"Anyone who's read The Illuminatus Trilogy knows
there are hordes of Nazi Zombies waiting for us in
the watery depths of a lake in Ingolstadt. It is for
these reasons that I avoid large music festivals..."
-- posted by khanti, September 17, 2009 11:20 AM
----------------------------------------------------
Apparently it's an entire sub-genre of Zombie
movies, Sub-aquatic Nazi Zombies... and what a
perfect Metaphor for post-WWII US of A...
Sub-aquatic Nazi Zombies are bad, Mafia ones not
so much; the cement overshoes tend to make them
less mobile.
And the CIA-Cowboy zombies end up in the
White House... or with hit TeeVee or Radio Talk
shows and Vatican/Jesuit Mafia/Nazi Zombies as
their allies in the Dope/Guns/Souls racket... not
to mention the S. American/Nazi/Assassination
Torture/Narcotrafficing Zombies. it's just Bidneth.
The Zombie Bidneth.
It's whut makes this Poor Old Mortal Coil Go
'Round, here in this Foul Twenty-First Century,
obviously NOT of Our Lord. So far it's the Devil's
Own Century. And by all signs looking like it's
gonna stay that way, barring that return visit
Jesus talked about.
Look how good the Goldman-Sucks Zombies are
doing, wandering around Wall Street, gnawing on
passersby... no one even says a word. They've
even taken down the "Do Not Feed The Zombies"
signs that used to be up there... Christ, you can
freakin' buy Zombie Feed in the Financial District
for a dollar, just watch your fingers as you're
feeding them...
Monday, December 21, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Dreadful, Dreadful Sarah Palin, DIE DIE DIE!
I fucking hate you. You are a white trash moron with
delusions of grandeur. You have no integrity. You
have no intelligence, save for the kind of cunning
usually found in a chicken-killing dog.
You are an ugly, ugly person. Your warped and
twisted personality shines forth so strongly anyone
with the right kind of eyes can see. Greedy grasping
amoral self-serving narcissist you are the Perfect
follow on to that hideous little creep George W. Bush.
The only thing about you is that you are extremely
frightening. There are apparently enough
"Conservative" fools out there that you actually have
a following. It's as if Hitler lived and moved to the
United States and became a popular politician, after
having lost 90% of his brains.
You would cheerfully sell us all out to whatever
criminal gang would install you, just as long as you
got yours. I SO hope you do get yours soon, in Hell,
where you belong. You are a disgusting horrible
wretched excuse for a person, much less a leader.
Eat Shit, Ms. Palin, and Die. Please. You are a mortal
danger to this nation. But next time I'll tell you how I
Really feel.
I fucking hate you. You are a white trash moron with
delusions of grandeur. You have no integrity. You
have no intelligence, save for the kind of cunning
usually found in a chicken-killing dog.
You are an ugly, ugly person. Your warped and
twisted personality shines forth so strongly anyone
with the right kind of eyes can see. Greedy grasping
amoral self-serving narcissist you are the Perfect
follow on to that hideous little creep George W. Bush.
The only thing about you is that you are extremely
frightening. There are apparently enough
"Conservative" fools out there that you actually have
a following. It's as if Hitler lived and moved to the
United States and became a popular politician, after
having lost 90% of his brains.
You would cheerfully sell us all out to whatever
criminal gang would install you, just as long as you
got yours. I SO hope you do get yours soon, in Hell,
where you belong. You are a disgusting horrible
wretched excuse for a person, much less a leader.
Eat Shit, Ms. Palin, and Die. Please. You are a mortal
danger to this nation. But next time I'll tell you how I
Really feel.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Seemed like as good a time as any to post an old "Uncle Dave" piece from June 4, 1996:
**Uncle Dave's Celebrity Profile**
Michael Jackson slumped back in his lounger, aiming his remote at the television to flip idly through the channels. An advertisement for "Baywatch" caught his attention and he stopped to watch Pamela Lee run across the beach in slow motion, her hydraulically-enhanced attributes suspended in a slow-bounce silicone ballet.
He laughed. Not the shy, girlish giggle he affected in public, but a lusty horselaugh that he reserved for his truly private moments. Jackson drained the last of his Michelob and let the tapered amber bottle drop to the floor. He glanced over the edge of the lounger at the litter of bottles that had accumulated so far. Laughing again, he stopped counting at ten, then rose to fetch another cold one from the refrigerator.
