philrancid: (Default)
Also, as a fool, I have forgotten to mention that Shri and Piper really really really rock, and I love them. Their gifts have given me something to look forward to, and then something to enjoy.

Hugs, youse guys. Big uns, as I am a great ungainly beast of a guy, with long long crushing thank you thank you arms.
philrancid: (Default)
I just wanna tell you guys that I think you all rule.
philrancid: (Default)
on occasion, I will pick the noses of your cats, in any photos you may post, with the point of the little mouse cursor arrow.

And there ain't nothin' you can do about it.
philrancid: (Default)
Nokia ringtone for the theme from Battlestar Galactica.

God help us all.
philrancid: (Default)
Well, having now finished checking up on you people, just to make sure that you are still out there bothering to exist, I must confess my idiocy.

In all this time of checking in, checking up, and worrying about those who do not write often enough, and get buried by those who write very much, I have spent countless days completely missing the point.

I click your name, I go to your userinfo page, click name again--all the most recent entries.

Somebody give me the stupid prize.

[livejournal.com profile] yendi, if it ever comes up, can i have one of your toes, preserved in formaldehyde?

(Sorry! Sometimes I just feel the need to randomly randomize at otherwise ordinarily harmless people--try not to take offense. If you're still offended, go back and try again.)

(imagine how [livejournal.com profile] ounceofreason must have felt getting called up out of the blue by some freak with no real agenda, other than to call someone, just to see how they sound out loud, and to try and talk to them?)

Dammit! This client-free interface doesn't allow for journal update previews!

Weird Al:
And I can't believe it, all the Cheetos are gone...
philrancid: (Default)
crap. i was about to do an entry, but the library is about to close.

too many abouts.

i'm about through.

To Shri:

Feb. 7th, 2004 05:53 pm
philrancid: (Default)
(sings through Gwen Stefani's nose)
philrancid: (potted hand)
Crap.

I just don't feel like talkin'.

Somebody (shade?) give me some advice on this comic adaption of a short story I plan to do?

Oops, sorry shade, forgot about the spine. Hope you recover quickly, and, while your pain is still dizzy and woozy from the anaesthesia, creep off from the recovery room and leave it with the bill.
philrancid: (potted hand)
My most recent success is that I was able to post a comment to someone else's journal.
philrancid: (Default)
Sat down and used brain, to discover that shade doesn't read me--waa! Not sure that it means anything though, as she has to trim down for the Shadesong Bug.

I guess I spend too much time trying to have other people validate me. That's one of the things I want to be rid of.

Will be going tomorrow morning to drop off my background info, and find out what's going to be up with the physical.

Scared?

Yeah.

So far, still going. I've always looked good in olive drab.

Tiger's ATT should get back to us some time next week, and that means disgusting sums of money--to the point where when I get back, I will have to re-assess my life. Fuck. We're actually gonna get to pay taxes! Wow. My whole life spent so far under the poverty level, managing to make appearances. I hope we don't let it get all crazy. We live comfortably enough now, it's just that we'd be able to pay our bills in a timely fashion and not have to worry about shit getting cut off all the time. We could like, save money and shit, too.

I'm going to have to look into doing a living will, if I get enlisted. A year from now, who knows what the world opinion will be of the US, when people here in its borders are crying fascist. I might catch a bullet, or get vaporized in the name of Allah, or whatever. Not that I'm going to spend my time running around thinking about it, worrying--you just gotta live as best you can, and that means making sure that my shit is taken care of before I get assigned a duty somewhere.

I was thinking of pulling a pussduty, getting some kind of career path that would keep me further away fom the bullets, but after vidi spoke support, I can't help but feel that that would simply be another instance of me trying to live a life without honor. Now I'm thinking maybe I should get into it as a journalist, if that's where my best skills lie. Granted I want something that'll translate into a marketable skill when I get out, if I choose to get out, but at the same time, I don't want to back down on our troops.

In world news, we started and completed the twins' bunk bed, made it out of two-by-fours and -sixes, but only had a jigsaw to cut the wood with. My Skilsaw has a bent foot, which makes all the cuts come out crooked. I'm gonna have to find a way to replace it, or scrap the whole saw. I'll have to get in there and sand down the edges, and paint it someday real soon, but for now we're back concentrating on cleaning and trying to get our futures mapped.

Potato.
philrancid: (puppet)
Saw one of those banner ads embedded in the hotmail site, advertising fast internet. They had an animated gif of a tiger running, I guess to symbolize how fast the speed was.

It might have gone over better if the gif had been right side up.

Dunno that many tigers, but just how fast can one go if he's laying on his back flailing his paws at the sky?
philrancid: (Default)
gonna go try and clean now...
philrancid: (Default)
Jamming like old school.

I was raised by the demons
Trained to reign as their lord


Feeling a little better this morning.

