So It's Like This

I've developed a serious inability to STFU over on the Twitters. Noncoincidentally, I've developed a serious inability to keep from looking at the Twitters.

I used to not be able to STFU here, but that was a while ago, and while the starch had long since  started to fade from my shorts, Sasha's death in April 2016 really just completely sapped my desire to express myself at any length beyond maybe four characters. The rest of 2016 did not improve my aura.

I don't care about the same things I used to. I care about things I used to not care about. That's nature, right? The point here is that I have been feeling the urge to write. An old friend correctly pointed out a few months ago, after a 15- or 20-tweet thread ("...manifesto, if you will...") about Ba'al knows what, that I was being sort of a douche there. Since this friend is an actually sometimes nice person, that sorta hit home. Other friends have correctly reinforced that sentiment a time or three since. My answer is to try to keep the manifestos, if you will, over here. The bad news? Uhm, I'm gonna have to tweet about my blog posts. Sunrise, sunset.

The news: I remain unemployed, but it's looking up and I might soon be slinging packages late at night for a certain large conglomerate, part-time and seasonal. There are other relatively positive-looking developments, too, but that's all still jinxable. Ilse is stable and busy. Databoy works, as he has for a while, at the health-nut grocery outlet of said large conglomerate, slinging fish at hippies. Bam, as always, abides.

I will write soon about a couple of topics that have been nagging at me. You may or may not care. That's cool. Hasta WTFever.

Yeah. Fuck Blogging for Reals.

Or for Real, the Franco-loving fucks.


Damn, that's terrible audio, innit? I like being nostalgic about shit that happened while Brezhnev was still alive, don't you?

Here's some more bad audio. I'm stuck on this song this week:



Liverpudlians are funny. Take cur, beewur of darkness. And yeah, I know whose birthday was this week. No, it's not a holiday here either, never has been. I get weepy in December, because that's just a weepy fucking time on top of the unpleasant anniversary, but the birthday, not so much.

Here, here's another John Lennon tribute:




Okay. I lied. It's not a John Lennon tribute at all. Did you catch Neal Innes there, in the red plaid jacket, red bow tie, and years-ahead-of-its-time pornstache? Fucking awesome. Rutles forever, bitchez. Most awesome sketch ever, at least tonight, and I'm not even drunk.

Heh. Like apples, Sasha?

A Thing That Must Be Said

This keeps coming up lately, again and again. It must need to be purged.

There was a lovely young woman, beautiful in all respects physical and spiritual save a bit of a piggy nose. This destroyed her self-esteem quite thoroughly, of course.

But one young man found her quite attractive. He was a shy fellow, having a wooden eye for reasons not specified when I heard this touching story nigh unto 35 years ago. He thought the young woman was the finest life match he could ever make, and he approached her one day, asking, "Would you like to go to the dance on Saturday night?"

She was excited--no one could ever get past her nose and see her for the flower she was--and replied, "Would I?"

"Pignose, pignose, pignose!"

That is all.

Broder Dies; Fabricated Americans Mourn

As you'll no doubt read or have read on more important blogs than this one, YFWP and syndicated columnist and Village medicine man David Broder died today. Broder's special gift as a Villager was to scold anyone for anything, take a contrary position, and pretend he was the moderate and well-reasoned one. It was reported that Broder's last words were, "It's good for America that Gingrich had to fuck interns to bring about the Reagan Revolution and end Communism."

Ordinary nonexistent Americans were moved by Broder's passing. Fictitious taxi driver I. Don Texist wept as he said, "Broder was the best at using his columns to advance the opinions of ordinary invented folk." Other sham opinionators shared Texist's views: "The man had his finger on the pulse of the composite," observed Hemad Emeup, an imaginary Somalian immigrant airport shoeshine stand operator in a city without air service to which Broder never travelled. Broder's sense of grave responsibility in the face of hard times brought on by government and industry rapaciousness also resonated with made-up folk. "Tot" Al Fabrication, a fictive geezer in Springfield, opined that "Broder was right; cat food is good for the elderly."

Meanwhile, Villagers were appropriately respectful. "Give me a bear claw," growled the ghost of Tim Russert, while Fred Hiatt sobbed, "You simply can't imagine how profitable he made the false dichotomy between the dwindling and alleged left and the corporatist right that governs our demise." Maureen Dowd was unavailable for comment, and refused to respond when caught leaving an adult bookstore, where she was watching Al Gore porn.

Blogospheric opinion was widely varied. "hvn't dncd lke ths snce Plly Hrvy tld m t fck ff whle ws rdng ptry by scds," said Blckdgrd. Quintessential feminist Rosa Luxembourg Sasha unleashed a tirade on Broder that included the line, "Even among short men with small penises, he was a midget with an infantile dick." Others made even less sense. "He's exactly the guy I was thinking of when I joined Jack Crow's Punch A Motherfucker Party," said non-notable spittle-spewer Landru. "I don't have a blog," added Landru's wife Ilse. On the spherically semi-antipodal side of the political spectrum, Crow summed it all up: "Kill Noam Chomsky."

