philrancid | Entries tagged with twisted world view

Was out doing things, and saw a woman wearing a shirt that said, "Stop Reading My Shi--"

I'm not sure what the rest of the shirt said, as I came to a shrewd assumption, and stopped reading the shirt.

Wouldn't want to offend. That's me all over.

I tend to try and be considerate, and not set fire to buildings that other people are in, or smash up rooms that others are trying to use. I speak softly, most of the time, so that air around others isn't quite so loud. Or, too soon after waking, so smelly.

The problem with t-shirt slogans is breasts.

The problem with v-necks and low-cut tops is breasts.

There are a lot of display cases and stands in life, and many of them have little signs thanking you for not touching the displays.

The number of breasts this has saved from fondling is astronomical--those little signs really stay in the back-brain and pattern your behaviors, yes?

In the end we are all Dustin Hoffman's character from Confidence, when he meets Rachel Weisz.

I like being taller than most of you, because it means that I get to hide the cookies, and if I were to smash all the chairs, none of you could have any.

There aren't enough books to stand on.

I would put this behind a cut, or whatever, but I want it out, up your damn noses, and if you don't like it, then realize for a moment that there are things of yours that might bug me a bit as well, and do whatever it is you need to do to get you through the night.

So What the fuck are any of us going to do about it? Huh?

All this, and all that, and no one with a better way in mind, that doesn't sound to me like so much horseshit. All this shit directed at Bush. All this shit directed at anyone in general who was for anything that even remotely seemed for a minute like it might have been postive action. thes guys lied, those guys lied, you still haven't done this or that, but what about Israel.

NOISE, YOU GAGGLE OF GOOFY MOTHERFUCKERS.

What have you done to right the wrongs of this world? Stopped a beating? Smiled at an Arab? Beat down the oppressive Republicans for thinking about methods to protect us? What have I done?

Not a MOTHERFUCKING THING, that's what. Except talk.

Great. You've got two cents. Since you can't even buy a pice of goddamn candy, you best find a fountain, and make a fuckin' wish--for all the good it does anyone. All this fucking noise. Thank God Above that I only subscribe to a small number of liberal armchair philosophers. I don't think I could stand a proper deluge of this shit, the trickles are bad enough to gall me to death, nearly, to produce this vitriol. I am so fucking angry.

You didn't vote for Bush. This makes you better, somehow, more right, a more humane person, just for clicking a certain box on a ballot?

No one could have foreseen this sort of anniversary, at least, none of us here. I hear noise that says that this was all planned, just to open the doors wide for war. Couple k on the altar of greed.

fuck.

murnkay tapped that much of my enotions for certain. When I saw that shit on TV, I couldn't believe it, I was standing right here, and it was so surreal, to see this part of Manhattan that I'd seen in so many movies, hoped to stand on myself one day, belching burnt souls into the sky. I felt trapped, that I couldn't just hit my tires on the track north, shovel in hand, to clear up the mess. I couldn't think of a way that I could help, without just putting myself inthe way, and my family in humger's path. So I had to stay, and sit, and I've tried so hard, this poor little hick, to try and think of something that could help, that could fix it all, or at least make a step in the right direction. I got no money, I got no great mind, all I've got is will and two hundred and fifty pounds of pure fucking meanness, that I want to put to task.

I can't take all this highbrow shit, where everybody who hasn't shown me that they've done a fucking thing to make any part of this situation any better, sits around and fucking gabs about how they are somhow better or above all this, because they can recognize that it's wrong, or some shit. Show me a way that's better, and practical, that won't fuck all of us in the bargain, as we the people are a goodly chunk of this world's economy. Show me a way to unlock the cashboxes of the bent-dicked Scrooges of this world, and I'll put them on their cold marble floors. Otherwise, save this horseshit for someone who loves you when you say it, whose pussy moistens, whose cock swells at the thought that you could make it all better somehow by simply "not voting" for someone. i just want everyone that reads me to know, that, until you can show me the way, I'll be scrolling past. Fuck, man, email that shit to me.

