failure isn't a temporary setback, it is a way of life.

Thursday, September 25, 2003

Paper And Plastic Perception

After eight hours of bagging groceries, I have begun to see things as they are. As I watch the steady stream of customers glide by one after another, I see people not as individuals but as one colossal organism with an inexorable drive to consume. I bag their goods, making sure to place the fragile products like eggs and bread on top of heavier groceries like meat and twelve packs, that is basic bagging technique which everbody knows.

When the embarrasing purchases pop up like tampons, condoms, or Depends undergarments, I show enough courtesy and discretion to quickly tuck these items away as quickly as possible. I pretend as though I am not paying any attention to the products I'm bagging. That always seems to put the customer at ease.

Like it or not, grocery shopping is an uncomfortable chore. When those goods are crossing the conveyor belt, one's way of life goes on display for all to see. Every box of cereal and hygiene product gives me an indication as to who you are and what you want out of life. My job is amazing. No other occupation affords you the opportunity to gaze into the soul of humanity as bagging does. If you are skillful and observant, you will perceive all of man's petty fears and wants. It will make you laugh, it will make you cry, but it is an invaluable experience nonetheless.

Saturday, September 20, 2003

Yearning For The Grave

All liquored up with no place to go. I'm sitting here, watching the evaporating sun light, gathering courage for winter's onset. Goodbye sun, see you next spring, but until then, there's nothing to look forward to but seasonal depression. It's time to fatten up and hibernate under the covers. I'll make sure the blinds are drawn and I must remind myself to stockpile just enough pornography to last me through the dark afternoons. If mommy comes calling for me to shovel the driveway or take out the trash I will force myself to resist. I shall endure her tyranny no longer, even if it means going without milk and cookies and Conan O'Brien for a long period of time, because this time, this winter, I am determined to exert my will. I will barricade myself in my fortress of solitude, with empty walls and undulating shadows as my only entertainment. Like Siddartha Guatama, I shall sit and meditate with my crate of hot pockets and a stack of comic books until I reach enlightenment. My spiritual journey shall not be impeded by anything, not even my parents. And if their poking and prodding gets to be too much, I could just kill them with the meat pestle I have hidden under my bed. That's just the way it goes. Nirvana comes to those who seek it, and nothing shall divert me from my goal.

Friday, September 19, 2003

Cheese Grater Cunnilingus

Why am I so cool? I really can't answer that. It's just the way I am. Being cool is as natural for me as breathing. And I'm a damn good breather. Everyone says so. My inhales are smooth, effortless, unself-conscious. While my exhales are more sing songy and whispery, which makes the women swoon. It's all about respiration, and the style and flavor that you bring to it. Any guy can suck and blow like a mindless animal, but it takes real talent and energy to breathe like a pro. A little cough here and there, a raspy clearing of the throat now and then, could do wonders for your social life. Audible breathing reminds people that you exist and are not to be trifled with. A mellifluous sigh and wheeze indicates to women that you are a sexual being, a strong respirator who will not be afraid to grunt and moan or even bark when he's hitting you doggie style. Hawking up phlegm in front of women is also a turn on. When they hear the scratchy rumblings of your throat they immediately think of cunnilingus and all the extra mucus that you would be able to apply in and around the vaginal walls and the clitoris, thus providing more pleasure and excitement. Breathing efficiently and powerfully doesn't come easy to all. But after weeks and months of practice, you will start to breathe like a man. And your coolness, thereafter, will never be in doubt.

Thursday, September 18, 2003

There's Hope For Us Yet

Abortion doctors are artists. Highly skilled, meticulous artists. The best abortion or the one allowing for the most creative expression is the partial birth abortion, when the fetus is almost fully grown. The doctor shoves a vacuum tube up the birth canal and punctures the fetus' skull. Then the brain is sucked out and the soft tissue of the skull caves in, allowing the body to slide out of the mother with relative ease and little pain. If the doctor is an artist of the highest degree he will display his work to the mother and ask her if she would like to preserve her aborted fetus in a jar of formeldahyde, as a kind of memento, something she could place on the mantlepiece and show off at dinner parties. The mother usually reacts to this offer by screaming, moaning, clawing at her face, tearing out her hair, and then passing out. Most women, it seems, have no appreciation for great art. And the doctor, thus rejected, must go home with his jars of aborted fetuses and store them in the basement. Alone and misunderstood, he yearns for the day when his works shall be appreciated for the masterpieces that they are.

