Category Archives: Write Drunk, Edit Stoned

If you make sense to people, they will only make sense back at you!

Dreaming Away the Nightmare of Right Wing Double-Speak

21 Tuesday Jan 2014

Posted by in Politics, Write Drunk, Edit Stoned

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sarahpalin_aI have a dream!

…that one day, folks will stop playing the race card …card.

…that one day, accusations of racism will be judged on the merits of the actual claims and not simply taken up as plot points in a well-known narrative.

…that one day some folks really will stop crying racism whenever convenient. …and that other folks will stop dismissing cries of racism whenever convenient.

I have a dream that professional bigots will no longer find an audience ready to believe that ‘racism’ needs a prefix and ‘reverse’ really needs a place to hang out.

In this dream no prominent figure would be so foolish as to suggest that the best way to end racism would be for people to stop complaining of racism when it happens. Should such a figure step forward, she would be banished to the Hell of many guffaws, which is admittedly happening, now but in this dream she does it without the golden parachute for a job well abandoned and a history of throwing her own allies under the bus.

In this dream my hero Sally the Smart Swan shows up and puts putrid pundits in their place, saying; “knock it off you damned head; stop talking!” She waves her wand and war ceases to be about peace, taking from people no longer counts as providing them jobs, and kindness no longer leaves a bruise. (Some folks still fuck for virginity, that was always a good idea.) Then a pack of wild jackalope buy the world a coke and sing in perfect harmony. …everyone except me, I’m off-key of course, and my pants are down.

I did mention this was a dream.

In any event, I have a dream that one day recursion will not simply mean a political u-turn back to old Jim and his Crows. Or that people who send us on such a trip will not loudly proclaim their commitment to values they clearly don’t hold.

I have a dream that concerns about opportunistic anti-racism will not serve the goals of opportunistic anti-anti-racism. It’s a funky dream to be sure, and somewhere in this dream the Great Double Negative will descend from the sky and pronounce its wisdom to all! “Yea verily!” it will say (because the Great Double Negative talks like that). “Tis true, a not well knotted becomes a do, and a tangled web it weaves for me and you!” And the crowd will cock their heads slightly and look confused (because no-one talks like that anymore, if anyone ever did), and they will shout up at the Great Double Negative; “Get to the point you damned personification!” The the Great Double Negative will say; “If you consistently oppose anti-racism, there is a point when we might be justified in suggesting you are yourself a racist!” And “Oh” said the crown, surprised thatactually made sense, and “no” said the echo-chamber hoping they could bend a yea into a nay and no-one would notice.

I have a dream that anti-war speeches will not be out of place at the funeral of a peace activist.

BedWRvJCUAAq7UMI have a dream that people who say liberals are communists are fascists, and the Holocaust starts with compassion will be recognized for their comedic genius, because no-one would be so foolish as to take that as serious political commentary.

I have a dream that people who attack others will not play the victim when they draw return fire, and that those seeking to defend such people will read their words before telling the rest of us all about it.

I have a dream in which helping people is not confused with enslaving them, in which those defending privilege do not call others ‘elitist’ in a folksy voice, in which poverty is not blamed on efforts to end it, and in which greed is not celebrated as the source of all that is good and gooey.

I have a dream in which not being racist does NOT mean you wait for others to use racial epithets first, and in which the word ‘satire’ does not absolve one of all guilt.

I have a dream in which professional bigots will not count as ‘conservatives’, ‘patriots’, “Christians”, or even ‘entertainers’. I have a dream in which such people are dismissed for the living caricatures that they are.

I have a dream in which those actively working to stop African-Americans from voting, lower wages, and take away all forms of public support do not assume the voice of civil rights leaders and lecture others on dreams they clearly do not themselves share.

This is not a dream without enemies; it’s a dream in which those enemies do not include quite so many clowns. In fact it’s a dream full of tougher questions and better arguments, but it’s a dream in which the other side doesn’t stand every important value on its head and their professed politics comes a lot closer to an honest engagement with the rest of us. But that’s all just a dream of course. In the real world, all of this continues as before, and amazingly with straight-faces all around.

