Apologies

Conscious living consists of learning daily how wrong you are about most everything, and then speculating to whom to apologize.

Continuing provocations of my secessionist/JBS-like paranoia.

Why you should despise neoconservatives.

Gramm-o-rama

Hey, Ray.
We know you’re dead and all, but we thought it’d be mighty big-ol’-hearted of us to award you record and album of the year. Politics? No, Ray, this isn’t a cultural appeasement token or a post-release movie plug you’re receiving. The Charles family is the proud owner of a golden gramophone on the basis of our impeccable sense of the sonic aesthetic alone.
Oh yah. We gave Velvet Revolver, John Mayer, Maroon 5, Bill Clinton, Dixie Chicks, and Motorhead one of those trophy dealies, too.
I hope it means something special.

Titles and Derisions

Dr. Blum (or “P. Block” as I address him) paraphrased a quote in which Mark Twain insults the then-late (and still-late) Emily Dickinson. Is anyone familiar with the precise derision?

I have five cats at my summerhouse in The Fort.
Here follows their titles and brief descriptions.
1. Muffin.
Male, 15, brown tabby, declawed in both sets of paws. Enjoys bird watching and consuming, looks good for age. Doesn’t appear to be effected by having the name of a girl cat. Favorite human–Dianne the mother.
2. Betty.
Female, 10, calico/tortise shell, declawed in front paws. Enjoys sleeping by register and making self scarce, looks not so good. Regularly threatened and assaulted by Miki and Carl. Favorite human–Brian the older brother.
3. Ralph.
Male, 9, seventeen pound long-haired orange tabby, declawed in front paws, possibly bi-curious. Enjoys lying on his back unsupported in the middle of the room. Affectionate but temperamental. Favorite human–patient petters in general.
4. Miki.
Female, 4 (?), stocky with black coat and notch in left ear, not declawed, former stray. Enjoys the great outdoors and gaining advantageous ground as often as possible. Aloof but open-minded about interaction. Favorite human–unknown.
5. Carl.
Male, 2, black coat, yellow eyes, not declawed, son of Miki. Enjoys harassing Ralph and Betty, attacking late afternoon shadows/sunbeams, and contracting worms without leaving the residence. Favorite person–Keith the dad.

in between an uprising

So my freshman roommate Jordan worked for the county surveyor’s office in Elkhart County over break and discovered something suspiciously magnifying and unknown. Between northeast Indiana and southeast Michigan there exists a small 5×20x10 ft. piece of land that is under neither states’ jurisdiction.
Ah, yeah.
Move out there, him and I, and set up a few stretch lawn chairs, roll out a couple waterproof deluxe pup tents, and will begin as what in future will be known as The Short-Lived Nerd Revolt of ‘05.
Ah, yeah.
Ca, va.

A Conversation in Z minor

STELLA: sup.
MORT: sup.
S: what’s goin on?
M: not much. wait, i did see Hans Zeiger jogging through campus wearing a body of spandex.
S: what was it like?
M: what was what like?
S: seeing Hans Zeiger jog through campus wearing a body of spandex.
M: what about it?
S: what was it like. to see him.
M: i saw him.
S: i know.
M: then why you sayin i didn’t?
S: i didn’t.
M: that’s what i just said.
S: you did just say that.
M: “that’s what i said”… i know i just sad that, that that’s what i said.
S: i know, but i was refering a prior comment.
M: what?
S: forget it.
M: but i saw him.

The Year of the Manatee

Late last evening the White House announced Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice will broadcast a special message to the nation on Friday in which she will unilaterally rename the Chinese Year of the Rooster, already in full swing, something she feels is much more appropriate and American—The Year of the Manatee.

Okay, okay. Colin Powell did not make this proclamation, but a man I love, admire and revere did—me.

I understand the (former) Year of the Rooster was fabled to represent “good fortune” or something hoity-toity like that. But I have a problem with living twelve months under the mantra of such the exalted cock, despite its vast potential for hilarity.

I realize, though outrageously unfair, that manatees have a certain stigma attached to them, mainly stemming from their moniker “sea cow”. It is possible, however, that we could look at this often misunderstood label in a different light.

Cows, for example, are an animal that never fails to bring uproarious joy to us midwesterners, even though we’ve seen them approximately three hundred bigillion of them at various times in our lives, i.e., “Look! That cow is sitting down!” or “Cowwwww!”

Cows are also an animal we have a secretive desire to saddle. Personally, I would be significantly less irreligious if Jesus would have come sauntering in on Palm Sunday riding a bovinian steed.

Neither you or Jesus, however, would be allowed to saddle up a manatee today. According to the Florida Manatee Sanctuary Act of 1978, “It is unlawful for any person, at any time, intentionally or negligently, to annoy, molest, harass or disturb any manatee.”