Scratching at the edge of beer gut peeking from underneath his stained t-shirt, Jackson wobbled into the kitchen. He stopped in front of the refrigerator, pointed at the door and proclaimed, "The King of Pop would like another beer."
The refrigerator did nothing. Jackson snorted and chuckled. "Guess I'll get this one myself."
The King of Pop. Of all the nicknames in the world, why did he have to pick the King of Pop? Jackson shook his head as he twisted open his beer and wandered back to the living room. An edge of a reflection caught his attention, and he stopped at the mirror in the hallway to stare.
A middle-aged black man stared back, the light-complexion makeup washed away, the wigs in storage, the fake eyelashes in their special boxes in the dressing room back in California, a lifetime away. His own hair was cropped close, groomed in a short natural style, his cheeks and chin peppered with two-days-worth growth of beard.
The one-bedroom apartment in Huntington, West Virginia had been a masterstroke of genius, the perfect place to hide, to be himself. Jackson could come and go as he pleased, to wander the riverbank, to walk along Third and Fourth avenues. He had become an adept dumpster diver, able to retrieve trashed treasures from the bottom of the most fully packed receptacle. The winos called him "Jack," and they appreciated his dumpster diving skills as well, sending him in time and time again for food and salvageable bits of metal and glass.
The crack whores on Hal Greer Boulevard called him Jack, too. Jackson was a regular in the tattered project housing that lined the avenue, and he knew all the women who worked that part of town. They would do incredible things for a rock and a fresh butane lighter, and Jackson kept a supply of both. His appetites required that these women be capable of bizarre things. Sometimes they disappeared altogether after a long weekend with Jackson, but nobody asked questions about these types of women. They seemed to be transient by nature, and the ability to disappear seemed to be one of their talents.
Back to the television, Jackson eased the recliner back and resumed his surfing. Comedy Central was replaying an episode of "Absolutely Fabulous," while the USA network was showing some bad made-for-TV suspense film.
But A&E was broadcasting a biography on Jeffrey Dahmer, and Jackson stopped there. Transfixed by the details, he watched the file footage of police officers and ambulance crews outfitted in hazardous material suits carrying away the blue 55-gallon drum that contained three partially-dissolved human torsos.
He sat forward to watch as a white-suited officer in a gas mask wheeled Dahmer's refrigerator down a flight of stairs. The voice-over narration said there were preserved heads and genitals in the refrigerator, and the King of Pop wondered aloud what it would look like if the icebox door suddenly flew open on the way downstairs, scattering the gruesome contents like human confetti.
Then Dahmer's image flashed onto the screen. A tall, slim, blue-eyed blond with a faint shadow of beard. Jackson stared, thinking how easy it would be in a few years for Macauley Culkin to portray Dahmer in the movie based on his life. A sharp wave of paranoia took his breath for a moment as the documentary showed the court scenes, the replay of anguished family and friends of the deceased lashing out at Dahmer.
Jackson settled back and took another long drink of his beer. This would never happen to him. Neverland is too secure, the freezers locked and hidden away in the dark sub-basements of the mansion. The children would not be missed, the homeless waifs who wandered the streets in Los Angeles. They appeared on and disappeared from those streets every day.
Soon, it would be time to go back to Neverland, time to prepare for another concert tour. He would have to lose weight, to don the makeup and wigs, to practice talking in that high, breathy voice that the media expected. And, of course, there would be the trips to Disney World, the fantasy land where the media and the world believed Jackson belonged.
As long as there were children there, they were half right.
Jackson laughed and went to the refrigerator for another beer.
More later,
uncle dave
© 1996 by D.L. Swint. All rights reserved.
**Uncle Dave's Celebrity Profile**
Michael Jackson slumped back in his lounger, aiming his remote at the television to flip idly through the channels. An advertisement for "Baywatch" caught his attention and he stopped to watch Pamela Lee run across the beach in slow motion, her hydraulically-enhanced attributes suspended in a slow-bounce silicone ballet.
He laughed. Not the shy, girlish giggle he affected in public, but a lusty horselaugh that he reserved for his truly private moments. Jackson drained the last of his Michelob and let the tapered amber bottle drop to the floor. He glanced over the edge of the lounger at the litter of bottles that had accumulated so far. Laughing again, he stopped counting at ten, then rose to fetch another cold one from the refrigerator.
