I sleep on the couch with very good reasons.The last thing that came to mind is the censored pornography shown on cable television after midnight. I assure you it had nothing to do with the nausea induced after hours of laying next to a lumpy, misshapen block of ice making grinding sounds out of its icy, jagged hole.

My back hurts when I sleep on those springs. Laying on the couch allows me to lay spread eagle, one foot on the wall and the other on the floor, which would be impossible with a thrashing, murmuring apparition fighting holy wars next to me in its sleep.

The sound is another issue - when you wake up to find HBO-ZONE on and muted, it isn't because I fell asleep promptly after delivering the semen on the mount, it is because my ears are sensitive and I need to eradicate all sound late at night for a multitude of reasons. The local cable transmission and the national transmission aren't mastered so one can be dramatically louder than the other, and when I'm watching the movie channels there is a tendency for the action or music sequences to be blaringly loud for the sake of drama versus the acting portions of these affairs.

Besides, my ears have undergone four distinct traumas in my history:

1. Repeated trauma due to falling asleep by drowning out sobs while my parents were divorcing via headphones loud to the point of distorting

2. Head clobbering due to my being too liberal with finding humor in thievery amongst my peers. Outch!

3. Listening to my favorite death metal on a portable listening device while taking off in an airplane. Something about the physics of sound pressure has permanently left my ears an organic pop-o-matic bubble.

4. Years spent fixated on making loud sounds in small, reflective spaces.

So it is quite obvious that it has nothing to do with covering up faux fuck sounds. Headphones aren't out of the question because they don't allow me to listen for your stampede as you lumber and pound your way for your hourly feeding.

In the morn when you find me with my thong down around an ankle, one sock off, gummed and balled on the floor with the other in my hand up my ass, the simplicity of it all is plain as day. I slobber and slurp in my sleep due to stomach acid that I regurgitate all night, which also rots my teeth from behind, so I am constantly glurpping and spitting and I use a sock for that. If laziness is a crime well call me guilty and sentence me to death by electric wheelchair.

The fabric of the couch agonizes my asshole which tends to leak a bloody yellow water and oil salad dressing, I will happily use a sock to cover this up: I will consider myself defeated if I let this disease alter my choice of underwear. I won't go without it ever since the zipper had its way about half an inch deep into my chinese finger-trap.

Who needs to masturbate when you have a sexual partner who is present for 89.7% of your waking life? That's fucking hot even after infinity years passes and you morph into whatever C.H.U.D. morphs out of when it dies.

The winces and ewwwwwwwwwwwww sounds that I make, or the little fart sounds I make with my mouth when I grab handfuls of your, what I like to call, bonus girlfriend or extra you are because of how painful the thought of mortality, or how people change and it is torturous to constantly readjust yourself to the same sort of brain impulses that propels a zombie, is. Every time I make a comment about how you're the daughter of Rain Man and Terry Schiavo it is referring to the atrocity exhibition that occurs when people face their immediate life being threatened. Because I am expressing that I am vaguely threatened that at any moment the husk that is your body will drop to the floor and a serpentine Soul Harvester will writhe out and hiss at me.

Besides, if you're really that curious as to the specifics of my masturbation, here you have it:

Ohh yeah, mmmm. Take it.. mmmmmmmmmmm. Yeah, just the head. Yeah, without the teeth, mmm yeah no cavity creeps yeah you like it, you need it to survive mmm... ohhh... mmmm... urhhhhhhhhgghhhhhhhahhhh

...

...

God what a fucking waste of time loser I am, what the fuck is wrong with me I'll never do anything important.

So there you have it. As I said, there are very good reasons why I sleep on the couch.

Women and your pointy shoes, the first thing that springs to mind when I see them are the enchanted elf wonderland where you must reside. Where did these come from, these witch spikes?

The utility of them was, at first, lost on me. I could see them making your lift a bit higher since you are wearing the equivalent of a narrow diving flipper. Is it more desirable to have a drastic rise/fall with each step? It may make your tits loft and wobble a bit more prominently. While they might make you seem slender or sleek this backfires more often than not, as even the most gracious woman seems squat and dumpy with any familiarity and so appears to have feet that are disproportionately longer than their height necessitates.

But then it dawned on me that this sort of theater prop wardrobe is one of those gender distinguishers. No real man would ever wear such a pointy, narrow shoe. We've seen the effete urbanites wear their future, well, a future of plastic, sneakers, backless shoes, platforms and even clogs. These drinkers from the square cups of bohemia simply have never come close to this level of gaiety. Certain boots come close but they're still impossible to separate from manliness.

