BHOOT: A Theropod's Appeal

Broke lizards whine to convenient ur-gods regarding ill-planned evolutionary consequences: Thinking they're dead, a species files Chapter 11 against genetic foreclosure. Little do they know they are reborn as Peeps of Chidiya...

Alas... goté dab gaye...
Chale Jao!

GLEET: This Is The Game

GLEET: This Is The Game

Rapture at the MegaBar

Intestinal Fortitude:
Heavenly Virtue?
Gluttony cancels out Vanity

Appetites beckon with the bariatric subtlety of a Branson buffet...
Tempting mortals to waddle up the aisle to partake of copious acreage of jell-o squares... to quaff a bleu cheese parfait... to seek fried food ecstasy...

But time itself creeps to a standstill while the excited heart beats faster yet...

Croutons tumble to the floor in slo-mo... Tongs clatter off the sneeze guard, bouncing off the carpet... The vista of steam trays blurs to the horizon...

A disembodied voice whispers, “Go to the light... Go to the light... Go to the...”
...heat lamp?

Our final seconds on this earth are but a matter of perspective.
What may appear to us to be a Code Blue at Booth 32 may just as well be...
Rapture at the MegaBar

Wild, Wild Punge

Wild, Wild Punge: Frontier Justice is Served

Tai Chi in front of The Grill

Human Chum

Throwing Our Blood 'n Guts Potential to the Wind and Sea...
Self-Fulfilling Fatalism...

The Sea Ostrich with its head in the bilge, hand-wringing over every lil' ripple felt in th' ocean...

Making fountains out of blowholes, imagining anything that bubbles to the surface to be a benevolent Free Willie -- and, whence not, assumes it the Nihilistic Mako -- the worst.

In this light, the plebe must see the Old Tar's Lack of Faith as the projection of Self-Doubt -- his own crusty impotence cast upon those before him.

Indeed, 'tis a blind damnation that should motivate the best of us to force naysayers to walk the Proverbial Plank -- to become thine own Human Chum...

Maggot Rave

Attendants wiggle festively within the rotted-out disco carcass. Writhing to the dying beat of Relational Dialectics while throbbing walls of carrion ironically frame a new paradigm of Symbolic Interaction. A veritable “birth of death,” if you will.

How has it come to this?

Theories abound, and people grasp at them like straws at a coke party. Sure, sure -- all the dancing, rocking and other artistic hedonizing has always been a means to an end, in the Meat Market of Social Penetration Theory.

But when the very “means” themselves are a devalued form of cultural capital in the red, the charade of creativity as segue-into-your-pants is stripped bone-clean.

And what next?

Burning Man, anyone?

Ariki Henua's New Frontier

1663A.D.:
Moai Ascension

1963A.D.:
Kene'di Ascension

2163A.D.:
Merging of the Spirits

The Hotu Matu'a of Rapa Nui eagerly receives the empyreal arrival of Jayef'kei in the destined æther above.

Behind the Squares

Smirk for the camera
Sob story as press release
Sing the litany of wrongs with the violin backdrop
All the right angles of a well-woven plaint form a bathos polygon that paints you a saint

And jeez -- that's what you did.

Sage advice from Ann Flanders:
"You made your bed; now you have to sh*t in it."

'How the world wronged you' you want everyone to hear, but what's all too clear: you're flinging dung at a mirror.

So 'behind' the scenes...
we witness the butt-cracks of celebrity 'brave' enough to show their ass without realizing it.
"Read it!" the checkout rags force all
and so housewives savor each morsel
like retards eating boogers
soft news clotted with sugar

Quell the Sky-Bo

Slumming it at 35,000 feet
Where to draw the line?

IN A WORLD WHERE GEORGE KENNEDY is always the co-pilot, bums having issues with First Class wine lists (No Night Train?) have no truck with nitpicking amenities.


As we know, certain choosers can't pretend to be beggars. ("Why can't you pleasantly accept your fate in aerial steerage?"), specifically those whom we know already have their own parachute stowed beneath that bile-stained trenchcoat (along with their choice of a Plan B Bailout).

So, endless regaling of tipsy tales about Self-Justified Entitlements ("Society owes me, man") along with Third Class poserage just doesn't convince. Cross-legged mumbling in a First Class seat with Sterno™, a hot dog and headphones? Oh, we see right through that.

Thus, in a scenario in which ostentatious, self-serving displays of voluntary anarcho-plebianism could potentially spell doom for passengers and groundlings alike, an immediate appeal to authority is paramount -- we, the public, need a Kennedy as stratospheric bouncer to tais-toi des canailles.