Yoiu know, I was going to do some kind of post telling about the last day or so--but I got so caught up in the bad-ass jamming of GoT that I grabbed my halfass axe of the wall and went and learnt it.
philrancid: (bot boy)
listening to Bon's AC/DC in the morning gets you wanting a fifth of bourbon to suck on?

Ain't funny how, when you're not really awake, concepts can be far more entertaining than reality?

Ain't it funny how, when you're sleepy, your brain takes percevied threats very seriously, and dredges up that sour mash "I just barfed up my spleen" taste in your tongue's eye?

Hmmm.
philrancid: (Default)
snore snore buzzsaw kchangk kchangk

Vanilla Pepsi sucks my balls through a straw with a dirty weedeater.

I haven't really even finished waking up yet, but, here I am, and all without much of a sense of worth. Dreaming of guitars and parts n shit--anybody wanna fund my luthierly aspirations? All I really want is an Ibanez body off Ebay, maybe a Kramer or Jackson neck, and a Floyd Rose locking trem system.

Lol
Coupla pickups wouldn't hurt much either.

"No, you're not thinking, you're on drugs! Normal people don't act that way!"

Fuck you, mom.
philrancid: (potted hand)
I have heard, through my channels of humanity, those who would complain of the language in The Lord of the Rings, its stiffness, dryness, etc. To this I respond only with facts that should make plain the cause for your pains, readers.

Tolkein were a member of RAF, if I remember correctly, for the first part. Back in the era of World War I. A British military man--imagine the precision, the hellish stiffness of the officer class.

And then add to this the fact that our epic-dealing author was an English professor, at Oxford, in the forties to the late fifties--imagine the prim and proper of that, hell, just being English back then would be enough to chill the writings of anyone you know. And then add to this the fact that he was a professor at a world-reknowned college, in England, back then, and he taught English, language and literature.

In reading bios of the man, I am amazed, in awe, of the fact that the man ever wrote anything at all, especially in the veins of epic fantasy, requiring a rich imagination at the very least. From what we Yanks perceive the English to be, I am perfectly astounded by his craft.

To those who cannot manage the book--congratulations, says the asshole part of my mind. You couldn't read a book. Go get a little badge to wear.

The nice guy part of my mind would love to remind you that the Rings books are so an integral part of the English-speaking culture that, even without seeing any of the films, or reading any of the books, you can glom the plot and events merely by watching enough episodes of Saturday morning cartoons.

You know, when Scooby and his pals run out of fresh ideas, and one week, you wind up watching the Wizard of Oz, with Scooby as Dorothy and Shaggy as the Scarecrow? The formulas come out of the woodwork, and if one be clever, one can catch all the greats, without ever having to flick the remote.

For those of you who couldn't slog through the books, thanks for letting us know. Me, I still haven't managed to get through the first quarter of 1984--in ten years of repeated attempts. The writing is as dystopic as the subject, in my eyes.

That's the problem with classics though, innit? To qualify, they are usually pretty fucking old, and the language too far from our comfortable idioms to relax us. It's like Shakespeare, but without all the forsooths that tickle our minds.

(one shouldn't post when one is emotionally rollercoastering, one thinks)

I've been sitting here tearing up at the beauty of the characters, the concepts, and the sheer fact that something from my childhood has been rendered multimedia, as if Star Wars were a book, just now hitting film.
philrancid: (bot boy)
For all my talk of maiming and destruction, I still get teary-eyed when I haven't had a chance to put my armor on, and encounter a disney film, or something else full of sappy sentiment or great beauty.
philrancid: (potted hand)
I don't want to be deep and meaningful, dammit!

I wantcha to lumme cuz I'm chubby!

Tried recording with the new/had it for months digimultitrackicorder, left the recording quality too high, and got me songie kilt in mid-overdub. BASTARDO!

Even with his Laugh-ro, the young pengy beats out my golden bowl-cut and gap teeth. I have very few school pictures, because as a youth, the fucking camera man always made me guffaw, and it wasn't until mid-high-school that I was able to get rid of the David Carradine RotN hyuckhyuck laughs--so I always got proofs of a scrawny blond kid wif his mouf all gapped open in some goofy laugh. Either that, or once I hit middle school, I would have the bastard making fun of me because I wouldn't smile or even attempt to (dunno bout you guys, but nothing puts me in a smiling-for-the-camera mode faster than having some dick with a combover mocking me becasue I won't smile). And then in HS, I would either miss camera day, or forget it was camera day and go beat some poor soul up and lock them in the janitor closet while the hallways were free of souls (pheh I wish). And then of course, there was the senior photos, in the tux--but by then I had basically given up on HS as having anything to offer me except entertainment in the form of my peers.

