How Early Ol' Days, Spinach, Cupids and Geometrical Tolerance Can Shape a Baby Into a Person

When I was being born I promised to myself to spend the first few years of my life as a baby. My thought process amounted to more or less the following: "Fuck it, been stuck for months up in here stewing like a beheaded chicken carcass thrown into a boiling cauldron somewhere in a witch's hut in the far corner of the world. Might as well treat myself to some free service twenty-four seven. Year in, year out. Baby."

I was a good, sweet child o' my parents. Sweet like a bag of sweets and good like a person who jumps in front of another person to take a bullet for them and save their life even though this scenario's portrayal in movies and television has shifted our perception of it to be entirely believable where in truth it is impossible to intercept a fired round unless someone is an absolute Wizard of Anticipation and knows exactly when to undertake appropriate muscle motions. Even then, depending on numerous factors such as distance, velocity and shot placing among others, it is possible for the bullet to pierce through the first body and hit the second one as well. One would have to be really unlucky. Well, two people would have to be really unlucky but the person behind would have to be more unlucky. On second thought, the first person gets killed in almost every scenario so... Nevermind.

Point is, well, maybe I wasn't THAT good but I always slept during nights except when I didn't in which case I was awake. Was never one for crying either except rare instances when I had tears in my eyes. If that ever occurred then I usually had a damn good reason for it. For example, I was uncomfortable a lot of the time. Uncomfortable like a tired old sofa that even the blind family dog refuses to lie on anymore because it's creaky (noisy) and it smells. Creaky and smells. If I was a nut, these would be the contents of my shell. Creaky and Smells. Sounds like a children's cartoon jingle about cupid detectives.

Creaky and Smells solving some crii-ii-imes
Always alert, bit goofy at tii-ii-imes
Friends for life, doing good, having fun!
Using the power of love instead of a gun!
[bridge]
Creaky and Smells oh Creaky and Sme-e-ells
Cupid detectives on their way to he-e-elp
We need them because they're so nice and good!
Chasing down baddies like real lawmen should!

Which is great because there's plenty of bad men SATANS EVEN! in the world who WANT TO HURT YOU AND YOUR FAMILY. YES YOU IN PARTICULAR. AND YOUR FAMILY. They hacked into the NSA satellites and are targeting you as we speak. One of their HQs just dispatched a black van headed for your address. You can't do shit now and IMAGINARY CUPID DETECTIVES WON'T HELP. TOO LATE NOW. REST IN PEACE FUCKERSSS! HATE cupids and bastards and cupid bastards and this stupid motherfuckin' job.

"Oh for shit's bells, who's been fucking around with the recorder?! Jim, you again?! That was your last chance. Your ass is fired!" an authoritative voice would yell.

Creaky and smells. Basically, I was an old person.

Except I was technically young. But I will be creaky and I will smell once again, I guess. If I live long enough. If I die before I reach that state it won't make any difference anyway. Right before my death, in the final moments of my life, I'll be old. As old as I can ever be. Then I'll know. I'll understand. I think. Something.

People say we as humans always go full circle. I find this casual geometrical racism quite upsetting. What's wrong with a square? Does every square look the same to you, you round, boring, geometrically insensitive people? Fuck. When I was eighteen months old I first started to notice the ever-present discrimination in all areas of life and death. I would sit at the table on my special chair and muse about the state of the society and sometimes... Sometimes I'd break down. I would cry out, I would weep and I would spit out that awful spinach mash that was being forced down my throat by people who had "PARENT" written on their life uniforms, just like mechanics have "MECHANIC" written on their job uniforms. Everyone has to have a title in this world. Everything needs a branding, like a cattle, a hot iron induced burn mark that renders people more easily identifiable and cataloguable.

I do like spinach now, though.

Spinach has changed me, actually. It's my buddy now. When I was a baby I didn't see myself ever changing. Always thought I'll grow old just the way I was. Old. And when I become old, I'll be young again. But when I reached my fifth year on this sorry-ass planet it all began to unravel in my head. Realizations came flooding in like previously suppressed large amounts of water that now consumed and devoured defenseless, hopeless villages and villagers, villagers in villages built at the base of the mental dam. Change. There blew a wind. It was of change. I suddenly found myself understanding spinach, hell, liking it. I would sit for hours chewing baby spinach leaves which was ironic because I just stopped being a baby and I was basically eating babies and the thought of me being eaten by a grown up spinach just a year earlier when I still qualified for it... Ugh.

