Super-FUN!

According to many philosophers “Girls just want to have to fun”. I, the manly beast that I am, not so much. I mean, hell, if someone is handing out fun, I’ll take a free sample. Otherwise, I’d prefer contemplation. Pretentious? You bet. Am I sorry for it? Hell no. What the fuck people. Is fun so fucking great? WEEE? I’m sick of “WEEE”! I want to confront truth and art like an angry possum: spraying musk and saliva everywhere. So next time you want to have fun ask yourself: "Is this what Jesus would do"? Is it?

I'm a painter

I am painter. I painted a room green. It used to be pink. I moved furniture, books, and ladders. I painted the ceiling! Kids where playing everywhere. I heard stories of flight. I ate shrimp. My head became dizzy with fumes. A giant cockroach tried to kill me. I defeated it. My painting rules. My warrior spirit prevails. Today I paint again. I am going to paint the trim in the green room, a yellowish white. Birds will sing. My brain will grow smaller. I will think of Spinoza. I cannot be stopped.

Stylin' and Profilin'

Science is the sweetest word in the mother fuckin dictionary.
Science.
You know what we need more of? Science.
Proof you ask? An explanation for my wild claim?
Well jerkweed, your question only proves my point. The search for proof, and explanation can only be called the quest of science.
How does this tie into anything comedic or true?
Listen:
I was sent cookies via mail by my lady love. Chocolate chip cookies. I ate a bunch of these cookies with milk. Science tells me that the cookies were poisoned. Science tells me a lot of things. I trust science because why would it lie? What secret agenda does science have? No agenda at all I say. No agenda at all. Anyway the poison cookies tasted great. They also did not hurt my puddings. In fact, if all poisoned cookies were as harmless as these poisoned cookies, then poisoned cookies aren't harmful at all. There my friend lies the science. The inductive step from particular non-murderous poisoned cookies, to the assertion that there exists a general class of non-murderous poisoned cookies.
I wish everyone could share my poisoned cookies with me.

Maxin the Z's

Last weekend I was visited by at least half of my readers. What can I say then, except "Freedom is on the march"? Talking to my friends of yore rekindled my faith in puddings and my dreams of reptilian flesh. Absinthe flowed, loins ached, and I missed a Detroit playoff game. What more can one ask for in a "car crash of comedy"? Algebra? A taxi driver suggesting oral sex as a cure for a woman's nausea? What? Satisfied by the orgy of social pleasure, I, Professor Sympathetic, Doctor of Passionate discourse, will now settle into a routine of philosophical elucidation. I'm gonna read the shit out of shitload of books. I am going to talk dirty to squirrels and I am going to bench press 10 billion pounds. Dream a little dream of me my friends, for I begin a journey into the underworld of self indulgent existence.
Peace to the streets, and love to the wives,
I thank everyone for the visit.

Facts about cats

So I am still baby-sitting this cat. So this time I enter my friends house to give food and "luv" to the kitty and I see this big shit just cooling off in the middle of the floor. Its not big by my standards but given the size of the cat I was still pretty impressed. I thought it would be funny to place the shit in an odd place of his house. Like in a dresser drawer or something. Instead I just sort of kicked it till it was hidden under his bed. If he is anything like me, he doesn't look around there often. I figure the poop will just get dusty until one day he finally cleans up or moves. From now on when he speaks or comments on philosophy I can just say, "Yeah, whatever. You sleep with shit under your bed."

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead

Pancakes. I want some goddamn pancakes. Give me my fucking pancakes. Shit! What the fuck is wrong with you people? Cant you just make me some pancakes? Why must you deny me? Why? What the fuck? I mean its just some flour and sugar and water and milk and eggs. And Blueberries. Christ, its not like I'm asking for money or sex. Just some simple goddamn blueberry pancakes. It takes all of 15 minutes. FIFTEEN MINUTES! and yet here I sit utterly pancakeless. You sick fucks! You think your goddamn needs are more important than mine? Your "job" and responsibilities are more important than my pancake eating? Why the fuck do think that? Who do think you are? JUST GIVE ME SOME PANCAKES. DO IT. C'MON.

Fine then. FUCK YOU, ASSHOLES! FUCK YOU.

MEGA-TURDS ASSEMBLE!

