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

By

Committed. Abide.

Just another day, and to be sure, it is.

One that I am grateful for having lived, in fact, there is more to that “statement” than meets the naked eye; fawn too a meadow of imagined vines climbing towards the love of frothy hope. Gates to a heaven, taxed with sins.

Heaven is spelt with a silent capital U.

Think about it.

Upon a wooded row, there stood a small insect that appeared. It asking for directions on how to reach the road he asked for. He would not accept my answer, nor the call to my trusted best friend over and over again.

Funny how so many fools suffer the Websters-WebMD Fuqtard misconception that Abide is a passive state, simply.

Fondue logic dripping down the spine, usually is a bad sign about the quality of the company you keep.

Feel your spine.

Do not move, no scratching.

Feel.

Alive.

Now close your eyes.
Forever, ok?

Yes, if I was asked to, but my truest love and companion would be there in all of the trillions of seconds I sense she is, and yes.

Yes, I would.
I will.

Wood, you…will do, and I am grateful for you. I have walked across a plane fertilized, stones committing to Semedori and trees remain grateful for the glancing winds of antique trails. Time, the tyrant who is mute, ability surrendered by a will Kings of Kings profess, serpents to the works that all fall, never as mighty as a despair. (*oz link)

Visage, voyage, voussoir castings left for those still eager to find a meaning litter the sacred corners of the cortex and dolomite steeples.

Strike for a match,
strike for a game.
Strike for the rights,
professed by the sane.

Sure, you provide the back, I will strike the purple tip, cuticle of a circumcision reefed with sulfur. The deeper the lick, the deeper the depth of each vertebrae lodged.

Where?

Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you Tomorrow.

You know, just a day away.

*abide*

hbdf.c18mtPi

By

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

Help, My Snowman’s Burning Down (1964, Carson Davidson)

An image of the world, as advertised.

The soundtrack is your own mind man, woman, or child.

Enable it.

Talk to the meece, mais oui?

*abide*

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

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

Shweaty balls promoting dolphin murders.

Want to feel like you are a kid again?  Connect with cool pen pals. The difference these days is syntax, so for brevity think ePals©. Yes, it kind of sounds like a a foot lotion, or some kind of cream for removing deep frostbite at the heights of exploration -which is why this episode of Kilimanjaro Executive, sponsored by Viagara©  and ePals© – helping all men in their mid-life prove they can still get it up, no matter how cold it is. This weeks warrior, now unemployed star of 30 Rock, Pete Schweaty, proves his balls can be enjoyed anywhere, at any temperature.

 

fetaman, iFeta, fetaChops, brinesanity, abide, cerebral anarchism

This story was broken by the Editor at CNN that had won the competition, to select the stories for the evening. But if you click this pick, after the opening click of course above the picture from the sponsors (sic). So thus indeed, begins the story of how we discovered Horace Redgrave, dolphin “puncher”. Sick, sick monkeys out there.

@CNN, good old Anderson Cooper and his crack team of 360°, which can come full circle form such great shows or pieces that question the 3 generations of prison camps in North Korea, and how amazing the human condition is, and then go right to the other spectrum with talking about the gruesome, horrible, incredible questions of the recent increase of several dolphins that have washed on shore in recent months. In fact he states, as he is about to show us this brilliant reporter selected to cover this massive news, global news, that in the last year as many as 10, yes, 10 of these large fish found shot, sliced open, or mutilated.

We hear and see Officer Leo Degeorge, of the Mississippi Department of Marine Resources, tell us how these disturbing boardings of vessels work, actually having to board the pirate boats of the Mississippi, looking for the murderers. Ed Lavandera was looking for answers damn it, and he was looking to find out, how between January-November of 2012, 7 slain dolphins have washed ashore.

Now, we are told, two more have washed ashore in the last two months, and amazingly, a third head of one. But now I begin to get confused, does this mean they cannot even claim a third dolphin? Or are they saying they are, because I would have to disagree. When I was young, just a wee curd, we learned real math, and you round down. I mean, either in size, or weight, the head of a dolphin is not 50% of the mass, so yeah, stay with 9 CNN. Seriously, your credibility and all.

We are told, by Ed at this point that the OTIC (the One Thing In Common technique of questioning he had learned at the Bora Bora CNN Forensic Reporting – CSI* Retreat, code named for the cocktail Cyber Smoke) is that all of the dolphins, or parts there of, have washed along the shores of this big chunk of land that water smashes into, around which a fuck load of dolphins swim. But they are being mutilated, all signs point to intentional killing and some kind of perversion, or slaughter.

Investigating all of this, providing feedback to an entire federal commission known as NOAA (the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) is Moby Solangi, Ph.D. of the IMMC (Institute for Marine Mammal Studies) an organization as impressive and powerful as it’s name suggests. I mean look at that website, seriously – this is prime time shit folks. Right there for the masses to suck on the tit of intelligence, come get your milk, daddy is home.

