A Delicious Scoop of Perfectly Recollected Sub-Conscious Awesome (That Totally Happened)

I recently had a dream about a girl I know. A girl named Ed. The dream was so amazing that I immediately woke up and wrote down every part of it in exacting detail. Here it is:



Okay so we were chilling in some sort of living room. We had all our clothes on. There were other people there. Conversation was being had. But some of the people we were chilling and conversing with were underage and they wanted to drink. You had some booz on hand and you offered it to them because nothing makes you happier than contributing to the delinquency of minors. That's what you said, anyway. I wasn't going to stop you because when you drink you get this wild look in your eye like you want to Tiger-punch somebody in the clavicle and you were hitting the sauce harder than usual that night.

That look kind of turned me on but then I caught you catching me catching that look in your eye and it scared me so I peed. The 12-year-old girl across from us must have been able to smell the sexual tension because she looked up from the 40oz Steel Reserve you insisted she drink and started taking her clothes off. That was all it took for the crowd of 10-15-year-olds to start stripping and mashing their mashables together. Because we're not sick pedophiles and we had no idea whose living room we were in we decided to bail. You insisted on taking the condoms with you. Not because you wanted to use them but because you wanted to be responsible for damaging society and evolutionary growth as a whole. I tried to stop you but you gave me a look like you wanted to Dragon-kick somebody's ear and my left testicle actually began to bleed so I gave up.

Once outside, we didn't really know where we were or where to go so we just went. Just then, as we were walking, I spotted a Polar Bear raping some fat girl. I mean, he was really going at it (spoiler alert: she doesn't make it).

I was all, "OMG, look! That polar bear is raping a fat chick!"

And you were all, "That's not a Polar Bear, that's a Brolar Bear."

And I was all, "What the FUCK is a 'Brolar Bear'?!"

Suddenly, the Brolar Bear stopped his howling, furry onslaught and looked in our direction. He had heard me. He charged for our position and I shit myself quite badly. Mostly out of fear, partly out of excitement. The Brolar Bear could smell it and it only made him charge harder. Then you sprang from a crouch screaming, "FINGER OF THE LAVENDER!" and in a flash of stunning fury the Brolar Bear lay at my feet, a crumpled ruin.

I stared at you in stunned amazement, "Where the hell did that come from?!"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"And what in the blue fuck is 'Finger of the Lavender'?"

"I DON'T want to talk about it."

You then gave me a look like you wanted to Jaguar-chop somebody in the knee. It was so intense my sphincter puckered so hard I got two inches shorter. So I left it alone. You walked past the bear and examined the remains of the fat girl. "Jesus Christ," you said, "it looks like somebody ran a fat girl through a meat grinder and ejaculated all over the result."

"Wow, Ed, that's both disgusting and horrifyingly accurate."

"I know." You breathed an angry sigh, "I knew this would happen."

"What would?"

"The Brolar Bears have become too powerful. They must be stopped."

"Okay what the fuck are you talking about?"

You then detailed to me the long history of the Brolar Bears and how they were once a peaceful brotherhood called the Snowlar bears who were a secret society of humanitarians living under the Pacific Ocean promoting good will and scientific research. One day they discovered, deep within the earth's core, a living, growing plant. After extensive testing it was found that the plant, later code-named "Superfunjitsu" could grant incredible powers to a Snowlar bear. But, the Brotherhood of the Snowlar Bears' leader, Mufasa declared Superfunjitsu unnecessary and potentially dangerous and ordered it to be destroyed. Mufasa's brother, Scar was furious when he heard and arranged to have Mufasa killed. Later that week Mufasa was run down by a rampaging herd of Wildebeest. He died in front of his only son, Simba. In his father's absence, Simba hoped to take over the throne but, being that he was only a small Lion cub, Scar easily had him killed too.

With Scar now leading the Snowlar Bears he implemented an army, named the Brolar Bears, and fed them all the Superfunjitsu they could eat. It gave them incredible powers but it also gave them an unquenchable thirst for blood and rape. It wasn't long before Scar realized he could not control the Brolar Bears and decided to unleash them on the far inferior humans at ground level. Sending them up one at a time to prevent them from maul-raping each other on the way up, they landed on the West coast and began their murderous rampage across North America.

