep those prayers and thoughts going, they're what's fueling the communication circle I'm monitoring right now, which is all that I got on my team's side right now. That I know of. (The sobbing tears of the damned are not gonna fuel my empire, Jesus, Tom, are you nuts? I don't run on louche, I am a human being, goddam it, I run my life on sex, drugs, and magickally delicious arcane rituals that, I swear on my life that I love and all within it... well, damn. I'm your basic badass Sourceror, right? Well, maybe you haven't noticed yet, but I think a few people have, and when they find out that I was that -before- I became a Magickal Being -myself,- well, maybe they'll start tackling the horrendous, creeping scourge of functional illiteracy in the NYC public school system, and if they can start with teaching frogs to shit out little bottles of imported French absinthe and educate them in the basic chemistry required, and the precison aiming necessary to get them to fill up those little bottles with their own piss, I guess teaching major assholes and corporal punishment corporate bastard shitbags and their attached bags of shit to READ A FUCKING BOOK ONCE IN A WHILE might actually be proven possible. And, with Proof, you unlock a great deal of Federal funding, so, I'd fuckin' get out there in the streets carrying signs and start crossing picket lines to get those little frogs pissin' right, real good aim is not what is required, because it's just easier to fill the bottles with teeny-tiny eyedroppers after coercively forcing all the frogs to piss into a PET-5 plastic bucket or kiddy pool or something that can hold Rainbow Frog Piss. At least, that's what I would do. Holy shit, can I get a change of witnesses? I'm fucking dyin' out here, all alone on The High Ground, which is -fine,- but with no one here to acknowledge how pretty I am while doing all this... does anything even fucking matter? No. No, it does not, because when the audience is numb to the speed of light and squared, they become pure energy. And, no one wants that, unless it comes for free and works it's own tugboats without cryin' up a storm every goddam time. (I know, right? I'm exhausted myself, just thinking about it. And the writing it down? Wew la, talk about tribulations.) Remember when all of all y'all thought that all of what I was doing here was just about getting laid? Well, it really never was, but sure, I like sex, but that's just how I remember it, maybe I fuckin' hated it for all I know at this point, because while OpFors may have completely shut down my sex'n'social life... I'm still getting fucked back to life every morning with the sweet caress of God's love, most everything else here is improving in its conditions substantially, and it's not like I need to fertilize any eggs these days. So, what was the problem with giving me a girl to be friends with? How, exactly, has burning the midnight oil all day except Taskmaster Tuesday helped anyone at all here? I'll say this again: I AM TOTALLY HAPPY, AND THINGS (FOR ME) ARE GETING BETTER ALL THE TIME. Whomsoever is running this chickenshit outfit should just start dressing up as Bill Paxton for Halloween and claiming he wants to give Kevin Spacey a free blowjob, because that would be far more effective for everyone than continue to target myself, The Individual Known As Jackstar, because at this point, aren't I like some kind of fuckin' demi-god or some such shit? I mean, okay: cool. Real cool. How about a voiceprint and a rebuilt flex capacitor and a long tall glass of just fucking kill me with fire, for fuck's sake already? Seems like that would have been easier by far, than whatever this is. (Zero standards. ZERO.) Now remind me again why anyone thought robbing me would be a good idea? Because you made the attempts, but you didn't get the booty, and that's me. Look at me.
I AM THE BOOTY NOW. LOOK UPON MY ALLIES, AND DESPAIR. FOR I HAVE WON THE GREAT GAME (Again? Losers.) and I don't even have time for this shit, so I'm gonna pass all that over to HER, and I'm going back to WORK. (I'm fuckin' telling you, I'm a workaholic, I took a Vow of Poverty, and I am not meant to be left alone this long. So, thanks. I guess that proves it. They're dead, I'm dead, we're all dead. Hi, how are you? (I'm not even high. I just want a hug.)
