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

By

A wild thing, choice.


The woe, a man kind, wore her golf suit and made mischief of many binds

and a bother

her mother called her “WILD THING!”
and Man said “I’LL BEAT YOU UP!”
so she sent her to bed without eating anything.

That very night in Man’s room a rave grew

and grew –

and grew until her ceiling hung with JBL chords
and the walls became the world’s woofers

and an ocean tumbled by with a private vowel for Man
and she sailed off staves through night and ray

and in and out of creeks
and almost over her tear
to where the wild things danced

And when she dug tattoo anchors ashore, where the wild things are
they scored their terrible roars with gnashed, lies and terrible feats

and pills rolled their terrible sighs and bowed to their terrible clause

till Man said “BE STILL!”
and tamed them with the magic click-click barber trick

of glaring into all cracked and mellow eyes without blinking once
and they were enlightened and called her the most wild thing of all

and made her king of all the lie things.

“And now,” cried Man, “let the parade-a-lumpus start!”

“Now drop!” Man said and sent the wild things off to the house lounge
without their water. And Man the king of all the lie things was bonely
and wanted to be where someone could loved her best of all.

Then all around from far away across this cold world
she smelled good things to eat
so she gave up being king of lies, and the wild things star.

“Guts,” the wild things cried, “please don’t go—
we must eat your up inside – we love you so!”
And Man said, “No!”

The lie things roared their terrible oars and thumped their terrible feats
and rolled their horrible aye’s and showered their cancerous applause
but Man stepped into his private boat and fishes waved good-bye

and sailed back through many a fear
and in and out of words she speaks
and view some hay

and into the sight of her very own room
where she found her happiness waiting for her

and it was still hot.

*an invisible brown acid re-write, of Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.

By

My Corona.

Well, the “experiment” has been a rousing success for me.

I think I will honour the initial 72 hours, and seeing as not a single person was confirmed, via the run on the Twitter side, it is enough to see what has happened here and how it goes.

It really is ideal, in so many ways, and of course I will, as always, buy my own burs.

Just wanting to make it clear, the “giveaway” or as some deemed it, the “money making lottery” (*such a lovely, and thankful context smirk* “So much to be able to say, to the Academy, and all those that made this happen, the tweet fluffers, the meat vine Jane’s by night, and Jerry’s by day – you all made the costumes and the facade such a wonderful place to be, a magical place to escape the reality of the days that pass, and the reasons you were able to make those dragon feet dance like Gene Kelly. Thank you…”) is no longer active, thanks to the drove by winkers, hope to see you back more “active” some day.

I got to shake the hands of the folks that know me in life, and I got a whole lot of information to help fill in a gap.

So, let’s keep this simple.

Beer/Twitter – 0

Brine Grenades – **

*sip, will drink the beer “myself”, and provide some commentary.

The iPod – well, bought and new – so will save it for the book launch.

Thank you RT’s and stars, appreciate the wave.

If you listen closely, you can hear Ghetz.

His shit don’t stink, I am sure.

*abide*

Ooh my little pretty ones, pretty ones.
When you gonna give me some time, Toobona?
Ooh you make a boater run, my motors, fun.
Gus is comin’ off the line Toobonya.
Never gonna drop, fill the cup.
Such a dirty kind. Always get it up, iFeta’s touch
on the younger blind. My my my feta woo. M M M My Souvlabona…

By

The Questionnaire: Hunter S Thompson

Hunter S Thompson, 60, was born in Kentucky. Jailed for robbery when a teenager, he went on to become a journalist and writer. He was credited with inventing the New Journalism in 1970 – after his stream-of-consciousness account of a week-long bender with illustrator Ralph Steadman – and ‘gonzo’ journalism, for his oddball style in works such as Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Fire, breaking glass and constant explosions.

What is your greatest fear?
Having all my blood sucked out by strangers.

With which historical figure do you most identify?
Benjamin Franklin, coz he loved electricity, and Charles Manson, coz he loved freedom.

Which living person do you most admire?
Fidel Castro, never mind why.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Generosity.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Weakness and failure.

What objects do you always carry with you?
A hookah, shotgun, ben-wa balls, and a fork.

What makes you depressed?
I went to the wilderness once and killed four pigs. This has depressed me for too long. Ralph Steadman also depresses me.

What is your favourite smell?
The smell of cordite.

What is your favourite building?
The tomb of Genghis Khan.

What is your favourite journey?
LSD-25.

What is your favourite fantasy?
In my dreams I am a beautiful naked rhinoceros kidnapped by dolphins and dragged out to sea.

What is your most unappealing habit?
Stealing.

Should the Royal Family be scrapped?
No, send them to prison.

Do you believe in capital punishment?
Absolutely.

Do you believe in monogamy?
Yes.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Jilly, drugs, guns, whisky, speed and water.

Which person do you most despise?
Hitler – he was filthy.

How do you relax?
Necrophilia.

Do you believe in life after death?
Yes, they are the same.

How would you like to be remembered?
‘He was polite.’

What is the most important lesson life has taught you?
To hate the police and to always drive the fastest car on the road.

*note the original can be found here, and is referenced as written by Rosanna Greenstreet for The Guardian, Saturday 27 December 1997 and published at 18.22 GMT. Fifteen years later, to the day, I bow humbly, and can almost imagine the dignity and hubris he presented during this exchange. Long live “Two Thumbs” Thompson. *abide in eternity fine sir, abide.