I decided to bring this up to my proximity partner and compounded this question of the pointed shoe with why the wardrobe that typically goes with this are airy, loose fitting and wide, pants of a thin fabric. This ghoulish arrangement reminds of some sort of skeletal puppetry with oversized twig-beings surrounded by billowing sheets lumbering across some indo-european stage.

She responded but it wasn't worth listening to, as usual, and so off I went to discover the reasons for this on my own. I needed prolonged, intimate investigation.

I purchased a pair of italian cockroach stompers - so pointy you could easily get at a cockroach futilly crawling up and dropping down in a corner of a room - pointy enough to skewer more than a few beans out of my wallet, had them gift wrapped and plopped them under the tree for a nice holiday gift. The ultimately most gratifying kind of holiday gift, in fact, one with alterior motives. I would see what my own personal beast, this female version of thinking man, not-thinking man, would do with such an upgrade from whatever metal pieces she attaches to her hooves.

The gifts piled and piled up, and I eventually lost track of all of the presents. Although it is clear that earthbound effects keep us away from Heaven, I still like surrounding myself with collections. One of them was addressed to me in a handwriting I'd not seen before and it had a good size, not a shitty gift inside size. I asked Signonymous Other what and/or who, and she didn't know.

Cut to footage of day-a-page calendars with the pages peeling off by invisible twine in slow motion. Still that package sat and tormented. I'd come into the kitchen where the tree was to put some dishes in the female equivalent of the "To Do" box (the left side of the sink) and there this box sat. By day 5 this thing had expanded like a brick of a molten heart, with glowing red cracks pulsating and oozing a beat of mocking laughter.

One day before the cracking open of the materialism ceremony and I couldn't compose myself anymore. The Incompetent Hulk had bumbled off to secure successful self-gratification from nicotine and all that was existing in Everything was myself and this package, Alpha and Omega, except this Omega was kinda a fuckface taunting me.

I came out of my delirious haze as she came through the back door to the kitchen and stood there trying to parse the image before her. The mystery box, torn open. Myself laying on my side naked, legs indian-style, with a good three-fourths of the left pointy shoe up inside my asshole and my dick in the right one, all strapped up and me rubbing the top of it like I was trying to summon a genie from it.

Three unknowns solved, a trinity of revelation. I had discovered the allure of the pointy shoes, what was in the package, and how this relationship was going to end: simultaneously. Happy holidays.

I call it the nnatrix. I have invented something, something mind massacring. Are you expanded?

We are all a part of the nnatrix. We are cashing and plugging in to our own natures of desire, need and gratification, simultaneously. The shit you saw in that movie? No, there is no evil harvesters except ourselves. Don't believe that ancient, dusty junk repackaged. Think of transsexuals.

Here's what happens: we're plugging in to these computer terminals to express ourselves. We put our heads up to devices to communicate to those far away, while only partially participating in what is around us. This is phase one.

Phase two involves the bleeding of these interactions with our dailies. Simultaneously we are using these channels for entertainment as well as commerce and necessity. We pay our bills through them, conduct business through them.

With search engines and encyclopedias, culture repositories we store summaries of our raw essences in them.

Eventually the tools will become more and more pervasive - voice to speakers to headphones to neural cabling. Reflected light from paper and materials to open air outputlight to goggles and again to neural cabling. This will tie into all of our senses. Models will be gridded out with physics so that, with the right equipment, we will be able to touch, smell and taste their gridded genitals. Manipulate their mapped membranes, if I were one to pander to poetry

We will have subscriptions to the elite areas of the network. Paid subscriptions, mind you. We will have identification codes. Credit or Debit?

At this point, the circuit is completely closed. We will not require nutrition for anything past our brains. We will truly become the brains in space we are mimicking right now. Our differences will be reduced to cerebral biology. Size and computing power.

And we will be required to feed these networks. Our subscriptions, our rents, our equipment upgrades will automatically be deducted from our identifiers. Credit or Debit?

The nnatrix will not need to enslave us to protect itself, we will hand it the leash and keys to our cage. It will not harvest our raw energy, we will feed it our impulses that denote value.

Time will be stretched to the glacial pace of electrical units, compared to the seconds we are accustomed to now. Our Lord's infinite tentacles will have reached their goal of creating Life Forever. We will hang ourselves from our corporeal extension cords to achieve Eternity.

Funny and scary are our options. Yet another binary o'er the amber waves of the grid. When browsing any imagery or reading any literature, that's what we're going for and it perfectly overlaps other binaries like reject / embrace, need / ... hum, what's an antonym for need? Well, -need will have to suffice.

