Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

It's Not Music Anymore

Hey guys, it’s been a really tough week. I was put in an idiocy induced coma from hearing the inane driveling of Mel Kiper Jr. I was only snapped out of it by the ingenious words and sounds of The Who’s Quadrophenia. Is it me, for a moment? If I could’ve lived in any other period, it would’ve been Russia in 1917 – an ability to test my mettle as a real man and revolutionary, fighting alongside my proletarian brethren against those who oppressed us and ushering in a brave new world. Then I would put a pick axe in Stalin’s head and save the world forever. If I had another time to live in, it would’ve been England in the early 1970s. To be there for The Who and The Mighty Led Zeppelin… YOWZAS!! Unfortunately, “music” nowadays is nothing but corporate swill and mindless trite. To prove this point, let us take a gander at the Billboard “Hot” 100 to see what cud is being regurgitated into the gaping maws of the mouth-breathers that buy this shit.

#1 – Lil Wayne: Lollipop. What a surprise. “Hip-hop” is topping the charts. I remember when hip-hop meant something. I remember when the NWA was turning out class-conscious albums like Straight Outta Compton. Or when Public Enemy, the Shostakovich of the African American Revolution, was releasing the anthem of Black Struggle – It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. Now, hip-hop is nothing more than a collaborationist medium of the white, military-industrial complex that illegally occupies black cities. Their only goal is to divert the attention of the black proletariat from the struggle and turn them into lumpen proletariat – constantly out “hustlin’” and trying to get “money” and “hos” instead of fighting against those who oppress them. Good work Lil Wayne, you’re more of a class traitor than the Kronstadt scum – and hopefully you’ll meet the same fate.

#2 – Leona Lewis – Bleeding Love. No idea who this is. Her song could be called bleeding vag for all I care, I won’t listen.

#3 – Jordin Sparks – No Air. She came from the awful, awful American Idol. The goal of this program is to turn music into the most corporatist amalgamation of soulless tones and subliminal advertising that is possible. Perhaps if this young lady could get Coca-Cola’s dick out of her mouth long enough to try and learn to sing, perhaps from a great like Robert Plant, she could have a future. And lose some weight. No one likes fat chicks.

#4 – Usher feat. Young Jeezy – Love in the Club. See above. This maggot doesn’t merit me repeating myself.

#5 – Mariah Carey – Whatever Shit She’s Selling. I don’t even know if I can work up the energy to comment about this. Mariah Carey? I’ll buy her a bus ticket so she can come down here, service me, and then go to work picking trash up off the streets of Philadelphia for the rest of her life to try and repay the debt from the harm she inflicted upon society by singing and “acting.” Wait, I forgot Glitter. She just needs to be shot.

#6 – Madonna feat. Justin Timberlake – 4 Minutes. Wow. How is this whore still relevant? Her faux British accent is an insult to great men like Roger Daltrey, Pete Townshend, John Entwhistle and Keith Moon who really do/did have British accents. And Justin Timberlake? In Nepal, the workers are trying to seize control. In Venezuela they’re fighting against the meddling hands of imperialism. And all over Eastern Europe and Africa they are struggling in the streets everyday for rights. Here, in America, we’re listening to a washed up corporate whore, whose only notable contribution to society was to once fondle Jose Canseco’s tiny, steroid ravaged member, and her gal pal Justin Timberlake – who I assume exists merely to prove to all that God has abandoned us.

I cannot go beyond the top six, as I have grown weary from being exposed to this propaganda. I now need to refresh my soul the only way I know how.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

The Revolution will not be Covered by Mel Kiper Jr.

As some of my less-educated readers may know, the National Football League held its draft this weekend, a celebration for the slovenly and corpulent whose lives are measured in ounces of beer and hours of advertising. These ignorami are so devoid of free will and thought that they will mindlessly devote days of their lives toward the documentation of inane minutiae and the prognostication of the selection of "amateur" athletes. When our day comes, a man's speed in the forty-yard dash will not elevate him above the working class.

