Non-Meta Random Musings from Post-Apocalyptic, Pre-Arthritic Hands

Back to the business in the haberdash of balderdash, coming correct mic check mic check.




















So many engagement parties and weddings, so little frequent flyer miles and time. Something's bound to give and sometimes I think it's my sanity. It's like a prize fight every night in the tormentor's skull aka The 10-10-321 Skull Dome; Misanthropy vs. Thoughtfulness, both are in my instincts and I don't consider myself selfish but think it's underhandedly narcissistic to call yourself a good guy or to follow lame ass tenets such as "Good guys finish last", that's some self-fulfilling prophecy right thurr. I prefer my self-loathing in the form of bad posture, motherfuckers.
That's not to say life isn't beautiful or anything like that but to villify the ugliness of life is to deny a child the lesson of "Shit happens". You ever train a dog not to poop in the house? It's worth it for everyone involved and proves any and all theorems of not to edit the sad parts.

I timed this internet session so I won't miss Mad Men but something compelled me to type, click, click and click once more to "New Post". It's not the size of the ship but the motion in the ocean (and the captain's resistance to motion sickness + willingness to admit that size does matter. Rub that ish rub it).

If you master one thing, you sacrifice others. Soulsucking is such a pejorative word. I prefer dream enhancing.

Of the ones that post here, two are engaged to be married, two are perpetually single and the other probably has the illest game in the arena of the undercover job interview (or speed courtship). You can ask my sister about the schaudenfraude that involves me and the XX chromosizzomes. Going to the club is like getting a pass to see ugly girls in short skirts transform before your very beer-goggled eyes for the most part. Sometimes I want to just print a business card that says "Pierre Bautista - I will fart on the first date, nothing personal" just to weed things out but things aren't supposed to be simple and more likely than not my crotch has led me astray while my brain has led me to the wonders of being a shut-in. It's as if those two mongs have been trying to pull a Geneva Convention in my heart (a neutral site).

Writer's block is an ugly thing.



















Remember how you would spin around in circles just so you can feel dizzy and pretend an earthquake was occuring? We were just asking to like drugs, weren't we?

The debates are sickening and I think Will Leitch said it best here:

So over the weekend, the two candidates for President — Sen. Barack Obama, head of a Muslim sleeper cell, and Sen. John McCain, organizer of the first Hanoi chapter of the Ku Klux Klan — spoke at the Al Smith Dinner, a big Catholic charity event held in Manhattan right before the elections every year. Each of them made a bunch of jokes, and, all told, they were both pretty funny. (Not surprisingly, the best jokes were about the Clintons.) This was covered in the political press as a curiosity, like, "Hey, look, they don't really hate each other! When they think no one is looking, they talk like normal people!" And then everyone went back to talking about William Ayers and being "erratic" and everything that made everyone want to turn off the debates. Like the Al Smith thing never happened.

I cannot fathom this. Watching the two candidates joke around like that was like learning your grandma is secretly a leather fetishist. Wait ... they can really talk like this? And if so ... why aren't they talking like this all the time? For all the talk of Obama being "elitist," or McCain being "out of touch," watching this proves just how stupid they think all of us really are. In a room with a bunch of journalists in tuxedos, hey, everybody's havin' fun, I love this guy, isn't campaigning just a gas, look, I have a personality! And then the minute they leave the room, they go back to alternating being cruel, boring and completely beside the whole point.

Floral dresses are really becoming on certain damsels. I got turned on by Debra Messing for the first time while flipping channels and seeing a Will and Grace rerun.

Last Saturday I thought I met the girl I was going to marry and then two days later I forgot what she looked like. I got a number and a piece of mind but calling her won't give me a peace of mind. I've got to focus focus focus like a hungry hypnotist before lunch. Got things on my plate and can't let it rot. I will watch Mad Men, drink a glass of brandy for a night cap and work on what I should be working on before I have to work on what I need to work on later this month.

I miss you.