(c) July 6, 2011
.
Without my girlfriend
Life has no meaning for me
Shouldn’t have killed her
.
Without
October 6th, 2011Mongo
October 5th, 2011
Mongo from "Blazing Saddles"
I got off the subway at 6:35 this morning, with plenty of time to get to the studio to teach the 7:00 A.M. kickboxing class, only to realize that I had left the keys to the studio at home. I did this once before in the last seven months and taking a cab back and forth cost me about $40 and still had me arrive 10-minutes late to the class. So I decided to take the subway, a decision arrived as a combination of cheapness and not being in the mood to smell the body odor of an Indian cabby for the next forty minutes or so.
The subway took forever to arrive at the station, which sent my blood pressure to levels akin to as if I had just eaten a Heart Attack Burger at McDonald’s washed down with a Chocolate Frosted Diabetes Shake at Burger King and then went to Wendy’s to fuck that freckled little redhead. The subway finally arrived and I got on.
Wendy. I fucked her. She gave me chlamydia.
Across from me and a little to the left was a mongoloid-looking Jew. I am sure of the Jew angle, not because he was reading a book entitled 29 Ways To Prepare Dead Palestinian (which offers a few vegan alternatives) but because he was wearing a yarmulke, the same way that if I saw a woman in a birka I would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was a moron.
Regarding the mongoloid thing, I couldn’t be certain. He had the typical disproportioned head, with the mouth just a tad too close to his nose and a forehead that stretched from here to forever but that might have just been the result of being birthed through an extremely tight vagina and not a wide stretched out one like that of Ogre’s. But once he put on his headphones and started repeating a line that if it came from a song would inspire me to give up music forever, I knew this man who was wearing an ass for a face was demented. As if for the sole purpose of alleviating any doubt I had to his sanity, he would alternate his horrid bellowing with sticking his tongue out as far as Gene Simmons and make goofy sounds like, “DOO-DUH-DOH-DING!” Yep, certifiable!
Micky from The Monkees.
His bellowing vocal style sounded like a cross between a baby seal being clubbed for her fur and a man who had just been sodomized without lube—or like Alanis Morissette. I tried not to stare but it was like driving by a car crash and involuntarily stepping on the breaks and rubbernecking, despite the fact that you know this will contribute to a near standstill in traffic that will result in people missing appointments and small children pissing their pants and just a general malaise of the traffic motestrians.
When my stop was the next one, I got up and stood in front of a set of doors. It was already 7:00 and I thought about all the students waiting in the hallway locked out of the studio and pondered whether I should make an appointment with a psychiatrist to discuss why I didn’t seem to care in the least.
I looked over at Mongo, who was now about 15 feet away from me, and sensing my stare he turned towards me and we locked eyes. If this were some retard version of Brokeback Mountain this might have been the start of a beautiful, albeit dim-witted, relationship. I couldn’t look away, only in part due to the fact that I had been frightened at a young age by the story of Sodom and Gomorrah and since then once I look at something I have an OCD time of looking away for fear of turning into a pillar of salt. And finally the goofy little bastard did something that I have never seen on a subway. No, I’ve seen a penis doing the helicopter, but good guess! He waved.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7RAPc2vg-A
I waved back and then we both turned away and resumed our business, him croaking his best Alanis imitation and me preparing to sprint out of the soon to be opening subway car, run into my apartment, grabbing my keys all the while ignoring my whining dog happy to see me and race right back to the subway to, hopefully, reach a bunch of disgruntled kickboxing students who have boxing gloves and want to beat something silly.
Now on the subway, occasionally I have made eye contact with another person and smiled and they smiled back. If he were a guy, he was a homo and we would exit the next stop and have man sex. If she were a woman, she would nonchalantly reach inside of her handbag and flip off the safety to her can of Mace.
A smile doesn’t require much more of an effort than slightly lifting the sides of your mouth while one hand gently strokes your penis on the outside of your pants. I’ve been told the stroking of the penis is not necessary to create a smile but, as of this date, I have not figured out to do the two separately.
This is actually scarily close to how Mongo looked waving at me!