But it wasn't all bad though. Those were good times. There were good times. Fuck yeah, I swear. I could do things and get away with them. I could fiddle with toys and objects and human emotions and everyone would just laugh it off because I was a baby. I didn't have to worry about a great deal of things except for the world and the direction it's heading in and the overall deterioration of humanity and the beckoning downfall of civilization. I think I saw it first. At the age of three I became Harbinger of Doom so it was a lot to take in in my first few years but, well, I managed. It made me stronger. Looking back, I can't really complain. After all, I was being fed food for free, put to bed with love and care, had my ass wiped for me without a flinch of an eye.

Can't wait to grow old/young.

Creaky and Smells oh Creaky and Sme-e-ells

Full circle. Square. Triangle. Trapeze. Et cetera. Full et cetera.

We have to remember. Geometrical tolerance will shape our new, better tomorrow. It's the only way we can still save this planet. Should we fail, we will be back to square one. Circle. Triangle. Trapeze. Rhombus. Motherfuckin' rhombus.

Concrete Vigilantism Ain't Gotta Be A Bad Thing If The Reasons Are Right

I want to be the real deal.

I want to do some good for this world.

If that means driving over bad people in a cement truck, count me in.

See, I thought about this.

Just me, The Cause, concrete, horsepower. United to take a stand.

A giant, orange concrete mixer with a big "HAVE A NICE FUCKING DAY" written on it.

Breezing through streets, fighting crime and injustice.

Settling scores with the bad guys, battling demons of the night.

Sheding light into dark corners of The City.

Fresh concrete sloshing around, turning dicks into statues.

Combined superpowers of cement, gravel and water; harbingers of peace.

Stuff of legends.

What glory. Man.

Give me a truck and enough concrete and I'll save the galaxy.

Gonna need a driver's license too while we're at it.

Streets will be safe again. Lives of many will be preserved.

You'd want that, wouldn't you?

Unless you're a bad guy, in which case I hope you like the taste of CONCRETE FURY.

Different

I've missed things when I was away. Things you take for granted. Things I used to take for granted.

I had plenty of time. All the time in the world. Seconds were hours that felt like days. There was nothing else to do but miss things and shift my mind into imagination. So there I was, thinking and breathing and forgetting myself time and time again. Stepping outside of myself and venturing. 

I pictured myself in a field when I closed my eyes. I could see myself walking among wheats, touching them with my fingertips. The sun was shining. It was blinding. A solar flare was ever-present in my sight. I didn't mind. I liked it. It gave me a sensation of warmth. Something I've missed so much. One of many things. Tip of the iceberg.

Now that I'm back I don't feel it the same way. I always knew deep inside me that it would be different. I thought it would be better. That's the truth. When I felt it again, really felt it, I was left wanting. Wanting more from it, demanding it to match my expectations.

It's not its fault. I guess my expectations were skewed by years of solitude. My imagination added certain features, enhanced the picture. It helped at the time. It allowed me to fight off desperation and hopelesness. For that I'll forever be greatful.

But as I lay down now, back here, I close my eyes yet again and drift...

Seconds become hours that feel like days.

There's the familiar warmth. Not the real one. The one that's exclusive to me.

It's not leaving me anytime soon.

Try again

I didn't mind the rain that night. I didn't even feel it on me. I just saw it with my eyes as I was making my way through it.

When you walk in a trance, your mind fixed on the goal, you lose connection with your nerve endings. They go numb. They hide, dulled, they know it's not their time.

You can walk for miles and not feel anything. No pain in your body, no fatigue, no distractions.

Time slows down when you're walking like that. Slow motion and blurriness take over. A filter is applied to your screen. Your eyes. You see things you normally don't pay attention to. Things you're unable to see because your mind's wanderin'. You're looking at a film reel, frame by frame. I could see raindrops descending onto my face. I could see reflections of myself in falling water.

That didn't matter one bit. It only added to the theme. A mere decoration.

I kept making my way through the tunnel. A tunnel of focused thoughts that rearranged the surroundings, morphed them into a unified block of colors and shapes. Trees, buildings, people, air, life, every atom, every particle were more or less one entity. A collage.

They made for a border. A perimeter. If you would ever get distracted and breached it, you would fall.

You would lose. Kind of. You would lose the sight of your goal. For a brief moment you would see it being swept away. A result of your carelessness.

I've been there.

I've fallen.

Many times. Down the abyss.

It hurts more when you're falling down than when you finally hit the ground. It's when you see the path through your desperately outstretched palm, it hurts the most. You see it slipping away. Fading in the distance.

