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

By

Bacon Masturbation, 31 days.

The Baconbate Experience (TBE)

It is hard today, with all of the traditional porn looking to stretch the limits and somehow engage the generation that was born to masturbate more.

It is what has helped quell wars, set nations back on the path of not burning ethnic people at the stake, so the condemned could be burned at the stake. It was a suffering that brought us to today, do you think heretics allowed you buy your bread fresh for at least 10 days if you keep the small plastic snap on the right way after the twist, as you wonder – should I jerk off, before of after this sandwich?

Sandwiches naturally produce the jerk off question.
Proven by the Gallop-Knuckle Pull, a pole by most other actions.

Please, let me cut to the chase.

Each of the following 31 moves were going to be used in a book, they may still be so, as I retain the right and the ownership of my content.

I had to prove that masturbating 31 times, in a single month (*easy by most standards, very actually) – but I had to do this with bacon, raw or cooked, in some manner.

It was the hardest $1,000 I had earned, but I figured. Few are actually given sperm donor wage, for chunking at home and taking the odd snapshot of bacon in Secret pantyhose. Don’t worry, there are 5 ways pantyhose are needed, and two involve boiling and cooling the bacon before jerking off with it.

Be warned.

This is not for the weekday horoscope crowd looking to justify a sad existence.
This is for those of us, the few, the bold, the pioneers.

The day someone defines how, when, what, where and why I am chunking the magic curtain in an epileptic fit of wax-on/wax-off…ko-knee-chi-wa.