But a wave? That involves twenty-six different muscle groups all working in sink to raise the arm above your head and that requires a Herculean effort. But more than just the effort, the wave seemed so genuine that if I didn’t have a strict “No Retards As Friends” policy I might have said, “Hey tubby, you want to crush some beer cans on your enormously overgrown forehead?”
There is something about children, animals and retards that make them so innocent in their actions. Mind you, this doesn’t mean that they aren’t little bastards. One of my nieces said to my sister once, “That woman is so ugly!” in a voice that was loud enough to destroy the self-esteem of the pig in question; my dog has chewed up more electronic items, books and nick backs then I care to remember; and there have been at least twelve incidences of retards hurling their feces at their caretakers like a monkey at the zoo “shooting the shit” as they call it.
That being said, there usually isn’t an ounce of maliciousness or calculation to their behaviors. The child is in awe how grotesque the ugly woman is and, not yet having developed any sense of social graces imposed upon her by society, she just blurts out what she is thinking. As many times as I have told my dog to stop chewing on my fuckin’ stuff, when I leave the apartment she innocently goes, “Man, look at that plug attached to that fan. I wonder what that would feel like being destroyed by my teeth!” And a retard with a pile of poo in his hand is the happiest go luckiest guy you can find. Lord knows when I am holding a heap of shit in my hand I’m feeling on top of the world—provided it is my own and didn’t come out of another’s ass.
I see young kids now already becoming calculating little manipulators trying to get over and I wonder when the age of disconsent was lowered so significantly. I know I turned rotten in my mother’s womb but that was on account of eating some bad placenta. What about the rest of you? When was the last time you raised your hand over your head to a stranger, not giving them the finger or trying to indicate that sexual deviancy is on your mind, but just to say hello? How would you react if someone did that to you? You would probably be so stunned that either you would freeze like a deer in the headlights or high tail it as fast as you can in the opposite direction.
"It's a staring contest and I'd rather be venison burger before I give up and lose!"
By the time I got back to the kickboxing studio it was 7:26 a.m. and no one was still there. I had some time before my 8:00 private client came in to reflect on what God had wanted to show me by clouding my mind into leaving my keys at home. And suddenly a booming voice entered my head with the following catchphrase:
“Live your life as innocently as a retard. Just wash your hands after playing with your own shit.”
And suddenly all of the world’s madness made complete sense to me—God is a retard!
God The Retard
"Only a dunce would have faith in a man wearing a diaper!"
I Spit In Your Mouth
September 28th, 2011
A common fantasy for a man, besides the one involving a donkey and a gallon of lube, is to have a woman who is a angel in the outside world and a complete whore in the bedroom. A few years back I met Carny and from all outward appearances she seemed to be an angel on the outside, so I figured that I was halfway to Hetero Heaven. It wasn’t until we were in the bedroom one night when I was on top of her that she opened her mouth and removed all doubt that I had finally arrived to the Promised Land and I didn’t even have to strap a bomb vest to myself like my Muslim faith dictates as a passport to virgins and rivers of wine.
I had just said something like, “I really care about you and would like to take care of you. Would you like me to rub your feet or prepare a bath for you?” to which she replied, “Spit in my mouth.” I never had anyone say this to me besides the man in the trench coat who used to sit next to me at the gay movie theater, which showed double features on Sundays to which half the audience would leave midway through the second film and they had to get to prepare the final touches on their sermons for church that day. As this was my first intimate salivary experience with someone who was not a pedophile priest, I wanted to make it memorable.
I cleared my throat and nasal passages with the biggest snorty, coughing throat clear I could and spit a thick, yellow goober right into her eye; this was more the result of poor aim than it was due to any lack of anatomical understanding.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she shouted as she pushed me off of her. Thankfully my Sobakawa buckwheat pillow that I got through an infomercial was there to break my fall. It really is quite supportive and a much better purchase than that Pube Wacker that was supposed to be able to style my groinal region as well as trim the hedges of my yard.
“You said ‘Spit in my mouth’ so I was just—“
“I said ‘in my mouth,’ moron, not in my eye!” she sweetly explained. “And by ‘spit’ I meant the saliva that was in your mouth, not the darkest, grossest gob you could cough up from your lungs! Why not just pick your nose and flick it into my mouth?”