And lotsa people have their pants on the floor.

***

Sarah Palin appears here (I’m sorry) by way of The Hollywood Reporter. The American Headache Institute comes to us courtesy of HKS, who assures me that this is where Sarah can be found. I think she might be the director.

Move Over Charlie Sheen; Rand Paul is the Vatican Assassin Now

04 Friday Oct 2013

Posted by in Politics, Write Drunk, Edit Stoned

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Official PortraitThat’s right Charlie, you’ve been replaced by the great Libertarian Hope, Rand Paul. Sources have it that Paul is working on bringing the parties together and working out a deal on the government shutdown thing. I know, I know, this shutdown hasn’t personally hurt Sean Hannity or Rush Limbaugh, so it’s all canned corn on a Tuesday, but bear with me here, because I herar that somebody somewhere might actually be a little more month-to-month than a highly successful carnival barker. So, give peace a chance eh?

Course Paul is also looking forward to winning the whole conflict.

Hm…

Now ordinary folks might think that was a contradiction of sorts, or at least an ill-timed loss of good publicity, from Politico no less! You might think the devil is in the details here, something about which parties Paul was trying to bring together, but folks only get that impression because they are using the wrong kinda logic. If you think about it, making peace with your enemies and beating them at the same time is pure fricking win! Seriously, how on earth do you beat that? Making peace and vanquishing your enemies at one and the same time. It’s absolutely win, I tell you. In fact it’s the kind of win worthy of you know who?

charlie-sheen-sfSpanBut only when he’s in his manic phase.

Which is sorta where some people have been for a long time now, Just ask Michelle, Glenn, and Sarah. These folks will find their depressive moments in another life, or lives, so to speak. …preferably those of other people. But seriously, I’m not even sure that the Sheen-meister himself could wrap his mind around the full genius of the tea-minded people and their leaderlings, at least not without a good supply of coke and a few hot girlfriends. He might just have to take drastic measures to help us find a wisp of wisdom in this cloud of swamp gas.

But Hell, Randy Neugebauer can dig it right now. Neugebauer can take a rainbow, mix it up with love and make the whole world take the blame. …or at least one low-level employee.

I know what you’re thinking; it’s politics right? And politics ain’t fun, and politics means everyone is dirty, or at least all of them folks that do politics, ad care about politics, and certainly those idiots that think it matters what side you are on, because who can be damned if it’s worth sorting Jack from Jill or pie from a pill? Cause screw the lot of them right?

Y’all just don’t appreciate genuine super-hero powers when you see them. A man of Neugebauer’s brilliance could wash his hands of anything. Hell, he could probably fix Fukashima. Radiation? Bah! Let him hold a press-conference in an arcade, and the the whole world’s goat will be good and scaped at the price of a few glow-in-the-dark teenagers.

Damned kids anyway!

That’s two Vatican Assassins if you’re counting, and no, Charlie ain’t one of them, not right now, or so I’m told. He ain’t two either, but I hear tell he might be better than bunting on a good gumbo day. You just gotta know how to listen with your nose, I tell you. The whole tune sounds just like apple pie cooling in a window, at least it would if you talk to the right red district representative. So, don’t be discouraged folks. Just let this good bunko-billy mansplain it to ya!

Still don’t understand?

Well you’re very pretty, but honey, you just ain’t a Vatican Assassin.

We are in desperate need of you Charlie.

Please help us to understand!

Finding Your Inner Southitude: The Adventures of Lobster-Boy and His Poor Companions

03 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by in Bad Photography, Museums, Native American Themes, Write Drunk, Edit Stoned

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Looking up at the Institute of American Indian Arts

Looking up at the Institute of American Indian Arts

Sleep done left me now on accounta the kids. Not my kids, but they stare at me all day now and mostly frown. I do my best to inflict knowledge upon them, but my evil plans are often foiled by the mysteries of the modern world, …or at least the iphone.

