Brave New World
Hi everybody, thanks for coming back.
The entire month of April passed me by without any blog entries, and a lot has happened in the wicked world since March. I don’t know how I am going to tie all this together, but I am going to do my damnedest.
Perhaps the most incendiary thing that happened since we last got together was the death of Trayvon Martin, a black teenager who was shot and killed by a neighborhood watchman of mixed ethnicity (white and hispanic, but kind of looks like an Arab. Go figure.) The event caused a terrible row in the political world, with great distress felt for the perceived injustice of an armed man killing an unarmed teenager. Race relations have been strained, and the whole thing is understandably a morass of anger and confusion. As of yet, we do not completely understand the circumstances surrounding the shooting, so I won’t editorialize… I do not want to piss on the beehive. However, if there is one thing we can learn from this undeniably tragic event, it is that black people love horrible first names.
Racism is indeed a very real and terrible thing. Again it presented itself in the public forum when some fans of the Boston Bruins made untoward remarks about Joel Ward, a black hockey player from the Washington Capitals, on Twitter recently. I, for one, was shocked… to learn that a black guy played hockey.
Ha. I bet you thought I was going to say something profound. Good luck with that, sucka. Anyway, lets go over some silly stuff, though, since shooting each other is not really that funny, and hockey kind of sucks.
I always wanted to be a rock star, but fuck that, I want to be a Secret Service Agent now. Apart from getting kickass aviator shades and an Uzi, apparently, once they cross the southern border, the standard of professional conduct is reduced to the one used by Mötley Crüe roadies. Mountains of yayo and sassy Colombian hookers? Si, senorita! These G-Men leave nothing in their wake except for nosebleeds and the wreckage heaps of Latin women they’ve destroyed in various South American fleshpots and houses of ill-repute. God Bless America! Some people get down on these guys, but not the Man with No Shame. I reckon you have to luxuriate yourself from time to time in order to attain a healthy Qi, as the Chinese call it. Sometimes you just have to say “Fuck it, it’s all about me, baby”, before you drive in the breakdown lane or take a dump in the handicap stall. When life hands you lemons, make lemonade, I say… then pour a whole fifth of Stolichnaya vodka into the lemonade and drink until you’ve forgotten about how your miserable, shitty life gave you lemons again. You can’t always be the nice guy. In keeping with my Qi, I often turn to Confucius, who once mused, “He who is nice boy with woman get many hug, but no bro job”
Speaking of Ancient Chinese philosophers, the Octomom, rendered destitute by the rigors of octo-maternity, is going to be hitting the porn circuit soon. “Hooray!” and “Yes! It is about time” were reportedly shouted by crowds of nobody. Seriously, though, who wouldn’t want to watch a woman (holy shit, look at the alliteration in this sentence) that shit out a litter of 8 children engaged in graphic sex? I mean, apart from me, you and everybody else. I imagine that watching the Octomom in the electric flesh boogaloo with some dude, no matter how well-equipped he may be, would probably be like watching somebody throw a cocktail weenie down a mine shaft. However, if the whole porno thing doesn’t pan out, she can always rent her uterus to any pilots who might need an airplane hanger for a B-29.
I’ve been hitting the gym big time as of late, and I’ve lost a couple of pounds. I don’t need a shooting range to blast the guns, if you know what I mean (winks at girls; girls gag). Actually, I don’t even work out that much, I simply stopped eating all the food I love. I thought I was getting too chunky, and I was reaching a high water mark… quite literally, since I hopped in the bathtub and most of the water poured over the side. It is funny how you see the same people at the gym when you go regularly. There are a few stock characters, like the meatheads, the super-fat guy and the old perverts in the locker rooms. Why do old men love walking around completely naked? Like I need to see some old man’s pendulous breasts, or dirty old ball sack dragging on the floor behind him like a wedding dress. There are a few Jersey Shore types at my gym who usually crowd around this one hussy like a bunch of cavemen who just discovered fire. This girl is built like Jessica Biel, which is to say like Michaelangelo’s David, but with a larger penis. She is probably the most athletic person in the gym, with a million dollar body… and a ten cent face. Most of her workout seems to involve sticking her ass up in the air and doing obscene yoga poses, undoubtedly designed to inflame the loins of fellow gym rats. She was doing some crazy move next to me the other day and I nearly dropped a dumbbell on my head… luckily for me, I don’t keep anything important inside my skull – just some Marlboro tar and a Q-Tip I lost a few years back. Many of the men simply gawk like morons, their dirty mouths hanging open, catching any flies that might be in the gym.
Finally, I recently learned that Kim Kardashian and Kanye West have been seeing each other, and he shall be featured prominently on her shitty television program. A random side note, but I heard that Keeping up with The Kardashians was originally going to be called KKK: Keeping up with Kim Kardashian, but the producers were unable to obtain the rights from the Ku Klux Klan, who did not want their brand and prestige injured by association with the Kardashians. Anyway, the pairing of Kim and Kanye is probably the most significant convergence of evil empires since the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, or maybe since Darth Vader hired Boba Fett. It is kind of funny that Kim and Kanye are dating… not because they are not perfectly suited for one another by virtue of their common talentlessness or whorish pursuit of fame, but mostly because Kanye is a closeted homosexual.
The title of this blog has no bearing on the content, it is simply taken from a Motörhead song that I think kicks ass. See the link below if you want an ear-gasm. I like when the bass and drums join the guitar.
As for me, I am going to put on my Dunce cap and sit in the corner for a while if anybody needs me.
Hugs and kisses,