Aurora

She's A Functional Delusion

She's got it, whatever it is, she's got it. Something in the way she moves it Makes me think once again that I'm too hot to handle, Makes me want what she's got even more, Makes me wish for a bigger body part And a bigger part in this movie! But she's gone now—she was just a dream, Whether young or old, A fantasy that I have sometimes—it passes by me like a dart As I grow old and slow Without a wife, without a diamond or a heart. If I thought I could hold her attention, If I thought I could hold her still, Things would be great And I'd have a great big what-you-need Or a basketful of spirit Or a bellyful of fire— Call it what you will!

The Rush of Slowing Down

What did I do with all those people in my life I used to talk to with the frequency I guess I could only obtain when young, But it's all done now. Now there's this, only this, Where we've stopped and I wait in a long line with strangers For the men's room at some freeway McDonald's After a long ride that wasn't fun And there is no rest to speak of For when I get to the front of the line and enter, It's the foulest-smelling earthly pit That God ever pissed on Or Man ever cursed And I've held it back so long While rushing to it that now I can't even go! Now God's the only one who's pleased or pissed And he's cursed me, too. Maybe I'll dig through the garbage For one of those Super Size cups And give that a try while I steer the car with one hand. I wonder if I'll manage not to spill it this time? I hope I don't get no disease from that trash can! They say don't feel sorry for oneself, But I feel sorry for everyone And the sorry state we're in— It's just that I'm the one I know, So I'm the one I pity! Go waste your own way or water where you will!

Gunga Din

by Rudyard Kipling Most of us may only know the story because of the old black-and-white movie. It's usually only some few words of the last three lines that we recognize as far as the poem is concerned! (This one's for Mushy, who likes to drink.) YOU may talk o' gin an' beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But if it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them black-faced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippy hitherao! Water, get it! Panee lao! You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!" The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a twisty piece o' rag An' a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted "Harry By!" Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some juldee in it, Or I'll marrow you this minute, If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!" 'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done, An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is mussick on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire." An' for all 'is dirty 'ide, 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was "Din! Din! Din!" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could 'ear the front-files shout: "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" I sha'n't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. I was chokin' mad with thirst, An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead, An' 'e plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green; It was crawlin' an' it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!" 'E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'E put me safe inside, An' just before 'e died: "I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on In the place where 'e is gone— Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to pore damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din! Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Death and Dismemberment

Will I get more hits if I mention sex and death and blood and gore and voluntary dismemberment? Probably not. Who would want all those things? Creeps, probably, though that doesn't stop them from being there, does it? I wouldn't mind pitching in with the violent dismemberment of the kidnapper, "Creepy Phil" Garrido! But I guess I'd have to stand in a long, long line, wouldn't I? Oh, and by the way, Phil: "Religion, my ass, you goddamn pervert!!!"

Poofadoodle

Poopadoodle, I mean. No magic involved. That's all I have to say today!

Trip On Yourself

Who are you, I yet wonder, And what deep stupidity am I in-- In what terrible hole are we where I pretend I'm civilized and don't mind AT ALL When others are marginally rude And make those crude observations About our shortcomings Or ignore my ugly kisser so wholeheartedly While I dance on the ends of these strings On any early morning like this, Whether I surmise the risk is tempting and rise Or shrink and struggle to re-weld my eyes And go back to sleep before I fall? Ordinarily, things don't work like that at all, Or not for most... Though long, I guess that was a question of sorts, But it also makes various statements Without a line-of-sight past for any of them And spews out accusations that know no rest Nor any bounds while the business of the world Seems to be nothing but Busyness and busted teeth At a very high rate of speed. I wish you'd all just trip on yourselves, With or without your hands in your lap Or your fist in anyone's pocket Or that controversial load of lead You claim is in your pencil instead of in your ass! Everything continues to burn itself up in hell, I hear, And so will you and all of this that I love or fear...

Will There Ever Be A Rat In Color?

Sure--he's out there pissing (or worse) in your flour bin, coffee can, or potato chip bag even as we think about it! Below is the almost new Presentation Rat! Because of his body language, he is also known sometimes as the "What the fuck is this?" rat or the "I give up!" rat.

Change That Rat's Ass!

Is it time to change my rat image (the one below each post)? I think it probably is.

Alternative Epitaph

I don't give a rat's ass. Never did, never will.

Baptism by Ire

I drowned in the bathtub by accident and was soon resurrected. I usually just take a shower. Other times, I just take things for granted. How about you?

Rich and Powerful

President Andrew Jackson: It is to be regretted that the rich and powerful too often bend the acts of government to their selfish purposes.

