fetaman.com

Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Is it your league game?

There was an email blast from Tilray that was recently shared in a private capacity in a trusted community that has my attention. The medical marijuana community in fact. Tilray (*click for link) is an LP here in Canada, that included the likes of a Master Kush in their grow. An LP, is a Licensed Producer, and you can no doubt find more than enough information about the current situation in Canada. In this case, a newly appointed, and previously tenured group, joined forces and Tilray became the shining example of ‘functional’ systems. They also had a strain named Master Kush which was an “incredible 29%”, and that absolutely sold out in less than a few hours. This strain was reported to be 29%, and that can be a reasonable assumption given the ability for Tilray to test, and the fact that yes, they have been to date Canadian; but moving forward into 2015 you can be assured Privateer Holdings, and the rich-tech billionaires now looking to provide fruit bowls of chronic weed at their yacht parties that is truly ‘owned’ by them, shit will be different. I may stand tall beside some of the finest people I have had the pleasure of knowing in the organization, and can only hope their namesake is as royal as the intentions of the family which may have provided some more appropriate guidance for such an early leader. Careful, say the Greeks. Those that come early, are first to be wiped clean in the rolling histories of political correctness and likes. May not.

The fact that the majority of Tilray “gardens” are still to be sanctioned, approved, and placed into production means that at the very least, patients are looking at Tilray producing real volumes in 18-24 months, and the market is using an abacus to count the days knowing each one is a head start on the hundreds, soon to be thousands of applicants, in Canada alone. Until then, the collective they will spend the first 6 months pacing and watching, the next 6 months collectively tweaking and then maybe have some quality medicine rolled out a couple of times in the following six. That may be 12 months, and bink – hello 2017! What will NYSE or NASDAQ be doing then?

Thank you America, let’s rip up some hoser holes eh?

$14/g for the weed; for the evil grass of the past, that now, being medicinal and driven by the same invisible hands of Adam Smith’s theorists, ghosts and ongoing economic lamentations, is very much a great deal? The “prohibition bomb” cleared out the vaults, and now, the gunslingers be pulling ammo outta’assholes.

Shipping is included (*wink*), but you have to pay tax on the whole kit, and so let’s just say your daily “5 grams” (*pukes, and then tries to laugh through the dripping, drooling saliva and chunks of vomit, tries to utter words but then pukes again – fucking moraines, fields of fuqtarded by choice idiots), sorry daily just had me chuckle, is now $15.82/gram, or daily $79.10.

Incredible eh? That is the entire income for some workers in an entire shift/day…how about the sick?

Most people on disability, fighting for their lives, and truly needing help to fight the hell that is raging in their bodies, some days not even wanting to fight any longer, can not even afford to pay that in a WEEK for their food, and some, over the course of a MONTH may have that much to spend on food.

Mother of God – please let my virgin hatred right now for the machine, the wealthy pricks and diseased fuqranauts that still flaunt the arrogance of a moon landing, energy crises, terrorism thwarting a chained ‘freedom’ and even the fact that currencies can be raped and pillaged while sharing the same ink stained pages of newsprint for the heathens that do not have the interwebz…please let that just let me get back to wondering…

Over the course of a single month, this represents a tab of $2,373 for 5 ounces. 30 days. That is cash, not financed, or pre-tax. After tax, no bullshit; two thousand, three hundred, seventy-three dollars and no pennies, they are not even rounding pegs for nickels much longer.

The average income for an Ontario citizen ranges from a low of a few hundred dollars a week, to a couple of thousand a week. In this link (*http://www.statcan.gc.ca/tables-tableaux/sum-som/l01/cst01/labor93g-eng.htm) you can see, that my small summary chart helps get an appreciation for the “scope” of this cost, and how the cost that can be absorbed by a sector of the employed categories is made up of the very professions society would deem not requiring any reefer substance or good which may, or may not, produce madness.

Like Bob Marley’s name being used to promote a brand of “real ganja”; shit has gotten beyond real. We have a wet behind the ears opponent, to an asshole of huge proportions thinking he can keep the west on the trail as the rest of us wait by the rest stop. Fuck, is that the Reform party boosting the Conservative party Winnebago’s? Preston smoking some of Harper’s cone? Honk on bo-bo?

*pukes*

Category Weekly Avg – Gross Monthly Avg – Gross After tax – Net 65 Monthly MK (*5g/day) % of Avg/Month*N65

Available

Utilities 1,959.40 $7,837 $5,094 $2,373 47% $2,721
Mining, quarrying, and oil and gas extraction 1,874.77 $7,499 $4,874 $2,373 49% $2,501
Professional, scientific and technical services 1,290.57 $5,162 $3,355 $2,373 71% $982
Administrative and support, waste management and remediation services 696.17 $2,784 $1,810 $2,373 131% ($563)
Arts, entertainment and recreation 595.65 $2,382 $1,548 $2,373 153% ($825)
Accommodation and food services 361.34 $1,445 $939 $2,373 252% ($1,434)

*Categrory descriptions, they are cut and paste from the very government site(s) you can look at. These are Ontario numbers. Never let it be said The Machine did not advise the wise, lies or eyes, as it’s all just bound for demised sighs.

**No I did not forget the dollar sign in the column, it is that way to illustrate how it appears “odd” when so desensitized to the dollar sign, that magic marker of value to all those that think it matters.

 

What is very interesting is the order with which the whole chart above, pulls out a fascinating fact. Management of companies and enterprises has an average, October/2014 weekly income of $1,256.64. Again, this is per a 2014-12-12 edited, CANSIM 281-0063, Statistics Canada table. Live and direct from the Machine. This category is important, as it is just behind “professionals”, who interestingly enough lag the utility and energy ‘grunts’; and is then followed by, pardon me if I may sound fucked on this one, but followed by the glorious society improving Public Administrators. This hallowed group of Einstein’s offspring, direct heirs to his intelligence in urban planning, justice and street vendor/garage sale permit masters of the Parking Ticket Realm, shall be paid $1,244.06.

This is incredible.

Bureaucrats, somehow, that is all I can think. Please, do not think I shall harp on the arguements of the Table Masters that speak of police, and fire and all those people also fall into this category. Well, then let us make another category Table Masters. Let us be clear, and then we can see.

Do you really think, that even those people above, are in a position to devote 50% of their income, to pay for just THIS ONE SINGLE TYPE of medication?

How about those at the bottom of the chart? Do they not deserve access to the same medication, the same quality and standards? Will the government health programs not be covering these expenses? Surely, then there shall be no issue if I am audited, and hold my pockets empty and truly speak the words of poverty, for there is nothing left. Usurp my land, my money and my time, but never my dignity.

What the fuck?

How many times, and in how many forms are we paying taxes? Where is there any relief from having to pay someone for the air I breathe, the water I seek and the ability to try to provide for my own standard of a life? How the fuck did we get here? Letting the water fall, into the blue again…once in a lifetime, same as it ever was…

You want to talk about the power of compounding numbers? The fact the government can now control so much more of the “supply” by cutting back the permits, and the financial environment can kill the last hopes and dreams of any producer, even now, knowing the death toll is in the fact that one can not rush time or nature. The old supplies are dead, and in order to catch up, there will be pain, fasting and more droughts.

Parched lips can barely stand the sight of water, let alone hold the resolve to know the day may never come to taste of Gaia again.
Find the magic, and then hold it.
Preserve it in a jar, and pay the price to the Table Masters.
Canada has the West to thank for oil and bud.
They deserve all the monies and the base, bel0ngz 2dem.

You wonder why the rich get richer, and the poor still swim in the urine of the dogs the rich have to ensure the streets are filled with urine and feces, so the poor can swim in that and never bother with the rich…do you?

