The Wraith - The 6th Joker Card

A pressence can be felt by those who have followed thy epic saga as told by thy Insane Clown Posse. It is a presence that is synonymous with thy crumbling of time itself. Thus emerges a being so powerful that he can exist between both the land of thy living, and that of the dead. He goes by many names but is known to thy living only as Thy Wraith. He walks upon worlds forgotten, and descends from Heavens; fade into gray to witness thy death of all mortal things, so that he may guide thy departed upon thy path that they have chosen. Only now will we truly understand thy meaning of thy saga, for this saga all along, each Jokers Card, is actually none other than... thy echo of our lives.

The Wraith leads you to where you will go, Shangri-La or Hell's Pit. The Wraith:Shangri-La is called that because it is the story of the path to Shangri-La, and Vice-Versa.

The Amazing Jeckel Bros. - The 5th Joker Card

Emerging from the Dark Carnival like phantom smoke drifting into the minds of men, they are the Amazing Jeckel Brothers. A chaotic duo of juggling masters, Jack "the sinister" and Jake "the just" juggle the sins of mortal men. The price of admission to their show is a mere human soul. When death creeps around and life decays, the departed spirit will begin its journey. A vision of a candle will begin to form like a distant dream with billowing smoke rising from its eternal flame. In this thick haze the deceased will begin to see an image of Jake and Jack Jeckel juggling red balls between themselves. Each ball soaked in fresh blood and pulsating like an erratic living heart. For every sin committed in a mortal's life another ball is added to their unearthly performance and the harder it becomes. The deceased will witness sinister Jack throwing Jake curves in a vile attempt to see a ball drop. For if they should fumble in their act, a pit of infinite evil shall open beneath the feet of the viewer and cast the soul into an eternity of pain and suffering. Success on the other hand, opens the gates of Shangri-La and grants one ascension into pure enlightenment and peace. Jack and Jake Jeckel rest in all of us for they are the very fabric of our being conscience and soul. There is no escape from their Juggling act because there is no way to escape from ourselves. Only in death will we realize this as we twist and spin to the other side?

This all means this. You pay your soul to see their show. Each ball is your sin. There is 1 for your greed, and 2 for your lies. Jake is juggaling away, while the sinister Jack is tossing curveballs to Jake, trying to get him to fumble. For if he shall drop a single ball, The Wraith will lead you to Hell's pit. If he doesn't fumble, and the act is perfect, you will be lead to Shangri-la. The more you sin, the more balls, the more chanc for Jake to fumble.

The Great Milenko - The 4th Joker Card

From deep within the Netherworld of shadow walkers comes yet another exhibit of the Dark Carnival. He is the master of the art of using magic without magic. He is a Necromaster... the craft of using magic through the dead. Dead meaning both physically and mentally. This spectacle shall be witnessed only by those who are meant to see it. Look deep inside of your soul and ask yourself... Do you hold a ticket to witness the show? The answer lies within yourself. He is the fourth to rise. He feeds upon one's own greed. He is powered by one's own jealousy, lust, and temptation. To envision yourself with something that rightfully does not belong to you... that is the illusion cast by him. To act upon this vision and seek it out at the expense of another... that is the magic cast by him. Continuous dreamers of profit at the cost of another are pledged and haunted by his wizardry. Others are content and satisfied with what they can achieve by themselves and have not the urge to tamper with another's well being for quick gain. They see him only as a hoax and see no illusions or magic by he. It is simple... He is you. His illusions are your evil thoughts. Your evil acts are his magic - yesterday, now and forever. You and he are the fourth to rise... You and he are the master of Necromancy... You the dead and him the magic. Together, you and he are The Great Milenko.

do zombie's poop?

The Riddlebox - The 3rd Joker Card

Time flows like a dark horde, consuming all in its path. Man lives his life in the blink of an eye. Just as day becomes night, all life fades into death. In death each person will be judged for his deeds performed while alive. There are the few who walk a life of purpose, and there are those who trod the path of greed, their souls host to demons. Time slows near each person's end. Those whose deeds were evil grasp onto life as long as they can because, though they don't know what awaits them in the afterlife, they feel for them it is a horror beyond words. Time stops in this world, as the heart becomes still and the soul leaves the body. In the afterlife time is eternal, and even death is but a new beginning. For you see, when you step into death your soul steps upon the floor of a dark chamber and you look to see it empty, except for a strange looking box on an old wooden table. On the front of the box, you will see a painted question mark faded with time and a twisted crank handle on its side. Turning the handle, a sharp melodic tune will fill the air. For the evil ones this sound will be a deafening noise reverberating off the walls and building into a climatic terror. But the surprise is when the music stops as you slowly turn the handle... and then the top of the box pops. For the few, they will see a vision of God with a golden light warming their souls as they step forth into eternal peace. For most they will see a fog seeping from the box, stripping their sanity, as they witness an image of hell, spawned and formed fromtheir own evil; a hideous reflection of their demented souls. The floor of the room begins falling away as they plummet into a bottomless pit full of shadowy creatures, forever to be lost in a sinister void. What will be in store for you is the mystery, but if you take a look within yourself you will find the answer. For now, you still have time to change the outcome of... the mighty Riddle Box.

The Ringmaster - The 2nd Joker Card

The day has come, the time of reckoning. Who will perish in dreaded hell and who's soul will be content within the pleasures of heaven? Looking past the words spoken with a wicked tongue and looking past the evil deeds done in one's life, but instead looking into the conscious of man. What is the real evil that seems to plague mankind? Who are the real demons that walk this earth? Is it those whose minds have become devious because of a lifetime spent inside of a caged hell, or is it those who invented this caged hell years ago and done nothing to help destroy it yet? Who's guilty, Frankenstein or the doctor that created him? The sword, or the man who has slain with it? Which is the real evil, the man who kills another for food or the man who does not share his food to avoid the killing? While you sit in judgement of a criminal, you may very well be the one who's guilty. Guilty of greed, deception and hate. Those who are rejected at the gates of heaven, shall be dragged off into the pits of hell. Viciously torn from this life by the non-living, the phantoms of the dead. These beasts take the form of a demented carnival, that of a wicked, dark, circus, led by one. One who was created by your own evil ways. One who will judge your very fate. The one known only as... The Ringmaster.