This may be something everyone already knows. If not it is something that should be known. Like Space Moose, this comic strip has given me much pleasure and laughter. I urge everyone to check this site out. I enjoy GET YOUR WAR ON the most, or gywo for short. I dig it all however. There is even a comic about a talking bear! Please enjoy:

http://www.mnftiu.cc/mnftiu.cc/home.html

I suggest you start at the beginning of the strips and work your way up to the current tales.

Sometimes the meaty truth burns like a firenut

I am baby sitting some kid's cat. He lives a good 10 minutes away and every morning I ride like the wind to feed his lonesome beast. The cat is black with white paws. He is not very big but he is fat. He also meows. I am instructed to feed it two cups of food a day. I give it three. I like fat cats. Anyway, this morning the cat's poop box smelled of poop. Badly. I took it upon myself to clean it out. No one said anything about cleaning cat droppings but I take care of it like the fucking warrior scholar I am. I shovel that shit like it was what I was born to do. I scoop, I scrap and soon that box is a glistening diamond of a poop box. It was so clean I wanted to use it myself. However, there was a problem. While the box was clean, there was very little litter left in the box. Looking around the guy's house I could find no litter. Quite the problem. On the one hand its not my cat, so what the fuck do I care. On the other hand, fuck the cat, its a filthy rat eater anyway. I found the first argument to be more persuasive and decided to ride home without worrying about getting any new litter. Now upon reflection I fear that I might have judged erroneously. For while it is true that the cat is not my cat, it is also true that the cat is a filthy rat eater. Woe is me!

Rasheed tells them again!

Last year the Pistons drop game one against Indiana during the playoffs. Rasheed Wallace (a player on the Pistons) guarantees a Pistons victory in their next game. Detroit wins, and a prophet is born! This year I wrote a post recalling that grand feat. Days later Detroit drops two straight to Indiana in this years playoffs. After the last tragic loss, Rasheed once again guaran-fucken-tees that Detroit will win the next game. Today Detroit won that next game. The man is a god. What kind of god? He leads the league every year in technical fouls (i.e. going fucking nuts). He holds the league record for all-time most technicals in one season. In that record setting season of magic he averaged a technical foul every two games. Which means every two games he flipped out, cursed a ref, attacked a player, stripped off his shirt, or did something equally nuts. A few years ago he was fined by the league for threatening the life of a referee out on a loading dock after a game. It seems Rasheed waited for the ref to leave the stadium, which occurs way after the game, way after all the players have already left the arena. I guess the refs have to stay late to take care of all their statistic keeping duties. Actually I have no idea what referees do outside of what I saw in the Billy Crystal/Meg Ryan documentary about NBA refs in Paris. I saw it with Gaylord, but it turned out to be a love story. Very touching.) Anyway, Rasheed waits something around 3 hours so he can be alone with the Ref on a loading dock in a deserted parking lot... and threatens to kill him! He was fined a couple hundred thousand dollars for this act. And yet the man has been graced by god to see the future! Holy Shit! I started guaranteeing all sorts of things trying to be like Rasheed. I guaranteed that I wasn't going to burn the frozen pizza I cooked. I didn't! I guaranteed the pizza was going to be tasty. IT WAS! HOLY SHIT! HOLY RAFUCKINGSHEED SHIT!

Mother Earth Shrine!

Remember the candles we placed at the shrine of our lord? You know at :

http://www.oracula.org/oracula/modules.php?op=modload&name=Anonimmus&file=shrine&shaemmusid=0408108122124

Well my friends the candles burn out! I'm serious each day they melt a little until they are no more. I ask of you once again to place more dreams, more prayers, and more gags at this holy shrine.
It keeps me warm.
Thanks

The weak in courage is strong in cunning

Hey.
Hey.
I want to talk to you all about the little things.

The little things. The things that may not shape the world, or enlarge our context of being, but are just, well, the little things. Like apple sauce. Or bubbles. Even my chest hair. You know, The little things.
Once, an icy blue morn I heard a bull weevil scratching the lice from its ears. What a little thing! Twice, on a hot Wednesday eve, I saw a rude muskrat squirting musk from its ass. Oh now that was a little thing. Thrice, I happened upon a tiny mule-horse bucking and gnawing at fate. I remember those little things. But what about the big things? Shall we stuff them in our dreams, and crush their largess into small sacs of memory? Or should we destroy and search, and smolder the ash into a freedom phoenix? And what about used tampons? They may be little, but man are they gross.

