Make Fun of Things.

   I have recently devoured this article on about hate-watching. Hate-watching is basically doing something because you hate it. This premise seems nonsensical but is actually a huge part of daily life. Perhaps a bit of it comes from Sun Tzu urging us to know the enemy, perhaps people really dig flinging hate around.

      To me, hate-watching or hate-doing points to our love of our hatred. We seem to enjoy throwing derision on things for a myriad of reasons. We bolster ourselves by condemning amateur techniques, which is the same function as bullying. If we can see why a show sucks we must be smarter than the people who created and who watch it. This process basically makes a psychic machine that converts bitterness into confidence by way of placing malleable anger on a piece of entertainment that follows the viewer’s cynical expectations. Therefore, the satisfaction of accurately predicting the next part of a pattern (in this case, the scenes in a television show) brings in feelings of intelligence. BAM victory.

    Hate-watching, from a more psychological side, could be a therapeutic system used to remove excess hate from the psychic anatomy. We project ourselves onto our environment. With this in mind, it isn’t such a leap to postulate the hate we feel for whatever piece of us  relates to this show gets thrown onto that part of the show and is effectively apart of that, no longer festering in our head. In other words, hate-watching is a way to flush excess hatred out of ourselves and place in it a harmless area of our lives. That show we hate now becomes a catharsis for the slew of negative aspects that culminate in hatred.

   We love to hate things because hate and love aren’t so separate. You irrationally cling to things you love and you never forgive the enemy for what they did. It’s like loving your punching bag. Why do you love your punching bag? Because it gives you something to wail on whenever you need it. You love to smash the shit out of it but you’ll be damned if you let someone take it out of your house. Sometimes, we love with our hate.

  That’s where the article took me. Check into it, let me know what you think and go find something stupid to make fun of.


I Tried to Emulate Mark Twain with my Feeble Mind.

So I was headed to the zoo with a pal of mine. We had a plan, it was early, it was sunny, hell I even had morning wood. Everything was going smoothly. We got there right at the tail end of the gushing, fluid crowd  that was not too unlike a clan rally. Only this one was in support of different creatures.Image

He’s gonna fuck you.

We mumbled and griped our way to the front of the line until the great overseer of Zoological Tourism allowed us entrance into the holy village of displayed nature. Good man.  We broke from our ranks like tree branches in an apocalyptic storm.

We figured the best place to start would be the reflection of our obvious smooth, coolness. We took to the Arctic Exhibit, just as Pytheas had before us on an honorable quest to the black depths in search of tin. He didn’t find tin, but he did find out quickly that Polar creatures didn’t need metals to make their lives easier, they just needed more curious Greeks like Pytheas to come walzing into their frozen desert like a pizza boy into a gang-rape scenario. Their plan wasn’t all that farfetched.  The Exhibit held many impressive denizens of abyssal, frozen, planes of Hell. We enjoyed throwing assorted munchies at their noses and baiting them with well thought-out insults aimed towards their mothers and sisters. Whether it was strict mental discipline or just a raw, apathetic distaste for English that kept them to their inactivity we will never know, but goddammit, we came out of that debate the victors. Fucking penguins think they know everything just because they were born in a tuxedo. I despise things with silver spoons in their ass, even if it is a semi-aquatic arctic bird-fish, its not better than me.  Once our agressions had been released onto the obstacle course home of our polar friends we made our way to the African exhibit. Africa has always held some kind of mystique to its chest like those statues ancient tribals built so elegantly to hold torches to theirs. It could be the primal feeling of truly “Coming Home” Only home is either a deceitful representation of the environment of Jungle Book or a litter-box full of eleven-year-old turds with guns high on brown-brown that want all things from the less harsher world to feel the sting of their rage. Either way, it looked really cool so conscience be damned, we were going to see some lions. 

When we came to the sub-entrance of the Savannah ride, we were met by a tall Nigerian man who was displaying the culture he escaped for a paycheck and selling out by every definition of the term. 