I haven't done shit myself, you know. I get my ass criscoed by kids in other countries, just becasue they think that somehow I the poor downtrod can somehow march on Capitol fucking Hill and do that shit from Braveheart; lift my kilt and flap my balls at the White House lawn, and all of a sudden all those pencil-packing president's whores will drop everything and heed my words. I'll stand on the fucking lawn, man, but I won't do it alone. And when I do march on the fucking lawn, I won't leave till I'm dead or I'm sure it's on the way to getting better.

Am I just begging for something to believe in? Probably. Am I just adding to the noise? For fucking sure. Do I give a shit about the Palestinians? I'm not quite sure. I think that a good deal of change comes from within. I can't make the Saudi boy love my president, no matter who that president is. I can't make the lattes love marching on to war, because they don't believe that anything is worth dying for.

Am I going to do something? shit. Most likely not. Why? Because it takes too much effort for me to live my own fucking life. I am too full of noise. So I'm joining the Army, if they'll have me. Why? Free ride, if I can handle the horseshit. Do a three year stint, stay on as reserves, and no matter what I'll always have a job. Go in for technical training, and even if I quit, I'll have preference inthe job markets, and some fucking money-making skills. Maybe I go into another country, and some three year old whose dad thinks I'm the fleshy vessel of Satan himself hands me a live egg.

Maybe I stay here and some black punk points a gun at me, instead of just his middle finger, just becasue I didn't move fast enough at the intersection, and had the gall to look at him like he was a dick for laying on his horn. Maybe my toilet backs up and I eat one too many E Coli.

We all buy the farm. I just wanna get some fucking plowing down before my shit is gone, so that I can say, hey, i was here, I fucking did this much.

You wana talk about this and that?

Your fucking talking ever gets somewhere, you give me a call. If you can show me the way, I'll fucking carry your ass there. Till then, the best I have for you is:

Shut

the

Fuck

UP.

I figure I'll just put another post in, since I seem to be just kind of burbling along, a babbling brook of cluttered brain-cess dribbling out of the choked sluiceways that I wear at the ends of my hands.

I got to thinking a minute ago, when I typed an accented word, about the existence of things that don't exist.

Zen is bullshit. It is Zen, isn't it? The one where like things stop being real until you experience them or something? Well. If you guys stop existing every time I go out of sensory bounds, then how is it I can come back to the bathroom and still smell the lingering love of my family's air biscuits?

I know I'm a crazy little bitch, but Why In The Fuck would I use my universal power thingymabobs to create the stink of a fart? Some sort of kharmic debt to some long-departed E. coli that I mistreated in a past life?

And what about when I type an italics code, but leave a blank spot at the end. Why is it no one yells at me for my poor typing skills, italicizing something you can't even see , no matter how badly it needs it?

Now, I can tell you are all thinking that the space I left up there in that last sentence was italicized--

WRONG. That little bitch was bolded. And the two spaces between this sentence and the last aren't even really spaces--they're God's navel lint.

Uph! I've gone and done it now, brought God into it.

I know some of you are a little offended by the thought that a God would even exist, let alone go around getting mentioned, but the plain fact of the matter is that Zen is bullshit, cuz otherwise why would you make up some idiot in another part of the world saying the word God jsut to upset you, just so you can fart and I'd not even be there to smell it?

What is it? Solipsism? That thing we're talking about?

You know, even if you did make me up, for some stupid reason, I wouldn't play along--I'm a dick like that.

Those philosophical chestnuts always got on my fucking nerves, you know that?

If a tree falls in the forest and no one is a round, does it make a sound?

You're goddamned tooting. That tree gets up and says, "Goddammit, who put that there? I swear to God, nobody fuckig picks--

You get the drift right?

S'pose you fucking think yer smart now, eh?

Well then; did you catch those two italicized spaces I put around the word "that"?