Passion? Passion? We don't need no stinken Passion

Two nights ago my German roommate had a farewell evening with his many friends. I, as roommate, came along sharing the love and camaraderie that only a Jew and German can share. The evening was an uproarious occasion of goodwill and mirth. It was also the beginning of Israel's memorial day for fallen soldiers. Boy, was I torn! On the one hand I had German Comedy. On the other, my dark, dark thoughts. We went to Jaqimos (?), this Cajun restaurant on Oak Street. Or maybe it is a Creole restaurant. I don't know the fucking difference. I do know that they served oysters. I also know that before my meal was even served I had to throw up. Maybe it was the oyster. Maybe it was the mysterious insect that stung my arm on the walk there. (Its still freaken swollen) Again, I don't know. All I can tell you is that after I yelled Natalie to a neighboring table trying to identify the fat girl from the Facts of Life my puddings were about to erupt. And erupt they did! I made it to the bathroom and proceeded to vomit. Since I hadn't eaten any of my meal my vomit was real liquidy. I laughed as some fluid trickled up my nose. It tickled! I wiped my face clean and returned to my table feeling much better. Then this girl ordered a Banana Foster. What an eyesore! I couldn't even look at the stuff. I helped with the check (although it should be said the German kindly covered nearly all of it) and leaving everyone walked off alone, into the sunset. Ah, with Doctor Sentimental, farewells are oh so bitter sweet, and oh so beautiful.

Bananas Foster

Take a banana. Eat it. Take some rum. Drink it. Eat some sugar. Eat too much sugar. Get sick. In a bucket. Light it on fire. Serve.

Yom HaZicaron

A dead man speaks to his living friend, and all the living friend can do is worry that he no longer has the respect of the all-knowing dead. The living asks the dead, "Do you still look up to me now that you know what I really am?" The dead friend is not impressed by the contrived insecurity. The dead no longer feel awkward and have no sympathy for the worries of the fraudulent weak. The dead friend rebuffs the attempt at small talk. For them all speech is small talk.

Lakers versus Celtics and the NBA playoffs

Howdy allies!
Once again the NBA playoffs are upon us! The great ballet of bouncing balls begins anon! Who to root for? Who to curse? Slam Dunk! ALLY….OOOP. PASS PASS BOUNCE! Is this not the game of kings? Of Kings of Kings? OF GODS?

Holy shit, I love watching the basketball. From Kurtis Blow to Manute Bol, there is not only entertainment for the eyes, but wisdom for the soul. “Be cool, STAY IN SCHOOL”, said Isiah Thomas. Be cool indeed. For truly it is the sport of basketball that shows that only education is cool--not young beautiful people with social grace and sexual prowess. Listen to Isiah Thomas, my friends, listen. And who can forget the words of the Black Eyed Peas: “Lets get it started”. I can't. I heard these words at least a hundred times during last years playoffs. I don't even know what it means but I can still tell you something. I can tell you to "Get it Started!" Most important, are the words of the great prophet and sage Rasheed Wallace, who after making good on his guarantee last year that Detroit would win against Indiana, proudly walked off of the court with his middle finger thrust to the crowd, and said, "I told ya so, mother fuckers, I told ya so."
Tell them again Rasheed. Tell them again.
May the Pistons repeat, may Shaq dunk many balls, and may the last great male soap opera continue to soar to new majestic heights.

GO PISTONS!

The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.

Howdy pals!
The red band of inequity surrounds us all. Did you know that many of your fellow citizens spend their time becoming productive members of society? I did. I even met some productive successful people last night. I met artists, patrons, lawyers, doctors, architects, and others. Many of them thought they were better than me. They are not. While they are all very wealthy and powerful, and display all the symbols of success, most of them have to work very hard for their fortune. Where as I don't work at all. Whose laughing now? "But Professor Sympathy," you ask, "What of all the rich who don't work for their wealth and power?". Fuck em I say. Most of those jerks are bored with their lives, and can only wait for another distraction to lure them from the empty void that haunts their every conscious thought. I, on the other hand, haunt the motherfucking void. People are like, "Dan, you are a great warrior scholar, help us to live better lives" and I am like, "Dogs dogs dogs dog dog dogs" and then they are all, "What the fuck" and I am all, "Yeah, thats right, suck a little harder".