A quick minute to heave around some thoughts on selling out if you please, and if you don’t, fuck you I’ll put in something remotely important to the story here if you think you’re just too cool to skip my asides. Selling out has its varied and tried methods. All of them are evil and are tantamount to shitting out runny hotsauce flavored diarrhea into an azure pool of integrity. A man who has trekked across a hemisphere from a very proud heritage and beautiful land in order to buy into a system built on exploitation and elaborate plots to ensure high cash figures was, probably at some time, an alright guy but the second he chose to represent the culture that he ran away from at a very expensive imitation of said culture he became: A self-righteous puddle of cat puke on the floor of a donkey stable running low on materials. That being said, he was a very nice man with a damn cool accent. 

We get through the announcer extrapolating on the dying African culture and the Sun God of the Shakalaka Tribe by the hair on our pelvises. It was a close call but we made it. Anyway, the safari wagon took off….on its predestined track that completely leaves the tires obsolete. Just a series of accepted technological constituents on which to base our imaginations to build some monument of natural appreciation that will, one day, drive us to return and relish in all the bullshit we endured here.  We jumped ship, or rather, jumped bus-cart. It had to be done. I saw a lion, nearly had a hernia, got dizzy, felt tears, quelled tears, tightened my asshole, and lept off the cart with my teammate. Before anyone REALLY noticed we were gone, we had already escaped into the bush. I gained the ability to call it “The Bush” as soon as I bailed on the collegiate study crew of mid-wives and walking sphincters and joined The Hunt.  In The Bush, that we found was not nearly as thick as previously assumed, we spotted a few avians local to Ohio, which really pissed on the scene but hey, the Truth was the Truth. 

At the edge of The Bush, we had to devise a plan. We took inventory. We had nothing. We tried again. We found the last of the pot. It was green but the sack was gold so we transfered the obvious worth to the bowl  we smoked and felt like gilded heroes of The Savage Lands. As soon as you become stoned in the wrong setting, the Hunter S. Thompson archetype activates in the brain and you lose all manners of acceptable planning skills. We were free! God itself could have come down and only been met by a double-wide middle finger straight from the heart of honesty, unclouded by the sobriety enforced by his maniacal Earth-dwelling minions.  Fully-charged and radiating magnetic sunshine, we marched out of The Bush valiantly. Upon realizing what we had just done, there was much regret, but turning back never won any races and I don’t know what that means but we were heading foreword regardless of whether or not there was a foreword to head to.

The second incarnation of The Bush was another mass of tangles and sharp, unseen, adversaries. Nothing two hard-boiled machinations of triumph couldn’t march through no doubt. After all, it WAS only an exhibit and we are most certainly not people someone could label as “Bitches.”  We outrun The Bush. It got heavy. There were trees and plants and it was full of fucking animals! Real-life, jungle denizens that had stomachs larger than my I.Q. in inches and claws the same shape, but much larger than, my own dick. It was pure terror. I understood completely why the Nigerian man bailed on this. I wasn’t even there for real and it was like being injected with fear by a chainsaw!  On the outskirts of The Bush, we came to a watering hole in an area of the Toledo Zoo that looked quite a bit like a Discovery Channel special. Only this special bore real water and real fruits. The Munchies become more of a problem in the “Wild” and we needed some citrus, bad. Calypso must have heard our prayers because holy citrus rained from the tree in a droplet of incredibly thick-skinned, downward-moving, hateful intensity. It hurt so good. 

While heavily indulged in animalistic feeding, we did not catch sight or, surprisingly enough, wind of the massive grey behemoth that was barreling at our watering hole. After a slight pang of betrayal, I deemed it worthy to split. Turns out, I appraised the situation correctly. The Elephant was thirsty enough to drink for five-minutes straight and, not willing and too high to let a chance like this slip through my sticky fingers, my teammate and I snuck around to each side of the Behemoth. I was blatantly astonished by the utter awesome that was standing before me, taking in its’ necessary liquids in such a majestic and eloquent way. 