Tiny TIm and Vince

Mmmm, Yes.

This pilates ball feels scrumptious on my Ass.

Like my Ass just got ordered and served hot from a piece of baking stonewear. The pilates ball placed an order for my Ass and got it. Got the whole thing; my whole Ass.

I like the way the pilates ball holds me, gently, pushing me up, uplifting me.

I love the delicate equilibrium of the amount of 'give' that it delivers to my ass--so delicate that a slight rest or resignation of any of my bodyweight onto the top of the table is given a significant response. Habitual posture is for breakfast, along with peanut butter, a banana, some not-what-I-would-call-burnt toast, a few chunks of cooked chicken-eggie, and a short glass of milk from a cow. A female cow. What the cows are drinking for breakfast, heck, I don't know. S'pose I could ask, but they would probably just resent it.

This is why I don't live in a barn. That isn't true, it's just that barns are just uncomfortable, at least when they are outfitted for cows. I only drink organic cow milk. You can taste the bleach and oher chemicals in the regular stuff. Organic just tastes like cows' titties. Who's titties the cows are tastin' on, well, that is a mystery.

I like how sitting on this ball makes me engage my whole spine, relax my neck, abs, shoulders and lower back. My heart melts away with a deep breath and my body remains, solid, strong, like an ancient pillar, with an infintesimal past and infinite future, climbing forever closer to heaven in every direction.

I'm going for a bike ride, ride by some cows.

The Carnival of Carnage - The 1st Joker Card

It was a soft gentle night.

In the little town of...of, well, your town.

The gentle breeze swept the streets,
creating that pleasant howl that these kind town folks have enjoyed for so many, many years.

The wind chimes sent their peaceful melodies into the ears of the sleepy residents, but the unusual was approaching in the distance.

Something evil headed toward this small town as the residents slept.

Something crept, slithered, and crawled its way through the quiet streets.

Guided by the moon light,
these frightening strangers set up tents and rides, shows and games, there were savage jesters, and wicked ringmasters.

There were horrid freak shows and sights only the impending doom will witness.

They brung with them the carnage that they had lived with for eternity.
The morning is a new day.

The people of this town will unwillingly witness the show of their lives, only rumored to exist.

They will be the next to die, helplessly,
at the Carnival of Carnage.

On Dickens

“There was this man,” began Courtney.

“There was this man,” confirmed Francis.

“He was wearing a hat,” explained Courtney.

“Well, it was raining,” protested Francis.

Courtney frowned and gazed down at the device in his palm. This was going to be more difficult to explain than he had anticipated. Francis saw Courtney’s expression and drew a similar one across his own face.

“What kind of hat?”

Courtney brightened. “That was just that – it was a most peculiar hat. It was as round as his head and entirely black.”

Francis shut his eyes and looked as if he were putting forth a genuine effort to picture the man’s odd garment. “I can picture the black…” he began.

“It matched his style of dress exactly,” Courtney quivered, his wide eyes darting around as if expecting the man to appear again, in the same fashion as before.

Francis’ frown deepened as he failed to draw the idea of a formless black mass over the entirety of an equally formless man. After considering the result for some minutes, he concluded that he would be fit to envision this man perfectly if only the snakes and bursts of yellow proteins stopped swimming under his eyelids.

Courtney’s eyes narrowed, and he went on. “Looked like a government man. Thing is, he didn’t talk like a government man.”

“And he had this hat…” added Francis helpfully.

This is your mind on awesome

On Distance, Part II

The room is yellow and everyone in it is slowly going mad because of the hum of the lights, especially the ones that don’t know it yet. The teacher wears a long monochrome skirt and the kind of sweater that art school girls wear when they want to look like teachers. She lectures about William Blake, or William Wordsworth, or William Morris. I turn to speak to Sylvia, but she’s reading Dorothy Parker. I stare down at my paper for a few minutes, write, “Does this sentence remind you of Douglas Hofstadter?” next to “This sentence contains only one non-English kryxor” and “No language can express this thought without ambiguity.”

The teacher mentions cinnamon, and I cock my head. Supposedly, humans naturally look up and to the side when trying to recall an image. I wonder how one might try to recall a scent. I experiment with facial expressions and angles, exercising my futility muscles. Frustrated that I couldn’t call the olfactory sensation of cinnamon to myself, I turn the page of my notebook and list recognizable odors: cinnamon, lime, pennies, apple blossom, almond, Denver, grandma, yellow curry, old books, Appalachia, my car, Sylvia’s car, chalk, baby powder, banana, banana nut bread, pound cake, Puerto Vallarta, toothpaste (baking soda, not mint,) mint, butter, coconut, Rubber Gloves Studio, orange, Santa Fe, peach, plum, pear, the subway, blueberries, new shoes, cranberries, cantaloupe, chili, garbage bin, red curry, Austin, acrylic paint, oil paint, sawdust, rust, carrots, semen, clove cigarettes, cough drops, lavender, white wine, red wine, sunrise, noontime, cider, myrrh, oatmeal, nutmeg, oregano, Houston, pine, pumpkin, summer rain, winter rain, rosewood, Orlando, beer, strawberries, cookies (grandma’s?), dogwood, sycamore, oak, cigarette-soaked clothing, aspen, redwood, Paris, Milan, Zurich, playing cards, felt pen, basil, jasmine, socks, moist tortilla, damp stone, wet dog, leather, ex’s laundry detergent, cut grass, ammonia, chlorine, dog food, hospitals, cat food, airports, interstate gas stations, Mississippi River, moonshine, burning leaves, tires, singed hair, lemonade, camels, chapstick, sex, home, and coffee.