The Dowager Empress of Five Points

Presumptuous South Lumpkin biddy wrings hands over pleasing Dooleyoid Friends as she finicky-fusses over prepping some pot luck that would pass a Martha Stewart Finger Exam.

Cringing over nature's rough edges,
fouls the piscine form for a purpose of man
not realizing some fish are meant to stank
and thereby offending gods in the process...


To this scurrilous beachside affront the austere aegis of Poseidon deems to mete out aquatic requital.

And so as harsh as the pummeling surf works over the feeble grains of sand, anile suburban relic awaits transmogrified mutatis mutandis into hopelessly floundering invertebrate.

The Dowager Empress of Five Points cannot possibly hold sway with her Salmon Surprise in the face of Neptune.

Backrub Express ...at The Hang

Backrub Express ...at The Hang

Scene veterans engage in deep-tissue reaffirmation at the risk of onlookers' flippant 1990's-style elbow-in-the-rib ironic commentary.

Certain parties are not amused: Naaiir.

"Quick, Skööls -- Pass the Polaroid™!"

Hyenas vs. Children..?

Hyenas vs. Children? Move to Oconee County!

This has been a test of the Emotive Response System. Metaphor misinterpretation reactions of hoggish homeowners and helicopter parents to hyperbolic quippings regarding Parahyaena risum may result in Uptight Flight of so-called H. Sapiens to dubiously secure gated communities. Naturally, the irony is lost on those who cannot even grasp a literal account of “crying wolf.”

Haiku Tribute for Moe Green

DATELINE: Vegas

Casino bigwig
host with all amenities
"Anything's yours, Mike"

Attempt at buyout
all that he built -- sweat & blood
"The nerve! On my turf!"

Made his bones back when
you were dating cheerleaders
frowns at this affront

Staked claim is challenged
still, he proudly stands his ground
bullet-through-eye coup

...That man was Moe Green.

The S.E.W.E.R. at P.I.E.R. O.N.E.

Reluctantly, we must admit that the differences of the nation's social strata are largely self-delineated, and from the ground up.

In our lack of a metaphysical center, we unknowingly breach the Equals () Reflexive Contract (‘x equals x’ is always true) by defining ourselves against What We Are Not; “We are not Joe Suit walking down the street...”; “We are not Billy Bluejeans minding his business...”; “We are not...”, et cetera.

In our underground network of echo chambers, our Arterial Toiling traces loops that go nowhere, while we ironically expect our self-prescribed darkness [’underground,’ ‘darkness,’ ...they’re metaphors, get it?] to manifest our Tender Enlightenment™.
So when we see that our Grand Stance Against The Man adds up to nil, we're forced to crawl forth out of the proverbial gutter, eye all passers-by as Equal Opportunity Targets, and scam accordingly.

• Sclerotic Expectations Warranting Evasion of Reality
• Phoney Insurgents Exuding Rebellions of Narcissistic Emptiness

“It’s kind of like when Bobby Brady idolized Jesse James... You expect kids to go through a phase like this, but grown adults..?!”
Skinner is nonplussed.

Spent Theatrics Addendum: The badge of the Spoiled Uncreative

• Mandatory Irony™
• Trendy Nihilism
• Konspicuous Kitch

The Role Strain that results from these poor long-term self-marketing goals is painfully obvious to 11-year-olds, grannies, and everyone in between whom already know that Reality operates independently of What You Think.

The sad curtain call of ‘Spent Theatrics’

It’s now the future.

Weak slackeroids with stunted emotional bandwidth who’ve dwelled for too long in the all-too-familiar milieu of studied eccentricity have emerged as inarticulé rebelles that are detached from the realities of getting older… and getting a life.
Their shallow fatalism is puzzling, much like how one can both whine and claim to be defiant at the same time.

But in the end, failure should come as no surprise, as shameless piggybacking on youth subculture is more than a subtle indicator of a lack of content… especially when you're going on thirty.

The Bottom Line: Cognitive Disengagement and Poor Self-Marketing has resulted in Role Strain, draining the potential for attainable goals.

Get with the program.
What ‘program’ could you possibly get with?

Nostalgioid Opiate '05: Conversational Hostage

Good manners and feigned interest are all that keep one from fleeing a spotlit scene of vapidity. Even over-obvious clockwatching and exaggerated [ahem]s are lost on our gesticulating subject... who also just happens to be the topic as well.
Alas, your attention is the ransom; your patience, the victim.

Nostalgioid Opiate '05: Back ‘Atcha!

The pestiferous deluge of Ordnance Metaphors by Tele-Hucksters hawking their Personal Financial Adrenaline Plans has come full circle as the Masses of the Nonplussed retaliate with full-bore 12-gauge furor... metaphorically, of course.

