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

By

Thai sticks a right

The levels of imminent death to freedom, the demise of true liberty, civil or private, are about to be forever higher than the stones gathered around the bones of the entrusting fools who believed rain would always be rain, and stones would never be revealed for the pain that would be gotten from the begotten suns and sirens.

At the Global level, we have a collection, a united set of nations no longer blue caps, but drones, invisible to the naked pretense. Here the groups demand, to hear from such nations as Canada, such things as, but not limited to:

“The people who work at CSIS collect information in Canada and abroad and use it as the basis for providing advice to the Government of Canada in the form of intelligence reports about activities that may constitute a threat to the security of Canada. This information is collected from many sources, including:

In planning and conducting an investigation, care is taken to ensure an appropriate balance between the degree of intrusiveness of an investigation and the rights and freedoms of those being investigated. Investigations that require use of more intrusive techniques, such as the interception of telecommunications, are subject to a rigorous process of challenge and controls, including the use of a Federal Court warrant.”

At first reading, no one is going to break out a Locke reference. They Kant.

*sigh*

Eyes would glance across the structure, and not even absorb the shear, vast and uncompromising inclusion of every facet of life. This must be true; this is to defend a nation. A League of which is now much further along the chosen path to One World Order, but none the less, is granted the substance to provide the gruel and the tools for the planning and conduction of junctions that do more than just function.

From the State, to the Plates that make up the table we all sit and pay taxes, homage upon the daze and flaccid night. Time is heaped with wreaths of deceit, and then the man grabs bread from the mouth of the woman or child, black or white, kindred Gods or foreign bogs have not forsaken womb for the indignity of intrusions. Rights shall be guarded, moves but techniques to provide the pawn more than a hope, forward and straight, unless cruel interceptions mandate jugulars to triangulate.

Control.

Add the snake, and controls are more.

More is better.

Use; dispose.

Life is a privilege, and to think otherwise is criminal.

Foreign.

The conclusion as easy as the flick of a finger upon the sealed silicates that jest with the innocence of a fragile mind, sounds too complicated to understand but present enough, fighting the fiercest of senses, visual eviscerations.

A clock shall become the flint rock.

Progression is a sacrifice, and we must collect reward miles somewhere for this sled of atrocities along the way.

Vote now and forever hold another’s piece.

Take the snapshot, buy into the initial profile offerings of the moment.

Sticks that tied, Thai sticks of days enlisted as gone by.

Crueller?

The slow, linear degradation of a mind meandering; vapid memories that have filled the grey void with jewels and gems defensive in their position. Allowing but a singular perspective to encompass the whole of the experience, no longer covered by each precise and minute circumference of the moment. Burst into the geometric shape of some sort, it is filed in the membrane. Just allow the punchcard to dictate the journey and enjoy the taste of pulp fictions as you celebrate life among so many, tied.

Right.

*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

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

Mai Tie

Here is something to ponder.

What the fuck are you doing here? I mean, I am pretty sure of what I am doing. I can only say pretty sure, because nothing is absolute. It is constantly in a state of flex and change, and fucking hell – do you really think I am not aware of the stupidity? Including my own.

Shit in my life is real, and somehow, other’s seem to be at a point in their lives that theirs is required to be avoided, because it stinks so bad the only way to deal with it is to ignore it, like some kind of misery that is to be forgotten as a cause from their own actions and consequences.

Take a moment and sit back, reflect on the reality of it all.

Let it sink in, if it needs to.

Go on, you deserve it.

*smirk*

In deserving, there is more – there is an earned and blessed feeling.

Comfort is neither hot or cold, a smile or a laugh.

It is being in the moment and living it to understand the beauty, even in the tragedy of the falling of life by the wayside of Time. Accompanied by his alter-ego, Age, Time ensures you are aware that closer to it shall you go, but never to you will it come.

It does not need to, it is right there beside you as the most precious thing you hold in your life.

It is only a matter if you make it so.

Else, it will follow you on the miles you choose to own.

Looking around me today, the  sun is shining.
I am alive, and no longer hovering in a state of fear from a cancer.
My wealth is not defined by the numbers in any regard, but by a cerebral sutra that allows me to abide by anything that comes forth.

It sounds like a bunch of bullshit, and some kind of mysterious lame Duck Daced font mantra…
sure fucking thing sunshine, sure fucking thing.

Sure you got it all figured out, and are walking those miles.

I am going outside to do some lawn bowling today, and if anyone has got a problem with it they can fill in an official form, the FU-101 – it’s the blue one, right over there on the box, beside the unicorn having a coffee with Doug Henning and Moses.

