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Mommy Earth suffered a massive bedpost-pounding multiple orgasm today brought about by eight Scandanavians square-dancing to the tune of
late last night upon one of her many
, this one being about five miles to the west of Trondheim. She cried out, and a storm crossed the Atlantic Ocean and struck Boston, Massachusetts, severely damaging the Old North Church and many bars in Beacon Hill. Then she cried out again and since her first gasp went west this one had to go east, finally touching ground in Omsk, destroying many fine churches. Her cigarette was a volcano.
I think I'm going to take a big pile of 'unpublished' material and make a sloppy book out of them and puke it all over amazon.com, just as a place to keep them with the least bit of trouble--because the least I can do is the more deserving I can do. Then I'll offer them up to suckers for $4.99, just for the hell of it. I'm certain it'll be a tremendous failure. (I'd hope for Failure Of The Decade, but that's a classification my misshapen mediocrities could never hope to reach. No, they'll just be forgotten. [What pen-name?])
An Islamist suicide bomber walks into a bar. Bartender says, "Say, we don't get a lot of Islamist suicide bombers in here." Islamist suicide bomber says, "I guess I'm the first." Thirteen people die.
Q: How many Islamist suicide bombers does it take to screw in a light-bulb?
A: None. Electricity is Jewish.
Q: A million Islamist suicide bombers are given typewriters. How long will it take for one to write Hamlet?
A: It won't ever happen. They're that stupid.
Obama: Who was that Christianist suicide bomber I saw you with last week?
Normal Person: Actually, that was Santa Claus.
about mostly anything but mostly about government anarcho-tyranny and the gun registry
Cops discovered where the Hells Angels clubhouse in our city was located. Down a street some miles away from me. The cops prepared for a dawn bust. They prepared for a week. But when they got to the clubhouse they discovered it had too many doors for the manpower available for the bust. So the cops surrounded and busted into the house beside it. They arrested everyone, and only two got shot. It was all they could do; it was good enough for government work.
SECOND VERSION OF THE PARABLE
-Miss Strxnyx? We've received the results of the blood test of your cat.
-Oh. So, what is it?
-It seems it could be a bowel infection, and it could be stomachitis.
-Oh. Can it be fixed?
-Sure. Just a condition. Needs some work, though.
-Okay, tell me: which condition does it cost more to treat?
-Money-wise, which is cheaper for me?
-Well, the bowel infection. Then it's mostly a matter of food.
-Then that's it. It's what she's got. Obviously.
-You're the boss.
-Okay, so it's a matter of food. How much?
I volunteered to lead a seminar on the nineteenth. I planned out a whole selection of texts and a bunch of movies I would refer to. The topic was the contrast between spatial and temporal representations of furniture. (I'm sure you understand what I was getting at.) But I ran out of time; when the instructor called, I had to say it wasn't going to be. She was disappointed. A whole bunch of other people were disappointed. Their disappointment made me unhappy. They saw my unhappiness, and they were unhappy, and the instructor was unhappy. As well as disappointed.
I don't quite know what to say about this material. It's a great many very short pieces interspersed, in some manner or another, with longer pieces. I can only give a preliminary diagnosis. Further examination would be required before allowing a self-admission to Danvers State Hospital.
The subject exhibits an infantile obsession of some region or another--oral seems most probable--combined with an adolescent bipolar ambivalence to order/chaos. The texts are sophisticatedly perverse, or made to appear so. Perhaps he just needs some rest.
Barring further examination, a further diagnosis would be mere guesswork.
--Dr. Cornelia B. Wilbur
Open Question --- Show me another }}
What Happened to my Husband?
There's something wrong with my husband. He died last week even though he was only thirty-five years old. It happened in the middle of the night. He hadn't eaten anything unusual the night before. He was previously (when alive of course) happy go lucky, didn't drink much, didn't do drugs, etc. And yet he just up and died. I'm just wondering what exactly happened to him. Has anyone else had this problem with their husband?
1 week ago - 3 days left to answer.
Living at home, it's hard to have any fun. Yesterday afternoon I had my little computer in the den and I was watching a fine Tinto Brass foreign film entitled
L'uomo che guarda
. But every time I was getting to a good part someone came into the room and interrupted my concentration. Very frustrating! It happened again and again; and my visitors get better dressed. Were they leaving to go somewhere? so I hoped. Then one asked me, "Are you coming to the county fair with us?" No." "If you change your mind, we're not leaving for two hours." Argh!
Now think about this. "Deep in the pit, through the grey and green and black smoke we could see glistening movements; we could hear wet, thock slobbering. I could not help but be fascinated as its motions increased. Dating from an earlier century, dormant, heaving a stinking breath that caused many of the group to wretch, it rolled about and tried to rise. Then three ropy tentacles creeped up the pit-sides and sought purchase of the lip. We knew we'd brought something up from Hell, but knew not how to kill it." Now think about something other than the NDP.
Last night I came up with a plan for my retirement. I'm surprised I didn't come up with it sooner. I'm going to go to Las Vegas and win nine million dollars playing poker.
