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Archive for June, 2010

Rather than tell you how this man’s anus is the receptacle for which Rush, Hannity, and other right-wing pundits deposit their tongues, I figured I would simply show you how ridiculous his arguments are and leave it at that.

As progressive radio is not as well-funded as conservative talk, late at night it is difficult to find any voices of sanity on the radio. So, instead, I opt to sharpen up on my arguments by listening to what the other side has to say. I have to tell you, their arguments are not difficult to overcome.

Mark Levin is probably the big guy behind all of the big names. Any talking point that happens to slither out of his rectum, happens to come out of the mouths of everyone on Fox news for at least a week and a half. Tonight, I heard two arguments that I would like to share with you.

Mark (he and I are on a first name basis) started revealing the holes in his argument by stating that Oliver Stone hates Americans. The argument goes EXACTLY like this:

Oliver Stone’s movies portray Americans as detestable as they are the  perpetrators of the most heinous crimes across the globe.

By Americans Oliver Stone is referring to “people like you and me”

Therefore Oliver Stone hates “people like you and me”

Although very flimsy, so far this argument could make some sort of twisted sense. But stay with me because things are about to get good. Marky continues:

Oliver Stone puts this stuff for the American people to turn against each other.

Oliver Stone is a moron and anyone who goes out to see his movies and puts money in his pocket is detestable.

Do you get it, yet? Mark says that Oliver stone hates Americans because he puts out propoganda that portrays them as being detestable. Mark also says that any American who goes to see an Oliver Stone movie is also detestable (Yes, he used the same word). Therefore, Mark is doing exactly what he claims Oliver Stone is doing. By his own argument, Mark Levin hates Americans!!!!! And by Americans, he means “people like you and me”. As if this wasn’t enough, Marky Mark puts a cherry on top of the shit sundae that he calls his argument by saying the following:

“I have never seen any of his movies but I know what I’m talking about”

Watch out children, or the Levin Monster will get you.

Yes, Mark, you definitely know what you are talking about.

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Dead Words

He fell to ground, that hard stone. The bones in his face cracked against it. Pushing himself up from the ground, he spat. A pool of red shimmered with his reflection, collecting dust. He didn‘t care, not anymore. He was tired of collecting dust.

His arms shook as he pushed himself to his feet. As he staggered, his eyes happened on a fat man trembling in front of him. He pushed up one corner of his mouth. “You drink the wine, but you’ve never tasted the grape,” he grumbled as a trickle of blood escaped his lips. “It was lost to you long ago,” his grainy voice spoke from underneath long black stringy locks.

The fat trembling man looked confused. Trying to calm himself, he forced himself to laugh.

“Laugh!” the grainy voice roared.

The fat man abruptly stopped.

“Ha! Ha! You fat fucking bastards! Laugh!” He threw his arms about him wildly, letting them witness the display.

Everyone in the square shivered, keeping their eyes to the swaying bloody man who mocked them.

“Heh, fucking monkeys.” He swayed, that bloody man, and mocked those shivering witnesses.

A strong man pushed himself in front of the rest of the witnesses and punched the swaying man, making him sway more, making him fall to the hard stone with a fresh spray of blood from his lips.

The fallen swayer threw up his finger at the strong man. “You who tells the tales, what good are tales in a world of dreams?” he spat with a string of bloody drool.

The strong man kicked the fallen swayer in the gut, forcing him to vomit more blood until nothing was left in his belly and all he could do was heave.

When he was done, the bloody swayer rolled over onto his back, feeling that cold stone against his spine. “Heh…ha…spinning…a world of dreams filled with dreamers who tell tales…spinning…spinning world of dreams and dreamers who spin tales of that spinning world…no…spinners…they’re all spinners.”

“Blasphemy! Kill the sinner!” A voice erupted from the crowd of witnesses.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Brilliant! Of course, those sinners, those spinning sinners who dream to spin tales of a spinning dream, or is it a sinning dream…does that make…sense? Eghhhh…who the fuck cares!” He pulled himself up and found the gaze of a little girl clutching onto a big black book. “Is it all for you to do” He swung his head drearily from one side to the other, his long hair following in long twisted strands of blood and vomit. “To eat your bread and drink your wine” He put his hands to his lips. “Savor your savior,” he laughed with his grainy voice, coughing and spitting the words.

“Kill Him.” A man screamed as he rushed to the swayer, holding a large rock in his hands. He brought it down hard, and blood sprayed from the swayer’s head. The swayer stumbled slightly but didn’t fall, and the screaming man backed away quickly, afraid, keeping his gaze to the bleeding, but still standing, swayer.

“Yes! Ugh…kill him. You killed him didn’t you? That’s how the story goes isn’t it? Now you eat him, a good thing to do with your kill. Why waste the meat?” He put his hands out to the young girl with the book. “C’mere let me read you a story. These are such good…good books.”

The girl screamed and ran into the crowd, disappearing among a forest of shivering legs and stomping boots.