  1. Marble ball; the bacon is pushed through an olive pitter, creating a creamier mix. The mash is pressed into 6 melon ball scoops that are dipped in liquid nitrogen to create small ben-wah balls threaded with floss. A flaming stick is inserted into the colon before the string is placed in, the Recipient needing to ask “why” it must be real may scream for help. This is religion for some.
  2. Salt Sponge; layers of coral sponge are sliced into equal size and strips of bacon, they are then woven together, and steamed in a dim-sum steam basket after they have been rolled in Judaic salt from the Dead Sea. It is critical that the fluid has tears from 6 virgins, 3 male/3 female, so that they remain blessed by the same God that allows them to think the sun rising on their corrupt factory is going to allow them to succeed. It is gently used over the sexual organs as various ancient languages are muttered by the practices of the freedom chosen.
  3. Squeezed Jam; in a crock pot, beer is allowed to be the primary Sea for the bacon to melt within. Doing so, allows the final jelly to be of a beautiful texture. Most tourists agree, or 7/10, that indeed the feeling is best described as “nutella in my soul” – please do not ask more about this, it is perhaps one of the worst ways to experience it, but it must be told. Thrice annually we speak of it, twice you have a choice to attend beyond vespers. Those are for the selected ones, and all have been pre-qualified with a medical exam.
  4. Bacon pads: large mounds of brisket are baked at varying temperatures to mimic the foam padding used in 1980’s high schools, hoping more machismo would fuel future generations of hope, Tom Cruise pre-Scientolichlamydius, and rancid NSA taps. *although dozens of other agencies need to be noted at STD inducing, and UCLA is expected to announce a Ghostbuster study about said bullshit, but only after the Cliff’s bar announcement is made. Arnold said he has more back now than ever, ola Pepe; By allowing small extensions in the corner of the pads, tickling items can cup the balls, or be wired for clit-action, and provide hands-free, public transit masturbation.
  5. Pork Swiffer; seriously, have to explain this? Put bacon on the bottom of the Swiffer, Mountain Scent is the best, and then proceed to mop the floor. Jizz, or squirt in front of you, then cook bacon when done. Give to neighbor you hate. Fucker needs to enjoy with alcohol free beer.
  6. Toes ‘n goes; using small origami folds, tiny Booklets of Bacon are left in the toes, during a shower. Not for the weak of heart, the water must be scalding and you can use Crisco or butter for the soap, but be liberal. In the Basque regions, scallops can be placed between the thicker toes, or the longer second/dominant toe that most men are said to own when they are fucking whipped, net weight not a factor. Deep Scottish roots claim, inhabitants of the moors used to bake bread in the sealed cracks of their asses, in ancient times, but Jacque Caruso did not find proof, although was deeply satisfied according to his handlers.
  7. Bacon Icecumber; the inner shaft of the cucumber is peeled to allow smooth (*can be skin on, but be aware of potential hemorrhoid implications if soothing balms are not available) interaction as the juice of the bacon wrap melts, along with the core. The key to making this “bacon baton” is the wrapping method, and either the Captain Morgan’s Spiced Bum method or the Tequila Meatworm approach work best.
  8. Giving the Cat Some ‘Tupper; a variation of the famed “Giving the Cat a Bath” sex move, it allows a small hole to be cut into a Tupperware bowl of appropriate size to fit the preferred piece of flesh be dipped, squeezed is just as important an adjective so use soft Tupperware, or Rubbermaid shit, you want to avoid cutting anything (*or choose to, but, fuck choice is a personal mandate) and have some fun with it. One note of interest, is that most people past certain ages fail to allocate enough space in the container for the SF (Sag Factor, or sulferus fuqnastiness) and should use the same system as paint, wallpaper, and upholstery by providing an extra 10-15% of their best estimate.
  9. OJ’s Bacon Coiler; another boiled approach. This one should involve a bacon bee-nest-bun approach for more effect. Think “I Love Lucy” hair, and Ricky ramba-Cuban. The only way to get sexy time in solitary, and do push ups, is to scream with each thrust, “This fit the bacon glove?” and push harder. White Bronco wallpaper would add for a wild trip on this approach, and not my thing, but fuck, no filter.
  10. Foreman Sear-it & Moan; a rather harsh approach to finding the line between different and bored, the participant wraps genitals in bacon and begins to gyrate to Wham, some going to the elaborate lengths of even going to the local discount grocer who has you take the garbage from the store for free instead of letting the Cardboard Monarchy charge ’em for the privilege so that you can create bathroom stalls in your kitchen or near a noted outlet. Closing in on the maximum temperature of the grill you desire, pre-squirt the hot plate – place genitals in Foreman. Slam it shut. Keeping in for long durations and being chained to the grease dish are all approaches you may want to discuss with your mistress/mister.