So what's wrong with browsing imagery of child pornography or grandmother snuff? I would offer that there's nothing inherently wrong with it until the wires become crossed and we view it as funny rather than scary.

Many times people take the scary and make it funny, cue all of the nervous laughter that is done as a reflex, a pretend invisible forcefield for protection.

Consider what you find scary and take stock of it. Right off the bat we can establish a few groundrules:

1. Shit that makes you startle, jump or twitch is not scary. This is just the stuff of novice fearmongers that think pulling the strings of suspension and shouting "oogy boogy" at the right moment is equivalent to fear. I would also startle if someone started pissing on me, not because I was afraid but because I don't want their scent of urine to conflict with my own and misrepresent myself.

Attuning someone to one decibel level and then presenting one dramatically higher does cause a person to startle in fear of their sensory faculties being assaulted.

2. Reality is scary. It has to be real, proven to have happened, and then play with that concept as possibly extending to you. When presented with the idea that people have blood bombs waiting to go off at any second, that is the sort of fear that is real - that causes housewives to sweep extra hard, doctors to see a spike in appointments, &c.

3. Extra-reality is scary. Anything that presents a plausible future or uncovers a plausible, parallel, present is the stuff of nightmares. Hey, I bet you always assumed that in large crowds of drunken gangs they randomly devour people like a din of wolves, here's the proof. This could be you!

This reminder of the looming possibilities is the typecast of death for a rational person. We cannot know nothing so the ultimate form of an alternate reality is that what occurs when our bodies cease functioning.

Scary is doom. Scary is gloom. It is misfortune that cannot be solipsistically viewed: it forces your empathy. It is that throat-slitting footage that you cannot "Whew, glad that wasn't me!" and carry on along your chipper way. It is the realization that everything around you is a lurching, amorphous drawing on a wall, a series of shapes that have short-term meaning, a series of information pulses that are quite convincingly important.

So how about funny? Funny is far more than humor. Humor itself is base - that which causes amusement is a touch too widespread to encompass everything that is funny. Funny at its utmost height is the greatest wish fulfillment, the orgasm of the id. Take that which is fun to you and successfully experience it and you have the funny.

The grotesquerie that we might find ourselves seeking out that isn't scary is funny. If you aren't thrown into fits of panic based on the collection in front of you, you are leaning towards ecstacy. These packets of information include:

1. Reinforcement of your fixture in the material realm. References to the intrinsic qualities of other types: races, classes, gender or sex; dark humor.

Q: Do you know how I know you're a faggot?
A: Because your dick tastes like shit.

2. Situations that impart knowledge or realization of a system are included here. References to contextually relevant subjects; light humor.

Q: What makes more noise than a moaning, starving HIV+ Cuban innertube hobo? 
A: Two moaning, starving HIV+ Cuban innertube hoboes! 

Well, you get the point. Replace the subject with dinosaur or glittery Queen of the Faeries and you have proper example of the difference.

Exaggeration is usually used for effect, as a signifier that this is humor. It is otherwise too easy to confuse the joketeller from the joke. People seem rather revolted by the idea that there are folks who are quicker than they are. Clever people do not make it very far in any sort of race, they get pounded back by the grim shield of the literally thinking.

Taking both of these extremeties we find at the center, ourselves. There is absolutely nothing wrong with tapping the gauges every now and again with a wholesome 30 seconds of forcefeeding your hostage your shit video or reading an instruction booklet on how to properly cripple someone slowly over twenty years of trace amounts of household detergent applied to their dinner.

Just as we're collectively OK with ruffling Rusty's hair after telling a joke reminding him that God is watching, he he, we ought to be aware that the overt lack of scary in our lives might be the cause for all of the sitting-on-hands liberalist non-action that we have plaguing our various humanist causes.

There is some fucked up shit out there. It is only in our best interests to prove to ourselves that it is a part of reality if we're to make any progress against it.

A shit headed failure once told me something like "Lor lor sure you're smart but really smarts is measured in how you teach lor lor." Who knows. Another shit headed failure once told me something like "Mhh Mhh you're a contrarian, aren't you mhh mhh."

These were about as profound as anything else in my academia sanctioned learning, coming 3rd and 4th to getting my sweatpants pulled down on a field trip and spelling a word correctly in a spelling bee but being told I was wrong, them reversing the decision followed by my spelling the next word incorrectly. OH, and the weird Hindu kid who was in the gymnastics show because he could bend all gay while I forgot about the show and ended up having to tumble in dress pants and a dress shirt with loafers. Ever since that day I sleep fully dressed, including shoes and socks.

