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

By

Stoned. Immaculate.

Soul rebel, standing for souls that never shall be forgotten.

“Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.” Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

A ¼” if you prefer a little too meticulous.

It pays off in the long run, if you have the patience.

Gus had made a small wooden sieve out of some spare wood. Even that would be burned, so nails were used instead of screws. It only had a small function, figuratively speaking of course. It was to sift through some of the anonymous rocks that had been found on the shore of the lake during the coldest winter months. The extreme cold of a Canadian winter ensured all bacteria and traced biological elements could not be tracked back in case the bag broke. This batch had been taken on February 14th, part of his annual walk to reflect on what love really meant.

He shifted the weight and the pebbles fell through the holes. Typical, porous, sedimentary – small basins that could weigh up to a gram each, but Gus had figured on using 0.65 grams as the normalized average weight, and he was looking for 2.2 kilograms here. The number was not random. It would require about 3, 385 of them.

The go to drink had always been Crown. It created the necessary rage to entice the act to fruition. In solitary, by choice confined, either in the maze of his mind seeking more information and knowledge about the life that he had led and chooses to live, or in the physical world, seeking some kind of personal solstice in each of the solitary revolutions of the cosmic fantasy dipped in his world beneath the brine.

He was drinking Patron.

It was not by chance.
It was by design.

A change of state, from one plane of abide to another not often seen in the planes of conformity, and done so only in splinters and fragments, most of which would be reluctant to admit at inception that they would never speak, sense or smell the world around them other than the fleeting seconds of dalliance embraced in an ethereal world.

On the table before him lay two of the most common elements in society and a small plastic bowl. Bags, and duct tape. The thirteen plastic bags were inside of a BC Liquor Stores bag. It was green, and it had the “Celebrate Life…Enjoy Responsibly” branding blazed across the Made In China fabric to make sure they complied with whatever syntax the machine needed to confirm they had met the test for safely providing lethal bullets in the right amounts.

It too was not a bag that was random. Gus had tested many bags, over many years, for many reasons. Some of them to transport things, the details of the contents not relevant now, but are in the right context. Some of the bags were used to ensure the orange grass never became an issue. A critical component.

This bag had beaten out every other one he had tried. Across all the provinces, even bringing back samples from the Nevada area, and California. Nothing compared to it. Amazingly, some of the shittiest bags came from New York, likely a function of some kind of mob controlled, recycling/bag program pennies on the dollar swaption, but this bag was awesome, all alone.

Of course, it would not be alone. There would be other accomplices, but none would be able to speak, before or after disposal.

Testing involved seeing how long it took for the bag to break, with random stones in it. At certain sizes, and with certain textures each of the bags would react differently. Some of the hemp fiber bags were the best, but they had little sticking strength and bonding abilities like the plastic, and they could be identified. The plastic could also, toxic analysis of ashes and ambers if found would be able to delineate the difference in materials used for the plastic, markers if you will. The hemp bag had natural DNA in it, and Gus always like to restrict any type of DNA information being passed on.

Sure, more visible paranoia.

The testing involved a side of beef. Gus considered it therapy in so many ways. It was the kind of the thing that allowed him to wander through some of the darker side of the days, and sense each of his senses. It was important to him, the whole sensual thing, especially the common kind.

Using his hands, he was able to design a small fulcrum based catapult that had a swing arm exactly the length of his arm. The fixed based allowed surgical grade rubber to be stretched tightly, providing some force on a repetitive basis. Each alignment of the band snap, combined with the simple gear mechanism he designed from some old library research, allowed exactly 80 impacts.

40 days, and 40 nights worth always made him grin.

The beef would be pounded, tenderized and softened, but most importantly, measured. Small sensors on the meat would transmit data back to the laptop, about the blunt force trauma. He had seen some of this in a documentary he stayed and watched one day while on the road, cleaning some of the 20 tick-Benjamin’s he scored off Shift at that anonymous Laundromat place in Winnipeg by the Forks. He missed the rinse cycle and had to go through another load to add the small cup of bleach and vinegar during the spin cycle, but it was worth the wait. It helped hatch this.