For those of you who don't know--wati, for those of you who want to know, that makes it more selective, lol--I got thrown out of my house when I was seventeen. My mom at least was whatever enough to turn over my social security checks to me, so I could eat and shit (a natural by-product of eating, I've been told).

Why do I prefer Windows over any other OS? Uhh, cuz it's the first system I ever really logged much time on, other than (chuckle) BASIC. I used to be pretty good at BASIC. It were fun to make up dumb-ass lil proggies in that one. Plus, I would be verily afraid to get right up to my hips in the back of a fucking iMac. So, with all the other shit going on in my shade, I haven't the time to learn other OS's, proggie languages, and all that. If I ever do get the time though, i'll probably turn Linux fag on ya all, and tell you how you can get your server to make a good pot of coffe and all that--tea is too tough for even the most advanced computers, just ask Arthur.

And uh, with all the animus v. Mr. Gates, it's a lot easier to skipe a pirate copy of the 'doze...

"You know, it's illegal to copy this OS and just give it to you, but I hate Bill gates cuz he's rich n shit, so--"
"I know! Sometimes I make left turns on a red light, just cuz I hate cops n traffic laws! And this one time, I got all mad at Wal-Mart, and cut one of those tags of off a baby mattress...just to fuck widdem."
philrancid: (puppet)
I'm not crazy!---In--stitutionalized!
You're the one who's crazy--Institutionalized!

I--

oh shit, did i leave this thing on? My bad, yo.
philrancid: (potted hand)
Had me this hella long entry half-finished, and then left to get our marriage license, and as I'm getting readay to go, I think to myself that I should save what I've written, in case the coming stormy clouds capriciously knock out my power and leave me grinding teeth.

My life is like having Murphy's Law in the form of Steve Urkel standing right beside you wht whole time, talking in that nasal whine.

I think [livejournal.com profile] murnkay had the right idea, but I personally would take the bat, and pound one of the chickens up the relative's ass, as a lesson to all of them about who is in charge, but then again, I've always had thought patterns somewhat akin to what would happen if rednecks could breed with the Sith.

I can picture it now, crushing a dead Bud on my forehead as a distraction to my prey, whilst I Force-crank my Peterbilt and run them over from behind. And then turn on the stereo for some Charlie Daniels Band with one hand, and pop open the cooler for a fresh soldier with the other.
philrancid: (Default)
It is officially a mouse.

It has developed a squeak, so that every time I try to play some retarded clicky-on-things-and-make-them-vanish game, all I hear (over the goofy sound effects of the games themselves) is squeak squeak squeak.

I thought I would like to sit here and shoot myself in the head, but I realized the best I could manage would be with a tiny little hair-braiding rubber band, which, with my luck would go straight inmy eye, and I would have to spend all day tomorrow being the bearer of the red and watery orb. Sometimes being a total flake is irksome.

I added three seconds to my mile, but only becasue I had to stop and tie my shoe, and wait for some idiot to realize that the entire street is not their POS's plaything; i hit the lap button on the watch, instead of the stop/start, so , when I went to start again, wound up with a time that was still timing, I guess.

Have been hella woozy and dizzy since the last of the Paxil. You know that headshake thing you do when you're trying to shake off sleepiness? (You might not do it, but if you were any sort of a nice person, you would humor me, and start soon) It feels like that--inside my brain. Like some sort of short-circuit or something, and I have been roaming around all starey and unfocused. Have also screamed at people for little to no reason, full out yelling.

And I won't even get into how many people I've had to chase out of my yard because they're upset that I've been biting the shit out of their children... I'm beginning to think the phrase "Get the fuck out of here or I'll beat you to death!" has lost its meaning in my end of the world.

I'm 6'1", 250 lbs, and occasionally so scary-looking, that as a younger man, I have been escorted from buildings, just for being there, and yet these idiots somehow feel that it is still perfectly okay for them to stand in the face of some Anglo absolute stranger (we're the worst, mind) and ignore threats to their life and limb as though they were mere babbling.

If any of that had really happened, mind you, it would probably put me right out. I'm not sure I could bring myself to bite any of the neighbor children--they don't seem to stay very clean, and with the humidity here, the little weasels are bound to be entirely too sweaty... Now, the withdrawal, and screaming at my fam is true, but i apologize after, and make sure that everyone under the age of ten gets a good old-fashioned jump on the middle of my back as a way of making amends.

It's two in the morning, here, in nunu land, and the goldfish are wondering when they shall feed. I hear a cream soda calling me, and it's hard to hear what it's saying over the insistent whining of my bed (you were supposed to be here Hours ago...)
philrancid: (Default)
This morning, As I've mentioned before, my new coffees and coffeemaker showed up, via UPS, while we were trying to finish fixing the toilet. I went to answer the knock, signed for the package, and returned to our room, where the Tiger wanted to know who it was knocking.