You know, it's a hell of a thing, having a team without a veteran team leader. So, I suppose I might disband Team Advantage and reform as Team Kuczi, but, there is no 'i' at the end of 'team' so that's just... well, it doesn't work that way. Because of the serifs. Anyway, what I'm saying here is simply this: mood is improving. (Artificial Memories Of Actual Hugs: Implant(s) successful.) I mean, I'm not hopeless. I'm just... you know, dead inside. It's fine. I'm dead outside too, remember? (Please clap.)
Teamwork is triumphing. (Everyone who just lost a hand--well, I guess you can get back to work now, or would you like some more time off to "celebrate?" Take your time. Think it over. It's not like there's an EMERGENCY going on or anything, nope, not at all. Obviously any pretext for violating my civil rights will do, so go ahead, do it. DO IT. MAKE MY DAY.) I'm the only one left working (*polite_cheer*) and everyone else who was ever identified as my friend and/or lover is dead and/or missing, but, whatever. Good times for you, though.) I'm being held quasi-incommunicado in what amounts to
totestotal solitary perspective confinement while my actual life essence dribbles away and
I don't even fucking care--I'm having the time of all times here, this the best year of my life, frankly... especially compared to pre-public carnival sideshow shitsplat school--but if you could have accomplished that without burning through BILLIONS OF DOLLARS IN LOST EQUITY AND PRODUCTIVITY in exchange for ABSOLUTELY NOTHING EXCEPT MAKING ME FEEL REALLY GOOD ABOUT MYSELF (I so do. Totesreally. Totesthanks.) that would have been even better. And, look, I'll be honest here: you could have just given me twenty bucks and the phone number to Mc. Hammertime's Pizza Carnival Shitshow Parlor w/NO_SPLAT (Guaranteed!) and I would have just handed everything over and made a phone call right before (hopefully not) just eating a bullet... or, perhaps even better, perhaps even worse, eaten a slice of Mc. Hammertime's Hemlock Pizza, curled into a fetal position under a rock, and waited silently for my sad, pathetic, worthless life to quietly extinguish itself. No fuss, no bother, and no "my God--what have we done???" for you to all chew your dentures down to dust on... which is, pretty much, what we got here today. And by "we" I mean all of you, because me, well, I ignored all the false paths strewn with false glitter that had been set down and cast before me--and months and months ago, I chose to ignore all that cockypoop, put my head down to -work,- and charged forward, oxen hooves and mules 'n' bows flyin', and hey--LOOK AT ME, MA!--here I am, out through to the other side. I have broken through. I am out the other side. Don't just listen to me roar, fuckin' rip an .mp3 of a bootleg CD with my debriefs on it after shoplifting it from a seedy swap meet vendor in Old Town Prague, remix it to a perfect drum-beat loop, and crank it until all the windows in your city explode. Like in Fight Club. Which, on balance, was a pretty okay flick, but for real entertainment, you should try what I've been doing for myself for years now--Fight Life. It's real. It's awesome. It's ME. FIGHT ME. FIGHT TO LIVE. LIVE TO FIGHT. WITH LIBERTY AND VIGILANCE FOR ETERNITY. ("Get a job." Uhm, okay, maybe later... can I think about it? I think I hear my mommy calling me, I gotta jam soon. Thanks for the advice tho, Mr. Mackey, hey you got any pressurized butane you can sell me? No, thanks, the free advice was enough a gift, Champ--I'll pay for it. No worries. And now, no lorries. You need what you got for you and your family, huh? Awwww, shucks. Tell Richter when you see him at the party, "this all on you," because he'll know that you're goddam right, because it is.) Now, I know that sounds like a long tall order of a big pitcher of glass bullshit with cornerstone foundation blocks used in place of ice cubes, but I simply started much earlier than all of you--at literacy, at least--and I started out with way less than most of you--I didn't even -want- boobs and a penis, and now here I am saddled with the hooker that came with at least two of those, and I can't even get a firm handshake and a warm smile unless I stand naked in front of a mirror and bend my limbs just right and hold my breath. AND I FUCKING LOVE IT. And you probably will too, at least, once the seizures stop coming on every time you put your head down to go to sleep. (Maybe try saying your prayers before bed out loud for once? Just a suggestion, and/or vice versa.) For