DIY Disaster, Drugs/Religion Like There is a Difference & So Cute I Could/Did Smash Them

A former tenant of mine, who I never really liked, kidnapped me a few days ago to show me his new house that he’d been “remodeling” for the last couple of years. The “remodeling” he was doing would have given Bob Villa 5000 heart attacks, a bloody nose and an imploded ball sack. The vaulted ceilings were scabbed in with terribly aligned sheet rock caked with cracked mud, the basketball court had slivers big enough to stab through the fattest, most calloused of feet and the foaming insulation he sprayed in the attic was still actively foaming like super yeasty pancake batter.

“How long ago did you spray that stuff?”

“‘Bout a year ago.”

“When is it supposed to stop bubbling?”

“Probably never.”

“Are you gonna get your money back?”

“Am I supposed to sue myself?”

“Oh.”

Turns out his place was part of a bigger compound of DIYers, DIYing themselves into a full blown religion, literally. The compound, as was so rudely explained to me, was a temple of sorts. On the whole I’d describe the architecture as Superman’s Ice Castle meets Concrete monolith meets all public libraries built in the 70s meets your local high school production of “2001 a Space Odyssey”. Everywhere I walked I found myself stuck in the middle of some pseudo ancient ritual usually involving blue makeup and/or stilts. It was all very Alice in Wonderland - Burning Man edition.

I did my best to avoid the “sacred spaces” but the place was so haphazard in the layout that it wasn’t at all obvious how to get the fuck out. Eventually I landed myself in the food court way down in the basement. Even the food was trying way too hard to be religious. There were Xanax cupcakes, Viagra hot dogs and a bunch of other pharmaceutical pastries. I’m afraid of drugs so I went for the basic peanut butter and honey corn dog which as you might guess was nothing more than a corn dog dipped in peanut butter and honey. REVOLUTIONARY. It was a bad choice considering the crumb duster/keystone cop mustache I grew that morning as a joke.

The food court was over run with little chipmunk type animals with oversized heads stuffing their already filled chipmunk cheeks with any and all pills that hit the floor. They were obnoxiously cute, like cartoons come to life, little spots on their cheeks, cute whiskers etc… I tried not to step on any, but they were dead set on placing themselves directly under my feet. I think they were trying to lick off the pancake batter insulation from earlier. Their little heads popped like bubble wrap as I made my way outside where a carload of people dressed in zany pink outfits was just pulling up to go church.

I don’t care how wacky the outfits and music, church eats balls always.

Oh yeah, I ate a bunch of yogurt.

That’s all for now.
Don’t get caught crop dusting sacred ceremonies.
Your Local Talent Scout
Fag Pointer Outer 2000

Mormon Sopranos, Prince Is Just Gonna Hafta Wait & Fizzy Ink

Most people assume that The Sopranos was based on a fictitious Jersey based mob family.

It wasn’t.

It was actually inspired by a family in Utah who owned a furniture business. At first it would seem like those two worlds would have very little to do with each other, but I’m here to tell you, as a person very familiar with the Utah furniture family, having been a tenant of theirs in their gigantic warehouse that has been divided haphazardly into small apartments mostly rented to artists and Utah’s apostate community, them fuckers know the art of intimidation.

The walls were all crooked, the floors were slanted. Trash and thrift store style valuables were piled all over the place. People drove their cars up and down the hallways all willy nilly like it was a driveway.

Anyway, I can tell you that they rule with the same kind of fear tactics and brazen violence as your TV pals.

For instance, recently I returned to Utah to remove the rest of my stuff out of the slum warehouse I mentioned. As I was moving out I noticed a rug was missing. It was one of those really cool rugs from the 70s that were made to look like old italian tapestries only instead they had a deer or Elvis printed on them. Mine had a couple of ladies in swimming suits. I knew not to investigate. Fucking organized crime. So glad I moved out of Utah.

Plus my other blue rug had been eaten by moths. Exactly. Total mob scare tactic.

In different news, I went out into the back yard to write a song I had in my head all week, but once I got out there all situated at the desk by the plum tree I got distracted by the hose. I placed the nozzle on the desk and let the water pool out over my notebook, I tried to write on the paper with the water pouring all over it but it wasn’t working very well, the paper had too much sponginess and the tip of my pen was getting stuck on the upstrokes. Besides, my nosey neighbors were laser beaming the back of my head with their nosey neighbor stares so I couldn’t concentrate on the song, which sucks because when I talked to Prince on the phone I told him I’d have it ready by the end of the day.

“Don’t act like that.
Don’t act at all.
You’re an awful actor.”

Not much of a poem but that was all was able to rub into the wet paper. The only reason I could even read it was because I wrote it. I squeezed out the paper and the bluish ink water into my mouth because I didn’t want anyone else to see what crap I had written and I thought maybe it might be cool to drink my own lame poem. It was fizzy.

