A Day In The Rife

I drove to the vitamin store near me today to pick up some high quality Omega-3 fish oil to supplement my lack of a 24/7 fish diet. I had a quick smoke and headed toward the door. Beyond the glass, I noticed two older Asian women heading toward the door as well, so I opened it for them; this was mostly unconscious...but...

"Oh! thank you! Such a gentermen!"

You're welcome. Big fucking grin.

"Thank you! So velly nice!"

You're welcome. Blushing like a fiend.

I walked in and was immediately accosted by the lovely Denise, an older black woman.

"Can I help you, young sir?"

I'm looking for where you keep the fish oil?

"Right back here." She pointed to a short corner beside the cash register, and I grew uncomfortable. It was a large wall covered in different brands and, although I knew which bottle I wanted, searching in front of her for too long would lead her to intervene. Basically, it was a race between how long it took for me to look over-stupid and for her to take pity.

Sure enough, a few minutes of looking later:

"Is there something in particular you're looking for?"

Yes, I see the Carlson gel tablets but I need the liquid product.

"It's just to your right."

Oh, thank you so much! I'm so retarded, I apologize.

Just ring me up, Denise; ring me up and let me leave this florescent dungeon.

"Do you have a store card?"

No. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"It's free, you should get one and you'll start accruing points with every purchase!"

Sure, I'll take one.

"Alright, and what's your last name?"

FFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-

After five minutes it was done. Painless, non? Non. The entire time she paraded my own politeness in front of me, (like a pack of goddamn Mummers who stop every block to dance around and sip more flask-whiskey) never failing to mention my holding the door for the velly nice radies, pleasant vocabulary, and overall geniality.

"You're mother raised you to be a true gentlemen! You should thank her for me."

Denise. Jesus. No. No on both counts. My mother raised me to be introspective, anxious, and self-destructive. By relaying this praise it will only serve to remind her of my failures, not to appreciate my first-impression charm. It was flattering, okay? You saw me blush, so why take it further? Can't I just suck down on fish oil without having to have my own shit fed to me every time I need a refill?

...

I'll be sure to! By the way, are you hiring?

We're Heading to Venus

"...And His Kingdom Shall Have No End."

Thought I'd forgotten, hadn't you?

Nonsense!

A king never forgets his loyal subjects...

Photon to the Face

I guess it's because England had such a close encounter with fascism that there always seemed to be a small, visible contingent of anarchists prowling (loitering in) the streets. In America, we just have gyro carts.

After the Damian Marley & Nas show (pretty fantastic, by the by), the Lady and I stopped to take in the scenery, as the concert was held in a park situated on the Williamsburg waterfront overlooking the midtown skyline. Hundreds of people were strolling past without regard, but there may have been a few dozen, alongside the Lady and I stood enjoying the picturesque. I gripped her hips, looked strikingly into her eyes, and --- was interrupted by the whine of a douche-bag with a holster and no gun.

Little did we know, along the perimeter, there stood on guard a few pathetic looking mercenaries employed by the security agency "Strike Force". These thick middle-aged bald men and women in tan polo shirts armed with mag lights were about as imposing as a bar caddy's ass crack.

Or so we thought.

"Move along people, the park is closed. Move along." One called, before the picture-takers could raise even twenty followers.

Then another. "Let's go, move it people. Park's closed." Like a gander of geese, one began and the others quacked alongside him.

"Come on, move along. Let's go. Come on."

Most of us stayed, even more joined to take in the scene. They stepped forward. They waved their maglights at us, as though we were a bunch of nocturnal rodents. They stepped forward some more, yelling all the while. A cute looking Asian girl set herself up for a nice panoramic, and the guard, with no mercy, flooded her lens with photons. "MOVE ALONG!"

She walked away, moping and probably ashamed.

They maintained a steady encroachment. Scaring away couple by couple with the threat of, uhh, force (?) and/or a strike combined with force (?). By this time my Lady was clinging to my fatigues and chains, as I stood tall and repeatedly whispered, "Never let go."

"For the revolution," she whispered back. The beams came brighter and brighter still.

They stopped four feet away from us. They were surely trained for about 3 hours on how to handle dissidents such as we. It appears that this called for an abundance of passive aggressive whistling.

