Friday, May 22, 2015

A contrast

A contrast
Between a garbage landscape
cars and shops

garbage on the ground.
And a cerulean sky
littered with nimbus
dark grey-blue and rose
golden-rose highlights across those clouds
and a horizon that told me
"I've always been here"

A raindrop crashed upon my screen.
A contrast
Between the still living, soon dead
a short plant I picked from the ground
on a whim I picked it
just to feel
the soft green tendrils across my leathery fingers
and my calloused palms.
And the bright, almost lime-green, supple leaves
on branches high up
so out of reach

I reached, but no finger touched.

A contrast, but you've known how it goes now
Between a slug
crawling so slow across a grey gravel road
towards some signal it senses across a distance
or maybe randomly meandering
I know this from previous instance
it finds dead prey
"rasp! rasp! goes my tongue,"
it says.
And a dead slug
crushed against the sole of my foot
whether it felt anguish
a question that was never asked in the whole universe

Nobody knows it.

A contrast
Between a dark cave
no sun, just screen
and a husk that flees from thought
no such thing as a soul
yet, hark! the truth
deterministic materialism
self as illusion
will non-existence sweep over,
or am I doomed to eternity in this 'nother lonely night?
a bright blue sky
contrasting a near endless expanse
where I wanted to play

But I'm stuck.

Friday, May 15, 2015


The following is a copy of my high school Valedictory speech.  I never actually gave the speech because I was alcohol-poisoningly hung over - you'd have to ask me for that sad story though.


Good evening everyone.  Well, here we are graduating and, well, here I am.  Valedictorian.  When I'm finished, you just may be left wondering how I got to be valedictorian.  I know for a fact that I wasn't the one who tried the hardest, but I've been lucky, and I guess that's all it really takes to achieve goals.  But that's not explanation enough; when I'm done, you'll still be wondering why me.  So here's the answer up front.  I'm here because I can milk a cow.

There were a thousand places I would have rather been that night, but they needed my help on the farm, so I had to help out.   There I was, putting a milker on a cow, when suddenly time and space ripped asunder, and I was sucked into another dimension.  When I awoke from the darkness which ensued, I found myself on board a ship in outer space.

I later learned that mine wasn't the first case of this happening.  You see, a doughboy of spatial distortion had snuck on board this particular pirate ship (the S.S. Einser Koff) during a raid on the Europium Consulate, and had been causing trouble ever since by swapping members of the crew with beings from other dimensions.  I had been swapped with Jr. Lt. Bilkry, a man in charge of a large device that made the pirate ship move.

Now the space pirates were in trouble.  You see, for pirates, there are riches all around; you just have to get to them.  And without Jr. Lt. Bilkry, they couldn't get to them.  So, since they had no reason to kill me, (and because I wasn't completely opposed to the idea of being a pirate), they decided to implant computer devices in my brain so that I could work the large device and they could make some cash.  It sounded exciting at the time, and I learned quite a lot from the computers in my head.

However, after some time in my new job, I realized that it wasn't what I expected.  I was stuck in a small dark room, regulating temperature and pressure levels, pushing red buttons.  During my stay there, the only entertainment to be had was conversing with other crew members.  Although most of the people I met were quite average, there was one that stands out in my mind.  It was Mr. Fragson Deasmir, who was in a similar situation as me, except that he was a part of the attack squad.  I once asked him who he had been before.  He replied, "It doesn't matter who you were.  It only matters who you are."  Later that day while raiding a transport his computer chips misfired causing him to forget how to use his jet pack, and he flew headfirst into the ship and broke his neck.  He's dead now.  I've wondered what to make of that ever since.

