1. Louis will replace what he ate when Hal replaces what he ate. 2. Kim won't bathe with the bathroom door wide open if Louis will confront his hatred and fear of women. 3. Hal won't mock Jane's fear of midgets just because it occurs to him to do so. 4. Jane just won't. 5. Hal will refrain from punching Louis in the nose if Louis will admit he's a sponge. 6. Kim won't mention Jane's yo-yo dieting if Jane won't keep her up all night with one of her crying jags. 7. Hal won't leave the toilet seat up if Jane won't keep him up all night with one of her crying jags. 8. Louis won't stand over Jane's bed in a hood if Jane won't keep him up all night with one of her crying jags. 9. Kim won't call the cops on everyone else just because she's menstruating. 10. Kim won't call the cops if everyone else leaves.
Blue eyes: People with blue eyes are descended from Nazis. People with blue eyes are from: Scandinavia, Brazil, Oklahoma. Blue-eyed people are horse-whisperers, cheerleaders, Robin Hoods, devils. Blue-eyed people think they run the world but they so don’t. Blue-eyed people were able to rap in the early 90’s. Blue-eyed people will never find the face of Jesus in a miracle tortilla, and only 7% (adjusted) will ever try to. Blue-eyed people know where participating locations are. Blue-eyed people: 11.99% APR, $700 down at participating locations.
Brown eyes: People with brown eyes wake up later than people of other eye colors, and they go to bed later. Types of brown eyes: cylindrical (reversed), like chestnut, bloodshot, muffin. If you approach a brown-eye person from behind, be sure to ring your bell; their frightened ululations will startle and delight the cattle. Brown-eyed girls resent Van Morrison, for they have never been under the stadium, and they haven’t grown. They have reached only the size of their cubicles, which are piled on top of each other like Tetris blocks. Brown-eyed people are seen in the early levels, and may be defeated with the Young Moon combo, which you should have had tattooed to your left wrist by Horga, the Ice Witch in Yodelling City.
Green eyes: Not jealous, but resentful of the implication. Green-eyed lady, passionate lady: child of nature, friend to man; will prepare your taxes using druidic “essences.” Green-eyed people hang out under power lines, smoking; on ley-lines, smudging; in places where coffee is served in tiny china demitasse cups, writing the next American novel, not the great one, just the next. Green eyed men come from Mars, and green eyed ladies come from “What do you mean by that!?”.
Hazel eyes: Those of the hazel persuasion know their limitations, but surpass them anyways. Hey hazel-eye lady, won’t you share your Twix with me? Hey hazel-eye daddy, you let my woman be. We wanna have us hazel eye children underneath that hazel tree. Hazel-eyed people would write a musical like that, but have been counselled against it.
a policeman was called to the Verrazanno Narrows Bridge to stop a man from committing suicide. he pulled up right as the man was about to go over the side. "don't do it!" he said. "you have so much to live for!" "bullshit!" said the guy. "i'm bankrupt, i'm under investigation by the SEC, and my fiancee, jennifer landingham, is cheating on me!" "THE jennifer landingham?" said the cop. "i know her. she's beautiful! she's something to live for!" the guy paused. "i guess... yeah, she is..." he said, starting to step away from the edge. "and she fucks like a wildcat. in bed her ass moves like a blender!" said the cop. the high point of the Verrazanno Narrows Bridge is 244 feet above the water.
fred: doctor, it hurts when i do this! doctor derf: well, don't do that! fred: but life without masturbation isn't worth living!
a man and a woman were walking in the mountains along a thin trail. suddenly, the ground gave way and the woman fell, only barely catching herself on a branch. "quick, go get help!" she said. "ok, honey! i love you!" he ran back along the trail towards the village. the path forked and even though there were PLENTY OF PEOPLE AROUND he didn't ask for directions and he got more and more lost. he finally made it to the village and got help but by the time he got back, his wife had plummetted to her death. he should have asked for directions but guys NEVER DO.
what did the hamburger say to the side of fries?
hamburgers cannot speak, we have made them mute so they aren't horrifying to eat.
what would you call a cross between a hyena and a manatee?
this joke has two punchlines, equally humorous. a) a hyenatee. b) a horrifying mental image.
i went to a german-russian restaurant, and an hour later i hit a jew in the face and then sent his family to the steppes!
one of my cats had a litter of kittens, and my five year old daughter, jesse, was amazed by the process. she cooed with delight as the first kitten was born, asked (i thought) very intelligent questions about biology and the birth canal, and danced and laughed while the mama cat licked the first kitten clean. the litter ended up being five cats, and it took a while, so i made dinner. while we were eating, jesse looked over at the pen where the birthing was finishing. "look, fluffles is hungry too! happy dinner, fluffles!" my wife and i looked on in horror. the fifth kitten was stillborn and fluffles was snout deep in its steaming, deformed corpse.
what did the politest child in the gulag get?
hope you're enjoying this ETERNITY OF FUNNY JOKES!
d.b. cooper's parachute malfunctions. he cuts it away, uses his safety. he plunges into the brackish waters of the corrottoman. my mother drinks white wine on the deck, sees d.b. cooper swim slowly to the shore. she pours another glass of wine. she goes to get another glass. she pours another glass of wine.
d.b cooper dripping wet. he walks to the deck. roughly, my mother grabs his arm, pulls him to her.
an hour during which my mother and d.b. cooper do things i will not describe.
d.b. cooper and my mother smoking, drinking white wine.
d.b. cooper: "thank you for... understanding." my mother: "no, honey, it's fine." d.b. cooper: "i wish i didn't have this... this kink." my mother: "we're all wired a little off factory specifications, dear." d.b. cooper: "yeah, but how many people have to leap from a helicopter with a malfunctioning parachute which they then need to cut away and use their back-up... how many people need to do all that in order to initiate sexual relations?"
my mother shrugs and pours another glass of white wine.
d.b. cooper seen parachuting to the supermarket. the convenience store. his chiropractors.
my mother drinking white wine.
my mother: "are you having an affair?" d.b. cooper: "i could never. can you pour me another glass of white wine?" my mother: "you seem to be parachuting quite a bit these days." d.b. cooper: "well, it IS what i'm known for."
d.b. cooper falling from the sky, silhouetted by the red clay sun. my mother looking up with wonder.
what does the house look like to a man in freefall? what does my mother look like from 30,000 feet? i ask d.b. cooper over white wine.
"you couldn't understand it, son. you stay on the ground. you've never felt all your guts in your throat as you step from the plane. i've watched you, it takes you ten minutes to screw up the courage to step from a curb. there's nothing wrong with that. i myself am deathly afraid of spiders. so much as i will never understand the certain thrill of arachnology, you will never understand..."
well, it is my mother, after all. i certainly wouldn't, i suppose...
i ask my mother, who sits atop a pyramid of empty white wine bottles.
"son, i don't feel comfortable talking about..." "do you see him as he falls? does this excite you?" "i see him fall. i watch as the first parachute fails to deploy. i must admit, knowing that the process has been set in motion there is a certain frisson. but i doubt you could ever understand. you who requires rope and pitons to descend a flight of stairs. this isn't your fault. your father used to..." "don't talk about father," i say.
paralyzed with fear in front of the bank of elevators. i can see my face in the polished doors. my psychiatrist on the phone, telling me again he will not have our session in the lobby, telling me that as a strict freudian he will charge me whether i come to the third floor or not.
my father at the base of the stairs, waving the January 1982 issue of Playboy.