I try to coax each of them to leap up and into my nose. Then I dig in my backpack for a box of crayons. I’ve tried this before – but eleven years don’t vanish without some stubborn will of sorts. I open the box near my nose and draw it in. Drawn out. Draw! –up

Give Me Ultimatums or Give Me Death

Ten times I swear to God I’ll burn this house right down right down I’ll turn this mess into the biggest tent-fuck you’ve ever witnessed yes Sir. Then I’ll pull down my sunshades and my sunblock over my nipples and the last Sunday I seen before I started worshipping sex, coincidence, and a fine flapjack breakfast. If those neighbors don’t quiet down I’ll burn their goddamn car into the ground like that couple whose vehicle was hit by the loose-swinging powerline, the electric cable in the electric storm whose sheer electric content melted the goddamn car straight into the goddamn ground, rubber puddles around the island. True story. That’s what I’ll do. The last time I made a threat like this is was the idlest damn thing you’ve ever heard but the time before that I did it and they didn’t even see me do it and their goddamn yellow tape couldn’t keep me out and their goddamn red tape kept me from ever getting involved after the thing already happened I swear it. I’ll ruin you. I’ll ruin you. Do you see? You were made a fool of.

On Distance, Part I

Claustrophobia isn’t a concrete jail cell, isn’t a glaring courtroom. Claustrophobia comes later: repeat visits to the courtroom, to the lawyer, being caught in a legal loop that seeks to inconvenience one out of wanting to commit another crime. There are rules in a courtroom. There is little fine print in jail.

Physical movement doesn’t equate with freedom nearly as often as it should. I felt more joy listening to tall tales in a cold, colorless steel bunk than I did listening to State rabble for a sixth time in the sixth location. In the police station, a massive man grown weak by the daily four hundred calories of starch and xanthum gum mumbled my direction, Free your ass and your mind will follow. I said, “I’m one step ahead of you, mate,” but he had already fallen back asleep, snoring like a chainsaw and chest heaving like chain gang, great big effort.

There are a lot of folks who need some sort of anchor to keep themselves from reeling off. Some folks see that same anchor as deadweight. Most of us, thank God, can’t help but find it playing both roles, and know when to let the damned thing fall off. It’s not a rare case, either, that the anchor holds tight as a barnacle, and there isn’t a thing can be done to set yourself loose. Sometimes, you’re the anchor. I knew a woman once, serpentine grip and a special talent for letting go. All it took was some time alone and she ran off like wet paint. I’ve found work is a fine cure for worry.

Some of my state-ordered community service involved a fair amount of physical movement, loading and unloading furniture and estate sale remnants into trucks that belonged to Habitat for Humanity. Once, while I groaned under the weight of a marble-slab coffee table, a seventy-something man loosed a gleeful cackle at the enormous sum signed to him by the strip mall contractors who had purchased his property.

“My friends, they said, ‘you’re going to cry when you move out,’ they said. I said, ‘I won’t be crying when I cash that check.’” He put his hands in the pockets of his oversized pants. “I’ve lived here since nineteen forty-one, since I was a boy. Own that one across the street, too.” I nearly drop the table, or do.

To have a legal obligation to be rooted to the city is a sin; to live a lifetime on the same block without some oppressive exterior force is a low-down shame. Laziness, is what it is.

junk

tiny is as tiny dew
tiny is as tiny poo
-william s blur-o's
"the latest greatest cereal
start your day right
with some confusing
sugar flaked rounded
food circs"

ipu upu

With the supreme success of the 1st Toilet Moment Pooping Party (pictures developing), we have decided to make the parties a by-weekly affair for your derriere. The next party will be a real whomper and we have a goal to raise at least 75 pounds of SOLID doodoo, squirts will not be accepted. Also, Shelly will be bronzing turds until midnight for a small fee. All proceeds will be donated to the candlelight vigil for the late Harry Bottums who unfortunately passed wind Monday morning. May he poop in peace.


October 24, 2009, 9P.M. @ The Floyd House

Woof Woof

stroke it
shake it
cleanline break it

BUTT.

A Riddle

It is not in the thinking of things there is yet to do.

It is in the counting of things there is yet to do.

It is not in the things you staple together.

It is in your desire to staple.

It is not in the speaking on the telephone.

It is in how loud you are speaking.

It is not in the cable T.V.

It is in the cables themselves.

It is not in the smiling as a gesture.

It is in the teeth which are the smile, and also the tongue.

It is not in the baying for the blood.

It is in the actual baying; the quality of the baying.

It is not in the plastic bottle.

It is in the color of the lid of the plastic bottle.

It is not in your threshing machine.

It is in how much your workers are afraid of your threshing machine.

It is not in the chocolate factory.

It is in the very fact that there is a chocolate factory.

It is not in the chair.

It is in the list that does exist somewhere of all the people who have ever sat in the chair.

It is not in pineapple chunks.

It is in pineapple rings.

It is not in rocket fuel.

It is in the drinking of rocket fuel.

It is not in jokes.

It is in the need for jokes.

It is not in time, exactly.

It is in the sand in the hourglass.

It is not in books.

It is in the sober atmosphere of the library.

It it not in the banging of the big bass drum.

It is in the inaudible swishing of the conductor's baton.

It is not the devil you know.

It is in the devil you don't know.

It is not in the pie filling.

It is in the pastry.

It is not in the rubbish.

It is where you put the rubbish.