“It’s spring time motherfucker, do you have it?” said Samuel.

I imagine he is smiling though, about to roll his bocci ball. It will be easy to spot, because the grass is only now starting to show the signs of the orange that most don’t know.

They see it as green.

green buckets, blue dog, Ellas car horns, Kola, decades pass, abide, fetaman.com, fetaman, iFeta, fetaChops, brinesanity

“There is no salvation in becoming adapted to a world which is crazy.” – Henry Miller

*abide*

By

Protected: Concubine Clauses

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Happy Birthday to…

What an incredible odyssey.

It has been a year since the site officially became mine.

I had waited over 8 years to be able to get past all of this, and before that – you have no fucking clue.
None.

You think I am not aware of what is “out there” – and what the “lines look like”…really?

Do you think a plan, that has been made for decades, even a lifetime if one considers it, is really just something that simply happens?

You have the sleuth ability to start to get hooked, and like the heroine town you may exist in, or the hero mind you do, you are addicted to taking it to the next level.

To finding out more, to getting past the reality of Survivor, and the fake fucking bandana’s and the bullshit positioning from Day 1 – “I am just here to make some friends, I am so naïve, I am so strong, I am so fucking smart, I am so fucking stupid…oh look, a tortoise with a hare on his back…do they even have hair…”

I know who the fuck fetaman is.

Pretty fucking proud of it as well, because I know it all – except for you.
You are the know it all I want to meet.
So does Gus.

He is interested in beginning to introduce himself over the next few weeks.
His biography is coming out.

Pretty fucking impressive, and having had the chance to not only interview him, but also having been given the chance to verify accounts, eyewitnesses and documented proof.

One of the strangest, oddest, brightest, most eccentric, gifted, smart, angry, loving, caring, compassionate, valiant abiders I have ever known.
If not the single greatest…

Gus runs on his own time.
So do I.

It is a birthday celebration and it is combined with a publishing. What more could anyone ask? I mean, seriously – what a long strange trip, and where are we still? Yes, just seeing some of the invisible brown acid come to life. A special K of sorts.

The biography, the story, of Gus…

Don’t expect synchronicity.

This is a delicate operation, and if you want to be part of it.

Welcome to it – you can either RT this link, direct with the question included, or you can #orangegrass it up, either is a chance to ask Gus, and I can assure you, he will answer.

Celebrate or don’t.
Trust me, this has nothing to do with hunching over anything – not a typewriter, not a water tray, not some village code, not a table of weed, not a set of bullets, not a conspiracy of shades that are something new…

I know.
Hard to believe.

Trust me.
I fucking know.

It doesn’t matter though.
Cause the clock, the watches – the story of Gus.

It becomes clearer with each passing day, and in the coming 30 days, how many and when are just beside the Fuqu Pyramid, just take a coat hanger and levitate near it.

There is a whole year to explore behind this, and there is much more for myself.

Being an interviewer, is one interesting experience.

Care to play?

fetaman/ _

*truly a wonderful, gracious humble bow today – humility asks for, and asks no excuses, for it too…*abides*

****this is where I insert my own happy birthday to fetaman.com – for the real fetaman, from the real fetaman, with a background heralded by associates. Go ahead, link from the site – fill in the question, I promise. I am pretty sure Gus would answer most honourable, logical and discretion sensitive inquiries. To the point of the dedicated box that is running the code – the rest, my…look…a shiny set of keys. Oh wait, it may be a text…did that arrive? No, must be a lonely time, grab the flash light…only 45 metres across the way…no, the...the way…

*************Yes, this is 13 of them, is that “code” also.

*******Gus thinks so.

*iAbide*

By

The Muppets

Those funny, funny muppets. Just trying to tie their own rooms together, and share some appreciation for the gig and the league games. I mean these points do count right, towards some kind of marriage proposal of something?

A scene from the muppet movie, a walk into a strange theatre wondering, perhaps this is the wrong theatre? I wonder, if I say a few things to person beside me, are they of a sound mind? How exciting…how so very exciting. Hi Icarus, name is Fetaman, how you doing today?

Amazing, what the change of a little thing like syntax, or cowardly actions, strange behaviours from odd folks, that otherwise seem so kind and real, or perhaps such as others that care to put things out in the universe, as real, with no fear – to enjoy the show.

Cause after all, all the world is a stave.

That stave for me, right now, fully aware. is one giant bowling lane.
*context smirk*

It is yours, and you choose it.

