Saturday, November 28, 2015


  I'm so rude and crude online. But, damnit, I'm not getting what I want need or am implicitly promised when it comes to internet or wireless "service", and the internet is dogshit of late. Probably because it's all you know, another shooting. Someone goes off. Well, Colorado. Guns and Dope. DUH!? Dunno. Dunno. Dunno. Dunno. At least we just are rude with words and we self immolate. It really should be a practice for more people. People should NEVER be able to strike out at another person, whether it's with guns knives or drones. People should just blow up from the inside, you know? There should be rooms booths alongside highways and in office buildings with vents and sound proofing. It's no one else's fault for your anger outburst right? Go off by your self and destruct on your own, sans harming another soul or property, you know what I mean? Even the Buddhist monks in Vietnam, they'd just douse their self in petroleum and flicker Bic or Zippo and be done with it.

Just Who Are All These Jackasses?

Who are all these jackasses at 6 o'clock in the morning in their nylon jackets and shorts, socks with slip-on sandals and messed up head hair going into the coffee shops on Saturday mornings late November before the sun comes up? High Blood Pressure Testosterone Supplement quaffing assholes out for the paper before more ball games begin on the TV?
You and I both can't stand these people and it's not enough to take our guns away but we won't shoot them. No way. The world needs assholes. What else is there to write about but love? When there's anger and hate, it's well defined. Words come together, feeling's divine. Just like love, forever and ever. All down through the ages and ages. So Be It. The End.

Friday, November 27, 2015


 Can't understand why they tell you things are fantastic over here or there, and, you pay them money and get over there, however, a red hot fire-poker iron rod is rammed up yer arse and no one said dick about any thing before hand. Besides which, nothing is like they say and they continue to say things are like that, "paradise" they describe.

Saturday, November 21, 2015


I love BLOGGER. I can get on the site and write away. At least on the phone I can. Not that I want to. It's far simpler and easier and thank the gods at Blogger for making it easy, to do an email and post.
But Shiva help you post from the desktop. All manner of hell greets you there. Yeah. You need a new browser, it quips. Fuck You, Blogger. Nothing's "wrong" with my goddamn browser. What's wrong is YOUR fucking sod-ware that doesn't work with pc desktops any more. THAT'S what's "wrong".

Secret Society's Super Secrets Places

SUBTITLE: It's A Confederacy Of Dunces or, Stupid Is As Stupid Does

 A man asked why was this written in the comments section. I replied, and had a hell of a job ‎NOT being able to simply copy cut and paste in an email, what I wanted to do here.  

 The guy, whose name is Richard, obviously a dick, asked why was this article done and then why did he read it. 
 It was the comments, embedded in fb and I wrote in the available window:

WHY RICHARD? It's here/there, and, not a lot of people know about it, or the ancillary links too, are of interest to read. Plus, one might now seriously consider joining a college in Utah to do a "career" in computers, but, heh-heh, if you're nice, fill in some of the required electives courses by selecting some ETHICS classes. ;)

 But I was NOT able to get my goddamn brand fucking new computer to copy after selecting, and paste to the email, this message. I instead, as a work around, sent 2 fucking messages to my gmail account, which I have inboxing here on my phone, and then opened, here on my phone, a new message, from my Web based other email account, a new message, to this otherwise pain in the arse web-blog, I've had problems with this weekend and past week and month...but I digress, because I do. I mean, I tried to get it done in a cockument yes cockument and I saved it and changed the format and tried that too, to send it, but even that, my goddamn brand fucking new computer couldn't wouldn't co-operate and allow me to put all the text in one place to do this fucking simple dumbassed thing: All these words, in this place, as a blog post. The End. (For Now)


 Yeah, and even THAT email trick, and, why's it a fucking trick? Why does it have to be? The simple fucking email doesn't print/show on the blog page. Some it does, I'm speaking in general, and some, only the title shows, but no body of the text. It depends on if I'm looking at the dashboard or not, or something, and then, so too, there's this: I can't just simply do things. The internet computing it's all supposed to be just that! Why won't it comply? Confederacy Of Dunces! It's Stupid, As Stupid Does!!! THE END, Of This Entry Of NONSENSE. 
At least THIS one works!!! Fucking Suck on That, Tumblr!

Test Subject Reality Starr

Starr Williams was once the biggest star in the rodeo (row-day-oh) circuit, of the 30's & 40's, (The 2030 & 2040's). She/He messed about on the open plain and took on all comers, goers, and everyone or anyone in-between. She/He wasn't shy about furiously demonstrating STARR's ability, capability, compatability, resilience, adaptability, compliance, and intestinal fortitude towards involvement in, of, to, for, LIFE! Life, with all cylinders firing, all bolts blown and pistons pumping, or, at least all forms of the stuff of stars burning!

Friday, November 20, 2015

The Paul Lynde Halloween Special (1976)

Don't Do Drugs, Kids!

