blah blah blah, blogger images. blogger faces. pictures of my summer vacation. suck it easy!

some of us are bleeding the stripes that no one recognizes.

tobe keith?!

my fourth was plugged by WORK and POLICE!!

captain fucking america, who shits red white and blue onto osama bin laden toilet paper stymied by the FOURTH?!!


somedays i think it's me, and somedays i think it's us....you'll know when this relationship ends as i will be a something or the other in the United States Army, killing wantonly in a tank. Until then, suck up what i provide because that fuel source is running out and when people like me hit the E, shit happens. the shit that effects your mom and our future. the shit that effects your simple existence. the shit that makes you wish you in greater firearm investment..

fuck it all, i see you boulder junction.

i have relaunched the maximum america blog.

this site lives only so i can post to other ebloggers.

are you my judge?

i got to kill a mouse today. maybe that should be rephrased to sound more well adjusted. i had to kill a mouse today. the punishment for trespass is death. glue traps were set (not my idea, i like the kind that snap the victims neck and kill on impact.) these glue traps are odd. you find the trespassers stuck, fighting for freedom, almost ready to gnaw off their own limbs. it is then your task to kill the mouse. there are both messy options: boot heel, hammer: these seem cruel and unusual, and there is the ted kennedy route. before the exectution, i took a picture of the perp, a sort of mug shot. then i very humanely drown the prisoner in a bucket of warm water. oddly enough the whole process took under 5 minutes and the path to french toast was barely obstructed just detoured. i just want the corpse out of the garage, pronto.

ready to die

ahh, the decay deepens. crappy job, trampy sluts, cheap beer, higher lotto jackpots and yankee post-season victories. who can deny that the world is becoming ugly, unsafe and less holy every waking hour? only fools. elections around the corner. elections for what? the mayor? some judge? basically reminds me of fixing your old jalopy. who cares about replacing the light bulbs in the dash if the god damned engine has a cracked block? but, ney-seyers chime "you have a chance to VOTE in a new engine! he has a horse face and ideas that sound new but are actually the same shit piled differently!" yes, excitement, no doubt. will he rid my america of mc donalds? or fat kids? or DUI check points? or belief that the clippers will ever be competitive? how about crime? can he erase the images burned into my mind, my mental preoccupation with robbing commercial business? how about using extreme prejudice in executing every executive order? probably not. and these are the things that need fixed.

that and our friends dying in a country that equates to the size 12 girl with a lexus and 10 digits in the bank. i want to fuck her, but not because it is a two handed job on those thighs. but this isn't about her future, this is about how i ruined it for all of us; beginning with the admission that i was ready to die.

take me now, lord. i await only your direction to fulfill purpose so you can take me. there is a job at hand, it has been identified. you or me, sucker. we are only awaiting the final verdict. well, in order for that verdict to be carried out an enormous amount of preparation has to be made, physical and mental. i am inching towards the physical end. i get stronger everyday. mental, the arrival was abrupt. but you wake up one day, and simply don't care, but you are glad to have woken up, but it ends there. god didn't kill me today. that means i have another day to prepare myself for final judgment. to prepare myself for my earthly work.

the intermittent goals are self-serving. i want to work 70-hour weeks on the road. i want to have no address, just a po box and a vengeance. i want to see a baseball game everyday from march to november. i want a large cadillac. who gives a fuck? it's preoccupation with these things that caused me to lose america. it's not mine anymore, it's theirs, and they have numbers. what it comes down to is "will jesus ask me to die or kill, FOR AMERICA?" the shadow knows. but if i do i have to do it to RECLAIM my america, not perpetuate theirs. the regret is crushing. it all happened so fast. i was on track, then i wasn't, then it was GONE. was it ever really in hand? perception is reality i suppose. and if one warps so does the other, maybe now it's just warped the direction where my head is upside down in the spoon. previously it was warped where my nose was huge. huge-er.

proliferation. it's gonna be a mexican showdown, 40 ways. personal armies, religious leaders, terrorist, good countries, bad countries, amoral countries who only have there heater out cause everybody else does and it's pointed at somebody. THAT, is not my fault. however, i'm becoming more okay with it because, i'm ready to die, but that how's this whole fiasco started. the point is we all lose.

for my sins

i am truly the decay. since i lost my job, the bulk of my money has been spent on, you guessed it: alcohol and lotto. i might as well get disgustingly obese and watch "friends." can you imagine the pain, when you become the very leech you salted for so long? it makes a man crawl in his skin, and when the options of bettering are to only make it worse first? well, i will stop playing the lotto if i win. i will stop drinking so much if i win the lotto. the solution here is die in a fiery car wreck ala former steeler lineman justin streylzyck. there has to be porn handy.

back-dated

as america's gas prices soar above $2 again, perhaps this simple plan, outlined to my friend nick sandles days before the may 19th, 2004 so called "gas strike" is more portent than ever.

it looks like this may 19th gas strike is really gaining some steam (pun intended. strap on fucker, we're going deep.) nice little grass roots activism. a little stick it to the man. a little "i got your $2 a gallon right here, buddy." cute, but cute alone never got anybody's rocks off. i firmly believe that if we wanna take a chunk out of the high cost of gasoline, a one day boycott is a fucking joke. do you gas up everyday? i drive a cadillac that gets 15 feet to the gallon and i don't gas up everyday. i gas up every 10-14 days. i gotta figure most commuters and people who get email do the same. never more than, on average, once every 7 days. and that's drivers sugar-tits! i got pals who haven't gassed up in months. so let's say that we all gas up once a week. now if a seventh of my pay check was put off by a day, i'd be pissed, but it sure as shit wouldn't really fuck up my cash flow, cause the next day, i'd get it back. delaying the cycle does not stop it. and all these let's not buy gas this day really don't do much. you want to make life interesting and cheaper, just take the fucking bus thursdays. car pool once a week for fun. car pool with the cute girl that works at the coffee shop next door, not with the gassy achtagenarian dry cleaning seamstress. get a fucking diesel car and switch it over to cooking oil. god forbid you just lift up your skirt grab your nuts and deal with the cost of gas, and milk, and honey. biggest way you can hoot and holler about it is putting off buying gas for a DAY? why not just shit out the attic window while i cut three sheets into the large electric fueled wind.