It fills and protects their minds even when it stays in the room!

Some might call it a field trip; I call it a collective loss of Northitude. Alternatively, we could call it turning the heat up on the ice people. It’s also called visiting some folks I happen to think a lot of, but let us save sense and seriositude for another day.

Haven’t traveled with teens since I was one. Its an experience…

“When do we board?”

God may not exist but middle seats are pretty close to proof that the Devil is alive and busy issuing boarding passes. I think he also designs the help pages for Microsoft!

I miss the gargle-bunkies and my bloggetry has gotten sloppy. Classes need work and my ecological footprint is a big boot stomp on everything I love. For now, I am Southward, …and I have hostages!

“Hey, shouldn’t we be boarding soon?”

The rules are as follows:

1) Control of musical decisions belongs to the teenagers in the vehicle. Volume is negotiable.

2) Sarcasm is a given.

3) “Family” doesn’t mean what I think it means.

4) Failure to follow rule 1 is the first step to tears and fears, but no beers, not even one.

What the Hell? Hostages aren’t supposed to make the rules! One of the kids decides to throw me a bone and plays Madonna, (cause I’m old). This does NOT make me feel shiny and new.

Precedent argues strongly for the use of a scowl in conjunction with a stern ‘No’, all of which is best delivered in response to a perfectly reasonable question. I am apparently a bad influence, and I’m almost sorry about that.

“So what time do we board?”

Santa Fe is a wonderful place to visit. Taos Pueblo and the Institute for American Indian Arts are always beautiful places. Watching my students eat Frito pies for the very first time in the front yard of our host and guide brings the beauty up a notch for me. Knowing they aren’t used to the spice is pure joy. …Yes, I’m a bad man.

“Are we boarding soon?”

Seriously, I can’t believe I am driving by so many public murals without even getting my camera out. …I got a couple of them, though, yes, I did.

The doc says I gotta eat more bananas, and my friend owes me a beer, but never mind the beer and the friend, doc says what? She tells me all about the changes in my near future as I look down at my dinner and realize that I am presently eating about the only meal in a month that might pass muster. …except for the noodles, of course.

“Seriously, when are we gonna get on the plane?”

Project Runway aside, it’s probably best to leave the gay bar off the agenda. Angry parents sound like Jaws music. The Elvis Shrine is a big can-do, and Goose is the coolest!

…and the whole thing leads us to old Santa Ana Pueblo, fittingly, during the Feast of St. Anne. So, there we find ourselves sitting at the dining table of a wonderful host, looking over more dishes than any one of us could possibly sample. It wasn’t a week ago that I found myself eating Ugruk (seal) at Nalukataq (the Spring Whaling Festival). Now I am sitting here finishing off a bowl of red chili that proved a bit too much for one of my students, and thinking how wonderful this is. Some days (and especially feast days) it’s a good day to know indigenous people. I can only hope our little trip to the sun and the spicy food finds its way into the “worthwhile” bin amongst the learning lessons of my students. …and that there is more chili to be had.

It is a bit hot outside, and my students are holding the car keys hostage in the hopes that I will show mercy.

“There will be no more ice people if you melt us!”

I can’t help but laugh.

“Has the flight been delayed; when are we gonna board?”

I’m bringing back one demon girl, but another now knows how to feed a hundred Indians with 50 pieces of Fry-bread. Empirical proof of the former is confirmed, but we are still waiting on the latter.

“Seriously, when are we gonna board?”

…and Northitude returns with sleep soon to follow.

***

The Museum of Contemporary Native American Arts

***

The New Mexico Museum of Art (with a fantastic exhibition by Peter Sarkisian).

***

The Pecos Historical Park

***

Random Murals

***

Unhumorous Point of Partial Clarification: I generally don’t show pictures of students, colleagues, etc. This is just a matter of personal respect. They have signed up for work or study with the school, not a command appearance in my personal blog. …also, I have no pictures from Santa Ana or Taos Pueblo. Those would not be appropriate for an entirely different set of reasons.