  11. Porky Klingon; using one of the dozens of pre-cut egg carton sections you have saved, hand painted, and dusted with Betty Crocker Frosting and candy bits, and using the thick blue elastic from the broccoli, thereby turning it into a Porky the Pig nose, gently sew bacon on to your ears in the form of a Klingon. Experience dictates you sew the first pieces on the counter, shape them, then use just a few piercings to minimize scaring and marking that may have you appear abnormal at the abattoir.
  12. Bacon Duster; using your favorite scent of Pine-sol, dip the bacon strips into the dilution after it has been tied firmly using fabric coated pipe cleaners. Note, some use color here, or go for the barbed style, decorate as you wish. Maids dress in relevant garb and dust the dirtiest parts first allowing any pieces that fall to be marinated in the sheets. Yes, plastic wrap was a good idea to mention heads up, but it may have prevented you from being so engrossed you can only now imagine that bacon being in a hollandaise lobster Benedicked.
  13. 007-F: *Classified*
  14. Bacon Battleship; floating barges of bacon, of various sizes and crispiness (*buoyancy, steerability, wave motion attributes that will come as close to plastic grids with holes on them, and a disposition to always think of masturbation conditions in das Boot) are in a bathtub. Bubble bath Islands can act as imaginary rock, or be tiny bubbles that can not stand the force of the shot from your “ballteship” or “haircraft carrier”.
  15. Oasis Sandpaper; adding some natural sand, if you wish, or simply using very crunchy bacon that has been Guerilla Glue(d) to cheesecloth. Various grits will be achieved based on size, temperature and duration of crisping the bacon. Purists of this technique cry at the “baconstardation” of those fucking bastards who do not cook the bacon naked. Camel noises are tribal, and various tones of them will denote if you should fear the faux cheese hump, or embrace it for the culture it contains. Creamy, dreamy culture.
  16. Princess Crown; good for either sex, this Crown can be pre-made and snap-deep fried, or can be baked around a mound made from tinfoil. Using various body parts of your self, or a 2nd knowing/unknowing party is ok, but make sure if you are moving beyond 1st person planning or involvement you have consent or a well soaked cloth from various dollar store solvents. Some say adding a pea under the mattress, pillow or cushion may add that extra royal diversion/dalliance.
  17. Pork Monk (Nun); a gown is prepared and dried in a constructed and blessed hut in the back yard. It is custom shaped, and although there are moments of elation, no official Rosary-gyrations are initiated until the first appearance of the full garb worn, usually on the first whole moon following the addition of the tassels. Often, this can be a swingers festival of sorts, and many different Monks and Nuns become possessed by the bacon, not inventing so much as incantationing some delicious uses for bacon few dare to examine. Some “nuns” enjoy crosses of sorts, and then send those off into the web, never sure where they end up – but the sweet, sweet details.
  18. Bacon Generals; one of my personal favorites because it allows me to pretend I worked for the NSA. Pre-record a series of direct commands that sound like you are in control of a series of flying documents that surround your current space, or the Air Tower Common Objective Control Zone (ARCOCZ). While showing a line up of bacon your Internet browser history, shout at them. As each begins to glaze over from your rage, insist they suck and should have found out more about Snowden before he left the Teflon coated fence perimeter.
  19. Bacon Keller; easy to say, hard to do. While desperately thumbing through a phone book, eyes covered in bacon and angrily stroking it, screaming – “Why did I have be born with the Keller-Bacon gene?”
  20. Da Tube; depending on experience, paper towel tubes can be used but you are cautioned to begin with toilet paper tubes. In a pair of black business socks, pulled to no lower than at least knee-cap, see how much bacon you can shove into the “cardboard” subway/tram along with your unit. In the case of orifice insertion, add some garlic and see how long you can “ride that tube” before dropping into a pre-greased muffin tin. Scoop pre-mixed okra/raisin muffin mix and clean up. Get to the recreation lounge before the opening Vanna wave. Remember the margarine and plastic knife for the TV tray in order to not miss vowel purchase tension as you hear their compliments. Fools.
  21. Sybian Pancetta; for the Robb Report masturbation aficionado, there can be very few holy pounds, and this custom machine not only has stainless steel tenderloin pans, pine tree/metallic/green/with round head bolt-screw things stained with eggnog, and variable convection wave prongs, but when flown to Spain in first class, and then transported as the only passenger in a Lamborghini driven by the sex of your choice, over 80% of purchases at this stage involve discrete interactions with the most famous drivers, Mario and Luigi. No coincidence, they have the same cocksmith as Ron Jeremy and Ron Burgundy. Ride at the tempo and duration of your choice.
