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

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

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

Societies Incision

Buzz get's fucked by Insane Clown Posse's Female Seducer

Lois Aldrin, killed Buzz’s second man illusions with cuckold commentary from the camera man that would film Boogie Nights years later. By published accounts, fighting off depression from being the second man to walk on the set, was just part of the problems faced. ED was ruled as “reasonable” considering his acid must have worn off by now, thus leading to the realization of having wed a genetically engineered, early Insane Clown Posse breeder.

dig the gig, play the game,
stay sane
motherfuckers membrane
dirty lane, disdain
refrain from the chains
not the the wrist, or the neck
on the mind you sapless whore
spreading seeds, misdeeds
misery, killing weeds
paper bills, and profit leads
make ‘er scream, with the thrill
new stapler, oh how trill
cubicle princess, Romeo boss
bathroom visit, glory hole Hoss
rancid mouthed vision
societies incision

*abide*

 

By

Misogynistic windows

fetaman, fetaChops, iFeta, brinesanity, brine diaries

Rage. The horror of what you are about to read is real. I am not making any of it up. If you are able to click on this picture, and see the link to the video, you will get a look at what is a symbol of me, the Fetaman. Please note, I take this all very seriously. Sorry for another “frant” (*Fetaman-rant), but I just can not take it anymore, no not going to take it anymore. I just want to be on my bicycle seat.

Fucking windows.

Pretty sick that they can be so outstanding, and so obvious. They are everywhere, and we look right through them, even staring at our reflections. There they sit, the very demise of our culture.

Women hating bullshit, windows.

Not right that they can’t be washed by women.
Women are very good at washing windows.
Like dishes.

Look, I know this may come off as sounding quite strange, after all, I am a man. One made of cheese, and the mind is at times questioning a number of things, but this has got to stop.

If we want equality, we want it now.

This is not some kind of bra burning adventure, or some kind of keep calm and chive on bullshit, glad to see that funny, made my day that much more glorious, and thanks for all of the inspiration and all, but there are serious matters to attend to.

These windows, all over the world, are being washed by men, and that is so fucking sexist, I can not stand to bear it anymore.

I do not know what the cause of this acceptance is – are we bound by some kind of oath we took to the windows, to make sure they were only touched by hands of men after construction people put them in? Breasts can near the making of the windows, can own the company in fact, they can transport and install the windows – but cleaning them, that was part of the “oath”?

Perhaps, it is the window’s that are demanding this, as we all know that all windows are male. They are cold, heartless, transparent shields for all of the glory that Mother (*note, female, duh -smacks head-) Nature has blessed us with, and they want to somehow flip her the bird by insisting only other males are allowed into the locker room in the skies. Is that there play, trying to keep women from the “locker room” – the last bastion of athletes fingertips and Gold Bond laced handled, instruments to wipe the glazed and wet surfaces clean, shiny clean, polishing and attending to that masculine glass?

I am not going to get into the debate of whether a man touching another mans glass is gay or not, some men do not judge their lives by sex alone, the touching of swords for example is not a gateway to anal adventure you know, nor is gun duelling or Sasquatch fisting. If you must know, Sasquatch was a secret nickname all Junior Hockey clubs were required to call at least one of their players, it is required by IIHF code. It was to be given to the hairiest assed male on the team, and it had nothing to do with fisting as most non-hockey-initiated folks would imagine, and everything to do with the anagram.

*Ok, the hint is “sifter“. The act of actually putting something through it is called sifting. What you put through can be something that is liquid or solid, and it might be different for an away game, or a home game. It will also have everything to do with before, or after the game. Nothing else can be revealed at this time, else it may jeopardize my source(s) personal and sensual safety.

I think this has nothing to do with either. I think this have everything to do with the conspiracy that Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is maintained, by society allowing men to get away with this blatant disregard for equality, and it is going to stop now. Security and safety will not play second fiddle to the physical metabolic needs, we will stop breathing until this happens.

No fear in standing up to the Rothschild family owned corporations that allow this to continue. All of you property managers that are being called, look no further for salvation than your fellow man, Fetaman, to bring you the comfort of a friend to fight the politically correct foes, as they claim it is too dangerous, or women are too weak, or even the infamous they are allowed to do anything they want coos.