Yes, I wore sunscreen

Yes, I wore sunscreen

Hats and umbrellas are frowned upon during the Feast of St. Anne. Oddly enough 4 Alaskan Natives and a Tongan don’t burn as easily as a balding white guy who normally wears a hat.

Who’da thunk it?

Wandering in Place

05 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by in Write Drunk, Edit Stoned

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Fido hiding with my thoughts

Fido must be hiding with my thoughts. Little bastard, bring me my thoughts back!

There once was a boy named Dan. He sat down in front of his computer and thought real hard. But on this day, he had nothing really to say. Dan thought, and he frowned, and he even tapped out a word or two, but nothing much came to mind. The big bad delete button ate all his work. Dan pouted and said; “foo on you, bad button.” But the bad delete button just laughed and told Dan it was his own fault.

Silly Dan. Only a Dummy-Butt sits at a computer with nothing to say.

The blank page mocked Mr. Dammit as he sat in silence contemplating this new quandary. Where had the words made off to? China-town? The casino down by the back alley? Perhaps they were sitting right now with a hot dame having a laugh on Dan’s behalf? There may have been a million stale stories to tell in this sinful city, but not one of them planned on spending a moment in this blogger’s thick skull, not today. What happened, Mr. Dammit wondered? And why in the Hell had he taken to referring to himself in the third person?

Three clues presented themselves to Mr. Dammit’s attention, a giant sucking sound somewhere in his head, or perhaps his heart, a sick feeling in his gut, and silly succotash filling the veranda with purple sounds and pie-happy smiles just like it was Thursday. Dan wasn’t entirely sure about the third clue, but he was pretty sure that it meant something.

Perhaps that something was an iconic relationship to the thoughtful imaginary which in its apparent absence effectively alluded to the very discursive framework which had given rise to its formation, completely over-determining the salient features of this particular subjectivity so as to elide the general significance of the mundane and occlude the purple succotash in a manner consonant with racist/sexist/heterosexist/picodegalloist ontologies firmly rooted in the praxis of neo-corporatist brownie projection.

Dan thought real hard. What was the line?

“You put hot butter on your brownie and you be havin’ a party in your mouth.”

Her breathing quickened as she responded; “will juicy flavors rave all over my taste buds?”

“They will indeed, baby,” he stood over her XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX well, XXXX XXXXXX XXXXX XXXX yes, yes! XXXXXXX XXXX XXXXX YES!!!!

XXXXXX XX XXXX but never in these pants XXXXXXX XX XXXXXXXXXX XXX XXXX

…sadly, these memories did little to help Dan find a thought worth inflicting on his own computer. Strangely, his fingers moved without thought across the keyboard anyway. Words appeared as ghosts upon his screen, words lacking thought, like bodies without a soul. The irony, Dan thought, the irony!

Irony Hell!

Irony is a fricking hot-buttered brownie.

A Magic Box With Many Great Messages

25 Saturday May 2013

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Apparently, my inner child is a little girl

Apparently, my inner child is a little girl

Blessed are the demons in the flat box. Long have I lived without them, but now I sit once more at the feet of their nefarious lessons. They bring me great wisdom. And they bring me reality.

Shall I share that reality with you?

The lessons of the demon-box are many, but today I have learned it takes 3 booms to bang a stump, but afterward you get to piss on it. Just do it quick, because…

Winter is coming!

Food is always better somewhere else, even when that someplace else was where you once were and you didn’t notice while you were there. It’s too late though, don’t bother going back, because the outstanding diners will just be wherever you are whenever you ain’t. Accepting this fact is the beginning of wisdom.

Eric Holder gets a gas face, dammit!

Sit-com humor is largely a function of empathy. When the magic audience in the box laughs, we laugh with them. I can’t think of any other reason we would be laughing at this shit.