He could smell the air around him, and it was the sweet smell of the traditional marijuana that most would find lingering, but the blunt air surrounding him was clear about intention. These were different experiences, and he had to lick and feel every second, not knowing just how many of them are in one’s life really should mandate this is done more often, but social convention frowns on certain behavior.

So the fetish is hidden in the realm of the cage, chased in the rage of a type, a writer’s trail. Razor and edge, slime from a snail.

Counting the rocks out took little time. In each of the primary bags, three of them, there would be the mille counts. The secondary bags would hold one hundred and eleven stones in each ascending layer, and a fifty spot would be the nucleus.

The two remaining stones were to be wet drilled in the center, dipped and baked in his traditional manner.

The Abide Beads would find two more rosary companions shortly.

Placing the first 50 stones in the first plastic bag was to be a quick task, but between having to violently masturbate and taking a shit, it took about 20 minutes. As the Patron coursed the known franchises of his lucid infrastructure, Gus took to wrapping the bag after three inverted flips and two knots. It was roughly the size of a racquetball now.

This was the most important seam, and the only part of the whole kit that could have provided any clue, and it was at the heart of it all.

In his own writing, by his own hand, of his own free will, and knowing full well the consequences could very well outweigh any iterations of the right he was to seek, he wrote using Midnight Black, using his cherished Meisterstück;

τηρούν, δεν είναι μια παθητική πράξη.

The push, pull and wrap motion strained his forearms. With each revolution completed, he shifted the tape in the radius and beat a rubber mallet over the surface to ensure adhesion and sound restitutions, intuitions murmuring amongst the rock of a once in life time chance to break the monotony and boredom of waiting to erode into some kind of nothing abyss.

Having completed the ball, and a full roll of tape later, it looked like a hard packed baseball. It was grey, not like the white one she had from their first suitcase date, a little league baseball game in Cuba, via San Francisco and San Jose de Cabo.

He kissed it, and placed it into the next bag, half filled with the mille count, in the bottom of the rounded bowl. By forcing the nucleus into the collection of stones, he created a semi-circular ball. It was not perfect. He did not want it to be. Nothing in life is, and this was to be what would bring one thing to life and take it from what should never have existed in the first place.

The layers would lock naturally, creating a new CSI stream of petrology, but never to be found by another. Kind of like hiding new species, not exposing them – the dawning of the Age of Nefarious.

The top was loosely taped into the top of the oval, and then flipped over to create the first core. Forearms, mallet, pull – forearms, mallet, pull – forearms, mallet, pull. It became a symphony of tears, laughter. He was out in the middle of nowhere, and there was not a single sound that could be heard by anyone. The music, the gunshots, the screams – all for his own pageantry, for his own ritual…just, to clarify.

When the ball was completed, it was roughly the size of a large shot put ball. A small honeydew, but about that size, and in total he had used nineteen rolls of tape, up to this point. He had done. It was not about trying or questioning. It was not about looking for approval, or seeking some clarity from another.

The bag now became the centerpiece and he started with the straps. It was key that they had internal tendons to keep the core from coming out of place in the throws of passion. The fantastic magic material from China grabbed the glue from the duct tape like a tension wire in a Shanghai skyscraper. It had to, that is what helped build it. Carbon fiber crosses and patterns were used, gleaned from meticulous research about strength and tensioning papers published from the likes of MIT, NC State and the public NSA materials.

It was now time for the Crown. Patron had fuelled the fire. The ashtray was indicted as holding enough marijuana to jail someone for 20 years if it were 1957, and still the Tupperware container held at least another 200 if they were called for.

Gus placed the ball into the bag, ebullient.