Mrs. DeLay Better Laid?

I don't have any important events to relate or any juicy rumors to deny (me and those two women were just THINKING about being naked!). Things around here are as dull as dishwater. I guess now the dishwater will want to sue me for defamation or something, but I might as well live dangerously! Nothing else to do unless like other former exterminators from Texas, I take up dancing on TV. His wife claims Tom DeLay has lost 12 pounds so that he can be a better dancer. That may or may not have been the only recently improved physical activity in Mrs. DeLay's life, but no details were forthcoming.

Just Another Day

Boring you shitless, huh?

William Zantzinger Dies

Oh Happy Day!

The killer's only public remark about the famous song ("The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll") that Bob Dylan wrote about the infamous incident accused Dylan's song of being a "total lie". If any part of it was a lie, though, and if it served to degrade or embarrass the ratbastard killer, I am glad that the song was written. Zantzinger admitted plenty with his own voice to show his asshole rich young landowner attitude toward "the help" as being there for him to beat on for his drunken amusement. He didn't mean "no harm", he said. It cost him 6 months and $500. You know, I'm familiar with something in my part of the South called White Trash. It used to refer to the white people who were as impoverished and ignorant and as badly-behaved as the worst of the "bad" Negroes. It was an insult to be referred to as white trash, of course. There should have been a similar term for creatures like Zantzinger, rich young white punks who thought they had it made (and they weren't wrong). They could kill, especially the blacks, and the cops, judges, and juries let them go. I don't care what anybody says, this guy Zantzinger was RICH TRASH, and it's a shame to society that he was allowed to serve so little time and to live freely with "decent society"--the other rich people--to the end of his days. He's finally dead now. Now that's a happy day! See this: News story

But Do I Care?

Try Me!
Young poets, beware Of ending up A snarky old man who sez, "You twit— I've got poems older than you!"

Paul Is Dead (No, Not That One!)

Another Celebrity Bites The Dust
Les Paul is dead. That's a little bit sad, but he lived a long life (age 94) and a full one. Lots of music, lots of musical inventions! A lot of musicians and a lot of music listeners owe him a lot! His life's over. He didn't exactly fuck it up, did he?

I Wish It Weren't Such a Difficulty!

Talking About My Junk

It's strange, but I still get a few inquiries emailed to me every week from "Most Frequent Blogger Questions". I do have a "final" post there at the top of the blog that's meant to inform people that I am gone, retired, eviscerated, and hollow, but I guess I need to remove the "Email Me" in the sidebar--I guess it's serving as a sort of mouse-trap. Yes, I should; my emailers probably aren't at all stupid, but just desparate for an answer. I hope their asking me is a sign that they're asking Everyone they encounter. I've tried to answer the easy ones, but it's only a bad reminder to me and I don't want to be remembering all that much. To be kind to myself, I have to be a little unkind to these strangers, so I try to not respond at all any more. I need to get my former life back! Nevertheless, the death of MFBQ seems to be making it easier to do a few posts here, much more frequent posts and a little better quality (though it's still junk).

Bernie Madoff vs. Kathy Griffin

I need another fix, boys and girls. Sexual hijinks would do, but if you can't, you can't. You could send money instead. If Bernie Madoff took your dough, then write me a gracious comment and I'll try not to make fun of you. I wonder just how many people would love to kill Madoff? I'd like to kill him and I didn't even have financial dealings with him. At the least, I'd enjoy knocking the snot out of the hateful little shit with one of those little souvenir baseball bats! Wouldn't you? When I worked in Pest Control, I kept one of those little bats around for the rats that office workers would trap and then call me! They'd worked so hard, but every time declined to finish the damn job! I'd get some funny looks as I left the building with the bat in one hand and "something" wrapped up in an old rag! Oh, about those comments I asked for. Keep in mind that I'm in love with Kathy Griffin, the D-list comedienne, and that therefore my brainwaves have become even further deformed than they used to be, though you can be pretty sure I won't send you any rats. I haven't seen any real ones for years!

Michael Jackson Again?

More Sensations!