Okay 30-Rock gets a pass, and I actually saw an SNL skit that wasn’t entirely bad. There is a medical show that doesn’t make me want to claw my eyes out. The demons show me mercy through these brief moments of respite.

Apparently, there are trees and mountains in Alaska. They are just hiding from me.

Life is always about survival, or at least Survivor. You may think that you are cooking a meal worthy of a four-star restaurant, but no, the real point is that Bubba and Judy want you to vote Latisha off, but she’s ready to make a deal, just like swimming for big sister, and living on a deserted island. You think it’s about securing protein and building a shelter so you don’t die? No, the real danger is that Lori and Jake have formed a team and they are looking at you funny. That is the great trope of life. The greatest of life or death struggles are, at bottom, a sort of popularity contest.

Weddings are bad! …okay, we knew this, but now it’s confirmed.

Iced coffee earns you Sparkles.

Game of Thrones isn’t on nearly enough.

The cameras on a cop’s dash cam are not to be trusted. When the narrator tells me the cop quickly pushes a civilian out of the way of a crash, the camera shows me  the crash ending just before he can get started. When the narrator tells me a perpetrator is attacking the cop, I see a man clearly trying to walk away. I am convinced the magic of these cameras is powerful beyond belief.

Storage units and the people who buy stuff in them are… zzzzzzz. Who would have thunk it?

I sure hope my tiny speaker recharges soon, because I think I’d rather listen to the music demons. Speaking of which…

Metaphors that Miss and Tropes that Trip: Mental Musings and, Hey Look a Cow!

06 Wednesday Mar 2013

Posted by in Philosophy, Write Drunk, Edit Stoned

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Maybe the mind is like a lake in the morning?

Maybe the mind is like a calm river in the morning, full of napalm and watermelon seeds.

The mind is a strange place.

Unless it’s not a place at all; maybe it’s a cabbage.

I don’t mean that it has wings or anything, but maybe it’s filled with pretty little guppies. Vampires, I mean. Vampire guppies! Yes, the mind is filled with vampire guppies. In that respect, it is very like a cabbage.

George Lakoff says it’s a container of sorts. That’s not exactly what Lakoff says, or even remotely like what he says, really, but I’m feeling a little left of my own mind today, so that’s the best that bastard is going to get from me right now.

Unless it isn’t.

I get confused sometimes.

What do any of us know about that sort of thing? It’s all cabbages and containers anyway, and sometimes a pill bug in a pear tree.

Don’t look at me like that; you have your tropes and I have mine!

Puts the term objectification in a new dark, doesn’t it? Cause sometimes you have to reinvent your subject in order to talk about it, which seems to be what most of us do when we want to get mental. That’s when we dip in the metaphor closet and bring back a fishing hook.

Or something.

But sometimes these metaphors of the mind take us downtown when we are trying to head out to the lake.

Like when people start talking about ‘inner beauty‘ and such. Folks fiddling out that tune are usually trying to tell us they care more about mental stuff than they do a pretty smile or a chiseled chin. For my part, I usually figure it means they can’t value a thought until they’ve imagined it in the form of a pretty face.

Failure, thou art ugly to the bone!

Course there is always the ‘power of the mind,’ which passes for praise in some circles. What’s so good about the mind, you may ask? Well apparently, it’s so good it can almost do what we normally do with a muscle. Think Uri Geller with a spoon, or better yet think of any range of movies where a character begins to impress us with his brilliance, and then (because some of us are too dim to be impressed by impressive reasoning skills) they start moving the physical world about with their great mental powers. Then we go ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’, because that’s a really cool mind that can move things all on it’s own. Way cooler than one that just does damned cool mental stuff.

Remember the movies Powder and Phenomenon? Neither one of the main characters in those movies would have been quite so interesting without telekinetic powers?

…Unless they would have.