Nostalgioid Opiate ’05: Revenue Projection Failure — Back to the Crib

A traumatic backstory comes to life: You talked the Talk, but you couldn't walk the Walk, so you'll have to crawl the Crawl.

Nostalgioid Opiate '05: Fanning the Flames of ‘Friend’ship

Resentment smolders from tiresomely schwimming upstream against the Tide of Mediocre Sidlers... until a spontaneous Drawing-of-the-Line with Riot Act Announcement sends the amigos off como una nube del humo.

Munster widow’s peak trumps Spahn Ranch Reject’s drunken hair issues

Minding one’s own business, one will always be happened upon by those in society who feel obligated to opine on any given subject, regardless of alcohol intake.
Specifically, anyone on God’s green earth who maintains proper hygiene and social comport may have to defend the blindsided ramblings of complete strangers who have the cojones to offer their soused, knee-jerk sputterings to the nearest ear.

That being said, the widow’s peak we know as belonging to the Munster son will always trump the Spahn Ranch Reject’s drunken slur regarding follicle issues.

“What’s wrong with your hair? You look like some kinda TV character,” sayeth the Hirsute Sidler.
“Hey, mister. Take you dirty self back to closed-minded California with your other over-rated, preachy primates,” chirped the young one.

Initially, what is one to make of a complete stranger’s astringently soaked aside regarding mere appearances?

A patient pause.

And then... the realization that... that...
...That this off-the-cuff clown is wheezily spouting through a cloud of his own filth, both figuratively and metaphysically.
And this little kid can see through it all.

“You’re twenty years older than me and I can tell you’re just slumming around, sponging off people you suck up to. Get outta my sight, mister.”

At this point, our Mansonesque character erupted with a stream of defensive obscenities meant to intimidate our youngster, but alas, young Munster saw right through it.

“You just blame all your years of fruitless chemical endeavors on The Man without having the balls to own up to being nothing but a scammer peddling bad art and bad song in exchange for Couch Crash Time. And now you pick on a kid. Pathetic. Basically, you just turned 43 and still haven’t realized that you’re the Bringdown in the Mirror.”

Response? Incoherent mutterings and more swearing with a flimsy wave of a soiled hand.
His destiny is set in stone.
So much for Yesteryouth, Actualized.
And this little kid can see through it all.

“Fatti i cazzi tuoi!”

Roommate baited with petty argument

Catering to a desire to shore up one’s taste and esoteric opinions in the public’s eye, members of the Irritati sometimes foist false dichotomies upon uninterested bystanders.

“Dude, do think Green Day is ‘Punk’?”
“Actually, I di--”
“Well? Do you?”
...or:
“Where do you stand on the Manatoid Issue? Pro or Con?”
“Actually, I don--”
“Well? Where?”

Sigh. Such forced ferreting-out of the opinions of others is reminiscent of late-night dormroom bull sessions of yesteryear, for the answers are of no regard towards any deeper understanding between our interlocutors than they are cheap rhetorical stinkbombs meant to “ego up” the interrogatore to conversational alpha (ά) status.

Random articles of note:
• Look! Middle class kids pound it in anti-bourgeois drum circles subsidized by parents’ third mortgage, which sends the tykes to school just to sneer at those footing their bills.
• Dial tones to mixolydian symphonies, sparkly glitter to galaxies; what the muse speaks is nil unless you can paint the appropriate picture. (The same goes for Pesto Burps and MIDI Grace Notes.)
• La ragione governa il savio e bastone il matto.
• CLOWNAGE: No matter what happens, just tack a “sorry” onto the end of every messy consequence of un-thoughtout actions. This is especially noteworthy when done by middle management, because, as we all know, appearances are everything.

“Ma bisogna pure che vi spieghi...”
Che cosa vuole costui?

“Complete the Sequence, Mr. President.”

“It is said that power corrupts, but actually it's more true that power attracts the corruptible. The sane are usually attracted by other things than power.” — D. Brin

Presidential Wannabe Stillson, the ethics-damaged candidate, pits humanity itself against his self-justified thirst for power. No, we never said that we would rather die than live in our current condition, which is described by him as a persistent vegetative state, by others as socially comatose, and still by others as "punged in the head."


In any case, Stillson wants our future in his hands. Citizens are protesting.

Enter the Allied Pungeoning Front. The APF brings this quandary to light, giving citizens standing to have a say in the future. Stillson refuses to grant a temporary restraining order asserting, among other things, that destiny is his.
The real question is this: Who owns the future?