"Who was it?"
"Door-to-door Satanist."

She liked it, and I thought then of a young man, smartly dressed, with enough metal in his face that he could go as a circuit board for Halloweens; tracts in his hand, all of them in my favorite black and red, his voice a whiskey-sweetened Southern twang, like the singer for Lynyrd Skynyrd:

"Hi, have you kicked Jesus outta yore life?"

Just thought I should put that somewhere in the back of your subconscious....
philrancid: (puppet)
Yay! My new coffeemaker thingy got here today! Tiger got me a Gevalia pot, with a nifty carafe, and my two favorite flavors of coffee, with two cool little coffee mugs, all in my favorite color--black!

Since no one knows why I needed a new coffeemaker, I'll tell you. Some mischeivous little children* kept creeping into the kitchen and flicking the coffemaker on and off, until the switch broke. No on, no off, just a limp little red plastic rocker switch. Sad sad, no coffee. Had to microwave the water, set the filter chamber on top of the carafe, and run the water through twice to get it anywhere near the proper density.

All that is finished, now, as the new, beautiful, wonderful carafe burbles away to itself, collecting my sanity in easy-to-swallow convenient liquid form. Ahhhh.

August is shaping up to be a pretty tight little month, you know? House of 1000 Corpses, new coffeemaker and fancy-ass coffees...man, I might not go in for the medical testing after all! (Just kidding, Kikat!) I also have some stuff in the works that I want to keep secret, just so it won't jinx, as some things that I gush about tend to do.

As I told [livejournal.com profile] cynnerth, I managed to shave two minutes offf my mile, and now have only a min-half to go, and as I told [livejournal.com profile] hedgegoth, I cut a nice little groove in my left index fingerprint trying to fix the toilet. broken earthenware is sharp! Always test it with a surrogate finger! It's one of those lovely proper flaps that you have to keep covered most of the time, so that it won't snag on shit, and rip open, and start bleeding all over all of your stuff. Or other people's stuff, which gets them all consternated and scowly.

I hope [livejournal.com profile] shadesong finds a filter, although, with her being a college worker, she can most likely skipe one or two dozen off of someone in her office--when my mom was a secretary at KSU, I used to go in her office and drink down coffee after coffee--once did eleven in a day! Woohoo! Man was I wired for that afternoon's karate class at the summer camp! Her boss gave me a "Little Big Book", a small hardcover from the 1930s, of Buck Rogers--unfortunately, the ravages of time, and my children have rendered that little treasure extinct--sigh.

My mom's growing excitement that year was the little comic strip i did about a hero named Starman, who fooght against the minion Mexican Jumping Bean, and his super-arch-enemy-type boss, El Jefe. (Starman was a star, with a cape and suit, and smiley-face, bean was a hat, and Jefe, IIRC, was Jabba the Hutt--What!? I was ten or so, cut me some slack)

I have now been informed that I must get off the damn puter--bye now!
philrancid: (Default)
I've just gotten a reminder of how fragile our lives really are, how terrifyingly malleable.

We went to drop off the Tiger's NCLEX loan application, me and the kids, and when we returned there was a huge fire engine sitting out in the middle of our little street, and a couple of fire cars, and a police car and a host of civilian vehicles. Drawing closer, I saw that the neighbors across the street--directly across the street, their front door no more than twenty yards from our back door--had suffered a housefire. Their living room is ash. Fortunately there was no one injured, but it looks, from the extent of the damage caused before the fire was put out, like they've lost most of their possessions.

Granted, it's only things, but, think about the fact that these are their personal belongings, locked safely up and tidied away every evening. Gone now is their sense of home.

I want to rush over their, pitch in a hand, help them get their clothes out, what they can of their personal effects, but the kids are here, needed looking after, and what's worse, is that I have let our house become a sty.

I've done what I can think of doing, offered to let them use some heavy extension cords, if they can talk the people beside them into borrowing some power, I've offered to let them borrow umbrellas for when it was raining, duffel bags for the clothes and such, but I really don't have all that much, when what they need most, now, I would suppose, is a sense of home, and normalcy. It is my most fervent wish that their keepsakes, childhood photos, and the like, survived the fire.

I feel small, thinking all these thoughts I've thought lately, about how hot it is, how damnably muggy, how I wished that the car wasn't trying to overheat all the time so we could use the AC. How I've sat around wishing and dreaming and bullshitting my life away, when, one wrong blink of an eye, and everything can be destroyed.

On the one hand, I feel like I should just dive into everything headlong, as though I am granted not another day on this Earth, but the coward in me also fears such thoughts, and does what it can to rationalize them away.

I told the lady who lived there that she can borrow our fans, for if it gets too hot before they have finished salvaging, and I'll leave them in the laundry room.

They've boarded up the gaping charred hole that was their living room window, and they're going to wherever it is that they're going to stay for the night.