As you finished your story I felt like we had bonded so I tried to kiss you. You gave me a look like you wanted to Koala-jab me in the eye. It was so intense my pancreas cried, so I didn't kiss you.

Then, you got up and took a deep breath before saying to me, "There is no-one else who can stop them. It is our destiny, come with me!"





And then I woke up.

Make Your Own Breaks

I'm somewhat convinced that this is the key to successful living. When I retire I plan to write a self-help book about it and become a multi-millionaire. Of course, by that time it'll cost about fifty grand for a tank of gas, so be sure to buy a copy of my book when it comes out. Actually, buy five. And five more for every member of your family. I want your money, damnit. And since the wal-marts rejected my application for CEO I'll just have to further poison the literary pool. What was I talking about again...?

Oh yeah, making your own breaks. The next time the party van shows up at one of your wild soirees and takes your sorry ass to jail for pimping nine-year-old Asians in the basement just remember: put a sturdier lock on the door next time. No but seriously, before you do something stupid like drink and drive (or set fire to the old folks home, kick Mr. T in the balls, separate me from my cigarettes, or anything really stupid like that), take a moment to consider whether or not you can and are willing to go to prison for running down a school bus full of Aspies. I know it sounds like fun, and the gene pool does need a good skimming, but who will bang all those kids in your basement? More importantly, who's going to be banging YOU? This guy.

What I'm really getting at here is that you have to eliminate needless stupidity in order to succeed. Now I'm not saying cancel the nitrogen-filled bounce house party, because I'm coming to that. But don't invite the Mansons. Don't speed when you're not in a hurry (and don't always be in such a damn hurry). Don't get shitfaced when a buzz will do. And especially don't tell your dad what you did at my party last night, because he will shoot me. He's fucking crazy. And you were pretty wild once everybody got naked. There were pets involved.

Anyway, my point is the very second you get busted for fucking up, regret fills your insides until you're fit to burst. It is incredibly unpleasant. Do you like that feeling? I don't. But you can't blame those who bust you, nor those you get busted with. You are in control of your own destiny and you CAN make your own breaks. The same goes for all you poor shmucks who don't have a job or a life or whatever it is you're missing (all of the above...?).

There are a lot of ways the initial phrase can be interpreted, I'm just trying to give you some ideas. Go out there and make something happen. But don't get raped.

PS: You would not believe the things I google in making these blogs. I'm sure to be on a few watch lists by now.

Big Sunglasses: Friend of the Fatties

Not smart.

All you attractive women out there who think it's really neat to don sunglasses with lenses the size of dinner plates are painfully mistaken. You see, fat chicks love big, chunky accessories. Not only are the chubbers obnoxious by default (large = loud), they're disgustingly obsessed with anything that will draw attention from their big fat fatness. That's the idea they're given by their friends who are too scared, retarded, blind, mute and fat to tell them the truth: The glasses, they do nothing.

What they have, however, accomplished is ruin the fad for women with space-saving designs. Any girl sporting sunglasses larger than her face is a cow until proven otherwise.

Take note, hotties: When I see you in your parents' ride with a sunroof on your face YOU ARE FAT.

The Master Plan and Divine Intervention

I've often wondered what the deal is with God's Master Plan. Is it merely a method of guidance? What if somebody strays from the script? Is it still considered a "master" plan if not all of it is set in stone?

For instance, if I later today decide to be a monkey wrench to society's gears and slow the progression and growth of mankind by standing at the side of the highway shooting everything that moves, thinks or breathes is that contradictory to the plan?

Oh ho, but maybe I'm supposed to go ten shades of batshit crazy. Or maybe I already am. So it could be argued that wild, erratic behavior is a part of some sick, perverted cumstain's idea of a good time. And that cumstain is your Lord and Savior. Isn't that a comforting thought?