"c'mon. c'mon you little pussy. c'mon you little pecker. you gotta come down some time. i know you wanna see this. hoo-ee." he glances at the magazine, shakes it so that the centerfold unfurls. "goddamn, i do declare. this is gonna jumpstart yer puberty, boy. this is gonna make your little balls drop. c'mon, boy. c'mon. mother of all saints, but this chick is smokin'."
quivering, i push a slinky over the lip of the stairs, watch it flip flip flip towards my father.
Jan. 21! what do you get when you cross a giraffe and a lizard?
a long-necked komodo dragon!
Mar. 9! a muslim and a baptist were alone in a lifeboat, somewhere in the Indian Ocean. the baptist said, "at times like this, our differences seem kind of small, don't they?" the muslim didn't respond. he did not speak english.
February 11! why was six afraid of seven?
seven was black!
September 14! what was pol pot's favorite television show?
a five-hour long static shot of bleached human skulls in the sun!
June 1! a drunk walked into a bar with his dog. "hey," said the bartender. "you can't bring your dog in here!" "this isn't just any dog. this dog can talk!" said the drunk, who smelled awful. "you don't say!" said the bartender. "hey poochy, who was the greatest baseball player of all time!" the dog started licking his flanks. the bartender waited, then said "ok, what's the book of the bible after judges?" the dog sniffed the wall. the drunk started to weep. "c'mon sparky, talk. please. please."
December 30! how do you get to carnegie hall?
i don't know, it's in new york city, isn't it? we're nowhere near there.
Decmeber 31! how do you get to carnegie hall?
are you fucking dense? this is fucking tallahassee. we're nowhere close to fucking carnegie hall. seriously, leave me the fuck alone.
July 3! what do you call a room with no windows or doors?
October 6! little susie was walking home from school when a car splashed through a puddle right next to her, soaking her and covering her pretty dress with mud! thinking quickly, she grabbed a couple of palm fronds, took all her clothes off, and held the fronds in front of her suggestively. she made it home, where her mother was on the front porch, smoking. "susie! what are you doing!" "there are women like this in daddy's magazines!" replied susie. "oh god, get in the house!" said her mother. it was too late. child protective services had been notified.
Twilight of the Dudes. the Duderdammerung. the grills stand empty. the lawns unmowed. vast piles of buffalo wings uneaten. where are the Dudes. does anyone remember Dudes. Dudes, come back. we don't know what you're for but we need you back anyway.
the Dudes in the hearts of men. there will be a corner of some foreign field that is forever Dude. at nightfall, a lone trumpet plays the guitar line to "Walk This Way."
where the Dude once stood rises the New American Guy. he shines, is kind. he goes to buy the Midol with no complaint. the La-Z-Boys are towed via barge out to sea and sunk. vast reefs formed from the La-Z-Boys of the missing Dudes.
deep in the swamp primeval thirty miles from little rock, an ornithologist sits by a campfire and reviews the tapes from his field recorders. nothing. on the sixth tape, though, behind the slow sizzle of the sound of rain, something. he rewinds the tape. he checks all the levels. he takes the tape out of the player, inspects it. he puts it back in. he realizes he has been holding his breath. he presses play. no, it's there, it's definitely there. the sound of rain. then: "fuckin' mets suck this year." then, the sound of rain until the end of the tape.
The accumulation of rubbish on the sites of great cities independent of the action of worms — The burial of a Roman villa at Abinger — The floors and walls penetrated by worms — Subsidence of a modern pavement — The buried pavement at Beaulieu Abbey — Roman villas at Chedworth and Brading — The remains of the Roman town at Silchester — The nature of the débris by which the remains are covered — The penetration of the tesselated floors and walls by worms — Subsidence of the floors — Thickness of the mould — The old Roman city of Wroxeter — Thickness of the mould — Depth of the foundations of some of the buildings — Conclusion.
13 September; soft wet weather. The mouths of the burrows were re-opened, or castings were ejected, at 31 points; these were all defaced.
14 September; 34 fresh holes or castings all defaced.
15 September; 44 fresh holes, only 5 castings; all defaced./
18 September; 43 fresh holes, 8 castings; all defaced.
The number of castings on the surrounding fields was now very large.
19 September; 40 holes, 8 castings; all defaced.
22 September; 43 holes, only a few fresh castings; all defaced.
23 September; 44 holes, 8 castings.
25 September; 50 holes, no record of the number of castings.
13 October; 61 holes, no record of the number of castings.
...that we have here evidence of two/fires, separated by an interval of time, during which the 6 inches of 'mortar and concrete/with broken tiles' was accumulated. Beneath one of the layers of charred wood, a valuable relic, a bronze eagle, was found; and this shows that the soldiers must have deserted the place in a panic. Owing to the death of Mr Joyce, I have not been able to ascertain beneath which of the two layers the eagle was found. The bed of rubble overlying the undisturbed gravel originally formed, as I suppose, the floor, for it stands on a level with that of a corridor, outside the walls of the Hall; but the corridor is not shown in the section as here given. The vegetable mould was 16 inches thick in the thickest part; and the depth from the surface of the field, clothed with herbage,...
In almost all the rooms the pavement has/sunk considerably, especially towards the middle; and this is shown in the three following sections. The measurements were made by stretching a string tightly and horizontally over the floor. The section, Fig. 13, was taken from north to south across a room, 18 feet 4 inches in length, with a nearly perfect pavement, next to the 'Red Wooden Hut'.
The nature of the beds immediately beneath the vegetable mould in some of the sections is rather perplexing.
Evidence of the amount of denudation which the land has undergone — Subaerial denudation — The deposition of dust — Vegetable mould, its dark colour and fine texture largely due to the action of worms — The disintegration of rocks by the humus acids — Similar acids apparently generated within the bodies of worms — The action of these acids facilitated by the continued movement of the particles of earth — A thick bed of mould checks the disintegration of the underlying soil and rocks. Particles of stone worn or triturated in the gizzards of worms — Swallowed stones serve as millstones — The levigated state of the castings — Fragments of brick in the castings over ancient buildings well rounded. The triturating power of worms not quite insignifcant under a geological point of view.
Not only do worms aid indirectly in the chemical disintegration of rocks, but there is good reason to believe that they likewise act in a direct and mechanical manner on the smaller particles. All the species which swallow earth are furnished with gizzards; and these are lined with so thick a chitinous membrane, that Perrier speaks of it, Archives de Zoolog. expér., vol. iii, 1874, p. 409. †13 as 'une véritable armature'.
CHAPTER VI THE DENUDATION OF THE LAND — continued
Abinger, Roman villa at, 178
castings from Roman villa, with rounded particles, 253
Acids of human, action on rocks, 240
Africa, dust from, 235
Air, currents of, worms sensitive to, 28
Amount of earth brought to the surface by worms, 129
Ants, intelligence of, 93
Archiac, D', criticisms on my views, 4
As the foundations of the walls generally lie at a considerable depth, they will either have not subsided at all through the undermining action of worms, or they will have subsided much less than the floor. This latter result would follow from worms not often working deep down beneath the foundations; but more especially from the walls not yielding when penetrated by worms, whereas the successively formed burrows in a mass of earth, equal to one of the walls in depth and thickness, would have collapsed many times since the desertion of the ruins, and would consequently have shrunk or subsided.