I hate like hell being this socially inept, feeling this awkward, this confused at the right thing to do. If they need help moving anything large, that is salvageable, I'll make sure they get it done. I wish I had a lot of money--for even though the man of the house works at the hospital Tiger does, and probably makes good money, now is the time when expenses compile themselves into a hellish beast, that can't be gotten over.

Here is sit, with all this crap, that some of it I don't even use, and a couple of yards away, through no fault of their own, my neighbors have had their home taken from them.
philrancid: (Default)
Get on the ax, and it's either gotta shit, one of the kids dies, or the phone starts ringing off the hook...
philrancid: (puppet)
I don't like to leave all the eggs sitting out while I'm cooking. It makes them upset, and they get to squabbling, shoving each other; "You're going, not me! I'm last!" This is the sort of behavior that gets eggs broken, in the container.

So I like to just take out the eggs that are Definitely Going To Fry, and set them somewhere near my cooking spot, which can sometimes, as you all know, lead to disastrous rolling and escaping-cooking behavior. They don't escape getting cleaned up off of the floor that way, but, hey, I guess in the end, we all must choose.

I am here to announce that I have finally found a great place to store the Death Row Eggs.

The slots on the toaster.

Of course, it would only work on those eggs that are large enough to not fall in, so if you eat robin's eggs, or have only half an egg int he mornings, you should try something else, or be prepared to spend a lot of time trying to fetch your eggs from the ravenous slots of the wary egg-filled toaster.

Anyway, just wanted top share that with you--now I must go and cuddle my Tiger.
philrancid: (Default)
(this finishes the statements about the album) ...as I prepare to hit the Post button, the outtro to "Squealer" is going--of course, now while, I'm revising my entry to include all this, we're well into the title track...



Who wants to help me get up money to go see the Dave Brockie Experience when they come down to Fort Lauderdale in September?

Hmm.

That's what I was afraid of.

Look, no, really; If I had money, I would help you guys out, really I would, in your life's endeavors, but the fact of it is, when congress and the RIAA finally get around to killing all the fileshares in this world, i'm going to be the first one to go without computer programs, well, besides the ones i have, but when they break, or go bad, or whatever, then I'm screwed. I only have broadband because I signed up for it with a contract, back when I was working two jobs and had good credit and even three credit cards to my name--well, four. But then my mind went strange on me, again, and here I am with No jobs, watching the kids, and wanting to go see GWAR, but, since they're not touring now, DBX will work just fine, as it's part of GWAR anyway.

I keep thinking I'll pop a buck or two Lonita's way, when we catch up on our bills here, just because I feel like that would be a good thing to do. Maybe, after Tiger gets her license, and I sell a few stories (ha! have to write 'em first, Shogun) every thing will be just peachy, but somehow I ain't so sure about all that as I was before.

Anybody who reads my shit know of someone who could do a good job of proofing books n shit, for free, and a great honorable mention in said books, that doesn't mind graphich horror at times? I know someone who would love to proof my stuff, but she hates horror, can't reade it, and some of the stuff I write just waltzes right in with a bucket of blood and lets you have it.

But anyway. I wish the missus weren't so tired lately--you ever just get that urge to give head, and you can't? It's a real pain in the ass, let me tell ya. I dunno--maybe I'm ovulating or something--real randy-ish lately.

Working on a song for Nipple, because he just Rocks! Man, he's just right out of control, baby. I hope he works out what his trip is soon, so's'n it won't be bugging him as much.

Yo, ya'll you ain't speakin' to me, sometimes, but you all still rule.

Love,
the Son of Bob
philrancid: (puppet)
As all of you know--because you're about to read this next part--I've just recently returned from a vacation in Key West. Vacation from what, you say? The vacation wasn't for me--I just got to ride along. But before I get into all that, I would like to discuss the neat things my brain does for me--like read things wrong when I'm preoccupied. There's nothing quite like having to stop and look again, in confusion, after having read that your "Fabric Softener Liquid Refill" is actually the Fabric Softener From Hell.

My favorite is still the time when I was shopping at the giant hardware store and mistook a guy's rainslicker for a Yellow Vinyl SLUT--I was like, what aisle are those on?

Ayudame!

Jul. 22nd, 2003 03:31 pm
philrancid: (Default)
Help! I have the empty-gut coffee shakesies.

Tell me you love me!

(you don't have to really mean it, you just have to make me think you mean it--just in case you were wondering...)
philrancid: (Default)
One time when I worked in a frame shop, there was this young lady I dreamt of making the acquaintance of. I was working away, and went to clean up a bad corner in a mat with a single-edge razor-blade. She walked in for some reason or other to do some thing or other, and I started chatting her up, and went to cut up the mat, and it wasn't until she left however many minutes later this was, that I noticed that I'd been holding the blade backwards and dug it right proper into the meat of my index finger. Fortunately the razor was new, so it cut me so clean and neat that I didn't bleed until after I'd realized why the cutting was going so roughly--meaning I didn't soil the mat.

