fetaman.com

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

By

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

Integer, tangerine plane – Saranda kai Alo

 
 

“The new currency is honest, and forthright integrity of acknowledgement of actions that may have been poor decisions, but we all make them, and I can stand by the ones I have made as lessons, and living.”

 

On this great journey, as Coehlo decribed in his book “The Alchemist“, it is written. We are seldom aware of what we are looking for or what will come of it, but only fractions of those figments will make us sure of the whole picture.

I am no different, perhaps.

I am a man, that has stated this before, and has left all of these feta crumbs everywhere for a reason, perhaps you are right, and of course you are perfectly entitled to think so. I came here for you.

Just you.

To be surrounded, in a self-indulgent place one would argue. Surrounding your self and your actions, with the thoughts of those around you that profess to not give a fuck, but eagerly hide behind their multiple pseudonyms and hope to cast aspersions and doubt on the one that has travelled with you like the crumbs above.

Bread made from the flesh, worshipped.

Vanity, or in vain.

The vein that has been pierced is your own, like the mind looking in the gallows to discover some hidden treasure trove of reason that the Pirate Roberts gave to provide you with the vane.

Down by the river.

Water, washes away so much of all that can be dirty, and the euphemism should not be meant to Schadenfreude the little creatures. We are all little, just respect that in your own way, and start to ask yourself.

Is the skin thick enough or the harsh words considered testament?

*places crumb*

I think there is one thing that a man can do, and that is be truly open and true to himself – before it is too late. Before Mr. Cadwallader comes, we all find ourselves with some of the demons that exist, and we create this magical illusion that it singles us out, and that it really brings shame to us, and for this we are to atone for our sins – in guilt?

For what?

Resume Under the Influence? Drinking and driving kills, and it took decades – compounding decades, to cure what was a problem from the day the first wheels hit the ground. Still, we now see more deaths and injuries that result from R.U.I than DUI, and it is not even close. The economic damage would be an interesting undertaking, and I promise you, if there are some folks interested in looking into it as a small piece, as some kind of collaborative effort…well, that is part of what this brinesanity has been put here to do.

Attract some flies, to the shit – wait, sorry. Perhaps that did not sound right.

When we eat something, or have it pass through us for digestion, and this must happen, kind of the living part of who and what we are, has to be. Well, when this happens, we are left with the things that we used to nourish ourselves in mind, soul and of course body. The body, then will collect and discard the “physical” refuse of the products.

For lack of a better word.

The shit. Feces. Excrement. Dumps, and dumping’s.

Everywhere, one could argue that it has become an epidemic of sorts, but that topic is a slight removal from today, we are talking about the shit that comes out after consumption. The cardboard boxes, and the tin cans – the plastic and the foils. The cloth and the paper, the meat and the earthen delights, mixed with magical water and creating the whole circle of life…all leading to shit.

It would be only natural, for us, to be attracted to it.

Distracted you say?

Is that physical, or mental?

Interesting, yes, I like that tangent of reasoning. Please note, I am always happy to address tangents, at any point in time – you just have to be real, and ask me to do so. Past, present, and in the future I hope to be able to keep up that same logical illusion.

Is that like a delusion?

No, it is different, like the distraction of the buzzing all around of all of the flies that were once invisible, not only visible now, but seemingly invisible by their alias’s and their obscure hopes to be able to pray on the volition of other’s regarding the calling of questions upon them.

So your shit don’t stink, or is it that the crack house does not have internet? You want to throw stones at glass houses, but they are to be never used against the force field of intellect that surrounds the cardboard kingdom of your own existence? You think that answering to the anonymous voices, is a rational way to engage in a discussion, and that is ok if it appears online, but in real life you would cross the street if you saw this person?

Very good, very good.

I like that.

Makes the journey more interesting, the spectacle more arousing.

Like a snow globe, except with feta in it.

Shake me.

*abide*

By

The Dawning of the New Age – Gustardius, 2013 a.d.