  22. KBCO; Keep Boffin’, Chives On. Best timed with favorite posts on various Fuck-I-Wish-I-Was-21-Again websites, and various dairy product sales. Fresh chive/ettes are always preferred, but freeze dried, collagen infused or silicon injected/molded versions can be used for the lamer, or more remote followers of this cult like fascination.
  23. The Love Boat; a tribute to Isaac, the first globally loved, black, cruise bartender. Using black Secret pantyhose, thread the barbed end of the prepared curled bacon into the pre-shaped headpiece, create a glorious wig/fro and practice that wink. The same approach can be used for the more traditional crackers on the show, Julie, Doc and Captain Stabbing but with less glowing of soul.
  24. Bacon Receptionist; you can call the office, or the garage what you want – fuck, be an accountant for all I care. The essence of this is about making sure the Receptionist is dressed in the sweetest outfit you fetish for, and is made entirely of bacon. Various cuts, smoked varieties and even food color can make for the most surreal pork piñata you have left some extra spice in. Ability to handle dictation, or muffcrophone checks is a solid option.
  25. Baconboarding; a little bit of double on this one, and two groups posted the same word on the same day, at the same time, in what is argued to be the Prime Meridian Clock Adjustment case of the year. The first group insisted that is mimics the military style of abuse, and bacon that has been liquefied into contents that appear to have the texture of the stuff those girls had in the cup. Breathing becomes hard, and there is an aspect of hurried hope to climax at the right time, often the most riskier of the two, as it may involve a more immediate risk of death, or a desire to attend weekend porcelain doll festivals. Porkpaddles Inc, was incorporated on the day in question, and at the moment of releasing their entire online catalogue of bacon cured fetish paddles (*the Beavermelter, Brokeback Mount’em or Ojumba’s Big Saddam have become the top sellers) were greeted by a very odd Google result. The dispute remains open, but they agree to the Atlantic and Pacific Accord, a convention that allows Ocean’s to flow to their own pace.
  26. Crazy G. Lou; ‘Crazy’ Georgie Loukanikopoulos, CGL for short, was a big fan of John Belushi, known chronic masturbator in his father’s fleet of ice cream trucks, and even ended up having a move he was famous for being caught in, named after him. Lining the canal of a foe’s stolen sheep, or lamb, with convection oven moisture, he would sit back with a bacon/tinfoil hat on his head, singing old Greek village tales of lost loves, and lonely nights. To imagine how difficult this was, most normal sized males would have to strap on the equivalent of 32 lbs. of bacon.
  27. Puttin’ on da Bacon; squeezing into your old hockey uniforms, staring at old trophies and pucks from past glories, insert the Queen “We Are the Champions” cassette. Staring at your Slapshot poster, take on the roll of one of the players, or the coach, and proceed to strap bacon to your knuckles forming a CCM glove receptacle worthy of a Dr. Pepper and some late night sparks.
  28. Pin the Bacon on the Donkey; as easy as it sounds, just like the old birthday game we all remember, but this involves drawn shades, the bottom end of an old school cotton broom head with “x” amount of inches (*based on comfort, and desire for various textures) for inserting the mock tail, and then using bacon and as many clothes pins or hemming pins you are comfortable with using on the number of pieces you want to pin to yourself. In either, one of the two hands is going to be feeling like it is not yours, trust me.
  29. Mykonos Blunt; good for either, or any sides of the fence – a favorite for many hermaphrodites. Using a fine quality rolling paper (rice, hemp, bamboo) layer oregano, kush and bacon around the core of the “meat blunt”. Using suspender dental floss tied around the nipples if needed, load that smoke-ready rocket and pretend you are Survivorwo/man looking to make friction the heart and soul of your “OPA!”
  30. Beach Bacon Blanket; it is about rubbing that bacon blanket over the frosted glaze you placed on that beach of pubis. L’Oreal or Just for Men, frost to Annette or Frankie, but avoid the Brylcreem it can create a fungal infection. Women employing this technique on a beach have been reported to have cultivated pearls in various vaginal crevices, while men who have reported sensations similar to tooth sensitivity, but for the helmet of their unit.
  31. NASA Bacon; lay out the strips of bacon around the room of your choice, and light accordingly. Try to emulate the moon as close as you can, digital technology is more advanced than in 1969. Gluing multiple smart-phone boxes to the bottom of flip-flops in advance, with small tacks inserted to keep hold of the wax paper boot straps, which connect to an entire titanium* (*Reynold’s tinfoil, or a generic rip off you have pretended to smelt during episodes of any post-dinner time game show of choice) space suit. You can customize the suit with any stickers, or special prizes from the bottom of cereal boxes, even play some music. Care should be used with any of the Star Wars, Star Trek or Space Odyssey sound tracks.