Speaking of which, the Tiger was working a frame shop in the same chain but a different store, and the razor slipped out of the mat cutter, causing the cutting head to stop suddenly, and her hand to slip off and across the freshly-revealed blade. she had to get like three stitches in the side of her finger, and it was a quick cut for a customer who was waiting outside, and as she came out, dripping blood through her clenched fingers and apologizing for the fact that there would now be a delay in his work, the witless bastard asked her if she'd bled on his artwork. What a shitlick! There is a good reason I think, why chains won't let you work with a SO--I'd've pissed all over his precious artwork, just to remind him of the human factor in the whole thing. Ah, well.... that's just how people treat my Tiger. I can't understand why she hasn't let me kill anyone yet--I mean, I can understand why she won't let me assassinate her stepdad when he shits on her, and all that, but... some idiot dude? Her bosses? Why am I not allowed to educate them in the proper treatment of a good woman? Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't some mafioso in a past life--some of my solutions to personal problems have sounded suspiciously like something one of them would do.

So how stupid have you ever been on the job?

Once when I was temping for a Caterpillar plant, one of my fellow temps in the bay behind mine was talking with the rest of us, and his trainer told us to watch as he pulled something over on Tim (the temp). A forklift had just run over a little metal cap plug, dragging it a few feet across the floor. So Tim's trainer sez hey, I dropped my plug, run go get it 'fore they run it over. Tim, just as belovedly green as i rushed over and snatched it up--and made it halfway back before his hand got the message through that it was being blistered by the friction-heated metal. He dropped that fucker like a bad habit, howled, and started flailing his hand around, to the amusement of all the people around our bays. He did look kinda funny that way...

And on the subject of pranks, back in my long-lost frame shop, one of my subordinates (yes, dear readers, I was once in charge of other people! it's okay if you need a moment to calm down...)
>
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There... feeling better?

So. This guy that worked under me--not like that, you pervs! I was stretching a canvas onto a frame, and just as I pulled the trigger on the air-stapler, he yelped and slapped the side of his neck. Which might have gotten him a mildly amused look, if I hadn't noticed in the nanosecond before his noise that no staple had gone into the frame. Freaked me out totally. I thought I'd shot him in the neck with a staple. Believe in God, Joe Lieberman, Ronald McDonald, Fate, whatever, just you have to believe in something because of those little things that pop up so frequently--like the idea to try a new trick at the same time the stapler misfires.

But then again, I'm just a monkey who thinks he's possessed by retarded demons...
philrancid: (potted hand)
To me, one of the funniest memories I have is walking up to a guy from Trinidad at one of my lost jobs, and he says to me, "Scorpions." Please note that he has an accent that to me sounds like Jamaican. I look at him blankly for a moment, and then he continues, "Scorpions bit me in de privates."

Ahh the little things...

So now one of my many new little things is to root through the interests of the people I have LJ befriended, and pick an interest of theirs that isn't used yet, and add it to my own. I have reservations about it, though. I have to have at least some idea of what the hell it's all about. I also go for the most goofy ones, just because, as what I term a completist, I hate seeing those un-underlined spots in my own interests spot.

What this has to do with anything, is beyond even me, but that's the way I've always done it.

So. My favorite cousin (well, excluding sexual interest, anyway) has found me on the web, and I am slowly going insane waiting to hear from him, to hear how he is, what he's been doing, how the hell he found me when I couldn't find him, and what the gross national product of Luxembourg is. Or, as Alice might put it, "Insaner". BTW, Lonita, I bet you've heard the Blue Man Group doing "White Rabbit"--ahh god, so nicey nice! Almost as much power to make me all starey as the original, especially when I turn on the visualizations. Have demoted RealOne Player for its inability to play its visualizations and sound without causing all sorts of hell-crackle in the music--makes in me much angst to have such a thing. I liked their fire one, it was pretty, but, how can one enjoy one's sight when one's sound is the most awful thing around?

Waiting for nyxie's CD has reminded me that I never heard back from the Sci-Fi Book Club. With credit as bad as mine, I wonder whether or not their assassin just can't find the house. So far it seems that they're not even nice enough to send me a letter saying, "We'll send you the books as soon as you pay for them--hell with ya." I would gladly purchase them if given the opportunity. I would really like to have that hardbound version of the Elric Saga part III, and I am dying of curiosity as to what Fritz Lieber's style is all about. Yeah, I know, check in the library--but, hell, I can't even find the copies of local insect life and their behaviors, so what makes you think my local freebase book-pushers would carry his work (they don't. they've got a database of all their library branches, and no lieber--freakish till you leakish) i could try the local used bookstores, but they usually don't have any of the Grey Mouser tales that I've heard so much about.