If anyone knows how to wield irony to its most deadly and effective capacity, her name is Nature. Sometimes we call her “Mother”, but she knows we mean “Master.” Respect for Nature is given in one of a few ways at a time, through the same means as we respect the primordial life-giver with rituals and prayer, through patting ourselves on the back for being masterfully content with the world, or by way of cowering before the most clear and present danger. At the time, I was thoughtfully engaged in the first while my teammate was aiming for a reversal of number three. He wanted the Elephant to cower before his established clear and present danger, so to fulfill his dream, he whipped himself out and shot a hot, yellow, river of justice into the face of the Behemoth. His plan was going smoothly at first, everything in working order, but as soon as the Behemoth felt its’ sufficiency to be sufficed it reared onto its’ hind legs and began to push the air through its trunk in a scream of war. We chose to revere Master Nature in the third way, only during this particular ceremony we would be incredibly mobile. 

Anyway, I figure I’m going to die in this infernal zoo so this is the last anyone will hear of me. I don’t know where my Teammate is right now but I imagine the Gorillas have taken excellent care of their new king. I swear to Fuck the Bastards always win.         

The Only Time I Thought In Billy Corrigan’s Voice

Fuck dude. Things are all awry and I have no idea what is going on. Which is fairly accurate, which means I can’t be all lost. Great loophole hunting Me. I have recently been apart of a break-up which is fairly okay but man, does that suck. I figured out the worst part I think. The most foul piece of a dead relationship is the part when I have an especially swell thought and I can’t tell her. During a break-up, if you try to make it okay, you just made it worse. When in the throes of a hardcore forking of paths, you have to inact properly. Once a break-up is issued down by the higher-ups there exists between the two former lovers a vortex that transforms any positive effort into heinous calamities that were perpetrated on purpose. A skillful silent reply can obliterate you with your own assumptions. 

It’s weird. I know she isn’t deliriously pleased with her life but I imagine her getting fucked by stars and bathing in cash like she realized I was the obstacle keeping her from being a music video girl. I want what I imagine she has without me. Which is an insightful thought but I can’t tell her because me trying to help out with our break-up is so overlapped and freaky that it just evokes pain. Well fuck, man. There is no right way. 

Tommy James and the Shondells help a lot. The Beatles make me want to tear my ears off and sob until I’m a puddle of effete emotions. It’s not their fault, but jesus. Love songs hurt so much more than break-up songs. I see why ex’s antagonize each other now, I think. Fighting is still contact, at least you can experience some of their passion when they scream at you. And anger is a sign of caring so there’s that. The other is, it’s so much easier to fight and make an enemy out of her than it is to accept fault and make the changes she showed me I should. The whole mess is convoluted, man.

I’m kind of excited for the new adventure but I miss the familiarity of waking up and texting someone I know who cares about me the loveliest thing I can think of, besides her. But the terms of the break-up would signify that the amount of caring we thought existed for each other would be better described as infatuation and familiarity. So really, that’s not as deep as I thought it was at the time. OH BUT THE EXPLORATION! The joy of kareening through our minds and hearts is fucking gone and that blows. I could be more upset about not having a backboard to bounce myself off of and be choosing the relationship ethos to cover up the cynical truth, but hey, what is anyone else doing? 

She didn’t teach me what Love is, but I know more about what it isn’t and that’s more important. 


The Donkey of Myself

I would guess that because I’ve already written about the subjects I have, that I am expected to keep that up. Or maybe that’s a psychic machine that I didn’t even realize I built, pushing me in that direction. Are the things you think people want just what you want? What a tired old question.

All you can ever really do is think about yourself. Which is why it’s such a big fucking deal to think about other people’s point of view. At best, you’re going to be able to contemplate a speculation of what they think. Which is somewhat pointless but what isn’t these days? The chance to maybe see things from something that isn’t tainted by yourself is worth it, I think.