Don't fucking lie--I didn't even put any spaces around that fucking "that". Oh? You can see them, huh? You just Think you see them. It's that thing where you expect something to be there, and then it isn't but you see it there anyway, because you're expecting it so hard.

I told you I wouldn't follow the script, but NOOOoooooo, you had to go and make me up anyway, dintcha, ya silly fuck?

All right: If you had to be crazy to make up the universe you experience, and some of the shit in it, like people who give head with their retainers still in, then how the fuck do crazy people come about? Is that how some of us actually make it to "normal"? We got made up by the tired backbrain of some crazy motherfucker wearing a white canvas hug?

And how in the hell would a crazy guy who can't even cross the room on the dark parts of the tiles make up a guy with erectile dysfuction who thinks he's a gay chinchilla? It's all shit, I tell ya, although of course shit is the defining defeating stroke to that argument.

You know, those smart-ass professors that tell you if you put a cat in a box it stops existing. Well if there ain't some litter in that damn box not existing right alongside that cat, you gonna find out real fucking quick what ain't existing--wake up and smell that stinky pussy.

(sorry--just couldn't resist)

For those of you who are Creationists, you know, "God spoke and BANG it happened".. who the fuck was He talking to?

And for all of you out there who think there ain't a God: I suppose you honestly believe that somewhere in the back of your mind you made up Quantum physics and mechaincs, and then all of a sudden you didn't know what the fuck it was or how it worked.

Although that does proivide a certain kind of logic, if you think about it while out for a drive in the big city.

Current Mood: bzzt part mufuggin II
Current Music: - Nirvana - You Know Your Right [Studio Full] (1).mp3 []

I couldn't give a tin shit what other people say about piracy, and the badness of file-sharing, but there is nothing I like better for helping me to get rid of those fucking songs you wake up with in your head. That way you don't have to request it, or even wait to see if the radio will play. Just search for it on your favorite fileshare, and then download it, and play it until you are sick of it, and then you should be spared of its presence for the rest of the day.

I also have a major issue with music copyright notice. It seems to me that they want to control how many people can listen to their music. The incidences of "tallking up" songs on the radio have increased to the level of near insanity. (Talking up is where the DJ yaks through the intro to the song, and the only real reason for it is to stop home recording of the song) Where will this end? You take a friend to your house, you're hanging out, and then you remeber to show them this awesome album you've bought, but the moment you start spinning it, some dude busts in and wants to see your friend's Listening License for it? I think record companies should concentrate their money-making on live concerts, but instead of charging poor souls a left nut for the front seats, they should just show more shows. Let the radio stations pay more for the access to the songs, and then charge more for ad spots, and maybe cut back on some of the payola.

It's like a book. I buy a book and loan it to a friend. Once friend reads it, it's in their mind indefinitely, a permanent fixture. If their memory is anything like mine, they will remember bits and pieces of what they've read, those parts that stay with them, for the rest of their lives. And it seems to me like to music industry is only trying in desperation to control those parts of the industry that should remain free and intangible. Any artist who supports this attack on art--hell, ANYBODY who does--is in my book telling me that I am no longer free to enjoy the finer things in life. Do you see Arlo Guthrie wheeling in reams of paper against America becasue he heard some kiddy show play "This Land is Your Land"? Did Bocephus bust down the church doors and demand that "I Saw the Light" be removed from hymnals until someone coughs up green to help get him the money his father squandered in life?

Who the hell are these people that they tell us that music is only about money?
It is art, even if only a base portion of it at times. It represents a lifestyle, and a part of that lifestyle is freedom of expression, and freedom to enjoy life where you find it, bot the freedom to pay out the ass for CDs, for concerts, and freedom to be bombarded by overzealous idiotic sponsors to make up for the costs of being able to listen to the hottest new music for free.

Viva piracy!

If I made a career out of music, what I would want most from that career would be lasting memory of the work I did, not a fat bankroll. Any band starts out with the desire to be heard, to have their name in lights on the marquee, and in the hearts and minds of the people. Money is just some sick addiction that the labels throw on to keep the bands hooked to them.