Musings from the Bottom of a Can with a Shovel.

I wonder why we call Tuna, Tuna Fish Salad? I mean we don't say Bass Fish or Red Snapper Fish. Or Halibut Fish, Flounder Fish, Perch Fish, or Trout Fish. 'Some types of fish need clarification if you make a casserole or salad out of them?


I mean Tuna Fish Salad already has 'salad' on the end to indicate it's oshkoshbygoshness. Why the fish distinction? Did it miraculously become NON-fish when it was mixed with other ingredients or something? People don’t know Tuna is a fish or some such nonsense like that? I mean Charlie the Tuna sitting on those tuna cans isn’t blatant enough for them? It’s a fucking fish sitting on the tuna can, man. What – do people think he was a major Marco Polo star and is supplementing his over-inflated income by pimping tuna in a can? Can’t tell he’s of the Fish race, Tuna gender?


And why the salad descriptor? I don’t see any damn lettuce in there. And why do we have to add yet another noun on the end if we put the shit on bread? Tuna Fish Salad Sandwich. OVERKILL. We don’t say Tuna Fish Salad Crackers. Hummus doesn’t need any kind of extra English appendages depending on whether it’s served with Pita bread or Lavosh crackers. Why does Tuna get all this special treatment, all this overuse of adjectives? Can people just not streamline it a little?


C’mon. Life is already complex already. The lace just isn’t enough. We need more bling. Bring out the glitter and sequins. Jesus loves fishsticks. That’s simple enough. Leave Elvis out of it. That's really why he left the building, after all. With Jesus. In sheer disgust over the mayonaisse-fish-bread-casserole complexity situation. That, and the inanity of driving around with the stickfish on the back of car bumpers with tacky little WWJD plastic bracelets on, not to MENTION the whole cross-and-fear hullaballo. Just so ya' know...


And please, please, chopstick hearts, please....CEASE AND DESIST in the making of those crappy little candies like 'Sixlets' and 'Chik O Stix.' No one likes them. NO ONE. NegaTRON buddy boy. So stop it already.


Ah, stupid questions always assaulting the brain… But according to the Reese's commercial 'Stupid is Nice.' Or something like that. Has anyone seen this bizarre advertisement yet? That gets my raving 'WTF' award of the month. How is stupid being nice, remotely persuasive to pushing someone to partake in what is already a perfect combination of peanut buttery goodness and chocolate? Other than plaguing me with completely unrelated mixed emotions of living in tardville with a smile on my face whilst I'm enjoying my cpb or pbc snacky treat, that is. Really. If I need to be confused, I'll go hit up my Uncle, Mr. Peanut, for some mixed nuts or something. Shit-hammocks.


And speaking of munch-buttocks... here's another inquiry designed for enlightenment of the soul. Did the US of A invent American cheese or something? And what about Farmer’s cheese? Farmers didn’t come up with cheddar or swiss or gouda too? Or the "Farmer’s" adjective was already taken by the time of those little tasty inventions? They spent all their initial time creating a bland piece of shit food called 'Farmer’s Cheese.' And so the good cheese-- the ones they might really want to be credited with discovering-- gets a different name. That was fucking stupid. Should have just crammed the craptastic Farmer’s Cheese on the backburner until they came up with something monsterifically good and attached their name to that creation instead. Marketing sense people! Or simply, just some real genuine taste would work migh-T-fine.


And while I'm on a roll here [where's my butter?] --- I'd like to express my beef with the term 'Hamburger.' There is NO pork in the burger. Hence, ham is nowhere in the equation. It’s ground up, it’s meat, and it’s of the beef variety. If you have to juxtapose or concatenate words to understand what you’re eating, it should be called 'groundburger', which is just ambiguous enough to really describe a patty of that sort, since you never know what remnant pieces O' meat are actually in one. At least with my playdough bakery set I knew (know) I was (am) getting a salty red, blue, yellow, or green piece of flour rubber. Or if you just HAVE to disclose the intended origin of the grind, then call it 'cowburger.' But inaccurate smoke and mirrors BULLshit like 'hamburger' has no place in my language, and simply just pisses me off. Moo.


