Sunday, May 29, 2011

Raw Fish Leaves Bad Taste in Mouth

One hundred and twelve of the nation's 'Tsunami' sushi restaurants have already changed their name following the devastating wave that hit Japan last month. A further two hundred are said to be considering a change.
"It makes sense," said a local man on the high street yesterday as he watched an Asian man on a ladder pull down a large neon wave from the front of a small restaurant that promised the number one sushi in town. “You don’t want to associate your food with such a tragedy, I guess it’s disrespectful somehow.”
Patrons at a nearby bar were heard to speculate further. “You don’t want to remind people of nuclear waste and washed up corpses when you’re serving a raw, pungent smelling product,” said a hip young man with large lamb chop sideburns.
       “You can’t blame them," added the bar man who was attending night classes in Business Administration. "A BBQ place is going to do more business trading as ‘Squealers,’ than ‘The Tortured Pig', it’s just simple marketing.”
The American Association of Restaurateurs issued a call for support from the dining public. “Please don’t let the images of all the recent ocean based disasters, the gulf oil spill or the recent Tsunami which cracked open several nuclear reactors, stop you from eating fish. Yes the water is contaminated. But the ocean has always been the dumping ground for dead bodies, fecal waste and dangerous chemicals and it hasn’t stopped millions enjoying all kinds of fish or sushi before and it shouldn’t do so now.”
At the Tsunami Bar and Grill in Orange County business remained bullish and there were no plans to change the name. Chef Parson Hughes said he doubted anything would stop people eating sushi, “the dangerous mercury levels in Salmon, the fact that the entire fish market is controlled by the True World Group which is a front for the cult led by the Rev. Sun Myung Moon, the routine slaughter of dolphins as revealed in films like The Cove, none of it matters. People just don’t care. As long as they can fill their fat faces and get stoned on sake they just can’t get enough of this shit.”

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Classy


The bar had no restroom signs
Anywhere to be seen
There were just a couple of unmarked doors
Down a dirty corridor
One had two doorknockers on it
At chest height
The other had two baseballs
Embedded just below the waist.

It actually took me a couple of minutes to work it out.

The doorknockers were slightly uneven
Suggestive of the real woman perhaps?
As opposed to the ludicrous
Fabricated porn star ideal
But lets acknowledge
That the real woman
Includes the grotesque
Just as much as the one
Born of monstrous fantasy

And the real man
May indeed have baseball balls
That’s not to say,
Huge and hard and powerful,
But rather:
Fetishized homoerotic objects
Of childish hierarchy-setting
Game play
That should be hit with bits of wood.

Two pints later I paid another visit
And found a girl
Pondering the riddle of the doors
I chose the balls
And as the door closed behind me
I heard her laughing
And calling to her friends

After I’d finished
I went outside and found the girl
And two others, still laughing
Taking pictures of the doors
With their super smart phones
Bouncing the balls and knockers
Off Satellites in space and into
The lives of other friends
Boyfriends
And beyond

Before E-harmony there was Pee-harmony

I went back to my seat
Wondering how many couples had met
Trying to find the restrooms
Tipsy and unable
To decipher the door symbols
And if any of them were still together
Married
With kids
Living happily in the suburbs
Their young daughters growing up
Polishing their knockers
Against the carnival buffers
Of our culture
Their young boys growing up
Playing with their balls
Struggling to comprehend
(in strong silence)
What it’s supposed to mean
To be a man.

I'm sure future generations
Will look back on us with pity
And reclassify our civilization
As only semi-intelligent

And not because of knockers
And balls on a door
But because we are dissatisfied
And are always wanting more
Stretched out too tight
Like a violin string
Snapping in the middle
Of the infinite concerto
Unable to enjoy
The chorus
Or the silence
The choir of man
Barking
Whimpering
Half mad and full mad
Growing hair
Shaving hair
Master of electricity
Slave to any easy delusion
Stuck between animal and immortal
Our brains squirming like Proteus
The minor Grecian Sea God
Who possessed the power of prophecy
But always assumed different shapes
To avoid answering questions

Proteus, our savior
Take the signs off
All the doors
Let us step back in confusion
For a moment
Into animal simplicity
And lose ourselves in the truth
Of Species-hood
Free from the mean narcotic
Of individuality.



Later
I would drink more
Insult people in my mind
Lose my keys
Then laugh with friends
Spill red wine on my shoes
And drool in my sleep
Classy.


Monday, April 11, 2011

Unusual Road Signs

Government Created Dustbowl
This Section of Highway was Cleaned by Gays
No Shaving
Cheap Divorce Lawyer
Beat D.U.I.
The Giant Wishing Toilet
Hay HAY!
Shame Evacuation Zone
Snakes
Thirsty Mexican Sharecroppers
Alien Jerky
Dinosaur Bones
Nudes
Beardless Services
Fire Automatic Weapons
Cactus Heaven
Log Cabins Made From Real Logs
Zzyzx
Butterfly Migration Zone
The World's Largest Thermometer
Turn Turn Turn
Apathy
Exodus 21:7-11
Charming Fireside Drunks $6.99 LB

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Beggar's Banquet

“Can I have seventy five cents?” asked the beggar. He’d edged up to us as we waited to get served at our local taco stand.
 
I never pony up but this guy caught me unawares. He had an egg shaped head with loose jelly like eyes. There was something strangely soulful about him. Like a street after a carnival, a lone flower in an overgrown cemetery,  a page of a telephone book lying in the gutter.

His music was low Spanish guitar.

“The old seventy-five cent trick eh?” I said.

I gave him a dollar.

He took it and walked off slowly, hobbling, the anvil of the street dragging at his heels. The way some homeless move.  It’s no joke living on the streets, even in sunny California.