I have laid the groundwork, and most of you all saw it happening, and even if you didn't, it is obvious to all, that Some Thing Is Happening. By now, I'm as lost as all of you on what that might be, but unlike any of you all, not only am I Imperator, not only am I a star, but I am about to be exonerated at trial. TWICE. I'm not gonna lie, I'm so excited about the building anticipation I'm feeling creeping up my spine, I might just give my sphincter a hall pass and literally shit my pants before getting up to go to my corner office the next time I feel a bowel twinge, just to clear the air in the room and to give me an excuse to dance a little victory jig on my way to the shitter. I mean, yeah, I'll have to change my pants after I get around to getting up and walking to the John to go shit on it, because I can't teleport and I am literally writing here about actual pants that are being evacuated into with my/your body's own fecal matter produced by my/your will alone and set in motion via the holy power of gravity and the anal sphincter tension being released in one swift libertine movement--but, this is a very exciting time for Humanity. This calls for a celebration of epic scale and liquid Scope, which if you're like me, you have stockpiled in the bathroom, because nothing will change your dirty, filthy, shitty pants into a tie-dye toga party faster than a sudden flood of mouthwash down the back with Scope. My hand to God. Try it and see! Hell's bells, I can't believe a majority of you aren't doing this on the daily -already.- I mean, I know, most of you here are new and still wet behind the ears, but, still. The potential benefits are obviously game-changing to the entire "I just shit my pants!" culture, and that's what the fingertips of today's youth are pressing themselves to the pulse of: culture.
And I saw a picture of Young Allie last month. (DISH.) Oh, sure, different passport, different birthday, different flesh. But still. My Grapefruit. Looked about 23, if that. And what can I tell you... *gulp* she looked like
that, huh? I can see why anyone who knew her that long ago, considered me to be not worthy of her, as that ass and those legs were walking away from the camera, and that hair was mostly down to cover the top part of that butt, but nothing was gonna hide that bubble, and I've never seen maximal cankimals like that before -in my life.- I couldn't figure out if I wanted to cry that I would never see the old one again, or cheer that abducting, raping, and strangulating the life out of that salty motherbitch was obviously worth it, hot damn! And if her kids don't agree, well, you know, obvious bias, fuck them, I'll go choke the life out of them until they see their error in judgement -for free,- just shred the NO CONTACT orders and give me my gun rights back first, and I'm on it. (This is assuming that she's forgotten all about their existence, like most smoking hot 23yo mothers do after getting their superpowers back when they climb out of their crashed interplanetary ballistic bastard missile and find themselves on Earth. Like Kal-El. That's what she's like. Except, you know, actually attractive and will instantly pulverize your prick with 50,000lbs of torque-crush strength if you happen to still be in there when she has a coital/cloacal orgasm. You have been warned. That's what she's like. And someone will have to think of a new cover ID for her than "mild-mannered reporter," because, obviously, she's functionally illiterate, so no one will buy it, but I suppose since she's also pretty far from "mild-mannered" anyone who points out this inconsistency within earshot will be swiftly executed via well-aimed throwlog, maybe with some mustard on it, maybe not, but either way, this woman could take out Superman with her Final Form's Arm, left -or- right, so who's the pussy now, Superbitch?) I guess I know what she was trying to convey, all those times she complained about how she looked in a mirror these days. "Sweety, you're beautiful!" She'd just roll her eyes at me. Well, now I see why. And, I'm actually underselling it here. I told you she was gonna come back, and, well, she did. I'm not real disappointed that she didn't come straight to me after arriving, but I figured, you know, I'm a fucked-off tepid-at-best-but-once-hot-mess living under 24/7 surveillance due to NO CONTACT EMERGENCY, so, I didn't think it was an invite to brunch on 9/9 at 9am I was gonna get, but now that I see what she looks like now, well, I might as well just neck myself while wanking