Oh yessss, it is all quite bold and artistic, grimly optimistic and bisquick spills cleaned up by heating to 410 for sixteen and choochoochewing down, poking into and ffffblowing up oh what fun here on my face today, on my sticky face, on my sticky messy face, oh what a Fun this one was. Yes That was a fun one.... Yes! But the kneejerk was, you see it came from, you Need that glazed doughnut, you Need it' and it needs you and you know it, in your heart of hearts into which you as you are as you who faces life would be dazzled away to behold.

omegle.com

You: i'm poopin'!

Stranger: oh no!

You: oh yes!

Stranger: and loving it?

You: always



lol c:

Being ignorant is awesome

Being Ignorant Is Awesome

I like to laugh at retards
I like to laugh at cripples
I like to make fun of gays
I like to beat women

I like assuming black people stole something
I like assuming Jews jerk off to photos of banks
I like assuming Chinese people can’t drive
I like assuming women are dumb cunts

[Chorus:]
I like being ignorant [x4]

[Repeat second verse]

[Chorus]

I don’t want to read the paper
I don’t want to read the news
I don’t want to know what’s going on
I just want to keep hating you

I see you, lizard

I see you, lizard.

Don't think I can't.

I know you're there.

That's right, run away. Run far, far away.

Whatever you do, don't jump on me when I'm doing what I'm doing.

I'll see you later outside, k?

Fee-cool fiction

all is imagination...
click click delete
am i imagination.
no, only supremely imaginative
are in fact imagination
of whom?
imaginary ebb imaginary flow
hallucination of the mind
whose mind
what did you say
i will not address that
imaginary calmness imaginary boldness imaginary courage imaginary fear imaginary boundary imaginary scheme imaginary school imaginary student imaginary paper imaginary turnitin.com imaginary completion grade imaginary completion

all is imagination of the mind, make-up that we put on
whose face? you me them they us her and all the others
grabbing and grasping and realizing and rerealizing
unrealizing .

true understanding.what understanding? what do you understand?
what you stand under? the cieling? the sky? the tree branch?
what tree branch? that tree branch is an illusion being projected by the imaginary tree's imaginary shadow. an imaginary hierarchy that you govern imaginary distinguishable imaginary able imaginary chore imaginary center
imaginary graph with imaginary points imaginary omnipotence imaginary benevolence
imaginary out the gate imaginary 2 sides to all imaginary coins with imaginary pocket homes imaginary fusion imaginary fanta orange/grape imaginary imagine airy image in air a floating picture in the imaginary sky you are imaginary
you are a fiction novel you are an imaginary novelty, subject to imaginary laughter from the imaginary database of imaginary people rotating around the sphere of entangled generally,
imaginary cosmos, imaginary great feats, imaginary feet, imaginary repetition, imaginary cultivation, imaginary reaping of the imaginary harvest

imaginary pillows imaginary "i can relate" imaginary relay race imaginary 1st place imaginary runner up imaginary whistle imaginary go imaginary ego

you're still sitting under an imaginary tree with imaginary bark and imaginary ant farms are not marching around they may appear to be biting the fucking shit out of your leg but nay! they are imaginary, they are artistic too! and so is that pain so wake up and start dreaming like us like us: the supreme imagination. the one true deity. the syntactical clarity of an imaginary orator publicly professing insistantly preaching to nobody. absolutely nobody. imaginary theater in his head you doofus! you dimwit! you nincompoop! your foolish lampoonery! how could you? how dare you! why don't you just go join some sort of team where all of your delusions can come true, you'll be the new mayor of the big fuckin apple, ! yes, New York City! here i come! like a fucking Bald Eagle screaming and soaring over the imaginary landscape accompanied by imaginary trumpet calls bouncing around on children's imaginary playground equipment. actually children are the only nonimaginary's. you start becoming more and more imaginary after the age of 7 generally, and by the time you're 14...bam wam fuckin pow! zap! you're completely imaginary! and 21, yes! a whole lifetime of imaginary living! yes wow! so go park at that imaginary meter on the imaginary campus and have your imaginary vehicle towed by some imaginary company and hand them monopoly money when you can and laugh! and just keep laughing, they won't need any explanation, they aren't even there...and niether are you.

Dear readers

"Yes, I should like to spend the rest of my days within the menagerie."
This indeed became blissfully consequence of the conspiracy plea Menora had served in the final meeting of the Tabled Purpose. Victoria closed on E flat.
La.
In the meantime, my father's plantation liabilities spread like buttered nightshade vines, shadowing the four philanthropic mis-ventures of days with his Emily, the goddess of military arms drills. You spin me right round baby.
Right round.

Cloggers and Bloggers,

Welcome to a new day in which our fingers may run freely! That is, those stones beyond the gate can come crashing down. For once a light is shining upon a place in which our hearts may breathe that mud I stepped in yesterday was a pleasant day filled for once and twice did we cling tight to iron bristles brushing off debris has covered up my cake. Covered up my cake!

Would you like to buy a coin?

the train ticket

As I walked up to the train station I approached the counter.
"I'll take a one-way, not round trip, ticket to enlightenment, first class please." He told me it was 13 dollars and 3 souls. I paid and sat on a bench, waiting for the train to arrive. And when the train finally approached, with it came a tall, dark figure with a red hat and Grizzly Straight. Mark Holtz defined the monster as the living Mickey Tettleton. He turned, and with a grimace and a wink gleaned in and offered his presentation.
"You're up.", he handed me a baseball bat and I walked into the oncoming train shouting,"Baha men, it was I who let the fucking dogs out!"

Odd/Excessive Use of the Word "Scrub"

This wind had no agreement with the scrub. They were old enemies. The scrub exposed its rocks and ridges to blunt and bruise the wind. And in return, the wind picked up the dust and thorns and threw the loose stuff of the scrub about, and tore the dead wood from the trees like some mad boy. But on this night the wind was not prepared to settle for dead wood. It pitched itself against the scrub. The brittle trees could not withstand the wind at all. A tree can only bend so much, and then it snaps or turns up at the roots.