I think people don’t realize how much they hate themselves. They don’t explore the pain they carry and that makes the pain more potent. Everything you hate about the world is everything you hate about yourself, because you are the world.

My brain is like sparking wires riding on legions of shuffling insects. Shit is exploding, lurking, eating, smoldering, dying, waiting, breathing, swimming and bathing all over my mindscape. I hate the fact that there’s always more of me. I don’t know if I keep making it up or if there is just more and more but I know it’s worth checking into. I find coolness where I saw horror and I find evil where I once saw transcendence but maybe I’m just watching myself live through growing. Awareness is weird like that.

Basically, I am shitting thought in a poorly constructed pattern, barely recognizable as children’s english but hey, drugs do weird things to your ability to express yourself…and stuff. Whatever


That was the most listless part of my day. The lethargy and foulness I felt during self-examination were marauding me from dark corners of my mind.

Thank You Mask Man

MORE Lenny Bruce? You want…..MORE?!

Bob Schwartz

Thank You Mask Man
The release of the new Lone Ranger movie is an opportunity to introduce some readers to Lenny Bruce, very nearly the most significant comic of the modern comedy era.

In the 1950s and early sixties, there was nothing that Bruce wouldn’t talk about—in language that you could hear anywhere except on stage or screen, in attitude that was mercilessly satirical and uncomfortable for a lot of people. Most of all, it was funny. It wasn’t that he didn’t care and was only doing it to be sensational. He did it because he cared painfully about hypocrisy and self-righteousness that ended up hurting people deeply (just like today). He held up a mirror, and if what people saw looked ridiculous and less than complimentary, he was just the observer.

He has been called the Elvis of stand up, and that applies in a few ways. First, he was a groundbreaking talent…

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The Mechanical Underground

I would like to reiterate something I thought of here: Anyone who considers themselves a scholar of humans would do well to remember they are one.

 There seems to be a division. A giant chasm between points of view exists that, I believe, is senseless.  On the one side we have the corporations, the government and the metaphysical criminals that run every country; we’ll call them The Machine. On the other, we have the dissenters, the freegans and the alleged students of a higher learning; let’s dub them The Underground. Each side believes in a set of extremes that are impossible to compromise and that happen to underlie the motions of the universe. Wooopty doo.

Neither side in any conflict is ever just right. In fact, I would argue that the unwillingness to compromise and adapt is worse off for everybody. Let me explain.

The Machine is destroying the planet to feed its own greed and is implementing heinous forms of control and is killing people for disagreeing and so on. The Underground is an impractical, rebellious force that wants to accept people for who they are and want to take charge as a form of state with inverted colors. Wait. If The Underground wants people to live and let live, why are they fighting? If The Machine wants to consume itself into a coma, why are they killing their crops? Both sides are hopelessly stuck into a conflict, unable to see the other’s point. It’s a Yin-Yang.

Perceiving the distinction between two things as anything more than a construct of the human mind causes conflicts such as this. Straight-up O.G. ignorance is all it is. I’m apart of it too because I would rather deal with the mental anguish and stimulation of society than till my own borrowed hunk of land for forty hours a week. Which is my own pile of shit to sift through.

A fight stops if you stop fighting it. We all know nobody wins in war, except the mushrooms. We have this tendency to think we’re above nature somehow, that things are man-made, that we were bestowed the Universe as some kind of gift. This is bullshit. We naturally occurred, did we not? No one says that a monkey brushing the termites off his teeth with a stick covered in moss is using an ape-made piece of technology. The monkey, instead of claws, has a bigger brain. That’s it, it’s natural just like us using computers.

