29 December 2011
23 December 2011
21 December 2011
19 December 2011
16 December 2011
14 December 2011
13 December 2011
12 December 2011
09 December 2011
07 December 2011
04 December 2011
02 December 2011
29 November 2011
22 November 2011
15 November 2011
14 November 2011
09 November 2011
The raving derelict sometimes, continually shouting
and mumbling
and stuttering
about the end of the world and
his lot in life and
the low low prices at home depot.
Rebellion against commercialism,
though he hates all the hippies sitting on wall street right now.
We are the all American anti-everything,
taking a stand against whatever you can think of,
waving our flag and yelling
we are mad as hell and we don't know why.
But the mad is really just a cover
for the sad, and sad doesn't sell t-shirts.
The sad don't protest.
The sad don't make a scene.
They sit at home and
drink a beer and
watch tv with the sound off because
if they hear one more goddamn ad
about some new medication that
they absolutely need with
a million side effects they
will break down and cry.
That is what he feels, overwhelmingly sometimes,
coming from our damned human race.
Each age seems to have their emotion.
The 60's were angry.
Now we are just all blinded by sadness,
stumbling around
with our hands out and
our eyes shut and
our mouths wide open.
Waiting for someone else to shove food in.
Cursing the television for its stupidity,
while still blindly following its every word.
We don't trust or
believe or
love anymore
and those that do
feel guilty for it
because their private happiness
is something that is so rare.
So so rare.
and mumbling
and stuttering
about the end of the world and
his lot in life and
the low low prices at home depot.
Rebellion against commercialism,
though he hates all the hippies sitting on wall street right now.
We are the all American anti-everything,
taking a stand against whatever you can think of,
waving our flag and yelling
we are mad as hell and we don't know why.
But the mad is really just a cover
for the sad, and sad doesn't sell t-shirts.
The sad don't protest.
The sad don't make a scene.
They sit at home and
drink a beer and
watch tv with the sound off because
if they hear one more goddamn ad
about some new medication that
they absolutely need with
a million side effects they
will break down and cry.
That is what he feels, overwhelmingly sometimes,
coming from our damned human race.
Each age seems to have their emotion.
The 60's were angry.
Now we are just all blinded by sadness,
stumbling around
with our hands out and
our eyes shut and
our mouths wide open.
Waiting for someone else to shove food in.
Cursing the television for its stupidity,
while still blindly following its every word.
We don't trust or
believe or
love anymore
and those that do
feel guilty for it
because their private happiness
is something that is so rare.
So so rare.
07 November 2011
04 November 2011
03 November 2011
31 October 2011
26 October 2011
21 October 2011
by Lemony Snicket
Thirteen Observations made by Lemony Snicket while watching Occupy Wall Street from a Discreet Distance
1. If you work hard, and become successful, it does not necessarily mean you are successful because you worked hard, just as if you are tall with long hair it doesn’t mean you would be a midget if you were bald.
2. “Fortune” is a word for having a lot of money and for having a lot of luck, but that does not mean the word has two definitions.
3. Money is like a child—rarely unaccompanied. When it disappears, look to those who were supposed to be keeping an eye on it while you were at the grocery store. You might also look for someone who has a lot of extra children sitting around, with long, suspicious explanations for how they got there.
4. People who say money doesn’t matter are like people who say cake doesn’t matter—it’s probably because they’ve already had a few slices.
5. There may not be a reason to share your cake. It is, after all, yours. You probably baked it yourself, in an oven of your own construction with ingredients you harvested yourself. It may be possible to keep your entire cake while explaining to any nearby hungry people just how reasonable you are.
6. Nobody wants to fall into a safety net, because it means the structure in which they’ve been living is in a state of collapse and they have no choice but to tumble downwards. However, it beats the alternative.
7. Someone feeling wronged is like someone feeling thirsty. Don’t tell them they aren’t. Sit with them and have a drink.
8. Don’t ask yourself if something is fair. Ask someone else—a stranger in the street, for example.
9. People gathering in the streets feeling wronged tend to be loud, as it is difficult to make oneself heard on the other side of an impressive edifice.
10. It is not always the job of people shouting outside impressive buildings to solve problems. It is often the job of the people inside, who have paper, pens, desks, and an impressive view.