The magic of a wandering mind, flattered to think of the sequence of random patterns on a distant meadow, a timed brineline. Ring with the smile of the speaking Orange, annoying but necessary for entertainment one would argue, ascending to the throne with a reefer gavel, crushing legislation with petrified Twinkie dreams. Spongy Pelosi, beware. Tis is the dawning, of the age of Gustardius.

3:33 is the magic number, the magic time. The reference is tied to the hope of a numbered beast never presenting a rearing head, but more so to the image of confronting self in the mirror, and knowing that is half of the battle. Seeing the half way mark, to the end of the world.

According to the sage wisdom of all of the pages that have survived before mine. It must be true, it was written on the internet – by someone that can replicate quite simple cut and past activities, and combine that with some kind of creative content, and then you can start to pass and write your own bills and before you know it, you will be calling on you neighbours, and anyone that will listen, that you need a chamber of sober second thought, and the toll bell sang, and the heralded “angels” declared;

He sat there one day and had reflections
A glass of Crown in his hand
Ludicrous, obscured connections
All tangled and brazen plans.

Well you abide, on the miles that you own
Well you ride, on the rug like a stone
Well you hide, like the grass is your home
But when you die inside, you find
You might lose your kind.

He had spoken, down at the reception
Pimping out his, grin and juice
Preaching, “We gonna synthesize, cortex connections!
Money back, or full abuse!”

Well you abide, on the miles that you own
Well you ride, on the rug like a stone
Well you hide, like the grass is your home
But when you die inside, you find
You might lose your kind.

*then they wanted to smoke a J with Gus, and so they did…angels abide in the same orange grass man.

*abide*

02-16-2013

By

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.

*abide*

02-16-2013 

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

Armstruthtonged: Flipflopology on the Bike

Go ahead, reach into your overnight Adidas bag, bring out the gold flip flops. Become a world class flipflipologist. Make it reign Frankie Wilde styles. Discover the beauty in the similarities of bicycle wheels and records both being round, look at those disco biscuits and come hurling into the stadium all confident and sure that your clean ways will be welcomed in the parting sea of flesh you witness before you, or have convinced yourself of existing for the sake of one blissful night dancing away to the tribal rhythms and photo album memories greased with 34% proof O’pratatoe vodka.

Or maybe you think the cameras don’t see that context smirk and your attitude? After all, the walls in the room are a mellow cobblestone tone, similar to the one’s in the 87 of the countries you toured in, disposing of your lies to people that hoped you could be real, and not another fucking human tragedy consumed by the masses for mind calories wanting for some kind of substance in the face of malnutrition.

*all re-enactments of the following parts of the Armstruth dialogues are meant to convey the appearance of a drug fuelled rave, in Goa looking for guerilla footage of the elusive jawmonger, a travelling modern day cyclist him/herself. Caution when invading the space of the jawmonger, as it may result in passive acceptance of his awkward dance moves based on the hope that you can experience love in this state. Please note, the extension of the mind required to imagine a cycle as a dose or a round of drugs, over a period of time that can be considered pretty “normal” to (ab)users, may be elusive and should not to be attempted by pop music fans, anyone who still has a Michael Jackson album, and sloth. Any and all sloth, or slothii, should not proceed.

<scene II>

[crystal buckets, beach sized with small platinum scoops are lined up, each a different shape – cocaine, ecstasy, meth, et al. Sparkling Eunuch Springs water bottles remain. Swaying hips of Foodstamp Servers move gently to the house music in the background. The shot of the B0$E system is snuck into frame]