Go on, hover over each day.

Just another small playlist of delights, sounds and small gigs.

Right?

*abide*

By

Tread abide, heavily.

“Tread lightly.” Walter White

“Resist much, obey little.” Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I had the pleasure of meeting many great people as of late, some of them just happened to fall into the shadow of the ash that fell from the mushroom cloud. It was a long time coming, I knew it was in there – it was just a matter of the fuse being lite, and time being syphoned into a counterclockwise whore dancing as the rye flowed through the funnel and caught fire.

Flames licked the soul, feet burned on the coals and the voices in the head fought for some kind of space to come spinning out of the turnstile of profanity that came forth. Flesh was pressed for the sake of feeling a pulse, hoping it matched the beat in the blue vein on my cock. Beacons in the lonely night hoping there would be a reason to reach out and look at Pat Bentsofar, her ass a lonely heart in the night Yes might seek out backstage for a tuning of the right fork or the long neck.

Resting in the place of this fire, fighting to keep the words from rushing to every porous oracle in my body, oozing out no regard for the perimeter or the environment. Want of nothing but the ability to occupy the seconds that search for another way in, or out. Meaning in the motion of having to occupy the fire, halved for a period of time to move forth to another dimension, dementia the flavor of the sherbet. Lemons.

Ade?

No such word, looked it up.
Saw the picture of the black dude from Snatch.
Laughed.

“The grass is fucking orange.” Gus Xortopoulos

I am in the thirteen year of Hell.
There will not be a fourteenth.
It shall end now.
I shall end now.
Eyes dance.
I surrender – nothing.
Keeping it all.
Showing, but not surrendering.
Eyes sing.
2013.

I swear by my very life, this will be the case and yet am still not assured of you being here to listen.

The reasons, they will all be told.
Have been, now I have to edit.

Must I have to keep buying time from some of the queries, another weak offer that included a bottomless supply of Tabasco. I told them any good writer has salt and red blood to use for his Caesar.

Boils, zits, self inflicted cuts – accidents.

There is always a bloody, fuck you Mary somewhere.
Words cut.

All ways.
Always.

To doubt this is to not have soul, no passion. No life or love for the word.
The fight for it.
The feel of it as a sword, or a feather – but, in the arena possessed.

Held.
Measured by time, and then what?

Tired, and have been of so much – so wanting to just keep running and hiding in the busy days of repainting, or hoping there could be a call to vent about another fucking PTA event that would provide a fresh wheel for the cart. A way to keep the mask clean of the dust and the oblivion found on the road…so cold…so tired.

Can we sleep here?

Those that wish, may.
Discretion is their own, like mine.

I will sleep when I am dead.

I will live, when I can.
I will abide, heavily.

Informed consent is not something that is agreed upon in a moment of allowing a faulty argument to be made about consequences of actions, and doing the same thing. The risk and reward of many things come from one kind of action, and not another. Find the truth in the darkest of the spaces, wonder not why they hid them there. Wonder why you had to seek something in the space, and how you had planned to benefit from it – other than to simply give it life. Give it purpose.

My time on will change, you have seen it do so in the last year.
I yours, if.

It will continue to do so over the coming months.
Always does.

Fascination with meaningless numbers no longer binds the elements of sunshine and rain, joy and stain.

It is time for the beautiful grass.

So pretty, such a nice dream.
It must mean spring has sprung, and yes.
Yes, to your yes.

Such a very fine guess.

Wrong, but a fine guess.

Yes.
Yes to your yes.
I just have to write alone for the days and nights, but we can sit and talk.
I will speak, you will listen and praise me.
Tell me there is good in all that is done.
Hand me a buttered scone and provide a tea to warm the throat, now parched from lack of spirits.

Drunk on life again.
Mad on the intoxication of the words.
Treating me like the whore I am.
I have become.

A slave to the need to see them appear, and then leave.
Never satisfied, never aware.

Care.

Fucked by Rye, and left as the doorstep of another frat house of eternal brothers and tales to tell of the vulture that circles overhead.

Fucking birds.
Eat the meat, it is safe.