11. Historically, a story about people inside impressive buildings ignoring or even taunting people standing outside shouting at them turns out to be a story with an unhappy ending.
12. If you have a large crowd shouting outside your building, there might not be room for a safety net if you’re the one tumbling down when it collapses.
13. 99 percent is a very large percentage. For instance, easily 99 percent of people want a roof over their heads, food on their tables, and the occasional slice of cake for dessert. Surely an arrangement can be made with that niggling 1 percent who disagree.
1. If you work hard, and become successful, it does not necessarily mean you are successful because you worked hard, just as if you are tall with long hair it doesn’t mean you would be a midget if you were bald.
2. “Fortune” is a word for having a lot of money and for having a lot of luck, but that does not mean the word has two definitions.
3. Money is like a child—rarely unaccompanied. When it disappears, look to those who were supposed to be keeping an eye on it while you were at the grocery store. You might also look for someone who has a lot of extra children sitting around, with long, suspicious explanations for how they got there.
4. People who say money doesn’t matter are like people who say cake doesn’t matter—it’s probably because they’ve already had a few slices.
5. There may not be a reason to share your cake. It is, after all, yours. You probably baked it yourself, in an oven of your own construction with ingredients you harvested yourself. It may be possible to keep your entire cake while explaining to any nearby hungry people just how reasonable you are.
6. Nobody wants to fall into a safety net, because it means the structure in which they’ve been living is in a state of collapse and they have no choice but to tumble downwards. However, it beats the alternative.
7. Someone feeling wronged is like someone feeling thirsty. Don’t tell them they aren’t. Sit with them and have a drink.
8. Don’t ask yourself if something is fair. Ask someone else—a stranger in the street, for example.
9. People gathering in the streets feeling wronged tend to be loud, as it is difficult to make oneself heard on the other side of an impressive edifice.
10. It is not always the job of people shouting outside impressive buildings to solve problems. It is often the job of the people inside, who have paper, pens, desks, and an impressive view.
11. Historically, a story about people inside impressive buildings ignoring or even taunting people standing outside shouting at them turns out to be a story with an unhappy ending.
12. If you have a large crowd shouting outside your building, there might not be room for a safety net if you’re the one tumbling down when it collapses.
13. 99 percent is a very large percentage. For instance, easily 99 percent of people want a roof over their heads, food on their tables, and the occasional slice of cake for dessert. Surely an arrangement can be made with that niggling 1 percent who disagree.
20 October 2011
Conditions of My Parole
Sweet baby Jesus on fire
Ima need a damn lawyer and a miracle
to pull my ass out of this
Devil kept pokin' the bull
So I shipped her ass to Mozambique
Cause I was over it
Shoulda dumped my gat into the Verde
But what if she's a zombie or a dracula
I better hang on to this
Lordy with my hand upon the Bible
Swear I shot the damn devil, not a bitch
But the po po don't give a shit
Lordy won't you show a little mercy
I've been on the straight and narrow
since the judge and the warden done paroled me
Rat poison devil kept pokin'
So I shipped her ass to Mozambique
Cause I was over it
God damn judge found me guilty of public 'toxication
Public urination and parole violation
But the CSI couldn't find the body
to corroborate my bullshit story
Sweet Jesus, don't let the judge release me
What if she's a zombie or a dracula
and tried to fuckin eat me
Devil walked away from a plane and jumped to Mozambique
Help me outta this
Ima need a damn lawyer and a miracle
to pull my ass out of this
Devil kept pokin' the bull
So I shipped her ass to Mozambique
Cause I was over it
Shoulda dumped my gat into the Verde
But what if she's a zombie or a dracula
I better hang on to this
Lordy with my hand upon the Bible
Swear I shot the damn devil, not a bitch
But the po po don't give a shit
Lordy won't you show a little mercy
I've been on the straight and narrow
since the judge and the warden done paroled me
Rat poison devil kept pokin'
So I shipped her ass to Mozambique
Cause I was over it
God damn judge found me guilty of public 'toxication
Public urination and parole violation
But the CSI couldn't find the body
to corroborate my bullshit story
Sweet Jesus, don't let the judge release me
What if she's a zombie or a dracula
and tried to fuckin eat me
Devil walked away from a plane and jumped to Mozambique
Help me outta this
17 October 2011
14 October 2011
12 October 2011
11 October 2011
26 September 2011
23 September 2011
19 September 2011
08 September 2011
30 August 2011
29 August 2011
22 August 2011
18 August 2011
17 August 2011
15 August 2011
29 July 2011
18 July 2011
Ah ha...