Or think of Mr. Frost, another movie improved by the powers of the mind. The premise? A guy in a Lunatic Asylum says he is Satan; says he has an evil plan involving his Doctor. Something about an act of faith, or at least a crime of faith. But is he really Satan? Damned smart, that he is; knows things he shouldn’t. I mean, he really shouldn’t know that stuff, and that’s damned creepy. Could this evil genius really be who he claims to be? It’s damned mysterious!

…until supernatural powers make an appearance.

See, Satan’s mind can make things happen without the help of a body; it just has that much force. And that makes the movie much more interesting.

Just like mayonnaise on wonder bread.

Yep!

But seriously, how cool is that? The mind is so damned impressive that sometimes it can do, …um, what a body does.

That’s a damned good cabbage! Unless of course it’s more like an axe, or an axe stuck in a cabbage, but that image really only applies on Mondays, or on that odd day we get on leap years.

…if you go swimming I mean.

Can you dig it?

Cause sometimes mental stuff is deep, which is better than those days when it’s shallow, and you know damned well that means deeper is more mental. So, maybe the mind is a bit like a ditch; and a really impressive mind is like a great big hole in the ground. which brings us back to those container metaphors Lakoff writes about.

Or maybe deep thoughts really mean super high water pressure?

Speaking of water polo, does anyone else love beauty pageants?

Yeah, not me either.

But what I really don’t love is the question and answer parts of them. You know, 60 seconds or so to wax philosophical on one of the world’s great problems? Just once I’d like to hear one of these girls respond with “Get real!”

“Grow up!” would also work.

Sometimes a mind is a wonderful accessory.

It’s a fine line between smart and cute. At least it is within one hour of a bathing suit c0mpetition.

Anyway, it’s like I said. The mind is a terrible thing to paste.

I didn’t actually say that of course, but I wouldn’t have anyway, and it’s beside the line. The plane truth is that this mind is a thing (or more like a non-thing) that folks have a hard time describing. So, we trope it up one side and down the other, just like a long bow or a fish made of pasta. We do this for all sorts of reasons, and sometimes we do it to show how much we love this non-thing of a guppy-filled cabbage.

And sometimes we just end up showing how we really don’t love the mind at all.

Not All Umpty-Bummos are Bammagoons, but all Bammagoons are Surely Gummatistas!

06 Wednesday Feb 2013

Posted by in Irritation Meditation, Politics, Write Drunk, Edit Stoned

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3qdrc4Do you remember the first time you heard this little Gem? If you’re like me, you might even remember going on a little mental roller-coaster ride from “Okay, good” to “I guess that’s reasonable” to “no it’s not” to “not even close actually” and then on to “fuck you asshole for saying that shit!” all in the space of less than a second.

Okay, so I take that particular roller coaster ride all the time, but let’s not dwell on that! The point is that this particular line of reasoning has a certain seductive quality to it. If you are lucky, you escape its wiles within a moment; if you are a Fox News Fan, you probably still think it’s gospel.

…which reminds me of a certain meme with temptations of its own. er, cough! cough! It is tempting, …oh so tempting.conservatives

And yet, I hear the voice of Nietzsche calling back to me, reminding me of the dangers of staring into a void, and suddenly I feel naked, and I want to say; “you stop staring back at me you damned void. You just stop that right now!”

And I somehow manage to squirm free.

It was John Stuart Mill, and he did say ‘most’ rather than ‘all’ in that last part, and he definitely meant something different by ‘Conservative’ than I was thinking when I started down this route. …and I’m really not sure if all those caveats help or hurt my case, so we are just moving on now.

Hell, I’m not even sure if the quotation is all that accurate.

frabz-Not-all-republicans-are-racist-but-all-racists-are-republicans-17a2b9Does this help?

No?

Okay, this post is getting to be a guilty pleasure, I know. But the point is that we can turn this logic around and apply it in all sorts of different directions. If it hasn’t escaped you that I have failed to apply it to my own political camp, well then let’s just treat that as an object lesson in how this particular gambit works. You apply it to your enemies, silly, not your friends.

It does get sillier!