Kinda defeats the purpose by re-writing it here.

What the fuck do I care.

That’s all for now.
Don’t get caught packing a few little extra things that aren’t yours on moving day.
Your Annoying Texture,
Dusty Hair

The Pescalator, 400 Grounded Gummingbirds & Other Things From The House of Bill Gates

For being such a straight forward fella, Bill Gates sure has a goofy house. Some of the tech totally makes sense, lights come on when you raise your right leg, music turns up loud in the bathroom when you’re taking a crap, curtains close if you squint and show your teeth, the refrigerator locks up when it hears wheezing, these are all completely practical ideas.

What didn’t seem completely necessary was the waterfall stairway, I mean, walking up the stairs against the current was hard enough, but coming back down with all the salmon slapping me in the face was pretty much impossible, especially cuz my reaction was to clench my teeth and squint which of course closed the curtains and made it hard to see forcing me to lift my leg to take another step to get the lights to come on. By the time I got down to the kitchen I was breathing so heavily that the fridge wouldn’t let me at the gatorade. Granted, Bill did tell me it was under construction so I can’t give my full review, but I don’t really see the “Pescalator” making it’s way into your local mall.

Another idea I thought was not quite on point was the Gummy Varnish he was testing on the floors. As far as I could tell it was nothing more than a way to trap humming birds, which is fine and dandy until you have 400 humming birds stuck to the floor. That’s roughly 20 billion decibels of hum and if those little wings touch your bare ankles it’s rash city. Hummingbirds are filthy animals, what people don’t realize is that, while humming birds eat primarily nectar, they live in nests made out of tuna fish cans and mite infested mouse fur. Also about the gummy floors, if you drop your earring or jeweled tooth pick don’t even bother trying to dig it out because the hummingbirds will peck your hand like piranhas.

The tour of his house really wasn’t the highlight of the visit anyway, the best part was just sitting around with Bill talking about the future. Bill is a very casual man and not at all afraid of wild tangents. Ten minutes with Mr. Gates and he seemed like the really cool uncle I never had. Judging by his excellent relationship with his ten year old kid, he is also a man with whom I’d feel completely happy about leaving my kids if I had them. I don’t think his joy of playing “What If” has changed one speck since he was 10. Me neither.

After a few hours brainstorming and making up scenarios with Bill there was a little lull in the conversation. I never liked lulls much.

“I wish your company would come up with a computer that was really adapted to all the art programs I use, I’d really enjoy bailing on Steve Jobs, he seems like such a pretentious self important and paranoid art snob.” I said.

“Aw be nice to Steve, he’s far too good looking to have a good self esteem. It has kept him from seeing the big picture and being secure enough about his own ideas to allow anyone else to help. If he was born with no eyebrows he’d be in my place and I’d be in his market share wise, with which I’d be totally happy, but I’m afraid a guy like Steve in my position would have every ounce of variety stripped out of the market place.” Bill said as he looked at some imaginary source of inspiration up in the corner of the room and one of the robotic emu hopped over and refilled the potato chip bowl.

That’s all for now.
Don’t get caught trying to fake out the auto-flush
Your Favorite All You Can Eat Billionaire Best Friend
Warren Buffet

The Mud Bowl Rodeo, The Bait Donkey & How PETA Fucks Up The Whole Deal as Usual

Mud bowl rodeos are barbaric, not that I’m against them or anything, I think it’s best to keep barbarians properly supervised so they don’t sneak into our homes to saddle up grampa or hog tie the kids. But still I think there oughtta be a few more reasonable regulations. For instance, I’m not so sure the whole bait donkey concept is such a good idea anymore.

If you have never been to a mud bowl rodeo, a bait donkey isn’t always a donkey, sometimes it’s a very old german shepherd, sometimes a wild hog, a baby moose or a seal deer, sometimes its all of those things at once. No matter what form it takes, the job is the same. A bait donkey is tied on a short chain on a slippery slope right next to the mud bowl/bull ring just barely out of/within reach of the shark bulls. If you have never seen a shark bull, It’s just what it sounds like, half shark, half bull, body of a raging bull, teeth and appetite of a great white shark, pretty ruthless to say the least. The bait donkey acts as a distraction to the starving shark bulls who, as cowboys are stabbing, lighting them on fire and otherwise infuriating them, in turn gnash their teeth at the legs and otherwise try to eat the bait donkeys in what appears to be a demonstration of the natural phenomenon of shit rolling down hill.

The bait donkeys struggle to keep a good footing on the muddy slope and not slide into the bloody mouths of the shark bulls, but often their back legs are snagged and bitten off. When this happens, as much as one might feel for the poor bait donkey and hope for it’s survival, sentient creatures like myself often end up hoping for a quick death and speedy end to their misery.