I woke up to the remarkable CNN news today that "it's been "6" weeks since Micheal Jackson died and he's still dead!" At least, that's what it sounded like from across the room, even if I was hearing it wrong. Maybe they said "unburied"? It's all TV sensationalistic crap to keep their ratings propped up, you know, and I wouldn't put it past them to say anything! It is true, isn't it, that Wolf Blitzer and Larry King at one time were NOT such whores for pop gossip and the insignificant farts and twitters of your nanny's doggie lovers? For that matter, Anderson Cooper, who started out with pretty good credentials as an even younger serious newsman, used to give a shit, but now he's like the rest of the twits and talking heads and he will talk about anything to anyone and kiss their ass, too. Oh, Yummy. Where are the newsmen of yesteryear? Oh, that's right, Walter Cronkite died last month. Which means that ordinary good journalism has been in trouble for some decades. There are a few reporters, both male and female, most of them covering a war somewhere, who try to stick to news, but since they have to do it all in this modern milieu of TV money and sensational stories, by the time they take over for Wolf Blitzer and the other "anchors", they'll be just as co-opted and just as worthless, I fear. Blitzer is only one of those newsmen or newswomen who are just as famous as Brad Pitt and Angelina Poof these days--they just aren't as popular as Brad and Angie. Christ, feed me to the ducks, the world makes no sense!

Oh My

What Can We Do?

Oh my, how we sigh When we attempt to keep an eye on ourselves Or a rein on our grievous disposition And not be insulting to anyone and keep our balance, too! It can't be done, no matter how I thrive. I may not deserve it, But I get what's done, I get what I've earned. I promise now I'll try To make my future expeditions slower And keep my foolish expectations lower. I'm sorry I was so nice at first And turned out to be the kind of sorry soul That resembled a boat on a stormy sea, But cannot float, even in the calm of a wading pool.

Salvation Coming?

The World Goes On
I hate all this, I must admit-- There's no way of knowing When I'll stop caring or start Or when it'll all be fixed Or when it may end Or if it ever will move on And be like the second coming of anything for anyone.

Intelligent ArtistVH McKenzie

She's Been Here Before
Check this out! You'll like what she likes! A Night At The Museum.

Conclusion I'm Reaching

I should be returned and redeemed like an old fashioned Coke bottle.

Justice for the Supreme Court?

Glad the Sotomayor "trial" is over. If all the whiners were at least innocent of such prejudices as they declare that judges ought to be, maybe it would be tolerable, but politicians make a big stink about how judges should be as clean as the driven snow when they themselves have hearts as black as Justice Thomas and they blacken everything they touch like some careless roughneck from the Texas oil fields! I don't think I recall much merit about the "non-prejudice" or "non-party-affiliation" of the Supreme Court that appointed George Bush as President. I'm afraid that bit of justice entirely escaped me! They had the Power and they used it; no further discussion! That's how it usually works, isn't it? Judges are people and people are knaves--if she didn't "assassinate" Micheal Jackson or smother any of the Nancy Grace Sensation Babies, just shut up and get on with it!!!

Five?

I wonder if five is a magic number (or a cursed one)? These days it seems to me that about half the people who've been on my "Intelligent Blogs" list at some point started out so eager and energetic that some of them wrote, not only daily, but every five hours. These days, the same people have gotten to where they are more likely to write every five days or five weeks. I now assume that the ones who haven't written for five months don't much plan to write in their blog again. All these people were important constituents of my "world" for the past five (?!) years, though, and it feels very strange now. Many are gone, but even those who remain are changed. Some of us are like cadavers--not all the changes are good. Even though we keep the blog looking alive, I realize that it may just be rolling downhill. Lately I have tried hard to find some new blogs that are as fascinating as the old ones were, but so far I've failed. I'll have to try harder. There's bound to be some, so it's probably my shortcoming that I do not recognize them when they flit past! I am probably wearing out, like that old Tin Man from "The Wizard of Oz". If only Judy Garland would come along in cute little pig-tails and give me a brain, a heart, and a terrific damn hard-on, I'd be all set!

George Sodini--Mr. Nobody

You read about madmen who shoot up their gym or school or whatever, then off themselves, and you wonder why they didn't just cut to the chase. If it's a mental defect to contemplate suicide, I think it's even more so to want to kill others first, especially if it's strangers that you intend to kill. Thinking about George Sodini's sick sad bio that's been revealed so far, though, what else could he have done? Everyone was a stranger to a pitiful loser like him--that's all he could have killed! If Society were a living consciousness--which it's not--I guess you could say that it really fucked George up. Anyway, he wasn't the first one and won't be the last one who flips out. Sodini talks mean about his mother in his diary, but she must not have been very tough or she'd have strangled him in his cradle! Stupid woman.

Let Everything Be

Don't worry, don't cry, Don't ever change-- But stay out of range. Let everything be itself, Especially you and me. Don't say too much or hear too much Or complain because we can't behave. I swear I'm often just acting or reacting And everyone's a target, Including you and me, until we're dead.