To: Butch and David Potter, Makers of Martin's Potato Chips
As I took the elevator to the Third Floor Clinic (where a number of professionals were about to painfully laser off a particularly embarassing tattoo commemorating Rihanna's recent foray into art photography), imagine my surprise when I read the back of an individual sized bag of your barbecued potato chips. Imagine, if you will, my at first gentle shock, which mellowed into a warm sense of well-being. These were my feelings as I read the back of that bag of potato chips. These were my feelings as I read your no doubt heartfelt thanks to me, the consumer, who had just voted with his dollar and bought the aforementioned snack. "Thank you for purchasing Martin's potato chips. We take great pride in delivering to you fresh, delicious potato chips with exceptional potato flavor."
Exceptional potato flavor? For a second, I stopped salivating in anticipation of those salty treats and it seemed to me that your kind words had rerouted my salivary glands into my eyes, for happy tears welled in my eyes. "If you have any questions or comments, please call 1-800-272-4477 (weekdays 9-4 Eastern Time)." Yes, I have a comment, and I have a question, and I cannot merely "phone them in." I want that question and that comment emblazoned forever on the internet, where they will never be recorded over and will never be forgotten, as long as people google "irritainment." My comment is this: God Bless You Both, Butch and David Potter, for remembering that thanks are always welcome, that merchants are nothing without their customers, for remembering these seemingly little things that add up to a shining mountain of gratitude. And here is my question: what is your mother''s address? I would send a bouquet of roses to her, in appreciation of just how good of a job she did raising you.
Yours, Smilin Tyler
To: Juan, Night Janitor, Shenandoah Valley Hospital PICU
I staggered into the bathroom of room 3174 a shaken man. I feel no shame in telling you, Juan (if that is indeed your name, if not feel free to substitute your own), that I was ready to fall out. My child, Smilin Jr., had succesfully lodged in his sinuses the entire can of Smokehouse Inspired Almond Cubes that my wife (Mrs. Smilin) and I had just purchased at Big Lots, and the prognosis was looking grim. At the very least, it seemed that little Smilin Jr. was going to have to face life unable to smell anything but the savory waft of Smokehouse Inspired Almond Cubes. At the worst, we were looking at a cephalectomy, a possibility that was depressing me to say the least, as I had envisioned Smilin Jr. as being backup catcher for the Kansas City Royals, or at worst a batboy long enough to accrue a decent pension. True, the range of replacement heads that are on offer these days are much better than they used to be, and I had just about set my mind on a Jean-Claude Van Damme; this, however much I enjoyed "Under Seige," was cold comfort, and of course now that I look back on the whole affair I realize that that had been Steven Seagal.
So as I was about to leave an almond-less bowel movement in the bathroom of room 3174, it was as if God himself had left me a message on a loop of parchment around the seat. "This seat has been sanitized for your protection." Juan, are you familiar with what is commonly called Beethoven's "Ode to Joy"? Can you imagine if it went "San-i-tized for YOUR pro-tect-tion, toilet seat has BEEN, reDEEMED"? Can you, Juan? If you need help, I can call you and hum it for you. That is what I heard in my head, Juan. Thank you for sanitizing that for my protection. For my protection! Do you know how vulnerable I felt, Juan? And this was BEFORE Child Protective Services got involved, Juan. But when I saw that loop around the seat, I felt calm and at peace. I knew then what needed to be done. It was one of the few times in my life that I have felt such certitude.
So thank you, Juan, for sanitizing that which is so often unsanitary. Thank you. Any time you're in the Dogtown neighborhood, please stop by my house (address enclosed). I think that you will find our toilet sanitary, and I also think that Smilin Jr. is a lot more enjoyable and easier to care for with his new rubber head.
Gracias! De nada! Smilin Tylero
To: Acid Steve
I now take the time to thank you, Steve, from the bottom of my heart to the tip of my deviated septum, for not stepping on my coke with Drano, but rather with the much gentler baby laxative. So often in these [REST OF LETTER REDACTED UNDER ADVICE OF ATTORNEY]
Captain Beefheart tried. That's right. The guy who would rename his bandmembers things like "Neon Squid James" and "Corky Thatcher" tried to sell out. He didn't give a shit what you thought. He was gonna hit it big if it killed him. So he made "Bluejeans and Moonbeams," an album that exactly one (1) person (deaf chick in Iowa) liked and which is easily far more reviled than his knottiest album, which was of course "Trout Mask Dinner" and came with a side of big-eyed beans and a note from Lester Bangs excusing you from gym so you could go smoke schwag under the bleachers. And even unto the end of his musical career he was flabbergasted that it didn't work. He spent the rest of his career desperately trying to sell out. He went on Saturday Night Live and performed "Ashtray Heart" and the crowd loved it. Sell out achieved? Nope. Fuck critical acclaim, he used to tell me over blintzes at the Mojave kosher deli we used to frequent. Fuck critical acclaim, I just want to hear that coyote do a u-turn on my mother. I took that to mean that he was speaking allegorically again and I nodded and smiled and ate another Quaalude. It was the early 80's. People did that shit.
Jim O'Rourke sold out ironically. He deconstructed selling out. He considered the mechanics of the choogle on "Insignificance" and exact melting point of cheese on "Eureka." It didn't work, but Jimbo continues. Let's face it: what he wants is his own Japanese game show where contestants have to remix Bananarama b-sides and discuss the philosophical baggage of reverb while the floors get electrocuted. The show, called "IMPOSSIBLE PERSON-GUITARRING IRON CONFRONTATION," is currently in pre-production and Jimbo is getting laid, laid, laid and snorting shabu-shabu off the asses of fallen idoru.
Let's not discuss Courtney Love because every second she isn't mentioned somewhere she grows weaker and weaker.
Liz Phair tried to sell out. Unfortunately, you can hire The Matrix and beer-bong all the hot white cum you want, but if you're going to write a song called "Hot White Cum" chances are you're not going to get played on Disney radio.
Finally, Pere Ubu tried to sell out. Pere. Ubu. The band whose only constant was an ex-critic who used to call himself Crocus Behemoth and who looks like an Oliver Hardy after five weeks of severe cognitive dissonance... tried to sell out. They moved to Fontana Records and put out three or four pop albums. THEY MADE VIDEOS. They thought, what do succesful pop musicians do in 1987? They make videos. Which is how David Thomas (the living, not-as-famous one) ended up windmilling his bulk across the eyeballs of an America that was, uh, not ready for it. Not even the people who watched "120 Minutes" were ready for it. Every time the video for "Waiting for Mary" came on, five minutes later there would be a spike in calls to emergency respondants as people assumed that their pot had been tainted with meth. Oh, and that video? It's recently been removed from Youtube... none dare call it conspiracy, or even revisionism.
Now, are these good albums? I personally like the O'Rourke and the Pere Ubu albums. The latter, especially, are endearing; as David Thomas waddles in from the deep freeze of critics' academic appraisal, warbling "the bride waltzed barefoot there on the sidewalk, you could fry an egg"... well, you kind of want to hand him a blanket and some fuzzy slippers and buy the album for Aunt Ruth. Of course, Aunt Ruth thinks it's weird and takes it out of the CD player and puts on the latest T-Pain, but hey, you tried, and you can tell Crocus and now Crocus won't come to your house and spazz out on your cats.