Scratching at the edge of beer gut peeking from underneath his stained t-shirt, Jackson wobbled into the kitchen. He stopped in front of the refrigerator, pointed at the door and proclaimed, "The King of Pop would like another beer."
The refrigerator did nothing. Jackson snorted and chuckled. "Guess I'll get this one myself."
The King of Pop. Of all the nicknames in the world, why did he have to pick the King of Pop? Jackson shook his head as he twisted open his beer and wandered back to the living room. An edge of a reflection caught his attention, and he stopped at the mirror in the hallway to stare.
A middle-aged black man stared back, the light-complexion makeup washed away, the wigs in storage, the fake eyelashes in their special boxes in the dressing room back in California, a lifetime away. His own hair was cropped close, groomed in a short natural style, his cheeks and chin peppered with two-days-worth growth of beard.
The one-bedroom apartment in Huntington, West Virginia had been a masterstroke of genius, the perfect place to hide, to be himself. Jackson could come and go as he pleased, to wander the riverbank, to walk along Third and Fourth avenues. He had become an adept dumpster diver, able to retrieve trashed treasures from the bottom of the most fully packed receptacle. The winos called him "Jack," and they appreciated his dumpster diving skills as well, sending him in time and time again for food and salvageable bits of metal and glass.
The crack whores on Hal Greer Boulevard called him Jack, too. Jackson was a regular in the tattered project housing that lined the avenue, and he knew all the women who worked that part of town. They would do incredible things for a rock and a fresh butane lighter, and Jackson kept a supply of both. His appetites required that these women be capable of bizarre things. Sometimes they disappeared altogether after a long weekend with Jackson, but nobody asked questions about these types of women. They seemed to be transient by nature, and the ability to disappear seemed to be one of their talents.
Back to the television, Jackson eased the recliner back and resumed his surfing. Comedy Central was replaying an episode of "Absolutely Fabulous," while the USA network was showing some bad made-for-TV suspense film.
But A&E was broadcasting a biography on Jeffrey Dahmer, and Jackson stopped there. Transfixed by the details, he watched the file footage of police officers and ambulance crews outfitted in hazardous material suits carrying away the blue 55-gallon drum that contained three partially-dissolved human torsos.
He sat forward to watch as a white-suited officer in a gas mask wheeled Dahmer's refrigerator down a flight of stairs. The voice-over narration said there were preserved heads and genitals in the refrigerator, and the King of Pop wondered aloud what it would look like if the icebox door suddenly flew open on the way downstairs, scattering the gruesome contents like human confetti.
Then Dahmer's image flashed onto the screen. A tall, slim, blue-eyed blond with a faint shadow of beard. Jackson stared, thinking how easy it would be in a few years for Macauley Culkin to portray Dahmer in the movie based on his life. A sharp wave of paranoia took his breath for a moment as the documentary showed the court scenes, the replay of anguished family and friends of the deceased lashing out at Dahmer.
Jackson settled back and took another long drink of his beer. This would never happen to him. Neverland is too secure, the freezers locked and hidden away in the dark sub-basements of the mansion. The children would not be missed, the homeless waifs who wandered the streets in Los Angeles. They appeared on and disappeared from those streets every day.
Soon, it would be time to go back to Neverland, time to prepare for another concert tour. He would have to lose weight, to don the makeup and wigs, to practice talking in that high, breathy voice that the media expected. And, of course, there would be the trips to Disney World, the fantasy land where the media and the world believed Jackson belonged.
As long as there were children there, they were half right.
Jackson laughed and went to the refrigerator for another beer.
More later,
uncle dave
© 1996 by D.L. Swint. All rights reserved.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
"The ones you want to fuck want to be loved and
the ones you love just want to be fucked. When
your woman leaves you this is probably the best
song ever."
-- comment on "Can't Find My Way Home"
I'm ancient now, 48 times this old orb has made
it's twisted way around the long circuit. But I'm
still a lusty young man, and the fires still burn.
I've been through the crucible. In my misspent
youth I seemed to have a lot to prove, and prove
it I did. I've still got the scars and broken bones
to show for it.
I ran 127mph on the Harley on a black night on a
flat highway with the Highway Patrol out on the
prowl for me. I jumped in full combat equipment
in the dark from a C-130 aircraft with my face
painted and dressed in camouflage, a killer ready
to kill, Airborne Death From The Sky.