Don’t blame me for the misery of the interpretations you make.

Some funny folks have been included below, as a way of sending a smile and wave. Not a fucking marriage proposal.

The secrets that you keep, may have something to do with your own trip, but hey, just worry about your own miles sunshine, no need to worry about mine.

I got those.

Enjoy the smiles, cause nothing says a man can laugh, like laughing at masturbating muppets.

*abide*

*per above link and YouTube reference, the original footage is from the Muppet Movie, and all rights and love go out to the creators and team that put it all together, making lessons and childhood a good experience. James Maury “Jim” Henson (September 24, 1936 – May 16, 1990) 

 

By

Boney Casanova *Le Casanova de Fellini, re-packed

The “redux” edit of a classic scene from “Le Casanova de Fellini”.

The wonderful and talented @Jeni_Decker (*Favstar here) of ClosetSpaceMusings.blogspot.com was a fun and critical part of the sunshine spread in the wee hours, happily packing the bowls. Great team effort, and I had such a laugh – from a random, to a new friend in months. Wonder if it had anything to do with all the laughs I got from being able to read the very entertaining “Waiting for Karl Rove” co-written by herself and Kat Nove?

Today will have the second instalment of what will become the weekly “shout-out” (*if gathers some steam, will add some prizes and “participation gifts” for the folks that dig the gig) and let it ride. I am not getting why some folks are not willing to share or RT, pass on more of the goodness…

What you put in, put in selflessly. Wealthy yields more than the gold originally considered important, and the lustre is grander for those that recognize no man is want to carry another on his back, nor should one ever expect it, unless it  is to assist him into his grave.

What is that? Oh, you want to keep reading the same web/blog format that you always do?

Good for you.

I don’t.

Just like I “don’t try”.

One love, and much of it.

*abide*

By

Armstruth “I am just a good fella”

On the tour, around the world special diets and supplements were used, natural of course, good, simple food. So what if they were not in the cooked books, or the small pressings of re-issued prescriptions like microwaved media. Why can’t people just acknowledge that Armstruth was simply doing what he was told, to eat nothing too complex, allow the supplies to go in one end, be processed, then leaving the back end in tiny brown envelopes. There is no proof, and there is no flaming cigar syringe that proves he had any type of metabolic tantric relations with Usada Dope, the Nigerian immigrant that was purchased by a French Tour de Bovine route farmer, that hoped the annual traffic would help sustain his family.

Armstruth thought he was doing the right thing, when he stopped on the side of the road that day, and it all changed. As a result of believing what a simple dairy farmer had suggested would be a good remedy for his ailing pistons and pumps, believing that the cream was not frozen, it was warmed. It is really cream, and not cow shit with alfalfa in it and that is healthy because Pharmataint, the global authority on all things good for humans says so. Then after watching the 9 year old sistah lift the cows tail and Dairy Queen swirl one glorious mound of love into that beauty. I must admit, it was impressive to see the chase care footage show him knock that bitch out with one strike, and the round house delivered to the farmer – Bruce Lie approved.

That is not an ice cream cone you best be serving to some wise guys in Brooklyn. Even if you think it may go off like apologizing for calling them just slimy, and cunty, but not fat. So Pratatoe applies the FYLM (Fuck You Lie to Me methodology, invented in Staford by the same team that invented the Senate Sock, the enhanced congressional fleshlight found within all first world governing quorum facilities, including the public speaking chambers) principle.

*all re-enactments of the following parts of the Armstruth dialogues are meant to convey the appearance of a drug fuelled good guys dinner, in Brooklyn looking for guerilla footage of the elusive Zitizilla, a gargantuan fucking ape, with the ability to disguise his entrance into the Times Square Anal Bead Cinematography festival with daft integration, and limited repercussions. Please note, the extension of the mind required to imagine a giant mobster ape, of any ethnic background, eating a deli sammich, scratching the proverbial balls, may be elusive and should not to be attempted by anyone without two thumbs.