Even without such legislation, I don’t think any descent person would have either the heart or the audacity to force a manatee into such a non-sexually subsidiary position.
Could you look into the pale-slate eyes of such a cuddly rotund sea mammal and make a proposition such as that? You wouldn’t be able to look at yourself in the mirror the next day any more than a freshman girl Sunday at 8 a.m. on the second weekend of her first semester at a small liberal-arts college could.

Additionally, the manatee—looking like a dedicated yet unsuccessful bulimic reincarnation of Winston Churchill—begs your sympathy.

Furthermore, in what began as nothing more than a manatee-support-group-turned-militant, I have decided to arm all 3,000 of the ten-foot one-ton Floridian creatures with various forms of weaponry.

First, I have equipped them with titanium Cutco-edged boat motors that can be easily concealed in a pouch beneath their gun holsters. Did I mention personal firearms? Oh yes, I have also equipped them with voice-activated Colt 45’s.

The problem is a matter of speed and possibly apathy. Manatees travel at a clip of about 4 mph, while fogies cracked out on college students’ tax dollars travel at least five times that speed in their motorboats.

Don’t think such a seemingly harmless and mentally underdeveloped animal is capable of pre-meditated violence? Think again. Manatees have more gray brain matter than any other mammal, including humans and possibly me.

The aquatic force has also begun to carry those grabby-things with plastic dinosaur mouths to operate their triggers.

Manatees, in fact, have been murdering senior citizens indiscriminately for about two years now—ever since I formed the We Are Manatees Mostly Coalition, a radical Guevarian resistance group consisting of me and my even chubbier counterparts.

Will manatees ever return to their peaceful ways, you ask? Will the bloodshed ever end?
“Maybe,” WAMM Coalition spokesman Walesa Khomeini squeaked. “And then again, maybe not. Actually, probably not. No, no—definitely not.”

Make way, friends, The Year of the Manatee has arrived.

A to the D to the Confessions

When, occasionally, he’ll lifeguard himself out of a pool of snot, tears, and self-defacing superlatives (i.e. “Alas, for man’s sin!”, “Woe is me!”, etc.), St. Augustine (who from here on will be referred to as “Aug Dawg”) makes a few valuable pre-Dark Age remarks:

1.) “For in more ways than one do men sacrifice to the rebellious angels.”
Look, sex, drugs and rock n’ roll—commonly believed satanic rituals—aren’t what Aug Dawg is talking about here. While the triumvirate may be enterprises shared with Mephistopheles and his minions, I think Aug Dawg is targeting perversions of true Christianity here. Or freemasons.

2.) “For she [Monica] wished, and I remember in private with great anxiety warned me, ‘not to commit fornication; but especially never to defile another man’s wife.’ These seemed to me womanish advices, which I should blush to obey.”
Aug Dawg recounts here, with vital and universal honesty, the pseudo-reasoning of a 16-year-old boy’s libido. Married? Ppfffffff. That just makes it cooler. And what if you actually do have a highly improbable liaison with such a woman?
“I took pleasure, not only in the pleasure of the deed, but in the praise.” Right on, Aug Dawg. He’s pinpointed the male obligation to lie consistently to his peers about erotic prowess and exploits.

3.) “Thou sweetness never failing, Thou blissful and assured sweetness.”
Alright, I just thought that sounded like a good pick-up line.

4.) “It was foul, and I loved it.” Aug Dawg is describing his glee after the pear tree incident, but he has, indeed, captured the joy of sinning in a sentence.
Q: Why do we sin?
A: Because it’s a bunch of fun.
Q: What’s a bunch of fun?
A: Sinning.

Mammals and maybe turtles

Whereas “honey milk” sounds unfamiliar but inviting, “milky honey” appears to be a slang term for a recurring sexual disorder.

A young man with stringy blond hair and an American flag jacket was telling me about his pets–tarantulas, scorpions, boa constrictors, and what not. I stopped him short, “Dude, those aren’t pets, those are nerd pets.”

Maltheism, anyone?

Transgressions

We’re all bad habits and bent propellers.

My three favorite words as of now are:
1. burgle
2. sassafras
3. scone

I’ve concluded that, after reading 22 pages of his Confessions, Augustine needs to straight up chill the hell out, especially over transgressions like being a disorganized fetus.
Wait, that (Transgressions) sounds like the name of a cross-dresser’s memoir.

In the city of Berne, Ind., the gutters are not lined with cigarette butts.

Feta cheese pizza is unfuckingbelievable. I wish I were Greek so I had an excuse.
Feta tastes like a sheep byproduct if you ask me.

I’ve never really, really punched someone. Except for that s.o.b. Hawkings.

IOU-kraine

With humility and somber tears of joy, I can now confirm my recommendation for the closest site to yesmoke (and, indeed, my heart) around. This site is the CigOutlet. Shipping took a month away from my supposed dignity, but I confess this here before you as a man with a $15 carton of Chesterfields shipped from the Ukraine. Plus you get the carton itself along with the smokes, something the legally inhibited yesmoke failed to offer throughout the course of our torrid love affair.