Just ash.

We all turn to dust anyway.
Even pages, words – will now change.

Find misery in the dark cinema, touching itself in the right places as the screen plays another black and white epilogue of Laurel proving his partner and he are characters.

Silver screens no longer functioning for what we thought, and you ask my why I simply do and see as I do, unaware of the rage that is chased on the tales.

Fucking beast, chasing his rage on the tail of a typewriter.

One mode, and much of it.

Get sum.

“All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain. If the greatnesses are in conjunction in a man or woman it is enough…the fact will prevail through the universe…but the gaggery and gilt of a million years will not prevail. Who troubles himself about his ornaments or fluency is lost. This is what you shall so: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body…” Leaves of Grass

*abide*

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

Sidecar for Lebowski.

“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.” Henry Miller

When there were no achievers to be found, you could always rely on Mortenesq.

There in his sober stool, looking like he was displaced as his walk on roll in the Big Lebowski was. In the end it always worked, just like just about anything he said. He was right so often, that those in the know understood there was no you at the end of his name unless you got to put it all together.

Don’t worry, he will give you time to think about it.

His stare was enough to once convince an entire convention of judges vying for the prestige of being a judge at the Westminster Kennel Club that cropped tails were bullshit and would no longer be tolerated in the world’s most prestigious event. There was some dissension in the crowd, but he quickly handled it with copious amounts of factual evidence that gay porn is what had corrupted the Club’s reputation and he was here to scoop it up, and he furiously equated it all to the making of the Jacob Two Two movie.

That is what he did.

Fucked with heads, but it was his that fell that day.

It was an odd chance meeting that is seldom seen in this time in age, when people are too busy focussing on themselves or handing out stars and virtual kudos to all for the great talent. They have to string together some of the most painful things to read, but the wind cries Mary and castles fall into social network sands. The ewe won.

Partially.

He was cleaning his mirror. Mortenesq was famous for having won a mirror at a fair in the Red Light district of Amsterdam. Having played some black shoe polish air pistol rugby with a clan of window magician muses, the magic abide mensch stopped to clean the smudge prints from the glass. He had some chocolate fudge on the the fingers the last he looked at this prize possession, and he smiled as he always did looking into the time and time again winner of the Man of the Year award.

Achievement had rewards, and he lapped them up.

The elbow patch on the llama wool sweater was best, and so he had to bend a little and the bullion rope chain was long enough to accommodate. He would always tell people laid end to end the chain and his meat rope are longer than a reefer just to see their looks. Regardless, as he turned slightly…there she was.

The most beautiful sidecar in the world.

It was a pageant, and in fact, Lebowski agreed. You could tell, because whenever he did, there was always just a fragment of the story, you know, in the same realm as good ass-kicking sex. The waft just lingering, a scent of something there – is this a story about but sex with a dog named Lebowski? Would be an interesting take on a diversion one would think, but what the fuck? The video is about Character Analysis on social media platforms. Some kind of allusions with parachutes and shit, what the hell – next are we going to hear more about the man on the moon set?

It was a fucking magic sidecar.

It was entirely hand carved, and it was made of the finest rare white bread pine Norway had to offer. It had been lovingly, and somehow perhaps even touched by elves at one point in time, been brought by a sled of unicorns to an artisan’s shop where it could be carved into this.

A giant wooden clog.

There was even a paw sized bell in the shape of a smaller clog, no shit. It had been designed by the eccentric artisan with one goal in mind.

Allow it to meet the man that it was destined for.

Please, do not think the story is any spite directed at women not being worthy or capable of sidecars. Not in the slightest. When interviewing him it was clear, the ones he had built for women were just as keen of an eye as this – but he knew, as Mortenesq had. It had been made for him.