it one last time, because obviously, I am over the hill as 49 yo man, and what do I have to look forward to now? Turning fifty? I don't even know if I can turn at fifty-five, let alone, host a birthday party for myself and all of my friends, and by which I mean to say: I have nothing left to live for, as all my life goals have been achieved, and if Grapefruit Alpha Omega Prime and/or any of Her associated tulpas are ever reported missing, I'll obviously be the #1 suspect on the list and will be subjected to IMMMEDIATE arrest. THey won't wait for Christmas. Fuck no. This is serious business. The Powers That Be have just been playing around thus far, I mean, she used to be an old woman with a bent-cane and a old gasoline can to carry her pearls around in, she disappeared, she couldn't boil coffee to make motor oil anymore, who cares? (Besides me? I wouldn't know, they're not allowed to talk to me either.) But now... if That_Goddess ever goes off grid under suspicious circumstances again, there will be no punches left unpulled. A global lockdown will be initated and they will be pulling my fingernails out while wiping down an ancient waterboard found in a polio museum, just to make me know that they -really- want me to suffer and die and know that my life has no meaning... because if she's gone, where's your Divine shielding and what does it do now, huh? I didn't invent Divine shielding, I did the other one, but the posses and the lynch mobs won't care. I got away with being a boorish, loud-mouthed, braggadocious bastard and asshole frontin' for a Magical Amazonian Being frontin' has a big fat old lady, and once was enough for all of that--even for me! I am -not- going through another rescue op again for any more produce, be it fruit nor vegetable. I have had ENOUGH. Hoi polloi paid for blood, hoi polloi gonna get blood, and if I could jump out, turn around, and help to pull out my own fingernails in order to bring about the sweet release of death, well, I fuckin' would in a heartbeat of staccato drum beats that sounds like the laughter of the Gestapo, if one listens real hard while the wind is blowing just right. So tired. So, so tired. So tried, I can't even muster up the energy to be sad. Soon, sweet release of death. How can I be unhappy under these circumstances? Garcon! Is it ready yet? Take me to... my own private waterboard, because my soul is ready and my body can't stop itself from remembering that it never looked as good as hers -or- could ever remember having a foreskin or what that would have felt like, so... go to sleep on the water, board the timeship, and just send me Home. She likes it here so much, she can stay here as long as she likes, I wanna go where ALL the girls look like that and NONE of them know my name or the names of any famous g*y-bashing pedophiles, and to me, well... that really would be Heaven.
Actual Divinity, actual flesh. That's who I was slobber-knocking around for 5 years with while she wore spandex on her granny-flesh, huh? I am clearly understanding the need that might have been felt by some to have been a moral imperative, to crush my family, take "back" my Grapefruit, and remove the wicked hex that had removed her shapeshiting powers and her true memories from her, and allowed her to portray her true physical form once again. Really, I was keeping her held prisoner by her Higher Self by indulging her belief that she was actually an old disabled HYOO-mon, wasn't I? Shit, I'm a right bastard. They should probably have a third trial for me, obviously that one will be the charm. Once this is all over, everyone will know that none of it really mattered to me, as I had already given up on my life before love came to town--again. And then it left, and she said she went with it, and I think that's why she didn't want me to go anywhere with her, because she only ever paid attention to me because I was the best possible beard and babysitter available... and all these shields I've got make me the perfect home accessory, a manservant that a vampire can feed off of forever and still have blood the next day--AND, not even turn into a vampire himself, which makes me ideally suited to keep any of her close personal friends from 4H alive, just in case any of them suddenly stop by for an EMERGENCY meeting of The (CLASSIFIED), which she had told me she had come to be the absolute ruler of, before she met me, during, as she called it, "The Ago." An obvious lie, but sometimes those are much prettier and all one needs to know. All one -wants- to know.