Cause the collective we is a bunch of monkeys trying to type Shakespeare, in every language, using only their belly buttons, and while doing so, trying to fit a Eureka vacuum into the oven door opening. This may seem off enough, but it is nothing next to the North Korean men dressed in Colonel Sanders outfits painting the walls with some SPAMcrylic latex that is sure to pacify.

Cause all the people that are sitting back right now, and able to ‘provide’ for themselves are doing so with hook, nook, book and a good look over the shoulder very frequently, hoping that parent does not die, or the party is over. No one is going to care then, and when you can not afford to even pay for your food, let alone get your critical medicine, what will happen to the parody magazines in France, and the cultures that think painting a cartoon makes it less offensive to place religious figures at the end of bad jokes, or rancid humor? Maybe there is more to the commentary than meets the eye…that kind of cause?

What about the cuzz, as in cuzz’in you best be fuckn’ witch me in the following table; the one below that was snapped from the workbook and is my own intellectual property. Welcome to noodle the numbers, they are all within range, and they all speak to the power of compounding rice.

The challenge is making sure you are on the right side of the compounding, and you have a place to ensure you speak no, hear no, and see no knievel.

So, we will start along the path of the Status Quo.

A friendly path they say, just make sure to not stray outside of the mortgage constraints of the walk on the side. This is similar to a walk on part in a war, lead role in a cage according to Floyd. This is the land of candy mountain, and sugary treats. Where Charlie is a unicorn, with a home that consumes 30% of his cash, if not 45%+, but we will be cool and believe Charlie can keep his shit together. There is some food, about 25%, and then some clothing and missinlanesforus stuffs for maybe another 25%. Seems pretty clean.

So the “real” disposable income for “health” or the Reefer Madness prescription is the remaining 20%. Assuming there is anything left that can be spent there. If not, you have to choose.

Food, or medicine; a choice any god, being, spirit or belief would call on a normal person to choose. Fuck the habitat or shelter, food follows water, then joy. We can live in the wild honey, just you and I. Love will feed us, it will keep us healthy.

All of this, while a half a billion dollar valuation is supported by another $75,000,000 of Series B capital from the same Thiel’s fund, a Founders Fund no less. According to the same sources referenced above, and to use the same numbers and projections accordingly, please note:

“Privateer is already generating meaningful revenue, although the company is not profitable. In 2014 it expects to generate nearly $11 million in net revenue, up from $1.2 million in 2013. Most of that revenue (60% to 70%) is generated by Lafitte Ventures, and the rest is from Leafly. Privateer expects to reach profitability and generate $111 million in 2015 and $440 million in 2016.”

So Charlie, is not blessed enough to pull oil or minerals from the ground, nor market them to those that find power and valuable energies from within, hell, he only wishes he could be a lowly doctor or professional in a category that is so open for manipulation through obscurity. No, Charlie is an accommodation Jedi. Warrior of the traveller’s ways, and with all the ways known to man embedded within his hospitable grasp, he claims to earn the terrible wage published by the Machine. Indeed, his taxable income is slightly higher than the number in the chart, but still less than $1000.

A nice round number it seems, to move forward now with a couple of quick jabs.

Slices, small licks that one would welcome knowing become scars across the brows of the minions fisting onion rings in the name of sexual promiscuity for all lards, greases and lubricants that hide in the shadows of YouTube cookies and pingbacks.

So, you bet.

Charlie has $200 to purchase his medicine, for the whole month.

That is not weekly, that is the whole month. If he can maximize his volume, he may be able to buy as much as 1 oz. Interesting, that to do that, he would have to get the 28 grams at $7. A figure that is thrown around as illustrative of how free people really can vote, and pick cotton, and make railways. Don’t you see?

What is missing, is that it is less than the 5 grams a day that were prescribed to help Charlie function. It seems to be in the same range as the 20% available in the equation used above. It is said, that when the holy fathers gathered in the Vatican, you know, not sexist or color blind whatsoever that group, when all the white holy fathers gathered to seek the divine signals for the next pontiff, they were met along the way with the same divine logic distilled by the pubs of content visited so frequently, songs sung by the piano man in mood for melody. Making things all right.

It does not compute.
It does not work.

The numbers are horrific, and we can simply say, that to survive – Charlie had to start borrowing some money. He had to borrow twice as much as he made every month, just to live at his current standard. That was assuming he would be able to find a place, where he could try to squeak out his interest payment. Sacrifice some milk, avoid the vegetables, eat the odd napkin or bowl of ice cubes as a snack. He no longer had his family, or his siblings. His friends had all left to live more fantastic lives in the alternate reality. Pokes, and likes and pictures of the greatest ass thanks to a genuinely disturbing invention, the Ass-Selfie Extension Stick w/Flash.

People are fucked.

The world is falling apart, and the day to day quality of life has been gutted for profit. Everyone’s a prophet Mohammed, je mais souviens…

Charlie thinks each month, the following month will be better. He remains an optimist, because he can actually recover next month. Something better will happen.

Sorry Charlie, you are about to see why the only good thing that can happen is a fast, steep fall or hollow point by chance and good fortune.

Charlie & Gus 1

You dig?

Charlie & Gus 2

It is all about making the money, funny.

Charlie & Gus 3

I know for a fact, unless you dig the cowboy hat, the ‘stache and…fuck it, may as well now swear so much…

Charlie & Gus 4

So if I smoke for one year, to be well; that means I spend the next 12 years in fiscal Hell? So the amount of time to earn a post-secondary degree will equate to 5 decades of rot? Well, the be about the same numbers The Machine affirmed.

Charlie & Gus 5

Just not real, not a chance of real.

Still.
They wait.

We don’t.

We; just bowl.
This is a league game.
So fuck their rules.

Roll.

*abide*

By

Asshole’s Hindsight

“Misery does not love company ‘traditionally’. It yokes, trammels and contains vassalage through deceitful choice masked as emotion.” – Gus

Two red darts, two girls in blue.

Seclusion, and the promise of sobriety.

Standard fair for the Ferris wheels in Leningrad, fog lifting the sanity from the perspective that shone the light of a lift, before the drop came and the masses followed suit with children born of a liturgy founded in mad beats, rapid change and seclusion within the music of the mind.

Sanity seems to have been formed by the balloon blown, covered by the asymmetric mean averages puked by an algorithm that snaps tomorrow today, before yesterday has been given the time to ferment and crate the illusions of an illustrious past. Seems as though this is not the cloak by which love is forecast to shave the balls of Fate, stroking the chalice and tasting the chocolate and corn with such flare the media seeks interviews.

Canadian? No problem, we want to keep raping your resources, claim we dig you, then fuck you in the ass when The Interview is played on the eve with which some think of Mary, a whore, taking a flaming flesh souvlaki in the hole that shall bring forth a majestic, white, male. Destined through the clouds to provide the bliss that all cultures must follow. I am the racist though, perhaps one trying to inform the world of just how truly ignorant it is when considered soberly.

Fuck your tradition and simple manipulation of a past.

The details that were left in the footsteps of fools and flounders in the fields are just that; indentations of history caressed by the free minds of those that had the fortune to control all moves upon the chess board.

It is but a grain of rice, and those are but 64 squares. I stand by my decision and my kingdoms shall suffer the fate of stupidity I am about to exhibit. This is why I am King, the hindsight. As my Queen, she is sight. Follow our deleveraging of a regulation within this utopian sanity deemed a market. Justify 18,000 points as a heated manipulation of the economic strength that is flexed daily, as the masses buy magazines and bury time in the sand like the head it was to be by the choices they chose to oblige.

