fetaman.com

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

By

Stoned

For the visually impaired, that would care to skip all of the hidden links, go ahead an audio read provided by Gus himself*

Last night I got stoned.

Allow me to further elaborate, if you would care to proceed. Shall we?

I had been struggling for the last two weeks to get to the point of having to settle back into a new place, in fact, at the end of this is a section of something I had been editing on a few occasions dancing like the proverbial snail on the razor’s edge with it, some blood but fuck, to write it to cut more than to create – and if you can’t dig that then likely you don’t even remember Breaking Away as the prequel to Breaking Bad.

I also have had more than my own share of bullshit in life, and one thing is for certain – even the couple of the recent equaintances have just short of the D, in the DNA of an ass nugget for fucks sake, and they would likely agree if brought to replying to that – having just gotten past almost 9 years of cancer fighting, and even now still dealing with the head fuck that comes with wondering why, what, when and where more than if…I have the blessing of looking at how this fucked up online/virtual world works and what it can do, and bring, and then act on it.

I have been in the spotlight, and seen the darkness.
Guess that makes me bipolar right?

I mean the definition(s) within the whole fucking manual seem to be the most important thing for some in the Twitter world, cause I am going to use that example.

I had gone there, after trying to cope with a litany of annoyances and “tragedies” that are monumental at the time because of sensitive and emotional family histories and reflections. It was Friday, and I thought – I was going to be able to just spend some time trying to get some of the writing tuned in and turned on.

Awesome – kind of feel deserve it, but need to still earn more of it.

Yes, sure there are going to be some wonderings.
Always are.
Always will be.

Sometimes I explain more, and others I choose not to because it is not wise to have to explain it all and lose your time for the sole sake of providing for another, something that is either there, or not.

Observation, and not judgment – difference is as clear as the allusion to this concept as a central theme, perhaps even fodder for the mill to employ, or re-fragment and enjoy. It is not that hard to see the darkest of the grains stand out from the light shades around it when they are gathered in unison, but allowed to deviate from the normal “his blood flowed like a river shit”. *puke*

Got drunk on tweeting.
Mathematical follows.
Mind map of the process and where the head and thinking is/was.

Did you see the link above, and know that *puke* was meant to be turned on? Well, here – the third one, just to prove the attention span of society is just the Requiem for a Dream.

*context smirk

The pleasure complex is indeed just that. A complex that houses, but also has a manner of changes and progressions that make a standard situation whatever you like. Consider a number of different facts and relevant comparisons.

The Playboy Airbrush Technique
You can always imagine something better under the bikini. That large mud flap is a memory in the Smokey and Bear movie, and that disturbing set of tires the husband put on the mid-rife to save money on Canadian Tire storage charges.

Dixie Cup Skype*
Now this is going to be a little delicate, because Skype is still pissed that Fetada, Inc. got the gig on the DCS*. Just can’t seem to push the fucking Mario cart past the bitch, with the fat fucking ass trying to block the aisle and I know those chicken wieners are going fast – fuck. Can you hear me Jesus, we need a Value Meal item with some nutrition that is not controlled by a fed, or the DeBeer’s Bedazzled Verification S.W.A.T Squad. Charlie, are you surfing, over?

Cell Phone Sodufu
Same genre, and appearance, but more along the lines of the Macedonian cousin to math, Zcockqw, and where you use all the numbers to create a message that can be seen and read as your own note. If you are discovered, you can simply claim you were part of some kind of hostage and training exercise and quickly extradite yourself so you may get two of the apple pie things from McTaint ‘afe.

Big Dipper Fantasy Soup Spoon
Big spoon full of all the love you want to project on an avi, and the people associated with, and all of their words. Again, do the math on just that – and consider it in the context to the Gus’s Overture piece – it is unbelievable, and I so believe that there are so many people that will get culled off the tit from that last bit of information it will finally be able to force me to admit to Al Waxman, the King of Kensington that indeed everywhere he walks down the street people do want to meet. Projections of reality include hyper-ventiloid eye to eye contact, deep lip smacking, the insertion of various and sundry bottles of toiletries and/or pumice stone special projects. Hard to cut leather with a stone, even if it has that same gristle your father’s clit tasted like. Relax, no one is reading this but us two, and your twin uncle Harry’s.