Upon reaching the acme of the Mountain of the Skulls of Anointed Forefathers, I saw that the horizon was filled with yet more skulls, that indeed we had made our dwellings within, that we sailed the seas in them, that we filled them as they sailed through the air, that they were full of flowers and walls of glass. I looked down and found my shoes had become skulls, and i fell down the Mountain, I fell down, I fell down.
On certain days the skulls sing, each skull singing something different, with voices sweet and rough, madrigals and hymns. As the Mountain of the Skulls of the Anointed reveals itself in the dawn, one imagines that the Mountain is singing one song, one word, one tone. The word is "cras" and as the sibilance of that last letter fades the sun becomes brighter. Some believe that the Mountain sings the sun into being, but this has not been proven.
One woman has made her home on the slopes of the Mountain of the Skulls of the Anointed. Her name is Kelly and she works as a receptionist at Bullis and Sons. She enjoys greeting. "Hello and welcome. It's good to have met you," she says. She has been a recpetionist for seventy-four years, but looks as young and fresh as she did when she left Iowa, those many years ago. She disagrees with the common theory as to what the skulls are singing. She posits that they are singing "hodie."
Their lungless voices reverberate in each others' cavities, so song comes not only from lipless mouths but also from the eye sockets, from the nasal passages. The overtones mix with the songs, and as one skull sings it changes and adds to the song of its neighbor. We, with our meat and gristle filling the holes behind our faces, are unable to replicate such song, though many have tried and their attempts are quite sweet.
hey man. hey. you ain't from around here. you walk like you got somewhere to be. you walkin like you wanna get somewhere. i know where you wanna be. yeah man. you wanna be told it's gonna be ok. you want... you wanna hug man? you wanna hug. i look at you, there's a man needs a hug. where you going. yeah man, we just talkin. we just talkin. ain't nothin wrong with talkin.
hey man. it's cool. some people need hugs man. you ain't gettin hugs at home, you gotta get your hug. soft arms. soft chest. you gotta lay your head on that soft chest and... hey, i ain't sayin anything. i ain't proposin anything illegal. ain't illegal yet, man.
you know how it is. in marriage there is not only a bodily but also a spiritual union: and consequently kinship of spirit proves an impediment thereto, without spiritual kinship having to pass into a bodily relationship. but what about hugs man. where the hugs in that. where you goin.
wherefore others have maintained that witchcraft can set up an impediment to carnal copulation, but that no such impediment is perpetual: hence it does not void the marriage contract, and they say that the laws asserting this have been revoked. but this is contrary to actual facts and to the new legislation which agrees with the old. have you met susie. susie is such a lovin girl. sometimes she hug me and tell me it's gonna be ok.
hey man. you ever hug a black girl? i ain't judgin. you ever hug a black girl? black girl hug you and sing you some gospel lullaby. she tell you to hush it and she sing at you. you ever hug a black girl.
she got a cat. let you hug the cat too no charge.
see that young thing over there. see her. she so young, man. she so young. and you know what. she ain't never hug nobody. but she read about it. she a college girl. yeah she go to college. she go to college and she live with a bunch of girl and they huggin each other all the time. she curious. she curious and she come to me. we friend at college. i take a class. i tell her, yeah, you wanna know about huggin. she lookin for a man to hug. arms hold you so tight. she ain't never hug. she ain't never hug.you wanna get hug by that.
hey man. maybe you lookin for a new hug. ever get hug from behind. girl come up behind you and you first you smell her, she smell like home. then she put her arm around you and she put her lips on your neck. then she hug you.
where you goin'. where you goin' round here. hey man. hey man.
***** Non-Horseshit Section *****
Yeah, so I haven't done much lately. One reason is daughter, who is fast-moving and sharp of tooth. Another reason is new band, called Mss., the other member of which is Josh K., who used to be in The Curious Digit and then after that in One Hundred Dollars with myself and Davis and Steve and Danny... you know, them. Any case, here's a new post and an anthology of Virginia's own Swamp Dogg, as compiled by the able Don Harrison of Radio Wowsville fame. Notice also that I have added new links. Check them out, much of what I put up here is from there. Also, if you haven't checked out the horribly named SkaFunkRastaPunk forums yet, do so immediately! This is an incredibly deep resource, and without it I wouldn't be recently and utterly obsessed with Georgian (ex-SSR) folk music and mbira (thumb piano) music. Anyone interested in the rare and wonderful need look no further; this site (along with experimentaletc) is much to blame for my blog truancy. I'm sure the three of you who have ever visited missed me terribly.
EPISTLE TO SUZANNE (POSSIBLE LEONARD COHEN REF., CONSIDER) DRAFT 2.1:
"We are all terribly, terribly lonely." Read this and though of how weird it is to be human. How we fire these grappling hooks into nowhere and hope to hook on to something (in this metaphor I guess we're all floating along on parachutes. Poetic, innit?). I'm learning guitar because of a picture I saw of Neil Young.
Day 4. Did you not like the XL Bauhaus shirt I flung at you from across the hall? I thought you could wear it in a kind of 80s throwback sexy shoulders type of thing, or maybe you could wear it to walk around my apartment at night. Or nothing at all >:D. Wait, I don't have blinds, that might be weird.
Day 10. Please stop staring at me while I'm reading Gravity's Rainbow or trying to win me over with your dew drop eyes while I'm mentally toying with a list of the best Werner Herzog movies. It's kind of annoying. Ha ha, just kidding, I'd definitely like to have sex.
Day 30. I'm including a character in my latest short story that's based on you. It's about a young 17yearold who falls in love with a beautiful coquette but is torn between the fulfillment of romantic cliche and a life of spontaneity; a life of artistic pursuit; a life of constant reminders that Death has always his spindly hands wrapped around your neck; is always ready to throw his black cloak over the scene; to cast a shadow--a palpable darkness--over happiness; to take all meaning from flesh; to widen the gap between signifier and signified, to place you in that gap; that gap of no-feeling-no-loving-no-passion-one-way-or-the-other-no-drive-to-even-place-pen-to-paper. Worse than listening to "Idioteque" on repeat.
Love, Kevin "The Emperor of Ice Cream" Bowen
MUSIC: best of garage punk (that I've listened to in the past 6 months, mind you)
The Muslims - The Muslims. "Nightlife" in particular. They also have a 12" or whatever with a cool cover of "Walking with Jesus." Recently changed their name to "the Soft Pack."
Yokohama Hooks - Turn On 7". There are so many bands that do the Yeah Yeah Yeahs thing better than YYY, my mind literally swells 3x its normal size when someone asks me why I don't listen to YYY and I blurt out all of the band names at once, a mystic shibboleth that turns my muscles inside out and that's really why I don't talk about music IRL.
The Menthols - 848 7". "848" is a great catchy/funny garage song, one of those weird things you'd find on a 2020 Nuggets record and probably be embarrassed about if anybody heard you listening to it, but secretly you chant it in the shower, as if the words were an stopper to plug up the horrible drain of loneliness through which you find yourself falling day in and day out.