Looking back at the year, a snarl greats the first thirsty reflections; crowns upon the Crown Royal, salutations to the nights of frenzy and rage. Syphoned medications sit idly in the cupboard for days until their ghost gasps, push buttons and call upon Gus’s of the world to throw gasoline upon the pyres. Rubber tires, and vile language to bring a sobering reflection back from the mundane passive.

Chants of freedom, and the ability to speak are the pillars by which the temples of knowledge are shared, so many unseen and forgotten – doomed to be repeated in the passed negligence that was intentional, smitten, and of spawn. The horrors of racial profiles, and gun violence – spoken of years ago in one voice (*link to my piece), seemed to be lost in the Billboard 1000 Charts. I stand by them, still saddened by the ignorance that persists as governments allow the tires to be soaked. Recycled with fire.

Shit has to go somewhere, and when touched by fire every asshole will clamp shut. It is an autonomous reaction, like taking a piss when you shit. Just happens. The problem is, when the asshole is clamped shut, and it continues to feed off the fossilized sanitations of a global conscience, it will explode. Fuck, if it were anything but an asshole, it may have had the foresight to avoid taking in whatever would, or could cause such a problem. If it were anything other than an asshole, it might not be sitting here reflecting on the hindsight of an asshole.

I mean, upon presentation of the concept, or the ability to create a parody of the Nutcracker filled with all the madness you could imagine, I first was angered, then flattered to be able to given the opportunity to show that two cheeks could make life an entire universe, from the perspective of an asshole. It has a fixed position this asshole, it seems, as though all assholes do. If they did not, then they would have be referred to as ‘x’hole, where ‘x’ represents the infinite range of locations that can occupy the body of a living being, to expunge shit. Bile, refuse, piss. The excrement most often associated with political press releases, big ticket philanthropy, and manufactured poisons of all ilk.

Fucking awesome, right?

Well, wait.

It even gets better.

Turns out, the real twist on this story is that the asshole whose hindsight I was going to be reporting on, actually was a speaking asshole. A limited audience, and his impact is not so great as to truly matter, I mean, seriously – who the fuck is going to give any credibility to a talking asshole? Laughs? Sure. Impossible not to laugh at anything an asshole has to say, poor bastard has had a lifetime of assholes before him representing just about every facet of shit possible. Life is a remix.

How does an asshole stay relevant in the information, and mind occupation race?

Are you aware of the shit that is coming out of your mouth?

Does the taste of corn and peanuts bother you during any of your deliberations, arguments, or daily wishes of good-anything from day to night and all in between?

What is the ingredient in rye alcohol that makes all assholes rage?

The one thing that was required of me was to read Wolff’s ‘In Defense of Anarchism’, as well as appreciate the fact that most refined assholes, or those that believe that they are smarter than the average assholes, tend to take a lot of tangents, and the one I was going to be discussing hindsight with was particularly intrigued with Wolff’s IDOA work in 2014. This was likely a profound reaction to some serious of events, or a collection of them in totality from a broader delta of data points over time I was told, and I had to run with that. I was now considering how much of a challenge this was going to be, and was I going to be any better of a person for being able to be the furthest thing from this kind of asshole I could be?

Well it appears as though 2-15 provides the man in the mirror with an opportunity to pass the relish. Spread it and weep, fuck it. In the grand scheme of the universe, it has math to fuck hardily. Reach around, full on fuck. Screw the silence and the security, for the naive and the naive. Do you think you can tell, heaved and a mighty swell? A file from a nail, a walk on part in the scar, or the lead foil in a sage brush?

You think you can tell?

The real anger, the frustration is in listening to the water tell us it had nothing to do with the rounded edges of the rocks. The shores, they were craved from the carvings of the actions each rock took, the stance and the lack of action. That, that indeed is what shaped the oceans and the spleens.

Ne’er one fret to the pace, it is all but a relative.
Capsule, capped fool; tricks were for kids.
Still, into the night said the perfect knight.
Shame, it was a lie.
Forbidden into the lair, high.
Scared.
So it bursts, capitulation with a side of bravado.

Fuck, the walk is nowhere near as long as the song that is sung.

Starving people but a headline on the pages.

The man walks into the clinic for a nut sack tuck.

The trauma is equaled only by the drama.

Of the ride, but one promised by a llama.

Fuck this magic carpet ride is gonna abide; you can tell by the other side.

Fetaman's Abide - Miracle of Life Ehknew

*abide*

By

Committed. Abide.

Just another day, and to be sure, it is.

One that I am grateful for having lived, in fact, there is more to that “statement” than meets the naked eye; fawn too a meadow of imagined vines climbing towards the love of frothy hope. Gates to a heaven, taxed with sins.

Heaven is spelt with a silent capital U.

Think about it.

Upon a wooded row, there stood a small insect that appeared. It asking for directions on how to reach the road he asked for. He would not accept my answer, nor the call to my trusted best friend over and over again.

Funny how so many fools suffer the Websters-WebMD Fuqtard misconception that Abide is a passive state, simply.

Fondue logic dripping down the spine, usually is a bad sign about the quality of the company you keep.

Feel your spine.

Do not move, no scratching.

Feel.

Alive.

Now close your eyes.
Forever, ok?

Yes, if I was asked to, but my truest love and companion would be there in all of the trillions of seconds I sense she is, and yes.

Yes, I would.
I will.

Wood, you…will do, and I am grateful for you. I have walked across a plane fertilized, stones committing to Semedori and trees remain grateful for the glancing winds of antique trails. Time, the tyrant who is mute, ability surrendered by a will Kings of Kings profess, serpents to the works that all fall, never as mighty as a despair. (*oz link)

Visage, voyage, voussoir castings left for those still eager to find a meaning litter the sacred corners of the cortex and dolomite steeples.

Strike for a match,
strike for a game.
Strike for the rights,
professed by the sane.

Sure, you provide the back, I will strike the purple tip, cuticle of a circumcision reefed with sulfur. The deeper the lick, the deeper the depth of each vertebrae lodged.

Where?

Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you Tomorrow.

You know, just a day away.

*abide*

hbdf.c18mtPi

By

Bacon Masturbation, 31 days.

The Baconbate Experience (TBE)

It is hard today, with all of the traditional porn looking to stretch the limits and somehow engage the generation that was born to masturbate more.

It is what has helped quell wars, set nations back on the path of not burning ethnic people at the stake, so the condemned could be burned at the stake. It was a suffering that brought us to today, do you think heretics allowed you buy your bread fresh for at least 10 days if you keep the small plastic snap on the right way after the twist, as you wonder – should I jerk off, before of after this sandwich?

Sandwiches naturally produce the jerk off question.
Proven by the Gallop-Knuckle Pull, a pole by most other actions.

Please, let me cut to the chase.

Each of the following 31 moves were going to be used in a book, they may still be so, as I retain the right and the ownership of my content.

I had to prove that masturbating 31 times, in a single month (*easy by most standards, very actually) – but I had to do this with bacon, raw or cooked, in some manner.

It was the hardest $1,000 I had earned, but I figured. Few are actually given sperm donor wage, for chunking at home and taking the odd snapshot of bacon in Secret pantyhose. Don’t worry, there are 5 ways pantyhose are needed, and two involve boiling and cooling the bacon before jerking off with it.

Be warned.

This is not for the weekday horoscope crowd looking to justify a sad existence.
This is for those of us, the few, the bold, the pioneers.

The day someone defines how, when, what, where and why I am chunking the magic curtain in an epileptic fit of wax-on/wax-off…ko-knee-chi-wa.