We used to call this guy in the fraternity "fishpig", because his last name was Bassham. That rant just made me remember that. Kinda funny. Which catapults me into another random memory, where we used to spurt out the saying 'slap a cold trout on it...' in awkward moments of silence during the early hours of a party when we were waiting on those old enough (or with viable enough fake id's) to bring the Alcohol. No one seemed to remember what that phrase referred to, or why in the hell they were saying it, but everyone laughed like they were in on the joke anyway. KINDA LIKE LIFE. I think it had some reference to some dude's bad intimate experience with a chick that didn't know how to wash up down under, a phenomenon I've never understood. It's called SOAP bitch. Learn to use it. Learn to spell it. OR just.... slap a cold trout on it. Hehe. Makes me giggle still. Now where's my Natural Light?


I think the open and close buttons on the elevator are made to torment people with Type A personality. Give them something to do, make them feel like they’re in control, while the elevator goes the SAME DAMN SPEED as it would if the buttons weren’t pressed. Takes its own sweet time, while the control freak is distracted and occupied with pressing those damn buttons over and over. The whole shenanigan conspiracy behind those rat-bastage buttons is just redamndiculous. Why? Because I don’t like being jacked around! It pisses me off. Now, every time I see one of those fucking buttons, I just want to punch it in the mouth. Condescending little smug bastards. If the elevator went faster I wouldn’t try to punch those fuckers in the first place.


I mean if I’m using the elevator then I usually need to get to where I’m going more quickly than I could take the stairs. Or I’m invalid, or fat, or fucking lazy. But they were installed to enable convenience, and to a type A -- or triple AAA in my case -- convenience means not having to wait the equivalent of walking 2 flights of stairs for the damn door to close, or open. Stupid little buttons. Fucking mockers. Now I just fuck with them to pretend I’m punching them in the mouth. I know what they’re up to. I got their number. Fucking buttons.


Church sign 1: “You can bury the truth, but it won’t stay there.”

Why? The Truth a grave digger or something? Carry around a shovel as its sidekick? So what about its nemesis-- The Lie? It just stay buried down there? Is it some mole burrowing necrophiliac, going ‘yeah baby I love me some underground!?’ So what about the Lie? If we bury it, and the truth always digs itself out, then it pops out and rats on the Lie anyway, right? Self appoints itself the fun police, while Lie’s underground minding his own bizness, partying it up, and up comes that damn truth yelling and pointing and shaking its ratty little finger- ‘Nah Nah Nah, everyone, the Lie’s underground. THE LIE IS UNDERGROUND, doing god knows what that little lie.’


Fucking Truth, that crap-faced little tattletale, never lets anyone have any fun eh? Lie should just streak around in the open, butt ass naked, pissing everyone off, pissing in the snow, talking gay, waving a rainbow flag, lifting up people’s skirts, giving wedgies, slapping people on the back, kicking out their knees, invigoratingly fondling and rearranging his genitals. Saying "Hellz yeah, look here, hey, I’m a fucking LIE, whatcha gonna do about it? Yeah. I’m raining on Truth’s parade! Pissing in his Post Toasties. Taking over his territory. See me? I’m a truthful lie. I ain’t hiding underground. Now what role do you have Mr. Truth? Nothing. You’re a fucking useless piece of shit now. Go hang out with your shovel, you brat, 'cuz you don’t need it anymore. We are all one and the same and separation is an illusion. *rasberry tongue noise and eye roll*"

Alright! Way to go Lie. You said it buddy. I didn’t have to.

But, now I have a question. Since the Lie came clean about being a lie, did it just become Truth? Well, indeedies, I do believe it did! Hand over that shovel you mother fucker Truth-LIE. You’re going underground to browntown. Hope you like earthworms.


Dichotomy merge complete.


Church sign 2: “You can’t always believe what you think.”

So now, what if I believe that what I think is what I believe?
1. I can’t believe what I think
2. I think that I believe what I think
3. Therefore, I can’t believe what I believe.

Wow, how’s that for utter fucking confusion, eh? My rhetoric and composition teacher in college would have loved that syllogism. Where’s the sand so I can go stick my head in it? Ah tastes great, and good for whitening the teeth too. Free Cheap Easy. Kinda dry though. And gritty.


Church sign 3: “We never get dizzy doing good turns.”

