I Am Death, Come For Thee!
I Am Dead, Comfort me!

As we are now hurtlin' towards yet another year of a war based on lies, greed and theology,
it might serve the commonweal to explain how, exactly, it got this far.

Well, let's see...

You have a superpower with only two political parties.
And they're both BAAAD! Tweedledu... well, you know the rest.

Except, of course, that this is a false comparison.
Why?
Because there is no Left equivalent of Fox, Cunt-Rash-Coulter, O'Really and Rush-To-Judgement
in terms of vehemence and hate.

("Oh! Oh!", I hear the Self-Lobotomized-Red-State-Incest-Spawn yell, "What about Air America , the Daily Show and the Colbert Report? (The last of which, by the by, had to be explained to certain dullards, before they realized it was satire) ).

But none of those use the same kind of eliminationist KILL-'EM-ALL Fascist rethoric
in any degree CLOSE (if even!) to that of their Reich--- Sorry!--- Right-wing, counterparts.


But the MSMalistas, like the semen-slurry-slurpin' lapdogs that they are,
have given Shrubbery 2.0 a free ride EVERY FUCKING STEP OF THE WAY.

And their unbridled hypocrisy is not just plain for all to see...
It screams to the stars of the firmament with the power of a neutron-bomb-blast.

The American media happily cheerleaded a veritable witch-hunt against Billy-Boy Clinton
because he got an unethical suck-job, but when Bushybrow Junior rapes the constitution,
this is what the media says: "Hey! She ASKED FOR IT!".

And why has the american media devolved ?

Because the right veered SO FAR OFF THE RAILS to go further into their fascist-city-on-the-hill-shining- vision-direction, that they moved the goddamn goalposts.
At the same time, the left moved closer to the "middle".
And what happened?
The media, like the neutered non-entities they are composed of,
swallowed the Newt-bait like it was ambrosia...
instead of the Reich-rancid-regurgitated-spermatoza-swill it actually is.

The GOP now stands for the Great Oligarchy of Penile-Envy.
And, the MSM, having no balls at all, sympathizes to a degree that they'll
swallow the load unquestioned.

And here we are.

Lying Is Good... If Done In The Name of Gawd

First of all,
sorry for my long absence.

Second,
kiss my delightfully unwiped hairy ass.
You're welcome to floss.

Third,
Denmark may be heading for a rerun of the
"Muhammed-cartoon" scandal.
Turns out that members of *Dansk Folkepartis Ungdom*,
(The Danish Peoples Party's Youth... and, yeah, it's about as fascist as the name itself implies)
got drunk at a political camp outing and had a contest to see
who could be most offensive to Islam.
The result, however, was videotaped and leaked
and caused all sorts of blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, blaaghhh and blehh...
Who cares?
Appearently Iran is going to boycott Danish cheese.
That made me laugh.
In fact, all of this made me laugh. Through my fucking tears.
But not even -I- care about what makes me cry anymore, so...

Here's the real deal:
I have no faith in democracy anymore.
Not that I've decided to become a shill
for totalitarianism, like Coulter,
or Theocracy, like Dobson...
No.
I'm advocating that we all just die right now.
It's where we're heading anyway.
So why prolong it?

I'm Straight, I'm Queer, I'm Bi...

I'm straight.
Wish I was bi, though, sometimes...
Look at it one way, it doubles your chances.
Look at it another, it doubles the heartache.

And I thought I -was- bi for a while.
Around age 18 I had a close friend.
A very close, very dear, friend.
He was gay.
And he was caught in an excrusiating emotional trap.
His parents were rich, formal and ultra-conservative.
I suppose they, in their own way, tried to love him,
but they could never accept his sexuality.
It was too... alien... to their lifestyle.
One night, he came on to me...
Agressively so, which wasn't like him at all.
He was an -extremely- shy guy, normally. Very quiet.
And I kissed him back...
Why? So many reasons... a recent break-up, especially.
But it was a mistake of the greatest proportions.
Because I knew he was struggling
and I was attempting to comfort him...
and myself.
The mistake in it was that I, being a confused teen myself,
didn't get the bigger picture.
He had been fighting with his parents and wrestling his feelings
for so long, that he acted out of desperation.
A week went by after that...
Not a word from him.
Then I saw a notice in the local paper.
He had crashed his brand new motorcycle into the pylon of a concrete bridge.
And he wasn't drunk (even beer made him queasy)
and drugs weren't involved.
It was suicide.
And it broke me into a thousand fucking pieces,
which, to this day, I'm still fumbling to pick up.

He deserved more.
He deserved so much more out of life.
He deserved more from his stuck-up asshole parents.
But most of all,
he deserved more from me.

I've never been able to adequatly say goodbye to him.
(His parents wouldn't allow me to attend the funeral)
So instead I've said "So long and see you later".

A dime for a jukebox dirge.

Goodbye Simon.

Schoolyard Shuffle

He was one of those kids...
Always dressed in suspiciously white-stained sweats,
exuding the odor of catfood, urine and general neglect.
He had unruly red hair and an attitude to match.
He'd always get into fights
and he'd always end up with blood on his shirt...
guaranteeing a second helping of abuse from his mother when he got home.
Few of us ever invited him to our homes a second time.
Something would always end up missing.
Never something valuable or in any way important...
Knick-knakcs mostly... stuff no-one would miss if they didn't notice
the lack of dust on the shelf-spaces where they were taken from.
And he was a liar.
He would lie so brazenly, cockily and pathetically that we had to humor him.
The alternative would have been worse.
Always claiming he had some rich relative who bought him fantastic gifts
for Christmas and took the whole family for trips around the world.
In other words,
he was insufferable
and I didn't like him at all.
But he was my friend
and compared with the smarmy and greasy jocks and rich-kids
who seemed to know all the tricks and secrets,
he was a better friend than I deserved.