I'll take the chips and give them to the cashier. She'll give me a cheque for nine million dollars and I'll immediately deposit it into my bank account. I'll get a receipt for it so I can show it to Mary. "Look. 9,000,000 dollars."
I figure we can live well on that. I don't know what it would be per year. I'm no good at math.
Assuming I had x, someone offered me a y, which is used with an x.
"Sorry, I don't have an x, so I can't use a y."
"You don't have an x?"
"I don't have an x."
"It's multipurpose. You can even use it with a z."
"I don't have one of those, either.
"Really. Isn't that odd."
"Not to me."
"Let me see. It works with an α. Do you have an α?"
"No α. No β, for that matter."
"And this is all intentional?"
"In a sense. I'm just not that advanced."
"Never thought I'd meet an ω."
The Descent Into the Frozen Mind
By noon next day we'd reached the midbrain. Something told me this was where the problem, the
, had started.
And sure enough, flying around the area for all of our party to hear was the question Dr. Smitzov at base camp had predicted had started the catastrophe. And the question was,
"What do you want from me?"
We looked around at the pulsing ganglions and dendrites, seeking a different sufficient reason; finding none, we concurred with the doctor. The paralysis had been caused by an external force; there was nothing we could do.
Horses Greater Than the Wide Sky
Here comes horses, three horses, children of the same mother; the ground pushes them on their flight. Their manes are tossing, pushing them onwards on their flight.... Soon outgrown, some children fear them. Strong in a fight yet seldom fighting, fine in war and lovely in peace, not a cell out of place in their strong muscles, they thunder thinking FREE down the dale to the waters. They drink and look and drink and look, looking up for "where to next?" Damned is the knight who dares aim for his opponent's horse. Universally true.
On the eve of my brain surgery, I had one last interview with my brain surgeon.
I said, "I have a request for the O.R."
"What is it?"
"Since I'll be conscious through it, can we have some mirrors set up so I can see the operation?"
"I want to see my brain. I want to see you cutting into it."
"I'm just curious."
"Why would you want to see your brain?"
"I'm just relaying the request. From my brain."
"This surgery is cancelled. There will be no mirrors. Now GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OFFICE."
Today is the 20th although this is the entry for the 16th.... If I can get 2 more done tonight I'll be up to the 19th.... Then tomorrow night I'm out.... On Sunday I'll be too wrecked to do anything.... So assuming on Monday the 23rd I start on the 800 word story, named "120107-120114", I'll still be 8 days short of where I should be even if I do it all in one day.... Plus I'll still have to do 11 before month's end....
Why don't I just
the question "What is time?" and be done with it?
I took it
I didn't tell anyone
I stole it
No-one will miss it
It's just one of hundreds
I made it my own
Here it is
I took it
Ninety years ago
Now it's here
Straight from Vienna
Straight from dance
All webbed together tight
Who's is which's?
Kevin taught me this
No shame, just take
And make it yours
Bust me now
I admit my crimes
Here's my evidence
This's a confession
This's been done before
Allatime pen meets paper
I'm the very thief
And I will laff.
We were on the subway, chugging along on the Bloor-Danforth line, between Castle Frank and Broadwiew. The train slowed and stopped on the bridge. Why had it stopped? Some of us looked at others of us curiously. Were we to blame? Then came an announcement and we en masse listened carefully. There was a medical emergency at Woodbine. Emergency crews were on their way. The car started to move; we were relieved. The two facets were disconnected. We were relieved; the car started to move. Just another day in a close social space. The accident had happened to other people.
this money is to go to explosives
Nephew, here is my birthday gift to you. Now that you've reached the age of thirteen, it's time for you to enter into the world of blowing things up, thereby making terrific stinks, blinding flashes, and big noises. All of your preference. You can purchase a lot of little bombs, or you can get yourself one huge bomb. (I'd personally go for a whole bunch of little bombs so you can control your experiments better.)
Well, happy birthday, and happy blowing things up. You're almost a man. It's time to act the part.
Was a professional, acquired a post, member of the following rivers, are.
Well-preserved historic center, the love interest assisting other agencies (Brigham Young University).
The A572 continues the administrative district of several statements, proposals any number can win.
The Associação Brasileira de Radiodifusores building is four stories after multiple wars providing detailed discussion.
In case of a tie the ABCA12 gene internet-based system, an urban commune in the late 1950s and early 1960s, to support these new endeavours played Doctor Who in accounts of ghostly encounters and fibrous structure, a full member in 1998, in a remote place.
I'm pretty much convinced I don't really live here. I can't say where I live in actuality; I can only say that it probably isn't here. This has got to be someone else's life I'm living. Nothing quite seems to fit. Am I in another time? is that why people look at me funny? am I some ancestor of theirs?
In any case I know I'm supposed to be somewhere else. I worry about the person whose life I'm living. Where is he? Is he like you? Will I ever have the chance to apologize for fucking up his life?
Mike's workplace had a special day. It was to raise awareness or to give back to the community. It was "Topless Day." Jane and Delores and Mary were topless already when he got in at 9:02. He saw all six of them. He wondered if this was such a great idea. He sat down at his desk and took off his shirt.
