Tuesday, May 26, 2020

We pollute, we exploit and treat each other like the next victim. We lack the compassion of a merciful killing a predator might show its prey. That's because we don't kill and destroy for self preservation. Instead we're more like a house cat torturing a bug. There's no honor, love or nobility in humanity's actions. Just an ego trip most embark on for a lifetime. We take and take and then we rationalize our greed with an ROI chart and take some more to add to the next quarter. Profits by any means necessary! The rich supplement their golden 'chutes and then tell their employees everything is golden as the dynasty burns. A good magician practices slight of hand even when there's no audience. Give the peasants enough to survive, but never enough to thrive. That is the mantra of every person who lives on the right side of inequality. All these pissing matches and protests for equality for centuries and now is the time to fix it. For thousands of years humans have stolen honey from bees. Then when killer bees come to the surface we explain it away. Self assured people tell us this and that, but the answer is simple. When you screw over someone or something for a millenia it gets mad, be it humanity or our planet. When the micro meets the macro things never go well. A victim is always reluctant to become one. As you kick them while they're down the anger sharpens. Every loss sharpens the furtive weapon. Cold steel on an oiled stone finds its edge and inevitably transitions into defiance, be it humanity or our planet. Now is our time. Every market and commodity is a wasteland. It doesn't take 10 million dollars to build a legacy. Right now the right moves could cost you hundreds of dollars. Grab a knife and neuter some rich fuckers that deserve it. I write this self indulgent and sanctimounis article because I realized for the first time in my life I feel in control. In all of this chaos, I feel hope. The toilet paper hoarding fools will go back to their shit lives and accept their self imposed prison where they are their own warden. These fools are the redundant backup to our economy. The same mindless fucks that pay 30 years of rent and never own a house. They serve a purpose as a facade of society to keep our government at bay. Charles Manson qoute: We're all our own prisons, we are each all our own wardens and we do our own time. I can't judge anyone else. What other people do is not really my affair unless they approach me with it. Pain's not bad. It's good. It teaches you things. Like when you put your hand in fire: Ow! You know not to do that again. There's no such thing as progress. There's only change. You dig a hole in the ground, you build up a city, and you fight a war, and you call it progress? As long as there's hate in your heart, there'll be hate in the world. You can't fight for peace and you cannot capture freedom. Ok, I'm back. Strange that someone deemed crazy by society sounds JUST LIKE ME. I'm shocked. Look in the mirror, we're changed. Accept it and grow. We are gaining a micro sense of the 'real' struggle generations before. It's now your security blanket/throat gutter. Personal freedom is more a reality than after WWII. Recognize, take advantage and build a legacy. Let's keep going, the horizon is just an obstacle.  

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Election Day!!!

It's election day...thank jeebus. Now everyone can go back to their normal lives. The robo-calls should lessen and the political zombies no longer want my brains. Well, for all you folks that volunteered your time, for either side, you should have no reason to contact me.

Once more, the want to donate yourself to a politician baffles me. Your time would of been better spent volunteering at an animal shelter. Unwanted animals would love to hear the Cruz/Beto rhetoric. Most importantly you would be making a true positive impact on the world.

Fuckem Both. I'm too busy dealing with their current and future fuck ups.

Angry Daisy Dogfood

Friday, October 19, 2018

A reboot of a Classic

The Raven (the word "Transvestite" replaces the word "Raven")


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Transvestite of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Transvestite wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Transvestite “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Transvestite, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Transvestite still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Transvestite “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Transvestite “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Transvestite “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Transvestite “Nevermore.”

    And the Transvestite, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Fuck yeah!