By the time the bag had been wrapped and properly molded all of the 40 rolls of tape were used. All of them allowing him to wield this random weapon with such force, the first blow would kill, if it were not accurate to merely facilitate the right impact for further viewing pleasure.

It now held a small noose like hole that could be twisted around the wrist with comfort before being flicked over three times to create a human numb-fuck. Traditional Chinese martial art tools be damned, their chain can be broken, a numb-fuck cannot. The bland wood claims such prestige, but is brokered as a concubine is for her ancient wares. Brokering with a numb-fuck is an entirely different enterprise.

The temperature was -40 °C, it was not ideal. There was still time, but he had to test it out in a real setting, at this extreme he would only have about a minute, fully naked to run outside, swing with fierce justice, and get back to the warmth. Return happier, better, never filled but with some empty removed.

Chugging back the Crown, he peeled off the last of the clothing and took his last haul.

The music had reached a delicious pitch, not important what kind.

Merely that is was empowering, not passive.

It demanded action, and logical illusions prevail it seems, so stop trying to fight them and just accept it.

A hundred meters from the main grow barn was the Tank.

Time to bring some yearn to the stern.

Steam greeting the air in an icy mist, Gus ran.

Time to make it rain.

*abide*

By

Take my hand.

 photo samwhich.jpg

Invisible can be right out in the open. Like a stripper, dancing on a pole – firmly planted into the hot beef gyro. Subtle, yes – but in case some were wondering why this photo is here, and how come there is an audio link on the first Gus quote? Not sure, this was an older draft of something…

“I don’t want to skewer you with words alone, I long for the invitation to your cowardice in an arena of action and context.”

Gus smirked.

It had been some time planning this little event. Not so much a plan in fact, as it was a hope that a hand would be given and extended to meet. It had weathered it’s festering well.

The solid ball of rubber had been used to stop the sink from flowing water when the hard metal pressed against it. Shallow the nudge, but quick the cut of the flow. The nearest it would come to metal again would be the chain that held it. Want for nothing but the swing that would see it come crushing down on the skull. Bone replacing metal in a cold embrace opening the tap on a new kind of dark hell, but a knock before true entry.

“I never meant it to be about you.”

“Fuck you.”

Understanding physics is not required to feel the blunt force thrust, thunk only in a camera’s eye to ensure you can hold the baton around that corner, when you hear that train coming. Conducting steam from the forged heat that lashed out streams of hot blood, Gus swung with the fury of the anger.

Vengeance that was fed by the poison and the attempted destruction of calcified hate.

“Mary, and Stavros – feel.”

Time in these seconds held to the dynamic of high speeding footage would do little justice to the sounds of what lay in these walls. White had been so Clockwork Orange.

The new Glockwork Orange was much more suited to the feel of what was here, but Gus and the boys knew he had a special place for the color. It held the notes and the staffs, as spilled disgust sped towards it like some comet drawn to one last burst of hope before it’s red blended into the citrus like pigment. All the world is a stave motherfucker, sing the song you played that night.

In the HD footage hum, pock marks on his face were small semblances of the moon landing set in ’69. A nation now horrified by the ideal of walking in a man’s mind, tasting the steps that each swing took.

The ball was just under a kilogram. 2.20462 pounds.

The oblique line.

Parted.

Forced.

The masseter had no chance, it was held in place.

For now.

“Do you know that some kindness is paid in ways only understood by currencies not intended to exchange hands many times?”

The fucking eye’s had little prospect to but cause a flicker of the pins, each thrust only dug them in deeper. They had been specially made when he had learned his skills at flies. Magnified under a lens. 36 hours from forge to blessing.

He had blessed them. In prayer and in faith, in the name of the moments past.

Vitruvian angles splayed the protractor extracting a self-indulgent commerce. Justified deposits.

Slips in the game of sobriety that were to extract an interest rate never seen in the clauses projected on the parchment posts.

Offered crucifix, an overlaid rollerball on platinum shining in the sun reflected from man made surfaces countering the blinding light of the way.