I woke up this morning at 6am to a tree limb through my car roof, glass and metal looking like someone opened up a 12 gauge inside my vehicle.. Later I listened to a woman with rhinestones in the sole of her foot complain about her two boyfriends and her five children.. Does this mean anything?
Glancing over my shoulder at the way I have come, the darkened street, I shift the weight to my other hand... that familiar weight.. comforting.. disconcerting.. friend.. Eyes forward now... focus.. walk.. find and follow the tracks.. there is too much to do..
"DARK. Sinking the shovel into the wet earth, he snickered to himself. How cleaver a man he was. He had fooled the devil himself and now was about to walk away the richest man in this shitthole. Not only clever, but strong too. When the devil had found out about his plan, he had set that big fucker on him. His grin returned. He had thrashed him good. They would think twice before crossing.. crossing.. he stopped. He couldn't remember his own name. However odd that may have been, it did not stop him for more than a few seconds. He shrugged off that instability and continued to dig. He had showed all of them. He had taken the forbidden fruit right off the tree, then gone back for seconds. The rain had picked up past a drizzle. He bent and dug faster at the thought of getting on with his new life as a king in this country of beggars. He felt like laughing. Once he was finished digging this hole he would fetch the boxes and be on his way. He had left his prizes in a safe place. He couldn't remember where but that did not matter right now. He would find them. He would show them. He just had to finish this hole. He pace slowed again. Another thing that struck him as odd. Why was he digging this hole? He stopped and stood up straight to survey his work. He was standing stomach deep in a hole that was just over five feet long and around a foot and a half across. As hard as he tried, he could not remember why he had began this hole. It was then, at that moment, the small trickle of fear poisoned the well of his thoughts. He tried to slow his breathing. Tried to retrace his steps. THUNDER. Right over head. THINK DAMMIT!! WHY ARE YOU HEAR?
'Work like that sure does develop a powerful thirst.'
The voice startled him so much, he pissed himself. He spun around, wielding the shovel like a club. He knew who it was though he did not want to believe it.
'Can I offer you something to drink?'
He was the only one who could drink that shit. Tasted like rot to him.
'So you have nothing to say now? Why only a few days ago you were more than anxious to bend my ear to your bullshit. I suppose you reached the limit of you mental capacity.'
He was trying really hard to think of something, anything that could keep him alive. On top of that, why was he in this goddammn hole? His eyes darted around looking for that big fucker Body. He was out there. He was always out there.
'I did not mean to interrupt your task at hand. Please continue. I can wait'
'I think I am done with... whatever it is I was doing.' he managed to stutter. He gained a little confidence. 'I hope your big friend wasn't too banged up.'
He could see the gold glint of his teeth, indicating a smile, 'Oh his face told a story, but not the one you intended it to. You have gone above and beyond what I expected of you. I found all your handiwork. Every little bit. I must say you showed your true colors. Let me be the fly in your ointment though and ask you this. How much do you remember? Still can't figure out why you are here? Or where you left my property? Or your own name?' He paused. 'Do you even remember how you got here?'
He had lowered the shovel. He had lost feeling in his jaw, causing his mouth to slack open. The only thing he could remember was the devil standing over him at the edge of this goddamn hole, holding a bottle of that rattler whiskey. He was shaking. Why couldn't he think?
'I think we have wasted enough time, don't you?'
The devil turned his back to him. He wanted to scream at him and bring that shovel down on his head, but he couldn't. All he could do was stand there, slack jawed and stupid. He started to gargle something in an effort to speak when the impact threw him forward against the edge of his hole. His chest hit the wall of mud, snapping his head forward like a rag doll. After such a sudden bit of violence, everything seemed so still. As he slowly slid down the wall into the mud of his hole, he thought he heard the hiss of a snake behind him. He hoped he would have a big breakfast tomorrow. He always like a bi g b r eak f st .
