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


One small step…?

It is a small step?

It was a small undertaking, unimportant.

iGus peers from the shadows of “fiction”.

I abide.

Oh, how the truth does set one free.

Cowards need not apply, liars lay in thine grass.

No issue, I own my miles, in my gulch.

The grass is orange.

Fuck you cancer, we win…again.

μάνα, για πάντα στην καρδιά μου.




Twitter Lebowski?


El Insecto

fetaman, fetaChops, fetaChop, brinesanity, iFeta, fetacabulary, raw, fuck liars

All pictures are a project, and hanging them, has very little to do with shame, and everything to do with how you choose to tie your own room together.

A door sliding open with the tender interest in allowing her to pass the cold steel with the blink of an eye, leaving it in her cloud of confidence, as she framed the single click of her heel seconds before the carpet captured her imprint as a cushion.

It was not possible to forget the red on the balance sheet did not seem so pleased to see, but she was able to begin to feel the sepia yellow that had been created by the silicon and the new lights the corporation had put up. It was almost unbearable on those other days, when she came here to stay, before.

The walk was a tempo, a calm union of a pearled brass circle that hummed with the touch of the brush. Long legs, and beautiful straps that were the call of many to their death at the boardroom table, or at the annual holiday events, assured themselves of the reasons they had been told to carry on.

The environment was clean, always is. That is why she racked up so many points, being away from the family. Her husband.

What a fucking asshole.

This was just one of the things she had to do, to keep the family together. It was all just part of the game.

There was never a chance of her being seen here. This was her special place, and she was able to freely touch any string she wanted to. Like the days she used to sing her own song, not having to wait for another to catch the same note. The tones were always right, and she was to tune the way she wanted to.

This was her symphony, and she was paid to take charge of mitigating the discomfort, and bringing in its stead, a calming glory that is understood only when the lines are drawn by hand.

She had time, and undressed. She would take a bath, and take advantage of the perks. Olive oil fusion, bringing the branch that would be held, and imagined as such, closer to his truncated fantasies. Scratching the window to an inner soul, hoping the mark is aural.

The rustling of the bushes of the bushes would never be heard over the trees. The forest was a place that was filled with all things natural, and it was natural to feel loved again. To feel wanted. To turn to the words of a stranger, and feel a love, and a closeness, different than any other kind you could even imagine, would mean having to perform, and she ached to perform.

It was her calling, and the audience that she had admitted to her seen, was no longer one that could satisfy her as a woman. A muse, that was capable of enchanting and thrilling.

Duration was always her focal point. Longevity, in life, in love, in lust, holding it to some kind of imaginary light, hoping to understand how long it would last, as she liked it, knowing that it was just like her own bit alias. It was her, who felt somewhat timid in trying to reach out to literal strangers, for direction and advice, but never having been a timid woman, she approached it with some discretion and a scalpel forged of caution.

Any limb catching anything that could cause harm to the body, was a severance gladly paid for a compensated reality, more blessed without it.

Mens. Fucking. Rea.

She sat and looked at the delicate rubber ducky, and thought of her child. This precious being that she had created, her forced smile came naturally. Intelligent conversation, and humor, is never a bother. Again, it is, just what was.

The door had been left open, and he knew it would be. It was nunca saldre de ella, he was in it. That was what made the experience such a dance.

He wanted the full GFE. There was little else there was time for, and somehow, it created the stir. A magic longing, for this creature, so small, so dirty, so indestructible, that you had to both despise and lust for it.

It was just natural.

Keeping it out in that kind of open, them, and watching people just pass by it all – kind of like a Coelhoen way, of being the way, that some write.


It is over, and somehow, never ends.



Buffalo Bacon. Roam

Where the Buffalo Roam

First Born, Steals IQ and Best of all Jeans
Bill F. Murray
Buffalo Cut, Brine, Canada (c) Abide Press Corps.


There was a recent study, conducted by the Faculty of Sociopathic Miscreants, and Lost Souls in order to facilitate a better understanding of why first born children, often are, and will remain, for their lives, brilliant, well smarter than their lesser fleshlings.

Because of their ability to get all the new jeans, and clothing, while everything else was never provided to their other siblings, who were often locked in cupboards for days at a time, trying to cry for help in vain, as no one paid attention due to the 70’s rug pulling hobby the rest of the village participated in with egg nog and heroine.

Editor Note: the timeline of this story has been depicted to reflect the relevant state of humanity, and the A.D. chronology of drug and social abuse according to the writing of the author. Neither the publisher, or the editorial team will accept any responsibility for the closure of any metropolitan areas as a result of protest, hardship or distress caused by the massive upheaval of fucks that will be given about yet another Springer Rivera revelation.

It all goes without saying, and has been proven over and over again, by many, and fully accredited former prostitutes, and now legal graduates from leading international academies that only offer these degrees, under certain circumstances and covers. Literally.