Water just flowed.

It danced off her face when she was happy, and it was all he longed for in each of his days. How he missed her.

One of the men knelt down to pick up the hand.

In his reflections, a million thoughts poured from his mind. Not one satisfied by the look of a man, once again wondering between the state of death, misery and hallucination.

“No.”

He had studied all of these years, he had no idea any of the things that were mechanical magic and patience would exact such a toll on the mind. Forever more he would remember not only what he had seen, but also what was about to play out in front of him.

The orange ball too, was made for this occasion, planned for at this stage. After the first beating to unconsciousness, its intention would be made clear, thrust past the horizontal lines blessing the tube for a solitary measurement before disposal. Purpose serving.

Two consonants of the elixir saw the eyes stop bouncing off the flesh curtains that would never close again to bring rest to a hell they would be made to pay.

“Nice to see you back with me.” Gus said. “Fucking stinky little bastard eh?”

The smell of last night’s corporate waste had come to haunt the proceedings. Redolent, in re-doing what was lent indeed. Rancid reminder of the foul nature that stood in front of him.

“This; is another special gift. Not only made, but wrapped for you. I wanted to spare no expense, so had gone to find a couple of things.”

The “glass” was nothing short of precious gemstones, orange emeralds from the Medellin region, outside of Cartegena. It was not a trip for pleasure, there was none. It was a tale he would tell once more in his life, and that was told. Had you heard it, you know the trip had been an investment in the pleasure that would come now. It had been re-invested, a retained earnings for his hardship and suffering. It mattered not what anyone would have thought, if they found out about it.

They never would.

Ilk the like of those stranded payments, left in the capital cost allocation. The payments were not even discovered, seen, understood. They were always clean, they had come from the “government” body that had sanctioned it. It was nothing short of a corrupt and lucid brothel of pulp fiction it was, and so there is little in the way of anyone asking how the money was being allocated. That was the nature of those that were part of the hiatus from the social convention. The chasm that had to be paid for entry, was not one many would cross, let alone accomplish.

Trust, in the way, was very clear. It had nothing to do with the grass being any colour than that which it was.

Orange.
Fuck.

“The orange emerald’s are rare, in any size. Fragments of them are said to be able to carry the wishes of the dead, and so they were left to listen for all these years. Noting with each passing second the ones that had passed, multiplying them like some kind of Sun Tzu parable repeated over and over as one performs. Like knuckle balls. Every play Nerf baseball in the house?”

The muffled replies were hulking hopes of sound, but swallowed to the depths of Titanic forks and whimsical stair knobs covered in coral and cold. The pins comforted by the small drops that now had been swung into place by another man, not dressed the same. He wore the same clothing Ghetz had.

Another one of the men in the white coats approached as if on call for the queue that was unspoken, rehearsed in the depth of the mind. The mechanical hum provided a startled look, as close to one as could come from a dying man now aware his ankles had been clamped and now were snapped into position.

“Little off for me, but that is ok. It is self adjusting.” Gus tapped the first button.

Pistons gulped air, and the air gulped the cracks. Bone at that pressure sounds like ice dancing on a lake’s shore in the winter months. Magnified, an awl of sound.

The ankles dangled, but the skin was in tact. The machine had been calibrated to understand the right resistance. He called the equation, Blue Suede Schole’s.

“Prefer these ones to concrete every day of the week since. Elvis would be so proud. Mind if I do a J? I want to watch you aware of everything. Each of these chemicals and parts has been specially designed for you. I had a team of ‘them’ provide me with the components. You would not even be considered to know the name of the institution they came from, or the gulch they live in. Nor should your kind, ever.”

Gus cupped the perfectly rolled joint in front of his face as he lit it. The Zippo never failed.

Ever.

It was instinct.

Of the kind that extended his hand in one motion, placing it with a tic behind the button apparatus dangling from the pocket on his chest. A gruesome Cirque flourish, provided it to his left never losing grasp of the eye’s that studied everything, for any kind of hope.