Little Luxie

Everytime I switch rooms in my apartment, my cat follows me. This includes the bathroom. Everytime she hears the seat cover hit the back of the commode, she comes barreling in from wherever she was like something crazy just happened in the other room. With no fail, she stops dead in her tracks in the doorway, collects herself, then saunters in like maybe I didn't just see her tearing ass down the hall. She then proceeds to butter me up with leg rubs, hand nuzzles and general lovely-dovey kittyness before scampering around my legs to the tubsill. This is where she's either content with the amount of water in her dish and will procede to paw at it, or isn't and MMEEOOORRRWWWWWW!!!s at me until I give in to her watery desires. If it's not the dish she's after, it's the bathtub itself. When she lays down in it, I know that means I'd better turn the faucet on so she can lick the water from the floor of the tub (gross, i know) or prepare for a good talking to. Sometimes though, like today, she'll just lay in the tub and wait for me to notice her there. Not a peep, she's just staring at me. She knows I know she's there, she just went meandering around my feet. So today, I go on about my business; I ignore her. I've decided that I'm gonna scare the shit out of this cat. She's staring at me, waiting for me to look at her so she can bitch at me about her lack of fresh water (which was probably changed within an hour or two). So, the second she lets her guard down and takes her eyes off me, I throw my hands up, open my eyes wide and MMEEOOORRRWWWWWW!!! at her. She trys to get out of the tub so fast she trips over her paws/slips and slides around in the tub until she somehow slides herself over the tubsill, around my legs and again, tears ass down the hallway. And in the course of me writing that, she's now come back to sit in the tub, and is MMEEOOORRRWWWWWW!!!ing at me for water. Oh, Luxie... you'll never learn.

Habits? Well sure, I have few bad habits, I mean, doesn't everyone? I mean, nobody's perfect amiwrite? I mean, I'm only human right? We were all born sinners right? I mean, it's not like I'm going out there trying to do wrong or to hurt anyone, I'm not going out of my way to cause unhappiness, I mean, it's not like I can do anything about the problems of the whole damned hungry world, I mean come on I am only one person right? Come on this is Texas, you know? Anyway, what do you think, like I don't have problems of my own? What am I supposed to stop at every drooping flower I see and tell it everything will be okay? FAgetabout it! If everyone did that then nothing would ever get done around here, around this stinkin' dump. And believe me you pinhead, I got alotta get done. Yeah, that's right I get shit done dammit, I ain't got time to sit around patting the backs and givin googgly eyes to every pop-costumed hairswoop-hidin-behind insecure little shit in this jaded day-care of a town. I got shit to do, kapishe? I mean come on, of course it's not like I'm going out of my way to hurt these fucks, I have other shit to do, why should I even go out of my way? As a matter of fact, why don't you just get the fuck out of my way you little fucker, I have shit to do. You shit.

There was this one time

Man will not recognize a handfull of his struggles until he is relieved from the ability to actually enter the context of his particular struggle. At this point he will have an entirely new set of struggles to which his golden store of knowledge will exist only to deprave his attention toward neurotic/con/destructive/narccisistic constructs of his mind. In this obsession, man separates himself, becoming isolated from the entire universe, or perhaps it is that he takes on the mass of the entire universe, and he suffocates in his vacuum, or perhaps is crushed by his own importance, and dies with or without a squirm, it matters not. Hallelujah, man is reborn!
Glory to God,
Amen.

Bigots against bigotry

I was in a public bathroom at HSU and I saw where a lot of people wrote things like, "all gays suck" and "Mark Amox f***s cows" along with plenty of racial and religious slander etc...

Someone had circled all of them and written on the side rebuttals along the lines of, "what's wrong with sucking? You're a bigot!" and "What's wrong with f***ing cows? You're such a bigot!"

...And so on and so forth...

I, being the thinker I am, circled all of his remarks and drew lines to one center area where I wrote, "What's wrong with being a bigot?"

So I ask you, what's wrong with having beliefs and standing up for them? What's wrong with believing in right and wrong? We live in a country that prides itself in personal freedom. We are supposed cherish different belief systems and ethics as part of a huge weave of our culture. Just because somebody doesn't believe like you do doesn't make them a bigot. I'm not a ridiculous conservative. (I'm moderate) I can't think of anyone that I hate or even strongly dislike, but if I stand up against something I believe is wrong, I should be able to do it without being labeled a bigot.

1 2 3

3 times 3 times 3 times meal time!
chompchompsplish
r
Mama Rug and Paloma Kitty like to watch.
They purr and brush up against my legs.
They love me
We are in love

Confessionals
My bare toes, pink.

Genetics

what?

this moment is straining to come out,
like a brown strand of waste,
curling and twisting,
swimming even,
winding down and getting sucked into a black hole.

nobody wants it to be here,
i tried to flush the motherfucker,
myself but it keeps coming back

i try to look on the bright side,
but the water has turned dark,
and the only bright side is 2 feet away
but i cant use mine because im sitting down

but i guess i didnt say i was going to the bright side
so i guess i can look at it,
maybe ill draw a picture

maybe i should shit blog for this occasion!

1.plug in computer
2. start up computer
3. ...wait for it to load....
4. pull up toiletmoment.com
5. try to remember how to post something...
6. i remember now! sign in...
7. wellp, i'm done now! too late.