The empty pomp of this event is surpassed only by its staggering hypocrisy. The physically gifted are required to pursue "higher education" - an insidious servant to the almighty dollar. These are no students - but puppets, trotted out before the stupid public, dancing on stages of fake green grass, to earn real green money for those institutions and advertisors who are pulling the strings. In compensation for their exploitation, which many undergo willingly, like oxen undergo their yoke, these athletes are compensated with sex, lucre, and the undeserving attention of the vacuous masses.

And this ludicrous puppet show culminates in a gala celebrated only by the fat and the stupid. The unceasing and empty coverage is meant to hypnotize the drunken and slow, to distract them from their dull lives with meaningless anger towards the faceless organizations of capitalistic ideals. How dare Matt Millen draft Gosder Cherilus over Jeff Otah?

How dare the American public so readily consume this unnourishing drivel.

The Presidential Election

Should I endorse a candidate? Perhaps, perhaps not. What does anyone care what this one, lonely interloper thinks? I am but a construct of the mind, useless to the real world.

I feel, though, as if I must. However, the candidates are so atrocious that they make me want to vomit on my sweater already.

First, we have John McCain - the crazy old man who wants to bomb Iran. I imagine it would be a cross between making these two men President:

Then we have Hillary Clinton, the Marie Antoinette of this race. Not just for the let them eat cake attitude that she hides behind her faux-working class credentials as a beer and shot kind of gal, but also for being the wife of the modern day Louis XVI, Bill Clinton. Of course, instead of being followed by a Great Revolution Clinton was folllowed by the Revolution of the Neo-Conservatives and Oil Millionaires who have reshaped society to their own ends. Also, Marie Antoinette liked speculating in pork futures. Sorry guys, that joke might have been over the line. Anyway, if that whore of capitalism pulls the TeleCom's dicks out of her mouth long enough to string together a coherent sentence, perhaps she could top Barack Obama. Then again, this could happen too.

And finally, we have the supposed front runner, Barack Obama. At times, I admit, I like him. And the thought of a black President would send so many racists into such a tizzy that I assume they would shit their pants. However, I must remind myself that he is the kinder, gentler face of American fascism. To paraphrase John Lennon, he could be like the folks on the hill. But first he must learn to smile as he kills. Of course, for the Democrats, this is a moot point, as what he is doing to Hillary is akin to this:

Alas, they are all imperialist swine. Despite what I do, my prediction is that the American working class will end up like Mojo.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

The Chinese/Belgian/Capitalism Tripartite Alliance Against The Purity of Sports

Well, as per usual, I enjoyed taking some time away from work today to flip through the mouthpiece for the British ruling class: The Financial Times. I was greeted with a story that hit me like a Rick James slap across the face. Supposedly, Jacques Rogge, head of the International Olympic Committee, has told the west to stop hectoring China over their massive human rights violations.


Jacques Rogge is about as despicable a pig as the laboratory concocted spawn of Alexander Kolchak and Kenesaw Mountain Landis which I believe he is. Rogge, who was knighted by the Grand Inquisitor of Belgian Imperialism “King” Albert II, has one primary mission: helping divert the international class struggle into the mindless idiocy of nationalism. His special portfolio is, I believe, Minister of Sport for the Department of Diverting The International Proletariat Struggle. Athletes should be banding together to form teams based upon class lines – pitting the best of the proletariat versus the weak ass teams the bourgeoisie would be able to put together. I’ve constructed a starting lineup for Team Proletariat. Check it out:

C – Victor Martinez. Bonus points for being from Venezuela.

1B – Ryan Howard. Grew up in Missouri, notorious for poor people.

2B – Robinson Cano. Maintains the struggle through honoring Jackie Robinson, a fighter in the class struggle.

SS – Jimmy Rollins. Straight out of Oakland.

3B – Travis Hafner. Has always reminded me of a Southern Cesar Chavez. Had to move him to third-base as this is a notoriously imperialist position. Thanks George Brett.

LF – Adam Dunn. A true Hero of the Working Man. This is who John Edwards wishes he was.

CF – Coco Crisp. Obviously.

RF – Bobby Abreu. Again, a soldier in the Venezuelan Revolution.

P – Jamie Shields.