You want to be in a perfect world? Kill yourself. The World IS perfect. Yes, there are terrible things that happen every day but not really. Those things are only terrible because you disagree with them. Love is super cool but I don’t think the poison ivy is hugging that tree until it happens to blissfully part from its companion. The ivy is strangling the tree, without even the decency to be discreet about it. My point is, the brutality of nature isn’t “wrong” it’s apart of what makes the World beautiful. In fact, without tragedies like that, what good would love be? Love would transform into the general mode of being and probably look a lot like the apathy that surrounds the daily lives of the living. Even when it sucks, it’s not that bad and even when it’s awesome it’s all utterly horrible. Trying to shape the World into something we want is enslavement, not progress. It’s like forcing old people to buy ipods because the latest generation thinks the ipods will make the old people’s lives better. You know what makes people’s lives better? Keeping your nose out of their fucking business. Everything will sink back into the blackness, this may sound defeatist and sad but that’s actually you. What’s actually wrong with the blackness? Probably just the fact that you don’t exist in there.  

Back to my original point, the only way to “win” this spiritual war about how to be is to just be. That’s all we fight over, how to be. If the Universe is limitless then it’s already passed progress and regress. If we are limitless, we exist in limitless facets and any facet we happen to be in at the time, on any arbitrary scale one might choose, is just as okay as any other spot.  The collision of opposites pulls us all into these dramas with an immense gravity and we play the part. 

I feel as though all living beings understand this, which is partially why it happens but it is good to step back and remember, occasionally. Especially when everyone seems so worried about it.   


“The ‘what should be’ never did exist, but people keep trying to live up to it. There is no ‘what should be,’ there is only what is.” -Lenny Bruce 

Fuckin’ guy was on point, man. Ooop, did I ruin my credibility because I didn’t curse more eloquently? Fuck you. 

This song is about the music scene in the eyes of Billy Corrigan. I think the themes can be applied to what I’ve brought up here.

Sailing The Absurd

Gather the constitution bestowed upon you, heat your blood to volatility and don’t close your eyes. You don’t want to miss everything you’re afraid to see. -Duwha?  

Yes. Jam your face into the mandibles of death and glare at it unflinchingly. There is nothing in the world as terrifying as our thoughts about it. Monsters live in our head, yes there are giant creatures that must assuredly be agents of an infinite evil but all that association is just in our heads. Squids do squid things, spiders do spider things, snakes do snake things and they are far too busy trying to survive to worry about haunting the minds of children, we do that. We paint ghosts of eight-legged monsters in the hearts of children that follow them as they travel their own thoughts.

People make an anthropomorphism of anything we can and the things that are far from our own anatomy become demons. We fear what we do not understand. It’s easy to like chimps, they do what we do. But how do we go about finding things in common with a cycloptic, tentacled, boneless, denizen of the ocean? Only through the purest abstractions. We project our fear onto these creatures who’s point of view we cannot hope to grasp and because these associations have been passed down to us through millennia, we accept them as fact. It’s very easy to use civilization to justify a thought process but that’s like using the most obscure synonym to define a word. 

Simply because we weren’t necessarily there when these points of view were expressed, the question of our personal fallibility doesn’t enter in and they become fact. They were handed down by people like Socrates, of whom records of shitting on his own leg don’t survive so we ignore the possibility that he may have and it seems laughable. We elevate dead men who said cool shit to godhood and forget their humanity. We chain them with praise, we limit their sphere of influence and we shit on their legacy.

People are people are people are people. Hypocrisy is inevitable, it’s a part of growth but because members of this pantheon from history represent the idea they created, we use them to symbolize just that, nothing else. I believe things are more dynamic than that. Machiavelli probably did favors for someone without a hope for gaining a favor, Crowley went to church as a child and I imagine, at some point, he was into it. Subscribing entirely to one thing is naming the demon. Once a demon’s name is learned it becomes sublimated to the speaker of the name, it becomes limited to the will of the owner. Concepts work the same way.

So poke your head into what you’re afraid of because what you fear isn’t “just scary” you are. Once you name your fear, it becomes your possession and you control it. The divisions people seem to take so seriously are arbitrary but because there is History these associations have become commonplace and because we’ve put hip people on a pedestal, the divisions seem to be intrinsic properties of the universe. This is the fallacy of being Human. Aren’t we great?