Perhaps I measure profundity by sheer incorrectness, which I believe is fair considering this is the arena for knowledge we're thrust into with a loincloth and our stiff dicks for defense. Besides, nobody ever has a story about a series of things working out really nicely, they always have to be prefaced by a rest-state or negative charge.

These offerings easily stuck with me, in that unfair way that saying something that rips someone apart tends to do: if I offhandedly passed you a character assessment, you'd wrestle with it. These stains were saying that I'd be better some other way. Like saying "don't think of a pink elephant" presents an assholish impossibility, casually mentioning that someone, say, "...always seemed like a visceral person" will throw you for a loop. If I weren't so polite I would have no problems with revealing these opinings because I am an egomaniac and wish people would share their candid, impossible to be correct opinions of me. Ooh, ooh, we can trade instilling crippling introspection!

While I have a small place in my heart for these academics for their whips of words, right next to the trans fat buildup, who'da thunk that the whole point of the mess within the marble pillars was all about leapfrogging these boobs who need to lead by telling, rather than by showing? I surely didn't. In fact, they told me that I should show and not tell. How's that for an exercise? We talked all about people showing, believe you me.

A great man once said something about being out at sea being better than watching from the shore, sorta like that.

All that roll your sleeves up and dig in nonsense that we've been fed and romanticised about really props up the burnout mullet live fast, die fast mentality that serves up a heapin' helpin' of steamy shit for all of the hopeless, trapped to nibble on to vicariously imagine what the food must have tasted like.

These folks are the faux doers, do not be lured into their web. As soon as they stop to let you know what is what, by writing about it or sharing it, they're training you to dig their graves and bury them.

I could never bring myself to keep a journal because I could be doing in the time that I was using to write down what I did. I read the books of ex-doers and imagined them pigeon strutting through life with that red light beeping in their mind, this footage was being archived. The best stories of the doers were always those outside of the books. Their children and the piss-drinking forced upon them, the transvestite they were caught knucklebanging, what happened after they wrote their suicide notes.

The jazz they carry around with them they'll have you know they can't help it, marvelous pheasant feathers naturally a part of them. It should never be considered baggage, unless the metaphor fits. They'll make sure you know if it fits, you'll know their size and dimensions.

That is what doers are doing, they are making waves so that you outline the swimmer. Doing so that they do not have to spend any energy expressing the core. And we love them for it.They are the most efficient teachers, never needing to stop to teach or think. Meetings, sermons, discussions, lectures - fuck that, fuck them. Unless the money is good, of course, because then they'll be your best friend, they'll fuel the Brougham.

They get mad pussy.

The rest? The don'ters? They spend their time thinking and explaining, rationalizing and planning, getting things ready for the doers to stop and shit or snatch pull. Genius doesn't steal, it actualizes what a don'ter has only begun to contemplate. They declare what doers are worthy, creating the idea that there are levels of doing and that it isn't a basic binary so that they might find a gray area to include themselves in, or even attempt to pull the grand deception that not doing really ought be considered a new form of doing. Yes is the new no. Death is the new life.

They edit, they select. They proclaim that editing and selecting is as valuable as creating that what gets modified or chosen. Proclaiming is doing, right? I'm losing track.

They do not practice, and when they do, they spread their practice across so many avenues that the bus cannot help but be late.

They get mad about pussy.

White is the slur. I have figured it out, it has eluded me for a long time as I could never come to any satisfying conclusion to the question: Why isn't there a slur towards white people?

Besides, how could there be - there is nothing wrong with white people!

That's just it, white is the slur. To be called white is to be removed from any identifiable culture. It is to be stripped of any sense of earning anything, it is to be granted the arrogance and ignorance of the priveleged.

We have white trash. Why isn't there a term black trash? Through various channels I've heard that term is nigger. Unfortunately that term is attached to the core desciptor, negroid, it isn't specific to a cross-section of blacks. Yes, I consider it a fortune to have a slur attached with one's culture.

Clearly it is because we have found the need to distinguish the trashy whites from the other whites. These beautiful, untouchable via insult whites.

Slurs have always been a great source of fun for me. They are by nature ignorant and by practice irrelevant. They are the second best manner of proving your own ignorance besides getting commonly agreed upon factoids wrong.

Let's test this theory. Which is more ignorant:

Moving on, slurs offer an excruciatingly efficient way of expressing your anger or hatred to someone else without actually gesturing at them in a threatening way. I envision a speech bubble with a scribble in it as being one step away from frowning, pointing at someone, pointing to the ground, shitting on the ground then setting fire to the shit.

