Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Some rapper cuts off his penis; blames demons
Demons can be real motherfuckers. Demons force us to live in crowded, greasy communities rife with abandoned automobiles and bacteria. They make us to eat fried foods and inhale the toxic fumes of dry-wrapped vegetation. They weaken us with fermented grain and whisper sweet sonnets of lust into our ears, then deliver stinging urination and open genital warts. They gently subvert us into identical vinyl-clad boxes over a stinking labyrinth of subterranean rivers which run red with the blood of Juicy Juice and bloody feces. They will compel us to eat an entire package of Fig Newtons when a single serving would meet the daily nutritional requirements. Yes, demons are a disruptive nuisance, but we learn to live with them.
But, when your demons instruct you to sever your wang and jump off a two-story building, it’s time to get some new demons.
Just one man’s opinion.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
As the sun rises over another Jerkwater morning the faux Studebaker will rest comfortably in the shade of the leafless maple.
In the distance a baby cries as mother sets down her cigarette and lowers her dirty tube-top to suckle the next generation.
After all, children are our future.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Friday, June 13, 2014
Walking boldly down the mean, back streets of some third world hell-hole, he fears no evil. A bushwhacker’s bullet bounces off the back of his head and drops to the dirty sidewalk, ineffectual and impotent. One of the locals dares to leer at him from behind a door and promptly loses his f@#kin’ teeth. Even without the spinach bolstering his confidence, Popeye is brash and audacious. The quintessential, swaggering ugly American.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Popeye’s relationship with Olive Oyl was a curious one, and quite Forrest Gumpian in nature. Flat-chested, fractious and rope thin, Olive was bawdy and lecherous. Their unlikely romance was always vexing. While Popeye was handsome, strong and dependable, Olive was flighty and unpredictable and quite simply a slut. Every time the odious Bluto would woo her with chocolates or flowers, she would succumb, leaving the faithful Popeye alone, frustrated and broken-hearted. Inevitably Bluto's deviant sexual appetite would get the better of him and he would begin to force himself on the hapless Olive. Brutish groping would quickly turn to a savage attack and Olive would find herself fighting to protect her sullen womanhood once again. Popeye would come faithfully to the rescue, and after being beaten nearly to death by his much larger adversary, would produce a can of spinach from under his shirt and incapacitate the would-be rapist, saving the day.
No matter how many times she betrayed him Popeye would rescue and forgive her. Popeye’s love for her was absolute and unconditional, which showcased a softer side to the sailor's many-faceted personality.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Popeye was one bad seaman. I recall rainy summer days as a young impressionable schoolboy, waiting for the afternoon soaps to finish and the Popeye and Janie Show to begin. I credit those many hours spent watching cartoons in front of the old black and white Magnavox for molding and shaping me into the solid Amërïkän citizen I am today. Never cared much for sixties-era, toned-down, made-for-TV version. I preferred the original, gritty, thirties-era Popeye. Produced as “shorts” to be played between movie features in stuffy, un-air conditioned movie theaters, the early episodes are distinguished by the ominous sliding door introduction and distinctly politically-incorrect themes. Popeye spent his days jacked up on cheap Jamaican rum and canned spinach, muttering incoherent gibberish while flexing his forearms and searching for his next fix. Each of those early episodes were classic, hand-drawn works of art.
Today’s cartoons are weak and uninspired by comparison. Japanese anime, SpongeBob Square Pants, poorly-animated talking dogs and computer-generated stalks of broccoli, all with the thinly-veiled undercurrent of totalitarian propaganda lying just beneath the surface. These unimaginative cartoons, complete with their hidden agenda, spawned a generation of unemployable slackers and confused, manicured metrosexuals hiding in their parent's house communicating with each other by way of mindless text messages on expensive phones mommy bought for them. The newest generation of cartoons are in no small way responsible for the increase in ADHD, the growing national debt and the continuing downward spiral of our once-proud nation.
Popeye had no agenda beyond throwing down cans of spinach and getting busy with Olive Oyl. Also, never forget, this dude could cut through half-inch plate steel using his pipe as a torch.
I hope to explore this issue in the coming days and weeks unless I’m overcome with laziness and apathy, as I am wont to do.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Long before twitter and instagram hot babes were posing and flashing skin on expensive automobiles with awkward, "come hither" smirks. Terms like "Twerking" and anachronyms such as "LOL" were meaningless to this flapper, and for that she she's fortunate.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Thursday, May 15, 2014
All the cool cats hang out in the alley behind Jerkwater's top-notch flower shop, amid the crumbling walls and unused roofing shingles. But Jerkwater has character and a certain redneck charm. Beats the hell out of the strip mall suburban squalor which spreads its vacant, cultureless detritus from the city like a post-modern cancer. Jerkwater sports a thriving gun shop, several drinking establishments and the Jerkwater hardware store, been there for a hundred years, with warped wooden floors and well-stocked shelves. Plenty of masking tape and cans of Krylon. More importantly, the owner himself is there to find that obscure 10-32 threaded rod you may need.
Good luck finding anything with the pimple-faced kid at Home Depot.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Saturday, April 12, 2014
The staples and shaking got rid of the loose shit, so I filled the tank with muriatic acid and let it sit for an hour. I emptied the tank and flushed it with water. I then proceeded to quick-dry the tank. Lacking hair, and therefore a hair dryer, I placed it in front of the fire-breathing bullet heater. It dried quite nicely, but sadly caused third degree burns on the fresh tank, so it's back to square one with tank paint.
The weather was too nice, (first time the temp cracked 70 degrees in 180 days) to be cooped up in the shop screwing up shit, so I went out to enjoy the warmth and, after the coldest winter in recent memory, there was a f@#king alligator basking in the sun on the banks of the hermit pond eyeballing my ducks with bad intent.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
A big-boned gal from my distant past stopped by, uninvited, and before I could shut down the lights and feign absence, she let herself in without even a courtesy knock. She was always a brash and vulgar woman, loud and self-centered, obscene. The kind who’d fit right in on the set of The Jerry Springer Show.
After the usual catching up on who was dead or in jail, she started going on about her failed relationships, how much she hated her work, the foul weather, bad traffic and her struggles with depression and foot odor. My thoughts drifted as she spoke and I pretended to listen, noting her enormous girth and remembering how annoying her non-stop prattle was. She droned on, me nodding my head occasionally and noticing that, without missing a beat, she was ripping open the box of Triscuits® I had carelessly left, unprotected and vulnerable, on the kitchen counter. On and on she went, throwing down mouthfuls of Triscuits® between whining about inconsiderate boyfriends, broken washing machines and her latest existential crisis.
For kicks, I mentioned that I’d just finished up some undercover work for the Bulgarian Secret Police, and was considering a sex change operation. She paused briefly, then asked, “You got anything to put on these crackers?” I smiled as she went on about her old car and new shoes, and silently wondered how Liquid Drano might work as a condiment.
She looked at the clock, said, "Oh shit!" and left the house hurriedly, muttering something about picking up her kids. For a few horrifying moments it sounded as if her car wouldn’t start, but mercifully it coughed to life and she sped off down the drive.
I sat for a few moments after she left, feeling used and dejected, shaking the crumbs of a once-full box, and wondering what the hell I was going to do with two tins of sardines and a full jar of olives with no damn Triscuits®.