<scene III>

[the table is covered with reports from the UBS-Whorebird HNW Division, we see the Bogota emeralds outlining the pictures of the Kwanzaa tree from O. Pratatoe’s holiday trip. Sparkling Eunuch Springs water bottles remain, they are placed next to the CrewRig Insta-Adrenaline brewer strategically replacing the BO$E system for this segment]

O. Pratatoe: You’re a pistol, you’re really funny. You’re really funny.
Armstruth: What do you mean?
O. Pratatoe: It’s funny, you know. It’s a good story, it’s funny, you’re a funny guy – like how the fuck you think you going to tell me, you was wanting to make sure she is dafriend still, an ‘pologized?
<lighter heard, bong rips>
Armstruth: What do you mean, you mean the way I talk? What? In circles, and always under the guise of not totally admitting fault, cause that would mean the bugs in the room youse gotz in here are gonna be all fazoole and shit?
<huge breasted 1920’s cigarette girl comes by, tray is filled with elastic bands with the FYPM emblazoned across them, hand gesture, with a sweet follow up ass slap and kissing lips sound>
O. Pratatoe: It’s just, you know…fuck look at dat azz…mmmmm, hmmmm…yeah, you’re just funny, it’s… funny, the way you tell the story and everything… called her a whore, but not a fat whore. That is bullshit, what a fucking joke, that you would not remember saying it, and yeah, prescilly portant to someone he knew was.
Armstruth: Funny how? What’s funny about it? Like you think I am not being sincere here?
Balls Lebowski (Voice, producer, off-set): Armski no! You got it all wrong!!
Armstruth: Oh, oh, Anthony. He’s a big boy, he knows what he said. What did ya say? Funny how?
O. Pratatoe: Jus…seems De Niro healed, know? Not analyzed-really. Not healed, and not telling the truth…you seem full of fucking shit, and a selfish fuck looking to get back into the circuit because your gravy train is now Purina dog food boiled in the kettle with some shallots from your fucking spice garden you fucking gamboom? You want me to get Van Fraudde to come over and show you how we play Two Nipple Monte?
Armstruth: How much for dee beetle girl?
<mimic best Belushi impression, and pretends to eat O. Pratatoe’s calf like a chicken leg>
O. Pratatoe: Just…Animal House?
Armstruth: You mean, let me understand this cause, ya know maybe it’s me, I’m a little fucked up maybe, but I’m funny how, I mean funny like imma not doing the blues like a brother well enough for you, I amuse you? I make you fucking laugh <hard glance to camera> Imma here to fuckin’ amuse you? What do you mean funny, funny how? How am I funny?
O. Pratatoe: Just… you know, how you tell the story. Keep lying. Hol’lying it up for the new rubber band sales person cause she is all “hearts on my door” and “I love you” and shit, playing the media whore with 38 abortions on your record – 3 of them francophone, speaking cows man.
Armstruth: No, no, I don’t know, you said it. What the fuck does “the only path back to wealth is his ability to placate now” mean? How do I know? You said it. How the fuck <holds up hands in papal fashion, clasping manicured nails purchased by donation tenderly to not wash off the glaze, shits expensive yo> – so many deserters, and now my Pratatoe appearance is gonna be like fucking a stranger in the ass?
O. Pratatoe: [long pause] Get the fuck out of here, ArmedTruth! Owl Grove
<throws gang sign, concealed by the wiggly box shit some techie puts over the film>
Armstruth: [everyone laughs] Ya motherfucker! I almost had you, I almost had you. Ya stuttering prick ya. Balls, was she shaking? I wonder about you sometimes, Poe-taught. You may fold under questioning if those motherfucker’s at UBS-Whorebird get snapped into the wood shed behind the lake during the Vig Split ‘n Spitt Cookout at the grove.

THIS POSTS FREE O. PRATATOE LEARNING THINK GOES TO:
*The Gulch.

 photo goodFetastyles_zpsfc9af73b.jpg

You know what the real shame is, that more fucking people are going to think that all bad guys are in leather, or cheap suits trying to blend in until the Rolex flashes. Let those that cast no stones on the philanthropic tides remind us of why we must not believe anymore, and let one fucking asshole stereotype lead us into temptation. Paradigm is shifted with the lenses, and the macro or the micro look will tell the difference of reality, from where your mind really sits today. Wake up and fuckin’ live. The grass is fucking orange man. The grass. Is. Fucking. Orange.

*abide*

By

Grease marbles

“At one point in time, we all get older, and our ass pores turn into tunnels for the grease marbles to just seep out. Eight. Eight, was the count from last night…”

Ass pores have an entirely different meaning a couple of decades post the frat house. Marbles are the least of it; on previous occasions, and this is all of late, these marbles include golf balls, bowling balls, golden Butterball turkey’s.

I know what you are thinking, that these are all happening with the lights off and how do you know? Well, I don’t do it with the lights off, unless it is late or night and I have been awoken by one of these nasty ass poxy pockets, and even then I am either going to be running into the bathroom to see what this gem has in store for me or I am going to use my small Maglite which I have now placed beside my bed on a hook for easy access.