The rain on the hot gun barrel gave off a hiss as steam mixed with smoke of the 10 gauge. Body stood silent, breathing hard as always, and watched as He uncorked the bottle and dumped the remaining whiskey and the dead snake into the hole. Body shouldered the 10 gauge and waited. Life was leaving. Death remained.
'Get down in there and take what is mine.'
Body holstered the 10 gauge on his back and jumped down into the hole. Pulling his knife, he tore open the shirt and went to work on the rat's back. He hit bone, broke it, he hit lungs, punctured. Elbow deep now in the corpse, he found what he was looking for and pulled. He wrapped the warm object in leather and climbed out of the hole. He was already saddled up on the horses by the time Body made it back to their horses. He packed his bundle into one of the saddlebags and swung up onto his horse.
'Almost.'
Don't care."
Glancing over my shoulder at the way I have come, the darkened street, I shift the weight to my other hand... that familiar weight.. comforting.. disconcerting.. friend.. Eyes forward now... focus.. walk.. find and follow the tracks.. there is too much to do..
"DARK. Sinking the shovel into the wet earth, he snickered to himself. How cleaver a man he was. He had fooled the devil himself and now was about to walk away the richest man in this shitthole. Not only clever, but strong too. When the devil had found out about his plan, he had set that big fucker on him. His grin returned. He had thrashed him good. They would think twice before crossing.. crossing.. he stopped. He couldn't remember his own name. However odd that may have been, it did not stop him for more than a few seconds. He shrugged off that instability and continued to dig. He had showed all of them. He had taken the forbidden fruit right off the tree, then gone back for seconds. The rain had picked up past a drizzle. He bent and dug faster at the thought of getting on with his new life as a king in this country of beggars. He felt like laughing. Once he was finished digging this hole he would fetch the boxes and be on his way. He had left his prizes in a safe place. He couldn't remember where but that did not matter right now. He would find them. He would show them. He just had to finish this hole. He pace slowed again. Another thing that struck him as odd. Why was he digging this hole? He stopped and stood up straight to survey his work. He was standing stomach deep in a hole that was just over five feet long and around a foot and a half across. As hard as he tried, he could not remember why he had began this hole. It was then, at that moment, the small trickle of fear poisoned the well of his thoughts. He tried to slow his breathing. Tried to retrace his steps. THUNDER. Right over head. THINK DAMMIT!! WHY ARE YOU HEAR?
'Work like that sure does develop a powerful thirst.'
The voice startled him so much, he pissed himself. He spun around, wielding the shovel like a club. He knew who it was though he did not want to believe it.
'Can I offer you something to drink?'
He was the only one who could drink that shit. Tasted like rot to him.
'So you have nothing to say now? Why only a few days ago you were more than anxious to bend my ear to your bullshit. I suppose you reached the limit of you mental capacity.'
He was trying really hard to think of something, anything that could keep him alive. On top of that, why was he in this goddammn hole? His eyes darted around looking for that big fucker Body. He was out there. He was always out there.
'I did not mean to interrupt your task at hand. Please continue. I can wait'
'I think I am done with... whatever it is I was doing.' he managed to stutter. He gained a little confidence. 'I hope your big friend wasn't too banged up.'
He could see the gold glint of his teeth, indicating a smile, 'Oh his face told a story, but not the one you intended it to. You have gone above and beyond what I expected of you. I found all your handiwork. Every little bit. I must say you showed your true colors. Let me be the fly in your ointment though and ask you this. How much do you remember? Still can't figure out why you are here? Or where you left my property? Or your own name?' He paused. 'Do you even remember how you got here?'
He had lowered the shovel. He had lost feeling in his jaw, causing his mouth to slack open. The only thing he could remember was the devil standing over him at the edge of this goddamn hole, holding a bottle of that rattler whiskey. He was shaking. Why couldn't he think?
'I think we have wasted enough time, don't you?'
The devil turned his back to him. He wanted to scream at him and bring that shovel down on his head, but he couldn't. All he could do was stand there, slack jawed and stupid. He started to gargle something in an effort to speak when the impact threw him forward against the edge of his hole. His chest hit the wall of mud, snapping his head forward like a rag doll. After such a sudden bit of violence, everything seemed so still. As he slowly slid down the wall into the mud of his hole, he thought he heard the hiss of a snake behind him. He hoped he would have a big breakfast tomorrow. He always like a bi g b r eak f st .