Tell the world--I love the new Ibanez acoustic that I got back in tax return season--oh baby, I had no idea what I was missing out on playing my old one, the action, the tone, so sweet, like Bacchus pouring honeyed wine into your soul by way of the ears. I will always be in the Tiger's debt, but this makes it twentyfold. When I die, I'll owe her so much kharma I might come back as her dog or something. S'okay--I'll be a really cute dog, and maybe she'll get into bestiality or something. After all, she keeps a monkey this life, who's to say in the next, neh?

Anyway--can't keep talking or you might stop reading.
Until later, my mildly interested net readers. Keep your fingers out of there!
philrancid: (puppet)
We took a cruise around in the car yesterday, drove down into the Keys, actually, and had ourselves some sort of funniness going on. I was in rare form, coming up with pun after pun after pun on the billboards and highway signs we saw on the way. Unfortunately, as i am a bear of very little brain, I forgot most of them, ahahaha. However, here is the bizarre images I thought to write down:

A male prostitution ring, with a specialization in B/d, as a front, answers their phones: "B&D Tool Rentals...home of the all you can eat subs."

Peacocks live in Florida. I didn't know that--freaked out when I saw a couple flop out of a tree as we drove past.
I came up with a term for semen--monkeyjelly. It causes stickybelly.
We were driving and I saw a sign stating, "Draw Bridge Ahead", so I got out my little notebook, and when I saw the sign that said "Draw Bridge signal" and the signal was green, I drew a bridge.
I also came up with my new thing--tossing imaginary bulldogs on things. "Bulldog--RAWF!", and then a flinging motion with the right hand.

Sometimes I'm just a plainly silly bastard. We stopped at a roadside stand on the way home, and I got my first sand dollar. I also got some shells for the kids, and a little tiny shark tooth. Lonita, they had a pufferfish in there the size of a basketball, among others--those damn things freaked me out. You could also buy hermit crabs for fifty cents--but I'd rather just figure out what they eat--and then snatch one from a sandbar. EVIL!!! I figure once I get comfortable with that, I can move up to dognapping, and then maybe start a prostitution ring for male subs; call it B&D Tool Rental--Order Now and Get a Free Socket Wrench! After that, I'll string the Cabinet members out on crack and make someone sodomize a nuclear missile.

Saw lots of places selling crabs--none called Itchy's, though. Those Keys people are subtle. Thought about making a band called Rudy Pooh and the Colon Cloggers, with their first album title being Relax. Maybe with a follow-up or a side-project called For Nick Atre--a close personal friend, in case you were wondering who that is. We can have my buddy's band open for us--Rob Wymon & Yell At Children. They've got a new mini-disk they're pushing called Hand It Over. It's pretty heavy stuff.
Anyway, I have to go now--Love yas!
philrancid: (puppet)
"You have not yet reached the height of your depravity"

With these ominous words, I am thrown headlong into paroxysms of delight. Fear of reaching a sort of rut or, as in the case of most other radioactive energies, a half-life, has kept me from acheiving many things in the recent past. But now, by God, I have been given a Sign, a piece of the Utter Truth, that elusive thing that philosophers ulcerate themselves attempting to dissect and discover.

I have many horrid things left to reveal, to set loose on the hapless world, and its cowering denizens--mwahahahahaa!!
philrancid: (potted hand)
pshah--also within me are monkeys, who will conveniently exit my body by FLYINGOUTMYBUTT! I am so totally not feeling the revelation good groove big happy vibe thing that I had yesterday. Maybe it's becasue I skipped the coffee, maybe I should have fallen down a long flight of steps, but i am totally feeling it today-- nowonmai. nowonmai.

FUCK.

okay. just put that nice nasty f word right on up there by himself, leave him be, let him fester, rot, draw the flies, birth maggots, pulse with unholy decay. Leave it all alone, let it bleed and scream, let the wounds twist into scars that shape themselves into words--telling a tale on wizened skin of inner torment. Play connect the dots with your pores, with a scalpel, a diamond knife, something so sharp that it will split you down to the marrow, to the soul, cut out the pain the life the death the hate the pain the fear the hate hate hate hate pain kill fuc fuck snarl blah blah.

Delana--I found her, and glad am I of this, for the song Slippery Fish, thinks me, is tiptop. Granted, no Kashmir, or Blood Milk and Sky, but definitely very close to them. Must find out where she learned about recording.

Avert your eyes, o potatoes, I cannot take the weight of your stares.

Fucking potatoes.

well, not fucking them, so much as a gesture of defiance, of hate, unbridled fury, rage anger, disdain, and ketchup, towards them. And I don't even like ketchup--or catsup. in fact, the whole tomato is just right out, in my book. the damn things can't even help settle the dabate as to whether they be veggie or fruit--they have to be some grand red spectacle. Grand red spectacles--Elton John in the seventies?