What better way of making your point clear by comparing someone to a half-truth regarding their ancestry?

Unfortunately when that happens to me (it never happens to me, let's just simulate healthy social interactions for a second and arbitrarily include myself in them) the word IMMUNE flashes above my head. I just seriously don't give a fuck about people who get mad at me and especially the methods which they use to express that anger, until it manifests itself physically. Even then it is hard to hold up a stop sign with a wrist limp as mine and blow a whistle with a lisp.

Can we not, then, immediately come to the conclusion that the winner of the ignorance competition is the one who falls for the trap of getting you to respond to a slur by heated debate regarding slurs and -isms? The correct response is to either ignore the ignorance or boot their skull away like you would shoo a yapping dog.

It would completely crush me, however, if someone simply called me white. The white slur is typically being referred to by your wealth in a not-so-subtle gradation from off-white to white: WHITE TRASH, MIDDLER, YUPPIE, STUFFED-SUITS ON THE TOP FLOOR. It is far too easy for someone to ignore that ostracisation with the realization that there are only so many leaps and bounds you can propagate from your starting point, and a lot of luck, fate.

It is clearly nurture and nature. Why the trick question ever entered into the schools in the first place is the stuff of dusty, inaccurate history books and other religious tracts. Just like a tree can not grow up if you put a roof over it, you can not. Just like a tree sprouts leaves and branches, a middler gets a rise the first time they realize how clear a paused DVD stays, just before they squirt all over their GRANKULLA/MASSUM.

All of those other attempts at slurs really sound like the acceptance of an overlord. Honkey, cracker. The origins of these terms leave a smile on anyone's face; oh, bother, pray please don't refer to me as hailing from... from, Bohemia.

So, I'm going to have to go with white. Say it calmly, truly. Matter-of-factly. The connotations therein are infinitely disparaging when compared to some random term that has associations with the Banners of the Arms of the King.

Concerning your gratuity, I must first explain the system by which any gratuity is devised. I begin with a flat rate of $5. This is not unlike elementary school, or pedantic professional schools in disguise, where you may have been informed that "You begin with an A."

$5, I believe, is your A.

From there, your own dispositions and mannerisms chip away at your A like so many migrant workers scraping off layers of paint from the guest house's second bathroom on a vast, rich plantation. Since we have agreed that you are to be paid based partially on my overall dining experience, I feel this a great opportunity for excelling or improvement, and it is the burden of the consumer to offer thorough feedback regarding your current position in life.

A wizened oracle imparts the story of her tenure as a servant in New York City. Everybody is rude there and so it makes a great story that if they didn't like your service they would leave you four pennies as a tip, separated, on the flat counter. We all know how annoying it is to pick pennies up off of the flat counter, you end up reevaluating your life as you spend more work picking up the pennies than you did for the tips that you generally get more dividends from.

Go, take these four pennies and make do:

Penny 1. You must realize that your job is a midpoint for industrious young folk, who take the role with a poison capsule in the back of their professionally suckling mouths. Tax evading gratuities, schedule flexibility are the obvious tangibles but the proverbial 400 midgets pulling the monster truck by their teeth in this situation is the fact that they've agreed to be a servant because there is nowhere lower, in their minds. One day, they will surely be the served. And as a hat-to-heart and sincere eyed bonus, they will treat all servants with respect because they've been there and know what it is like.

With this realization you lose a portion of your gratuity, as I have not been there and I do not know what it is like. I only know that I would be encouraging you to find a way to make servitude the field you are interested in. Disgusting. I have no reservations about this punishing of you being you because there is limited growth potential in the field / el campo of carrying plates of food, unless you are practicing to push the cart of miniature drinks and abnormally sharp plastic cups on an airplane or lug boxes of fat and beer at a sports event.

Minus $0.25

Penny 2. For not knowing what ginger ale is, for making a face of puzzlement regarding why someone would take a ginger ale with traditional Americanized Mexican food, for not knowing the location of ginger ale in your establishment, for not knowing the status of the amount of ginger ale remaining, for not asking my second preference in the chance that ginger ale was not available, for doing, essentially, nothing you have barely tapped at, breathed on the sculpture / la escultura that is your gratuity and broke off an arm.

Minus $1.25

But there is more to this: since your establishment did not end up having ginger ale your profits have been reduced. The logic is simple, you should not be supporting a venture that I do not wish to support. By making your working condition worse I have thrust at the heart of the beast with the shards of a glass of half-willingly half-drank Sprite.