Austin powers

Hot dogs

What log rolling means to me...

scene: 9th grade reality collage, Van Alstyne Tx Speech Classroom
charecters:brady,jock stoner 1, jock stoner's freind 1, Honda 6 gauge f560000 4-wheeler 48 speed dual combustionive chamber (music),forest animals,christian archetype, quiet kid 1, quiet kid 2(wearing a no-fx shirt),stoner 1.
plot:write a speech explaining one of your hobbies
solution:I like to roll logs (this has a couple meanings I guess which makes it the perfect topic for discourse in a class full of stoners and wanna-be stoners who rub their eyes with dirt in the morning to make em look red and then in some sort of scripted over-the-top movement in front of everyone they pull out a clear eyes eye-dropper and try to get someone who might be a stoner to notice, and anyone who might not necessarily smoke/not smoke but has a sense of humor anyways)

2 days before the presentations were to be given on our hobbies/interests our main character brady was staring at a box glowing espn2 men's sports that dont quite make it to the real big time. One of these sports was called log rolling. "Now this is something that I can grasp" sneered a voice from within the thought chambers.

So Brady was off with his camera and a couple buddies who thought it was a wonderful opportunity , wonderful enough to offer up their time and 4-wheelers to join in on this momentous occasion.

Mr.Wade, the Speech instructor was a peacock of a man. His decaying foundation featured a stout frame that stopped growing after 4th grade, a belly that looked kind of like he had put one of those exercise balls under his starched suit-shirt, with a reassuring tri-fold chin beneath his sticky lips which nestled closely his breath which varied from dog to a concoction of 30 minutes ago brushed teeth, but drank coffee and diet coke inbetween then and now kind of breath, and when his brain flinched involuntarily his lips would often part, creating a hole in his face that air would travel out of, air that was soaked in Wade's learned verbiage he was the owner of a speech that crawled around a hearty 3 octave range below middle c, with a tone quality of a crickety wooden floor panel juked with a johnny cash imitation in bi tonal increments. His eyes wore a dark, olive tint and his brows crept off the surface of his face like antennas and they twisted and swiveled and leaped expressively when a thought bubble that contained one of his topics of interests burst inside his head. His ears cowered in the trench of his bushy white hair strands while at once providing noise cancellation and simultaneously improving the volume of the ever-narrowing intuitive bird calls in the forest of his mind, cluttered with an array of prehistoric men and M.A.S.H re-runs/theme songs on repeat.

Wade was fond of this concept: log rolling, because he was all too familiar with the implications that the other students projected in their laughter. "Aha! I will catch him and sentence him to 200 weeks of isolation with Mr. Rogers" a deranged wolf echoed in the vast outskirts of Wade's eroded mind castle.

Brady was well prepared for this sort of test though. After 4 years of owning a camera, he was well equiped with the equipment necessary for this sort of gig. Upon entering the smoky forest of Elmont jock stoner 1 exclaimed "a log." "we did it" bellowed the 4 inch mouthwide widebelly, a loyal comrade of jock stoner 1.

And did it they did. Our heroes rolled the log off the bank into the creek and this was recorded with only a minute amount of background laughter.
When Brady brought the edited tape into speech, the class became speechless at the precision of the log rolling, and Mr.wade 's tilted agenda collapsed under the chivalry of Brady's follow through.

Just as Wade's pencil was forcing his hand to scrible the symbol "100" on a piece of notebook paper that documented Brady's thesis statement, a Slipknot music video came on the screen and the stoners observed in jubilation multiplied by the christian 1's disdain for Slipknot music videos.

lol.

(513): I just took a dump by candlelight. I feel like a pilgrim.

Consider the Ant

If you’ve ever sat on the toilet in an old or neglected bathroom (and, if you live in Denton, you likely have one in your home), you’ve probably noticed the lone ants spinning their dizzy, stupid little trails across the tile or grime. There are also favorable odds that you’ve seen a line of the same sort of ants, taut and economical, stretching from the crack behind the sink to the snack you or someone else accidentally brought and accidentally left last week.

Ants can, at “will,” release a chemical trail which can be followed by other ants; this is how they manage these lines. They will, upon being presented this trail, follow it precisely. If the trail wavers, each and every ant along that line will make the half-inch detour without ever looking (smelling) up to notice the perpetual stumble and smooth the parade’s route. If the trail suddenly ends, an ant will turn around and follow the trail back like an electric train set.

I would like to think that a wall of grungy pink tile is immense to an ant the way the Dakota badlands are to me. Far as can be seen: nothin’. So scouting ants run in circles and down the same caulked gutters many times before (if) they find something edible. How do they find their way back to the nest? I would think that they would leave their pheromone trails from the first step out the anthill, path of breadcrumbs or Theseus’ string through the Labyrinth. It would make for a tedious and wasteful hike back, but at least our Hero Scout wouldn’t find food for his beloved queen only to wander and starve like a Jew in the desert.

That exploratory route is always so knotted, but the ants marching one-by-one bullet to the food source with German efficiency (for further analogy, relate this phrase to the Wandering Jew metaphor above, read a history book). Try as I can, I never remain on the shitter long enough to find out exactly what happens in the time between the Maiden Expedition and the subsequent arrival of the scientific exploitation team.

However, we can do some descriptive experimentation. Try taking a sponge to an inch-long section of invisible ant path. The arriving ants will turn tail back to the nest; more ants will still bubble out from the top and repeat these steps. Maybe the very same ants. The ants bringing food will also about-face at the sponged-out barrier and trot the length of line back and forth until – I’m unsure, because I’ve never stuck around long enough to find out. Twenty minutes.

Back in the nineteen fifties, a popular brand of crayon had a chemical in it that was extremely similar to the ant pheromone; so similar that ants would follow it. Nobel-Prize winning physicist Richard P. Feynman would draw patterns and pictures and marvel at his living artwork (See Ralph Leyton's "Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!" W.W. Norton & Co., 1997). Other than the marveling, not much was accomplished by these activities. He was not then a physicist, but a curious child. What I wouldn’t give for a box of those crayons.

It’s these sorts of experiments which lead me to believe that these sorts of experiments are kosher to perform on ants. I have no remorse for squishing ants (or other hive creatures – termites, wasps, etc.) because an individual ant has consciousness equivalent to a fingernail. I have enormous respect for the Hive as an entity – but if its fingernails are out to bite me and infest my shithouse, I am arrogant enough to clip the nails at the risk of removing a finger. Remove the finger. Squash the fucker.