Tomatoes--fuck 'em--but not in the fashion that you would say, fuck a potato. And not that you are copulating with either, even though for some poor women out there sex is basically reduced to that sort of base automotonic function--the male is vegetative, retarded, stupid, inert, vapid, and generally just ickypoo.

I have a lack of caffeine headache, and must away to drink my half-pot, to save my soul.
Juan Valdez save my soul. In the name of the Java, the donkey, and the old padro'n. Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of the druglords, I will fear no heathens. Thy java and caffeine protect me, and in the inky depths am i reunited with this broken thinking meat that is my miswired mind, and am made whole--

well, more or less as i was born, anyway...
philrancid: (Default)
legs going like twin pistons, only noticed when my all-consuming need to click on things is driven awry by the entire body joggling to the beat

Twitchy, pasty, round-middled

entire;ly too sleep y
philrancid: (Default)
42.
How to reconcile ourselves with this, which is as good an answer as we're likely to ever be given.
I know Lonita hates it, but being obtuse is something I do more for my own amusement than anything else. I like to make me laugh--I think I need cheering up sometimes; and, besides, if you can't make yourself happy, who the hell can?
The Tiger understands my madnesses, and she not only indulges them, but embraces them.
Yes. This entry isn't Pi, but it's definitely a code, a small piece of something that in the grand scheme, at this moment, is even smaller: my life.
Yes. (an affirmation) I am weird--strange, mad, nuts, a cracker gone crackers, to pardon the Southern pun. (get theee to a punnery)
philrancid: (Default)
The surf was just teeming with thousands of little sea-creatures, from sand-fleas to those little shells that bury themselves to scores of dark flitting things that fled your feet almost in the blink of an eye. There were sea turtle nests on the beach, protected by stakes and high-vis plastic ribbons, and while we were there someone found a hatchling and took it to the sea.

We were making a sand castle, digging the moat, and when the tide washed in I saw this tiny little fish, about the length of the word "fish", and half as wide, stuck in the moat, trying to swim out. He was black along the top, and his sides were the flashy brightness of chrome. We tried to get him out of the moat, but he was so small that it took forever, and him just laying there, not being able to breathe in the depleted tide pool. Eventually, after having managed to get him in hand, I figured if he wasn't already dead , that his luck was in, and I threw him into the tide.

I have finally, after years of off-and-on trying, discovered that I can float on my back in the water. I rode the waves for a while.
And, since I am officially old, I had myself buried in the sand. The twins were very helpful to their mother--one threw a handful of sand in my face, and the other, half a bucket of cold salt water. All that was left would be for someone to throw some fire on me, and I would have been the melting pot of the classic Elements.
philrancid: (Default)
LesMozingo is a very confused being. As a "For-instance", he was making the final cup of coffee for the day, and trying to remember to take his Paxil as an addendum, when he very nearly upended the bottle of pink pills into the happy marshmallow cup full of steaming java, thinking in some barely-conscious fashion about the creamer.

Another thought, if you will:
I've heard it said that the longer the penis goes without use, the smaller it gets.
This cannot be true, else there would be some points in my life where I would either have some sort of thin fiber extruding from my posterior, or if you prefer the reduction of space into the negatives, then I would have borne a black hole in my crotch, from some sort of negative density the size of mountain ranges.

That's not to say that I was ever at any point in my life repressed, but I think there were definite moments where I could not only have blinded myself, but whole city blocks, as well. I could have twiddled my thumbs and wound up with cloth woven of palm hairs.

Since I'm so groin-fascinated, it seems only meet that my more outspoken twin-daughter has taken to running up and striking me in the spuds (I'd like to think of it as a freak coincidental meeting of her height and mine, but when the pain settles into the pit of my stomach for a lengthy respite from, well, whatever pain does in the interim that makes it want to settle so lazily into your flesh, then I know it is some sort of fetish for the hellion, and that I must flee her) to vent her frustration at my fascist edicts. It's enough to make me want to give in, but then again I've always had a sort of a maso-streak in me.

Speaking of which, when your tubes are tied, where the hell do the eggs go? Do they just hang out in the ovaries playing "Beach Party Barbie"? That's working on my idiot's assumption that the eggs are no longer able to reach the uterus womb-thingy because of the whole road-destruction thing. Do they work themselves out through your eyes? The new cause of pregnancy in porn stars--a tear-duct pregnancy from the milk-shots that didn't blink away proper.

Where the hell is Delana?

I know this mangled moron's soup is a far cry from acceptable to certain palates, but since I don't have any angst right now, I guess I just have to go with what's here.

Anyone wanna hear a song I wrote?

November 2012

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