The rain on the hot gun barrel gave off a hiss as steam mixed with smoke of the 10 gauge. Body stood silent, breathing hard as always, and watched as He uncorked the bottle and dumped the remaining whiskey and the dead snake into the hole. Body shouldered the 10 gauge and waited. Life was leaving. Death remained.
'Get down in there and take what is mine.'
Body holstered the 10 gauge on his back and jumped down into the hole. Pulling his knife, he tore open the shirt and went to work on the rat's back. He hit bone, broke it, he hit lungs, punctured. Elbow deep now in the corpse, he found what he was looking for and pulled. He wrapped the warm object in leather and climbed out of the hole. He was already saddled up on the horses by the time Body made it back to their horses. He packed his bundle into one of the saddlebags and swung up onto his horse.
'Almost.'
Don't care."
25 June 2011
23 June 2011
18 June 2011
17 June 2011
Quweet Quweet
The following true story transpires in the span of about 8 seconds.
While in traffic the other afternoon, I watched something remarkable. I sat waiting for the light to change, music of the profane ringing through my speakers, thinking on god only knows what, when flying by me in the right lane comes a car. Black in color, black in containment, thumping the whole way. As it passed, my eye was drawn to the rear window because of something spelled out there upon. "QUWEET QUWEET" in an italicized, script-like font was written in white vinyl. What could that mean? I gazed upon the car as it motored by me in bewilderment. While staring at this peculiar thing, I noticed that the car was doing something out of the ordinary. The driver seemed to have very little control over the vehicle and began swerve. It was shortly there after that the car mounted the curb, slammed on the breaks and impacted into a light pole. The driver threw open the door and exploded out of the car. Angrily yelling into her cellular device, she cursed the person on the other end, cursed the traffic which I was a part of no less, cursed the car she drove, cursed the light pole, cursed the sky and cursed the cellphone in her hand. She repeatedly asked God to damn all of these objects, casting them into the lake of fire with Satan himself. She, very vocally, made it apparent that it was not her fault and began telling whomever was listening that she was an innocent victim and the blame must be placed elsewhere. Where do you ask? I don't know. Us probably. I wished to linger to hear more and to see the law enforcement officer arrive on scene to take down her account of how she was victimized. Unfortunately, the light changed, and I had to press on. I left Quweet Quweet there on the side of the road, yelling to her gods to punish all us sinners.
I knew then what Quweet Quweet meant.
Retard. It meant retard.
While in traffic the other afternoon, I watched something remarkable. I sat waiting for the light to change, music of the profane ringing through my speakers, thinking on god only knows what, when flying by me in the right lane comes a car. Black in color, black in containment, thumping the whole way. As it passed, my eye was drawn to the rear window because of something spelled out there upon. "QUWEET QUWEET" in an italicized, script-like font was written in white vinyl. What could that mean? I gazed upon the car as it motored by me in bewilderment. While staring at this peculiar thing, I noticed that the car was doing something out of the ordinary. The driver seemed to have very little control over the vehicle and began swerve. It was shortly there after that the car mounted the curb, slammed on the breaks and impacted into a light pole. The driver threw open the door and exploded out of the car. Angrily yelling into her cellular device, she cursed the person on the other end, cursed the traffic which I was a part of no less, cursed the car she drove, cursed the light pole, cursed the sky and cursed the cellphone in her hand. She repeatedly asked God to damn all of these objects, casting them into the lake of fire with Satan himself. She, very vocally, made it apparent that it was not her fault and began telling whomever was listening that she was an innocent victim and the blame must be placed elsewhere. Where do you ask? I don't know. Us probably. I wished to linger to hear more and to see the law enforcement officer arrive on scene to take down her account of how she was victimized. Unfortunately, the light changed, and I had to press on. I left Quweet Quweet there on the side of the road, yelling to her gods to punish all us sinners.
I knew then what Quweet Quweet meant.
Retard. It meant retard.