Compare this to the weakness of Team Bourgeoisie.

Team Bourgeoisie

C – Joe Mauer.

1B – Ken Caminiti.

2B – Chase Utley, however, he is a class traitor and will side with us.

3B – Ryan Zimmerman. Obviously.

SS – Davis Love III.

LF – Shawn Green. Obviously.

CF – Mark Kotsay.

RF – Chris Dodd.

P – Roger Clemens, The Great Satan of American Capitalism.

Who would you go to war with? I think its obvious who you would go to class war with.

And yet, Jacques Rogge – or Jacques Rogue, I should call him – wants to prevent this and instead force us all into competing for the capitalist oppressors who deign to call themselves our national leaders. Although I am an expert golfer, even if golf was in the Olympics I would not choose to compete for the flag of the oppressor nation in which I reside and instead would use my mighty 4 iron to strike down those who control the means of production and exploit us. Of course golf is not in the Olympics. And neither is baseball. And who is responsible for removing baseball? Jacques Rogue (remember, that’s what I renamed him).

Well, this Flemish sack of shit should go back to the Walloon whorehouse where his mother gave birth to him and keep his nose out of sport. Instead, he has now taken upon himself the duty of being Chief Apologist for Chinese Stalinist Oppression. Oh no Jacques, is the rising up of the working class to protest these atrocities too much for you? Then I assume when we rise up to seize the commanding heights of the economy it shall also be too much for you. The sight of millions of workers marching, arm in arm, to your Ivory Tower to tear your entrails out shall make you shit your pants. And even that will be more entertaining than watching the farce/sham which you pass off as the Olympic Games.

Onward to the Dictatorship of the Proletariat!

Also, check out this awesome video of Asdrubal Cabrera.

Random Pearls Found Across the Information Super Highway

Hey everybody. I was going to post this last night, but I’ve been drowning in doubles. However, I think, like Lenin’s The State and Revolution or Who’s Next, that it is still as relevant today as it was when it was first written.

  • The Islamofascist capitalist industrialist pigs that run Iran are holding their second round of the parliamentary “elections” today. Unsurprisingly, this is expected to strengthen the grip of the conservatives.
  • Elijah Dukes works off his community service cleaning cages at the zoo. I bet he hasn’t been around that much shit since the last time he walked in the Nationals’ bullpen.
  • That petty-bourgeois puppet of Richard Gere, the Dalai Lama, is meeting with Chinese envoys today. I smell doom for the Tibetan working class.
  • The Big Hurt returns to the A’s. Marv Albert’s thoughts on this? SODOMY! IT”S GOOD!
  • As Ukrainian inflation soars, the Ukrainian bourgeoisie sits back and feasts on the blood and sweat of the workers. These pigs should be dragged into the street and shot like a cross between the Romanovs and a mangy dog.
  • The Countdown Begins until Harold & Kumar: Escape from Guantanamo! Let’s see two of the best voices for leftist politics take down those lying sacks of shit George Dubya Bush and Dick Cheney.
  • The Zimbabwe elections have about as much integrity as the NBA Finals, with slightly more death than a Pac Man Jones strip club trip.
  • ZIP!
  • John McCain = Franz von Papen?
  • What a band.

Friday, April 25, 2008

The Dalai Lama Waste Land

In my own private search for meaning, I have taken personal offence to the one Mr. Dalai Lama. Don’t misunderstand me, if the lying sacks of shit who currently have a stranglehold on our means of production ever applied the teaching of Dali, we might actually get our societal gubbins together. As it stands, however, the Lama is nothing short of a cute, harmless project for the fake-left, and a distraction to the cause. Damn you Richard Gere. If I had my druthers, I would send Dolly to the Grand Liberal Petting Zoo, ostensibly located inside Ted Turner’s compound.

Seriously, we all need to wake the fuck up and come out from behind the grand fa├žade of Imposterism in our midst. We need to stop putting The Dalai Lama on a fucking pedestal and see him for who he really is, namely, Teddy Ruxpin. You pull the pin, and he says cute little quotes. Beyond that he is useless. Don’t let the Regime fool you. The Dalai Lama is little more than a construct of the murderous bourgeois dogs like George W. Bush, Richard Gere, and Kobe Bryant. He has no place in our struggle for improvement, as these fucking pigs would have you believe. Stop being blinded by the foolish rhetoric of the inconsequential.