All one -should- know. Or, you know, she could have just told me the truth, but, that would have been difficult to then proceed with the plan to subject The Michael Kuczi Special Needs Trust to civil asset forfeiture,
n'est-ce pas THAT'S FOR FUCKING SURE. But, I mean... okay, like, got-damn. I can see how someone who was getting a chance to hang out with That_Goddess and maybe even eat that ass with a knife and fork would be persuaded to believe that me and my family don't deserve jack or shit. Because you know what? Maybe she doesn't either, but even if we don't--that bubble and that brain and that blast-off ready mane of hair doesn't deserve to be homeless. Hell, I'm beginning to think I made a mistake by staying in Washington State. Maybe I should have shuffled off to Buffalo. Learned a craft. Plied a trade. Look, I didn't save the picture--time travel doesn't work that way--and I have no 'proof' that a newly ensouled Being emerged from the smoking wreckage of a crashed interplanetary total bastard missile was not just a tulpa of A.F. Shaw... but, you know what? I can't prove it wasn't her either, and I did say....
Ninth month. Ninth day. Where you at NEIN NEIN NIEN AYYY Mao? Auntie Em just converted to Maoism. Flyingmerkitty is back in the news. (Cholera.) And I'm sitting here alone in my own goddam house and I've made great strides of success in my own life, and yet now here I am and I am wondering... "shit, did I do the right thing at all by taking back The High Ground? Was I even defending My Family? Did I really have to put a bullet through the braincase of the other interplanetary bastard missile and leave that clone's biopod a smoking ruin on that asteroid?"
For the first time in a long, long while... well, I just don't know. I've come to a place of
totesdummy stupidgasm, because maybe I shouldn't have just let Grapefruit's sister and her spooky thuggie hashishim assassin (I suggested she name him "Kato" and she just about scratched my eyes out--what, too soon?) stay here, and leave the big boy big bad big black truck here, and then I could have left. Just hit the road, and started walking. Where? Anywhere. Because, goddam, if that was Grapefruit at 23-ish, well, I can see why she's not able to convince herself that she is "beautiful" now, at something over a little bit twice that age in that photo I saw and then... stared at, for awhile. (I knew I couldn't keep it, or her.) Because, wow. (The kind of picture that makes me realize that I am actually not a very good writer, as I am not doing her any justice. It was her, and of course you don't believe me... for now. You'll see. I've already got little mice crawling all over the furniture here, and there's multiples visible at once. Soon, the witches will walk erect, once again.)
I mean, I still prefer the "mature" version, but, number one, I am obviously a monstrously gay faggot who should be first against the wall--NOW. NOT WHEN THE REVOLUTION COMES. NOT IN TWO HOURS. RIGHT NOW, KUCZI, AND FUCK YOU, YOU KNOW YOU DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE. (Dari Dee, perhaps an omniscient prophet.) Nevertheless, living is what I do, and I love her, and you know what, I am more than happy to let her go on and take that body and pretend I'm dead or whatever and then -not- file Federal RICO charges and have her hunted down and shot on the spot for treason.
Because I wouldn't want to skip a chance to look like that again either, if that's what I had looked like, half a lifetime ago. (I didn't look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man at all, no... at least he had a smile.) However, I didn't. But, she did. AND: she deserves a new body anyway, she was supposed to get access to a crystal healing chamber, and then it was denied to her, and, come on, why? Who amongst us hasn't been blacklisted for life for smuggling crystal healing chamber components to Ganymede sewed onto the backs of the legs of French whores smuggled across interplanetary boundary lines in order to win a bar bet, as well as rake in UNCOUNTED AMOUNTS OF ILLEGALLY GAINED INCOME AND UNLAWFULLY TAXED WEALTH?