Fear And Loathing In Denmark,
Part The Third.

Joking Is Serious Business

She was gonna be a compassionate cop
and I was gonna be a drunk.
This was about 5 years ago.
We weren't in love, per se, really.
A mutual affinity, sure.
But not only was she spoken for,
I was a "Head for the bottom of the bottle"-kind of ingrate.
Yeah, I'm still drinking, right now as I'm writing this, in fact,
but there are levels of obliviousness, if you catch my drift.
I remember waking up after a party
at the home of a mutual friend...
I went straight for the leftover gin
as the sun was still struggling its way over the horizon.
She and I woke up simultaneously.
Four other bodies snored next to us.
We had a... heart-to-heart-mind-to-mind conversation.
The kind that, even when the actual words fade into sepia-photograph blurriness,
the meaning and importance of it lingers.
She put it so eloquently:
"Michael, I can never tell if you're being serious or if you're making a joke".

That is a sentence (both figuratively and literally)
that has haunted me since (and -before- I heard it expressed, come to think of it).

When do you cross the line?
And, more importantly, perhaps, where do you -mark- the line?

I still can't think of an adequate answer.

Alone

Fear solitude... it shows you who you are,
which is something only a very few people can survive.
I am alone.
I have been so before.
Am I lonely?
Yes... but only when I am with other people.
Sometimes it makes me feel like I've given up on the human race.

As Bukowski explained it:
-----------
NOTICE

citizens of the world
I renounce you.

I have
long ago.
but this is a formal
notice.
me against
you.
a restraining
order.

fuck off.
dry up.
vanish.

don't come to
my door
with pizza
pussy
or offers of
peace.

it's too late.

the music has
frozen in the
air
castrated by the
absence of your
presence.
-----------------

The only quality I really admire anymore is courage.
Courage to be emotionally and intellectually honest.
Courage to brave the solitude
and truly face the self.
If you can do so and still crack a joke,
you are alright in my book.

Fear and loathing in Denmark,
Part deux.

The distant, melancholy sound of a train setting off
for parts unknown.
Railroad tracks.
Railroad tracks stretching to the blistering horizon,
is what I see when I think of you.
Railroad tracks, birthday cake and crushed knuckles.

Our love was but a brief stay-of-execution.
Your cousin and your brother tried to kill me,
and even though they failed, they came far too close.
Not only was I a worthless westerner,
I didn't even believe in any celestial configuration
of the wayward western pantheon.
My hands still show the scars I got closing the fresh wounds
with fire.

But I saw and sated you...
And received more in return that I could ever deserve.
I gave you my farewell on my nineteenth birthday,
slinking of down the newly paved road, heady with the smell of freshly molten asphalt and lost in a dream of what would and will never be.
We both deserved so much more.

Those who know love best,
are those forever scorned.

Fear And Loathing In Denmark:
A Savage Journey Into The Memory
Of A Maniac. Part 1.

(ca. 8-10 years ago)

I was just walking into the classroom, when the drugs started to take hold.
My teacher seemed to be alternately swelling and contracting... like her body was in the grip of some fearsome flesh-molding tide...
and her face seemed to be melting... a puddle of purple wax.
Conjugating Latin is never easy, and if your breakfast consists of acid and martini you've got an extra handicap. Nonetheless, I passed the exam. Which, of course, merited a celebration!
So there I was, later that night, feeding a pet pig, who's fur I'd just dyed, pork rinds, while listening to the Velvet Underground's "Sister Ray" blasting out of the huge speakers hung in my new girlfriend's apartment.
Suddenly my girlfriend, let's call her Jane, says to me, outta nowhere:
"My ex just got out of prison today. He might show up".
I stare at her, not quite sure what to say, when there's a knock on the door. I laugh out loud at the absurd timing, but Jane jumps up, frightened, and turns down the volume a bit. Then she sort of tip-toes to the door and opens it, keeping the chain on.
Words are exchanged, but I can't make out what is said.
Then the door is kicked in, and this big, hulking brute stomps in,
glances around, and zooms in on me.
"Great", I thought, "Here we go".
The beast approaches. He stands looking down at me.
I remain seated on the sofa... pour another mix of chocolate milk and whiskey. He just stands there STARING at me, real intense, real potential-for-violence vibes radiating from him.
Then, finally, he asks, in the most raw anguished voice:
"Are you the one she claims to love now? Are you the new fly in her web?".
I raise my glass, give him a knowing half-smile, and drink.
He nods and sort of leans down to whisper:
"Don't get caught. Take it from me, jail is easier".
Then he squeezes my shoulder in a sympathetic way, turns around
and walks out.
Jane looks from me to the door and back again.
She gnaws her lower lip, then asks:
"What... what did he say?".
I point to the half-empty bottle and say:
"That I'll probably need a lot more of this stuff".
The pig grunted in agreement and I resumed petting him.
Never underestimate the wisdom of animals.