14 June 2011
06 June 2011
03 June 2011
24 May 2011
23 May 2011
10 May 2011
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he twirled around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath’rin’
And the cops were called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody down to the station
And booked William Zanzinger for first-degree murder
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain’t the time for your tears
William Zanzinger, who at twenty-four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy parents who provide and protect him
And high office relations in the politics of Maryland
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear words and sneering, and his tongue it was snarling
In a matter of minutes on bail was out walking
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain’t the time for your tears
Hattie Carroll was a maid of the kitchen
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn’t even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level
Got killed by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down through the room
Doomed and determined to destroy all the gentle
And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain’t the time for your tears
In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all’s equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain’t pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after and caught ’em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin’ that way without warnin’
And he spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance
William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now’s the time for your tears
With a cane that he twirled around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath’rin’
And the cops were called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody down to the station
And booked William Zanzinger for first-degree murder
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain’t the time for your tears
William Zanzinger, who at twenty-four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy parents who provide and protect him
And high office relations in the politics of Maryland
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear words and sneering, and his tongue it was snarling
In a matter of minutes on bail was out walking
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain’t the time for your tears
Hattie Carroll was a maid of the kitchen
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn’t even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level
Got killed by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down through the room
Doomed and determined to destroy all the gentle
And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain’t the time for your tears
In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all’s equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain’t pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after and caught ’em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin’ that way without warnin’
And he spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance
William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now’s the time for your tears
09 May 2011
03 May 2011
12 April 2011
01 April 2011
A Well Written Police Report
Orville Smith, a store manager for Best Buy in Augusta, Georgia, told police he observed a male customer, later identified as Tyrone Jackson of Augusta, on surveillance cameras putting a laptop computer under his jacket. When confronted, the man became irate, knocked down an employee, drew a knife and ran for the door.
Outside on the sidewalk were four Marines collecting toys for the “Toys for Tots” program. Smith said the Marines stopped the man, but he stabbed one of the Marines, Cpl. Phillip Duggan, in the back; the injury did not appear to be severe.
After Police and an ambulance arrived at the scene, Cpl. Duggan was transported for treatment.
The subject was also transported to the local hospital with two broken arms, a broken ankle, a broken leg, several missing teeth, possible broken ribs, multiple contusions, assorted lacerations, a broken nose and a broken jaw… injuries he sustained when he slipped and fell off of the curb after stabbing the Marine.
Outside on the sidewalk were four Marines collecting toys for the “Toys for Tots” program. Smith said the Marines stopped the man, but he stabbed one of the Marines, Cpl. Phillip Duggan, in the back; the injury did not appear to be severe.
After Police and an ambulance arrived at the scene, Cpl. Duggan was transported for treatment.
The subject was also transported to the local hospital with two broken arms, a broken ankle, a broken leg, several missing teeth, possible broken ribs, multiple contusions, assorted lacerations, a broken nose and a broken jaw… injuries he sustained when he slipped and fell off of the curb after stabbing the Marine.
23 March 2011
16 March 2011
15 March 2011
02 March 2011
01 March 2011
Praise god I feel incredibly destructive.
I want to burn bridges and sever ties. I want to collapse then fences I have mended. I want to flail around, destroying things I have worked so hard to create. I want to bang my head against the wall in frustration. I want to injure others. I want to throw your kindness right back in your face. I want to mock what is important. The more others don't curse, the more I fucking want to. I want to be childish, throwing temper tantrums wherever I see fit. The more you plan, the less I stick to it. But I hate the impulsive nature of the non plan. I don't have a plan. I want to self destruct. I hate what you love. I love what you hate. Fuck peace, make war. BORING! FUCK FUCK FUCK BORING!! IS EVERYONE THIS BORED?!? DO WE HAVE TO MAKE BORING COOL AGAIN?!? I must bore others out of their skull with my predictability and stupidity. Self centered egotistical asshole. Again and again and again. Maybe that is what pushes. I feel my mother's side of the family in me, stubborn and selfish. I feel my father's side, quick tempered and isolated. Put that all in the pot and pull out a fine american mess. Maybe this is what he felt before up-heaving everything. It would make sense. Ahh fuck it.