  1. Marble ball; the bacon is pushed through an olive pitter, creating a creamier mix. The mash is pressed into 6 melon ball scoops that are dipped in liquid nitrogen to create small ben-wah balls threaded with floss. A flaming stick is inserted into the colon before the string is placed in, the Recipient needing to ask “why” it must be real may scream for help. This is religion for some.
  2. Salt Sponge; layers of coral sponge are sliced into equal size and strips of bacon, they are then woven together, and steamed in a dim-sum steam basket after they have been rolled in Judaic salt from the Dead Sea. It is critical that the fluid has tears from 6 virgins, 3 male/3 female, so that they remain blessed by the same God that allows them to think the sun rising on their corrupt factory is going to allow them to succeed. It is gently used over the sexual organs as various ancient languages are muttered by the practices of the freedom chosen.
  3. Squeezed Jam; in a crock pot, beer is allowed to be the primary Sea for the bacon to melt within. Doing so, allows the final jelly to be of a beautiful texture. Most tourists agree, or 7/10, that indeed the feeling is best described as “nutella in my soul” – please do not ask more about this, it is perhaps one of the worst ways to experience it, but it must be told. Thrice annually we speak of it, twice you have a choice to attend beyond vespers. Those are for the selected ones, and all have been pre-qualified with a medical exam.
  4. Bacon pads: large mounds of brisket are baked at varying temperatures to mimic the foam padding used in 1980’s high schools, hoping more machismo would fuel future generations of hope, Tom Cruise pre-Scientolichlamydius, and rancid NSA taps. *although dozens of other agencies need to be noted at STD inducing, and UCLA is expected to announce a Ghostbuster study about said bullshit, but only after the Cliff’s bar announcement is made. Arnold said he has more back now than ever, ola Pepe; By allowing small extensions in the corner of the pads, tickling items can cup the balls, or be wired for clit-action, and provide hands-free, public transit masturbation.
  5. Pork Swiffer; seriously, have to explain this? Put bacon on the bottom of the Swiffer, Mountain Scent is the best, and then proceed to mop the floor. Jizz, or squirt in front of you, then cook bacon when done. Give to neighbor you hate. Fucker needs to enjoy with alcohol free beer.
  6. Toes ‘n goes; using small origami folds, tiny Booklets of Bacon are left in the toes, during a shower. Not for the weak of heart, the water must be scalding and you can use Crisco or butter for the soap, but be liberal. In the Basque regions, scallops can be placed between the thicker toes, or the longer second/dominant toe that most men are said to own when they are fucking whipped, net weight not a factor. Deep Scottish roots claim, inhabitants of the moors used to bake bread in the sealed cracks of their asses, in ancient times, but Jacque Caruso did not find proof, although was deeply satisfied according to his handlers.
  7. Bacon Icecumber; the inner shaft of the cucumber is peeled to allow smooth (*can be skin on, but be aware of potential hemorrhoid implications if soothing balms are not available) interaction as the juice of the bacon wrap melts, along with the core. The key to making this “bacon baton” is the wrapping method, and either the Captain Morgan’s Spiced Bum method or the Tequila Meatworm approach work best.
  8. Giving the Cat Some ‘Tupper; a variation of the famed “Giving the Cat a Bath” sex move, it allows a small hole to be cut into a Tupperware bowl of appropriate size to fit the preferred piece of flesh be dipped, squeezed is just as important an adjective so use soft Tupperware, or Rubbermaid shit, you want to avoid cutting anything (*or choose to, but, fuck choice is a personal mandate) and have some fun with it. One note of interest, is that most people past certain ages fail to allocate enough space in the container for the SF (Sag Factor, or sulferus fuqnastiness) and should use the same system as paint, wallpaper, and upholstery by providing an extra 10-15% of their best estimate.
  9. OJ’s Bacon Coiler; another boiled approach. This one should involve a bacon bee-nest-bun approach for more effect. Think “I Love Lucy” hair, and Ricky ramba-Cuban. The only way to get sexy time in solitary, and do push ups, is to scream with each thrust, “This fit the bacon glove?” and push harder. White Bronco wallpaper would add for a wild trip on this approach, and not my thing, but fuck, no filter.
  10. Foreman Sear-it & Moan; a rather harsh approach to finding the line between different and bored, the participant wraps genitals in bacon and begins to gyrate to Wham, some going to the elaborate lengths of even going to the local discount grocer who has you take the garbage from the store for free instead of letting the Cardboard Monarchy charge ’em for the privilege so that you can create bathroom stalls in your kitchen or near a noted outlet. Closing in on the maximum temperature of the grill you desire, pre-squirt the hot plate – place genitals in Foreman. Slam it shut. Keeping in for long durations and being chained to the grease dish are all approaches you may want to discuss with your mistress/mister.
  11. Porky Klingon; using one of the dozens of pre-cut egg carton sections you have saved, hand painted, and dusted with Betty Crocker Frosting and candy bits, and using the thick blue elastic from the broccoli, thereby turning it into a Porky the Pig nose, gently sew bacon on to your ears in the form of a Klingon. Experience dictates you sew the first pieces on the counter, shape them, then use just a few piercings to minimize scaring and marking that may have you appear abnormal at the abattoir.
  12. Bacon Duster; using your favorite scent of Pine-sol, dip the bacon strips into the dilution after it has been tied firmly using fabric coated pipe cleaners. Note, some use color here, or go for the barbed style, decorate as you wish. Maids dress in relevant garb and dust the dirtiest parts first allowing any pieces that fall to be marinated in the sheets. Yes, plastic wrap was a good idea to mention heads up, but it may have prevented you from being so engrossed you can only now imagine that bacon being in a hollandaise lobster Benedicked.
  13. 007-F: *Classified*
  14. Bacon Battleship; floating barges of bacon, of various sizes and crispiness (*buoyancy, steerability, wave motion attributes that will come as close to plastic grids with holes on them, and a disposition to always think of masturbation conditions in das Boot) are in a bathtub. Bubble bath Islands can act as imaginary rock, or be tiny bubbles that can not stand the force of the shot from your “ballteship” or “haircraft carrier”.
  15. Oasis Sandpaper; adding some natural sand, if you wish, or simply using very crunchy bacon that has been Guerilla Glue(d) to cheesecloth. Various grits will be achieved based on size, temperature and duration of crisping the bacon. Purists of this technique cry at the “baconstardation” of those fucking bastards who do not cook the bacon naked. Camel noises are tribal, and various tones of them will denote if you should fear the faux cheese hump, or embrace it for the culture it contains. Creamy, dreamy culture.
  16. Princess Crown; good for either sex, this Crown can be pre-made and snap-deep fried, or can be baked around a mound made from tinfoil. Using various body parts of your self, or a 2nd knowing/unknowing party is ok, but make sure if you are moving beyond 1st person planning or involvement you have consent or a well soaked cloth from various dollar store solvents. Some say adding a pea under the mattress, pillow or cushion may add that extra royal diversion/dalliance.