WTMammaJammaF? Has this church monopolized the ballet schools now? Teaching the dingle-berry congregation how to spot? I don’t even know where to start my smart-assical critique of this type of fluff-stuffing crap. It’s not even witty or insightful enough of a message to compete with that shitty pressed cotton candy knock off they sell at grocery and video stores in an aluminum sealed bag.

Here’s a tip churchie poo. Don’t fuck with either Dance or Cotton Candy, when you feel the need to impress Jesus with your witless-jisms. I need to take a meclizine before I puke all over my new shoes. Rock slobber fudgestdicks. There is NO point here. Just stop digging. Or you’re going in the ground with the truth-thats really a-lie. And I’ll personally shove the earthworms in your ears. Like that Star Trek movie that scarred me for life for which I still need to be vindicated, somehow. Thanks for the inspiration. The dilemma of how I would karmically purge my psyche of the fear of some sleazy little brain bug entered into my otic channels has plagued me for decades.


Now go spin your fart-yarn elsewhere, you spotless coyote ugly. I know a bar full of NSync and Fatnasty pseudo lesbian chicks in knock-off red striped tube socks, that are just dying to join ya. I’m sure you’ll get a real kick coming up with tooty little thought vomits to save their souls, since all they wanna do is fight, fuck, and cry. To really, incredibly horrific hip hop. Dog save us all.


By the way, I hate fucking church signs. Everyone has to have a fucking slogan.


Well, that's all the muckie-puck residing in the head tonight. Except the useless trivial tidbit about that tasty little snack-cake called 'Ding Dong' which used to be named 'King Dong' before some asshat demanded they change the name because of the sexual reference. Why, Why, WHY must sex be made into such a horrible thing? Because of the snot-tards who strive to smear their whippy cream around all whimsically and such, by being King Dongs of the jungle? Give my culturally-congested root chakra a break already!


I'm not sure being a dipshit is any better than being arrogant about your big dick, of which you'll never use the last 3 inches, and most likely get laid less often because you're the impetus of annoying cockiness (on multiple levels) and yeast/bladder infections. Better go buy some soap, 'cause she's gonna need it buddy.


I do know that calling someone a 'Tool' makes me kinda giggle, although that's a word that really deserves an adjective, since tools are supposed to assist with the efficiency of a task. I guess they got the adage confused with my rules for Tuna. Next time I place an order at the local deli, I'll be sure to ask for Tool Fish salad. But then I might get some strange composite of King Ding Dong meets Chick-no-licking-good, in which case I'll just politely hand them back the takeout bag, and go slap a cold trout on it.

Cellular Envy

Ah the parallels of thought and kinetic motion. I've found yet more fun examples to share.

I read a post from a friend that he had returned to the gym after a long hiatus and enjoyed watching Die Hard 2 while working it on the treadmill. In my ever so Beavis inclination, I had to gut-chuckle, and say to myself... "huh, huh, he said 'HARD.'" After a subsequent momentary craving for cheetoes, I then pondered upon what might provide me such distractive joy in a similar experience. And I came up with a little something like this:

I have to give him props for the enthusiasm, however... 'Bout the only thing I can bear to watch while on a treadmill is a 5 minute episode of "When the HELL can I get off this thing?!" The End.

Personally, I vote for sex as the exercise of choice. But then again, if it's bad sex, then it goes right back to the rerun of "When the HELL can I get off this thing?!"

And now we return to the age-old question of who has the biggest cellular.

I found god...

...smoking MY last cigarette. Damn mooch. Oh well, I needed to quit anyway.

I just wanna know one thing. Is everyone's life right now as bizarre as mine is? Am I the unbeknownst writer-director in this play called life, with characters I've created in my own mind?

Perhaps. Perception is reality. Reality is perception. Is there a difference between those two?

Ah shit, it's curfew, so I better quit pontificating with the sky and get back to bed. I don't need any more electro-shock treatments tonight. Although they do kinda give you a good buzz.

Kinda like a damn good rock hard concert. Or stock car races.

Off to tantric dreamland...

Truth- Excerpts from ET-101 & Rogue Thought Tributaries

"We have noticed that you pretend to value truth on this planet. Some spend a lifetime seeking it. Your legal systems demand it, and you can be sued if your business doesn't practice it. Your philosophers define it, your scientists measure it, your religions exalt it, and you all fight over it. Meanwhile, all you are doing is paying global lip service to it. There is an excellent reason for this: You have no idea what truth really is. How the obvious escaped you is a tedious story.