We turned away, mildly amused and mostly saddened by their

"Keep the whistlin' coming Frank, it's perfect. Perfect."

Yes, I was ashamed as we made our way to the exit and waited in a sea of people that were forced to leave as quickly as possible and thus jam up the exit instead of taking their time. I was ashamed because I didn't want to be made an example of, because I hadn't eaten dinner and didn't want to get, um, mag-whipped by some asshole with a iron-on badge.

Dethrone'd

When I searched "dethroned" to create this post I was startled to discover, under the images section, nothing but Gothic album covers. Skinned animals everywhere; screaming drunks, stylish blood splatter, scratchy and misspelled lyrics, and bald guitarists as far as the eye could see.

Why no etchings of Nicholas II? Why no obese Brits falling out of chairs? I would have even settled for a crown resting in a pool of wine.

But no...instead I find this:

Fuck. This is so frustrating I don't even remember what I wanted to write about. My managerial debut was rained out and I was verbally accosted by the elderly gentlemen who returns daily to the pool to challenge youths in HORSE. "Who is Stuart Woods?" you ancient bag of shit? He's someone I would murder if the ends included absorbing his bank account...hurry up and die.

Yo Momma Brought You Up Wrong Muthafucka!

My respect for Mark Walhberg has gone up 6 trillion percent....

...does that make me a racist?

Wikipedia:
As a teenager, Wahlberg participated in multiple acts of violence and vandalism. He later claimed to have been in trouble 20–25 times with the Boston Police Department as a youth. By the age of thirteen Wahlberg had developed a serious addiction to cocaine and other substances...When he was sixteen (again using racist language) after robbing a pharmacy under the influence of PCP, Wahlberg knocked a middle aged Vietnamese man unconscious, left another Vietnamese man permanently blinded in one eye, and attacked a security guard. For these crimes, Wahlberg was charged for attempted murder, pled guilty to assault, and was sentenced to two years in jail at Boston's Deer Island House of Correction, of which he served 45 days. In yet another incident, the 21-year-old Wahlberg fractured the jaw of a neighbor in an unprovoked attack. Commenting on his youthful indiscretions, Wahlberg has stated : "I did a lot of things that I regretted and I certainly paid for my mistakes".

Paid for my mistakes?!!

This man is my hero. And by hero, I mean its great fantasizing about being a 15 yr old PCP addict on the stand for attempted murder.

King Of The Castle

I will be managing the pool tomorrow. I will be in charge. The keys to the castle are mine. Is your body ready?

Mine is.

Chlorine levels, PH levels, nipple density, etc.; these are my responsibility now and mine alone. My loyal subjects, a collection of teenage whistle-twisters, will serve me and defend the sanctity of my rule. Has the metaphor dragged on too long?

TOO BAD.

I'll start by having my head guards craft a crown befitting my royal inheritance. I'm thinking a pool tube encrusted with dead wasps. For a throne, I will have them stack both guard stands on top of one another so my gaze over this glorious land will be unimpeded by drowning children and furious patrons. Scared?

You will be. You will be.

...

It's probably going to rain all day tomorrow, and we will probably close early. But a short reign is better than none at all, right? At least I'm moving up in the world, right?

/be lifeguard

//become manager

One day; I have one day to soak in the power before it is wrenched back. It's all a tease, but it's my tease. I'm sure it's been posted before, but what the hell.

You can't argue with the king, baby.

99 Red Baboons

If I were God, the Baboon would have made me throw away my box of latex gloves. "Triumph" I would have said in my booming baritone voice. "Utter triumph."

Whimsical, ferocious, rapacious love-making machines, worshiped by society after society after society after society, the elegant Papio is unrivaled in the animal kingdom, with a consummate balance of subtlety and poise, and multiple transferable parasites. For millennia they have triumphed against the swelling tide of mankind's destruction, always partaking in unbridled frenzies in the organic-matter treasure troves we call trash bins.

Females especially, whose heart-shaped bottoms so poetically convey their disposition, are the last remaining beacons of love in the wild. It is this ruby tukus that sets the standard for all inflammations of the rear, from this to this and of course this.

