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."