A Short Tribute to My Best Friend and Ben Domenech

Here's what I think: the tipping point has tipped.

Here's what I think since the last time I thought something and blarghed it.

We're ants, but ants driven by power, not survival.

Unless I think that power equals survival, in which case we're doing math, which I don't do. Aren't ants a cool metaphor?

Yes a bad mood, a bad cold, a bad soccer team bring out the apocalyptic in me,

"Things that bring out the apocalyptic in me" is a very limited-edition release. Nah, just joshing you.

but you don't think that capital's suits know how fucked-up their sandcastles are

Yes. We do. Thank you for bringing home once again the meaningless moral void that is my mindnumbing pursuit of feeding my babies and not having to work until I'm 85, assuming I have the grace to inflict myself on others for that long.

and are developing schemes to maximize profits in the fucking crumbling of their fucking crumbling sandcastles?

Crumbling? Awesome. Do I get a free pass on up against the wall? Will you feed Databoy and Bam-Bam for me? And find someone reasonably clean to provide booty calls for Ilse? By the way, do you know that, even when I'm pretty much stealing your tax dollars (in a moral sense--I am not criminally defrauding, nor have I ever, criminally defrauded the United States Government), I'm still selling bodies cheaper than the government could employ them? Bodies are cool. Sorta like this.

Aw, crap. One of those had flies instead of ants. Totally ruined everything.

Yes, they would rather incinerate the planet than not buy that fourth Hublot Black Caviar Bang.

Dood, I'm capital (though small-time), and I don't even wear a fucking watch. Will you let it the fuck go? You're letting the fucking terrorists win.

Yawn.

Well, exactly. All that fucking Cold War stress is fucking exhausting, and to make the post-Cold War stress exactly the fucking same, except compounded exponentially by angst over Marx' abject and, really, inexcusable failure to provide a functional model for civil society, and coupled with a perverse fascination with fucking Derrida (and really, parse the gerund however you want), is positively draining. Go throw discs, would you?

(With, as always, nothing but love. I started the morning by sliding/falling down the stairs¹. How you doin'?)

¹ I'm fine. Just a little bruised. And not even in the head. Really.

Yes. Germany Is A Strange Place.

I know. I don't write, I don't post, I don't rant on command, even when I should. I work 12 hours a day at three different jobs and I may or may not fob one of them off on some other schloob before I drop dead. Whatever. You think you revile me, just ask my family's opinion.

Maybe I'll come back. Hold your breath waiting. Machts nichts to me. In the meantime, drop some Purple Microdot and watch this:

And Now For Something Completely Different

It's been an awful week. Let's do some bad German disco video. With English subtitles.

Disclaimer: Put down all food and drink. Ensure that your sinuses and other airways are clear. Do not, under any circumstances, forget to breathe while watching this video. I did, and it led directly to this post.



Eternal gratitude to Sadly, No! for the tip that led to this find.

Take That, Ilse

(Updated; see below. The official compilation is now Lucy Liu, Charlize Theron, Melissa Theuriau, Lauren Graham, and Parker Posey. And we're done with this.)


There appears to be some confusion over The List. Ilse doubts my historic inclusion of certain individuals on that all-important document. Therefore and herewith, in no order pertaining to anything:

1. Lucy Liu. For example, here:

1a. The pharmacist at my grocery store, who is a dead ringer for Lucy Liu (Ilse is calling bullshit on this one, in the event that the pharmacist at my grocery store should accidentally wake up one day completely demented and have some desire to fuck me. I consider this encouraging, even though Ilse's perspective on who might want to fuck me is unfathomably skewed.)

2. Charlize Theron. For example, here:

Charlize is a rarity in that I don't do blondes.

3. Sarah Silverman, although I gotta say her stock stays depressed for as long as she's banging Jimmy Kimmel. I like to think that he's the one doing the catching, if'n you catch my drift.


4. Yoko Matsugane. Thanks to every misogynist sports blog everywhere for making her a household name.

5. Melissa Theuriau. She's a French newscaster. I didn't know either, until TBogg introduced us.

Honorable mentions who shall, sadly, have to remain off-list and, therefore, untouchable unless I can get to this blog in time to alter the evidence: Alyssa Milano (problem: Dodgers fan); Catherine Zeta-Jones (problems: she'd break me like a twig, and I'd have to fight Ilse and Wheezy to get at her anyway); and her:

But mostly because that, for some reason, deeply disturbs Ilse.

MASSIVELY IMPORTANT UPDATE:

Scratch the Japanese Hooters Girl. What kind of a dipshit forgets Lauren Graham? The me kind of dipshit, that's what kind.

EXTREME WITLESSNESS UPDATE II: Okay, this is the last one, but it's important. Buh-bye, funny Jew girl tainted by Kimmelseed. This is a perfect example of why these things should be compiled carefully. While drunk. Say hello to the incomparable Parker Posey, and we'll just get on with our lives, then, shall we?