Tuesday, December 30, 2008
After being calmed down by “Homeless” Pete and one of his funny cigarettes I pressed harder. If Moral Decency isn’t a tool of guilt and brainwash what the hell does it mean? Nobody, not even Tony a Morally Decent fellow had an answer because nobody but God can define what is morally decent and quite frankly I think God is too busy betting on football to worry about defining the phrase that pays.
On September 11th 2001 religious fundamentalists hijacked planes and crashed them into buildings killing thousands and causing the networks to cut out of the Oprah show, millions of dollars in McDonalds advertisements, and move to 24 hour news coverage. Cowards, criminals, gutless wonders, dickless, pus packets, douche bags, monsters, and pure evil were all appropriate responses to what these men were, and what they had done. However morally bankrupt was not an appropriate term, as a matter of fact these men were acting in Moral Decency based on their religious and political beliefs.
Moral Decency is defined by man, and mans motives must always be questioned. You want to grow up to be morally decent don’t you? Put down that dope, stand straight, turn off that noise, and get on your knees and conform sinner! Oh no, we can’t give rubbers in school that would be morally indecent and probably the loose string that you pull on that causes the hole in our very society to become unwound. Instead let’s allow our children to make more children THAT’s MORALLY DECENT yet socially awkward as girls with babies tend to be painted as ‘loose’. Still not sure if I’d rather be labeled loose after actually fucking or be labeled morally fucked. At least you pleasure out of the first label!
I really don’t know where I stand on the moral decency barometer, in the eyes of pre-programmed social ilk that walk as zombies amongst us eating our brains, but first like any good chef washing them before cooking. I’m an obese loud mouth who enjoys sex, drugs, and the pursuit of happiness. Just an all American guy who likes to hear a good racist joke in the bar, sip on strong whiskey, and hope to God that God has a sense of humor, or well I’m fucked and doomed to an afterlife of whatever the hell happens in the afterlife.
Is it morally decent of me to share my drugs with my homeless friend? Is it morally decent when I lend a friend money who is in the rears with his bookie? I am morally decent when I visit a prostitute and pay her money through illegal means yet both willing? Where is the line drawn and who the hell draws it? I know plenty of drug types that can cut a perfectly white pure line. Not sure if I trust that guy as his hands shake a bit much or my priest for that matter as I’m still just an altered ex-alter boy seeking my way in a world defined and judged not by God but by those such as Fat Tony, the screaming preacher on Television, and by many more of my fellow travelers.
More to come
Monday, December 29, 2008
There is no way that with the talent the Bears team has they could suck so hard at defense. Their defensive coordinator Shithead “Bob” Babich is by all accounts, a well trained, and well qualified professional. So one would have to assume using logic, that it wasn’t his failures that lead to the Bears demise, there must be something dark and deep that we are not seeing I mean the man can’t be so incompetent, so brain dead, so fucking demented that he caused our team such pain. It simply can’t be his fault. Also a man of such football brilliance as Lovie Smith wouldn’t stand by such as shit stain in our orange and blue boxers as this Babich appears to be, would he?
It came to me in a thick strong fog of “skittles” pot while downing chili at my buddies’ house. Being your humble journalist I decided to follow my nose and take another puff before following my lead. I made a few calls to the dark world you luckily know nothing of. A bookie named “Chick” told me about a strange east coast fellow with a stupid hillbilly accent snooping around at the local watering hole.
That’s all I needed to hear so I finished my chili, smoked some more drugs, and flagged a cab to Belmont where I caught the 77 up toward my spot. My homeless friend “Pete” who often works as my Dr. Watson when the reporter in me turns into a detective caught my eye, and we soon were smoking one of his joints bitching about the Bears trying to figure out what the hell went wrong yelling over a loud Bob Seager tune.