“Awwwwww. Did you see that?” The bloody swayer turned around in his crimson puddle moving his gaze back to the fat man standing behind him. “You scared her…fat man….” His eyes gleamed a bloodied gleam. “I think you should apologize. She’ll never touch another book because of you.” He licked his lips.

The fat man couldn’t move, his eyes frozen. He couldn’t even shake anymore.

“Apologize you fat fuck!”

The fat man lost control of himself and stood in a puddle of his own piss.

The swaying man stopped. “Ehhhhhhhh, you’re right. You’re always right fat man. She’s better off without em, only cause problems. Burn em all I say. Burn em all. That’ll help.” He looked down at the pool of red at his feet. He calmed and quieted as he rolled the cool wet between his toes.

The witnesses couldn’t move.

“That’ll help stop the dreams.” He smiled gently as he kept his gaze to the bloody pool at his feet.

The witnesses couldn’t say anything.

Subtly, he started to laugh, his breath coming in and out in abrupt but still soft heaves. Then it grew louder, a slow crescendo of mania that built until some of the witness had to put their hands over their ears. He fell to his knees, splashing in his own red. “He can’t dream now.” His laugh stopped. “He’s dead.” He tried to smile. It didn’t come. He caught his tears instead. “You’ll be next, you, with your dead books, with your dead songs, with your dead words, all dead.” He spun around with his arms outstretched. “All of it dead, every stone. It holds tight to the columns and touches the top of your towers. Oh, you think you’re civil with your…your…laws…those imaginary things…those things that…you…you get…where do you get them, from the dead man’s writings, from his songs…eh…songs of the just and ditties of virtue…or do you hear his words still…those speeches of dust…dust”

A man from the crowed yelled something that couldn’t be understood.

“Fuck you too!” He threw his gaze at the yelling man and pointed to his own chest. “I am in the center, speaking to a city of dead men, eating their dead man’s bread and drinking their dead man’s wine, dreaming their dead dreams, keeping themselves kin. You think you are witnesses?” A stone hit his head, splitting his skin right above the brow. He stumbled as blood trickled into his eye. “Maybe it is better to keep with the dead, to know them still.” He fell to one knee as another stone barely missed him, flying over his head. His dark hair stuck to the pouring blood from his brow. “Why can’t I live, live and breathe?” Another stone hit him, this time at the back of his skull, blood poured from the wound and down the back of his neck. He fell to the ground. His face touched the cold stone, wet with his cold blood, finding more of it, still warm, and finally cooling it too. He put his hands to the stone and put his ear to the ground. “To…uhhhh…won’t one of you teach me to speak with dust…” He closed his eyes. “…to hold company…with ashened brothers.”

They threw their stones, most hit, breaking the lying man, and the ground drank his blood.

“Father,” he whispered.

“Kill him!”

“Take his head!” Such are the screams of crowds seeking blood.

It was then that this crowd witnessed nothing but smoke and shadow, swallowing the body of the lying man, and found nothing left when it cleared, nothing but that thirsty ground, still drinking what blood was left.

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He usually lost them if he wasn’t keeping his concentration on them. Even as they fidgeted in his peripheral, he still needed to keep to them. A moment looked away easily lost him everyone around him. There was a shift, and now the swaying of their arms had quickly lost clarity of movement and definition. Now, they were left nothing more than empty dolls with empty black eyes looked toward some empty space. There was nothing of certainty in what they were looking at; it was as if they were truly looking at nothing.

Breathing heavy, a grumble came from his throat. Pulling his arm up, he rotated his shoulder and massaged the muscle around it. For some reason, he was unable to sit still. He thought they would’ve faded by now. Sometimes this was all he gleaned, something that didn’t really seem to matter, a series of mundane events in an otherwise uneventful life. He wished that he could believe that every thing that happened to them mattered, that none of these events were minuscule, but he knew that wasn’t the case. All of their movement, interaction, and emotion didn’t have any profound effect on him, other than giving him stories to tell.

The dolls started to dissipate, dissolve, resolve, twist, and fragment. Actually, they didn’t really do any of these things. He just used those words in his own head to try and describe coming out of it. He could never find the right words to describe how his dolls left him. They just did.

Coming to was never abrupt either. He transitioned from one point to the next like a smudged pencil line moves from dark of the line to the white of the paper that surrounds it, or maybe it was the other way around. He never wrote about that part. He just wrote about their stories that came to him like broken fragments, fluttering images in an otherwise dark place. They weren’t like memories, but they were always a part of him somehow, moving strange, but always his.

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Although I would be very happy to watch the walls of every monopoly corporation that has ever destroyed a part of our ecosystem crumble on top of the heads of the executives who took home fat paychecks while they were raping our environment, I am saddened to say that it will probably never happen. In all earnest, the way that everything is stacked in favor of corporate monopolies, it would be impossible to do anything that will ever truly destroy them. Even if one is dissolved, it is merely broken up only to coalesce back into another form later on anyway.