Socially, Earth offers no greater model. Baboons fancy themselves sexual connoisseurs, accomplished goat-herders, and skilled craftsmen. While most of their societies offer limited accommodation, their harems are open 24/7-- for good cause. Like the School of Athens, the Baboon-Harem is a unique triumvirate of philosophy, math, and orgiastic howling. It is precisely because of this cultural elegance that the Baboon remains the most difficult monkey to harness for labor.

For instance, no baboon has ever been launched into space. Their anatomical make-up and sexual prowess makes them incompetent navigators. Gordo the Space Monkey, a South American Squirrel/Monkey, pitiful in most respects, was selected instead. On a side note: he along with his $19 billion space craft were lost somewhere in the abyss.

So yea. Monkeys are funny.

-Dwip, Dwip, Dwip-

The fount has dried up.

This is it, ladies and gentlemen...not with a bang, but with a whimpering arrhythmia descending into a slow and painful loss of circulation. Tunnel vision, thick spittle, curtains.

Sure, I could make light of it.

Ha-ha! I'm no fun anymore, right? Isn't that so!?

I might even get away with a few excuses.

But no; you all deserve better than that.

I'm going to leave you this evening with another Exploitable, and I hope it offers enough chuckles to last into tomorrow...Lord knows I need the time to scrounge for material. And if it's good enough, I might just get to live the dream:

Friday: Danza del Sombrero Mexicano

Chipotle Mexican Grill, better known as Chipotle, makes me happy. As a fast food joint, it's nearly perfect (clean, tasty, affordable, socially conscious). As a business enterprise, its genius. They're successful in following through with their motto, Food With Integrity, and integrating it into ever facet of their marketing strategy. Additionally, they are one of the few businesses that still thrives off an assembly line workforce. I love having my lunch prepared by people whose daily motions epitomize their working class status. And, God-willing, they're probably not unionized.

My Chipotle is on the corner of 7th ave and 26th street. It has a badass graffito on it's plywood southern wall outside. It has an icy cold interior--the optimal kitchen working condition. It serves beer, which is the only justification I have left for drinking during work hours. And most importantly, it has the exact same inner workings as every single other Chipotle.

Except one (maybe).

My favorite part of Chipotle is the fixins stage. Four kinds of salsas, etc, no limits. It's lovely, but its also where the most amount of human error occurs (the mitigation of which is arguably the the hardest part about the franchise model). Some restaurants can spin this inevitability as "home-made", but not fast food chains. So how does one shave down the potentially hazardous chin of this highly entropic stage of the burrito making process?

At my Chipotle, they have this strategy of hiring elderly mexican (I use the term in the most ethnically ignorant sense) women --perhaps the most underrated workforce in America today, specifically for the fixings stage. These women bring decades of culinary experience to their single task of drizzling my burrito with sour cream...

..., applying the perfect scoop of salsa (a thorough understanding of each salsa's mass to spicy ratio is a necessary imperative here), and the sacred sprinkling of the queso.

Though it's technically "unskilled" labor, it takes a shit-ton of practice to fully appreciate the intricacies of a perfect burrito. At my Chipotle, they kill it -- it's a skill that tells me one thing: they gots some authentic viejas.

And they're hot!

You ever feel crispy?

You're not alone

Bring It.

Just started my first serious work-out routine not based around a competitive sport.

You want to get real? Really real? P90X, bitches.

This shit is hilarious. The trainer is some loud-mouthed psycho who berates his companions constantly, making them laugh and screw up their exercises. He barely does anything himself.

The routine is based around muscle confusion, which is a fancy way of saying "do different stuff." Actually, I love it. There's nothing really special about the whole package, but the intensity and mock-motivation from the pack leader makes it hard to stop.

"Water break, BUT DON'T FUCKING SIT DOWN JESUS CHRIST."

More, please.

Man, if only they started you out with pull-ups that no out-of-shape person can do...

Oh wait!

If only they had the same terrible grunge riff playing on repeat for an hour...

What's that!?

If only my complete lack of a career or social life could guarantee me commitment...

Oh no you didn't!

Please, sir; I want some more.

Is The Sun Burning?

Sure is, bro.