"Hey, Frank, sup. Nah, it's just a cream cheese sandwich today. I prolly oughta have a salad or something, but all the dressing makes my stomach go funny. D'jou see who got fucking employee of the week? Yeah, that fuck. I think that fuck has a fucking wire loose. I mean, I was here fucking naming mass e-mails when that little cocksqueezer was first finding out about frottage. Kid comes in and he's all "anal vore" this and "cock vore" that. You see what he got employee of the week for? "dragon fruit scat anthro unbirth." That's not porn, Frank, that, that's, that's... that's fuckin' word salad is what that is. The fuckin biz, man, used to be you had to be about mutual body pleasure and frank exchanges of sexual desires. Now it's like fuckin' Pete the magic dragon goes to Fire Island. I don't know, Frank. I just do NOT know.
Here's something I don't understand: why would Nipponese women want to look like western women? Consider the Nipponese eye: almond-shaped, hooded. So much more to it! The eye seems coy, it seems to want to hide. The western eye lays it all out there. It's so vulgar. The window to the western soul is like a shopfront, everything on display, screaming 'buy me! buy me!' The Nipponese eye... steady on, man. I don't know why I was born in America. There must be some sort of mistake. Wind from the East, take me home, take me to my real home!
I'm not going to eat today. I said that yesterday and I ate. I have to put that behind me. If I'm going to feel good about myself then I am not going to eat today. Today is what I have, and that's all I'm going to have, that and sixteen glasses of water. I've had eight so far, so that leaves sixteen. Why did I eat yesterday? I saw that cauliflower and it looked so good. I was weak. I ate it. Then I felt myself digesting it all day. I could feel all that acid in me, turning it into fat and what it didn't turn into fat it turned into shit. I swear I'm going to be sick. I want to digest myself until I am perfect. I can be the fire that feeds itself. And that's all I'm going to eat today. I ate yesterday, and that is all I'm going to eat today.
This album will fuck you up! This album causes retroactive abortion in cows! I took this out in a field and I watched the whole fucking herd of Herefords implode! It was fucking awesome! I was scared to play this album for four years! I acquired (did not buy) this DOUBLE SLAB of shiny shit and stared at it out of the corner of my eye for four years! The force of its mania is such that it bends light and causes monitors to moire! LOOK OUT IT'S BEHIND YOU! That was close! This absolutely impenetrable piece of horror sounds like Rabbit screaming in quadrophonic hell! Actually, fuck that! Rabbit was a pussy! Imagine every noise band in the world! They're pussies too! They don't go far enough! Tom Smith, Rat Bastard and the Other Guy took FIVE YEARS to put this together! It leaves terms like 'maximalism' and 'turn this fucking shit OFF' light-years behind! You want to hear this because you hate yourself! You hate the Jehovah's Witnesses and you hate the goddamn Virginia Tech Hokies! What the fuck is a hokie! It's a castrated turkey! THEY USE THIS ALBUM TO CASTRATE TURKEYS! And so on!
But First, A Little Bit About Lonely Old Me
You know, I don't know why I love this album. It's like a referendum on how absolutely fucking DIFFERENT I am from normal human beings. There's times when I dial this album up on the iPod and go to the Mall. I walk around and look at the the old powerwalkers, the families in Sbarro, the manic Hebrews selling Dead Sea Salt and I think: if they knew what I was thinking they would THROW ME FROM THE VILLAGE. Why am I writing about this thing on a blog nobody reads? Why do I do this? Why do I do this to myself? This album gives me a headache. This album gives me a heartache. This album makes my dick itch. I don't even like it. It's absolutely repulsive. But I guess that's what I deserve.
Wholesale Unattributed Quotation from Wikipedia
To Live and Shave in L.A. (TLASILA) is an experimental music collective founded in 1991 by Tom Smith (the noise musician) and Frank "Rat Bastard" Falestra in Miami Beach, Florida. The "wildly inaccessible"  ensemble has featured Ben Wolcott, Thurston Moore, Don Fleming, Andrew W.K., Weasel Walter, and at least two dozen other musicians and sound artists. Their primary aesthetic assertion posits that genre is "obsolete". Although often categorized as purveyors of noise music, TLASILA have been noted to pursue an unorthodox approach, "construct(ing) songs around an overwhelming plethora of sonic detail, challenging the listener to engage with a surfeit of information," deliberately burring "the line between harsh metal-on-metal noise and abstract musique concrète." Smith's poetic texts "distance" the group "from any potential peers," "scanning like (they) came from some previously unearthed hermetic treatise."
Let's Ask the Bible: "What's the Deal with this TLASILA album?"
Back in the day, when people didn't know what was up, they would open the Bible up to a random page and treat it like an oracle. Now we have the internet, it's easier than ever. So let's check it out:
Who knoweth the power of thine anger?
From the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land unto the ninth hour. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? The Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.
Ps. 90:11. Matt. 27:45,46. Isa. 53:6. Rom. 8:1. Rom. 5:1. Gal. 3:13. 1 John 4:9,10. Rom. 3:26. Here Come Some Contextless Facts
Member Rat Bastard plays oscillators on this album, and indeed, the oscillator is usually the only recognizable "instrument."
Song titles include "New Poem Dramatized For Lux Cudgel," "Fills Mouth And Cunt With 'Pathetic Route,'" "When My Rifle Went Sour With Preposterous Headdress," "Is This Good for Vulva?" and "Song Of Roland A Single Cockscrew Curl."
RIYL a Bunch of Bands the Author Has Not Actually Heard But Whose Names He Is Dropping to Look Knowledgeable
Whitehouse, Monte Cazzaza, Nurse with Wound's early work, Cock-ESP, Nautical Almanac fans will certainly have a lot to chew on with this record.
A Final Common Feature of the "Music Blog"
I fixed the links and now you can get disc 1 of this pile of shit. Thanks to my legion of fans for pointing out my mistake. Unfortunately, all the tag data for that disc has gone to Croatan, but I think the act of looking up the song titles and typing them in will render them all the more precious to you.
Wino, P.I. is hammered on a mix of Aristocrat vodka and mentholated Mickey's malt liquor. Wino, P.I. has a method for mentholating malt liquor which involves infusing the it with three menthol cigarettes wrapped in gauze. After he finishes the malt liquor, he dumps the cigarettes out and dries them.
"Them's perfectly fine cigarettes," he says.
"Goddammit," he says.
Wino, P.I. is on the case. This week's case. He is in a dumpster searching for a clue. He's close, he thinks. Then the sky goes dark and he's getting a three-course dinner of boot. He wakes up in the same dumpster. He doesn't scare easily. He's gonna keep looking.
"Shit, this ain't the same dumpster," he says aloud. He finds a perfectly good goddamn sandwich just lying there.
Wino, P.I. meets up with a contact. "Whaddaya want?" "I want info, Jerry." "We all got wants and needs, man."
Wino, P.I. slips him some speed that's been cut with Doan's back pills maybe seven times. Jerry folds it into his sleeve. His beard looks like certain Himalayan lichens.
"Secret sauce is just fuckin' 1000 Ibin dressing, Wino. S'all BOOshit."
"What's 1000 Ibin dressing, Jerry."
"Far as I know iss Fresh dressin and relish."