No.

We will not tolerate this anymore, and this is the reason I took it beyond just writing my local political hack trying to nickel and dime donations for charity at the expense of his Moore’s suites and his high profile image.

I will not sit idly by, and allow the Rothschild families, and all of the rich that worked their way into fortunes using the magic wand of business, that witching stick of bastardly convention that has convinced man that the freedom to sow, care and reap what you will is only limited by the amount of wealth that must be transferred to all, including the crack ridden, the lazy, and the pharma-medicated downtrodden victims, all of them, victims of the torture life has brought to them, to be able to demand that only men are able to walk this line of danger and profit.

The travesty has been so great, and I seldom so ubiquitously announce my conviction for a cause so great and worthy as this one, usually I will just start a trough corporation, to milk all of the unsuspecting sheeple so that I can reproduce more baby Feta’s, fuck it is only right considering all of the mind wasting propaganda that Baby-bel/Baby-belle has inflicted on all of you, wake up people, Zeus, Greece, awesome cheese, makes great snowmen, way better than Sweddy balls etc, yeah…

Make it so clear to the world that we are well aware of this sexist shit, and it is going to stop right now. We are going to not only make it a world thing, and insist that only women get to wash these windows, just like men have and have flaunted in our faces with these signs, and the purported dangers. Get used to corporate cubicle dwellers.

Mother, Juggs and Greed Window Washing LLC, has been incorporated and is offering full, naked, female window washing services for the evolution of mankind effective April 1, 2013.

Our first engagements are booked for Toronto, Dubai, Hong Kong, Kiev, Paris, Phukit and 213 other major cities around the world.

Taking a stand against the norm, and bringing you the truth.

The only way we can right the past, is to make sure those that have been set free are not only free to do as they wish, they can dance and rejoice and sing the praise of true equality.

Ladies, if you are willing to set those puppies free, are fit and confident, and want to make sure that you prove to the world that you are here to abide. Please let me know.

Time to fight the power, and fuck misogynistic windows.

*abide*

By

The Questionnaire: Hunter S Thompson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is your favourite smell?
The smell of cordite.

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

What is your favourite journey?
LSD-25.

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

What is your most unappealing habit?
Stealing.

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

Do you believe in capital punishment?
Absolutely.

Do you believe in monogamy?
Yes.

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

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

How do you relax?
Necrophilia.

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

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

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

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

By

Smelling salt

How you can feel so bad, and somehow you need the smell of a cologne, you have not worn it or looked “good” in months, years – how can you feel good?

Is it the media that says this, or just natural human desire?

What is going to make you beautiful, despite the life that is lead to the reflections and the journey that you take, each day to define the life and wonder that comes with the hope and desire to do?

What we do, often is seen as a need to satisfy the other’s in a society that demands reflection is only the purpose in paying attention to the detail that you must notice in the other’s attired. Never weary to continue to reflect the living of the person that sits in front of you this moment, on the screen.

Is it a shadow that you see, and one that includes yourself – travelling the roads, or having been along a journey the sheds a tear, and you reach for the tissue. Emotions.

Controlling your actions.

Watching it all, to experience it. To tell yourself a story, and remind yourself of why, today is a beautiful day.

In all of my poverty, and in all of my stupidity, I find my self worth and vast riches, a blessing no one can value but myself.

To have been blessed, in these recent days with the challenges, and to have been able to walk those miles with my mother, to have seen my niece and nephews smiling and growing…

Wealth.

In my gulch, there is no money. The fool considers me a peer and a sibling, who ponders the monetary note as anything more than a means to an end.

The intent, and the glory of it all.

The struggle to find the peace, only then becomes such a thing of beauty you abide by nothing else.

*abide*

A Reflection from Variable on Vimeo.