Minus $0.05

Penny 3. The food arrives and it is the saddest, army ration resembling plate I have yet to see. It is oval, an ochre color which likely represents something to do with the spirits in the clay or maybe the warehouse workers at Pottery Barn - something Mexicany - and in the center is the burrito, nothing nesting it. The effect is only exaggerated when you place the plate down and it rocks around the plate like the food hobo standing up in the bus not holding on to anything that it is.

You could have innovated here, gone against the grain, broken all the rules / las reglas, and surrounded the burrito with my already free nacho chips or cut the burrito into two halves and connected them with a drawbridge made of that yellow cheese, like a revolutionary fighting for the right to sell drugs.

Minus $0.50

Penny 4. For not circling the total with a drawing of your heart / tu corazón, my experience with you is far too similar to a hooker that doesn't kiss.

Minus $1.00

By the time you collect your $1.95 tip you will have figured out that I am royalty in exile. So when you think of the fair-eyed man with strong hands who is certainly leaving you a decree, you will conclude that the busboy / el busboy must have taken the rest.

Freely exchange elsewhere. Internet discussions have an ancient pattern embedded in them, trace it back to its genesis and you'll note that it started by a bunch who didn't need to work, had no real actionable methods of surviving, and just loafed around and "thought." In this vaccum of intellectual pioneering, everything was game even if it had no relevance to their dailies. Cut to today and you can simply see how this luxury is not affordable by all, but the tools to simulate such a mouth breathed opinion forming are in place. Do you really have the time to worry about gun control? That is really as relevant to me as a forum on how pointy unicorn horns should allowably be. Abortion? If you really wanted this to happen there are methods involving 1) the infected female sleeping and either 2a) chemicals or 2b) the physics of socks full of oranges and bars of soap. Again, this comes down to personal tastes.

I will happily join a roundtable regarding the proper care and maintenance for my flaming sword that I will one day wield against he who taught me how to use it.

The one thing the internet has going for it is that it is effectively blinding and muting the public, herding them into dark and noisy bars or towards dark and soundless computer desks.

Peasantlike is the best way to describe people engaging in public conversations about concerns past their everyday. The wide eyed, creased forehead discussions about wars and policies, often cloaked with righteous passivity otherwise referred to as making people aware.

My stepping into one of these debates is impossible, I imagine a ludicrously idealistic scenario where the mechanic of someone butting into another's asinine public speaking creates a domino effect that spans until end days, resetting itself intermittently as more and more people chirp in, a gross game of Chinese whispers. "It's Quite True!"

There are two islands which one can inhabit. Island #1, we'll call it Silent Logicania, asserts that your opinion is always untrue, it always doesn't consider some aspect that someone on Island #2 will think of, and besides, what is the mother-fucking point of prattling on about something that we cannot hope to cause any sort of effect outside of the "revealing to your target and whoever-the-fuck-happens-to-be-around what your opinion is" effect.

Island #2 I like to call All Rings of Hellland. This is where voices sound off in an infinite combination of grunts, hisses and clicks on and on until every beast there is educated and well-informed about, get this, being in All Rings of Hellland.

You see, everyone starts off on All Rings of Hellland. If you waste time pissing and moaning about it, and practicing how to piss and moan more effectively, that's where you'll stay. Maybe if you'd shut the fuck up for a few you'd see that others have built boats to Madagascar, er, Silent Logicania propelled by silence and brainpower and live a quiet existing as one of God's favorite tentacles: building and fucking and learning by living.

Liars, when you lie please make sure to remember whom you have told aspects of your story to. Lying, when done properly, makes people like you far more because your pursuits and relevance are something that might encourage future interactions. The risk, of course, is the catastrophic drop in respect once anyone who respects themselves, or has the mental capacities to form critical opinions about their version of reality, has concluded that you have lied and so are a liar. Lying is the young ego's extroverted manifestation of the fear of irrelevance. Bullshitting is the art of decorating the dull grey film of existing with embellishment that provides a window to one's desires. Both are suspect when used heavy-handedly; when your deceit vaults you past the realm of relevance into the realm of superiority, when your storied past and inevitably great future becomes a pinnacle or the focal point of the discussion, when your decorous experiences are the most noteworthy... you are the penultimate worst form of liar.

The worst form of liar is a ribbon worn by those who are so deluded that they consider themselves the weavers of fanciful tales. That is also the most entertaining form when successfully executed. The downfall of this is when your fanciful tales end up boring and mundane and you are putting forth so much work to remain relevant that you disgust the audience, as you could be putting that work towards actually being relevant.