Wednesday, September 17, 2003

A Tribute To Everything

Stop breeding. Do you know what your kids are going to have to go through in the next twenty five years in a country such as ours? I'm sorry Whitney Houston, children are not the future, so how about we do the humane thing and spare them all this tedious bullshit. Most people have children to escape the crippling boredom which their marriages engender. Spawning a child is a nice way to entertain yourself so that you never have to look at who or what you really are or who you're married to. Why can't parents be honest with themselves and fess up to the real motives behind their child-rearing tendencies and tell little Timmy "son, I know we told you before that we gave birth to you because there was too much love between mommy daddy for just two people. Well all of that was a lie son. We were just a miserable demoralized couple who were very bored with each other, and so we decided to have a child. And ever since, you've been the little dancing puppet propping up our tiresome marriage. Thank you Timmy."

Bearing children arises out of a deep seated dissatisfaction with life. Because we find no meaning within our own existence, we irresponsibly bring another human being into the world so that we can live vicariously through him. Having children is the only refuge for uncreative people who are failures in their own right and who can find nothing else to contribute to the world except another hungry, suffering soul. And the cycle will never end. As long as we remain dissatisfied with our own lives, it is a sure bet that the injustice of child begetting shall continue.

Monday, September 15, 2003

Dreaming Your Life Away

I'd like to file a lawsuit against all of humanity. On what grounds? On the grounds of psychological trauma. Man was not made to suffer through a forty hour work week. The slaves of the nineteenth century at least knew that their situation was forced upon them, and thereby they maintained a nobility of the soul. But today, we slog through our offices, manacled to our cubicles by our own voluntary servitude. We try to convince ourselves that what we are doing is meaningful. And by doing so we betray what is great in ourselves and perpetuate the farce that is voluntary slavery. A laborer should not be made to feel as though he is prostituting himself for his superiors, but everday, nevertheless, we find ourselves taking it in the ass, being forced to engage in all kinds of messy, soul-depleting activities for the good of our ungrateful massas, who act as though they rule by divine right.

Since we are a poll driven nation, why doesn't Gallup or Newsweek take a real poll, one that asked you if you were sick and tired of being a bitch for corporate America? The results would be interesting. But no one cares for the plight of the common man. We're just the manure in the soil, hunkered down in the depths, cut off from all sunlight and warmth while the greedy fucks at the top grow larger and stronger in the open air. Sadly enough, most of us take pride in being the footstools of America. We'll pass on this footstool philosophy to our children who will go on to breed little footstools of their own, till we're nothing but footstools who uphold mediocrity as the highest virtue.

Sunday, September 14, 2003

Whiskey And Raw Whores

Most women are turned off when you stab them in the abdomen and tear out their entrails after a mutually affectionate bout of love making. But wasn't she the one with the rape fantasy? I thought I was acting my part quite well, quite convincingly. And in my opinion her screams and all that blood she was spitting up was role playing at its best.

While we were doing it I asked her if she was thoroughly satisfied with her fantasy but all she could do was gurgle up more blood while her eyes rolled back into her head. That was a signal that she was still role playing so I went on with the game. After pulling out a couple armlengths worth of lower intestine I then proceeded to strangle her by wrapping the slippery cords around her neck and pulling tightly. I asked her once more if the fantasy was over, but by her silence and immobility, I knew she wanted the game to continue. So finally, to satisfy her erotic curiousity, I fully dismembered her body with a hack saw, and stuffed the contents of her skull into a blender. When the mixture was smooth enough I then poured the liquified blood and brains all over myself and sat down on the sofa, and had myself a nice nap. Man, there's nothing more tiring than pleasuring your woman.

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