Who knows? Do you? I sure don't. I can't find a thought in my head that makes me want to. Is that what all this is? An attempt to destroy? What would that accomplish? What are we trying to accomplish? Does anyone care that the uphill climb leads nowhere? Are we climbing up a volcano? Years of hard labor to fall into a pit of despair and death. What are you going to do about it? What am I going to do about it? It is easier to destroy. Not to say it doesn't give the same rush of life. But fuck it man, why climb and climb and climb when I can trip others and laugh about it. I can cut their safety lines and watch them fall screaming into the dark. I can stomp my feet and anger the volcano. I am the Samoan god of death and chaos. I will incarnate your fears and frustrations. I will make life harder for you. I will torment you for the rest of your days or at least until the end of the commercial break. fuckit. Who am I kidding? Myself? You? God? HA! Stammer Faulk asked that and ended up buried in a shallow grave with a snake and cheap whiskey, chest collapsing, struggling to breath under the oppressive weight of his fear.
She exists in the eye of this storm of destruction. She is immune to it which is only by the grace of god. She is the only thing I am sure about. All the rest can burn in a fiery shit hell. Hallelujah and amen.
I want to burn bridges and sever ties. I want to collapse then fences I have mended. I want to flail around, destroying things I have worked so hard to create. I want to bang my head against the wall in frustration. I want to injure others. I want to throw your kindness right back in your face. I want to mock what is important. The more others don't curse, the more I fucking want to. I want to be childish, throwing temper tantrums wherever I see fit. The more you plan, the less I stick to it. But I hate the impulsive nature of the non plan. I don't have a plan. I want to self destruct. I hate what you love. I love what you hate. Fuck peace, make war. BORING! FUCK FUCK FUCK BORING!! IS EVERYONE THIS BORED?!? DO WE HAVE TO MAKE BORING COOL AGAIN?!? I must bore others out of their skull with my predictability and stupidity. Self centered egotistical asshole. Again and again and again. Maybe that is what pushes. I feel my mother's side of the family in me, stubborn and selfish. I feel my father's side, quick tempered and isolated. Put that all in the pot and pull out a fine american mess. Maybe this is what he felt before up-heaving everything. It would make sense. Ahh fuck it.
Who knows? Do you? I sure don't. I can't find a thought in my head that makes me want to. Is that what all this is? An attempt to destroy? What would that accomplish? What are we trying to accomplish? Does anyone care that the uphill climb leads nowhere? Are we climbing up a volcano? Years of hard labor to fall into a pit of despair and death. What are you going to do about it? What am I going to do about it? It is easier to destroy. Not to say it doesn't give the same rush of life. But fuck it man, why climb and climb and climb when I can trip others and laugh about it. I can cut their safety lines and watch them fall screaming into the dark. I can stomp my feet and anger the volcano. I am the Samoan god of death and chaos. I will incarnate your fears and frustrations. I will make life harder for you. I will torment you for the rest of your days or at least until the end of the commercial break. fuckit. Who am I kidding? Myself? You? God? HA! Stammer Faulk asked that and ended up buried in a shallow grave with a snake and cheap whiskey, chest collapsing, struggling to breath under the oppressive weight of his fear.
She exists in the eye of this storm of destruction. She is immune to it which is only by the grace of god. She is the only thing I am sure about. All the rest can burn in a fiery shit hell. Hallelujah and amen.
23 February 2011
"The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter." --Winston Churchill
To their credit they keep at it. Hammering away at the foundations of all that is holy. Trying to boil us all down into that bland shit-pudding that they all love so much. Speaking in fragments and sentences made of words that don't exist, they love to abbreviate even when completely unnecessary. FUCK ANTHROPOLOGY. If language is defined by the people who speak it, I DON'T SPEAK. Each self aware man looks at his current state as worse than that what came before him. We all believe we will see the end of days in our lifetime. Humans like to put that much importance into their existence. We also love to give finality to things because eternity scares us. We want to see an end. Even fearing that end is better than not knowing one.
Even as I put my fist into stone and wood, I wonder. I wonder more than I should. I try to silence myself. The physical abuse is an avenue to silence, but the questions remain. This is nothing new. We are nothing new. People will always be what their masters instruct. We will only focus on what is important to us. Change is only when permitted by these things. If we are comfortable in dysfunction, what motivation is there to move out of it? Poke and prod all you like, the bear only moves when he becomes uneasy.