Which would you rather face? The idea that God is not in control and will not necessarily protect you from my murderous rampage or that the course into crazytown has already been plotted and entered. There will be no refunds, exchanges or rain checks. Best part about The Master Plan (GIS result for "god's master plan" noshit) is you don't need to buy a ticket. I've already got a reserve for first-class to Hell.

While we're on the topic, I'd like to discuss zero-gravity prison rape. Eventually somebody is going to be beaten, shanked, and then violently violated in space. I can see the classified ad now:

Space Prison Maintenance Positions Available!
Primary duties will include capturing and disposing of floating globs of blood, semen and buttjuice
Must have strong stomach
Apply within



No thanks. However, if somebody gives me the opportunity to get drunk on the space station I'll jump on it like a Dort hooker on a mountain of smelly dicks. If anybody's got pull with NASA I've got a half-spent bottle of spray-on deodorant and two stale cigarettes to sweeten the deal.

Finally, this is what rape looks like if you're on acid, apparently:



If anybody needs me I'll be on the roof with a rifle performing sociological experiments (red car blue car KILL KILL KILL).

A day to myself with bass therapy :D

Ahhhh I almost want to make this a music blog I was jamming out to so much stuff today. Sitting next to the subwoofer that was thumping the tunes and smoking cigarettes all day was an awesome opportunity to unwind.

Now, back to business as usual. I'm attempting to replace the phrase "goddamnit" in my vocabulary with "Damn God!" or "Damnit, God!" I think it's considerably more resounding, and really calls something to action. If you're going to blaspheme, do so with a purpose.

Later, when I was browsing teh pr0nz I had a little idea that I should do something constructive with my day. You know, to really make it stand out as a productive and complete afternoon.

I haven't figured out what that productive thing is going to be yet. So far all I've done is read webcomics and listen to funky electro music.

Anyway, enough about all the stuff I've been up to lately. How about the fuuuture.



I just met with the architect Friday and had her sketch that up. It's being built between the two Columbiaville car bridges across the Holloway. Yes, it will have a gift shop.



And this should be delivered any day now.

Anyway, I think that's everything for now. Be back soon with some truly pointless musings about wildlife.

Just what the fuck ARE you doing with your life?

What is your purpose? What do you feel you need to achieve? Take a moment and see if you can sum it up in one short sentence. Now take another moment and make sure there isn't anything else you'd like to add. One short sentence. If you can't sum up what it is you want to be in one short sentence then perhaps you simply don't know.

If you took a few minutes to read the last paragraph and are now coming up with reasons why I'm wrong (lie all you want, you don't know wtf you're doing); what is it that keeps you moving? If you don't know where you're going, why are you going anywhere at all? To do what: put yourself through school, pay the mortgage, have kids, drive a nice car, brag at your high school reunion? Sounds like a fantastic recipe for a midlife crisis.

To those of you, the few, wonderful you, who answered "Me", pat yourselves on the back and go have a cookie. See me later for a complimentary blowjay because you are single-handedly keeping the human spirit alive, and I can dig that.

The best thing any one of us can do for the rest of civilization is simply to be us. You be you, I'll be me. If your you just so happens to be dead under a bus, I guess that's how the cards were dealt. But you better damn well do every single thing possible to make sure you were all the you you could be, so when that bus makes you into roadpie everybody will know who to mourn.

As for those too weak to be themselves... it was nice not knowing you.

Motivation

This is something I wrote about a year ago. I finally decided to publish it:

What is motivation? Is it something that comes in waves, or does it appear at the flick of a switch? How is it created? Who sends it? Is there a God of motivation who graves chosen individuals with the gifts of foresight and time management? Does it come from deep within oneself, or must it be applied from an outside source? Does it well up inside a person waiting for the taps to be opened?

It is none of these things. Motivation is a choice based on necessity. Personal necessity is most generally the cause. People get out of bed every day to go to work because they have to.

Why do they have to? What is the greater purpose? That is something each person must answer for themselves. Is it worth it to pay the rent, put food on the table?

Motivation comes from a dream. Dreams are the greater purpose in life.

Dreams put people with no money through college. They laid tracks into the West and put men into space. Dreams are responsible for every great act in history.

The hardest part of life isn't getting out of bed every day; it is realizing your dream.