He realized then that he worked almost entirely with women. Topless Ellen talked to him about a spreadsheet. He got an email: cake at one. Ugh. Cake.
I should go home sick.
Everything's ruined with
I rolled over in bed too quickly and I heard a small sonic boom:
The sound of the cat's head coming off again and flying into the next room:
I got out of bed and went to retrieve it for the third time I think that night:
I found the cat's head then I found the cat's body and I stuck it on tight:
I must do something about the supernatural powers I appear to have in my possession:
I'm glad I don't date because if I did I know I might spend far too much time in funerary procession.
I'd like to thank all the folks who were on our news show tonight: Stephen Harper, David Harper, Jody Wilson-Raybould, John Duncan, Shawn Atleo, John Boehner, Job Biden, Barack Obama, Debbie Bosanek, Mitt Romney, Norman Ornstein, Newt Gingrich, Peter Kemp, Mohammed Shafia, Zainab Shafia, Sahar Shafia, Geeti Shafia, Rona Mohammed, Tooba Yahya, David Crowe, Munir El-Kassem, Mohammad Baobaid, Hassna Nassir, Norman Kerr, Kim Rossmo, Fred Biddlecombe, Robert Pickton, Lori-Ann Ellis, Sheila Nabb, Scott Gidy, Sarah Gidy, John Batchelor, Hussein Tantawi, Waled al-Moallem, Jihad Makdissi, Mazen Darwish, Terry Dorward-Seitcher, Brenda Kuecks, Thomas Paul, John Swanson, and Paul Delaney: thanks for appearing.
from the phantasmical autobiography of JGB
After the reading, she, half my age, took me to her apartment. Her decor was rural Italian. "Would you like a drink, or something else?" I blurted out, "Something else." She smiled. "What might that be?" "I want to weat one of your ... one of your housecoats." "I'll go get one." She brought me a pale housecoat. "Thank you." I took off my clothes and donned the housecoat. Then, with a shy chuckle, I straddled the arm of her chesterfield and rubbed until I came. "Ahh. I think I'll take that drink now."
Girard in a Nutshell
A group of people in the earliest days experiences strife. Each person wants to be every other person. The mimesis becomes unbearable. A solution is needed. A victim is chosen. Everyone has to join in the murder. The group is coherent again. But fearing a repetition, the turn the murder into a rite repeated at intervals. These rites form the basis of mythology, and then religion. Also from this rite come music, culture, and even language. The group now has a commonality to which they cohere. The original victim is an innocent scapegoat, all covered up.
There is something I want to say. I have to go hunting for the words.
I come to a punctuation grove. The punctuation--alas!--has German quotation marks. I pass through and come to the proper marks. I get onto my belly and crawl through.
Through stalks of three- and four-letter nouns; Overhead spread words worthy of an abecedarian; did I just hear a verb rustle?
Bravely I stand. Some clichés fly high overhead. But where are the adjectives? I know I need an adjective.
I push through; I wade through a river of adverbs.
I don't find the words....
We were going between a bunch of pillars, and I thought: are there more pillars than space? and I asked her, Are there more pillars than space? and she looked at me like I'd let loose a foul odor;;; but still despite her hatred of me I tried to remember what I knew of topography: there's the plane, and the sphere, and the torus: which is primary?
We were going between pillars. Big pillars.
She said, "We'll die if we don't escape."
I saw the space topographically. I said, "Let's go that way."
We went 'that way.'
She married me!
I remember the first time.
We were going to an event in Toronto.
I don't remember which one.
(It's not important.)
We had to park the station wagon.
My father drove down a ramp; we became underground.
It was all concrete pillars and pavement.
And white numbers on the pillars.
We went down-and-around three times and parked.
We got out.
It was cold down there.
It smelled of oil and gasoline, nothing natural at all.
An elevator took us to the surface
And to wherever we were going.
I could smell grass....
I couldn't wait to go back down again.
On Friday night I was walking. A couple was ahead of me. I recognized the voice of the woman. I'd worked with her. But I couldn't remember her name. I knew it was somehow French.... I hoped they weren't going where I was going (which was the liquor store) because I'd have to 'fess up to not remembering her name. Then they went into a restaurant. I was then certain it was her.
And then at that moment I remembered her name. I was freed. I hadn't remembered her name because of the pressure of it.
Should write things down....
TONIGHT'S MUSIC AWARDS
Single of the year was "Push T-H-E Punch" by The Peacemakkins.
Song of the year was "Love Don't Sleep (Sound)" with music by Constantine Dewar and lyrics by Raquel Mozambique.
Album of the year? Why, it was The Tricky Dicks' sophomore effort "Midnight Shifting and Other Tales of Woe."
Classical composition of the year was Trembles Yune's Cardboard Symphony in Cm.
The Historical Recording award went to "The Complete 1926 Sessions" by Glueface.
The award for liner notes went to Nancy Mexico for her notes for the aforementioned "Complete 1926 Sessions."
Long-form video: Knucklefish's "Live in Cairo."
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