O. Pratatoe: Was it a big deal to you, did you feel thong?
Armstruth: On a dime? No.
<purses eyebrows, that tap out code to the black ops website translators, furnishing more information that must be buried in this HTML-Dali code: The Tall Elephants are Gathering>
O. Pratatoe: Was selling your soul, to wear thongs, wrong?
<head is swaying gently to some Digweed, just like it was on the shores of Maui when they rehearsed this set. O. Pratatoe was in charge of the light mixer over the ocean, and the signals to the Somalian pirates off shore ready to ignite the Roman Candle fireworks set to cascade in the form of a badger>
Armstruth: No, quite fair. E?
<head nods passionately, crows feet disappear>
O. Pratatoe: Did you feel bad about sharing your hammock and flipflopUniballogy?
Armstruth: No, just hairier.
<sign languages the two walking feet over his palm, in circular motions and the audio impaired reader posts “Fred Flinstone Can Start a Car Like This” as he nods his head and winks>
O. Pratatoe: Did you feel, in any way that your bullshit was overheating?
Armstruth:  No, the scariest.
<eyes pop open, the vowel hits here, pupils dilate, we see a reflection in the window of a man holding a cue card with the words “winning” barely visible, upon any screenshot and HD review of it, the viewers would see Charlie Sheen being the holder of the cue card crafted of tiger blood black ink and parchment layers of chemical peels removed from mattress quests of skewered goddesses and concubines>
O. Pratatoe: What do you mean?
Armstruth: Well, when you wear the flip flops man, it’s perfection.
O. Pratatoe: Seriously, your woo is peeing on my mind here dude…
Armstruth: When I can’t wait to ride, I am an artist.
<quick scene cut to page flipping media cards, camera pans as soon as the word Rat Salad appear>
O. Pratatoe: What?
Armstruth: I am the walrus.
O. Pratatoe: Phil, bring us a couple of bumps, this is getting good…
Armstruth: I just stare at the flip flips under the lever…
O. Pratatoe: Who exactly is the walrus, and did he force you to take the drugs and come perform at this magic festival we are at? <eyes thrust open like porcelain bone saucers, flying, fucking, saucers> SOMEONE THROW TULIP PETALS AT ME – I LOVE THIS TRACK!
Armstruth: Look I have a Campagnolo lever, I got from Ibiza!!
O. Pratatoe: I was considering buying that place once…
<camera DPS-HD1 fades to black, cut to a funny fucking link, and not a sponsor, so dig it, all the posts have multiple media links in them, that is part of the way we role>

THIS POSTS FREE O. PRATATOE LEARNING THINK GOES TO:

“Do you suffer from PTEP? PTCP? PTSP? Post Traumatic E-potato Placement, Comma Placement, of Syntax Prolapse is a serious illness. Many claim it is done intentionally, however few have the tangents to prove it. Dr. Filinstein’s Poegrow metastasizes with all brands of soda and O’pratatoe brand chips. Free shipping by the US Postal Service, mailing parcels my not be exactly as illustrated.”

*For men experiencing a prolonged, painful erection, taking this medication to stay on Team Fur Munchhousen seek immediate medical attention or permanent problems could result in you becoming asexual. All persons  should contact a fucking doctor immediately. All medical treatment will be paid for by the machine, under the Fair Noshit Sherlock Statute of 1923, if you experience a missed menstrual period; breast lump or discharge; calf or leg pain, swelling, or tenderness; change in amount of urine produced; chest pain or heaviness; confusion; coughing up blood; fainting; irregular heartbeat; left-sided jaw, neck, shoulder, or arm pain; mental or mood changes (such as depression); numbness of an arm or leg; one-sided weakness; persistent, severe, or recurring headache or dizziness; severe stomach pain or tenderness; slurred speech; sudden severe vomiting; sudden shortness of breath; symptoms of liver problems (such as yellowing of the skin or eyes, fever, dark urine, pale stools, loss of appetite); unusual or severe vaginal bleeding; or vision changes (such as sudden vision loss, double vision as a result of buying this shit. This slot has been strategically selected to appease our corporate interests, the lobby teams coordinated efforts, Headscratch Cycle-psycho, and all narcissists willing to accept apologies over weight as a condition for kinship and financial remuneration from once again swinging on the hairy veins, like Tarzan buoys in the Armstruth jungle.