Ants are not like lobsters or beetles or coral. These are things which exhibit a capacity to suffer. If placed in a constrained environment, these beings will fight and consume one another. Ants, when among other ants, will not react in high-pressure situations. Some levels up the consciousness-hierarchy we have pigs, which will, when forced to stand in densely-populated areas for long periods of time, chew off their neighbors’ tails out of what seems to me to be pure psychological boredom.

This last trait is something you and I are capable of experiencing, and examples can be found right now, as this has become quite long and my bottom’s numb. Good day, happy shittings.

victory for the mean green

Cat Shitblogging

korean toilet power

george crumb - vox balane

the end

splat goes rooster after birth oven mits
of its barrel massage then rubbed against
the sheath and the sloth cradled loosely
and it wrapped a cloth around
the bundle of sticks and weathered stones,
and didn't call it a faget.
- w. g. gilstein

the end

SHIT MUSIC

expression through fart.

a suit made of pubic hair

santa claus' diary entry n.78

October13th 2009,

Dear diary,
                thanks for the cookies you left me last year. chocolate is my favorite you do know.
well pumpkin pie flavored is mine. they don't make that i know yea,





















"this is stupid"























" i hate shitblog"






















uncoiling and soiling
toileting loyally
to all my brother and sisters
who know how to potty
and all the others
who thought us naughty
come and sit,
on my lap
if you'd like
and browse
every bit
of crap
my blog
does house
please,
i will shake your hand
or scratch your back
i will join your band
and lay down a track
unloosen your gland
and be an author today
leave me your email
accept my request
you wont go to jail
its not incest

..and on the seventh day, god relaxed the almighty sphincter and the first log was released from the bowels of creation.

Bloggers and cloggers,
I will be hosting the first of many ex-lax induced pooping parties at the floyd house.
bring your pails and platters
to display all your matters fecal

pants are not required and may restrict the movement



October 10, 2009, 9P.M. @ The Floyd House
BYOTP

the sandal and the blimp

as i pondered the events from the previous night's venture i came upon a beautiful scenaria...
this story was inspired by a true story (The Lady and the TrampTMand the characters and events represented on this particular toilet moment in no way depict real or imaginary situations.

The Sandal and the Blimp

dear readers,
if you decide to do so, as you read along, pictures or images with/without animation may appear in your head, if this happens please do not disregard them they are part of the story too.
Stadium, there was one. stadium has 1 hundo yards and extra for layered rows and columns of people who come to stadium. sometimes, nachos. when their are more people, usually other people decide to put on uniforms,
"everyone in this room is also wearing a uniform, and dont kid yourself"
colors matching red and white with font verdana bold 16 size pt header align center "the tornados"

when their are more people with casual clothing then their are with the matching colored uniforms, this is considered favorable for an alotted few, namely the man with casual/business garb who routinely is allowed to stand by the tornados and tells them stories that he wishes to be translated into movements.

the choreographer of the tornados is especially demented, so he enjoys most of his dances to involve some sort of physical contact between the dancers that is not like any mating rituals previously witnessed in our society.

if these jerseyed tornado numbers become good enough at dancing in stadium, then sometimes they become promoted and entertain larger numbers of casual shirted people with nacho.

therefor, a board is attatched to bottom of stadium with neon glow lights and it amuses itself by changing the sequence of lights and non-lights to create the illusion that it drew a picture of a number.
board thought it was fun to rotate numbers at random intervals and when he changed them some of the casual shirts shouted at the miraculous synchronization of the number-picture and the dance happening in stadium.
or, when circle of profitable agents declared enough paper was in the jean opening they sometimes would get rid of the excess green paper in exchange for big thing that fly,
Edward.J Blimpson wasa pioneer among the hardcore dancing profit head movement
he said into crate 10 watt practice amplifier, "call it a blimp"
and so it was.
they taped a sign on blimp and the initial idea was to broadcast daily news and horriscope mesgs and to fly the blimp over stadium so everybody could watch the dance and still be in the know on the latest issues.

but blimp fliar was bad and he would either fly too fast or simply too high for people to read his updates.
and they were only using 14x13 size sheets of graph paper and though they used a felt tip boldend pen, they decided that people might strain their eyes to read the message and so they tried different things like handing out binoculars to the nacho people and this turned out to be remarkably profitable and it sort of became like this fashion kind of thing i guess and so theyd have to get em with their own green papez and so if you wanted to see the blimps secret message you could only decode it via the binoculars stadium sold.

then one of the days a man whose goal was to blow air into a golden confibulator an whistle sound-color changes said hey i wear sandals and everybody looked at him with a casual headnod kind of thing and that's how the blimp got to meet sandal for the first time cause they put the sandal on board for an honorary trip round stadium and the layered bleachers shouted which cause uproar and people spilled nachos and hot weiner bun mustard packets as the bleachers hallucinations startled the casual sit and feet were slammed as cause the attention was broken from dance and the board was also a capturer of time frames and could even pause them with his light change magick.

blimp and sandal sat down for a cup of joe but a stranger popped up and spooked em so they hooked up and danced the same dance you are dancing right now.

Bellhead

running water,
so when i press the button,
to dump the excretion,
no one will hear,
anything,
but the pleasant,
drone,
of running water,
comma,
om,
coma tose,
enter,
exit,
hotle,
briefing,
fuck adami,
and,
also,
aols,
me ti eni jih,
je ne sais pas,
mais
je suis ici maintenant,
huhuhuh
huhuhuhu,
huhuh,

false alarm

A Truth

Sometimes I wonder if I could live a life without going to the bathroom ever. It can be an inconvenient interruption to good moments.