Say people are talking about tigers, their fears of tigers, the power of tigers, etc. Say you have an amazing story, illustrating both why we should be afraid and how tigers are powerful, that involves the disfiguring of a powerful dog by a lazy tiger.

Please do not assume that your audience's head is full of lies and knotted tales and will not remember this fantastically vivid reconstruction the next time they are talking about bears, their fears of bears, the power of bears, etc. and you tell the exact same story but with a lazy bear as the co-star in your premiere bullshit production.

It really pissed me, pisses one off to discover this as I, we may have already retold the story of the lazy tiger but substituting the dog for sexy lady titties.

"...with a simple flick of his paws time seemed to halt. The woman looked up for some reason, maybe she was recoiling, and her right arm shot up over her chest. Where her raincoat buttons used to be, just above the belt loops, it looked as though someone had smeared a burnt tomato colored splash of paint over my field of vision. Her chest was a sort of flat gash and stuck in the dividing barrier was a mangle of grey and pink: coat, blood, gland."

So this shit probably didn't happen. Never mind. I half-expect to one day hear the story of a giraffe pissing a sudoku solution onto a terrorist's laser night goggles... and I'll stop and wonder.

I love your e-mails, they're like typewritten versions of car wrecks. Every time there is a new note from you in my inbox I can hear the SKREEEEEEEEEEECH as I click to open it.

When I see a thin, overdigested, fecal string of garbled internet text with 75 random characters as the only sentence it is like reading the sounds of the crash.

If the title of the message is vague and uninformative you can practically see the anonymous and unrestrained bodies flying across multiple lanes of traffic stuttering along an undescribed route. There is no highway big enough, nor is any motor company insured enough, to throw corpses across the pavement with the staggering amount of casual apathy required to equivocate the inherent fatality of your correspondence.

Schadenfreude, digitized.

So this woman that I've been trying to dig out since the 18th grade finally gives me a call. Even though I'm supposed to be settled, the same way the responsibility at the bottom of a half-empty glass of Sunset is, I am more than simply aware of the opportunity to shake things up. The problem here is that shaking things up generally involves one of three metaphors: the first being reorganization or reshuffling, the second being insertion of a foreign element to see how the other parts react, the third referring to increasing pressure to force a reaction. I am, in turn, forced to recall that sometimes when my spit or the rate of download is not right shaking my balls up a bit moves me to my desired conclusion. Makes sense to somebody.

In this case none of the metaphors are entirely relevant, though it would be easy to lean towards model C as in my book, a well written international best-seller entitled The Bible II, ignorantly asserting sexual dominance over every one is never to be considered badness.

She is a textbook case-study of someone who is delusionally, functionally hindered by her mental capacities and it does not get in the way of anything such as making assertions or forming conclusions. When she speaks I imagine that this is the same mind that makes people miss the toilet shitting, but that doesn't happen.

Instead here I am ready to equate her with a catalyst for catharsis. Time to jump into the microscope I wield, right? Well, in my defense, she has that moving out of the trailer to come learn in the city charm - in fact she has two of those charms right there on her chest. I imagined her being the white girl in highschool with the vaguely hispanic accent, making that little spit-sucking sound and wagging her head while rolling her eyes, wearing one of those Six Flags airbrushed t-shirts with any adjective that used to be reserved for ways of labeling the insubordinate serfs: TRICKY, BAD NEWZ, SMITEWORTHY... or trying out future names for their half-breed offspring: PRECIOUS, PRINCESS, WELFARIA (WELFARIO, if male).

She would entertain me - that part is important, still - becuase I am successful even when clearly not. That's what I'd have going for me. By me, I mean my prickly member. I can't compete with the typical musclebound, gel haired guntoters with penises that resmble phalluses (I hear that's a plus). I notice she doesn't wear that wedding ring around me. Can't afford the right one? Makes your anus finger uncomfy? Does a lake trout wear the hook when you eat it?

Likewise, I don't wear my giving a fuck around her. Yes, I would have used A-Game but that really just reminds me of a charity basketball match for AIDS research.

There's something to be said about the comfortable qualities of not giving a fuck. Saying stupid shit that you do not mean just to hear the half-processed response and laugh when someone incorrectly agrees with you has more bliss attached to it than any of those impostor meaningful conversations can possibly consider. The only meaningful conversations I have ever had involved one of four conclusions: the drugs we would do, the sex we would have, the money I would receive, the food we would eat.

Rule of thumb: if you are about to construct a term that begins with quasi- or pseudo-, refrain from doing so, as there is no such thing as quasi- or pseudo-retardation.