*abide*

By

O. Pratato? Armstruth, tonged.

I do not dwell in my shit, or my fight for it. I recognize it, and the glory of remission in hand, is better than the hope for the two in the bush. Living strong means taking what you can get, to survive. That is what caused me to believe in the man, Lance Armstrong. A public figure that suffered much of the same fate as many a man, literally, and of course inspired millions with his “lies”.

That is what all still state, and yes, there were lies within the realm of everything else that is out there, and so you can not recognize that even to return, to ride and finish, is an accomplishment. To have been given what he had, and to disregard it with the brash wave of the hand is almost unholy.

Cancer is not to be fucked with. What it extent it played in all of this, and how, is not even being considered as a contributing factor, or a delineating one, and I find that not only tragic, but something that fully flies in the face of truth and convention. When someone is dealing with some pretty harsh shit, physical or mentally capable of killing more than just dreams or goldfish, it plays a role.

A big fucking role.

Here, what this fictional consideration looks at, is leagues ahead of the bullshit that Howard Lederer pulled in the online poker world, and I snapped watching all of his shit, I have some stuff I am going to micro ship as a rantella shortly. That is a blend of ranting mixed with some novella sizing to add a little love to the day/weekend. (*Fuck you buy a shitty paper on the street for $0.50 – slip a bro some change for some coffee would yeah, they took my medals too)

Well they tried to.
*wink*

So in order to prevent any of the sensitive crap from the likes of folks that may go apeshit when someone like Rolling Stone splashes me on the cover for being brilliant and delightfully intriguing and funny and all of that other bullshit we read in the fake Twitter bio’s, which are pretty “obvious” – like finding that swamp sinkhole it the back of the family cottage. Digging for gold.

Getting Armstruthtonged means reaching into a shit infested swamp, to try to bring out gold and riches for others, hoping they will not try to wipe that shit eating grin off your face and its fallacious representations. Continued half truth’s that have to be waxed on and waxed off between pelican poses on sandy shores in distant lands with huge mother fucking tongs, used to hopefully disguise your missing testicular soul mate.

Which is cool, I mean, if you got to roll that way.

As a uniBaller, or as either of the two characters introduced below, you know, as fictional and satirical prose.

Call it Feta Verité.

That is the way I would role, and if they had the chance to run corporate America, to be able to follow the same philosophy I saw last night, and will cap off tonight, the world would be a great fucking place.

*the re-enactment of the following dialogue is meant to convey the appearance of a drug fuelled acid trip, into Phukit looking for guerilla footage of the elusive fuqranauticus Salonica, a large white tower shaped vestibule on the shores of distant brines. Please note, the extension of the mind required to imagine a huge stone building just walking around “trying” to be elusive in any regard is significant and is not to be attempted by mental fuqranauts.

[table filled with Belgian chocolate dipped Twinkies, sparkling Eunuch Springs water bottles, and Iceberg Oysters*]

*Iceberg Oysters are also highly forbidden, but this batch was delivered by Dr. Hiandrye. They are gathered by forlorn Norwegian widows who have been implanted with precious audience participation gifts like aqualungs and Icarian GPS for one purpose. To harvest sveal balls from virgin, organic Arctic sea icebergs. A sveal must be between a particular age, and the more exotic one’s are marked on the snouts with exotic tribal tattoo depictions of bacon, hockey sticks and pine cones.