There was none.

“You are not going to be able to say anything to save you any type of agony. There is nothing left to say, it is all about doing, and what I am going to do is ensure I get at that…in the most enjoyable manner I can. That is why…I chose to find another kind of magic… lose…Cartagena…do you roll those gena’s…gggggeeeehhhhnnnnasss…you know where that is?” asking with a marked metronome, he needed to make this last.

Gus’s face instantly changing, “Listen here man. I had considered the barbed wire around a broomstick option, but it was just too clean. To ‘standard’ for this whole affair.” and his arms danced again, “You are just blessed to know I had spent so much time as a pot pacifist to be able to come up with such love for you, cheeky monkey.”

Every piece of the ball that was now in his hands glistened, and it was alive.

Pleasure was not of the same scope as the orange grass.

Here, it was defined because there was no trying.

The was, is a beautiful place to graze, as the wave of calm reflected nowhere in his gaze but inside.

To a state of…

*abide*

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

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

All Inclusive F.C. Lodge – 6 Star Vacationing!!!

Yes, you are wondering.

Dreaming, that one day, that fantastic lush meadow, filled with the sweet, sweet pudding soil and lush candies grass horizons will be yours to enjoy and take part in also.

You can earn your right to stay, at the all-inclusive F.C. Lodge & Orchards. That’s right, simply by clicking your heels and pretending that everything is all right you will be able to visit Fiscal Cliff Lodge, Chasm County, USA and begin enjoying your vacation today!

Centuries of history, decades in the making, the luxury of America’s wide-open fiscal spaces blend with the cliffs that awe calling you to fuck the budget staycation, get freakishly close to the edge. Witness the blood orange sky and view the lawmakers of the wildest nation on Earth, on 284” LCD screens breathtakingly stylish and sophisticated prose, drop from the skies at night to create the documented heaven of bureaucratic canyons, echoes refreshingly simple, spreading the sounds of rich media broadcast and pacifications over you as you reconnect with friends and family, over a pharma-cocktail, a medically mitigated intrusive massage, or a warm Senate Steamcake’s Submersion soak, in the natural waters that surround the Fiscal Cliff range.

With the pleasantly fashionable, calming rustic log home setting, the Fiscal Cliff Lodge helps you feel as though you are a pioneer, back in the early days of shaping a nation, to ensure it would yield the prime vacation spots, and related rest stops and fast food establishments along the way of course, you won’t get more than 24” in our facility without being poked or prodded to purchase, consume, and then trophy shit your waste. You want to say you were here, when that shit hit the fan! So do we.

Inviting views in all of the rooms are sure to encourage reflection, as you see the wild game gathering below. Your thrill is knowing you will not be there when the floor collapses, or you can watch the wild game, kill and torture one another for the foliage or the carcass.

This is big game vacationing.
This is big time living.
This is fuck it to the max – money is no object.

Like all preserves, it’s taste is all based on natural selection and natural fermentation.
This is the wild game preserve of Fiscal Cliff, Chasm County.

Why Chasm County is the right destination;

  • Exclusive, intimate media connections to the SafariCam villa, ideal for the privileged families or groups of friends to enjoy watching the Obama tribe maintain control of the region
  • Private toga parties and StarChamber sessions, just like the old congressional compositors/settlers
  • Seasonal Big Jive viewings, with spectacular sightings of the elusive cheetah (*spring/tax season), the rare black rhino (*winter/kwanzaa and leap year electoral storms), the grey haired Chasm burro (*year round, depends on union jurisdiction with the County area, and your dues paid), not to mention such wonderful ecosystem guests as senate snakes, state badgers, and desert sloth creatures of magical proportions that lobby all parts of the outback for your pleasure
  • Personal ‘Merican Bentley 4×4 safari armed vehicle, legal staff, regional dialect enabled Congress Translator, and emergency parking arranger and tracking/scouting Mall/commercial purchase SWAT (Support.With.Assetized.Transactions) team
  • Your own private F00d $tamp chef to cook you Poverty Pate, Ghetto Can Chicken, Chasm Chili – feel like you know tomorrow will for so many not able to have worked as hard, or as smart as you
  • A F.C.L., Chasm County 100% debt financed fleece TARP for every family that visits and signs the ledger! One for each family member – unlimited supply from Fed Fleece, Inc.