Trouble is, this doesn’t happen, the bait donkeys are just left there, slightly out of reach, to suffer and bleed as the shark bulls rip little morsels of flesh from their hind limbs as the audience screams in delight.

But it gets worse. What many people don’t know is that in recent years, PETA and other animal rights organizations have come down so hard on mud bowl rodeos and the specifically the use of bait donkeys that now, instead of using actual donkeys, dogs or hogs, they now use under privileged and at risk youth dressed up as bait donkeys instead.

Apparently it’s all legal and PETA endorsed. One would never know any of this by watching the show because the costumes are very very realistic, It’s only when one gets access to back stage and the dressing rooms that the horror actually unfolds.

Last night I met an actual bait donkey. She was a young girl from a crappy town in nevada with messed up dirty blonde hair and a meth toothed grin. She just finished putting on her post show ball gown when I made my introduction.

“So you were the bait donkey tonight?”

“Yup, that’s me.” she said as she covered her smile with her bandaged hand.

“I really thought you were a goner a couple of times when that shark bull had your back leg in his mouth.”

“Ha ha, yeah, people love that part of the show.” she said as she reached down and popped off her crudely fashioned artificial leg revealing an infected stump. “I lost that leg months ago, now before every show we attach a pigs leg to to my nub to make the show more exciting for the fans. Under the costume nobody can tell. Plus the shark bulls gotta eat, right?”

I could see in her pinkish, glassy eyes that her momentary feeling of victory and ingenuity was overshadowed by the glaring fact that within weeks, perhaps days, she would meet the same bloody fate as every bait donkey before her. I knew she wouldn’t listen to me if I tried to preach to her about life and possibilities and If I tried to openly stage an intervention I’d surely feel the wrath of a herd of angry cowboys and the sanctimonius PETA activists who brokered the poor kids for donkeys deal. Instead, I scribbled my name and number on a napkin and handed it to her.

“I’m having a party at my house on saturday night, lots of cool girls are gonna be there, you should come.” I said.

“Ooh cool. Let’s hope I’m not ate up by then!” she said with the smiling eyes of a comedian on death row.

Even if she ain’t ate up by then, meth heads are pretty flakey, so I’m not counting on it, but I hope she comes, she obviously needs new friends.

That’s all for now.
Don’t get caught assuming it’s meth when she might just be uglyish.
Your Dream Job
Rodeo Clown

I’m Not a Photographer

Photographers carry around big cameras, big lights, big flash contraptions and little meters, they talk about film stock, ISO’s, F stops and capturing the perfect light right before dusk.

Photographers creep through neighborhoods of poor people looking for interesting poverty related things to “capture” in black and white or muted color.

Photographers spend lots of time in cramped dark rooms with red lights and chemicals that smell like egg farts.

Photographers get in heated exchanges about the direction Leica is headed or that one camera maker that sounds all german, hasselhoff?

Photographers have lots of lenses that they will tell you about whether you ask them or not, like the one that can see an ass hair on a mosquito or the remarkably “bright” one that can photograph the pope’s underwear tag from a tower in hell.

Photographers say “glass” a lot, “Thats a nice piece of glass you got there Danny.” which would be funny if it was a joke. No it wouldn’t.

Photographers show you shoes hanging on wires, pink boxes in the green weeds, little black girls with blue eyes and nuns sitting under billboards of naked men.

Photographers have all kinds of cameras, most of them are rare and vintage but they love to remind you that their absolute favorite cameras are crappy plastic cameras they found at the thrift store for 25 cents.

Photographers LOVE Polaroid because you can take a picture of absolutely ANYTHING with a Polaroid and it will look like you got your BFA.

Photographers know the names of every other photographer who ever lived and they can tell you exactly who took the first picture of an old barn door or a naked girl on a sofa.

Photographers talk about how little they use photoshop IF AT ALL, and even then it’s only to “adjust some curves” or “make the blacks a little more black.”

Photographers make use of make up artists, hairdressers, location scouts and stylists which is way way WAY different than photoshopping out zits and wrinkles.

Photographers freeze moments to show the REALITY. They love that word, “reality” also they like to say “RAW” a lot.

Photographers have websites with big black or red sans serif fonts on white backgrounds.

Photographers put their client list at the bottom of the side bar where it looks like they don’t really care about it but just in case you didn’t like their photographs you can see who did.

Photographers list their accomplishments in a timeline so just in case you didn’t like their photographs you can see who did. Wait, did I just say that?

Photographers have strong opinions about Terry Richardson.

Photographers get upset about cropping.

Photographers like the anticipation, surprise, expense, delay, grain, smell, challenge, discipline, texture, and overall unpredictable “magic” of analog, soo opposite of effing digital.

Photographers use the word amateur to describe most other photographers.