J. Z. Noofnoof
There 99 problems, but Twitter ain’t one. I don’t give that much of a fuck about it, or the other fucking social meadows that have been walked, other than making sure I play safe, sane and in the vain that is important to distinguish from your choice of vein. So many of them, floating around this specimen and illustration of the body, etc…so, why the fuck would you keep making problems for yourself? You hear of all these people that are “making money on here” – LOL – seriously, are you fucked? Do you think that it is that easy, and you are making the bank with the 3/4/6 accounts you got going – here, how about some examples…jeebus…wow, let’s all hide – or at least be “forced” to come out and prove we are real, or show our pic’s and be the “real folks” you profess to be. Sure thing, what next – sitting at a breakfast table with associates, who barely like you, so you have to endear them more to your with and charm by telling them you are answering texts from your friends, but they can see the dick pic reflections in the glass over your shoulder, and smile, as your pupils spring open and declare that is one hard spreadsheet, look at that column…etc, etc, etc…what the fuck?…spider senses tingling.

The bottom line, we hide in it.

So I am going to hide in mine, and spend the weekend getting the last of the last done and ready, for a major push.

To prove I am just as real as you are, and not for any other reason than to answer the questions in my own head about who I have become, that I can not even find compassion in the sad stories of others, because I have been hurt or tarnished from past experiences…but wait, again, you got all those purple heart and shit things – can we put them in the coin machine at the Walmart and get some kind of store credit for the electronics area? Yes, the one that is very much becoming obsolete in the physical stores, leaving only the high PSF charge that accompanies the concrete to dance with the fairy minions and dandelion kites.

So you want to read some regular shit, go ahead – your gig, but then again as a pirate of “anarchy” I am sure you one to fear.

Fuck the forest, how about a pirate ship.

Crossing an ocean, or many of them – if it crosses a wave, stern side afloat in the front of the tie, as the season moves to high tide, near the Meditardannean, how fast before you get that this site is only as easy as the plug and play is.

Having the right plug, and making it play.

Fuck, I guess you have to have been stoned, and survived.

Or, you have read Shibumi.

*abide*

By

Happy Birthday to…

What an incredible odyssey.

It has been a year since the site officially became mine.

I had waited over 8 years to be able to get past all of this, and before that – you have no fucking clue.
None.

You think I am not aware of what is “out there” – and what the “lines look like”…really?

Do you think a plan, that has been made for decades, even a lifetime if one considers it, is really just something that simply happens?

You have the sleuth ability to start to get hooked, and like the heroine town you may exist in, or the hero mind you do, you are addicted to taking it to the next level.

To finding out more, to getting past the reality of Survivor, and the fake fucking bandana’s and the bullshit positioning from Day 1 – “I am just here to make some friends, I am so naïve, I am so strong, I am so fucking smart, I am so fucking stupid…oh look, a tortoise with a hare on his back…do they even have hair…”

I know who the fuck fetaman is.

Pretty fucking proud of it as well, because I know it all – except for you.
You are the know it all I want to meet.
So does Gus.

He is interested in beginning to introduce himself over the next few weeks.
His biography is coming out.

Pretty fucking impressive, and having had the chance to not only interview him, but also having been given the chance to verify accounts, eyewitnesses and documented proof.

One of the strangest, oddest, brightest, most eccentric, gifted, smart, angry, loving, caring, compassionate, valiant abiders I have ever known.
If not the single greatest…

Gus runs on his own time.
So do I.

It is a birthday celebration and it is combined with a publishing. What more could anyone ask? I mean, seriously – what a long strange trip, and where are we still? Yes, just seeing some of the invisible brown acid come to life. A special K of sorts.

The biography, the story, of Gus…

Don’t expect synchronicity.

This is a delicate operation, and if you want to be part of it.

Welcome to it – you can either RT this link, direct with the question included, or you can #orangegrass it up, either is a chance to ask Gus, and I can assure you, he will answer.

Celebrate or don’t.
Trust me, this has nothing to do with hunching over anything – not a typewriter, not a water tray, not some village code, not a table of weed, not a set of bullets, not a conspiracy of shades that are something new…

I know.
Hard to believe.

Trust me.
I fucking know.

It doesn’t matter though.
Cause the clock, the watches – the story of Gus.

It becomes clearer with each passing day, and in the coming 30 days, how many and when are just beside the Fuqu Pyramid, just take a coat hanger and levitate near it.

There is a whole year to explore behind this, and there is much more for myself.

Being an interviewer, is one interesting experience.