An Exploration of the Range of my Keyboard

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yours truly,

andrewjm

adderal, dandruff. steve smith. coffee. and greasy hair sundays.

i remember coming into mrs.simpkins 2nd grade class on a rainy day.
i remember getting my first b on the spelling test on that rainy day.
i remember my dad saying that i could do better.
i remember losing my first tooth after biting down on an apple.
and i remember wondering how long that apple would stay in my stoumach.
i mean, how many other apples from the past were in my stoumach still?
it's not like i automatically knew where my shit was coming from,
it was just something involuntary it seemed,
like breathing or eating or something.
something everybody just agrees to do for some reason.
i remember winning a writing contest in 2nd grade after moving to
the middle of nowhere texas,
where the cafeteria smelled funny,
but noone really seemed to notice I guess because they had become so accustomed to it.
i remember the rounded librarian's frame, and how she was kind of like the cafeteria,
the cafeteria and her were one in their smelly fragrance and in their gruff, aged appearance,
i remember the janitor e.j. and i remember wondering what he did when he went home,
or if maybe he just lived in his custodian closet.
i remember thinking how immortal his dusty, worn fishing hat looked on his wrinkly head.
and the way his stern embrace of kid's vomit seemed to shout, "I want to go home and play checkers with ____ "

and how he probably really did go home and play checkers with a blank space.

i remember imagining myself being in a rockett ship that would blast off when it was time to go somewhere new.
i remember the day i punched john mcbee in the mouth because he had been messing with me.
]and how it didn't hurt when he punched me back, and how i thought to myself, "wow this guy's parents did a great job raising a pussy" i remember feeling bad because i knocked one of his teeth out and so i wrote him a note saying "brady is sorry, you should forgive him" and when john came up to in disgust proclaiming, "i saw your note and i don't care..." i feighned ignorance, "what note?" which really seemed to throw him for a loop i guess thinking that there was some supreme being that put the note in his cubby.

I guess i did have a lot better handwriting back then.

go steve smith.

Poop Dreams

Ever since I was a kid I always wondered if it were possible to sit on the toilet and poo all day long. This of course would take all kinds of preparation. Miles of toilet paper. A never ending supply of food. A high-speed internet connected so you could blog about your pooper marathon.

Of course, now I realize that it would be pretty much impossible to have a steady stream of feces coming out. How would one even get started? One day maybe we can overcome the hurdles and I can finally pop a squat for 24 hours.

-KT

Salame

On a beautiful day like this, I am reminded that we are not alone in the universe

Salame @ Yahoo! Video

Danae's first blog!

stage fright@!!

 

I turned the water faucet on..

 

Shit…I just wrote a really really long post and then deleted it. Uhhh…. Don’t..i…don’t…write….dont..good/ummhehheh..

Remember in fourth grade when you had got to have a bathroom buddy when you went, so you tried to bring a fun friend so you could just talk and play in the bathroom while getting out of class for a while and thought maybe the teacher would just think you were pooping?

Remember in junior high when you just went to the bathroom to check your light blue eyeshadow caked on, purple mascara, glitter, etc. and there was only a nasty little bar of soap that everyone in the whole school used with a hair stuck to it, and maybe a piece of lint or something too.

Remember in highschool when you went to the bathroom during class just to sit in the stall and TEXT HEHE!! on your phone in secret so it wouldn’t get taken away or call your mom to tell you to come sign you out..  and then just walked around and said hi to your friends that were in B lunch?

  Ok I’m probably gonna erase all this. Nm yes I am nm I’m not. 

Fritzie

My cat is black orange and white,
she is never wrong and always right,
but where does she go,
when i call it a night,

she goes and finds wrappers and bottle caps,
anything plastic that makes noise while i naps,
and i always fall for these sort of traps

sometimes she just crawls in beside me though,
and lays down for a moment before scratching the pillow,
my head, the blanket, my body.... furry little ho

but how could someone hate such a creature,
with such beauty and elgant features,
and i say,"... if I could only reach her"

from this this position in bed that I'm in,
I'd rip her goddamn tail and fur right off her skin,
ah yes! then maybe, she would know just when,

to stop being the little bitch she is,
always keepin me awake and pissing me off and shiz,
until I want to cry because I just woke up
and I have to go to work but I didn't get
any sleep because you think your the Floyd

House riot and that somehow gives you reason
to pop out of the void and claw my knees again,
but i can hope for a change with the season,

hopefully, along with it, your attitude,
otherwise you get no wet food,
and i know how that affects your mood,

fritz, i guess you can't read,
but if you can then please heed,
for every cat grows a wing for each good deed,
and imagine how easy to catch the next reed
it would be, you would own that tree
ok so that is a flat out lie,
youll get no wings,
but it was worth a try,
"am i right, guys?"

so save your play time for the day
that is how i'll get the sleep i need
yea and plus it fucking hurts to bleed,

and your nails ain't little,
your teeth ain't brittle,
maybe we could meet in the middle,

i'll even buy you a fiddle,
and you can play it at night

or ill give you my trumpet,
i mean i was about to dump it,

or a flute so you dont
need a mute

whatever you want, its your too keep
just please cut this shit out,
i need some sleep.

El Penguino

wait, what are you waiting for?
wait, don't answer that just yet.
what?
what could there be at the end of this tunnel, wait, what tunnel?
what?
what i was waiting for, i'm not ready yet.
to be ready.
i'll be ready, wait, what are you waiting for?
when i'm ready i'll be ready, i'm ready to wait.
wait, i'm just waiting to wait, what am i waiting for?
to be ready, i'll be ready, i'll be ready when i'm ready.
wait, i want to be ready, i'm ready to be ready, okay now i just wait.
wait, really, i'm ready, i'm really ready, no really, i'm ready already.
i am, i am already ready really, i am.

you were made to waddle, slide, and swim.
you will never, ever fly.