I've tripped, I've loved, I ran hard and fast and
crazy with no regard for life or limb, utterly
unconcerned with the very real possibility I'd be
maimed or killed, a life well established ending
suddenly and violently.
So here I am, miraculously still around, a little
older, slower, not so fast to heal, but much wiser. I'm
the Ram, impetuous, headstrong, charging blindly
into the ambush. Recon, the point man. The
Penetrator, the Gimlet. Now just older and wiser
enough to know when to pull my horns in. Plenty
just like me aren't around any more to tell you
about it, but I am, and I will.
I got my bona fides the Hard Way. I've seen the mean
streets, the dive bars, the alleyways. I was
lucky, and that's no exaggeration. Measure twice, cut
once. I learned that. It's especially true when you're
about to change lanes on a lean low fast Sportster
traveling over 100 miles per hour. There's only one
chance to do it right and if you muck it up, well, there
will be plenty of time to regret it while you lay in the
bed of pain and contemplate the place where your
femur came out the side of your leg. Or no time at all,
catapulted forever into that great mysterious Other
Side, off to explore whatever Next Adventure awaits
each of us in that place where no one gets to come
back and tell you how it is...
I'm a film noire detective working on the greatest case
ever imagined. Only one problem, it doesn't pay. Not
even expenses. Not in sheckles anyway. The payoff is
all metaphysical, and that don't make the nut when
rent is due or the bottle of rye is empty and you need
a refill to getchyer head right.
But it's exciting, exhilarating, somedays, between the
bouts of extreme boredom. I've got a Harley, but not
a big fat one like so many guys ride. Mine's slim and
sleek and built for speed. Everything not necessary
for going fast has been stripped off, like the horn and
the turn signals and the mirrors, except for the one
bar end mirror perched way outside of my elbow
where I can check for pursuing cops. Not that I really
need a mirror. Worry about what's in Front of you,
I say. But I make that one concession to the Law. You
don't need turn signals so long as you make all the
proper hand signals, but you must have a mirror.
You're obviously built for speed too, Honey. You'll
look great, a beautiful tail ornament on the back of
the Sporty. Be sure to wear a little pleated short short
skirt and give all the citizens a thrill. Let the vibrations
off that big 74 cubic inch motor percolate and
permeate and get you all wet and hot and sultry
sweaty stanky so when we get back into those trusty
trails and there's no one around and you're stretched
out under that tree with my face buried in your
luscious little snatch you taste so good I'LL be
moaning with pleasure just lapping up your sweet
hot cum as I shove my thumb up your ass and you
buck your hips and arch and dig your nails into my
back and catch your breath with a little squeal of
pleasure, grinding that hot little box into me...
the ones you love just want to be fucked. When
your woman leaves you this is probably the best
song ever."
-- comment on "Can't Find My Way Home"
I'm ancient now, 48 times this old orb has made
it's twisted way around the long circuit. But I'm
still a lusty young man, and the fires still burn.
I've been through the crucible. In my misspent
youth I seemed to have a lot to prove, and prove
it I did. I've still got the scars and broken bones
to show for it.
I ran 127mph on the Harley on a black night on a
flat highway with the Highway Patrol out on the
prowl for me. I jumped in full combat equipment
in the dark from a C-130 aircraft with my face
painted and dressed in camouflage, a killer ready
to kill, Airborne Death From The Sky.
I've tripped, I've loved, I ran hard and fast and
crazy with no regard for life or limb, utterly
unconcerned with the very real possibility I'd be
maimed or killed, a life well established ending
suddenly and violently.
So here I am, miraculously still around, a little
older, slower, not so fast to heal, but much wiser. I'm
the Ram, impetuous, headstrong, charging blindly
into the ambush. Recon, the point man. The
Penetrator, the Gimlet. Now just older and wiser
enough to know when to pull my horns in. Plenty
just like me aren't around any more to tell you
about it, but I am, and I will.
I got my bona fides the Hard Way. I've seen the mean
streets, the dive bars, the alleyways. I was
lucky, and that's no exaggeration. Measure twice, cut
once. I learned that. It's especially true when you're
about to change lanes on a lean low fast Sportster
traveling over 100 miles per hour. There's only one
chance to do it right and if you muck it up, well, there
will be plenty of time to regret it while you lay in the
bed of pain and contemplate the place where your
femur came out the side of your leg. Or no time at all,
catapulted forever into that great mysterious Other
Side, off to explore whatever Next Adventure awaits
each of us in that place where no one gets to come
back and tell you how it is...