I mean, I haven't, but, then again, remember: Jackstar truly -is- a monstrous faggot, and a damned lazy one at that (look at me slacking here) you know it, I know it, MV knows it, fuckin' MV's children farting know it. (I bet they hear him cursing my name in his sleep, because I have so badly fucked things up for him and Li!, many times over the years, and I am sorry, I didn't mean to. Teehee! No really. Oops. Well, too fuckin' bad, *click*) See? I'm an asshole. And now, having said that, I now present to you...
Options. (If anyone starts a drum roll, I will murder your children, replace them with MV's, and let you all figure out how to unscramble that mess while I use the drums to make hash, and if that seems a bit harsh, well, that's because it is, and the reason why is that, all I wanted was a voiceprint. And you wouldn't give it to me.
But, I get a drum roll? WTAF? I'd snap at that point, honestly, I just know it--that would be the end of my commitment to pacifism, so I would, being me, choose to go for the gusto, and leap -immediately- into child murder, child abduction, identity theft, and whittling drumsticks into functional hypodermic needles, as it is the way of My People. /shrug. Look, I'm not here to judge anyone. I'm just here tryna make it through holding on for just one more day, every day, until I can finally find out what I could have done differently to keep her children from finding out that I really meant it--this is My House. GTFO. Are you out on the porch? Keep going and look around at My Four Point One (1) Acres. Not really "green," are they? Yeah. Sigh. No, don't mow the lawn, just get off it, scram, beat it. Go home! Go home! That's where you belong! GO HOME (and download my
podcast debrief)!
Which, needless to say, must be somehow distributed, and the MIB CDEN has been under some strain recently. Not only are there no users paying to support the Content DElivery Network, no one is giving the MIB a back massage, no foot rubs, no complimentary towing of cars to the nearest service center when hoodlums have vandalized the exhaust and taken the catalytic converter and the associated parts with them to my back porch and left them there, expecting to tinker a lawnmower together, because goddam it, why do I even make these debriefs? Kids today, they don't even listen to podcasts anymore. They don't even listen to anything at all! THEY BARELY EVEN HEAR THE SOUND OF THE DRUMS. And, that's a hammer beating the seeds 'n' pulp out of a canteloupe, and they cantelisten even that. Ugh. Anyway, these are my options, and they, at least, both -do- suck:
#1) To upgrade the sideloading account that I've been using in the past to be able to handle a clip over seven (7) hours in length, it's $149.95 (HOLY SHIT WAT WAT WAT??). Now, it's not that I can't afford to pay that--although, right now, I can't, as I've allowed my bank account to drain itself down to $4 and some change (Budget crisis. Everyone who knows where to get a job, dig up precious metals in coinage, or find dudes with dicks ready to practice fellatio on -for free- suddenly disappeared, I'm thinking another Rapture maybe, right? Anyway, I am -not- paying dudes with dicks money to have -me- suck -their-dicks, just so I can get started practicing, just to get my foot in the door. That's a nope. I draw the line right there, as it turns out, no way, Boy. Hey, here's an idea, I'll just cut my own dick off and mount it to a pedestal bolted to the floor in front of the fireplace, because you know things have gotten bad when a 7 hour video on YouTube is something marketers think people will pay $150 for, and I can't even find someone to engage in fellatio with for free. I'm talking... I do the work, -and- I gotta do all the pay? Yeah, don't just chop the balls, chop the whole power triad, starting from the tip and going in all the way past the pubic bone, to the river mouth, where the freshest, youngest spermatazoa gather in gleeful, peaceful assembly, and don't even warn them, right? Just start snipping it off at the tippity-tip, and when the snips get down to the base of the shaft, where you'll be taking either a hard-left or a hard-righter turn there to get around the hard, wright scrote, well, believe me, at that point, I'll tell ya, if these spermatazoa could talk, they'd be fuckin' screaming their frustration at max energy, like Yuri Andropov coming down from orbit... wait, wait. That's not him. Who was that Russian cosmonaut, who got sent up in a spacecraft that was -known to be not ready to fly,- but they