The abridged version of it amounts to this: You embraced fear. After that unholy act, it has been downhill ever since. Fear is the first lie, the lie that tells you that you are separated from the whole. Once it has been embraced, you are incapable of ever telling the truth under any circumstances without blowing the game."

Funny how these insights always come in the form of a book, to rip my insidious hermit rug from underneath me in the nick of time. That, and through randomly unrandom word snippets I trip upon that induce unforeseeable laughter. Such as: 'Don't forget to feed your bear. If you don't it will die." What is with the bear theme lately? I suppose that's my energy's way of appealing to the hat I wear in this corporeal form. I've had this book for some time- it's short and succinct. For some reason I haven't read it all. But just now, I found an excerpt onlilne, following a compulsory urge, and synchronicity has in turn provided me a well-timed shot in the buttocks again. I'm glad I didn't see it coming and tense up- sore buttocks suck. Buttocks. Now that's a fun word.

My life is becoming exponentially similar to the reassuring premise of Slaughterhouse Five. It would be considered downright frightening, if I wasn't so fascinated with multi-planular time-travel and teleportation. Do I really have to wait 4 years until Mayan Prophecy 2012? Man, that sucks. Oh wait. Just arrived there. Eight minutes to darkness, and immediate light...

I was tempted to fill out the 25 random things on Facebook about me, because I always loved mad libs. But it just seemed like flipping the trigger to pandora's box. And I didn't want to scare unsuspecting people. Because really... you don't want me to whip out the random stick. Because that dude don't stop at 25. It kicks it frequently with pi. Sometimes the prolificity even scares me. Kinda like boxing a clown. Now that is a pretty disturbing image. But it might be kinda fun. If you stop before Mickey Rourke did. Lessons to learn kids. Lessons to learn.

My parents said they found me under a rock. Maybe that's why I like perusing and picking up rocks. I'm searching for my siblings. If I was a rock, then no one would try to eat me. Except pure jainists. But even rocks have energy. And sometimes they sparkle. And sometimes they have cool holes that you can slip a string through and wear on your neck as a pendant. Not that any of this is related or has any kind of pertinence whatsoever. Just saying.

My dog likes pop rocks. But I noticed an unsettling phenomenon. They crackle in my mouth, but do not in hers. Is dog saliva immune to carbon dioxide? Why in the hell am I ingesting carbon dioxide fruity sugar-flavored rocks anyway? Maybe I'm becoming a plant. Maybe I should read the package. But if I AM a plant, I want to be a rubber tree. It's good to have high hopes. "High apple pie, in the sky hopes... Oops there goes another rubber tree plant..." You sing it Frankie baby.

Damn ant.

If I ever get engaged, a sparkly rock would be cool, but what I really want first is a piece of string offered and tied around my finger during the proposal. I think that would be cooler than the coolest side of the pillow. Simple and complex. String Theory. M Theory. Theory of Everything. Circular. But without the part where my counterpart's evil best friend betrays him and sends him to prison, where he suffers, until he escapes and returns disguised as the Count of Monte Cristo. I just want the cool love string stuff. I don't need the rest of the drama. Except maybe for my counterpart to look as hot as the Count. And be skilled in sword play. Cool story though. And here's a pawn for you, dear avarice and envy. Damn good story indeed.

Someone just wrote "I hope they serve beer in hell" in a personals ad. I love perusing those things to find various fun nuggets of human nature. But this quote elicited an extended onslaught of laughter from deep within my gut. I've no idea why. I don't feel the need to question it tonight, but if one demands an inquiry be made, I'd simply say: Why not? However, I would recommend that writer clarify his statement with "on infinite ice." Because hot beer really just kinda, well, sucks.

The aforementioned relies on the premise that hell's all fiery of course, when it could be more along the lines of Dante and require no disclaimer of frozen water. I think hell's more along the lines of Milton. But more important to me is finding "A paradise within thee, happier far." I like Archangel Michael. He's a wise dude to follow if you want to transcend from this third-dimensional realm. Regardless, a cold beer is still really good. And my handbasket is super cool tricked out. I don't need one prepared, but I had one decorated up for shits and grins. Why not?