  17. Pork Monk (Nun); a gown is prepared and dried in a constructed and blessed hut in the back yard. It is custom shaped, and although there are moments of elation, no official Rosary-gyrations are initiated until the first appearance of the full garb worn, usually on the first whole moon following the addition of the tassels. Often, this can be a swingers festival of sorts, and many different Monks and Nuns become possessed by the bacon, not inventing so much as incantationing some delicious uses for bacon few dare to examine. Some “nuns” enjoy crosses of sorts, and then send those off into the web, never sure where they end up – but the sweet, sweet details.
  18. Bacon Generals; one of my personal favorites because it allows me to pretend I worked for the NSA. Pre-record a series of direct commands that sound like you are in control of a series of flying documents that surround your current space, or the Air Tower Common Objective Control Zone (ARCOCZ). While showing a line up of bacon your Internet browser history, shout at them. As each begins to glaze over from your rage, insist they suck and should have found out more about Snowden before he left the Teflon coated fence perimeter.
  19. Bacon Keller; easy to say, hard to do. While desperately thumbing through a phone book, eyes covered in bacon and angrily stroking it, screaming – “Why did I have be born with the Keller-Bacon gene?”
  20. Da Tube; depending on experience, paper towel tubes can be used but you are cautioned to begin with toilet paper tubes. In a pair of black business socks, pulled to no lower than at least knee-cap, see how much bacon you can shove into the “cardboard” subway/tram along with your unit. In the case of orifice insertion, add some garlic and see how long you can “ride that tube” before dropping into a pre-greased muffin tin. Scoop pre-mixed okra/raisin muffin mix and clean up. Get to the recreation lounge before the opening Vanna wave. Remember the margarine and plastic knife for the TV tray in order to not miss vowel purchase tension as you hear their compliments. Fools.
  21. Sybian Pancetta; for the Robb Report masturbation aficionado, there can be very few holy pounds, and this custom machine not only has stainless steel tenderloin pans, pine tree/metallic/green/with round head bolt-screw things stained with eggnog, and variable convection wave prongs, but when flown to Spain in first class, and then transported as the only passenger in a Lamborghini driven by the sex of your choice, over 80% of purchases at this stage involve discrete interactions with the most famous drivers, Mario and Luigi. No coincidence, they have the same cocksmith as Ron Jeremy and Ron Burgundy. Ride at the tempo and duration of your choice.
  22. KBCO; Keep Boffin’, Chives On. Best timed with favorite posts on various Fuck-I-Wish-I-Was-21-Again websites, and various dairy product sales. Fresh chive/ettes are always preferred, but freeze dried, collagen infused or silicon injected/molded versions can be used for the lamer, or more remote followers of this cult like fascination.
  23. The Love Boat; a tribute to Isaac, the first globally loved, black, cruise bartender. Using black Secret pantyhose, thread the barbed end of the prepared curled bacon into the pre-shaped headpiece, create a glorious wig/fro and practice that wink. The same approach can be used for the more traditional crackers on the show, Julie, Doc and Captain Stabbing but with less glowing of soul.
  24. Bacon Receptionist; you can call the office, or the garage what you want – fuck, be an accountant for all I care. The essence of this is about making sure the Receptionist is dressed in the sweetest outfit you fetish for, and is made entirely of bacon. Various cuts, smoked varieties and even food color can make for the most surreal pork piñata you have left some extra spice in. Ability to handle dictation, or muffcrophone checks is a solid option.
  25. Baconboarding; a little bit of double on this one, and two groups posted the same word on the same day, at the same time, in what is argued to be the Prime Meridian Clock Adjustment case of the year. The first group insisted that is mimics the military style of abuse, and bacon that has been liquefied into contents that appear to have the texture of the stuff those girls had in the cup. Breathing becomes hard, and there is an aspect of hurried hope to climax at the right time, often the most riskier of the two, as it may involve a more immediate risk of death, or a desire to attend weekend porcelain doll festivals. Porkpaddles Inc, was incorporated on the day in question, and at the moment of releasing their entire online catalogue of bacon cured fetish paddles (*the Beavermelter, Brokeback Mount’em or Ojumba’s Big Saddam have become the top sellers) were greeted by a very odd Google result. The dispute remains open, but they agree to the Atlantic and Pacific Accord, a convention that allows Ocean’s to flow to their own pace.
  26. Crazy G. Lou; ‘Crazy’ Georgie Loukanikopoulos, CGL for short, was a big fan of John Belushi, known chronic masturbator in his father’s fleet of ice cream trucks, and even ended up having a move he was famous for being caught in, named after him. Lining the canal of a foe’s stolen sheep, or lamb, with convection oven moisture, he would sit back with a bacon/tinfoil hat on his head, singing old Greek village tales of lost loves, and lonely nights. To imagine how difficult this was, most normal sized males would have to strap on the equivalent of 32 lbs. of bacon.
  27. Puttin’ on da Bacon; squeezing into your old hockey uniforms, staring at old trophies and pucks from past glories, insert the Queen “We Are the Champions” cassette. Staring at your Slapshot poster, take on the roll of one of the players, or the coach, and proceed to strap bacon to your knuckles forming a CCM glove receptacle worthy of a Dr. Pepper and some late night sparks.
  28. Pin the Bacon on the Donkey; as easy as it sounds, just like the old birthday game we all remember, but this involves drawn shades, the bottom end of an old school cotton broom head with “x” amount of inches (*based on comfort, and desire for various textures) for inserting the mock tail, and then using bacon and as many clothes pins or hemming pins you are comfortable with using on the number of pieces you want to pin to yourself. In either, one of the two hands is going to be feeling like it is not yours, trust me.
  29. Mykonos Blunt; good for either, or any sides of the fence – a favorite for many hermaphrodites. Using a fine quality rolling paper (rice, hemp, bamboo) layer oregano, kush and bacon around the core of the “meat blunt”. Using suspender dental floss tied around the nipples if needed, load that smoke-ready rocket and pretend you are Survivorwo/man looking to make friction the heart and soul of your “OPA!”
  30. Beach Bacon Blanket; it is about rubbing that bacon blanket over the frosted glaze you placed on that beach of pubis. L’Oreal or Just for Men, frost to Annette or Frankie, but avoid the Brylcreem it can create a fungal infection. Women employing this technique on a beach have been reported to have cultivated pearls in various vaginal crevices, while men who have reported sensations similar to tooth sensitivity, but for the helmet of their unit.
  31. NASA Bacon; lay out the strips of bacon around the room of your choice, and light accordingly. Try to emulate the moon as close as you can, digital technology is more advanced than in 1969. Gluing multiple smart-phone boxes to the bottom of flip-flops in advance, with small tacks inserted to keep hold of the wax paper boot straps, which connect to an entire titanium* (*Reynold’s tinfoil, or a generic rip off you have pretended to smelt during episodes of any post-dinner time game show of choice) space suit. You can customize the suit with any stickers, or special prizes from the bottom of cereal boxes, even play some music. Care should be used with any of the Star Wars, Star Trek or Space Odyssey sound tracks.