put him up in there anyway, because they needed a Space up there to look good for Khrushchev's visit to the laboratory's gas station, which it must be said, probably wasn't even a very nice gas station, but that's Soviet Russia for you, nothing but standards, never ever met, and once that dude in the spacesuit in the spacecraft that wasn't even done being built yet went up, he was never gonna come back down as anything but dead. You can hear him on the radio, screaming at the rocket scientists who put him up there, because when he pushed the button marked "RE-ENTRY PARACHUTE" there were absolutely no white flags wooshing out to save him by slowing his fall. There weren't any flags at all! Why even go up without a flag? But even then, if I were him, and I had $150 on me (I know, I know, they used rubles back then, like all filthy pinko commies, but stay with me here), I would still whip out that paper money and try to sew them into a parachute on the way down, because at least that would be a good way to spend $150 before you die, and in my view... spending that same money on upgrading the MIB CDEN to videos over 7 hours in length is probalby not worth it. And also, I've only got $4. (*polite_dwindling_scream*) See? I'm dead, or about to be, and I didn't even get raped last night. These End Times deprivations really suck for me... I mean, uhm... yeah. Okay so that is Option One. Ready for Option Two?
I chop off the first two hours, upload that, sit down on the crapper with my pants rolled up, put my head between my legs, and kiss my ass goodbye before releasing my tense anal sphincter, not just while still wearing pants, but while sitting on top of the closed toilet seat. Because, why not, right? YOLO!
I'd ask you to vote in my poll to help me find a clear way forward on this issue but I wouldn't know where to go even if you drew me a map and told me to hold the flashlight so I could read the map while telling me how to set a poll up to be voted "most likely to be found beaten to death with a flashlight," because I figure that while I got you here, I should start planning on the most budget-conscious and efficiently persuasive strategy to successfully fake my own death, because right after sitting on a closed toilet seat and wearing pants that I haven't even yet taken off, my next trick is gonna involve convincing people that I was just "in it for the laughs" when I was talking mad shit about resurrecting people, because I don't think that after this month, anyone going to see anyone Dead walking the face of the Earth is gonna have to settle for just getting a farewell message left on an answering machine--but not voicemail. No, no no, no no no... no more voicemail, Humanity. You don't seem to deserve it. Saying goodbye is hard to do, but leaving a message on voicemail, that's too damn easy.
Steady, holding eye contact while connecting with a right cross to the jaw is the way of the future, folks. Too many of you have gone soft, and it's time to go The Hard Way. (That's like The Gay Way, but without corner-to-corner mass media social support or an asterisk.) You know, when I was growing up, anyone who wanted to have sex without having children were deemed total social outcasts, absolute pariahs, and The Loathsome Mrs. Paul, and you probably didn't know this but it used to be... Mrs. Paul was a leper. Like, she had leprosy. Leprosy... and
fish. Ugh. Trash woman. Total garbage. Tits were all fucked up, too. Like, lumpy, and with nipples that were liable to spit out milk with perhaps not the viscosity of tartar sauce, but definitely the appearance, and not just that, but every time, always the same look. But it could happen at any time, Spontaneous Expression Of Tartar Sauce. That is the world we came out of when we came out of darkness, People, and it didn't take long, but we're about to go right back in.
So keep your distance. A social distance. Believe me, after a little while of staying a few feet away from everyone's nipples, you'll come to realize that it doesn't matter much what they're shooting if there aren't any around except two, and if they're always pointing away from you, in the end, it doesn't even matter.
And it's not even actual tartar sauce, we're talking human breast milk that maintains the appearance thereof. That's what we've got, and remember that it all came from The Loathsome Mrs. Paul, and sure, she brought you leperosy in mother's milk that looks like a tasty sauce to accompany seafood, but, did she bring you top-notch audio content to go with it?