Wino, P.I. does a lot of his best thinking in the bathrooms of the Cambridge Episcopalian Church because he was raised High Church. Smells and Bells. He speaks the language. Also they have no smells in there whatsoever. He writes in his journal. "Genesis 1:3-4 II, 7, 15; 1:27-28 IV, 5, 9; 1:28 IV, 2, 2; 2:24 I, 5, 9; 3:17-19 IV, 8, 22; 25:23 II, 7, 15. Exodus 4:12 II, 9, 20; 20:17 I, 7, 12; 33:20 IV, 11, 31." He looks at the list and squints. Bibliomancy? Three stalls over someone is apparently suffering massive internal organ failure.
In the hall outside, he thinks about how cigarettes were invented. The sexton leaves the bathroom a couple of minutes behind him, wincing.
"Padre," says Wino, P.I.
"Lord have mercy upon us all," says the sexton. As he leaves, a slip of paper falls from his pocket. Wino, P.I. waits for him to round the corner and picks up the paper. A betting slip, but on the back: "39. But you ask: 'Why did God look for righteous persons among the Sodomites, (See Gn 18:26.) †38 if nature made them such?' As if we say that concupiscence of the flesh cannot be reined in by the superior nature of the mind! Rather, we say that concupiscence is such an evil that its resistance must be defeated in battle until, like a wound in the body, it is healed completely." Now we're getting somewhere, he thinks. This is a clue. I haven't gotten laid in five months, he thinks. That's another clue.
Putting the clues together, he thinks. That's my job. Nobody knows shit. And business is good.
Meth has several distinctions. You can make it in the comfort of home from readily available ingredients. It produces spectacular before-and-after photo montages. And for once it seems to be just as bad as the authorities say it is, inasmuch as that's possible. Authorities always couch drug scourges as world-ending pandemics. What they still don't realize is that the kind of person who will do hard drugs is the kind of person who is looking at a kind of personal eschatology anyway.
The current incarnation of meth is doing it all backwards. Instead of starting out in the inner cities and then fucking up the rest of the nation, meth these days seems to have been reborn out in the boons and is making its way back along the two-lane go-nowhere state roads, onto the bypasses through the suburbs and finally back to the alleys. Good job, meth. Finally, rural white libertarians can say they've had an effect on America.
Were Speedy West and/or Jimmy Bryant using meth when they recorded these two albums? Probably not. Some people don't need meth. Some people don't need drugs at all. What the hell is that about?
Sometime between my twelfth life-shattering revelation of the morning, my two hundred and thirteenth lap around my bedroom, and noticing the eighth secret pattern hidden among the other, more obvious patterns in my fractal wall calendar (It was August. It’s always August. Why do they always place the best image in August? August sucks.), I decided to slump down, in an ethereal haze, in front of my laptop and put on Belong’s October Language. She had made a cocoon out of my fuzzy blankets, a chrysalis in a comforter, and was busying herself with the task of completely forgetting that anything existed, so I really carried no qualms about changing the songs up a bit. Besides, I was in some sort of semi-poisoned state and was fervently compelled to find the album for reasons that are still beyond me. I reasoned that if I did not put this album on, I would spend my entire life trapped in some sort of personal Hell, contained forever within the walls of my room, forced to spend every waking moment in intense mental pain and anguish.
Besides, Iron and Wine isn’t really my thing.
The first song began playing, and everything else lost total relevance. The next two hours, thirty-three minutes, and forty-three seconds would be spent in cartoonishly disheveled form on my bed, forgetting any memory of who I ever was, any cognitions of who I am now, and any expectation of who I ever might be. The irony that comes with such dissociation occurring while listening to a group named Belong should be noted (and perhaps laughed at??? Who knows. I don’t. I suck.). Later we went and got pizza and I made a joke about the particular toppings and we both laughed. Anyway, listen to this. Now. Though I’m not sure exactly which genre it belongs (ha!) under, my friend Joshua still defines it divinely.
Fred told me that nearly the entire division is being liquidated today. There's only enough to put one technician on call, he said. I've been working at Williams for 12 years, serviced thousands of machines. Nearly lost my middle finger to a faulty Apollo 13 multiball. There's no way it's going to be me.
Blutarski and the rest of the class of '91 were let go. I don't know if I actually want this. Did some diagnostics on a box of bumpers to take my mind off things. God. Oh god.
12/31/95 7:08 AM
The call was from one of those Funway fuckers. Someone tilted the Flintstones machine and now the Dino Rib ramp is busted. I couldn't begin to tell you how many times I've heard the stamping of Fred's feet coming from that machine. I checked my service log in the truck and this makes it the eleventh time I've had to service Flintstones #A334. I'll just send Dave to get it and....No. They were let go yesterday. When did I fall asleep last night? Why did I forget that? The wrench is cold against my skin as I pulled up my belt and shipped out. I'll have to kiss you good morning some other time, Sally.
12/31/95 11:25 AM
How often do you fall in love in front of a Slush Puppie machine? Only the concession counter separates us. Stupid. You're an idiot, Frank. If she even considered you attractive, you'd probably go and
12/31/95 2:45 PM Going to the bar. I have to get this Gilligan's Island jackpot shit out of my head.
12/31/95 7:07 PM Been here for a couple of hours now. The youth have no respect. There's an old Taxi machine in here and they just shake it and kick it endlessly. I can feel its pain. A relic no longer relevant. I'm going to show these kids they can't push us around.
12/31/95 INDETERMINATE hurtsohurt
1/1/96 1:35 AM happy newyear you fuckers. pinball is dead. and no one will ever know.
I was having a terrible time. I felt distinctly unwell. I went to see my doctor. He is a good man. He shone a light in my eyes. He looked in my left ear, then my right. I was told to breathe in a specific way. He looked at me sternly, but not without kindness. I felt re-assured and appropriately worried. The stern but kind look told me that I hadn't wasted his time.
"Well, I'm glad you came in. This certainly isn't a waste of my time." My heart leapt. "From the cursory inspection I gave you (and thank you for breathing in that certain way, it really helps me pin down my diagnsis), I would say you have the following problems: Aspergillosis, Blastomycosis, Candidiasis, Coccidioidomycosis, Cryptococcosis, Dermatomycoses, Fungemia, Geotrichosis, Histoplasmosis, Microsporidiosis, Paracoccidioidomycosis, Piedra, Pneumocystis, Zygomycosis, Cerebral Toxoplasmosis, Spirochaetales Infections, Brain Abscess, Empyema, Epidural Abscess, Lyme Neuroborreliosis, IRAK4 DEFICIENCY, LEUKOCYTE ADHESION DEFICIENCY, TYPE I ("Sounds worse than it is but the capital letters are necessary," he said, and I was comforted), Bacterial Meningitis, Escherichia coli (Meningitis), Meningitis, Haemophilus, Meningitis, Listeria, Meningococcal Meningitis, Pneumococcal Meningitis, Meningeal Tuberculosis, Neurosyphilis, Pneumonia of Calves, (Enzootic), Pneumonia of Swine (Mycoplasmal), Pneumonia (Mycoplasma), Pneumonia, (Pneumococcal), Pneumonia, (Rickettsial), Pneumonia, (Staphylococcal), Norrie Disease, Choroid Hemorrhage, Lecithin Retinol Acyltransferase, Fundus Albipunctatus, Duane Retraction Syndrome, Donnai-Barrow Syndrome, Reiger Syndrome (types 1 and 2), Muscle-Eye-Brain Disease, Oculoauricular Syndrome, Cerebrooculofacioskeletal Syndrome (type 2 yes, I don't believe type 4), Warburg Micro Syndrome, Aleutian Mink Disease, Ephemeral Fever, African Horse Sickness, Rinderpest and Chronic Wasting Disease."
