Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Hey baby, what's good?

Well, shit goes as follows:
Maybe one or two passages in the Bibbble(tm)
condemn (specifically) male homosexuality.
Compare this to the passages pertaining to
worship of false idols (Among which are numbered: Hovind, Robertson, Falwell), the place of women in the family unit (Make me dinner and shut yer face)
and the simple fact of existing
in this moldy old world.
Okay, assuming you've done your homework,
why is it that especially U.S. preachers are so homophobic?
Psychological explanations have been put forth,
mentioning "scientific laws" such as procreation,
yet several studies of animals, in particular ducks, have shown that animals are just as homoerotic as us "sentient beings".
Besides, why should a supposedly omnipotent creature frown on the curious variations of his own creation?
Why spew invective at people inventive
enough to utilize the anal n' oral canals?
(And thereby triple the enjoyment of us heterosexuals as well)
If God IS, indeed, omni-everything, he'd know how it'll all end beforehand, making our human destinies predetermined and thereby robbing us of free will.
But if we DO posses free will, then God can't be omni-everything,
as he'd know how everything would turn out...
rendering us all merely bit-players in his moronic joke.

Imagine this:
God is omni-everything, all-powerful and perfect.
Why, then, did he create the earth and us?
IF he WAS perfect, he'd have no need to do so.
He was -already- all that he could be.
So in creating us, he abdicated his right to own the throne.

Bleeh.

Seriously, wether or not a god/gods exist, I could care less so far.
First of all, prove that there IS a God/Gods, THEN prove that they correspond to your particular sect.
THEN I -might- consider you as more mature than a five-year-old.

Any takers?

Wednesday, January 25, 2006


Me, at a poetry reading a few years back. Posted by Picasa

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Who The Creepin' Fuck
Is Michael S. Olsen?
Well, it's quite obviously ME, you retard,
so quit with the dumbo questions.
Ah... I see. You want to know more about me?
Why? What are you after? Nosy bastard.
Alright.
Let's do the basics, shall we?
Name's Michael S√łndberg Olsen.
I'm a 26 year old guy from the tiny frozen windtossed
realm of Denmark.
And before we go any further, let's make one thing clear:
I despise you all,
irrespective of race, creed, color or cream filling.
Just letting you know where you stand.
So what DO I like?, you no doubt wonder,
which only goes to show the general level of your feeblemindedness.
Well, I like many things, great and small.
Pointing out what an assjack you are, for one.
I also enjoy listening to the grainy,
gorgeous weirdness of Tom Waits.
Reading Erwin Neutzsky-Wulff, Douglas Adams, H.P. Lovecraft, Harlan Ellison, Hunter S. Thompson etc. etc. An eclectic mix for damn sure. None of these lists are exhaustive, mind you, just casting random pearls before you swine. Hope you choke on 'em, you slobbering beasts.
I love throwing stones at the glass houses you tend to keep your minds in, as my garganormous brain is kept in a veritable mental fortress, and I only lower the drawbridge
to those with V.I.P. passes.
Hmmm... what else?
Oh, yeah, blowjobs, I like those, too.
Let me finish off by adding that I am also, at heart,
a very humble guy.
It Should Never Have Come To This...

I know I should have been more careful.
The moment I saw Reluctant's name in my in-box
I should have thrown the entire PC off the french balcony
and out into the snow;
and the moment I read that thrice-damned e-mail,
I should have slit my throat ear-to-ear and followed the hardware,
spending my last few moments in this world
spraying cryptic red patterns on the virgin frost.
The consequences of not pursuing this prudent line of action
will haunt me for the rest of my days.
And the most awful and damning of these consequences is this:
what you are looking at now.
My own blog.
There are (were) few things I've foresworn in this existence
and ranking right up there with never trying to mate
with a duckbilled platypus, was having my own blog.
It smelled like futility.
It stank of being in contact with a multitude of morons.
It fairly reeked of being a waste of time.
In other words, it seemed like WORK.

So how did I get lured into this abyss of blathering known as "blogging"?
(By the way, I loathe that word: Blogging. Henceforth, I'll call it Flogging,
a concept I am much more in tune with).
Well, it was all Reluctant's fault. He baited me.
He sent me an e-mail announcing the birth of his blog
and begged me shamelessly to post a comment on it.
And I, being the friendly, benevolent and trusting sort that I am,
set off post-haste across the vast wastelands of the net to do so.
But to my utter horror,
I found that I could not post any sort of comment on his blog
lest I had one of me own!
I was never so torn in my life:
Commit what I deemed a sin against nature, or let down a friend?
And since you're reading this, I don't have to tell you what I chose.
But I will never forgive him for putting me in such a predicament.
In fact, I am plotting revenge at this very moment.
More on that in a later post...