After a few stiff drinks of Jack and diet we met up with “Chick”. He told me about how the Bears threw most of their games this year to pay off a debt to the Russians. It seems Shithead Babich got into some trouble buying large anal plugs from a seedy Russian mail order sex shop. According to my source Shithead is into some kinky things. Lovie being a man of principle and open to all kinds accepted his friend and figured the city wouldn’t mind, and he could blame it all on Benson.
I’m starting to understand Cubs fans.
We’ll get’em next year as long as Shithead is gone or stays away from the Russians.
Friday, December 26, 2008
December is a weird month for me and so many struggling Americans. The one day, December 25th, that makes us so panicked as a cultured is the day Jesus Christ and Jimmy Buffett were both born. Oddly both guys seem like swell laid back souls. Also a good day for music lovers everywhere I guess. Society has bamboozled and corrupted the most holiest of days forcing us to live up to the Norman Rockwell painting we all accept of Santa Clus, the baby Jesus, and an ice cold coca-cola.
Ice sheets cakes the world outside of my window leaving it both cold and slick like politicians and humanity as a whole struggling not to slip up and look like a fool falling in the process. Thankful I have the amber current of hard alcohol warming my blood allowing me to get lost in translation and warm up in the process.
My mother was born one week before both Jimmy Buffett and Jesus Christ. My fondest memories of my childhood, and really my life as a whole are more or less condensed into December. The joy of breaking away from the system and it’s education of my mind in favor of frivolous good times between me, my mom, and the three cats. My mother always made Christmas special for me as she buried her pain in my pleasure.
My mother was raped in December sometime in her twenties. I only know bits and pieces of the story as it never was discussed over our lean cuisine dinner cartons. The hell of the jagged edges where she stored those memories eventually drove her crazy, but during most of my childhood she hung on to the dream of normalcy. My mother was also a daddy’s girl, and he stepped on a rainbow in December magnifying the pain of the month even more. So to me it was always this joyous escape from my strange childhood, and I loved spending it with my mother, having no knowledge of the cross she carried.
I can only imagine the sheer and utter throbbing December was to her. Like walking barefoot across a broken set of Christmas lights with the shards of glass slicing and embedding themselves into her feet. She gave up alcohol and drugs when I was born leaving her with very little escape to kill the pain. Nobody should have to deal with anger and rage until it manifests and ages like a fine wine into pure potent pain. She did for as long as she could.
Sometimes the pain isn’t worth the living, and she came to this realization as she stood in front of a speeding train catching the first ride to heaven leaving this world still clutching to her oversized purse as the steel and speed tore her torso from her limbs. Not until her death almost a decade ago did I consider stepping on my own rainbow. Well now every year when I seek that love and togetherness I miss from my childhood with my mother, the blackness enters and the thoughts of sugar plums, extension cords, and hand guns dangle through my head like a bullet acting as an off switch on the emotional machines that we are.
I understand suicide and I respect those who choose to check out instead of waiting for the hotel clerk to knock on your door and ask you kindly to leave. The normal world paints suicide as a coward’s way out, or to the most basic of minds they see it as simply unfathomable. But ask yourself could you ever do it? I can’t say that I can I don’t have the courage to face the unknown and fear is the unknown personified. But if all the joy is gone in your life and this is really as good as it gets why carry on?
If you’ve experienced life’s full emotional roller coaster from the most intense pain to the most joyous pleasure and there is nothing else you want to feel, touch, taste, or fuck then why not want out? We have become such creatures of cycle that our lives are very predictable. In most cases we know what day in and day out is going to bring us, and most fellow travelers find comfort in that satiability. But what about those who don’t find that same comfort or those that find no pleasure in any aspect of their existence. Why not go on a lunch date with God, find out who shot JFK, and discover what the afterlife is all about. Of course the afterlife could be all hype and suck worse than life. Wouldn’t that be a bummer?