She seemed a tad irate and so I wanted to be careful with my response. “Okay, so we don’t have any confusion: are you asking me to pick my nose and flick it into your mouth or was that just a metaphor of sorts?”
“You’re unbelievable!”
“And by ‘unbelievable’ do you mean that I am an incredible guy or that I am an idiot, because I rather not thank you if you are calling me an idiot?”
“The latter.”
“Great. I think I’m getting you. Just one more: by ‘latter” do you mean one of those things firemen climb or—“
“Just shut up, Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” she interrupted and while I have a problem with someone using the Lord and Savior’s name in vain, I decided to be the better man and let her comment slide without commentary. I decided I would later go to church to atone for my sins of goobery and visit some of the old crew from Sticky Seats Theater.
In conclusion, I was psyched to be involved with someone who was both an angel and a whore but I felt her communication skills could have be improved.
Good Morning, Penis!
September 21st, 2011
My subway arrived at the 34th Street stop at about 6:30 a.m., giving me time to arrive early to my 7:00 kickboxing class where I would guide people in using kicks, punches, knees and elbows to solve all their domestic issues. My heart melts a little every time I receive a testimonial like the following:
“My wife and I got into an argument over dishes being left in the sink. I threw the jab-cross-knee combination we worked on in class and after she got up off the ground, she washed not only the dishes but also the puddle of her blood. Thank you not only for your kickboxing instruction but also for helping me maintain my marriage!”
As I was rounded the corner to the final stairwell up to the street, I jarred into a freeze as I saw a black man standing on the stairs with his erect penis sticking out of his pants and finishing what looked like his morning toss-off. I saw a few drops of liquid fall from his penis to the ground and in my innocence I thought he must have just finished up urinating. Looking at the steps, I didn’t see any puddle of piss and thought to myself, “If it wasn’t urine what in God’s name could it possibly—Jesus Christ!”
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross talks about The Five Stages of Grief that one goes through when experiencing a grief-inducing event, such as the death of a loved one. The five stages include Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. I discovered that when witnessing a penis at 6:30 in the morning one also undergoes various stages leading, but not ending in, acceptance. And thus was born The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis, soon to be released in book form.
The first stage is Shock, where you are startled to a point where you are like a deer caught in the headlights. There have been many cases of people who have been sodomized while completely catatonic. I myself have woken up from the dentist’s chair to a facefull of semen. Needless to say, I insisted that I would not pay any extra for the facial.
The second stage is Justification. You can’t accept that a man would just have his meat hanging out there blowing in the wind, to use Bob Dylanian terms. “He must have had to urinate really badly” or “Perhaps his zipper is broken and he needs to do laundry and was forced to go commando and the combination of broken zipper and no drawers has led to this unfortunate situation,” are common responses.
Unlike the five stages of grief, Acceptance is not the last stage of The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis.” After the initial shock of seeing the penis and the subsequent desperate attempt to justify why the penis is making an appearance in order to maintain your current worldview that in this world men keep their penises in their pants, especially in public places, you have to accept the fact that in front of you stands a man and protruding out of his pants stands a penis. If by this point you can’t accept this as a reality, you might have gone into complete cognitive dissonance and the following stages may not occur until much later.
After Acceptance comes Anger. “Why the hell should I be subject to witnessing this man’s penis—especially before 9:00 a.m.?” A subtle aspect often denied in the penile viewer is the anger that this man has his cock exposed and you would also like to pull out your pud but are too afraid of the consequences, from legal to laughter.
The final stage of The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis is Desire, where you have gotten through your initial shock and anger and now want to experience that schlong firsthand. This often expresses itself in reaching out to the appendage or dropping to your knees and opening your mouth or the spontaneous dropping of your panties and spreading of your legs. In the incident in question I experienced all of these common manifestations of desire.
There were two things I took out of this incident, besides the development of The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis. The first is that I will most probably refrain my barefoot walking to places that are not hotspots for the morning wank, such as subways and Starbuck’s restrooms. Secondly, I have committed myself to cover my penis from view until at least 9:00 a.m., realizing a sighting of this sort could result in a traumatization of the viewing victim.