Care to play?

fetaman/ _

*truly a wonderful, gracious humble bow today – humility asks for, and asks no excuses, for it too…*abides*

****this is where I insert my own happy birthday to fetaman.com – for the real fetaman, from the real fetaman, with a background heralded by associates. Go ahead, link from the site – fill in the question, I promise. I am pretty sure Gus would answer most honourable, logical and discretion sensitive inquiries. To the point of the dedicated box that is running the code – the rest, my…look…a shiny set of keys. Oh wait, it may be a text…did that arrive? No, must be a lonely time, grab the flash light…only 45 metres across the way…no, the...the way…

*************Yes, this is 13 of them, is that “code” also.

*******Gus thinks so.

*iAbide*

By

The Muppets

Those funny, funny muppets. Just trying to tie their own rooms together, and share some appreciation for the gig and the league games. I mean these points do count right, towards some kind of marriage proposal of something?

A scene from the muppet movie, a walk into a strange theatre wondering, perhaps this is the wrong theatre? I wonder, if I say a few things to person beside me, are they of a sound mind? How exciting…how so very exciting. Hi Icarus, name is Fetaman, how you doing today?

Amazing, what the change of a little thing like syntax, or cowardly actions, strange behaviours from odd folks, that otherwise seem so kind and real, or perhaps such as others that care to put things out in the universe, as real, with no fear – to enjoy the show.

Cause after all, all the world is a stave.

That stave for me, right now, fully aware. is one giant bowling lane.
*context smirk*

It is yours, and you choose it.

Don’t blame me for the misery of the interpretations you make.

Some funny folks have been included below, as a way of sending a smile and wave. Not a fucking marriage proposal.

The secrets that you keep, may have something to do with your own trip, but hey, just worry about your own miles sunshine, no need to worry about mine.

I got those.

Enjoy the smiles, cause nothing says a man can laugh, like laughing at masturbating muppets.

*abide*

*per above link and YouTube reference, the original footage is from the Muppet Movie, and all rights and love go out to the creators and team that put it all together, making lessons and childhood a good experience. James Maury “Jim” Henson (September 24, 1936 – May 16, 1990) 

 

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

Context Smirk

The bi-directional highway between anger and happiness is a walk on a road you choose, and prepare accordingly. Answer to knowing keys played alone, within eye the comfort that comes haunting.

This is what your life has become, theatre of the mind, allusions of friends manifested upon your stave by the calling of the notes. Reflections of successful, and talented people, busy with their own lives. Time is a shallow knowing of the trauma it flicks, seconds hardship creates the smirk, tilting with the chords.

Your song demands no audience through an obligation any longer. When no one is obligated, remnants of the capable caring and compassionate, at will shall bring the respite on the way.

Judging, importune willingness not demanded, but earned in your practice. Choices own lifetimes, shared, becoming the lifeline tracing tides and the magic carpet ride. A line that may not be the shape, or the direction, or the magnitude of what you seek, but you have the choice to walk that line also sunshine, so spread those wings and make like an illusion we can all bring into context.

Time and the weather pediments at the call of an elixir, dancing soul barometer measuring the metronome of the terrain, in fragmented quantifications of the sociopathic tendencies, affirmed as logical reason and sound judgment by the most vicious adjudicator in the universe. The one constant, controlled only by the mind of men, that claim very control of figments and dried sweets.

Time.

Objects must conform to our cognition argued Kant. Cerebral manifestations now occur in bit cursives in all shapes and senses that are pivot points.

If the hell begins to creep more and more into the shadows your sun they basked in, be assured few reflections wish it to appear, and somehow, they do. Sepia smiles from the geometric form risen to be seen in passing circumstance.

Only then will you begin to see the beauty in the song that has been played, and choose to play the songs that you were blessed to count as the one’s that touched you the most, that make the pages of the mind want in connection to the harmony that seems to play so soundly in the senses. Seen and spoken, but reflected only by the experiences lived.

Balls that were but toys, amusing and fascinating to the wooden work horse capable of carrying the importance of the task at hand. Little to have, he held his world in high esteem, and the weight of imagination held no place within the bags that held the ransom time demanded. Invested and paid for with such a cost, the value of it growing a fond return to the simpler days.

Melancholy and somber, the sounds and the choices seem so distant to the moment at hand. So grand, and all knowing of the ability to be, and allow the universe to provide the wealth that you so deserve, for in youth, there is nothing that is not an entitlement. Ravenous to consume and conquer, walls that you believe provide shelter are stationary against the actions of men that leap from behind them. Leaving their safety, aware of what lays on the other side.

The end is not as it will seem, for anyone.

Least, me.
For now is the time my fingers dance.

The darkness you hear, is just the passing of the keys smirking.
Contextually.

*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*

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*