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