With having a penis comes a tremendous responsibility. One must wield his organ with this awareness, especially if you plan to use your penis as a tool for Self-discovery.
Ace Of Hearts
September 18th, 2011
I have been accused of being a racist—which is totally not true. While I find blacks to be mentally inferior, I acknowledge that they are superior athletes. While I find Chinese to have small penises, I acknowledge them to excel in math. While I find Jews just plain annoying, I acknowledge that they’re great in matters involving money and plots to control the world. And regarding Dominicans, I don’t consider them human, so the fact that I think that every last one of them is scum is not racism—they’re not a race, they’re vermin.
- “Have you met your padre?” “No, he’s long gone. Have you met yours?” “Nah, my old man split right after dropping his load.”
FOR FULL PIECE GO TO:
http://rebelyogi.com/ace-of-hearts
(Comments can be left here–unless you’re Dominican!)
Seeds Of Deception
September 15th, 2011
© September 11, 2011
Today is the 10th Anniversary of the event that escalated the course of our government’s outward expression of disrespect of the civil liberties of the citizens it supposedly represents and the first bold cutting of the Constitution into paper dolls. Rather than go through point by point the inconsistencies in the government’s conspiracy fable on what occurred on that day, I am going to present a few ideas that may suggest that, like in the movie Inception, ideas that you think are your own have been carefully planted into your head. But unlike Inception, these ideas were planted while you were conscious, or as conscious as one of the human flock of farm animals can be.
I walked around today wearing my 9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB T-shirt that I got from www.infowars.com, the home of the fat fear-mongering exaggerator Alex Jones. While I find some of his exaggerations to be downright lies, I do credit Alex’s documentary 9/11 The Road To Tyranny with pointing me further down the rabbit hole into which I had already dove headfirst.
- Alex Jones. For once his hands are empty and not containing a megaphone or a hoagie.
One main objection to people thinking that 9/11 could be an inside job comes in the form of a question asked in a doubtful tone:
“So you think our government would kill 3000 of its own people?”
My answer to this query is an unequivocal, “Yes.” But their objection comes less from history and logic and more from their personal ethical and emotional system not being in alignment with the idea of killing for personal gain.
FOR THE COMPLETE PIECE GO TO:
http://rebelyogi.com/seeds-of-deception
FOR COMPLETE PEACE WAKE THE HECK UP!
(Comments can be left here)
Gratitude
August 31st, 2011(c) August 17, 2011
.
Gratitude to God
For both the joy and the pain
Life’s a bitch–but great!
.
Do Unto others
August 28th, 2011
.
“Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.”
—The Golden Rule
.
“Piss on another if they will piss onto you.”
—The Golden Shower Rule
.
It was yet another typical aftermath of Ogre and I butting heads like rams where not only did I think it would serve us best to have some space from each other—I didn’t want to talk to that bitch either [See White Hole: Part 2 at http://rebelyogi.com/white-hole] This resulted in the next day me receiving a text message from her saying that my lack of contacting her the day before was a clear “Fuck you!” and more words to essentially say that I was a douche and we were through. I probably should have cut my losses and said, “You know, I had a bunch of free dinners and even got laid here and there—okay, time to go!” But due to my persistence (and love for free food and pussy), we played the “let’s try again” card probably ten times too many.
On another night, I told Ogre via text that I didn’t want her texting me if she was going to be multitasking during the exchange and I would have to wait about 5-minutes between texts for a response like, “LOL!” feeling like a stand-up comedian having his audience remain dead silent after a joke that he thought would kill and then, apparently on European time delay, burst into laughter when he is in the middle of telling his next joke. We ended up talking on the phone and she was very “tonal,” meaning socially correct but subtextually a total condescending cunt. She explained to me that this is what text messaging is about, half-assed communication, and that if I wanted full-assed attention I best find a black chick as “baby’s got back.” We parted not in sweet sorrows but wishing death and destruction on the other.