O. Pratatoe: The corporate team made you do it, 
but you still did it?
<slurps Iceberg Oysters, licks fingers>
Armstruth: I don’t want to say anything, but Ferrari – ummmm…
O. Pratatoe: Coke cans in the trash, admit liability?
Armstruth: Ummmmmm, nope.
O. Pratatoe: Dude, that is pretty fuqt.
<tucks a couple of the Iceberg’s away in the bra, winks to Camera FL-HD2>
Armstruth: Ummmmm, yeah.
<plucks nosehair, to shed a tear which made of diamonds crushed from the coal shoved up his ass from sponsors and crushed internally by his heart, and fired by lies, creating the perfect environment for synthetic diamond creation, the source of his wealth, and the black ops sponsor of fetaman.com the site, which is why my small descriptions of scene frames involve the same disregard for civility as teabaggin’ the UN Headquarters Main door entry knob, everyone would touch it and never know, right?>
O. Pratatoe: They said you all did that, and saw you.
Armstruth: Ummmmmm, potato.
O. Pratatoe: Seriously, are you telling me you can’t remember or this is some kind of Armstruthtongedian philosophy?
Armstruth: Oh, pratato?

THIS POSTS FREE O. PRATATOE LEARNING THINK SLOT GOES TO:

“Yeah, you even got the back seat closet in the Mini to prove you mean business -see that, that is a sock pouch. Know why? Cause when they sign with me, I leave ’em my socks. So they can remember me, as they will never see these feet again after I remove them from their ass that lovely mourn.”*
*spelling meant to evoke a response, and those of you that did not get that are required to go back, read that again, and then ignore this asterix until it is no longer relavant, or until this has been filled with more feta and unicorn dust.

*abide*

By

Context Smirk

The bi-directional highway between anger and happiness is a walk on a road you choose, and prepare accordingly. Answer to knowing keys played alone, within eye the comfort that comes haunting.

This is what your life has become, theatre of the mind, allusions of friends manifested upon your stave by the calling of the notes. Reflections of successful, and talented people, busy with their own lives. Time is a shallow knowing of the trauma it flicks, seconds hardship creates the smirk, tilting with the chords.

Your song demands no audience through an obligation any longer. When no one is obligated, remnants of the capable caring and compassionate, at will shall bring the respite on the way.

Judging, importune willingness not demanded, but earned in your practice. Choices own lifetimes, shared, becoming the lifeline tracing tides and the magic carpet ride. A line that may not be the shape, or the direction, or the magnitude of what you seek, but you have the choice to walk that line also sunshine, so spread those wings and make like an illusion we can all bring into context.

Time and the weather pediments at the call of an elixir, dancing soul barometer measuring the metronome of the terrain, in fragmented quantifications of the sociopathic tendencies, affirmed as logical reason and sound judgment by the most vicious adjudicator in the universe. The one constant, controlled only by the mind of men, that claim very control of figments and dried sweets.

Time.

Objects must conform to our cognition argued Kant. Cerebral manifestations now occur in bit cursives in all shapes and senses that are pivot points.

If the hell begins to creep more and more into the shadows your sun they basked in, be assured few reflections wish it to appear, and somehow, they do. Sepia smiles from the geometric form risen to be seen in passing circumstance.

Only then will you begin to see the beauty in the song that has been played, and choose to play the songs that you were blessed to count as the one’s that touched you the most, that make the pages of the mind want in connection to the harmony that seems to play so soundly in the senses. Seen and spoken, but reflected only by the experiences lived.

Balls that were but toys, amusing and fascinating to the wooden work horse capable of carrying the importance of the task at hand. Little to have, he held his world in high esteem, and the weight of imagination held no place within the bags that held the ransom time demanded. Invested and paid for with such a cost, the value of it growing a fond return to the simpler days.

Melancholy and somber, the sounds and the choices seem so distant to the moment at hand. So grand, and all knowing of the ability to be, and allow the universe to provide the wealth that you so deserve, for in youth, there is nothing that is not an entitlement. Ravenous to consume and conquer, walls that you believe provide shelter are stationary against the actions of men that leap from behind them. Leaving their safety, aware of what lays on the other side.

The end is not as it will seem, for anyone.

Least, me.
For now is the time my fingers dance.

The darkness you hear, is just the passing of the keys smirking.
Contextually.

*abide*