And why shouldn't he? What reason is there for any of it? At what point does self improvement really become masturbation? My mental state determines my actions and if I care to put my cane through your windshield, who are you to lecture me on what was appropriate? As always, I rail against those who tell me to calm down, to focus. What right do we have to any kind of democracy or representation of the common shithead? Why do I care to get to know my neighbor? My knowledge of him should be limited to his threat level of me and vice versa. If the entire world bought into the hippie bullshit that everyone seems to be peddling and we all lived in peace and harmony, my instinct tells me to commit the first murder of the pussy age. We are not passive creatures. We have made ourselves believe it to be. But it is not true. It never will be. Even when we are brains in jars, we will order our robots to kill the one who gives us shit. There is civil of course, but this is beyond civil. This is weak.
Bitch bitch bitch...
In a years time, things will be different than they are now. I will be different. But this throbbing headache will not go away. I will still stuff cotton in my mouth and attempt a smile. I will still swallow past the lump in my throat. I will still feel and think and hate. I will still beat my chest in frustration. I will still balk at others definitions of all things. Still laugh at their pain. Still give shitty advice. Still blow off the good and open arms accept the bad. Still love with the same intensity that I hate. Still feel that life boiling up inside me. Still find her utterly fascinating even after 10 years. Still fall on my face. Still yell at people in traffic. I will still be a melodramatic asshole. At least she loves me for it.
It shouldn't be surprising, but it doesn't stop it from being a source of apprehension leading to fear and right on into sadness. Grief for a child unborn, laden with guilt and struggling under the yoke of our sins.
To their credit they keep at it. Hammering away at the foundations of all that is holy. Trying to boil us all down into that bland shit-pudding that they all love so much. Speaking in fragments and sentences made of words that don't exist, they love to abbreviate even when completely unnecessary. FUCK ANTHROPOLOGY. If language is defined by the people who speak it, I DON'T SPEAK. Each self aware man looks at his current state as worse than that what came before him. We all believe we will see the end of days in our lifetime. Humans like to put that much importance into their existence. We also love to give finality to things because eternity scares us. We want to see an end. Even fearing that end is better than not knowing one.
Even as I put my fist into stone and wood, I wonder. I wonder more than I should. I try to silence myself. The physical abuse is an avenue to silence, but the questions remain. This is nothing new. We are nothing new. People will always be what their masters instruct. We will only focus on what is important to us. Change is only when permitted by these things. If we are comfortable in dysfunction, what motivation is there to move out of it? Poke and prod all you like, the bear only moves when he becomes uneasy.
And why shouldn't he? What reason is there for any of it? At what point does self improvement really become masturbation? My mental state determines my actions and if I care to put my cane through your windshield, who are you to lecture me on what was appropriate? As always, I rail against those who tell me to calm down, to focus. What right do we have to any kind of democracy or representation of the common shithead? Why do I care to get to know my neighbor? My knowledge of him should be limited to his threat level of me and vice versa. If the entire world bought into the hippie bullshit that everyone seems to be peddling and we all lived in peace and harmony, my instinct tells me to commit the first murder of the pussy age. We are not passive creatures. We have made ourselves believe it to be. But it is not true. It never will be. Even when we are brains in jars, we will order our robots to kill the one who gives us shit. There is civil of course, but this is beyond civil. This is weak.
Bitch bitch bitch...
In a years time, things will be different than they are now. I will be different. But this throbbing headache will not go away. I will still stuff cotton in my mouth and attempt a smile. I will still swallow past the lump in my throat. I will still feel and think and hate. I will still beat my chest in frustration. I will still balk at others definitions of all things. Still laugh at their pain. Still give shitty advice. Still blow off the good and open arms accept the bad. Still love with the same intensity that I hate. Still feel that life boiling up inside me. Still find her utterly fascinating even after 10 years. Still fall on my face. Still yell at people in traffic. I will still be a melodramatic asshole. At least she loves me for it.
It shouldn't be surprising, but it doesn't stop it from being a source of apprehension leading to fear and right on into sadness. Grief for a child unborn, laden with guilt and struggling under the yoke of our sins.
04 February 2011
02 February 2011
27 January 2011
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