At least when you hit the bottom you know you've reached the low point. A point from which you can only build up. So you gather yourself. You can curse under your nose all you want. I know I have. It's a long fucking journey. You dust off your clothes and start the climb. Make your way back up again. Take a deep breath. Enter the tunnel. Try again.

It's not easy. I takes an insurmountable toll. But it's all there is. You try again. I try again.

Focus on the goal. Give it all you've got. No matter the cost. Make your way through the rain. 

Helen's Goulash Sunday In Danger?

"Listen, Helen. I can't let you do that," he said, while removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt's cuffs. He put his suitcase against the wall. He had just returned from work. He was going to sit in front of a dinner that she made for him. It was a huge pile of meat of some description. He was hungry and, after all, he was a dinosaur.

"Why not, Terrence?" she asked, while putting on a pink tracksuit, ready to go out.

"Remember what happened last time you took 'em out for a walk?" he asked his wife, while examining his delicious meal.

"I remember, I do. It doesn't mean it will happen again!" she tried to convince her husband while plugging in the earphones into her iPod.

"What if it meets another one if its kind again? You want a war? You know how they are. Just killin' each other all the time. Gotta keep them in check," he reasoned while munching on a huge piece of thigh with a bone sticking out.

"Okay, Terrence, you're right. I just wanted them to get some workout before we invite Tawney and Richard for Sunday dinner. I want my goulash to be the best ever," she said, and looked at a dozen of humans sleeping in separate cages.

Oh (Ant)Man, Not The Bloody Colonialism Again

"Gerald, would you please pass me the pickaxe," said one ant in a top hat with a perfect Received Pronunciation accent to another ant in a top hat. "This is the right way," Victor said, while receiving a pickaxe from Gerald.

Victor adjusted his glasses and looked at a map once again, just to be sure. This party of ants has been digging a tunnel from Europe to Africa for months now.

"Are you sure? If this goes south it is all on you," warned Gerald, as he pointed at Victor and twirled his exquisite mustache. His own mustache, not Victor's. It would be considered improper had Gerald twirled Victor's almost equally exquisite mustache.

"We WANT to go south, Gerald, that's where Africa is. I would appreciate it if you reconsidered your anti-everything attitude," said Victor as he swung his pickaxe at the ground in front of him. It didn't yield much in terms of result though.

They had struggled for a week now after they hit a particularly hard ground.

"Where is young Titus?" asked Victor as he lifted his eyebrows and adjusted his glasses.

"I'm here, sir!" said a very eager young ant, who was sporting a very poor beard and a naïve smile.

"Did you bring the drill? Good lad. I cannot do it with the pickaxe anymore. Do you know how to operate the drill, young ant?"

"Yes, Mr Victor, I know the drill!" he asked and his eyes lit up. This was the moment he's been waiting for. "Oh yeah… Come to papa!" he shouted and nearly charged at the wall.

"Hey, hey, hey, don't be so antsy, young Titus. Stay calm and do it right or we will never make it to Africa," said Victor as he put his hands on Titus' shoulders. Gerald was lightning up a cigarette in the background.

"But Mr Victor! I can't wait for us to have a colony!"

Trevor The Fly Peacemaker

"Don't do it, Francis!" one fly pleaded to another.

The other fly was waving and pointing a gun at something.

"I have to, Trevor. I'm done with her shit. Every day is the same," he ranted, fuming, intoxicated. "She won't even look at me. All I'm left to do is deal with her crap. At first I didn't mind, I was trying not to get too attached. But now I want something more from her and she... she just doesn't care, the fat cow," said Francis, clearly unhinged when discussing her. She was a real cow.

"If you think killing her will solve anything then you're wrong. I know the place you're in right now stinks. You feel like you're up against a wall. Carrying a disease. I used to be like you. Angry, frustrated, getting shitfaced. But then I opened my eyes. I went places and I was always buzzing to meet someone new," said Trevor, "As we flies say, there's plenty more cows in the fields."

"Is that really true?" asked Francis, as he seemed to calm down a bit. "Do you think I can land someone right for me? Should I just meet new people and see what sticks?"

"You're what... a day old? Still young. You don't have to swat away your dreams, dude," said Trevor, a very wise fly. "I know it hurts right now but the wounds will heal soon. Time flies when you meet someone new. Now put the gun down, Francis."

Francis reluctantly put the gun down, looked at her for the last time, turned around and said,

"Thanks, Trevor. You're a great wingman. I know I can count on you whenever shit hits the fan. What do you say," he started, with a smirk on his face, "let's go visit the neighboring field. I think I saw a fine piece of ass over there," he suggested and they both laughed.