There was a dashboard inlay just underneath the electronics array, and it had to have held the most spectacular crystal configuration seen to date. It all folded out into what was a bowling lane, and the mixer was an ivory ball that had been carved from the bones of criminals that had wasted tax payers money on prison appeals for bullshit causes, just to save their lives. It was perfect, he had contributed a shit tonne of that, much like every fucking Maple Leafs fan that was born after the last cup has tasted the boot and flesh heels on hallowed Yonge street tar, despite now hating the team, they have an earned right on that band wagon.

“Several NASA scientists experimented with some of the Fetaman’s invisible brown acid one day, and we came up with the glasses.”

Bowling fucking pins.

Gems.

Each one, different like some kind of perfect Ritzenhoff crystal uberstein designed for eating sloppy sandwiches and discovering potato field alleys behind embassies and hued metals.

Esplanades.

Grand visions, and to think this one…it held a small hose.

He could not help but smile.

“Yes, it allows an ice cube in the chamber, and the bowl carries no more or less than one 20 second draw. The tongue tip is made of the melted cassette’s used during all the Sony Walkman scenes.”

There was no explanation for what happened next.

It was as if, picnic tables reigned thunderous applause for the ages meeting the ages.

This was not an ordinary golf tournament, no.

This was Master Class.

Monks in white satin.

His robe flowed.

It is not often, if ever one is able to see creatures float in unison. But what happened next, is what Logan’s Run fans dreams are made of.

A regeneration of humanity and art.

The Mortenesq made it clear.

We loved him for it, and even more so today.

That is just the way it is.

*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

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

Grease marbles

“At one point in time, we all get older, and our ass pores turn into tunnels for the grease marbles to just seep out. Eight. Eight, was the count from last night…”

Ass pores have an entirely different meaning a couple of decades post the frat house. Marbles are the least of it; on previous occasions, and this is all of late, these marbles include golf balls, bowling balls, golden Butterball turkey’s.

I know what you are thinking, that these are all happening with the lights off and how do you know? Well, I don’t do it with the lights off, unless it is late or night and I have been awoken by one of these nasty ass poxy pockets, and even then I am either going to be running into the bathroom to see what this gem has in store for me or I am going to use my small Maglite which I have now placed beside my bed on a hook for easy access.

Sure thing, go ahead and laugh. Talk to me when your age added together, has two floor qualifiers – one is that the first number is a 3, and the sum of the two numbers will be at least 10. Think about it.

*taps fingers*

Got it?
Good, let’s carry on Sunshtein.

The reason that light and “getting a look” is important, is the same mimic replicated by the 70’s surprise loot bag from a party or the flea market vendor who discovered cheap Chinese shit in a bag bought at wholesale prices off some Indian agent is sold to entice the rugrats of suburbia.

The items could not come out of the ass the way, that is too chunky. They have to be “packaged”. They are glazed with the years of employment, blessed matrimony, and failed online dating encounters that set around an item, and creates this feng shui like polymer around it for easy removal, or storage.

Scroll back up if you are lost, removal or storage is a function of years, don’t doubt that.

Now, using the right length of nail, and no, a cocaine nail is not only so long ago I forgot why I needed such a long nail to drink a soda anyway, and the right amount of digital pressure, you can pop those things like the wasabi pea snap I have alluded to before, is critical.

The nail is the amplifier, and when you plug in and tune out, that delicious sound you hear when you pop that head boil, or the zit at the base of the balls (*if you think I am bullshiting or just being gross, then you are either not old enough yet, or trying to kid yourself into thinking none of this applies to your magnificent lifestyle. Let me guess, you have never masturbated and find the thought of it disturbing? Nice, pleasant to meet you. So can I ask for my three wishes all together, or do you have to go back in the bottle between each one to consult with the other genies, pixies and fairies gathered to determine just why humans actually still debate the concept of time as used to describe distance – fuck, it is a light year, and not weight?) is relief anointed from the assholes of the co-workers who have set their spell check to accept orangutan and orangekatans.