Go on, hover over each day.

Just another small playlist of delights, sounds and small gigs.

Right?

*abide*

By

Winner Take Nothing, he said.

After the storm, a clean, well-lighted place.

The light of the world.
God, rest you merry.
Gentlemen, the sea change – a way you’ll never be.
The Mother of a Queen.
One reader writes, homage to Switzerland.
A day’s wait.
A natural history of the dead wine.
Of Wyoming – the Gambler, the Nun, and the radio…fathers and sons.

Alone in my thoughts.
Wishing for nothing but a year in the presence of greatness.
Perhaps in the place they call blessed.
A silent bow, an honored smirk to Ernest tales.

Violent cuts of the mind,
spliced images in a kaleidoscope coffin,
edges holding the fine scotch for you,
a raft to the next dimension.
14:12 25813

*abide*

By

Andagram.

Kerouac said, “Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.” Although likely a great remix of thought from the past, his ability to bring it forward in a real way impacted many roads, for many miles, and many more to come. Truth is, he was smirking, and remains so in his grave, knowing of those who wish to start their own trend or fad, or be part of another one under another name for the sake of fame and glory, and some kind of worldly need. To be part of a machine, known or not – as oppressed as it sounds, I wonder if Animal Farm would agree?

Orwell argued, in his fantastic treatise that great things would only be accomplished through trends, and fads and fabrics that united the causes. Was he suggesting that this was contrary to what we believe as individuals is what make our jobs, and our pens whole, but in reality, we graze on the meadows of houndstooth walls and metallic lumber implanted with copper veins? Is the juice, that precious juice that travels with the nutrients fed back to the leaves that fall in the forest, and if so, does the NSA hear when they fall? Will my voice be heard, in the roar of all those united to occupy the malcontent of the minds and the masses before the Happy Hour at the ATM? Quick, trade the shirt for libations of conformity, but knock thrice – you won’t get in without the hair on the chin, unless o’er da ‘air a doig, um.

Syntax is supposed to be about pleasing another, and not the fury of your own mind. Correct it, move on. Enjoy, life is short. Of course, learn how long that life is based on the need to approve. They approve grammar now also, in most cases, unknowingly to lead the recipient to believe that logic can be induced from a non-comatose state, or a walking parish state. Prey.

Trust sharpened to the edge of a taint sickle. There once was a day I had more trust for the world that lay behind these screens, now filled with just another killer of time, with stars and search histories that will dictate what your divorce proceedings will look like. Fear not, divorces are like bad knees. We all get them, just in some cases, later or in different parts of our bodies. This is what age does, or creates. Like money and rust, it too never sleeps. I prefer time of the three but that is not something we can cook in a stew and sit around some Yorkshire pudding speaking of the great days your facade was not well masked, but few can know that. Keep me on the outside, I will only promise to look in when it is time for the knod. You will know. The tap will be faint, but the cards will not fade. They have been aware of the night as long as the days alchemy. Brother. Such a taint sickle.

Africa. The land of the madness, some kind of wild frontier. A land, where people have little of anything, and are grateful for it. I have a sense of calling there, perhaps as a final wish, it will be there I give myself over to helping in the only way that may seem just for a person who is of the cut I am. The line has taken a different angle, and the light dances in a new way, so I remain in a place to allow my hands to be but tools of a greater, selfless calling. Philanthropy does not require a black tie, or a tiny cocktail that has evaporated water. The water would have been consumed before it was given a chance to boil.

Nourishment. A small cafe you had to walk into hoping for the hamburger, or the fine salad. Looking to be able to satisfy the craving for the quick meal, something to pay over hunger with until the paving company came in to make it a more permanent mental decision. Then it becomes autonomous, like the lies. The proliferation of the manifestations that seem the entire dress together. Gown on a clown, send ’em in. We got to the show on the road. The left stage will enter first tonight, we have a Guyanese diplomat in the front row with a row of dates hoping he smiles at one of them. A diamond crusted box of McNugget’s is available for the winner, and she can choose whatever sauce of her fancy. The condition is easy. Sip or drip from the right box or straw, or keep your mind and remain a pauper in excise.

Tried, tested and laid to rest. Yes, I like that. It allows me the ability to sit like a modern Platonion. Layers peeling back the ability for you understand the context, the whole story, as I profess to but I have the right boards and can cast the magic spells with the cats, and the scammers and the delights. Yes, listen closely, or don’t listen and then come here one day, and see the “code” was just writing on the wall. The book. That is the tell all. That is where the real magic happens. It goes without saying, I have to thank all of those that have participated so far. The story is shaping up as nicely as the other houses, I just think my cards are little bit thicker, and I am well aware of math and origami. May I have the last brownie?

I really wonder what Umbrellahead is doing right now. Gus grabbed ’em. Fuck.

Nutella they said. It would stop the sun. You could blend in, look like a tourist that had moved there 17 years ago at least, trying to adopt to the island ways. It sounded like a good idea, and having read the book Black Like Me in grade 3, in French. Strangest part of the French classes were the curry smelling recorders we had to play. They floated in front of the curtain and you had to grab them quick, there was only one usually though. If more came they tended to taste and smell like socks. Odd. I was never good at the recorder. Hated it. Like having to put the Nutella back on every 5 minutes AND it has sand in it. Unless you are rich. I guess.

Oblectation. The enjoyment, the pleasure that came – was it worth it? Walk with a smirk. Bread. Wine. Fish fingers. Hear the lamentations of your weak geometry calculations before me. Clutch in. Grin. This is the path you take along the route of the festering cobblestone to profess a romantic love for the scratching, the plague and the dire times that seem so much better. Filled with the romance and flooded ways of the canals that are to bring the professed oars that break glass. Hydrogen twice, oxygen nice but puppy dog tails are not meant to be for amusement of spoiled or unattended domesticated apes.

*abide*

By

Tread abide, heavily.

“Tread lightly.” Walter White

“Resist much, obey little.” Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I had the pleasure of meeting many great people as of late, some of them just happened to fall into the shadow of the ash that fell from the mushroom cloud. It was a long time coming, I knew it was in there – it was just a matter of the fuse being lite, and time being syphoned into a counterclockwise whore dancing as the rye flowed through the funnel and caught fire.

Flames licked the soul, feet burned on the coals and the voices in the head fought for some kind of space to come spinning out of the turnstile of profanity that came forth. Flesh was pressed for the sake of feeling a pulse, hoping it matched the beat in the blue vein on my cock. Beacons in the lonely night hoping there would be a reason to reach out and look at Pat Bentsofar, her ass a lonely heart in the night Yes might seek out backstage for a tuning of the right fork or the long neck.

Resting in the place of this fire, fighting to keep the words from rushing to every porous oracle in my body, oozing out no regard for the perimeter or the environment. Want of nothing but the ability to occupy the seconds that search for another way in, or out. Meaning in the motion of having to occupy the fire, halved for a period of time to move forth to another dimension, dementia the flavor of the sherbet. Lemons.

Ade?

No such word, looked it up.
Saw the picture of the black dude from Snatch.
Laughed.

“The grass is fucking orange.” Gus Xortopoulos

I am in the thirteen year of Hell.
There will not be a fourteenth.
It shall end now.
I shall end now.
Eyes dance.
I surrender – nothing.
Keeping it all.
Showing, but not surrendering.
Eyes sing.
2013.

I swear by my very life, this will be the case and yet am still not assured of you being here to listen.

The reasons, they will all be told.
Have been, now I have to edit.

Must I have to keep buying time from some of the queries, another weak offer that included a bottomless supply of Tabasco. I told them any good writer has salt and red blood to use for his Caesar.

Boils, zits, self inflicted cuts – accidents.

There is always a bloody, fuck you Mary somewhere.
Words cut.

All ways.
Always.

To doubt this is to not have soul, no passion. No life or love for the word.
The fight for it.
The feel of it as a sword, or a feather – but, in the arena possessed.

Held.
Measured by time, and then what?

Tired, and have been of so much – so wanting to just keep running and hiding in the busy days of repainting, or hoping there could be a call to vent about another fucking PTA event that would provide a fresh wheel for the cart. A way to keep the mask clean of the dust and the oblivion found on the road…so cold…so tired.

Can we sleep here?

Those that wish, may.
Discretion is their own, like mine.

I will sleep when I am dead.

I will live, when I can.
I will abide, heavily.

Informed consent is not something that is agreed upon in a moment of allowing a faulty argument to be made about consequences of actions, and doing the same thing. The risk and reward of many things come from one kind of action, and not another. Find the truth in the darkest of the spaces, wonder not why they hid them there. Wonder why you had to seek something in the space, and how you had planned to benefit from it – other than to simply give it life. Give it purpose.

My time on will change, you have seen it do so in the last year.
I yours, if.

It will continue to do so over the coming months.
Always does.

Fascination with meaningless numbers no longer binds the elements of sunshine and rain, joy and stain.

It is time for the beautiful grass.

So pretty, such a nice dream.
It must mean spring has sprung, and yes.
Yes, to your yes.