Sullivan Spliff

Casting a long fuckin' shadow over masculinity worldwide
Lazily setting trendy trends and fiery fires alight
He don't need to shit, don't need to sleep at night
Always poking everywhere it's warm and tight

He's Sullivan Spliff
Sullivan Spliff

In his vicinity bitches be removin' their bras

Swarmin' all around him and fawning en masse

Other fellas are jealous, have their faces stuck to glass

Groaning and bemoaning the fact they're simply outclassed

By Sullivan Spliff
That's right: Sullivan Spliff

His feet are carried by air; his path is lit by morning sun

As he breezes past diseases and pleases everyone

Couldn't count the amount of awesome things he's done

A legend that deflowered at least one Italian nun

That's Sullivan Spliff

The mighty Sullivan Spliff

He rules over kingdoms, endless seas of lands
A crown on a noble head and people's lives in manly hands
Most important of all is a fact that always stands

He be doin' all this shit without wearing any pants

Oh, Sullivan Spliff
Pantless Sullivan Spliff

FOR ME

There's just fucking NOTHING.

Only mountain tops in the distance. Never to be reached, EVER.

This is how it WORKS.

Tried many things but I CAN'T do it any longer.

Can't even SEE those mountain tops anymore.

I am lost in a dark forest. WHERE am I going?

IS THIS the right way?

I can't see SHIT.

There's nothing good GOING on.

I'LL let my head HANG in shame.

Is it time to give up MY DREAMS?

Or should I carry ON?

There are only BLACK TREES.

Everything seems to be ending, if it's not already OVER.

I'll never be THERE.

BECAUSE I lost my way.

WHAT'S THE POINT?

Nobody cares about MY LIFE.

Even I don't and it's all there IS to say.

Might just lie down and be consumed by NOTHINGNESS.

Leaving only nightmares AND fading memories.

What A WASTE.

How CAN someone continue to live like this.

Why would YOU pay attention?

PLEASE go on your own way.

It's too late for me to cry out for HELP.

Can't ask FOR THE final lifeline.

This is my LAST goodbye.

Soon I'll be forgotten by TIME.

I can Phil it Collins' underwear is tight

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh lord

Is it oxygen and nitrogen and other genes? Pathogens and allergens and genes from a bottle and hallucinogens. That's right. You're trippin', dude. Lay off it. Seriously. I know you wanted some sea food and ordered shrimps but you mumble so inarticulately they thought you wanted shrooms. And what's with the last part? Are you such a big fan of fat that you call out for lard?

I've been waiting for this moment, all my life, oh lord

Patience is a virtue. Waiting all your life for one moment is silly though. You could've done some cool shit in the meantime like petting a panda or water skiing naked or sleeping in a bathtub filled with hot water and warm women. 

Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, oh lord, oh lord 

*sniffs air* You pig. Stop laughing out loud. Twice. Ain't funny.

Well, if you told me you were drowning

Couldn't, I was drowning. Had water in my mouth and nose and lungs and other vital organs such as urethra and biceps. We're mostly water so we're drowning all the time anyway. Blrbrlblrblr.

I would not lend a hand

Cheapskate. What about a foot? I'd pay you back in the footure. Honest.

I've seen your face before, my friend

*looks around* lay off the Pornhub. Not healthy.

But I don't know if you know who I am

I know who you are. You have your name written on the thing. But if you ask whether I looked into your soul to know your true self or not… then nah.

Well, I was there and I saw what you did

Shiiiiiiet. Appreciate not calling the cops! You done did me a solid. Maybe I misjudged you.

I saw it with my own two eyes

Glad you specified the amount of eyes. Wouldn't want to give yourself out as a cyclops, what with the hunting season in full swing. Cyclops eyes are more expensive than you realize, see.

So you can wipe off the grin, I know where you've been

Can't a man just be happy he had a nice poo? And I wiped it well. Wait, what?

It's all been a pack of lies

I love Lie's. Especially paprika and onion flavoured. Lie's are the best. Always getting a few packs myself. 

And I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh lord

Yeah, you can.

I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh lord

You have.

I can feel it in the air tonight, oh lord, oh lord

You can. You are repeating yourself. Are you OK?

And I've been waiting for this moment all my life, oh lord, oh lord

You have. You are repeating yourself. Are you OK?

Well I remember, I remember don't worry

Oh, alright. Had me going there for a moment, fella.

How could I ever forget, it's the first time, the last time we ever met

When was that exactly? I think I remember that but we haven't really spoken then have we? I'm not one to talk much. I wonder--do you know the reason why I keep my silence up? Do I fool you?