By

Feeling good

Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Breeze driftin’ on by you know how I feel

It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good

Fish in the sea you know how I feel
River running free you know how I feel
Blossom on the tree you know how I feel

Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don’t you know
Butterflies all havin’ fun you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done
That’s what I mean

And this old world is a new world
And a bold world
For me

Stars when you shine you know how I feel
Scent of the pine you know how I feel
Oh freedom is mine
And I know how I feel

*Feeling Good, Nina Simone

 

Sitting around making sure, that the feeling of the good is all about what I am going to be getting out of the words that you may. Sitting here, feeling like all of those things, just opens up a dictionary of words and functions that will all blend into some kind of magical matrix that is to be instantly understood and read by all, like the light of day flashing on the pavement that is pounded on the way to the destination.

Whatever that may be for you.

For me, it involves having to get through another day of hardship, in my own way, no different than yours. Struggling to find the reasons why I need to stay on the right path, and do the right thing. Maintain the fluid flow of a bunch of lies that are painted to make other’s feel like I am well, so I do not have to startle them or make them feel any less at odds with the way I am feeling. I wonder, when I finally die, will there be a reflection on these words and some kind of somber sadness that comes with knowing those days could have been spent better, and not driving one away from the reflections, but embracing them with a smile like you would a lost brother.

Someone, that may have been the closest friend you ever had in the world, that really supported you through some of the worst times in the world, and now you stand with what you believe are but a handful.  A collection of three, or four that comes with the maternal love and friendship I can only hope you enjoyed as I did, despite the challenges that come with a mother that has her limitations. Like we all do. The limitations of how far you can take a friendship, or how many you can really hold.

How far, you will really hold on to the thoughts of yourself, before you allow another to force you into the conformity that will not allow you to really be? You do not want to spend your life alone, you must find someone, else you will be a failure. You will not have attracted a butterfly to carry your dust to another.

How far back, will you go into the family history, and question the madness of an alcoholic parent  hoping it is finally solved, will tomorrow be any different? Will I find love from his memory then, knowing it is finally exposed – or will the truth expose the lies and beget the questions of why another would still carry them forward in some kind of lies?

You choose, to occupy your mind with the many thoughts that  you do, that I do, that we do, for a reason. For the intention of coming to some kind of conclusion or decision, to make the day a better one. To flow with it, and keep it on the course of the pleasant and beautiful world. The surrounding of oneself with the glorious meadows and the fantastic streams, like the song. Above. In the link. Like the hundreds of links on the site, and in the writings, that I am sure many have not seen. Perhaps they can’t.

It is hard to see the forest from the trees.

Six degrees of separation on that one, and I can tell you I got at least a dozen of each that flashed through the mind prompting me to take another direction, and move to another stream of thought, of consciousness. Awareness. I really don’t know, I let the fingers type. Most of this, remains unfiltered. That is to say, it speaks of the questions and in the way I do. Not intended for the weak of spirit, because I am not weak of spirit. Not because it is meant as some kind of elitist thing that has me be better than anyone else.

I am not, I am convinced, I am an idiot.

This does not make me a fool, and neither does it facilitate me suffering them.

Unless I want to, like you do. Like you want to keep reading to find out that the rivers carry the shit and refuse of the mind as well. They are not all golden ponds. They are complete eco-systems of sorts, with a busy and passing glance seen to be so calm and tranquil, but in the deep recess, we are told in literature and alike, carved into the rocks the messages of the ages screams of the science behind it all, and still we see only the top of it.

We think the songs meaning have a different meaning than they may, when we really examine them.

Like asking, and expressing how I did earlier this week, to an “aunt”, a “thea” (thee-ah, Greek) that is a dear friend of my mom’s, in the Greeklish neighbourhood she lives in. I know, there is a lot of the Big Fat Greek Wedding imagery is going to be going through your mind. Rightfully so, there is a lot of it. I wish so often I had a perma-video camera going some of this stuff is just priceless so I write about it.

In our discussion, we spoke of a myriad of things, astrology, living with illness, the hardships of life, always such hard and life lesson discussions with the older Greek moms it seems, but there is great sunshine and love as well, not always somber in the depth, but can be, and we got into the discussion of how people will naturally choose to remember happier memories, and often, these will be associated with the happier people.