From which ring of Hell is she calling me? What's her poison? Her malfunction? Or just maybe her insightful realization of improving her quality of life? Maybe she wants to prove she's still got it. Let's hang out and prattle and babble about nothing much. It is always fun, always interesting, when you'll put up with massive amounts of bullshitting as you're imagining what sort of circus mirror shapes her pussy takes while scrunched up in whatever she's wearing to cover it up.

Let's go for a bite to eat, quick hand in the pants. Who cares? No big deal. You feel like ejaculating? I feel like ejaculating too! The drama is convenient over that sort of thing. Instant ego reassessment. I am convinced that the two-minute hate was the closest dude could get to the two-minute suckoff, it is just focus on the human contact. No big deal.

No, it needs to be a big deal. I need to hear how all of the important aspects in this paint the perfect fugue into Bacchanalia. How I am more attractive than or less opaque than. Surely not for the sake of the concept. I have never imagined three ugly people fucking each other. You know that one goofy mongo guy who hung out with the two frump-ogre girls in school? One day while getting their presentation for English Lit in 8th grade they had too much fun with the magic markers and devolved into a writhing transcendental mass, leaving the crumbs and liquid of burst face pustules in clawlike streaks across firm, but pending cottage cheesey, thighs. It is really no surprise the girls were into each other more than little-dick and his clumsy manner of shoving his asshole outward towards their flicking tongues. I mean, at least take off the dirty white hi-tops. My fantasies are pocked by the acid rain of reality.

Of course it will never get to the point where she talks ill of her station, that is my job. To present her as the fulfillment of one of the modes of woman, the more the merrier. Mother and whore form the poles but there are definite gradations in between and that is what the educated young fuck-and-forgetter knows: understanding which womanly mode they're harnessing and riding those nodes successfully has them taking your insults (they know you're joking and treating them like a peer), suckling your asshole (because of that little sound you make) and then balling up your socks (because you pay the bills and doing so requires finding socks rapidly) as an encore. They won't even leave the stage between curtains, bet.

It will never happen because I am not the robotic orgasm activator. She is not backing up onto a machine that converts her into a part of a fuck object. I make a *tsk* sound when her head bobbing up gets in the way of my video game. The norm seeps in. I have merely replaced who I'm buying the Volvo for because their rating suits me better, it just so happened that vagina I haven't cracked open yet was the calibration for it at that time.

Yeah, I've jerked off on the phone while pretending she was smart. Something about voice frequencies worked there. I've also closed my eyes while going through the rounds with Mrs. Whenwillmyresponsibilitydiminishmore and saw her making what I was feeling, with that black purple and pink Six Flags t-shirt knotted on her head like Aunt Jemima's bandana. If you know who Luzianne Mammy was, I'd prefer that image.

I'm ready for this. I don't need to be drunk, I don't need to spill my guts. Nobody needs to ever find out.

I return her call, hee-haw through the formalities, "how's your kid, blah, how's your loser husband, blah," and she tells me she's pregnant, the way you might say a random string of nouns out loud to nobody when you're trying to remember why you're doing what you're doing. I've asked beautiful girls which aisle the lice shampoo was in with more conviction.

This hits me like a wire hanger and I can only imagine the gigantic white hand of the lord batting at the digital clock for a quick nine-month snooze.

And so I do what any man would do: develop an insatiable relish for pregnancy related pornography. It is an amazing, inexplicable release: like fucking two people, or maybe one person holding a baked chicken up to their hole, at the same time with one dick. Sometimes if I pay real close attention I swear I can feel little foetus hands helping me along, tugging playfully at my veins, visible like one of those transparent fish, my pleasure prick breathing water.

I can not lose.

A great man is an alone man. Something like that. Someone said that.

Being an only child, I have the sibling relationship worked out from my amazingly accurate telescopic vision. There's a nice sort of reality check in place: the older ones understand the difference in age, see where they came from. The younger ones see where they're headed. Never mind those 14 year old fantasies of the brother and sister doing it. File those somewhere next to yourself and your mom or dad doing it.

Unfortunately I've had to store that filing cabinet next to the demon-tempered lockbox containing my having a male babysitter younger than me showing his pubic hair at my request. Doing it involved getting yelled at by someone inside the factory where he unsheathed his clapper and had a piss after unmuffling the wooly bully.

The point remains, someone needs to be around to tell you who said the quotes or what the quotes were, how they really went, what movie you saw the quote in, remind you how lude and myopic quotes are. Otherwise you end up with notebooks of declarations written in your own language illustrated by crayons of girls with dicks and speech bubbles saying "Want to be your friend."