But I know the reason why you keep your silence up, no you don't fool me

Dammit. Smart bastard.

The hurt doesn't show; but the pain still grows

What happened? Hit your toe? I know the pain but it will pass like a gas. 

It's no stranger to you or me

True, we're both familiar to it. I'm WhatsApping it sometimes. It helped me out a lot when I had no money. If it wasn't there I'd still be broke. No pain, no gain.

And I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh lord

So you claim. I hope it came. Holding it in for too long can have negative effects. 

The cruel dual rule of the fool is a cool tool

I am using an amusing musing as I let out a mellow hello on a yellow cello to a bellowing fellow outside a bordello while I eat pork with a fork after work and I uncork the wine, not moonshine, as I wait in line to dine on divine bovine I smell pine; it’s past nine, where are you, Clementine?

She’s a duchess in her britches who draws sketches in batches, her face slightly twitches while it itches as she watches and scratches and snatches and fetches a peasant on crutches and switches the stitches while burning witches and throwing bitches into ditches or hatches with closed latches, that’s how she of people dispatches, no escaping her clutches.

Inside she is good slightly misunderstood although a bit prude sometimes can be rude and if I could then I should and I would *interlude* improve her mood, she makes great food and gives me wood.

We never fight; our love is bright as a light as we embark on a flight with Messrs. Wright in great height (higher than a kite), what a sight in the night I can’t quite feel right: it’s a fright, as we might explode like dynamite and we did, oh shite!, it wasn’t slight, what a plight, someone call Knight Dwight, as she and I our lips bite it’s our last rite, can’t write, hold on tight, who’s this wight, I see white…

Better times (1)

There was a time when everything was great. Wild animals ruled the cities and we lived in forests and deserts. There were free blowjobs and painless deaths. We used to surf on sound waves and swim in sun beams. There was no war, no peace and no no. It was only yes. Yes, I remember. My memories of the past reach as far as my memory can remember memories.

Wind used to sing us songs about happiness and joy. There was plenty of happiness and joy so the wind had a lot to sing about. It had a very good voice. We did not know how the wind wound up with it. It was a gift. We did not question it; we embraced it. It made our lives swerve left and right, up and down on a stave of time and so we were creating a beautiful song. Together and apart. It felt like we were jumping from notes to notes like monkeys jump from branch to branch. 

Rain used to not rain. It was held in such high regard that a rain meeting ground was something truly terrible and frightening. It was sacrilege. We felt ashamed. So we made it our priority not to let the droplets drop. We suspended them mid-air with the collective force of mind waves. It was not always easy. It required a lot of mental strength. Sometimes it was exhausting. But it was worth it. 

Snow used to snow all year. It used to never snow. It snowed if you wanted it to and it did not if you did not want it to. How did that work? We did not know. Nobody knows snow. Snowflakes liked to land on lakes and mountains and trees. They loved being looked at in awe. Snow used to smile at us with its white smile and made us more relaxed, more chilled out. I miss snow. It was inspiring. 

Sun… Sun used to shine in many colors. It used to shine a bright shine unlike the shine of moon. It gave us warmth and shed light upon our paths. We did not wander into unknown: visibility was perfect. It was the opposite of pitch black. It was pitch white. It was pitch yellow, blue, red, green, purple and orange. It was pitch amazing. It was overwhelming. Indescribeable. Irreplaceable. Intimate in its relations with every one of us.

Holed on. You're Glocking my view. Don't do death.

A keyhole in a door is a hole in which you put a key in to unlock a lock. There are various ways to unlock a lock. You can use the aforementioned key that fits the keyhole hole and it will open the lock. You can wait for someone to open the lock – run down the clock. You can force it – bust a cap in his ass with a Glock.

Glock is one of leading manufacturares of examples of one of representatives of the small arms branch of weaponry which is a pistol. Weapons, not only pistols, are dangerous. They are designed to inflict various types of damage. They can cause pain, suffering and even death.

Death is the end of a human life. Life is life. It starts when you are extremely young. Young to a ridiculous degree. If you were any younger than at the beginning of your life, you would not be alive at that moment in time. Life ends with death. Death is something that life ends with.

There are many ways to die. Before dying it would be very considerate of you to conduct extensive research and choose the most appropriate and suitable option. Remember you only die once, as they say, so be advised not to fuck it up. You only get one shot at this, one opportunity, unless you fuck it up and you have to try all over again. It is considered by many educated people that those who fuck up their death should be shot to death or at least killed.