And now, friends and concerned attendants speeding ever forward in their white van toward my abode... animals are roaming around my house searching for rogue pretzels and water, and it's time for me to exit left stage to be ravished by oranges.

That is, until we reach the season of bing cherries. I so love me some bing cherries. And tildes.

Pontificatingly Yours~
C

My favorite poem of the moment

If you forget me - by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know one thing. You know how this is:

if I look at the crystal moon,
at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists:
aromas, light, metals,were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots,
remember that on that day, at that hour,
I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.

But if each day, each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,

and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine.

A Confederacy of Dunces- Relived

Disclaimer: Far too many people have taken my words too literally today, so if you think I actually advocate meritocratic genocide, then take a chill pill and relax, cowboy. I've no desire to re-enact 1984, any more than I have a desire to re-enact my mile high fortress of a hairdo from that time period. Good God. I've simply got passionate philosophies, constantly evolving, interspersed with random flip, sarcastic bursts of my twisted sense of humor. I can't help it. I'm human too, and that's my quirk (of many...) If you don't get it, that's fine. But stand down on getting your feathers too bent out of shape by it.

Now on to the commentary....

Ah it's nice to see living examples of literature. Today I got to witness and participate in a virtual semantic battle with the trolls (that sounds like a TV show coming to a season near you.) My preferred use of weaponry? A scythe. Hey, with quick death, comes quicker rebirth. Or at least several less annoying specimens throwing their shit-litter for others to pick up.

What wrong corner did the majority of our society turn to completely disregard the need to teach personal responsibility? I've never seen more fearful ostriches sticking their heads in the sand, or rather sticking their heads up their collective ass, judging by the sweet & sickening stench wafting off of their responses to blog topics of substance, which happen to elevate themselves beyond banal predilections of who will win the Oscars, who should get kicked of American Idol, and whom other people are fucking in their home town.

The original article is here.

http://bigbadbobby.blogspot.com/2009/02/when-companies-just-dont-get-it.html

And the nefarious, albeit very amusing shit-storm that ensued is here.

http://www.tonyskansascity.com/2009/02/kc-blogger-questions-deffenbaugh.html?ext-ref=comm-sub-email

I'm still trying to figure out what all these books and authors are that I'm supposed to have read so I can appear smart. I don't prescribe to pop culture or the erudite's manual of 'what's hot/what's not.' And although I think I have a pretty decent set of brains about me, I've known some pretty fucking stupid smart people, and put more value in whether or not people care enough to be active toward bettering their own lives and the state of this planet, with a sense of humor to deal with the trolls along the way.

So Enjoy. Recycle. Take out your trash. And think about the larger picture of your actions. For dog's sake at least try, and don't give up on caring about yourself, others, and the world you live in. Apathy stinks. You can still sing 'bye-bye bowel movement, going to the sewer treatment factory..." It's a fun song. No one's giving you any crap about that, certainly not me, since I engaged in many a sing-along during Freud's stage 2 of my own development cycle. Provided, of course, that you don't turn around and stick your head back up your ass again. Then I might have to break out the scythe.

Unless I'm in more of a bludgeoning mood... at which point I'll grab my flail. Or maybe, if you dick around long enough in a horsefly-gnat inducing manner, I'll warp sadistic and pull out the acupuncture needles. But I don't really want it to have to go that far man. Believe me, it hurts me far more than it hurts you. Just watch the snippet from the Japanese movie Audition below. Of course, I would never do any of this to anyone. I just had to share the disturbing imagery, so I'm not alone in my nightmares. But be warned. It WILL scar you for life.

Reminds me of a butt in a tanning bed...

Yes. I have anthropomorphic issues.

But this little trickster reminds me of butt cheeks sunning themselves shamelessly.

I'm fairly certain all those lemon drops on Friday night f*cked up my neurons, along with the feathers I ended up accidentally eating off my boa in a fit of inebriated disco joy.

I woke up looking like a rabid cat that swallowed a hot pink punk rock parrot dipped in lemon butter. Not one of my most stellar moments I'm sure... but that damn parrot tasted good. Helluva dancer too. Before I ate him of course. Hey, it was pirate day. I had to do my part.