The use of the light is what allows us to stare at these marbles like tiny mirages of the past. Cat’s eyes, corkscrews and Hurricane Aggie perfection. Larger marbles and smaller ones, some even accompanied by – gasp, a metal cross, yeah I know. It was even like 3 dimensional. Fascinating, if you think about the amount of RAM used in that technology, to achive what it had done in the centuries before.

So within in the marble balls, you can look and stare and swirl and be amazed at the fact that as you lay there in the bed, just giving that little scratch a go, you snake the tip of the glassy surface, and it is like spotting that clown face on the shitty white paper bag, except this surprise is not filled with fraud like that bag.

No, it will tell of all the Butterball turkey’s your milky ass just stored in different parts of your body as you golfed in Maui for two weeks so you could watch Marty from Marketings “tactical” division for the next 52 weeks learn how to embed a fucking coded link into that mystical pie chart that changes colour and syntax weekly, but maintains the same dry drone of the bowling alley.

That is where you sat, and indulged in all those glorious onion rings, never aware that the same sneaker fluid used in the butane charged canisters was used after the beer battered dough had been fed nutrition by yeast and misery, and just as it needed to seal in the freshness. Well that shit helps the embalming process anyway, so the good news? Keep these marbles for the funeral home, they offer a 3.24% (*going published rate, as referenced in today’s Empirical Propagation Today, a US Fed daily periodical. It is CIA Fact Book affirmed, so it’s kosher) for each 1 gram.

The small golf ball marbles are not only beautiful to look at, they are Martha Stewart’s favourites, and if you eat enough calcium in your diet, combined with all of the extra salt consumed in the typical North American diet, you can shake these small marbles and see snow flakes whirl around pictures that reflect those perfect childhood memories like the annual piano recital Aunt Voola’s mole would entertain the family with, or drunk bumper cars with dad on the way home from the season finale of Streets of San Francisco.

I am assuming as we get older, there is going to be a lot less of the bigger things, I mean they have been festering in there for all these years, so the removal of them has to mimic the typical peak and trough pattern in the Falling Wedge trading pattern  – where we see plateau’s that drop off things like body validity, ball sack/chin elasticity and what not.

Dig.

Going to go get a collection of the marbles for the next couple of days.

Some hard core brinesanity on the go, and I think I am going to ride some of the gravy train.

Armstruthtonged is about to arrive.

A dozen beautiful marbles that have been sanctioned by the precious declarations of O’pratato and Sir Armstruthtonged, and commissioned by a small trust that Fetada Inc. has put in place for such occasions.

Truth can be served with the salad fork to the left of the proper spoon, or it can be served via tongs. Huge, platinum tongs that toss brass balls, or ball, like olives.

Yum, yum.
Eat ’em up.

*abide* 

By

The Law of Dimishing Returns vs. The Law of Yielding Abide

Simply put, the Law of Diminishing Returns is the decrease in the marginal (per-unit) output of production process as the amount of a single factor of production is increased, while the amounts of all other factors of production stay constant. It is also known as the Law of Increasing Relative Cost because it is argued that at some point it yields lower per-unit returns, this may be as a result of another common principle, negative returns (*decreased total production), but they are not correlated in any way.

One would be told this is the case by conventional wisdom, or the economic sages along with their tumbleweed theories and brisk Pictionary assumptions, but there has been some new thinking along those lines, that came from the world famous, Brine Institute, a group developed by Fetada Inc.

The Brine Institute commissioned a study using feta as a base human motivator to improve asset production. The assumption was, that if fed to workers at factories or in cubicles, it would lead to increased production. What was interesting, was that the feta created super human production and intelligence, as well as jovial humour and an atmosphere of camaraderie and enthusiasm. This did in fact produce a return, but they were not diminishing. Waste, workers getting in each others ways, idle time – none of the typical efficiency and effectiveness losses were encountered.

This was examined in complete detail, and involved all of the special advisors from the political and trough tanks around the world. There seemed to be one element that created this effect, and it, combined with the actions of the participants created a new law. The Law of Yielding Abide.

Where is it?

Part of the Equation.

Keftathaki Road

*abide*