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


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.




Finger Jedi

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

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

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


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


*monk says humble what?


medias in feta


“do not entrust your songs to the leaves lest the rapid winds make them whirling playthings. i beg you to sing the prophecies yourself.” the Aeneid





Wa Wak, A – 382736

I was 5.

Bobby, was riding some heavy dirt.

We did not know each other, until last night.

Is this the 28th degree of separation – no shti, as in totti rottidel madri…wow, what a small world.  Well, time for the stop.

Thank goodness it is not making the rain.

Phat knew how to make it rain back in the day, but Big Brother has outlawed rain.

It is clouds of compliance, and rays of respect and love for the better woe.

Man, that was some fuckin’ apple.

Still, somehow it appears as though there is anything more than walking to the corner, and talking shit with a brotherman, or a fine sister on the edge or on the sledge, hammerin’ with the same bitter truth that comes from east European Slavic nations, or potatoe based calves of gorgeous silky stilletoed sadness – how the fuck did this bill get this high – oh poor rabbit, this is but the hole – that is the carriage.

(click your heals here, and look for Jesus – he shaled gas for your freedom)

LM Special - Clear, Still, Cool Drink, We could have been contenders.

“That sir, is a snake.”


*sigh, now what…the world is so boring without this*

(well, often many of the other nights come, and make me smile, glad to see music still notes itself along the bars that are quartered and counted – metrics of mental rails following high tee, and leathered bags…oh the fine touch of Egyptian cotton…)

For this ode, a glass of Glendullan(d)(sp-ml-fu) 36 – so fine, of course you can scotch, scotch, bo, botch, banana fana fo fotch, fee, fi, foe, motch = SCOTCH…

To the cleaners of the traps, of the kind that spare no grease – thank you for the crispy goodness that will kiss me under the mounds

For the lights, and the wires, spread like the veins of time across a flesh clock, ticking even now as you watch this (*really, you want to watch this…)

*insert classic*

To the little baker, on the street, with the chestnuts, hoping for a better life than a bombing brass monkey on a sunny Sunday afternoon, with of course, John Lennon playing chess using vountry nuts of different denominations, and Einstein – he has on the same suit – HST, well yeah, he is off and setting up the lines, with some kind of Badger pester Pete Tong, who still thinks the world is over, without the use of his cents etc.

Silence can echo alliteration.

All it is, is a ration.

Vowels, so clean eh?


I mean, that would be a great name for a soap no?


You want to be like the other 21.

Vegas - Godard Knows, The acid, the times, the moments, those still frames of insanity, still like talc on the ass of Satan we drove canyons.

I mean, close to a Hoser Friday night count no?

Sure it will be missed, but not the reason it was written, don’t really know what is.

Will finish this, and have hundreds behind.

Just never wanted to send them off.

Thought it was a little too Stern.

More of an aft, abide kind of dude, unless we are talking about her ankles, or her hair.  Kind of key points, breasts are part of the ankles – never as why I connect the two, it may scar you, so suffice to say, that combination is the chowder.

The blend of noxious love and libation, delivered by fairies and pixies, on unicorns and with bags of gold as a welcome treat.

Grab all you want, don’t give a shit what your color is, what you age is, what your nationality is, what kind of music you listen to, how you group yourself, how you look at others, what you eat, and what you watch, how your farts smell, and what your teeth look like.

You see some fairies and shit with pixie dust around some hot ass and some kind of carriage, you best be looking around for your bearings, because son – those be some great buddies.

Kosta Rican, Feta-dome, There is no thunder here without Winning C. Sheen abound.  Wizard, what fine boots...