Anyways, after more than two months on board the S.S. Einser Koff, the doughboy was still causing problems; almost half of the original crew had been replaced by others like me.  It was a boring day at work, and I sat only half awake in my chair.  Until, that is, I heard the diabolical laugh.  The laugh of a doughboy.  I cautiously opened my eyes and saw him, standing on the control panel.  His doughy eyes seemed to be staring back at me.  His chef's hat and blue trousers seemed innocent enough, but the pointed teeth lining that evil grin stated otherwise.  Several thoughts passed through my mind at that moment, such as "Should I lunge for him?" and "I wonder what he tastes like?"  After pausing a moment to think things through however, I simply asked if he could send me back.  "Mister," he replied, "they'll never even know you weren't here."  When I awoke, I found myself back at the farm, milker in hand.  Three minutes had passed.  I guess sometimes you just have to ask.  After that, there's not much else to tell, except that I used my digitally enhanced brain to get good grades and become valedictorian.

So there you have it.  The moral of the story, you ask?  There is none.  Bet you weren't expecting that.  But in real life, being successful doesn't always mean living up to other people's expectations.  Sometimes the only thing that matters is being true to yourself.  Au revoir, mes amis.


Thursday, February 5, 2015

the downfall of earl bobinson as well as the fhagod kicking naussi's who listen to music (?) or something akin to that. Volume 4, Book 93, chapter 12, pp 134-35. A Lesson in Stupid People Pretending to be Thoughtful, if not retarded/psychotic.

(From February 2, 2007 - I was 22 years old, it was 3:04 AM, and I was burnt out from smoking weed and probably playing WoW all night)

I live for the joy of not having to skip the next song that comes randomly. I would love fate if the next track is a good one. The beginning doesn't sound hopeful, but I'll listen another minute. Next please. Too bad I don't care enough to alt tab and change it. Why should one have to search through the list, the long list of tracks just to find the perfect one. It'll be over in approximately 5 minutes anyways. Thats the beauty of random. It gives you the krap and then it gives you the pizs. But then when it gives you the perfect song, at least you can sit back and love fate for bringing it to you. Even though it won't last. It will be over, and probability says you will get the krap again. Or the pizs.

Probability is a fhag. Not like the ghays though, they usually seem nice enough. Although they kinda seem to like the krap. None of my business. He's a fhaggot though, simply because thats the worst insult in my opinion. Err maybe that means its the best one. He tells you you are going down. Downtown to Chinatown to buy the chickenballs made from puppies feet. Down to the ground. Then up to the banana tree house, where you will receive curses from monkeys holding their poop. Only it's not poop, its golden nuggets, but they are still brown and squishy and smell bad so you will avoid them nontheless, consequently missing out on the great fortune you would have made as a pioneer in the golden monkey nuggets business. I guess we'll leave that one for the third world countries to fight over. But let's kick the fhag in his azs and go somewhere else instead of down. Is the silence a sign of sentient crickets attempting communication? I will become a druid then. I will live in the forest with the insects, and they will make me cricket wing robes, and a single shoe made of barley corns to wear when I host the Dance of the Garlilies, twice every year. Come to think of it, the probability of sentience occuring inside the body of a cricket isn't particularly good. Or maybe that is a good thing. Once they tricked me into the forest they might have just drugged me and raped me, leaving me clothed only in the duct tape that binds my hands and feet in the ditch by the highway, only to be picked up and tortured to death by Balinda Gurgendiezer, the alter ego of average, every day trucker Earl Bobinson, who's only real sin in the whole ordeal was in not knowing about the strange neuro-chemical produced by the reaction that would take place between the uppers and New Melon Blast Chocacola that he drank only hours previously, unleashing the hidden woman inside him, who just happened to be a deranged man hating psychopathic ho. Plus the Dance of the Garlilies sounds kinda ghay. I mean. Nothing against ghay people. Just, ewww. Yuck. So I guess I should just stay here for a while longer. If theres ever been a good time to kick a fhag in the ass as hard as you can, its definitely not now. I shouldn't need probability to figure that one out. I guess. Or something.

I live for the ashes that don't blow into my eyes. For the molecules of lighter fluid that aren't giving me cancer. For that dying glow of the embers that are my thoughts as I fall to sleep. They never make any sense, those embers. And they are lost, burned up in the flame of the wakened and the alert. My playlist only has one song, and I don't like it as much as I had hoped I would. And my repeat button is broken I think. Maybe.