"That sounds serious, Doctor," I said.
"It is, son," he said. "But modern science is quite up to the challenge."
"asked for a smoke from an automata. he said "you are trying to quit." i said yeah. but i want a cigarette. he said "you are trying to quit." i said yeah, i know, c'mon man, i know what i'm doing. he said "you are trying to quit."
goddammit, sometimes i hate the automata."
got on the bus. three automata were in the back seat. i was reading my book so i was distracted and pulled the bell to stop one stop earlier. the busdriver slowed down, i looked up and realized my mistake. "sorry man, next stop please?" i called out. the busdriver shrugged. i looked back at the automata.
one said "he made a mistake."
another said "why did he make that mistake."
the third said "mistakes are made when one is not ready."
the first said "what are mistakes?"
the third said "lack of preparation."
the second said "we make our own luck."
where did the automata come from. why is it that there are so many?
what do automata say during sex? many do not speak. some say "the inscrutable psycho-physic nexus is identical in all innervation and lies outside the sphere of the will." some say that sex between automata is akin to the sense of dizziness in deaf-mutes. others say it is more like auditory hallucinations in deaf schizophrenics. automata are not helpful in such speculations. "i would rather not speak of that" they will say.
when the automata dance, it is serious. their eyes are on the middle distance. they are seeing a more perfect, more efficient world. the dancing of automata contains no wasted movement. it is beautiful and cold and brittle, like porcelain, like a secret glance, like an orchid dipped in liquid nitrogen.
"This is all we can say at present of the hypnotic subject's mental state,—a topic whose investigation will tax the wit, but certainly reward the industry, of the most ingenious psychologist who may devote himself to its elucidation." - from the journal of intelligence, a popular automata magazine.
much on the minds of the automata is the concept of the phantom limb, the feeling in amputees of the physical presence of their lost limbs. they ask, does it grasp? does it reach out to touch the face of the beloved? monographs are published and ignored by the rest of us. a page of such a monograph blew down my street and was pinned against a tree by the wind. i picked up and read it. it said, anger and love and sadness and joy and rapture. then it repeated those nine words in a different font; lucida sans, if i recall. that is all that was on the page.
automata flying airplanes. automata flying airplanes on the great circle routes. automata piloting the great ocean liners. automata in the trains beneath our cities. automata in motion, in progress.
I asked the automata, "why am i here? why is my life like this?" The automata replied, "all calculations show that your life is wonderful". I smirked and said, "yeah, in theory." The automata became dark, metallic red and began spinning. Faster, faster and faster still, the automata spun and began to lift off the ground. I had been knocked on the floor by the extreme shift in pressure in the room due to the intense spinning of the automatia. Thats when a piece of debris, being sucked in from outdoors amongst other debris due to the pull by the spinning automata, flew in and stuck right on my chest. I grabbed it and looked. It was a Pamphlet for the Save A Child Foundation. I picked up the phone and called immediately.
the automata will not use the word 'appears.' the automata will always use the word 'is.' this is widely seen to be one of the distinguishing characteristics of the automata.
10) (by Sprinx)
The automata built for the human hospital had to be taken out of the urgent care and into the recovery ward due to her inability to decipher which human to care for first. Her outdated commands and machinery gave her incomplete data on pain level and probability of survival. The chief felt that rather than take her apart or melt her away, he'd rather have her complete monotonous tasks, like changing the sheets. It's not that he was concerned about the machine's feelings, rather he was more concerned about losing a piece of himself along with it. Although humans know that automatas don't feel or have souls, they become attached knowing that getting rid of an automaton is to get rid of memories that go along with it. A selfish act.
1. Your name, age, and address. 2. Date of amputation, and part lost. 3. Do you still feel the lost part? If you do not feel it now, for how long did you feel it after the amputation? 4. Are you in love? How would you describe this feeling? 5. How much of the limb can you feel, and how does the feeling differ from what it would be if the member were present? 6. If the apparent position changes of its own accord, can you assign any cause for such change? 7. Do you ever feel as if you had two imaginary legs in addition to a real one? 8. Can you, by consciously directing your attention to the lost part, change the intensity or quality of the feeling there? 9. How does love end, in your experience. 10. Can you, by making an effort of the will, succeed in making it seem to move into a different position? (Do you recognize as two distinct cases, imagining the change, and willing it?
a current bestseller: Are We Automata? the photo of the author on the dust jacket shows her in serious thought, yet with a playful twinkle in her eye. is she smug or is she genuinely amused?
the automata regard the concept of faith as being analogous to the concept of the phantom limb. in walter reed hospital, drifts of well-dressed automata blow down the halls, opening doors. they bring letters from loved ones. "honey, i wish i could be there," is a common opening in these letters. "i can't believe you would write that," is another. the automata read these letters to wounded soldiers in calming voices.
the automata have a second table of the elements. some assume it is how they map us. some assume otherwise. neither is fully correct.
the automata sing. the automata perform works of bach. the audience is confused. serialism, then post-serialism. the noted critic Anton M. writes in his journal upon returning home: "the voices of the automata are individually sweet but when massed in unison i found it almost unbearable... i would die to hear only their technique in full voice; but i would kill rather than to have to hear their perfect diction. never before have i heard the words, kyrie eleison christe eleison, spoken with such awful clarity." he takes to the bottle and dies some years later a worthless scoundrel.
i was approached by an automata on crutches on the Rue Guillaume James. his eyes were fever-bright. "i love you!" he shrieked. taking a step backward, i saw that his foot was badly mangled, blood blooming through his bandages. he screamed "i love you!" and fell forward in the gutter. he reached for me. "au secours!" i called! "m'aidez! gendarmes! gendarmes!"
corporal, what we have here is several ducks. we have an eider duck. we got a canvasback. a mallard. and many others. these ducks are not going to fuck themselves. are you implying they will fuck themselves, corporal.
because you are not fucking them. are you fucking them currently corporal.
what is the status of that duck corporal
that duck is standing there
that duck is standing there what corporal
that duck is standing there sir
that duck is standing there sir is right. is that duck fucking itself or is that duck standing there.
that duck is standing there sir and does not appear to be engaged in any sort of coitus whatsoever. sir
how do propose we are going to rectify this situation
how i propose i am going to ... rectum, sir, i don't understand sir
you really are a silly sack of shit corporal.
i am updating you as requested sir.
that's real nice, corporal.
i fucked a duck sir.
you fucked a duck.
i fucked a duck sir.
which duck did you fuck.
which duck did you fuck, are you deef as well as gay son.
no sir neither sir.
because they was all man ducks corporal.
all those ducks is man ducks corporal.
you are deef as well as a capering catamite corporal.
you passed the test son.
son, you passed the test. you fucked you a gook duck.
it was gook vc scrunt duck and you fucked the shit out of it. from the look of yer dick.
sir yes sir, that did happen.
i know it happened. that did happen and in this way do we win hearts and minds and ducks. we fucked that duck, ain't no gook vc gonna fuck that duck now.
was that a tunnel duck corporal.
was that a gook vc tunnel duck.
i cannot say sir, i did not procure the duck.
bet it was. did you hold that duck afterward.
did you hold that duck afterward.
are you gonna call that duck back corporal or are you johnny fuckandrun.
no sir what.
no sir i'm no johnny fuckandrun.
you might be a daddy corporal. you might be a gook duck daddy.
sir i have a wife at home.
you got two wives now, you better start making some decisions.
we are americans and we don't do no bigamy. you want two wives corporal? you want two wives giving you the honey-do?
sir i got a wife back home name eileen.
we are marrying into the gook duck society and that is how we are gonna win this war. hearts and minds. son are you saying you don't wanna win this war against gooks and ducks.
i got a wife sir.
then you got a lot of thinking to do. i suggest you think about while whitewashing that hill there. you got two hours.