So I pray all of you take heed to a message purported by the Llama himself, that is – “If you have a particular faith or religion, that is good. But you can survive without it.” Dear Llama, we can, and will, survive without you.

Hey Guys

Is it just me, or is Jamie Shields the most underrated pitcher in baseball?

Thursday, April 24, 2008

The Majesty of our Forefathers, the Inadequacy of our Spawn, the Reeking Buns of Los Angelenos.

Ensconsed in regality.

Crowned, next.

49 and 10.

God among man. Man among boy. Boy among the embryo.



Nugget, thwarted.

Lying in a pool of blood, wasted in the streets.

The choices we make will regale the lot.

So be it.


In the name of the Dagmar

What ever happened to all the fun in the world? John Maynard annexed it from our souls. I am now an a-person, living fruitlessly among the a-people, the unadorned frontispiece of normality wasting my soul like The Leeches of the Angels.

Let’s talk about leather. As a lad, I felt a natural zeal about leather. I liked the way men looked in it, and naturally, wanted to be a biker. All of the other children wanted to be doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, and I wanted to be a biker. Jesus loved the little children, and he was destined to adore this little leatherbound lad. Translated into adult life – crap. I was forced to wear a leather jacket by someone significant the other day, and it was not, as they say, agreeable. Pores, dripping with the sweat of a thousand days and nights of the Proletariat. Goodness me.

Forgive my rhetoric, as it has been a long night. I spent some time messing about with my crew, namely, Bozzio, Dagmar, Ko-Ko and Sir Richard Pump-a-Loaf. Cucumber pud annexed into a fine whole-wheat. Traversing the eclipse. Tall, tall trees. What has it all become?

To the point. Jackassery is tolerated but intolerable. A buck four-fifteen and a-counting. The flexible meese mess my myriad mind. Go homeward, young, inexorable, intertwining man…go, get your paychecks and go home, go the beasts of the land, and the air, and the sea, go and lay sucking the bosoms of your mothers and go, be the one who dignifies the indignance of the sheep, the trolls, the earth, the sights and sounds of life, death, antiquity, and understanding… go listen to the voices that tell you to do, and see, and say, and be, and act upon the whims of all who have done, and seen, and said, and been, and turned words into lore and lore into myths and myths into legends and legends into oblivion and oblivion into that which we now understand as something that was, is, and ever shall be…and the dirge of the egress echoes.

I am not Jewish, but I can commiserate with a lifetime of harrying. Persecution’s perfume perfunctorily permeates persons. As they say, indeed. What passes for discourse is nothing but strings of inanities punctuated by the stolid catchphrases created in a GE laboratory by PepsiCola’s Columbian Deathsquad Division. Nasty princesses.

Time is of the essence. Time is on my side. Time is a conception of the lying sacks of shit who tell us what to eat, why poison is badness, why badness is poison, why the world works on one level, why the fire is extensive, where my mind may or may not even fucking fathom to-go. Bah, Arlen Specter.

I sly. I fly sly, I cry sly, I try sly, in the sly sty, in the sly sky.

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Sorry guys.

Book Review

Gentlemen, I was just re-reading one of the fine tomes of the last century: Homage to Catalonia. George Orwell's brilliant prose is only matched by his stunning political insight. I do believe that you could replace Chris Matthews with Comrade Orwell's rotting corpse and the level of discourse on Hardball would improve tenfold - although perhaps the smell would be worse. However, that would be offset when members of this administration, who smell like the sacks of shit they are, are guests on this fine show.