Such a very fine guess.

Wrong, but a fine guess.

Yes.
Yes to your yes.
I just have to write alone for the days and nights, but we can sit and talk.
I will speak, you will listen and praise me.
Tell me there is good in all that is done.
Hand me a buttered scone and provide a tea to warm the throat, now parched from lack of spirits.

Drunk on life again.
Mad on the intoxication of the words.
Treating me like the whore I am.
I have become.

A slave to the need to see them appear, and then leave.
Never satisfied, never aware.

Care.

Fucked by Rye, and left as the doorstep of another frat house of eternal brothers and tales to tell of the vulture that circles overhead.

Fucking birds.
Eat the meat, it is safe.

Just ash.

We all turn to dust anyway.
Even pages, words – will now change.

Find misery in the dark cinema, touching itself in the right places as the screen plays another black and white epilogue of Laurel proving his partner and he are characters.

Silver screens no longer functioning for what we thought, and you ask my why I simply do and see as I do, unaware of the rage that is chased on the tales.

Fucking beast, chasing his rage on the tail of a typewriter.

One mode, and much of it.

Get sum.

“All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain. If the greatnesses are in conjunction in a man or woman it is enough…the fact will prevail through the universe…but the gaggery and gilt of a million years will not prevail. Who troubles himself about his ornaments or fluency is lost. This is what you shall so: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body…” Leaves of Grass

*abide*

By

Umbrellahead.

The reason it is so big, is not just the contents. I think it has something to do with keeping the rain off the shoulders, I don’t like rain on the shoulders. Feels the coldest of all the places that rain settles, the wind just brushes it a certain way there. Makes it more bitter, harsh – but that did not matter.

I have an umbrella head, and I am not talking about a head like a big one, or a round one. I mean a head, that was actually stretched into looking like a hammerhead shark tried to come out the vajayjay and got caught on some sixties untrimmed bush, creating this bone like frame similar to that of the inside of an umbrella, and it was to that my skin and brain formed in the baby years.

My name is Umbrellahead.

Hard to grasp, but just imagine an umbrella that is over your head, but it is not over really, it starts right at the top crown of my abdullus camelgotta. The good news, it is not convex to the body, but concave. I came out head first, got that to be thankful for.

I won’t bore you with all of the details that became challenges in life. Early in it, pretty much called cute. It was a novelty, and it was amazing. I was special, and loved it. The kids always picked me first for soccer and baseball teams knowing I could keep them dry in the field if they ran under my head. Wind was not a problem in those days.

As other people waited for the rain to stop, I happily stood beside the BBQ, eating the hot dogs innocently with the chosen few to stand around under the “halo”. We would laugh, and laugh.

Of course, this began to change more as I got older. The cruel comments started in grade 6 to be exact. I commented on Becky’s Road Runner jeans, and she said the first mean thing to me that day. I never really understood it. I knew it made me feel bad, but why?

“If your second head looks anyone near as fuqtarded as that umbrella one you are never getting laid Umbrellahead.”

The words still ring in my head. Did she mean my umbrella head was my second head, and the first one made me ugly enough that no girl would ever let me touch, let alone get into those Road Runner jeans? Was there some kind of hidden meaning here? Was she talking about the head of the magic souvlaki that I was gifted with? No, that was shaped like the smile of an angel. Odd, very odd.

I am sure most of us know the coming of age for a young boy will start in and around grade 6. This is the time that he begins to discover the sexy raincoats in the JC Penny catalogue, or those patterned umbrellas from the L.L Bean booklet they always mail you for the shitter. Best place to bloke stroke as a young umbrella headed person, and it never dawned on me until that fateful day, that perhaps I was different.

That was all it took.

One hot, Road Runner jeans wearin’ buttertart.

My confidence was shaken and the world was about to come crashing down.

The next dozen plus years were like stubby bottles and bacon grease. Drink the bottle, fill it with the pork bellies drippings that no one wanted previously, but now were declared delicious by the machine – it had to drip somewhere, and the lowest common denominator may as well make something happen with it as the gruel of life was to be both tolerated and celebrated.

People would throw things at me, and stare. I would be ignored, or pushed out of line. I was told I had to move, or be thrown into the recycle bin cause no one loves a deformed umbrella.

Harsh.

It did not matter that I had a heart, or was a man that simply had an umbrella head but could lift eight times his body weight. Spoken word, math or agricultural discussions flowed like the Pacific shaking hands with the Atlantic – but it did not matter. Polite to a fault, wanting to make sure all could sit, or the door was open, or the line up was not an issue, please go ahead – but it did not matter. A great CSR, with a penchant for solving any problem, with no additional costs, manipulation, lies, malcontent, malodorous management mantras or the like – nope, not a fuckin’ matter.

He would still be mocked and taunted. Pushed and pulled to move away from someone quickly before they ‘called the police, or whatever we call to deal with your kind’ – life, it seemed had changed for me.

The only time, and I mean the only time people were nice to me was during rain storms or rainy days, the bad windy and snowy ones, or even on the odd scorching hot day when there was no shade to be found anywhere. Of course, it would be my pleasure to allow the top of my umbrella head to get sunburnt in order to make sure yours does not. I want to stay out here and do this, so you can take an iPhone pic of me on the corner of Queen/Yonge with 13 people huddled under me after you have left my comfort to find your home in the wet masses going home to loved ones. I want to get on that trolley, but by the holy laws of Zeus, no need to push these folks away.

I have no loved ones, and may as well feel good and get the smiles and best wishes now.

Assumption: this was going to be the way that my life was going to change from being a fun loving child, to a utilitarian tool that would be there to be used as required, and then tossed aside. Never cleaned, or cared for. Never held with a pride and an esteem that my great-great-uncle in London was. He had been born with a walking stick as an arm, it accompanied a wonderful gentleman around Essex County and the surrounding woods everywhere. Bringing adoration and prestige.

Not me.

I had to be born into this day and age. The one where Fonzi had ruined what was traditionally cool, and artists like Mickey Avalon spoke about “their dicks” like it was some kind of custom, orthotic rubber shoe cover.

My life as a man with an umbrella head had turned into a nightmare. I had no choice, and even went to the doctor so I could see what she could give me. She said son, son you have gone to far, been smoking and trippin’ – betchya there are fairies that you have seen also? Yes, I said, a fairy with boots dancing with a dwarf. She gave me some Celexa. I will never forget the day.

It was the Sabbath. It was black.

Everything changed after that. I just went into drone mode. I allowed people to snap pictures of them with me, laughing outside but crying inside. Sometimes I would make elephant man noises, and speak of not being an inanimate. No one heard over the clicking of the lens or the laughter. I got into the groove of feeling what my shoulders would be like at the end of the day, having to turn this way and that to go through doors or try to use the bathroom stall. Do you know how hard it is to have to hold yourself up with two arms on the stall walls and then Turkish hover shit into the bowl a few feet below? Sure precision on the bowl is important, but if those legs start to swing or the shoes get in the way, I got some cleaning up to do later.

*sidenote – bullshit more people don’t have handicap stalls, but the fucked up thing about those is the toilet is right beside a wall and I still have to contort to the left or the right, and sometimes the tip of the umbrella touches the floor and I have to go home and use the acid-infused shower to rinse the disgusting juices of bathroom floors off.

Life was miserable, but it was the only one I had. Sitcoms, social networks and soda. My health did not matter. Even with muscular arms, a gymnasts body and chiseled set of legs, I was still an outcast. I had tried running at several points in my life, but wind gusts prevented any effective training and in fact caused some serious neck injuries that one time along the Scarborough Bluffs when that wild brine tsunami came unannounced.