But let me get to the point: Sunshine. A delicious little Science-Fiction film which shows us mankind's attempt to restart our dying sun. Shrug off those petty scientific inaccuracies and join me on an adventure into the surreal!

I was privileged to see this film during it's theatrical run with Canadian Tuxedo, a fellow fan of similar movies. With only one exception (The Fountain), I have never seen a more horrific and emotionally torturous crafting of a first-person perspective of space and the bodies that reside inside it.

(lolSolaris is old)

I remember dreaming that night of walking barefoot on the surface of our sun. Gripping shit, bro.

Sure, stuff like surviving a short trip in the vacuum of space, bombs fueling a solar entity, or our sun dying anytime during the short lifespan of human history was silly, but not deafening. You truck through that shit, because John Murphy is a genius.

"WHAT DO YOU SEE, KANEDA!"

Bright lights, you retard.

Seriously, though; just finished a repeat viewing and the flick holds up. Y'all should check it out, even if only to get a beautiful eyeful of the best star ever up close and personal.

Yummy stuff, bro.

Bull Fights on Acid

Catalonia's recent legislative decision to ban bull-fighting isn't really a big deal in a lot of ways. We are pretty burdened by "more important" news, but it's always interesting when governments ban cultural practices, especially peculiar ones. And while not unique to Spain, Bull-Fighting is still a peculiar custom.

I don't know anything about bull fighting, but it seems like one of the few artistic expressions of human power left. I stress human because, at its core, a bull-fight is a display of our species dominance over the natural world. It's an ancient custom, and its evolution has continued to the present day, mirroring the evolution culture of mankind exquisitely.

But I'm not going to go into the details. If you want them, go read Hemingway.

My beef (I looooove bovine-puns) with this is that, while fascinating to note that it may be Catalan's subconscious desire to further its cultural schism from "Spain" as a nation (it's already fairly autonomous in terms of governance), it appears that the main reason why the ban took effect was the animal rights cause.

Cue diatribe.

Animals don't have rights. People who think the contrary are just misanthropic. The right to anything is a completely human concept, the foundation of which lies in our attempts at maintaining some kind of functioning society. For centuries, some people were granted rights, while others were arbitrarily denied. Only recently do we see an attempt to live harmoniously and give everyone equal rights. It's a bold code, and it certainly doesn't apply to the animal kingdom.

No species participate in a social order with another species. Individual animals certainly do, but we as individuals essentially consider them nominal members of our own species. Now, within their species, you don't see any kind of establishment of "rights". Usually there's a dominant member of a closely knit society, and the rest try to eek out a minor existence until they bone someone successfully enough to spawn something. Otherwise, its some kind of fascist colony (and we all know how that turns out....great!). And besides that, solitary. That's about it.

Humans are granted rights because we manage to exist in a society where we balance being relatively efficient/happy, and not really wanting to rise up against our governments...as long as we're given some kind of "freedom". It's a give and take. Humans abide by a certain order of laws, and within the confines of those laws, they have certain rights. If they break those laws, those rights are stripped.

Animals do not participate in this give and take with people. Either they give completely (domesticated animals) or they take (read: kill us) completely (wild animals). (Some animals take us completely, but that's just gross). We obviously prefer our domesticated animals, but we never assumed they have rights. They're our slaves. We breed them for their milk, flesh, and speed.

Now it's true: we rarely kill these slaves for entertainment, and yes, bulls are domesticated and destroyed for our entertainment. But is that so wrong? Does that make us barbaric? Well, yes, but who cares? I'd much rather be considered barbaric than whatever you consider most of the underhanded white-collar pseudo-criminals that are destroying the fabric of society today. Banning these little semblances of our "barbaric" past is merely misdirected guilt over how fucking disgusting we as a culture have become.

So for all you who feel bad that humans have ravaged the natural world, enslaved a bunch of hapless animals, and are bound to destroy the atmosphere and most things on the planet, just remember: Bruce Willis is here to help...but he's only one man.

"You Dream Good"

Haven't been sleeping so great lately. Long days, hard nights, etc.

But I managed to catch a nap this afternoon. Check it:

Colonial America.

I am an assassin, a top class killer of the time. I have been hired to assault an well-guarded estate in the middle of nowhere. A dozen armed men or more stand watch in the black forest, unaware that I have been tasked with their deaths, and the death of the man they are paid handsomely to defend;

George Mutha-Fuckin' Washington.