Compare the works of Orwell with the pathetic excuses for authors that exist today whose only goal is to appear on the Oprah Book Club. The pathetic tripe which passes for "literature" in our society is perhaps best exemplified by the religious, or sometimes quasi-religious, "works" of "authors" such as Dan Brown (he of the Tom Hanks adapted DaVinci Code) or whatever monkey at a typewriter pounded out the Left Behind series. Perhaps, if the American proletariat ever awaken from their tequila and Miller Lite induced slumber and overthrow the lying sacks of shit which run this country at the behest of their corporate overlords, we would retain these "writers" to pen instruction manuals for DVD players. More likely, they would be forced to work for the first time in their life and quickly find that their lives of pleasure based off lulling the American people into a deep sleep would be what is "left behind."

Tequila is the Quaff of the Mentally Bankrupt

I am forced to work in an inglorious hovel that exists only to serve tourists, a group of people whose wealth has so saturated their collective consciousness that they travel to mundane places to justify their pathetic and moribund existences. Listening to their inane supper chatter is as painful as listening to Pearl Jam destroy a classic Who anthem. The only thing that makes attending to such sheep tolerable is alcohol, which both loosens their wallets and silences their pitiable personalities.

Of late, however, I have found an increasing number of tourists enjoy consuming the distillate of the agave plant in massive quantities. This boorish and stupid activity transforms normally complacent fools into loud and obnoxious ignoramii, spouting catchphrases derived from their television sets. These people are brainwashed by the media, like hopeless mice in a laboratory maze with no exits, American Idol and Grey's Anatomy the rotting cheese. And for a reason unknown to this humble intellectual, tequila is the newest drug, used to sedate the masses for whatever imperialist purposes lie behind the red tape and closed doors that now represent this country's "highest" office.

The day will come when those inebriated and incompetent sacks of shit will be forced to answer for their pathetic decisions, and their realities will be buried beneath a tide of self-awareness. The only fermented beverage fit to be consumed by an educated man is vodka, the perfect alcohol, clear as crystal, carefully crafted over hundreds of years of labor and toil. A chilled glass of excellent vodka is as close as one in my unfortunate position can get to perfection, where I can relax for a moment from my never-ending struggle to save this doomed citizenry, and imagine society as it should be, free from the oppressive chains that bind every corner of this Atlantean nation.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008


Guys, the great enemy of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between one's real and one's declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink.

Sorry Guys

I want to apologize to everyone for inadvertently sending out invitations to join my blog when my desire was to share with you, my friends, this outlet into my soul. I suppose I haven't yet mastered this technology, as its proving more difficult to master than Jimmy Page's solo in Moby Dick. Of course, I expect to be held accountable for this mistake, as it is clearly more egregious than other famous mistakes, such as leading our country into this long nightmare of an imperialist occupation in Iraq. Or trading Placido Polanco for Ugueth Urbina and his machete of doom.

For now, I choose to keep this blog solely to my own thoughts. Perchance in the future we may be allowed to collaborate.

Sorry guys.


It just occurred to me, we still haven't found the Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq. Does anyone remember thats why we went to war? What a gaggle of lying sacks of shit is this administration. I'm sure President Hillary McBama will be better.


Hey guys, welcome to my blog. I finally realized that instead of letting all my thoughts get bottled up and boil over into my primary form of interaction with other humans - the inane small talk I'm forced to engage in with half-brain dead tourists at The Tavern - I could creatively express myself in what George W. Bush likes to call "the internets."

Who am I? I'm a refugee in the on-going war against intellectualism that started at time immemorial and has been prosecuted with amazing alacrity since January 20, 2001 - certainly with more success than the War Against Turror. I'm forced to ply my trade at a glorified trough for tourists because the written word is valued in this country about as highly in this country as free thought was in Ceausescu's Romania. I unfortunately live with a troika of ignoramii who appreciate me not at all, although perhaps not as ironically condescending as the sacks of shit whom I used to cohabitate with. I am, however, madly in love with my feline companion Alabama, the last remaining vestige of a relationship with a succubus who tried to devour my essence as if I were General Jack D. Ripper.

I am firmly interested in politics, or, perhaps I should say, the ongoing one sided class war being fought in this country. I enjoy sports and am an avid Phillies fan. And, one day, I will play guitar on stage with an aging Led Zeppelin.

I'll try not to bore you further with my musings now. Perhaps, in the future.......