64feda52-bbf8-409a-83db-ddc818661e1fIs this a good question? Um, …no.

Seriously, do I have to provide links to the American Nazi party? Cause I’m not gonna.

No.

Nuh-uh!

You’re just going to have to get the point. And you know, it’s entirely possible that is even the point of this meme (or even the last one), because that damned Nathan Poe dogs my every judgement.

Besides everything else, this one is completely out of date, but what else can you expect from a thinking dinosaur. Not all anachronisms are philosophical lizards, but all… nevermind!

4OLOF57GB5NKD_U1FK00_IL_P_LSMaybe we could take this quotation in a positive direction? This sounds wonderful and warm and smart, and …well I should probably verify the quotation and discern it’s context and what not, but that would take time away from basking in the glow if literositude that this one kindles in my heart. I just want to sit here and think about how leading and reading go together like carrots and cake.

Or Christmas and BB Guns. Or lingerie and a live wallaby.

…I’ve said too much.

25989_482098188503425_1116285728_nBut hey, let’s get even more positive. Boy you just read this one and you can’t help but feel the love. Doesn’t it just make you want to reach down inside your soul and let the good stuff out for a walk in a park called Success.

Seriously folks, you just gotta let your awesome blossom!

That’s all I’m sayin’.

And who the Hell is Mark Gorman?

Okay kids, that was a rhetorical question. I just googled him and the only thing I learned is that I really don’t want to know anything more about him at all. We are moving on again.

MjAxMi04ZGY1ZmQ0ZWEwMTcwMjk5_50cfdcef8a5dcDid I mention that it gets sillier?

No really, it does.

Honestly, I’m not sure what to do with this one. It’s actually rather clever. I might even like it. But I don’t know much about Hentai, or porn, …or one of those anyway.

Not me! Huh uh!

er, not all men watch porn, but… nevermind!

28639618It also gets ickier. Much ickier!

Okay, that one doesn’t even begin to make sense, and I probably should have left  it out. But you know, you turn over a rock and see something gross underneath…

…so, you post it on the internets for all your friends to see,

…and to feel just a little creeped out by the whole thing.

Which is fine with me, actually, I believe in sharing the misery.

…in case you hadn’t noticed.

30448069Alright, this one might be real. At least I can’t think of a counter-example. Seriously, I’ve been trying.

But part of what makes this so fun is that it breaks the mold a little; gender politics aside, this is a nice little exercise in creating an expectation and then violating it. …which is very cool in a joke-I-just-killed-by-explaining-it kinda way, but the point is that the whole meme rests on a manipulation of expectations. You start by repudiating a generalization, thus leading people to expect a smarter wiser replacement and hope they won’t notice that you left them with a whole new pile of dumbitude sitting there in place of the one you repudiated. This one just takes that approach and drives it to Hawaii.

…Yes, I said drives.

rats1I’m not sure what to make of this one, but I think I might love it.

So anyway, I guess you can file all of this under the category of, “Shit we oughtta know better”

It’s the End of the World as we Know it!

20 Thursday Dec 2012

Posted by in Write Drunk, Edit Stoned

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Santa Fe

Santa Fe

Okay, so tomorrow is the end of the world, and I was thinking about that, and a feeling hit me all sudden-like. It was a bit like a curve ball, only not so much a ball as a tree, at least in so much as the tree grows and it has leaves and sometimes an apple, or a pear, and maybe a Porsche. But seriously, I know that cars don’t grow on trees, unless maybe if it was in Pennsylvania, or at least three towns over from Anchorage, but let’s not dwell on that because the point is that honey-based BBQ does NOT go well with jalapenos. You need a more savory base for spice like that.

Any pickle knows a puppy doesn’t mug a mitten!

So, why in the Hell would anyone feed a lemon-flavored snow-cone to a kitten on a Thursday? I keep asking that and the pipes never do feed me an answer, or even a decent burger, at least not for under 15 pana. It just doesn’t make sense that far into the week, because little Muffin would only want to chase a ball up a smile and row on down the river, because that’s where uncle Ruben lives, or at least he did, back before his name was Laura.