- Sir Mix-A-Lot’s inspiration for “Baby Got Back”
.
FOR THE FULL PIECE GO TO:
http://rebelyogi.com/do-unto-others
(Comments can be left here)
Thirsty
August 27th, 2011(c) August 27, 2011 by Swami X
.
I am so thirsty
Yet rain pours down upon me
My mouth must be closed
.
Digging
August 21st, 2011© August 21, 2011
.
I was given a small spoon
And started to dig
Knowing that you were under there somewhere
And with enough digging
I would find you
.
With dirt-lined nails
I dug deeper
Into a hole that might have proven to be my grave
Rocks bent my spoon
And soon my only tools of excavation
Were my hands…
and my heart
.
Through cuts and calluses
I never stopped digging
At times wondering if you were indeed buried below
Or if I had gone crazy
…digging a well in the desert
And then I hit something
That was not board or bottle cap
Root or rock
I saw a glimmer
And I knew that I had struck gold
That the treasure that had started to uncover
Was a love that I had long left
But never forgot
.
My beard long
My face weather worn
My vision strained
My joints swollen
From 20 years of digging
As if possessed
…in vain
But with thoughts of seeing you again
My heart started to beat
Like a man 20 years my junior
And I prayed it didn’t break
Before I got close enough to touch you
Kiss you
Look into your eyes
And see forever
.
I went to my cabin to rest
Planning for the next day’s dig
When I would uncover all of you
And remove the final accumulations
Of years apart
And there she was
The girl from a nearer past
Whose lips I never kissed like yours
Because of obstacles
of boyfriends and health challenges and life
that buttressed the wall that I could not break through or climb
She asked if she could come inside
And I felt powerless to refuse her
Controlled by an inner drive
That had been rendered useless from years of isolation
.
She told me how she found me
And we took turns telling stories of our past together
…and apart
Laughing our way through the night
Periodically touching a knee or an arm
In a way that was as guilty as it was innocent
.
It got late and I invited her to spend the night
To which she agreed
I held her in my bed
Intimacy without intercourse
As sleep entered the cabin
And covered us like a blanket
When I woke up
I was in my bed alone
Passing through a moment of confusion
As I questioned whether last night’s connection
Was only a bond between my imagination and my weariness
…until she called out to me from beyond my cabin walls
I jumped out of bed and burst through the door
Fighting through the blinding flood of daylight
And into her awaiting arms
The sun shined down upon us
from a clear blue sky that seemed to be painted by a heavenly master
as a background for our embrace
And, just like my waking confusion
I questioned whether we, too, were part of a painting
Created by an artist and hanging on a wall in someone’s home
Frozen in contentment
But without the ability to step out of the canvas
And suddenly my eyes broke from the high of the perfect portrait
As I looked over her shoulder
my heart stopped beating
my breath disappeared
my face went pale
The hole I had spent the last 20 years digging was completely filled in
I ran to the loose dirt and dropped to my knees
“What have you done?” I cried
In one morning’s work
She had erased 20 years of effort
.
“What’s buried beneath that dirt
No amount of resuscitation
Will bring back to life
.
“What stands before you
Is alive and ready to embrace
Relax into me
And feel my beating heart”
I realized what I had preserved
In the mausoleum of my mind
Would rot and decay if released
from it’s airtight chamber
That it was unable to breathe the air
That keeps the heart beating
Without the help of an pacemaker
Surgically implanted by the doctor of imagination
.
I took my first deep inhalation
In 20 years
And filled the lungs of the heart
Unassisted
.
After 20 years of digging
I had finally found my treasure
And now standing in front of me
Her presence covered completely my buried love
Whose bones crumbled to dust
And left my mind
.
I got off my knees and went inside the cabin
And washed my face
And shaved my beard
And cleaned under my fingernails
.
When I reemerged I was a new man
Ready to live the life that was present
And not the one that was past
A memory that had spent 20 years
Trying to escape the prison of the mind
Had finally been executed
Perhaps in 20 years
Having lived a full life
Through my heart
And not my imagination
I will join my buried love
But only as a corpse
.
Discarding my body for the worms
My soul will have left for Heaven