LIstening to: My own smug sense of superiority
Feeling: Pretty damn swank.

Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity

Many years back, I was quite taken with a with a little known underground soda called Heee Haw. It tasted kinda like Mountain Dew except never made any claims of extreme radness. It was a cheap corn syrupy liquid that had caffeine and was carbonated. I liked its low price and incomprehensible name. Three e's. Drinking it made me feel like a rebel, because only those down with Hi Vee from the beginning knew about the Heee Haw. While Mountain Dew may have had sold more bottles, I think all the critics knew Heee Haw was the better soda. I don't know what real mountain dew actually tastes like but I can at least guess why one would describe a drink as the dew collected off of a mountain. IT sounds Abso-fucking-lutely Delicious!

Nowadays, ladies and gents, the torch has been passed. There is a soda that combines the renegade spirit of Heee Haw, with the imagery of Mountains! Sam's Choice and mine is clearly Mountain LIGHTNING! Why drink soggy old dew off a mountain when one can drink a force of fucking nature. ZAPP! Lightning! The drink is razor sharp and empowering. ZING! A Billion electrons surge forth! BUZZ! Zeus himself keeps a cooler full of Mountain Lightning! KA KOW!

Forget the Dew. Forget the Heee Haw. Forget all the johnny come lately and wanna be has beens. Mountain Lightning is the best damn soda this side of Kentucky! And its cheaper than shit! Drink up fuckhead!

Candles for poop

Go to this site and leave a candle in the shrine of some sort of earth spirit goddess bullshit:

www.oracula.org/oracula/modules.php?op=modload&name=Anonimmus&file=shrine&shaemmusid=0408108122124


IT REALLY WORKS!!!

The day my knee was torn, and my blood consumed!

It was thursday and it was cold. I had just moved out of my old crappy attic apartment and was unpacking all of my things into a new home. Things were rather hectic, and I was, as usual, alone. I had papers due, deadlines to meet, and without any vehicle or friends I had to complete the material evacuation of my old place before the required date. My ex-landlord was being a bit of an ass, expecting me to clear out furniture that was never mine to begin with, and I had to make several trips carrying odds and ends to and fro. While a normal man would have ended up a huddled mass of tears from the physical burden of carrying lamps while walking several blocks, I shouldered on. Sacks of laundry, boxes of dishes, a broken computer: nothing was to heavy for me, my heart, and my incredibly muscular physique. And so I walked. Back and forth. On a cold thursday afternoon. On these walks I was quite introspective. This was a bold new step in my bold life. A new home. New challenges. Was it the right choice? While I contemplated the possibilities of my new habitation and mourned the loss of the old, a dog bit my fucking knee. I was simply walking with a bunch of plates and nick knacks strapped to my back, while a young couple simply walked their dog. The dog bit my fucking knee. He tore my pants and opened a gash on my leg. I thought about punching the dog. I think I may have said "What the fuck?". I am sure I said "Your dog just bit my leg" to the couple. The couple corrected my rather cavalier assertion. "Its not our dog", they replied. In my heart I sincerely apologized for unjustly jumping to the bigoted conclusion that the dog that just bit my knee was owned by the people walking it. I swore to myself never again would I fall into the trap of stereotyping people. I truly was being no better than a nazi. Sometimes I make myself sick.
Lessoned learned I walked to my home and examined my knee. No mere dog jaw could ever really hurt me, but there is an old wives tale concerning rabies. The legend goes something like this: When a strange dog bites you and pierces the skin you should get a rabies shot, otherwise you could die. This legend is complete bullshit. According to the reasoning that recommends a rabies shot, if a dog bites a stranger and pierces the skin, the dog might get aids and die. I don't see dogs taking drug cocktails for aids, so I sure as hell am not going to take a couple shots to the ass for rabies. Having satisfied myself with this watertight argument I forswore medical attention and continued to move stuff out of my apartment. To this day however I think about that dog, its mysterious owner, and the professional dog walkers who walked the dog towards my knee. I don't exactly understand how these disparate pieces fit together, or why that day played such a important role in my becoming jesus, but deep down I know that they somehow connect intimately with my divinity, and that they and they alone reveal the underlying trinity of my godhead.

