Just Waiting for That Next Mass Extinction

Here are some more awful scribblings that I done. I've got a lot more because I've been doing one a day, but I don't want to post them because the audience I intended it for hasn't gotten them yet. Also, I'll probably update on the weekends. So there's this awful that you can expect in addition to all the other terrible things I spew here.

Chewie, Give Me The GUN!

I happen to know someone who is currently rocking her face off in Navy bootcamp. Her awesomeness aside, I was sending her some letters the other week and I thought, "Hey, dick juice, you know what you oughtta do? You should send her something that will lighten her spirits, some kind of goddamn panacea for all the ills she is facing, some awesome elixir to let her know that her suffering is a shared suffering, that somehow, thousands of others have been in her place and persevered. Yeah, that's awesome send her that shit now!"

After much deliberation, this is what I came up with:



Yeah, it's a comic that details the adventures, moral quandaries, and philosophical dilemmas of two friends in their post-corporeal reality.

She's going to LOVE it.

This is Dumb As Fuck

Walked approximately 6 miles. Wind from the east and brutal. Many empty booze containers on the roadside, but only of shit highschoolers drink. Came home and had fire and wine.

Probably will wake up tomorrow. Outlook good.

Everyday I'm Watching You Die

Hey, check this out. I was skimming the blog and realized that I had read all the books I said I would read and post about. Boom, here it is.


Lemme just say something about the Bard here before I start. Until very recently I hated the shit out of his 16th century ass, all his stupid anachronisms and puns and perceived asshattery. I loathed his lace collar wearing, quill in ink dipping, sonnet composing and unrhymed iambic pentameter spouting ass. I raged, literally, every time I saw the texts of his plays in the bookstore. Seriously, who the fuck reads plays? Anyway, the reason for this is my high school freshman English teacher. The bitch, probably dead now, was this giant asshole that, if I recall correctly, had the nickname Big Bird. She was an ass and had a huge fucking gapey wet snatch for ol' Bill Shakespeare and she rammed Romeo and Juliet down our throats and abode no type of criticism. She'd heard it before from innumerable generations of uncouth louts, hayseed hick motherfuckers who asked, "What for we gotta read this for?" So, I hated her, which meant also that I hated W.S. and I refused to read him.

Recently, I had a change of heart and, realizing his influence on shit, decided to give him another try. I picked up Julius Caesar and read it in like two days and it was good. Chock full of good quotables, a keen eye for the details of mob behavior, and brimming with the crazy wine fueled rash decisions where people kill themselves. I liked it, but I wondered that, in 500 years, will the shit that still gets read and heralded as groundbreaking and timeless be the best-sellers of today or will it be the things that are truly "literary" (whatever that may be)? Like, when we're zipping around the solar system, near extra-solar planets and colonizing the fuck out of local space, will humanity be reading Dean Koontz and John Grisham or Thomas Pynchon? What texts will future English graduate students discuss as canonical and everlasting and which ones will be regarded as mere blips on the history screen of literature? What the fuck are they going to make of Nicholas Sparks?

Fuck you future graduate students, you asses aren't even going to exist. World's ending next year.



I liked how Updike managed to write in the present tense because I really think it takes balls and is hard as fuck to do. That aside, this book was fucking awful. Just fucking terrible. And do you know what makes it terrible? The main character is a goddamn douchey fuck. Like this, "Aww, poor me, I peaked in high school and I couldn't be assed to broaden my horizons past basketball and now I'm so pissed that life happened around me and I wasn't man enough to make shit happen on my own so it's everyone else's fault that I can't make my present/future what it should have been." What a fag, seriously.


This, however, was fucking awesomely brilliant. Just go read it. I can't say anything that would add to this work.


I know, everyone raves about Joyce except Gertrude Stein, but I'm just not feeling his flow. He's good sure, but I just ain't feelin' the mothafucka. I don't know, maybe I don't understand the zeitgeist (there I fucking said it) during which he wrote, or I can't comprehend all the other deeper shit that's supposed to be happening with Joyce's work. Anyway, I read it and felt neither strongly for or against A Portrait. The internet proclaims that Ulysses is golden, though, so we might see about that.


If all you have to do to win the Nobel is write a story with a bunch of bumble fuck asshole villagers doing stupid shit, then put my name down for one and I'll shit out a story. This was another seemingly great novel that I felt should have earned the author a punishing fist to the balls. I hate characters that are fucking stupid and do foolish things and never learn from them. Discussing the circular nature of history and family dynamics aside, and forgoing a look at Marquez's magical realism horseshit...

I forgot where I was going with that because I had to yell at the children. Anyway, I didn't care for this novel. It fell flat and none of the characters were worthwhile, they were all assholes doing stupid things that I couldn't be bothered caring about. Fuck those villagers. I don't give a goddamn about them.

There you have it. Next up, I'm working on a bunch of Plato's dialogues, Homer's The Illiad, Infinite Jest by DFW, and I'm going to try to get my hands on a copy of Moby Dick and give that another try.

An Interesting Dichotomy

A tragic and completely unpredictable natural disaster

"You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs."

Radical Islamofascist

Goddamn that makes sense.

There is No More Crushing Failure than Your Everyday Life

Today I was looking for jobs and I ran across something called a Social Media Specialist. The job advertisement was so awful, so jargon filled and content-less that I spent the next hour hopelessly scribbling in a composition book about the experience. Then, I took my awesome shooping skills to MSPaint and spent several minutes there providing borders to these images because my scanner is a piece of shit and won't crop the way I want and I'm seriously thinking of going all Office Space on it because it is a goddamn waste of space. Why does it say paper jam when there is no paper jam? Piece of shit.

Also, you should be able to read the text if you zoom into the images, providing you can read my childlike scrawl. And yes, I self-censored because the internet don't need to know all the terrible shit that come out my mouth. But who am I kidding? Ain't nobody gon' read dis shit.

What the fuck is wrong with me today?

We're So Goddamn Post-Race in This Country, We're All Colorblind

I like how this section needs to be segregated from the rest of the hair care products.

I also like how all the "white folks" hair products don't need their own special sign.

I came home and made some deliciously multicultural white and black bean stew. I thought it especially meaningful that the broth of the stew was this wonderful mulatto color. Some kind of statement about race or something.

I just drank wine and didn't eat any.

Supporting the Arts is Communistic and Probably Homosexual

Just look at the crazy leer on this woman's face.

I went to go see this group, Scrap Arts Music, at the Anchorage Performing Arts Center yesterday with Gavin and his K-1 class. Aside from the rampant sexism directed at me by his teacher and the subtle, "why the fuck aren't you out working a job, you goddamn parasite" looks I got from the other moms who were chaperons it was a pretty awesome time.

So there I was, watching these Canadian hippies jump around and beat their drums made from old refrigerators or what the fuck ever and I had some sort of mini-revelation about the nature of human beings, that old chestnut of what makes us unique, or whatever. I sat in this churched up cave, not that far removed from Lascaux, really. The lights shining down on these freaks and the thrum of their percussions heating the blood and never before had I a stronger urge to run fleetly down the savanna, spear in hand, savagely eviscerating an antelope, to ride down the wind obliterated steppe, torching villages and cleaving the skulls of the children and women, to jump into frigid surf, charge the shore and pillage the landscape, spreading seed into different and strange genomes, foreign and mystical. I understood then, what it meant: the shared sacrifice of self replicating and ultimately finite carbon based machinery. It was holy, revelatory, and completely terrifying. The stuff upon which religions are built and destroyed, the story of us all, surrounding fires and telling the next generation our best lies.

When the apocalypse comes, I want to be first in line to meet it.