Is it better to believe blindly or live cynically?

Woe be the man who chooses belief over life.

What are you living for, and what are you living under? What guides you, motivates you and drives you? Where is your moral compass derived from? If you're like me, the purpose of your life is to experience life. That's it.

Here's a depressing thought: When you die, there won't be anything after that. The human body is just a big machine, and when it shuts down that's the end of the story. Maybe you believe in reincarnation, and maybe it's true, but you won't remember your past life, that's for damn sure. So who gives a fuck?

Now, most of you reading this right now probably think I'm one bitter son of a bitch. And in part that's true. But you're looking at this all wrong. I'm not putting any stock in the existence of an afterlife, and that motivates me to live the best god damned life I know how. Because this is the only shot I get.

So you tell me, is it better to live your oh-so-short life in a manner which will preserve your soul (living like a pussy) for the eternal? Or should you wring every ounce of LIFE out of your frail body?

Overthinking: The NASA Approach to Life

It seems that some people are genetically engineered to analyze, interpret, re-analyze and re-interpret every action and reaction in their lives. Oftentimes despite their best efforts to halt the ever-turning wheel of thought in their heads, which leaves me to wonder: Is it possible to remove your brain from the equation?



Of course I don't mean literally. But maybe just hold a chloroform rag over that person in your head's face so you can get a few hours of peace. I mean, there has to be a way, right?

Due to lack of funding (and one or two human rights laws) I won't be performing any experiments to get to the bottom of this. What I'll do instead is talk about myself for a little while because I think it's worth your time to read it.

Now for the most part I don't have too much trouble silencing my brain. Usually it's doused in so much alcohol it can barely function anyhow. But every once in a while I get a little worked up and start running down answers, straining the limits of my logical reasoning to figure out why my life is what it is; why Brad Pitt dumped Jennifer Aniston; why I can't get laid; etc. After an hour or two and a pack of cigarettes I get tired and/or distracted and move on. But what if I wasn't capable of that?



What is life without an off switch? Is it efficiency? Surely something that never shuts off must get more done. Or is it just pinging back and forth between two points like a ping pong ball in a static-charged plastic box? Sigh. I have no idea. What I do know is that there is simply no point to curling up in your bed and doing nothing but mulling over possibilities. If you find yourself locked in a quandary about life the best thing you can do is unload on somebody else. Whether you do that in a positive or a negative way is entirely your decision.

I leave you with this kernel: Take a look at something that puzzles you. Spend a minute and consider it. If you can't immediately understand it, change it or deal with it, "Fuck it." Just forget about it and focus on things you CAN understand, change and deal with.

The Digital Age: Integration Of All Your Woes

It's amazing, wonderful, and frightening how everything in your life is interconnected nowadays. When you favorite a video on YouTube (signed in with your Google account, of course) it posts automatically to your Facebook page. Hell, if I wanted I could tell this website to update my Facebook when I post a new blog. But my blogs aren't very interesting and I have more respect for those on my friends list than that.

That doesn't even scratch the surface though. The really important stuff is the digitizing of all your life's worth. The monetary type stuff, the crap everybody tells you not to be concerned about. Yes, your credit score, your driving record, your criminal record, your shoe size and your college degree. It's all part of a big profile that everyyybody with a little "permission" can look at before they decide to hire you, fire you, do business with you, educate you, treat you, arrest you, etc.

I've been in debt since I was 18. Every year it stacks up a little higher. Lose a job here, run up a credit card there. Break a bone here, ditch a collection agency there. Whatever, it's life shit. I can live around it. But for how long? What I fear most is the day they "chip" all of us. No more cash, no more cards, no more wallets, just a forearm with a little microchip in it. The day I walk up to the cashier for a pack of smokes, scan my forearm and get denied because I didn't pay my cellphone bill that month is the day I fucking quit.

This is meant to put a little worm of thought into your heads. Don't take it too seriously, because my interpretation is not literal. But don't immediately shrug it off, either. If you're "in", you're in. If you're "out", you're out forever. Once you get in the pit there is nowhere to go but down.