With my custom silenced musket, I approach the manor with violent efficiency. My weapon sends four men to Charon. Reloading is a bitch, but I am infatuated with the gift of her quiet accuracy. Then suddenly...

AMBUSH!

The night and tall cedar provide good cover, but any movements continue to break my stealth. Eight men, at least, are on my trail, but there's no truth in this aching shadow-world. Every attempt I make to clear another soul for the afterlife sends the dream wheeling, and the blasts from my beloved rifle seem to grow in volume and shake me into consciousness. Soon it becomes difficult to establish the real threats from the imagined. Who am I? It doesn't matter. Washington must die.

I abandon my retreat, steeled and settling my metaphysical debts as I rush the only lit window I can see. Crashing through would normally be a rookie move, but my options ran out a mile back and I've got killing on the mind. There is a dazed pass from the boredom of reality and back into this perfect fantasy assault, but George is there, rising from his desk; pen in one hand, loaded pistol in the other. No time!

I unsheathe my knife and lunge, feel the sting of a masterful shot through the heart, but connect the point of my shimmering desire with man-flesh.

/groan

//grin

///success

"Whofleck! You're going to be late for work at the pool!"

Spin

Take a turtle. Put it on its back. Remember where the head is.

Don't worry, their only defense is sheltering themselves. They can't defend aggressively.

Grip the tail-end. Spin.

Look directly away from the epicenter.

Focus.

Speak to the swirl in a funny upper-class British accent (don't worry if it's not accurate -- you should be alone by this point).

Note new position.

Place turtle shell-up.

Follow.

Condoms Are NEVER Funny

Continuing a train of thought is impossible
One thing my father always told me was I should always research and rehearse a good joke before I go out anywhere. Time it for the awkward silences, was one of his pointers. Everyone hates awkward silences, and they love people who interrupt them with jokes. And incorporate funny accents if possible. Accents make people sound stupid, and stupidity gets laughs.

And I would plead: Dad, father. People like when you make jokes. Not when you tell them.

-Son, what you just said just proves just how incomprehensible my brilliance must seem to you. Let's practice.

-I won't.

-Your mother will be most unimpressed.

-With whom?

-Pedantic little--

/slaps of retribution
//mutual flinching and flailing
///calm relapse

-Now.....go.
/sighs - Why did the condom fly across the room?
- Whyyyyy?
- Because it got pissed off.
/silently critiques
-Better. This time draw out the becaaauuuuse. And make sure to look at everyone's set of eyes at least once. It's the sign of a good entertainer. Annnnnnd....Go!

Namaste, You Child

Kneel, mortal.

Set your hands in prayer and savor my divinity; a 5,000 year old elemental has earned your humble servitude.

'In exchange for what?' you ask? What a bold boy you are. How does continued existence favor?

Good. But my pity for you has soured these last few seasons...rise. Partake of my flesh and be engulfed by the ghostly image I offer you. That crackling sensation is merely the sound of a couple millenniums waking deep inside. A wave of charred souls will wash your lungs of those childish questions and smear the fear from your stupid face.

Inhale. Yes.

Do you smell the civilizations, ancient and abandoned, preserved in the promise of my glory? Yes, just like Christmas. But this is no baptism by fire. My embers are original sin incarnate, dancing in front of your face like drunken satyrs.

Quest for my blessing.

Kiss the tip, my bones, my black apprentice. Over and over and over. It is a barren, burning teat for you to suckle from and learn the secrets of The Empty.

You have obeyed well, boy, and for that I set aside an empty shoulder amongst the mass-grave your worship has dug.

Now repeat this oath, and be welcomed into the volcanic realm of salvaged flavor:

"MEROKOK DAPAT MENYEBABKAN KANKER,

SERANGAN JANTUNG,

IMPOTENSI DAN GANGGUAN KEHAMILAN DAN JANIN."

Welcome, son.

Climax

Begone! Things are on TV!

Stormy Weather

Our atmosphere went Nightmare-Mode a few hours ago.

Work ended abruptly. How abruptly?

We fled.

Total bullshit.