Invitation to bring nature to your world;

Generous timetables and self-sustaining troughs, or ponds and politico nesting areas, reveal a scenic wonderland of natural bitumen, Bush heirlooms and allow the sounds of the native Indebtus Redherrings woodpecker and the burgling gold plated, zinc Koi fish.

Imagine the glory of waking from your well-positioned beds, and the second the world greets you, breathtaking projections ensure your vista is a panorama of space and light. Listen you think the timing of this offer has anything to do with you being one of the potential 2,000,000 Americans that need a vacation from the looming demise of your deemed rights? You are damn right it does – we want you to come and don’t worry about it, something else will replace that right with a new one. Come on a safari at the F.C. Lodge and let us show you what luxury really is!

The glory of white, blue and red;

Stylish comfort, genuine hospitality and the feeling of ease are all yours in the flag draped motif of the Lodge. A personal chef, butler and attendant, all licensed and medically certified (*University of Buenos Juancho Jesus, Costa del Sol, Brineland) anesthetists, will ensure the features all remain as interactive and inductive as to provide maximum efficiency for your willing and free spirited parting of cash for pleasure – the luxury of having your favorite meals prepared for you in tins, paid for with stamps or small plastic sharks teeth we use as currency on the grounds of the lodge (*exchange rate deemed to be based in the currency of the proprietors staff, and remains at their sole discretion based, or perhaps not so based, on a gold standard, that is currently reviewing the definition of gold being color only, or to include the underlying commodity in the past referred to as a means of exchange or value from a notionally accepted standard material or good that is tangible) or the pure pleasure of being surprised at meal time with something as simple as bread and teeth, well that is something we will gladly do.

Private spaces, smiling faces;

The facilities are clean, sterile, and fully allow you to drink in the elixir of the views from synthetically seductive, trade balanced plump cushions and data sensitive electronic devices used for your viewing pleasure, and our monitoring needs. Fresh air for working out your frustrations and your gratuities, to a county and a state that cares about making sure the support staff and team are the to light the candle lanterns creating that intimate dining arena, or a private cell boma, whatever it is, we am sure we have a unionized steward to support your luxurious needs.

We wholly subscribe to the F.Y.P.M principle, and know you will to.

You get what you pay for, and the sheets – they are of your own choosing also!

After all, when you announce 6-star luxury with a brand that stands proudly on it’s foundation of freedom, free country, free choice and “fuck you, pay me”…

You announce Fiscal Cliff Lodge, Chasm Country, USA.

*Click here for your limited time offer to pay an additional 17% more in charges and bureaucratic levies, ensuring your time with us with be that much more gooder for the state of humanity and to sustain a nation of parchment plains and ink well streams!!

fetaChops, fetaman, iFeta, brinesanity, abide, fuqtarded

Tempted to get a blow job from his girlfriend, this former guest, stuck his flacid dick into a portable BBQ to prove he could, as a dick, it obviously swelled and could not be removed. He had to be attended to. It was grotesque, and televised. This, this is the kind of guest Einstein we are happy to oblige. Why? Even the wisest of horn dogs will still stick his dick in a hole for a surprise on the other side. This is just the tip of the iced bird as they say!

 

*abide*

By

Bear abide

Feta:
You know what you are? You’re like a big bear with claws and with fangs…

Chongmaster:
…big fucking teeth, man.

Feta:
Yeah… big fuckin’ teeth on ya’. And she’s just like this little bunny, who’s just kinda cowering in the corner.

