The Sunday Morning Funnies Just Landed On Your Doorstep

FRIENDS & ENTROPIES,

I really don’t care who you are, just listen to my protracted demagogic blog-personality voice:

I am a hypersensitive WATER SIGN so I will get all emotional here in the Octopus Diary. It’s okay, you can handle it, I think. I like to think you all understand where I’m coming from when I share my thoughts & words w/ you. But I know that’s an unrealistic expectation, and that some people just won’t understand, don’t have the Iron Age tools of understanding.

At their direct disposal (crematory of consciousness) garbolic sanitation demolition project. Hero.

HELLO: 

Let me start again by saying: I know I got all emotional and sassy and made broad sweeping generalizations which are a NO in this hyper-woke post-Aquarian tectonic New World Disorder shift of consciousness Age.

And like I said, that’s going to keep happening. In my proven empirical fact-checked zodiac chart there is only: WATER & FIRE.

Zero zilch nada EARTH or AIR.

So, with me you’ll get a lot of this: EMOTIONAL/INTUITIVE/PASSIONATE

And none of this: COOL/CALM/COLLECTED

But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen.

Since I got all emotional on you last time, I was actually going to do something a fair & logical AIR SIGN would do:

Write an Adventure in Reality

And, friends, I did start writing an adventure. But then I did something I’ve never done before—I bailed on it! I got halfway into it (or more, 2/3 maybe) and I said ‘I can’t do it anymore!’

The Adventure was, in a nut shell, the tale of Trump & Putin’s romance leading to WW3. It was plenty ridiculous & action packed, but…I just didn’t find it funny. It’s hard for me to joke about all this. Putin is a really scary guy (even though he looks just like my step dad). 

And though Trump will always be a bozo, his henchmen are like sentient fungi come to life, spreading grayly w/ broken capillaries all over my comfort zone.  

I joked & satirized & surrealized & subverted myself all through the Bush years, because I had a firm grasp of what those bozos were about to do next. I have no firm grasp on this slippery executive guano…

…my skullbones once fused together so nicely

now pulled apart & struggling to contain all this new shit

It’s a shell game

So many new things to know

It’s not that I thought I was done knowing new things,

but these aren’t new things & I don’t want to know them again

[Yeah, like remember in the 70s & 80s how ugly we were to gay people, minorities, immigrants, fat people? I’m glad I can’t remember any farther back than that… we’ve come forward a little ways, but now we’re lashing back like a whip…snap]

They’ve been trotting out old George Monkey Bush—the enemy-media has. Look at him! Don’t we miss this little eek-eek good-ole boy chimp w/ his acrylic on canvas atonement oeuvre?

HE LOOKS LIKE A BEADY EYED HAMSTER WHOSE CAGE WAS FLUNG OPEN AND ALL HE WANTS TO DO IS SCAMPER TO THE FARTHEST CORNER AND HUNKER DOWN. HE LOOKS LIKE HE HAS BLOOD ON HIS HANDS NO TURPENTINE WILL EVER REMOVE. SHAME ON YOU (and you, Ellen De Generes for having him on your show) GEORGE W. BUSH FOR NOT EVEN BEING A CHIMPANZEE BUT A LESSER DEMON, A TRINKET ON A PUPPET ON A WIRE IN YOUR VICELORD’s ARTIFICIAL HEARTCHAMBER!!

I HAVE NOT FORGIVEN YOU YET. Our common hatred for clowns does not make us friends. And so my enemy, since I can’t make the adventure any less real I share w/ my friends again—

SHELTER CAT & TRUST FUND BABY

Digital Distractions & Analog Rebellion

Hi Friends,

I hope you are well.

This Fall is all about waiting. Patience. Sitting still with all this loose adrenaline and crass cortisol pumping through my veins. Not just mind over matter, but mind over its own chemical output. Meditating in a garden of wasps. OMMMMM…

Each morning I do little exercises in stream of consciousness to get my mind in a more fantastic space. It seems to work and so, here are a few:

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From forgotten dream to spiking anxiety, a day that only says, "Wait." Wait in the room with chihuahua microaggressions pumping through your nervous & lymphatic systems. Wait for the benefit of the vet printing 3-d parts for your unconditional lover. Breathe backwards (or inhale) and count to seventy-two while chanting the word your babysitter gave you to chant while she was busy evolving on the phone... 9-19-15

Creepy chick molesting a guy's hand with her bare tits...

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Good Morning, Pope-star:

I look forward to your words. You're the kind of Pope who speaks not just to the ears but into the microphone of the soul. I like that you want to cure the Earth's cancer and the church's child porn rash. You disavow my dysphoria, but here's how I deal w/ that: I motor over to the Town Shopping Center and buy a hat just like yours ($9.99 at H&M). Now I feel like a pure white cock tucked in the crack of Donald Trump's bible. I love you like a brother, Human Pope-star. Here is my question for you: Is it better for a child to wash ashore in red or in a plastic bag? 9-20-15

...

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Morning migraine brings alternate universe into focus. Pain is good for that. I see the me I could've been if I'd taken all the forks in the tightrope…I'm glad I took this one, but now is now and then is losing its clout. The tightrope keeps on splitting and I can see its veiny hand lying flat on the documents that release me from the world. Stay on the right ropes and I will get there, unsafe, unsound, signing on the bottom line: Do Not Reincarnate  9-21-15

ewwww...

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My doctor died. He was 61 (which is the new 16). Last time I was in to see him, I could hear the voice of the patient in the adjacent room. It got weird as I realized he was getting a digital rectal prostate exam. Weirder still---I recognized his voice & knew who it was. I could barely hear the doctor's hushed tones, but I could hear everything the patient was saying. When the doctor finally came in to see me, I was a little unnerved by what I'd heard. And when I get anxious or stressed my voice kind of fails me. The doctor went over the results of my blood test as usual. I could tell he was not feeling well. When it came time to say good-bye he said, "It was good to see you again." And, because I was so anxious and stressed, all I could say was "urrghhh." When I found out he died, I was so upset that the last thing I said to him was "urrghhh" that I cried for 52 minutes. He was a really good doctor. Sorry this is not a stream-of-conscious masterpiece, but more of a prosaic tribute.

9-22-15

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Have a good weekend ya' all.