The answer is: our own freewill. And, in a case like this, when successive premonitions spell it all out, does personal morality allow for an appointment of proactive pungeoning to carry out our wishes? Stillson assumes that his destiny trumps ours, but our freewill allows a vehicle to challenge potential dystopic outcomes.


These moral questions weigh heavily. We are forced to choose between the life of one and the lives of millions. In theory the decision is easy, but in practice it terrifyingly sucks balls.

If we don’t focus on our responsibility for the future, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, we may soon enough be hearing the phrase...
“Complete the Sequence, Mr. President.”

They dare call you ‘Sell-Out’

Sipping Sangría on the Hood of a Crown Vic...
The Comfy Nutshell of Cognitive Squalor...
Self-Actualization through Whining...
...Ah, the Heady Days of Youth.

End Your Empty Politics of Symbolic Resistance and Begin the Bourgeois Dance You Once Mocked!

The domestic trade-offs are quite simple:
• Pretend her homemade ‘sauce’ is really something special.
• Smile meekly at Home Ec skills you can't comprehend.
• Forget that your opinions matter, as if they ever did.

“They dare call me ‘Sell-Out.’ What do they know..?”

THE UPSIDE OF BEING WHIPPED:
A SEAMLESS TRANSITION FROM ONE EMPTY LIFESTYLE TO ANOTHER

Pungeoned Again.

Vichy Alemeda

The Capitulating Regent...
...who, when confronted with evidence of transgressions against academic freedom and open inquiry — and — realizing his professional stake would thus be in jeopardy by acknowledging this recursive paradox, turns the other cheek from Vichy Alemeda.

Radical Prof paves his own good(?)-intentioned path with the molding of young minds, through positing hip, yet empty contrarianism with naïve, idealistic postpositivistic reifications that deter any possible real-world solutions; thus, enabling mouthbreathing co-eds to use Subjective Balking to wave away inconvenient realities as solipsistic figments. This is the giveaway: The Prof is purely peddling noxious notions that reflect nihilistic tendencies borne of personal insecurities.

UNATRON: Pessima Machina Ex Mortalibus

Witnessing the pageantry of human spectacle from the silent sidelines of voicelessness beholden, man’s every foible and fortune grating on the tongue-biting bystander. The parade of desolate days march into bitter years of smoldering anger, until the Grand Epiphany makes itself known — shattering the self-image by forcing one to...
...drop the mask.

Harsh Mirror: Self-Hating Man-Machine

No matter how complex the crisis, Mr. Goldman tries to suss up the available options — rationally, thoroughly, and expediently...

All the while Colonel Austin is tugging at sleeves, nagging, pleading for simplistic solutions...
...ever the bionic bitch...

Meanwhile, tension mounts as cyborgs in denial of their compassionate, humanistic side creep towards confrontation with cyborgs in denial of their logical, sapient side...

A veritable yin-yang quandary, but one in which either side will unfortunately place irrational blame upon the human end of the question.

Entebbe '97: Mission Manqué

Urban Tribal Trauma: Tactical

Because of the unresolveable conflict introduced by enemy tactics, should the untenable and mutually disadvantageous positions in which we are placed be immediately abandoned?

There are rules of conduct regarding credibility. Without credibility, respect is impossible.

Local tribal leaders of the downtown prefecture met at Eastside Pungeonary to start taking action against recent Urban Trauma forays by Pink Boys. Many other tribes have also been offended. The increasing severity and frequency of infotoxin dispersal has tribal leaders worried.
Tribal leaders turned out to show their pride in the prefecture and to create a momentum to help improve it. The elders would like to form a clench that will cover recent trauma tactics, updates on investigations, and discuss effective security measures. The warriors are joining tribal leaders in their effort. La’han’ai of Tiki Prime was at the meeting to speak. The Idol Access Division can perform site security assessments on deities. He says that he also plans to keep citizens more up to date about forays into their prefecture.

Warriors are also formulating a list of repeat offenders that can be zeroed in on and pungeoned.
La’han’ai encouraged owners to watch for suspicious people or actions and report the activity to the tribe. Establishing a line of communication between tribes is the first step in effective prevention. Other measures include surveillance equipment, trained personnel, bait money and alarm systems.

Misguided idol volitions of the above strictures are injurious to the entire tribe.

ダダ星人UTT1

Whatever.

[*]

This is not a light bulb going off. For the acknowledgement of received wisdom is tantamount to Giving it to The Man.

Parents are puzzled over withered impetus...

Principal frets over squandered potential...

Lemmings leap when faced with future’s fate...

Whatever.

Not the bulb. Not even the moth. But the bug spray.

ﾜｯﾃｯヴｧ

Plus des Loisirs que Cerveaux

Plus des Loisirs que Cerveaux