Chongmaster:
Shivering.

Feta:
Yeah, man just kinda… you know, you got these claws and you’re staring at these claws and your thinking to yourself, and with these claws you’re thinking, “How am I supposed to kill this bunny, how am I supposed to kill this bunny?”

Chongmaster:
And you’re poking at it, you’re poking at it…

Feta:
Yeah, you’re not hurting it. You’re just kinda gently batting the bunny around, you know what I mean? And the bunny’s scared Mike, the bunny’s scared of you, shivering.

Chongmaster:
And you got these fucking claws and these fangs…

Feta:
And you got these fucking claws and these fangs, man! And you’re looking at your claws and you’re looking at your fangs. And you’re thinking to yourself, you don’t know what to do, man. “I don’t know how to kill the bunny.” With *this* you don’t know how to kill the bunny, do you know what I mean?

Chongmaster:
You’re like a big bear, man.

J. Larry Carrot:
So you’re not just like fucking with me?

Feta:
No. I’m not fucking with you.

Chongmaster:
Honestly, man.

 

*abide*

By

Stench Of A Businessman: Culture of Gus Achilles

Gus, is not an evil selfish person. According to him, he is a well meaning, altruistically motivated person – one of a decent man, following the American dream. Hoping that the caress of steel that motivated his ancestors will provide the insight into the progressive victimization he defines as a cultural phenomenon, affirmations he has been tooled to measure the success of his life with.

Cookies and treats provided for the sheer hard work that would fuel “gain”. He like any man is able to acquire professional success and exult the personal gains. This remains a pillar of the foundation of modern society, simply put, encouraging the production of selfish drones that will go through the motions and to any extent, to accomplish the “dream”. The dream, as it is defined by Gus, is a result of the inputs – environment, abilities, action, mission accomplished.

This is what your life has become, thought Gus.

He had always thought that he was happy. He had accomplished the “dream”, and he had done it from the threads found in the socks darned together from sale. Nothing went to waste in his house, and the history of his life had him striving to work at levels that were almost unbelievable. If there were not other machines to affirm that the hours were logged, there would be few that would find the ability to crush 360 hours in a month, for decades, at a rate that oscillates minds and organs, usually at octaves that would provide pleasure to many, a pitch that was pleasing to the trained ear. To the “wise’ ears. This is what sounded like the accomplishment of the dream, and a life that Gus had always wanted to prove he was capable of living.

Gus proclaimed he did not care about the amount of money he earns, all that he really cares about is that he enjoys his work. He was able to do what he could, and was a hired assassin of sorts. He would sculpt with his hands rejections of the American dream as defined by another, and define his success upon the merits which pock marked the pages that illustrated the relevant information, to the identifying party. Man or machine.

Gus, all of the accomplishments, all of the things that he valued, tended to be parchments waiting to turn to dust. Passing the turnstile of his days with eye’s looking at the hands cynically speeding towards another goal of greed and want. Measured by the milestones of travel-work-rest. There seemed to be little else that was not in one of those categories. Gus only thought of rest, as the need to feed him self and to sleep enough to move forward with the power and the force he was needed to engage in. He lived, for this reason – engaging in the battles he needed to rage each day, not for the personal growth in self or care of his vessel. These were noble things, to give his self and his soul, his life, to the bettering of the production, of the team he was playing for.

The common man is the quitter, and failure is the cause for the demise of the dream, and it was his role to prove that not only was this the case, but that he was a better man for recognizing it, and a better man for ensuring that this was the case. His quest to improve his lot in life was not the mutual and moral growth of humanity. It was to ensure the success of his clients, at their will and discretion, and to ensure his growth, with them. This evolution of intelligence would wave the Darwinian wand magically, and all would go the way of the aggregation methodology employed to subjectively measure the use of assets as fundamental revenue, fiscal modes of the dream generation in effect.