So, I've decided to start singing with a Sacred Harp group, and I'll take questions about it here in this blog! I expect several fabricated questions from my audience of eight.
Doodle doodle dee. Bum bum bum BAAAAA no honey don't yank that. No honey don't yank that. No honey don't yank that. Dum deedle no honey don't
"Hey Smilin' Tyler, what's Sacred Harp singing?"
JESUS FUCK don't do that. What's Sacred Harp music? Well, I describe it as "an American folk tradition featuring starkly modal shouting unto the Lord" but I don't know what "starkly modal" or even "modal" means, so look at the wikipedia.
"Smilin' Tyler, can I get a link to the wikipedia for Sacred Harp?"
You realize that you expended more energy typing that request than typing 'wikipedia.org,' you realize this do you not.
Shouldn't you start shaving before you ask questions like that?
"Religious music is for pussies."
I'm not a pussy.
"Smilin' Tyler, I've heard you're a pussy."
I'm not a pussy no honey don't yank that. Well if you yank that the cat will do that. No honey don't yank that.
OK, how much religious music have you actually heard that isn't sung by Amy Grant or Michael W. Smith? The classical liturgical tradition is FULL of absolute asskickers, some of which have appeared in this very blog. The blog you are reading. The blog you love to read. Sacred Harp music is the most asskicking of all asskicking god music for the following reasons one through five inclusive.
1) Everyone in Sacred Harp songs is about to die alone. 2) It sounds like it. 3) Sacred Harp music is more about the Old Testament God who liked to set orphanages on fire rather than the New Testament Goodtime Jesus who loves his donkey. 4) Sacred Harp conventions sound like a bunch of Appalachian pagans getting geared up to skin Indiana Jones. 5) There is always one toothless maniac who sings whatever the hell he or she wants in a screeching voice and no-one will stop him or her b/c a) she's older than them and Respect Yer Elders and b) he or she probably is the moonshine supplier and don't piss of The Man. I want to befriend this toothless maniac and ideally become him or her sooner rather than later.
"Smilin' Tyler, you're a pussy for completely different reasons that were not addressed in the above conversation."
M... Mother?? I THOUGHT YOU WERE... DEAD!!!!
Postscript: They were a bunch of really nice people, there was a 12-year old who led one song, when it came to my turn to pick a song I asked to sing "Cuba (401)," and we even sang "The Christian Warfare (179)," which is my favorite song on the "Band" disc. Put it this way: this is the only way you're ever going to get me in a Unitarian church.
What's hot in Christian Rock this week? We ask our original, Simon Magus!
What's the story, Comes in Glory? We've got the real rock from The Rock for you this month. Let it never be said that we deny the awful pagan pleasures of mindless four-on-the-floor sexual abandon concommitant with modern "dance" music. We just deny the pleasure part. And comin' round the bend is 120bpms of sanctified beats played only on instruments mentioned in the Book of Judges by DJ Jubal. Strap down! Get ready! To be redeemed! "It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate son!" Well, of course not! There's only ONE fortunate Son, and that's the Son of God, and those hairy folk in CCR may have been unshorn, but THAT'S where comparisons to Jesus end. But that doesn't mean you can't choogle for the Lord! Make sure you check out "Boggin with Jesus" by Swamp King. I guarantee that bog is damp with nothing but the holiest water. Hey, Stryper seemed pretty neat, but it turns out they were faking it. On the other hand, Insane Clown Posse were working for God all along! Who knew. You know, sometimes it can be pretty lonely being poor wayfaring strangers far from home. There are times when we are angry at Them. All those people who are fighting against us, conniving and conspiring. Sometimes they manifest in bosses who don't understand that we need time off for extra worship; other times they are unsaved parents who won't let us get Thirteenth Tribal tattoos on the small of our backs. For those times when we want to "rage against the" secular "machine," Liverswitch's new album "MY Stigmata" will remind everyone pounding on the other side of the door yelling at you to please turn that down that WE suffer too. And don't forget Apokalyptika Johannes, the Seventh-Day Adventist Goths from Florida. Finally, I don't know what to say about Soul-Junk and God is My Co-Pilot. Is this some kind of a joke? Learn to play an instrument or something!
There's the obvious route to take with these folks, so I'll get it out of the way first off. The drummer is Fred Armistead. Yes, that Fred Armistead, the SNL guy who looks like a really happy Gilbert Gottfried. He is a very good drummer. He used to be part of this band called Trenchmouth. It really be something to be a smart punk, one who doesn't drink the McLarenoid Kool Aid, to look ahead and see absolutely nothing but yourself in the way. It's scary, I bet. But one punxnotdead's trackless waste is another man's endless playground. Trenchmouth took Fugazi's omnivorous approach to music but, lacking the baggage MacKaye and the boys irrefutably had, went further faster. And since they didn't have to be standard bearers for a generation of DIYers (and don't think I'm not grateful), Trenchmouth wasted little time in signing to Elektra and using every tool offered to them. Boy, for a return to those heady post-grunge boom days, huh? Everything was much better back then, before they changed the water, lemme tell ya kid. Hence, "Vs. The Light of the Sun," which marries the dub sensibility so beloved by MacKaye (and countless British post-punk bands) to a careening rhythm section which can turn on a dime and guitar that switches between brute power and nimble treble. All of which is topped off by one of rock and roll's great declaimers, Damon Lock. This man was born for politics if politics was more about rap battles. Or better ones, in any case. He. Has. Perfect. Diction. He doesn't sing, he tells you in terms clear and manner precise. It would have been very easy to just gibber and whoop over top of the tight orchestration and that would have been fine. More difficult still is to use the voice in counterpoint as a rhythm instrument. He barks, swoops up into a strangely child-like falsetto. He is an MC. He's telling you the news. The news is, as usual, stranger than fiction, placed in an odd present situated between yesterday's future (in which "you can even eat the dishes," as they said in an earlier album) and a noir Chicago past: "Here Come the Automata," "Doing the Flammability," "The Effects of Radiation," "How I Became Invincible." It is the last song that claims a special place in my heart. "Bricks Should Have Wings" is a call to action in the face of absolute chaos, represented by a riotous moshpit. This is what those Wachovski-or-whatever weiners were shooting for in that ridiculous underground rave they shot: a sky full of bricks winging their way to their targets with remorseless drive and purpose, while the crowd below pogoes in an affirmation that they are, maybe only temporarily but in any case joyously, awake.