This does not mean we are not going to have bad memories, actually have some good parts within them, or contribute to the good in the learning of why bad must exist in an effort to not only magnify but more importantly allow people to realize. We will. But we will naturally gravitate away from reflecting on those as often as we may, when we think about the best friend, or the great girlfriend. Perhaps your spouse, or parent. A lost child.

If we have suffered a hardship in losing one of those types of relationships, at a time in our lives that is essentially the time to lose them, we will always remember those good times in the grief. It will be our selfish lust for the positive, and the emptiness that it occupies now alone, that causes us to feel the anguish.

My best friend, was tragically taken at a young age. In his late 20’s. A great man, a big part of my life and my learnings, and a frequent visitor to my biography at that time in my life, and even today. I miss the good laughs, and the genuine lust for life he had, and how he looked at it. Each day, a laugh, or a lesson is smirked at as I raise my fist to the sky, or smile and tell him to fuck off. More often than not, I look down and allude to him keeping the beer cold down there for us, and make sure mine is a redhead. He always knew I had the redheaded chick.

Every day.

My father, not the case. I tend to avoid thinking of him. When I do, it may be because of the reasons why I want to avoid going into the deep part of the river. It is cold, and shitty, and may have some predators that I am not aware of, or just do not want to deal with. Of course, there are times when you have to go.

Because you have to catch and kill that thing. It has been destroying the tranquility, it has caused the notes of the song to seem heavier, as opposed to a wonderful melody that may be the first dance. Just the two of you. You could only be on that beach, dancing with her, if you got to pass that part of the river. If you love her, you will pass it.

If you love your love yourself, your life, you will know that there is nothing you can do about that parts of the river. They are created by a greater being, or force, and you must accept that whatever that brings, you will adapt to it and follow the natural flow.

You will appreciate the lifecycle of the things we look at. We will buy a bag of unicorn shit to much on, hoping it will make life’s problems all seem solved and grand.

But we will not respect the statements of those that come to a wonderful place of comfort, and confidence in accepting the hardships.

Not as a welcome hardship, but as a reminder, a poke a prod to wake the fuck up and live. To realize that each day is a blessing, and that even if one chooses to spend those days writing, or discussing things that may seem so out of the ordinary for some, that it is still part of a larger system.

A larger whole, that in and of itself, creates their own holes.

Rabbit. Black. Fox. Ass.

Making of them, whatever you want.

Me?

Nope not miserable, not even going to try to pretend however, that I am filled with some kind of magical radiance either. It may be a good idea to try to project that, I hear it get’s some real “genuine” followers and friends on Twitter, or might get you a decent presentation at the peach festival in Phukit, Thailand.

Hey man, I am not judging.

Just commenting on another part of the system.

I refuse to pave my paradise with recycled dreams.

I will let it be.

 

*abide*

By

It is bred into them.

No one is really going to appreciate the connections. They are very funny though.

Kojak. Stavros. Greek. Laughs. Old ways, that corrupted a nation, that hopes to be laughed at in the private settings, but stares down bulls and drinks real whiskey, like Crown Royal. Not that horse urine, fuqtarded excuse for one CC – urine.

Real men, drink tsiporo.

Stadium construction? Yes, stadium construction.

Wake me when the vote is done, I will be sleeping under the desk. In the studio, it could be referred to as the C section I guess, just no ladies.

@JournalismJunk lays down a great one liner, and of course, Fetaman has to turn it into a 10 minute acid trip, without the acid, just some brinesanity.

Check out a Theo of mine, Uncle Costas. He love’s the cool, slender menthol smokes.

Financed by the Fed and the EU, surety they care.

*abide*

By

blunt abide

accomplishments are never to be forgotten, and singular acts of passion are just that.  not reflections of a man, so much as a snapshot of a moment, driven by the millions of bulbs that flash in the collided scope of dimensions that surround six degrees of seperation.

don’t call upon another’s walk, unless willing to be bound.

don’t carry attitude, angst and aggression on mahogany fields surrounded by ides of marching phyllum – and not be held at the belly of the blade.

fuck it, and them.

haters gonna hate.

brine gonna brine.

*abide*