Corporate Monopolies never die, they just come back in another form when/if they are ever broken up. They’re like fucking vampires. The only thing I can hope is that there is some cosmic justice out there where companies like BP, Exxon, and the like, will be smothered in all of eternity in their own oily crude. A place where the all of the life that they destroyed will be taken out of their collective asses until it is paid back a hundred fold. If you know me, you know that I have a stronger belief in the Easter Bunny than I do in god or an afterlife. Even with that, there is a small part of me that hopes that there is some divine creature waiting at the end of some dark tunnel with unspeakable horrors to impose hellish justice to any bastard that destroyed anything beautiful for the sake of profits.

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Art by Scart

So, you all know that I like to bitch. Well, the thing I like to bitch most about is corporations and the rich bastards that run them. I don’t give a fuck about the people who stroke off to Atlas Shrugged each night before they go to bed and their fanciful world where the people who move all societies are the top 5%.  And I quote Kung Fu Monkey:

“There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs.”

With recent events such as BP ejaculating it’s crude into our ecosystem or Goldman Sachs dipping their sacks into our mouths while we gladly suckle for a taste of the good life, we are constantly being raped by these selfish fuckers. They are locusts! Now, I’m not claiming to have all of the answers. But, there is a phrase with seems suspiciously absent from contemporary dialogue in regards to this situation. If you guessed that the phrase I am referring to is the Motorhead Song/Movie title/Book Title that I chose to title this blog, well then you deserve a cookie. Go ahead! Get one! I’ll wait.

I say we Eat the Fucking Rich!

This concept is more about practicality than anything else. There are many people on this planet who are starving. And what better food supply than the most fucking useless pieces of shit that exist. It’s Soilent Green! Except, instead of using old people who can be quite useful, we use people like Steven Hemsley from United Healtcare who pulled in over 13.2 million, that’s 13,200,000 for telling people who are sick to go suck a fat cock when they submitted health insurance claims. I imagine him with a nice chiffonade of basil and red onion. Or let’s talk about some of the fucksticks at Exxon who pulled in more in profits last year than any corporation in the history of the US, and possibly the world. We could marinate them in olive oil with a little balsamic Vinegar.

Let’s stop protecting these cum-slurping road whores with stupid fucking talking points like “let’s lower corporate taxes so that the rich can shower us with their wealth”. Yeah, right! More like a golden shower. Well, if you want to get pissed on, go right on ahead TeaBaggers. But I say fuck ’em.

Let the feast begin!

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I never wanted to be a writer. I don’t even think I’m really good at it. But I had one story in my head and the next thing you know I’m writing short stories, political editorials, reviews, Poems, and other some such shit. Maybe it’s because I am an outsider that I am fucking enraged with the elitism from writers, agents, publishers, critiques, and all the other assholes that I have neglected to mention. This is not to say that everyone in the industry is like this, it’s just an overwhelming majority. I don’t even give a shit if someone who IS a good writer KNOWS he/she is a good writer and feels a need to let everyone else know that. That at least makes sense to me. If you’re good, let everyone know! It’s the ones whose works are better suited for toilet paper than for reading that really piss me off.

And what is it with fucking literary agents. It’s no wonder that writing is a fuck-fail of an industry that is full of a few elitist fucks that are slowly riding the toilet barge down as it is flushed away. You can’t even get to a publisher without first seeing one of these pricks. And you cant even see one of these pricks unless you’re previously published! Sure, they spout “we’re looking for the freshest voices.” What they mean is “we’re looking for the freshest voices only if it reads like something we have already read a thousand times and makes money.” (Vampire and Magician Novelists, I’m looking at you) Vampire novels about love haven’t been fresh since Anne Rice, and even she would concede that she her ideas from Bram Stoker, and unless your magician character is named Harry Fucking Potter and you’re last name is Rowling, stick that wand up your ass and save us all the trouble.

Keep in mind too if you want a critique of your novel, which MAY help you garner an agent, it will cost 2,000 – 5,000 dollars. What kind of bastard charges 5,000 dollars so that you can have someone tell you that your characters are one-dimensional, that your plot is unoriginal, and that your prose looks like it was written by a 12 year old retarded monkey with dislyexia.

Also, if you want to have a book reading at a chain bookstore, such as Barnes and Nobel, you’re shit out of luck. Even though they can technically order your books, you cant even talk there unless you get your publisher to insure that, if B&N cant sell your book, you’ll shit a pile of money to cover their costs.

And this finally brings me to literary magazines. You are a dying fucking breed!!!! Hate to be the one to tell you! And you have the nerve to say that shit like, “our insistence on subjective uniqueness, our commitment to a global perspective, our search for viable aesthetic modes for contemporary experiences” makes you unique! No wonder no one wants to read your shit.

Many of the writers I have met have been humble, even when they are really fucking good, and it disturbs me that they are at the mercy of an industry that has its head so far up its own ass that they need to take a stool softener just so that they can come out for a breath of fresh air every so often. Some say that it’s the internet that’s killing print and books. Some say that it’s the fact that 80% of Americans last year didn’t even bother picking up a fucking book. Well, there’s definitely something to be said about this. But it’s also worth noting that if you are going to make this industry so difficult to get into, even if you are really really really good, then how can it be a surprise that the fucking thing is dying. If you were this picky with what you eat, you would die too!

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