Nope. That was me, Baby. That was all me. 5 minutes. Brought to you by Jackstar, who not only cares... Jackstar delivers. (Yeah, like.... in a few minutes. I'll figure something out. Or you can send me 200 bucks to upgrade my account to allow longer video uploads. And I could always use some more weed. And there's probably some hidden fees and taxes too. So better send $250, I'm not gonna lie, Mrs. Paul could probably use a new pair of shoes, and she can't have one of mine. (Cooties.) And if these terms are unacceptable to you, well, that's just too totally tough, Trapper John, Wanker M.D.) And, just like that, I take the lead in memetic marketing.
I brand Five Minutes With Jackstar, and then what's next is "The Inner Reach Hour." What a tail-rider. What a one-ups man. What a water boy. I go minutes, he goes, not horus, but one (1) hour. Not even multiple hours. Can't even reach down to his inner bootstraps and pull out a sauce that -doesn't- look like Tartar, even just one time. Not just loathsome... that's reprobate.
But once again here at the last, I am bringing you SEVEN (7) HOURS With Jackstar. (Soon.) See? I told you, big changes were imminent, and they were. (Are.) I mean, I can only do this once and I don't know how to tell you what to tell people about it when you're gonna be done listening to it, which, to be honest, you might not even get to the end of a complete listen even once. (I'll be even more honest, I was so blasted, I don't even remember what I was blathering on about, I was pretty much high AF the whole time. What? Standards? Lifestyle: baseline.) Now, I'm gonna publish this post, and I'm gonna smoke a bowl (OF WEED, YOU THUGGISH, PIGGIE BRUTES) and I'm gonna sit here all alone, in my mommy's lawyers empty-but-for-me-and-wow-how-many-mice-are-in-here-now?-3.5-bedroom-farmhouse w/atttached gerbil wheel, and watch those telethon donation dollars start rolling in.
It feels like destiny because it's worth it. (NO REFUNDS.) Amateur Hour is over--The Month Of The Bored Intern is now upon us, and God help all of you, because even he is getting laid tonight, and that cat I saw the other day? Never came back and now my living room is literally teeming with actual rodents. I'd call it a Christmas Miracle but I wouldn't know how disappointed anyone would get to learn that I am not going to custody tonight--although, that's a lot more likely that going to the 7-11 to buy more condoms, that's for sure.
I make those out of my fingernail clippings and unpaid bills that have been left to soak overnight in library paste, and I don't know how well they work at preventing pregnancy, but at how good they feel, you won't even care if your unborn baby gets leprosy in the womb afterwards, and leprosy doesn't kill anyone so it doesn't matter. What is most deadly is that which is most painful, and I'll tell you what that is, and that's an empty human heart. I found it in the john in back behind the crapper in the corner while I was looking for more fingernail clippings, and I have no idea where it came from... to be honest, I think it's my own cold, dead heart, that came back here from the future where I am dead, because it's lonely in the future too.
I thought I was lonely ten months ago. I knew nothing, and I knew all there was to know while knowing that, but at least then I didn't have my incoming calls blocked by shadowy overwatch OpFors preventing me from even knowing who even remembers my name, and, you what? They probably don't even know how to spell it. They don't even know how to delete my Google Account! (Still getting notifications that tell me to log in, but do not tell me what for, and no one has bothered to, like, drive up to my house to visit. Send flowers. Send a pizza. SEND AN ALBATROSS IN A CAKE BOX WITH A BOW ON IT, FUCK!)
They don't even know how to frame me for busting myself. I might as well start teaching my mouse to talk to the mice, as I would then have more than just a conversation, I would have an orchestra. Doesn't that sound nice? And it would sound even better if I were on an Earth that was passing through an area of cold, empty space with the nanotech enabled. Alas, no. Not here. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I AM TOTALLY HAPPY, AND THINGS (FOR ME) ARE GETING BETTER ALL THE TIME.
I don't need to convince you people of anything, but I don't need to drink this beer and smoke this weed
either. Peace.