Sure thing, go ahead and laugh. Talk to me when your age added together, has two floor qualifiers – one is that the first number is a 3, and the sum of the two numbers will be at least 10. Think about it.

*taps fingers*

Got it?
Good, let’s carry on Sunshtein.

The reason that light and “getting a look” is important, is the same mimic replicated by the 70’s surprise loot bag from a party or the flea market vendor who discovered cheap Chinese shit in a bag bought at wholesale prices off some Indian agent is sold to entice the rugrats of suburbia.

The items could not come out of the ass the way, that is too chunky. They have to be “packaged”. They are glazed with the years of employment, blessed matrimony, and failed online dating encounters that set around an item, and creates this feng shui like polymer around it for easy removal, or storage.

Scroll back up if you are lost, removal or storage is a function of years, don’t doubt that.

Now, using the right length of nail, and no, a cocaine nail is not only so long ago I forgot why I needed such a long nail to drink a soda anyway, and the right amount of digital pressure, you can pop those things like the wasabi pea snap I have alluded to before, is critical.

The nail is the amplifier, and when you plug in and tune out, that delicious sound you hear when you pop that head boil, or the zit at the base of the balls (*if you think I am bullshiting or just being gross, then you are either not old enough yet, or trying to kid yourself into thinking none of this applies to your magnificent lifestyle. Let me guess, you have never masturbated and find the thought of it disturbing? Nice, pleasant to meet you. So can I ask for my three wishes all together, or do you have to go back in the bottle between each one to consult with the other genies, pixies and fairies gathered to determine just why humans actually still debate the concept of time as used to describe distance – fuck, it is a light year, and not weight?) is relief anointed from the assholes of the co-workers who have set their spell check to accept orangutan and orangekatans.

The use of the light is what allows us to stare at these marbles like tiny mirages of the past. Cat’s eyes, corkscrews and Hurricane Aggie perfection. Larger marbles and smaller ones, some even accompanied by – gasp, a metal cross, yeah I know. It was even like 3 dimensional. Fascinating, if you think about the amount of RAM used in that technology, to achive what it had done in the centuries before.

So within in the marble balls, you can look and stare and swirl and be amazed at the fact that as you lay there in the bed, just giving that little scratch a go, you snake the tip of the glassy surface, and it is like spotting that clown face on the shitty white paper bag, except this surprise is not filled with fraud like that bag.

No, it will tell of all the Butterball turkey’s your milky ass just stored in different parts of your body as you golfed in Maui for two weeks so you could watch Marty from Marketings “tactical” division for the next 52 weeks learn how to embed a fucking coded link into that mystical pie chart that changes colour and syntax weekly, but maintains the same dry drone of the bowling alley.

That is where you sat, and indulged in all those glorious onion rings, never aware that the same sneaker fluid used in the butane charged canisters was used after the beer battered dough had been fed nutrition by yeast and misery, and just as it needed to seal in the freshness. Well that shit helps the embalming process anyway, so the good news? Keep these marbles for the funeral home, they offer a 3.24% (*going published rate, as referenced in today’s Empirical Propagation Today, a US Fed daily periodical. It is CIA Fact Book affirmed, so it’s kosher) for each 1 gram.

The small golf ball marbles are not only beautiful to look at, they are Martha Stewart’s favourites, and if you eat enough calcium in your diet, combined with all of the extra salt consumed in the typical North American diet, you can shake these small marbles and see snow flakes whirl around pictures that reflect those perfect childhood memories like the annual piano recital Aunt Voola’s mole would entertain the family with, or drunk bumper cars with dad on the way home from the season finale of Streets of San Francisco.

I am assuming as we get older, there is going to be a lot less of the bigger things, I mean they have been festering in there for all these years, so the removal of them has to mimic the typical peak and trough pattern in the Falling Wedge trading pattern  – where we see plateau’s that drop off things like body validity, ball sack/chin elasticity and what not.

Dig.

Going to go get a collection of the marbles for the next couple of days.

Some hard core brinesanity on the go, and I think I am going to ride some of the gravy train.

Armstruthtonged is about to arrive.

A dozen beautiful marbles that have been sanctioned by the precious declarations of O’pratato and Sir Armstruthtonged, and commissioned by a small trust that Fetada Inc. has put in place for such occasions.

Truth can be served with the salad fork to the left of the proper spoon, or it can be served via tongs. Huge, platinum tongs that toss brass balls, or ball, like olives.

Yum, yum.
Eat ’em up.

*abide*