Digression, lies returned to onset of a typewriter carriage tendon, please remove the thought previously broadcast, and come back to the proof, that as a man and a woman grow older, they will certainly have produced more and more super-jock sperm and eggs to compete in the non-licensed activity of pro-creation.

We are not here to begin to analyze, or fully recognize one big bang over another creation of a magical carpet rider, a fat bastage, some kind of water and ark of fish to wine walker stuff. We are here to discuss the scientific and religious pundits confirmations of the natural evolution of pent up, ready to go sperm, and how they will be the first to want to leave the Brine Chunnel.

They will not be the first to the delicious croissant that sits on the other side however.

The may be at the front of the stage, and hoping for all hope, that they can be loved by the lizard skin, and the punk rock princess on stage, with the man’scaped and handled love table, right at the best window in the venue. Lights, and sounds, and uplifted pinky rings (*yes, again, delay the fucking “that can not happen” mentality, are you following me, for fucks sake, this is a blog written by a block of feta, man. Do you really think that a piece of feta is that stupid, that is does not KNOW that sperm and eggs have no pinky’s, let alone an awareness of gold, or what some kind of precious metal may be used to signify the relevance or importance of yourself, in a room filled with people, that you give no fuck about, but need to impress, by doing and buying the shit you need to, in order to give no fuck. It of course goes without saying, they are all in the same state of being…and wait…)

Holy fucking shit, I am actually defining this to who?

Why, we all know, the oldest is the smartest, and the best. They got it all. Those fucking bats, everywhere.


*note not Gene’s or g gnomes were consulted for the above piece, please take that into consideration before your present your KISS Army card. Not valid for Detroit Rock City residents.


Pray she Said

So I did…




What the first three days look like…

Calvin J. Hobbes

I can tell you, it is one wild trip…I mean, talk abou walking into a near unreal experience…it was bizzare, and the concept of sitting in a pit was all about having to make the leap to a new place, with a new territory under your feet.

In there was the real deal, in there was the gig. Deep in there…deep…how can you really have to go nuts on the balls out flip, and still see what the deal was all about…somehow…do you dig it?

It was a field of cubicles, or a cemetery.

There was hate from the first second, and it drove me to snap, and now just use the Roman 12 pt embossed cardboard for filters.

Oh, those were some wild days. Always a story. Feel like tapping the glass?

Careful, the watermark is not that easy to remove.
It’s made of water and bone.



Heart of Darkness

“It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream–making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams…No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence–that which makes its truth, its meaning–its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream-alone…”

Heart of Darkness
Joseph Conrad


Sunny, orange days

It is killing me.


Watching his mother with such fond abandon, he saw her bright side. She sat in her seat watching the day, and she came out of her anguish, to light for her children. She did not want it all, she wanted it for them, her sons. An only daughter, cause it had been burned into him.

So listen, to the song. Maybe you have seen some of it, in other cases, you might get it, those that can, understand speaking of the joy, watching a mother and her children share those special moments, on the train, as the traffic of time crawls never sawing a destiny call.

Shame little is done to see, in actuality, not the lies.

How it was. Never possible, but do come back like you do.

Accept this is the way it is, and the only thing you can do, is move forward. Day by day, with the love, and help of those in your life, left. Those that may or may not be there tomorrow.

Survival is for the timid, victory is a choice.


Just hair, it causes migraines indicating some serious issues, seizures, and other of the "grooming" issues. Most solid abiders, will just go Feta Fu on Rizla Paper styles and smile right at people who stare. Right in the eyes. Never avoid the eyes.


Sweet Buttertart


April 5, 2012 – fetaman candle Picasso mix


Shiny floors under your smooth pastry like heels

Clicking and clacking along the P.A.T.H

If only you knew how luscious your butter made me feel

Oh sweet buttertart, you make my heart do skipped beat math


I sought some air in the garden of concrete shadows and haste

Your scent tickled the nostrils and sent flatulent corporate dogs to bay

I wanted to leave creamy dragon paste on your face

Run along now little butter tart, this wolf will not bite you today


Sugary hips, gliding over the rack you dangle you hair off of

Internal filling, crème du fuqqin’ loveleh, so du fuqqin’ yummy song

Wanna have your poodle see the love dove?

Now there sexy buttertart, come see the magic chong…




Asshole for Rent

Never fucking easy being a hired gun.

People don’t give a shit – they know you are taking them for the most amount of money, because you know, you are handing your life and your reputation to them on the line – well, with one exception.

You are brought in to kill – them, or it – but kill.


Thought so.

You walk in this motherfuckin’ way, you do what you say.
Then there comes the day, time to make some hay.
You got nothing to say.
Old man, on your way.
Grab the towels from the floor.
Yeah, you got a floor.