Ok, so let’s stay on focus here, this one guy, Moby right, reports to the public it is “deranged, senseless and repugnant”.

Pictures “too graphic” to show. Big news. Wow. How could one individual, hold on there captain Ouija squid, is a Ouija squid a mammal? Eh? But, ok, you can predict it was one person, let’s use the ubiquitous (for the folks that believe that a value meal has nutrition, that is like an all in one value meal, that is less than $3.29, with taxes in, and will meet all of your nutritional requirements according to the Federal Reserve People’s Drive Thru Information Centre for the Study of Fat Mammals who may or may not Have Bull Balls Dangling on Truck Hitches) he, no woman would do this after all, must be stopped. We can not tolerate this.

The federal investigators, the teams that had examined the other incidents, ruled that it was not some deranged killer, that they were not connected, but somehow the findings may have changed. The findings of the powerful scientific teams, may have cause for suspicion, but they can only report the facts.

But although the dolphins died, could they not have been mercy killings? I am not one to condone cruelty to animals in any regard, and if we had some kind of grainy footage of some kind of global video camera, to make sure this perversion would never occur, I am sure mankind would give up freedom to be able to know that this kind of travesty would never exist.

The dolphins, this glorious fish, that swim around the boat – this beautiful boat on patrol – the friends of all the people on this glorious island that could double as a family get away, or an exclusive jaunt into the wet, hot, well trimmed bushes swaying in the wind moments that two peers may share together…this place where all the islanders are asking about how and what could be happening to all their dolphin friends – it is a mysterious place.

You can barely hear the end of the clip, as it fades into the distance with the murmurs of the olives, speaking and greeting each other for the afternoon tea. Yes, these islands care, and before they have their marTini (yes, they are clever with words, and you will never notice the capital T in their accent, unless you are cultured enough to do so) the barrier island philanthropists ensure their staff have properly trained even the olives for the cordial ritual of gin bukkake.

It is only proper.

This world is fucked.

Humans dying, families hungry – but headless dolphins. Well played CNN, well fucking played – wow, some things just make you say, are you kidding me, it was like a 5 minute story, and some kind of major issue. Why would someone do this, this “predator” – are you fucking serious. Sometimes, you just have to realize that CNN is just as fucked as a good Twitter account. All of your news is like some kind of mad array of tweets, some good, and many bad, with different lengths, but the credibility of one statement, can crush all that you have worked for.

On the other hand, if you have some laughs, and realize that yes, the entire above is a play on an feta-ized type of story, or flash humour, and references how ironic it is that we are watching and caring about this, when the economic fate of the world is wrestled over by large debt clocks, missiles that can now actually cross the sea (*as opposed to the launch in 1969, so grand and never repeated, it happened, I am sure or it…) and man kind is falling to a level where we regard the life of a dolphin, and the mysterious “murders”, so troubling, more important than the 52 killings of humans, back in March, 2012 in Chicago where the violence was more than twice as many as died in the previous March. For the first three months of the year, the number of deaths shot up by 60 percent, raising fears that authorities were losing control of some gang-dominated areas.

So we have 52 people, in one month, die. Killed, not accidents, not some kind of heart attacks, or vicious cigarette harpoons to the fucking lungs – nope. Pure, calculated, knowing, cold blooded murder and of people. Living breathing, people, who were only victims of one crime.

Being born in a crazy fucking place. In some circumstance, and maybe just not even knowing, that they too are like animals. To be killed, like the generals and the masses.

I am not here to make a political statement on the wars, or the killing overseas for the sake of oil and energy, and power. Fuck, I am not some kind of crazy militant that wants to engage in the war that the Coca-cola drinking anarchists quench their rebel yells with, nor am I willing to comment on the validity of a god, one greater than the other.

But I am going to say, that no matter what you believe, and how you feel, and where your priorities lay, disguised, known or not.

No fucking way you can argue dolphins deaths, is anywhere near as important of the other millions, if not billions of other stories that should go into the big power ball/bingo drum in the sky, with a free chance to get the hairdryer as consolation, if you lose, but at least one of those other more important balls has to come out.

Just jingle some shiny keys, and watch them come running.

*abide*

 

Note: for all researchers wishing to further identify, or understand the motives behind a genuine ape, that claims to see no, hear no, and speak no evil, but writes well – you be the judge. Horace Redgrave can be found here.

By

Babe Ruth t-shirt ok?

wanna see how fucked this is, click this – read about a TEACHER just making an ass of herself, and making a young girl pay for the ignorance of union’s, fuqtarded teachers, and the guacamole IQ of the world’s “super-power” being erroded by the “common man/woman/thing/uniontard” *puke*

The machine is asking nicely, for you to drop the coins into the slot, and just hope, that the thought you want to come off the coiled spring, with no spring, but a grand and lofty purpose, is going to be that giant Babe Ruth bar.

Raise your hand, like you head, and wait for the shit to hit your face.

It is such a grand pleasure for the like minded.

*abide*