I lay in bed for weeks after that resting. I don’t call it sleep, because the position and the discomfort is as close to Hell as can be imagined.

I did not even think about the word love. It was just a fantasy concept. I liked a lot of things, found joy and relief in being able to hide in some of them, but I did not know of this place in my life. No family, no friends – this shadow of a person walking the streets the way to the specially adapted cubicle, with the specially adapted ear piece, taking calls, making sure customers were always treated with dignity.

No one could “see” Umbrellahead here. They could just feel his words. He never confused people, he was very clear. Easy to use, and functional – his intellectual fabric protecting the customer, even from some of the same internal assholes who resented his 106% Satisfaction Rating, which for the record is possible is you take the 6% of the calls he resolved for his “peers” and add them to his own 100% rating.

The day that I met her, it all changed. It was as if the thunderbolt had struck me, and I had never heard such a happy person in my life. She had called to make sure to thank us for providing an adaptive kit she had been looking for all of her life, it changed her life – and my gratitude in reply was kind and real.

I had helped improve that kit based on my umbrella condition, and I was so pleased that it allowed her to see life in a new light. She told me, and I will never forget those words, the man that understood the need for this in the world, was the man that would have her heart. I pursed my lips, and my pulse grew like the cocks of the stallion steeds returning from the battles of Alexander the Great to see the fields of mares with trays of cheeses, dolmades and ouzo. I could not tell her I was that man, that would not be right. My heart sang, for the first time since being an innocent child.

I spent the entire shift on the phone with her, Ms. B. U. Stand. She was fabulous and by the end of the call, I was just calling her Stand. It was an odd name, but she was endeared to it. Said many times, it was just fate that had things happen for certain reasons, and she was happy with hers. Although never married and alone, she was educated, had a wonderful farm estate she had adapted into a pleasant place to greet company and share baked goods with the bed & breakfast guests, she said she had “hopes to put in a small Canadian shield amphitheater so she could host special events for special people and their friends.”

She helped people who were special, or with challenges, find the beauty in who they were. She asked me at the end of the call if I would be interested in meeting for a tea, she had to come down the street from the office the next day, and I would be able to receive her drawings, related to possibly enhancing the quality of life of others who may need the device, and she felt it was her duty to do that as quickly as possible. Making the world a better place was important for her, would I be so kind?

If it had not been for the fact both of them felt something over the phone that day, combined with her incredible intelligence and foresight to be able to predict that he would never break a professional code to have a tea with a customer, let alone risk being seen and rebuked. The one time he had tried this, all the change she had been counting as she waited for his arrival was thrown right at his umbrella, one of the dimes had an evil ridge, it left a permanent scar. Still sees it to this day. He smiles today though.

If we can make one less person suffer, let’s do this.

Lunch the next day was a good time, and Umbrellahead would still have to eat, so he suggested 12:30 and he would treat with the tea. It was best it stayed in his hands and the tray, that shit is hot if thrown. Lessons learned. *sigh* She was going to be wearing orange, their favorite color.

Umbrellahead came from the back, it was the best way to approach for him, and in this case, it was fate. What he saw, expecting to see Stand in orange, was anything but a regular stand.

She was beautiful. Her shape was like no other one he had ever seen, and to some it may have been contrived as even over weight, gaudy. Un-natural even. Horrible, ignorant people would say this. Real men, true gentle, kind, loving, magical men would not care about such a dalliance of thought, they would be so struck by the unique and beautiful nature of who she was, and what she held in such high regard.

She had an umbrella stand on her back.
Back U. Stand.

My head was spinning.
It was making sense now, her name.
The u.

A large, ornate, flesh covered umbrella stand. In it were several orange umbrellas, each with a small orange heart shaped piece of paper that said “Be kind, share the orange.” They were beautiful, and somehow would be hidden from the front. Her hair, this beautiful Natalie Wood/Brigitte Bardot creation was flowing in the back and also worked well with her choice of outfit.

I was about to turn, and run – I had on some Dockers, and an orange plaid shirt. I thought it would be funny to wear orange socks and my flip-flops, cause dressing a little like a clown might disarm most, and one of the creamers fell off the tray. She turned gently, and our eyes met.

I never went back to work.

I moved out of my apartment 2 weeks later.

My umbrella head helped keep the sun and rain off the back for 2 summers.

Igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic all created one beautiful blend.

The people in our lives are beautiful people.
Unique, smart, funny, loving – people.

The happiest day in our lives, was when we found out we were pregnant. It took several months for the doctors to confirm, but I am happy to announce, we are expecting twins. Sometime in the fall, 2014. Two peas in her pod, but momma umbrella stand is doing well and we remain blessed for all the magic in our lives.

Umbrellahead, Back and our two peas.

Please say hello to us after the show, the matinee is the best one to bring the kids along for pictures and autographs, the evening shows can get a bit more cheeky when we include our special guests, Clothesline Arms and Jackhammer Dick.

Fuck, life is a trip eh.

*abide*

By

12:24 *active

AWI – mission engaged.

“In the name of The Gathering…”

Never was about how thick

Never was about how thick Todd was, it always appeared as though he was able to take it. Sure, he got angry, and was eccentric, reclusive – but he was happy when he wrote, when he told tales of the Fan, or the Clauses, the windows. To that smell of all that is alive, regardless of the season, the reason or the treason. Act according to self, the dice merely are advisors of restricted mind.

Almost past Angry, comes right after a bullshit cousin, Depression – you know, Depression is the weak one, Anger comes along and tells him to fuck off pretty quick. Then the sequence of events for a ‘real man’ is the arrival of the next one, this one a brother – Motivation comes and smokes a doobie with Anger, and he chills out and turns into his alter ego – Inspiration.

What is messed up, is that some people have that family and relationship thing all wrong. They are not ones that have chosen Depression, they lived through a life with it as a brother, or sister…this is a shame.

The choice, is now their own, and they are either going to break away from the curses of the heritage, or they are going to finally break free and choose to turn those things into distant memories of a family life gone bad, or the misfortune of fate on their professional lives, or the lacking of a true love – yes, all challenges, and all things we have all come to face at one point in time or another, and often in pairs, if not in random chains of connection that further fragment the epicenter of our lives.

No, one is to rise to the challenge of the day ahead, and has to bear witness to the misery of a dark night, or worse yet, an eternity of them strung together in the minutes that ticked by without you being near ‘her’, or ‘loved’, or able to make that million ‘dollars’.

Fuck it.

What the hell are we waiting for? Some kind of meteorite shower of solar system minerals smashed together like a plunger of rock and shit?

Nope. Not anymore, the time is now, and the day is today.

We all know this, and then struggle to get free from the bonds of the social stigma that accompanies these gyrations of fate, but some of us, no longer want to bear the cross of this chant uttered by the masses at their pews of disdain, and harsh, bitter bite from the poisoned tinge of another apple that was infected with cubicalitus sporeboredomii, a rancid parasite of global proportion, so much so, it has become what the everyman seeks…or so some say…

There is good healing and rejuvenation in the spirit and in the mind, when one is able to harvest from these fields of desperation, the seeds of tomorrow. Wild abandon be gone, these seeds are being planted again, and I am going to make that a field to believe in. I am going to have to get through some mud to do that, but I am going to do it.

I just don’t know when.

I do know how, but somehow, the sum is not the same.
Silly.

I know.
But then again, so do you.

So I am making this call to action a loud one, and a definitive one.

101012N – The Gathering

*abide*

By

6 and…

,,,it don’t matter.

Tongues and assholes. Want the same piece of ass, leave it like this?

I am the one, on the left.

That’s you, too.

Want sum?

*abide*