I'm a film noire detective working on the greatest case
ever imagined. Only one problem, it doesn't pay. Not
even expenses. Not in sheckles anyway. The payoff is
all metaphysical, and that don't make the nut when
rent is due or the bottle of rye is empty and you need
a refill to getchyer head right.
But it's exciting, exhilarating, somedays, between the
bouts of extreme boredom. I've got a Harley, but not
a big fat one like so many guys ride. Mine's slim and
sleek and built for speed. Everything not necessary
for going fast has been stripped off, like the horn and
the turn signals and the mirrors, except for the one
bar end mirror perched way outside of my elbow
where I can check for pursuing cops. Not that I really
need a mirror. Worry about what's in Front of you,
I say. But I make that one concession to the Law. You
don't need turn signals so long as you make all the
proper hand signals, but you must have a mirror.
You're obviously built for speed too, Honey. You'll
look great, a beautiful tail ornament on the back of
the Sporty. Be sure to wear a little pleated short short
skirt and give all the citizens a thrill. Let the vibrations
off that big 74 cubic inch motor percolate and
permeate and get you all wet and hot and sultry
sweaty stanky so when we get back into those trusty
trails and there's no one around and you're stretched
out under that tree with my face buried in your
luscious little snatch you taste so good I'LL be
moaning with pleasure just lapping up your sweet
hot cum as I shove my thumb up your ass and you
buck your hips and arch and dig your nails into my
back and catch your breath with a little squeal of
pleasure, grinding that hot little box into me...
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Memo From The Sports Desk
Johnny,
Listen you brutal savage, you've scared the shit out
of the cleaning lady for the last time! It's bad enough
you call the editorial offices at all hours, raving in the
phone and frightening the cleaning staff... but the
faxes have gone too far.
Bleeding Christ on a broken crutch that shit isn't even
legal in most states! Plus she's heartbroken. She's
gone all to pieces, she mopes around here for days,
listlessly polishing the meth cookers and mumbling
'Mista Brock, he come soon?' You really got her
hopes up, you evil sot.
I had to take the 12 gauge away from her the
other morning after she woke me up racking shells
into it at the foot of my bed. She struck out at me
like a cornered dog and screamed 'Mista Brock, he
come for Milena, he gonna buy Milena a hat!'
Then she collapsed in the corner, sobbing.
I couldn't get any work out of her all day.
Don't call here! The police have the phones tapped.
Call Sparks, or TS. They've got your shit. It's not
here! We keep the FCN offices clean! Rick Himes
told me he's not returning your calls and to tell
you he's dead.
Robbie Parker is in hiding, the fucking Mounties
have a dragnet out for him and his wife and they
blame you. They said you tried to perform some
kind of king-hell 'medical experiment' on them
and that it turned their skin permanently blue.
The only place they can hide is in the Blue Man
Group -- oops, sorry Robbie, I just blew your
cover...
Listen you brutal savage, you've scared the shit out
of the cleaning lady for the last time! It's bad enough
you call the editorial offices at all hours, raving in the
phone and frightening the cleaning staff... but the
faxes have gone too far.
Bleeding Christ on a broken crutch that shit isn't even
legal in most states! Plus she's heartbroken. She's
gone all to pieces, she mopes around here for days,
listlessly polishing the meth cookers and mumbling
'Mista Brock, he come soon?' You really got her
hopes up, you evil sot.
I had to take the 12 gauge away from her the
other morning after she woke me up racking shells
into it at the foot of my bed. She struck out at me
like a cornered dog and screamed 'Mista Brock, he
come for Milena, he gonna buy Milena a hat!'
Then she collapsed in the corner, sobbing.
I couldn't get any work out of her all day.
Don't call here! The police have the phones tapped.
Call Sparks, or TS. They've got your shit. It's not
here! We keep the FCN offices clean! Rick Himes
told me he's not returning your calls and to tell
you he's dead.
Robbie Parker is in hiding, the fucking Mounties
have a dragnet out for him and his wife and they
blame you. They said you tried to perform some
kind of king-hell 'medical experiment' on them
and that it turned their skin permanently blue.
The only place they can hide is in the Blue Man
Group -- oops, sorry Robbie, I just blew your
cover...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