we wanna solve this motherfucker there are gonna be some eggs broken. you can't make an omlette with detonating some homemade explosive in the early hours at an EMPTY filling station with the highest prices in the area. now we're talking! a big fucking thumbs up to the first criminal that blows up a gas station without causing fatalities. if it happens enough until gas cost $1.55 again, who's gonna complain? now get out the poor man's james bond and get your grandmother to open a PO Box to ship these chemicals too, we gotta fight the high cost of KA-BLAAMO!

this is from an email written july 2

my recent enameriation with ink poisoning has passed, as yesterday i was attacked by an emu. one will find that whatever one thinks one is interested in at any point in time suddenly seems meaningless when one encouters a me versus emu situation. an emu attack is slow coming. if you will note in the forth coming photo gallery of the attack, there are multiple photos of me and the emu smiling together just moments before. it is hard to tell that the emu is smiling, but i'm sure digital technology and enlargement will show that the emu and i had been becoming close friends in the early stages after meeting at clyde peeling's reptiland. there is also a camera phone shot moments before the impact that is both impressive and harrowing. although our relationship was breif and this is past tense now, i am certain that had the incident not happened in a well monitored zoo type atmosphere, i would have killed the emu without second thought. my initial violent response was thankfully thwarted by the budd, my companion to clyde peeling's reptiland.

morgage nothing

i will note that this place is for shit anymore. this is probally the eyes of an age-ing young man, but drugs are rampant, the girls look trampy, punk rock is trendy. there is an equally massive gap between parents and children as there is between high school kids and people my age. i blame taking videos off of mtv and re-programming with shows designed to appeal strictly to middle schoolers. never before were kids so overwhelmed with marketing aimed DIRECTLY at them, so now they are super-consumers, high and mighty, defined by $20 trucker caps and cheaply made shirts that display a complete lack of wit and a total endorsement of mass-consumed, brazen, shock humor, which makes it a) not funny and b) simply brazen. but would i ever find a t-shirt that says "jesus is my homie, too, nigga!" not that i want any of this to stop. i guess i like seeing the retirement population offended by just looking at these kids, the baggy pants, the unkempt long hair. and the 16-year-old girls in 6 inch heels and wearing two band aids as a top i guess is okay with me too. everybody said it about everybody else younger. so i actually endorse the whole process, because it IS not cyclical, and in the end we will reach the bottom and kids will be raping there teachers in the classrooms, and the girls will be doing table dances on starbucks display cases with crappy punk-goth-techno blowing out the speakers at the mall.

oatmeal

blogging is a lot like talking smack on wilford brimley. you figure, what the hell harm can it do? the old man's like thousands of miles away and has never even heard of me. lest we not forget he suffers from type 1 "die-a-beat-us." then all of a sudden before you know it, there is the cold barrel of a sawed-off shotgun firmly pressed against your heathing sternum as you lie on your back in your tv room. brimley's at the helm; you can't see his lips move because of the mustache, but the words "we have to talk" will be forever emblazed in your memory. you'd think a moment like this would conjure memories of cocoon and a chuckle would be natural, but you can tell by his look, that he came for business, and it'll be a pleasure to see your bile-filled guts blown all over the walls and leave some shit stained droors for the homicide department to find. one glance into his eyes and you can now see that he is not crazy, he's professional. he's done this before, he'll do it again. and the police won't catch him and don't care to either, they know all about mr. wilford. brimley takes care of brimley. you talk shit and you end up in the predicament you are sweating out right now, sucker. the coroner even jokes about body-bags embroidered with cute little cartoon thought bubbles that read "mess with brimley, die so grimly"

I fucking stink

my room fucking stinks. i mean bad, i leave the window open all the time and it's getting cold at night, but my room still smells. my room in madison smelled funky, but good. it stunk like a clubhouse, it was perfumed with the toxic sweat of a drumming rock demi-god and skoal wintergreen longcut mixed in with pharmacy brand deororant and some faggy green candles. i long for that stench, i can barely even stand my own smell now. kathy gets pissed if i leave my door open cause the smell eminates out into the hall way. she makes gaging motions and sticks her tongue out. it doesn't phase me, cause i know it smells. cigarettes, gym clothes, spitoons, and that smell of trashy bitches makes me angry at the smell. yelling does no good, it just makes my golden piped thorat hoarse from taking exasperating breaths of that god-awful air. i worry now because the car is begining to stink too. gallons of febreeze are great for short burst, what i need is a porn star to fill my car with fresh flowers, and a haz-mat team to hose down my room. my hygenie is pretty decent right now too.

oh-fish-all opener

got a little ahead of myself. like leperacy. hope everything is good. meaning you've seen some car fires and/ or live tits in the past 72 hours. or using rules of addition: some live tits in a car fire, that'd make you more than good, then you'd be A-OK. point is this is a little informative note. i find myself in four cornered rooms begging for a third dimension. what i am given is the thrid dementia. my mind is incoherently fluid now a days. and i am in a rut. blaming myself for the downfall of the world's greatest empire it what was to be my century. the blame load is enourmous. and so i have started the other side things in blog format myself.