Me, I’m too God damn carious to leave here as I always want to know what happens next. Whoever said curiosity killed the cat should jump off a bridge because it’s the very thing that has saved this cat from jumping off of many bridges. No matter how bad things get I want to know what happens next regardless of how silly of meaningless. No matter what pleasure I’m living on, no matter if its sex, drugs, or Wok and Roll take out I want to experaince it. I want to see the God damn Chicago Bears win a Super Bowl without making a rap song. I want to see American Idol get canceled. I want to taste the next big popular fried delight. I want to see if Obama is the Messiah or another false prophet of lies. There simply is just too much to see in front of me regardless if it never seems to be as worthy as the hype. I despise the structure and the daily knowing of what’s next but the world does change just enough to give me something to hope for.
I feel like I’m living in one of those stupid books you get as a kid where you pick make decisions and it gives you the page number of what happens next. The author of this book is an asshole and my choices have been less then stellar but I’m enjoying the adventure none the less. Also with those books there is no way do you shut it until you find out your faith by enjoying the story and the ride and reading what happens next.
Hating my life, hating my actions, and generally hating myself (you would too if you met me I’m a real asshole) still brings about adventures. Sometimes mundane, but in that normalcy I’ve also come to the conclusion that its guys like me who make the world more adventurous for the rest, and I’m ok with that. I’m ok being weird and seeking the insane in the strongest solitude of sanity. I’m ok marching to the beat of the midget beating off on some weird porn site on the weird wide web. So bring on 2009 and allow me to be your humble reporter of the world around us.
More to come…
Thursday, December 18, 2008
It’s been a long few years, but I’ve decided to begin reporting on the world through my eyes as an investigative reporter. I’m living back at home with my miserable and extremely cheap father. To say things are bad is the best understatement since Bush announced to the world that he’s a uniter not a divider. Oddly I don’t think uniter is an actual word, that should have been the first clue, but we as a culture prefer neatly worded slogans and other methods of brainwash then factual or proper presentation. That’s why I too prefer to write as a man of the people instead of a poet from God; well that and I don’t have the skill to do it any other way.
My father a kind of doctor (chiropractor) has been married three times and has had three children with each of those three ex-wives who now collectively own all his passions with the exception of the first, my mother who decided to take the first train to heaven by standing firmly, as she always stood, in front of a speeding train. I hope she had a ticket to meet Jesus and hang out with him a bit he seems like a swell guy. If I’ve learned anything as a yet to be married thirty year old, it’s the word prenuptial. Now my father lives in the same building he grew up in, and eventually owned and is now a tenant to his ex-wife who now owns 55% of the building, and lives across the hall with her new boyfriend Poco. Affirmative action has gone too far if you ask me.
Now Poco, my cheap father, his current ex-wife, me, and the other neighbors now live in this apartment building all searching for the same thing of either Christ, salvation, or the lowest possible rate on car insurance. Most of us fall short of our goals because possibly we shoot too high or stop reaching after the labels of fashion and the pleasure of sex enchain our fantasy and dreams, and craft them into the corporate retirement package we all want, so that when we our closest to dirt and have little energy and hope left as we can live the life the way we see fit waiting for the ground to decompose our bodies and the worms eat our minds.
I guess it could be worse as at least as Americans we have a childhood to live our dreams, but given the cruelty and humor of the cycle of life we have no idea we are living the dream ,so we pout and cry through most of it. As adults you still pout and cry but instead of out loud you bottle it up inside hoping to sell it to the highest bidder on e-bay or more so match.com. It’s much eating spicy Chinese food as you enjoy the pleasure of the taste but forget the messy slides you’re going to be dealing with later on in the night.
Really things aren’t all the bad in perspective hell just looking at the TV I see that the goon jizz rag known as my Governor has been arrested for corruption. That means there are only 49 more to bust! Most men don’t mind the jizz rag under the bed for easy clean up when you need it but when it starts smelling we finally throw it out. This is no different. I plan on investigating him into much further detail as he is a great example of a fine American dream.
Well I hope you come back to and read this special report on humanity, culture, and seeking out what’s left of the American Dream.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled structure lives.