It All Reminds Me How Dumb Every Thing Is

 Stupid guy or dream about some dipshit who, having met his near infant son the day before at work, having said hello, returns and, in an improvisational non-impulse on my part, I was just was wherever I was mentally and emotionally and physically, and I just went with it, my odd situation. 
 Which was, working, minding my own business, and the guy and his son presumably, show up, and he the father, foists the son on me. I'm cradling the lad in my arms, and you know, in a moment of love, of life, a gesture, shake my arms back and forth, sort of like I was jolted by an electrical charge. Looking at the kid, and he me, we are not in pain or fear, just are in the moment and we say, look who's here! Who have we here? Or some idiotic statement of non-definition what ever. And, then, the father who foisted, takes him and hands him off and I don't see to whom. He the father is zeroed in on my eyes, and is ready for lawsuit like I'm the crazy infant shaker syndrome. And I'm just so bowled over I don't know how to deal with it. I'm walking away, silent, stunned, and, this idiot has locked eyes with me and is all manner so self-righteously inc‎ensed. Like I'm the instigator and propagator and problem. Holy Fucking COW! After I gather my wits, I begin to ask, well, where's your son? Where's your son? What did you do with your baby? And he's all, he's with his other father. And om I'm okay, thinking to my self. Say nothing. Saying nothing. Thinking, just keep walking. I'm walking. He the Foisting Father Out For Lawsuit, is walking with me and zeroed in my eyes with lock look crazy pursuit. I'm walking home back to my apartment. I get to the locked metal screen exterior door of it, and he's already there, opening it up and going inside, amidst other tennants, doing the same. I'm real nervous to say the least, approaching fear for my life and frustration as well. What in HELL is this dickshits' PROBLEM? Is he in love with me? Stalker obsessed? How asinine! What ever in hell did I do to him? I don't know him from the man in the moon. He comes to my place of work and entraps me in some bullfuckshit shenanigans, for what-dumb-fuck-ever "logic" he's got going in his labyrinthine innerscope, and I'm infinitely part parcel his magnum opus, and, am powerless it seems to me, to extricate myself of this madness. That to me is what life is from time to time. I recall, after talking to him, with the kid, and his putting the kid off some place, or to someone, another occasion, this before I walked, and he followed before he disappeared and then suddenly re-appeared later at my/his/our apartment building, being at work, and there being, and this is the funny part, 2 different dogs. 2 of same I saw this past week for real, at work, owned by 2 different owners. 1, a young bulldog, not even a year old. 2, a gray, great dane dog, spotted weakly, by some spots on his coat, like a dalmation. I pet one then the other, and then, went away. Then the guy follows me to the apartment. Sort of like the latest James Bond film. It (these both), made no real sense, logically, as they were fiction, in the true sense of no real sense to them that the guy is in a building which blows up in a film, and in my dream is there at work. Both disappear, then reappear, fine and presumably dandy, only to torture us mercilously, in some preposterous, intricate, complicated scheme, that, in real world time, would take months to plan, and they'd both have to BE me, if they knew I'd be going to such and such place after, and look for and fall for which and whatever just so. Impossible But True. Such is life. Quite stupid and idiotic from time to time. Have to laugh at it, so sad. But we do get and go consequently because of its maddening permutations insane from time to time. AAAAAARRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!

Friday, November 13, 2015


Yup, nice song. Wonderful, clever, ever so "cheeky" tune. Cloyingly, sickeningly effective, but gat-damned annoying! Yes, BAD timing. It's NOVEMBER, fucking 13th, a FRIDAY no less, and I'm trying to enjoy my coffee and egg/cheese/and un-cooked, bacon croissant, while the twin blonds are in the corner, one hacking their lungs out sick, and this lame-arsed,  musick selection comes on through the speakers, annnnnnd I'm OUT side. Like I had planned. There in my nylon, Kuhl brand, cargo pocket, shorts, pinch-free, Duluth Trading, underwear, thick socks, black leather, Nike, All Conditions Gear, (ACG, except for this one, they're much too small. They've always hurt my feet, in fact, my top left smashed ever for sharp in pain effective, forever. Bought originally for work on The Matterhorn. ), and my black, Fruit of The Loom, short-sleeved, single, left-pocket shirt, under my long-sleeved, white, crew-neck, compression shirt, from Russell Athletics, my mock turtle-neck shirt, (long sleeves of course) and black, from J.Crew or L.L.Bean, or maybe Land's End, my ICE-BREAKER half-zip specialized wool shirt, and over that, finally, my heavy but movable black Minus 33 Degrees hoody, almost all of these items made in CHINA, with the cotton exceptions, they're made in Honduras or Mexico, funny, I'm out on the sidewalk with all the stupid people and their stupid dogs. They all have stupid fucking dogs.

Saturday, November 07, 2015


Mine Gud. But my internet connection is slow. At least I have a new computer and I am writing on it. It has the 2T storage I wanted when I put a digital package on the old one. I have nothing on this machine and I'm really just hoofing it. I will eventually get internet like we all should have, from right here in my room. And then it will sing, right? Or, I just might be able to do school online from when ever....Wish Me Luck

testing my pc is crap these days I am heartbroken but spirit lies

Wonder how this thing works, and if it does. In life we live despite our selves or our own best interests or natural instinctual flow. In fact we spend a life time wasting what energies we have perhaps alloted maybe not, on fighting idiotic systems, those of life and it's random frustrationals, and those of human kind, through, no fault of its own, has made it nearly impossible to write a letter to someone, asking them for something, getting a response in a timely manner, and getting it sorted in a few days. Nope, the whole damned affair is a cock up tits up waste. Fuck it! Or rather, don't! Damn it all. Wish we could. Start over. With this knowledge! Ultimately nothing matters. How fucking depressing is that? That's your answer or secret message they tell you but don't tell you near the end of that Think and Grow Rich, positive mental attitude book, from way back when. Either that is the most zazen book in the world, or it as well can go to complete oblivion, like that book of books called book-bible. Don't mix linen and wool. Nonsense! What horse shit. Damn, even horse shit has more use than that advice. Nothing matters. Well, of course it does, from the scientific point of view. Hmm. Pondering on.