Deception and devastation were avoided at all costs as a public discourse. The latter a personal journey that had to be handled in whatever capacity that was, fermented or harvested, but still commoditized for the sake of distribution and measurement. The former was just a fact of life, the important one in fact, for it was the ability to mask this with intelligence, or neglect it because of self-inflicted ignorance or the pure lack of physical and mental capacities.

He stared at the large rubber sphere in his hand, and knew this was the turning point in his life. The small drops of red washed from the black rubber into the flames as they snapped and crackled. Each seemed to be another statement, a small requiem.

It was very common practice to use a rubber ball like that. The apparatus was not that very complicated, it involved the strands of logic that formed the fulcrum trajectory based on the strength of the “rope” the logic formed, and the rubber ball was the pure mass of “truth” that was required, the weight of which was measured by the elements of business within the structured chart. This was the physical law, and these were the ways by which his ancestors had fought for survival, and so today, he too, would employ just a new variation of it.

One that would see the blunt force trauma eventually surrender the signature, with feeble eye’s medicated by the “pharmacures” that proclaimed them happy and content. Once this was accomplished, there were only the final blows required to finish the project engagement.

There would be nothing left soon.

All of the materials are burnt, and blackened, tears into the water, never to be seen again.

Gus, stood at the water a long time, smiling.

Awareness comes at a cost, and the burden of it was not as they might have thought, so much as it was a blessing for Gus.

Cancer saved his life.

*abide*

By

Finger Jedi

We all at one point grew to the age, where the old fashioned finger bang was the epitome of the greatest achievement a young boy could claim. He was aware of what this magical cavern was able to provide, and he was amazed and astounded at how the power of this “force”, this creation of something that was just natural, and only now was being harnessed for the good of the Obi Wang Kfap-obi. The silent ok, was all ok, as you all knew the elements of the right and the wrong.

Later in life, we  replaced the fingerbang with a move that was more of the Jedi version, the Finger Jedi. The ability to use this pulsating finger, to control large boardrooms of people, slowly whispering “t’ain’t it a great day” with the hint of an Irish Spring shillelagh. Clubbing minds with the subtlety of a pleasant walk, smiling, knowing where you are going. You do, you are a Finger Jedi.

The tell tale sign of being able to actually know the move is successful? Smells of bacon and marshmallow’s fill the air, and the sounds of cotton, long underwear are heard silently moving.

Minds.

“Kojak, it’s Fetaman, I. M. Fetaman. You’re my peer so I think you should know: I’ve Finger Jedi’d a lot of people. Some girls in the apartment uptown uh, some homeless people maybe 5 or 10 um an NYU girl I met in Central Park. I left her in a parking lot behind some donut shop. I Jedi’d Bethany, my old girlfriend, with a nail manicure, and some men. Board room assassin style, uh some old faggot’s with a dog of an IPO last week. I killed another BOD with a logical chainsaw, I had to, he almost got away, and uh someone else there I can’t remember maybe a pro-forma model grunt or two, but they’s dead too. And Woody Allen. I killed Woody Allen with an axe in all his punchlines, his non-humorous text bodies have been shredded and are dissolving in a bathtub in Hell’s Kitchen. I don’t want to leave anything out here. I guess I’ve killed maybe 20 peoples dreams, maybe 40. I have tapes of a lot of it, uh some of the girls have seen the tapes. I even, um… I crosshaired some of their brains, and I cooked ’em a little for life. Tonight I, uh, I just had to kill a LOT of of my own aggressions too, they could not stand. And I’m not sure I’m gonna get away with it this time as well. I guess I’ll uh, I mean, ah, I guess I’m a pretty uh, I mean I guess I’m a pretty sick guy. So, if you get back tomorrow, I may show up at Hemingway’s Bar, so you know, keep your eyes open.”
American Psycho, Finger Jedi Force version

*abide*

*monk says humble what?

By

Orwell – emotional sincerity

“For a creative writer possession of the ‘truth’ is less important than emotional sincerity.”

George Orwell