Photographers miss the good old days when photography was expensive and out of reach to amateurs.

Photographers blame the lab a lot.

Photographers go to school to study photography because you can’t tell if a photo is good just by looking at it.

Photographers whisper cutting edge poetic gems like “digital has no soul.”

Photographers only really like 2 or 3 other photographers, the one’s whose photographs most resemble their own and they like to keep those books right out on the coffee table where everyone can see them.

Photographers think all commentary about photography and photographers is likely directed at them.

So yeah, I don’t give a stumbling poop about any of that stuff.

I’m not a photographer.

That’s all for now.
Don’t get caught YouMightBeARedneck-ing everything in sight.
Your Local Heretic,
Snacking On Your Guts McGillicutty

Dog Tales With Tom Cruise, The Crash of The Gliding Silver Asians & Picnics Are So Uncivilized

I built a monolithic cement deck in the back yard and Tom Cruise came over to check it out. He wasn’t nearly as annoying as I expected him to be but his hair is still stupid. I thought he was gonna start yammering on about his dumb cult but luckily all he wanted to talk about were dogs which was a huge relief. I like talking about dogs, although he kept making sad attempts to one up my stories and everyone could tell. It was a little pathetic. He’s no story teller.

I did my best to pay attention and seem interested but out of the corner of my eye I kept seeing something popping up over the trees. It was getting dark so I didn’t know if it was a crazy branch or a UFO.

“…and so his little paws were all covered in paint and…..”

“Excuse me Tom, did you see that?”

“See what?”

“Something keeps popping up over the top of that tree right there.”

“It’s these old victorians with the telescopic turrets.” said Tom.

“Really? It didn’t look like a telescopic turret.”

Just then in the in the dark blue sky a brightly lit hang glider came flying up from behind the tree. It bolted straight into the air and paused where we could clearly see the asian hang glider, dressed in a sparkled silver jump suit get a nervous look on his face as he stalled and then began plummeting right before our eyes. He came down with a crash in the next door neighbor’s yard smashing the fence. I ran over a quick as I could to see if he was hurt.

“You ok buddy? Anything broken?”

“AAAaaahhhh ooooooooooohh ooowww oh eeeh oooooooch”

“Don’t move, stay still.”

“My bars, my bars, my bars all clushed.”

“Oooh yeah, your balls ARE crushed don’t tug on them like that.”

Why do asians invert their L’s and R’s? Dummies.

Tom Cruise was nowhere to be found, fair weather friend. All the neighbors came out into their back yards and we all watched as the asian man held his broken balls while swearing in whatever language he spoke and refusing any kind of assistance. It wasn’t long before the rest of the silver asian hang gliders all swooped in to retrieve and mock him.

Poor dood got his balls busted twice.

Tom Cruise left his shoes on the deck. They were super tiny car salesman loafers with stupid looking tassles, figgers.

I tried to get the neighbors to help me get rid of some of the picnic tables in the back yard but nobody helped. I don’t need 50 picnic tables. What was I thinking? And all the desks? Seemed like a good idea the time. Even though a friend of mine stripped nude and was doing her best to show me all the sexy poses available on an old school desk, I still felt like the whole thing was a little forced and unnecessary. School girl porn is so cliché. May as well dress up like a nurse.

WOW INNOVATIVE!

That’s all for now.
Don’t get caught wondering if The Gliding Silver Asians are a Ska band. They obviously are.
Your Completely Bare Cupboards
L. Ron Hubbard

I’m No Barbara Walters, Ya Know Who Loves Group Parcipitation? Lemmings! & I’ll Slap Those Tigers Right Off Your Diaper Mister

I had a talk show but I quit it because every guest ended up crying no matter what I said and that only served to really frustrate and annoy me to the point where I wanted to MAKE them cry.

Even Metallica cried when I had them on. All I did was ask them about why they cataloged all their photos according to mood and off they went to criesville and lemme tell ya, those guys are already pretty ugly but get them crying and they actually make Paris Hilton look like a cute crier.

Ugly criers, so sad.

Another thing about the show is that whenever we filmed a group participation segment everyone would gang up on me mutiny style and I really really really hate group participation in the first place with all the pressure to listen to boring stories and pretend to be interested etc… I was always super condescending and passive aggressive and then they’d all turn on me and point out all my faults and shortcomings which of course is not good to do with me because I point out faults better than anyone and lord knows I was born with a chip on my shoulder.

Bring it losers.

Here’s the deal though, I don’t think it’s cool when a four year old is allowed to confront me for talking shit about him to his friends. Kids should never confront adults no matter how much shit is talked. Long haired little smart ass, I shouldda kicked his ass.

That’s all for now.
Don’t get caught laying low on your birthday then getting mad that it worked.
Your Grampas Medicine
That Stuff in The Curved Metal Bottle in His Pocket