You can only fit just so much love in a banana clip, or so I’m told.

But Uncle Laura tells me on a clear day you can see clear to the south mountains, or at least a good sonata, which is not to suggest that anyone really does love Raymond or hate Chris or even laugh at late night monologs unless they are full of jello. Because it really doesn’t pay to jiggle your belly when the fleet is in the Gulf and it’s got your whistle with it, blowin’ away at the hog-farmers from back home when they coulda just stuck a thumb out and got them some ham.

I mean seriously!

Some folks just don’t agree. They say things like; “you can’t” or “Tod-Swallow” or “that’ll be ten dollars,” which is okay really. To each his own, I say, or at least to each his neighbor’s, because that’s a lot more fun, so long as the wife ain’t involved on accounta big bossy books and seventh-day hollers. Only my neighbor’s wife is, well I’m not sure she has a wife really, and if she did I think I would just ask for a cup of sugar, because it’s well past time that I charged that battery. That, and it’s the polite thing to do.

Some people don’t understand these kinda things.

That’s why folks are just too bottle-browed. You come up and you say ‘hi’ and they just look at you all purple and such. So, you ask them for directions to Fresno or Winslow, and they make you stand in a corner. Which is really when the trouble starts if you stop to think about it.

All because of Julie!

She says you can’t pay a dime to a tulip, but I think she’s wrong really, because them things are always looking for an extra piece of the pie, even if that damned Julie doesn’t think so. She didn’t get past her first semester anyway. But there just ain’t much to be done about it really, because the river gets all fluffy in the morning and the fog sets in under your feet, so you can’t even have a doughnut with or without sprinkles. It’s just not allowed. The frizzle-master takes the order and he just gives you a pepper and shouts; “get the Hell out of here you, you damned Bug-gardener.”

Well pig my dog if I give a goat!

That man is rude.

I mean I ran, but a moment like that sticks with you, you know. Can’t really help but ruminate on it from time to time. Ruminate, Fumigate, either way your in for twenty bucks and the bad-hat doesn’t keep records. You just gotta give it to him on faith. Most times it works anyway, or at least it does for a guy out East of Houston. He eats daisies for breakfast every day on account of that fortune.

Now that’s a thought that goes boom!

It’s only because of that one time I was out with an apple and Fred and a good while and we couldn’t get any beer on account of damned clocks. And Barefoot Barbie comes out an dings the top of his car because he doesn’t even remember the shiny barrel, and we all just look at him sideways. Strangest damned thing I ever did see.

Makes me feel all somehow.

A Touch of Tension makes the Dream Grow Odder

23 Thursday Aug 2012

Posted by in Write Drunk, Edit Stoned

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I don’t remember the joke, but it triggered the effect again. My black friend wasn’t black anymore; he was a machine and his face changed into a sort of digital display inside of which numbers and digits buzzed and whirred far too fast to read. I could tell he wasn’t pleased.

“Do you see me laughing?”

The face of my other black friend appeared above  me. (Apparently I had precisely two of them in this story.) He seemed to be leaning over the wall I was sitting against, and he was smiling. The smile seemed to suggest that we were still friends, but that he too wasn’t pleased with my last comment.

I gave a weak smile, ‘no.’

“Maybe that’s because it wasn’t funny.”

“I know,” I stammered and cringed;  “I don’t mean to be a jack-ass; it’s just that I can say that sort of thing with my indigenous friends and they laugh about it.”

“Well, we don’t think it’s funny.”

I told him I understood. I said I was sorry and that I will try to be more sensitive about things in the future.

The face above me looked across the street at our companion; “Have you explained that to him?”

“No, he turns into a magic parking meter whenever I attempt ethnic humor. I’ll apologize and discuss it with him when he changes back in a minute or two.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

***

Okay, those are pretty much the final moments of my dream this morning.