The last word on Simple Plan

Here is a great link: http://www.simpleplan.com/band.php

This will be my final posting in regard to these guys. They transcend parody. There is nothing more to be said. I am in awe of them. Wow.

Welcome to my Life Lyrics

Do you ever feel like breaking down?
Do you ever feel out of place,
Like some how you just don’t belong,
And no one understands you?

Do you ever want to run away?
Do you lock yourself in your room?
With the radio on turned up so loud,
That no one hears you screaming?

No, you don’t know what it’s like,
When nothing feels alright,
You don’t know what it’s like,
To be like me!

To be hurt, to feel lost,
To be left out in the dark,
To be kicked, when you’re down,
To feel like you’ve been pushed around,
To be on the edge of breaking down,
And no one’s there to save you,
No you don’t know what it’s like,
Welcome to my life

Do you want to be somebody else?
Are you sick of feeling so left out?
Are you desperate to find something more,
Before your life is over?

Are you stuck inside a world you hate?
Are you sick of everyone around?
With the big fake smiles and stupid lies,
While deep inside you’re bleeding?

No you don’t know what it’s like,
When nothing feels alright,
You don’t know what it’s like,
To be like me!

To be hurt, to feel lost,
To be left out in the dark,
To be kicked, when you’re down,
To feel like you’ve been pushed around,
To be on the edge of breaking down,
And no one’s there to save you,
No you don’t know what it’s like,
Welcome to my life

No one ever lies straight to your face!
No one ever stabs you in the back!
You might think I’m happy,
But I’m not gonna be okay!

Everybody always gave you what you wanted!
You never had to work, it was always there!
You don’t know what it’s like (what it’s like)…

To be hurt, to feel lost,
To be left out in the dark,
To be kicked, when you’re down,
To feel like you’ve been pushed around,

To be on the edge of breaking down,
When no one’s there to save you,
No you don’t know what it’s like,

To be hurt, to feel lost,
To be left out in the dark,
To be kicked, when you’re down,
To feel like you’ve been pushed around,
To be on the edge of breaking down,
When no one’s there to save you,
No you don’t know what it’s like,
Welcome to my life

Welcome to my life!

Welcome to my life!

Jump back...Airwolf Attack

Howdy friends,
Today I am going to call attention to what I think is the worst song of all time. Now I know many of you consider it beneath one such as me to ridicule a top forty pop song. And you are right. Most of us realized that the majority of pop rock was shit way back in our teens and I, like you, have peacefully accepted this fact and moved on. Further one may ask, "Airwolf, I thought your passion was restricted to the ladies, and was not concerned with cultural defiencies? Since when do you care about piss poor tunes?" Two very good points my hypothetical questioner. However, as my personal music device has broken, I have been forced to listen to top forty radio while I throw weights at the gym. And today I was astounded. I mean it. I sat there and said, "Wow, I can't believe how much this sucks". Please, do not underestimate how bad this song is. I have sat patiently through "Ashly Simpson" singing a chorus that says "You make me want to la la on floor" while she, in the same chorus, proceeds to identify other locations where she wants to "la la". I saw no reason to write a post on that. I can handle a crappy song. This...this is something else...
The song is called "Welcome to my life"
It is sung by Simple Plan. It is the worst song I have ever heard. You all must hear this song. Download it. Listen to it. Let it soak into your soul. Imagine some "poet" writing it. Then singing it. Think about what you are hearing.

I can understand how the song gets picked up and how people will make money off of it. I know it taps into the angst of 14 year old girls and/or men who think like 14 year old girls. Maybe the song helps people feel less alone in their uniqueness. But holy living fuck does this song suck.

I Remember Clampy

Oh green friend!
So fresh and new
Your Clampers sharp
You glistened with dew!

I found you swaying
Playing the stick
You perched on a garbage lid
The smell made me sick

You lusted for flies!
and ate all but the wings
Oh, in my heart dear Clampy
Your memory still sings!

You rocked to and fro'
You prayed to your god
But when winter a'came
you were stiff as a rod

Up now in heaven
are you still catching flies?
Crushing their souls
with your beefy bug thighs?

Or maybe in hell,
you finally found heat
to help you go hunt
and eat insect meat

But in truth I think
you are simply just dead
exoskeleton empty
no thoughts in your head

I miss you sweet prince
lord of the flies
you ate your fill
but everything dies