I hardly ever give them money and it’s so ingrained in me now they hardly seem to ask.

Drip, drip, drip. One thousand bums asking your best stony face for a dime. Then they stop. Then one night. Outside the taco stand. One appears, hobbling, sounding like a low Spanish guitar. Feeble. With jelly eyes and I nearly forgot, a cleft palate. How could I miss that?

He had a cleft palate like Dracula’s henchman. Like a close up of a flower bulb painted by Georgia O’Keefe. Like a split sausage.

A dollar. What’s a dollar? I’m poor but I’m not that poor. It’s nothing really.

I guess it was Knut Hamsun’s fault. I’d just read The Women at the Pump and was feeling sentimental for the struggle of my fellow man, my eyes pulled open afresh to life’s delicious tragedy by the old Norwegian.

My wife ordered a veggie burrito. I’d eaten earlier but it was late now so I succumbed to a taco. How can you resist. Resistance is futile.

La Posta. La Posta. You golden jewel on Third and Washington. Constantly sweating out a enticing aroma fried spices. Really good burritos, tacos and tammales. Carnitas, Carne Asada, Adobaba. Gulp, munch, drool. White crumbly Cotija cheese with cheddar and cilantro and fresh tomato and guacamole. Thank God for Mexico.

“Gracias. Gracias. Gracias.”

I haven’t tried the fish taco yet and I don’t think I will. The meat options are too damn good and I’ve been spoilt by the other places near the beaches that serve up whole lobster tails fried in butter. After this, battered white fish seems to me to be a step backwards.

The place is open 24hours and it’s so cheap they are practically giving the food away.

Always people hanging around. A real mix. Sun roasted millionaires from Mission Hills, old gay men clutching Pomeranians, bag ladies, cops, escapees from the local hospital in gowns buttoned up the back, sometimes with drips still attached to their arms, Drs and nurses,  on their lunch break, looking the other way…

And tonight, the beggar with the cleft palate who is coming back I see, slowly. Ever so slowly.

Deja-vu. The same routine all over again. As if him tapping me up barely a minute ago never happened. Drip Drip Drip. What the f…?

“Can you spare seventy-five cents?”

“I just gave you a dollar.”

“Please.”

“No.”

And then a curious but obvious thing happened. He actually started to beg, I mean really beg. Contorting his face in a childish and sickeningly soft-headed way. Grotesque. Like a child. Like a gargoyle. Like a spoiled child you hate. Like a spoiled child in a supermarket.

“Pwwweeeeeesseeee,   Pwwweeeeeesseeee,”

“NO.”

He stopped and shuffled on to a new guy who had arrived at the stand. Mr lemon yellow Pringle sweater.  As soon as the guy saw him coming he narrowed his eyes. The perfect city face. The beggar paused momentarily, saw what the new mark had done to his face and hobbled quietly on his way.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

The Baby Sculptors



Architecture can be very informative, if you pay attention. This piece is illustrative of why you should never let babies play with masonry tools. Man has long sought to harness the crazy energy of children but there's a reason why you find them in sweat shops in the third world making your sneakers while it is the Mexican adult migrants who lay your patios and mix your cement.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

The Revolution in Three Status Updates

Egypt. Revolutions always make me emotional. It's the hopes and dreams of the people that get me every time. Mass non-compliance with the corrupt system, it's the only way.
February 11 at 10:06am

Can't take the Bahrain protests seriously. Every time the reporters say 'Manama', my brain responds with 'Do do de de do'. Manama - Do do de do do. 'Six people were killed in Manama - Do do de do do de de de de do de do do do do de do'. Too much exposure to Muppet based propaganda in my formative years I fear.
February 20 at 12:54pm

WHOA, Middle East, $3.75 for a gallon of gas? Just hold on a minute. You know freedom and democracy is really overrated, look at Detroit, over two hundred years of freedom and democracy and it's like the dark wasted city from Robocop. ;)
February 22 at 10:03pm

Thursday, February 17, 2011

The Short Con, The Long Con, The Eternal Con: Judgement Day 2011

"The priests of the different religious sects... dread the advance of science as witches do the approach of daylight, and scowl on the fatal harbinger announcing the subdivision of the duperies on which they live." ~Thomas Jefferson


  I met a woman in the park on Sunday who said the world was going to end. She was a Christian. I tried to talk some sense into her but it’s sad and maddening talking to religious people. They are hypocrites who barely know their own history and have such a blind and selective view of the bible and the world as to exist in a frightening bubble of delusion.

  She was wearing a sandwich board declaring Judgment Day to be May 21st this year. She had it all worked out since she’d read a couple of pamphlets from the eBible Fellowship and the Family Radio people. I asked her a few questions and discovered she totally actually believed the world was going to end. It was astounding, in this day and age, with so much information available to people… Anyway, rivers of blood are booked in for June. The raising of the dead is scheduled for August, probably to take advantage of the summer weather so it’s not so hard on their decayed bodies to sleep outdoors.

“But what if it doesn’t happen?” I asked.

“It is going to happen,” she said.

“You know it’s been predicted before. A lot actually. By a lot of religious crooks. It’s a con to get you to give the church money and grow the flock.”

“It says it’s going to happen in the Bible.”

“Lady, it says a lot of things in the Bible. Like in Luke, where Jesus says twice that you have to give up and sell everything you own.” My knowledge of the gospel of Luke stunned her a little so I pressed on. “Have you sold everything? Because if J-day is really coming, you’re running out of time.”
She was troubled. “We’re working on it,” she said.

“Are you sure? Have you sold your car?”

“No... I use it to get to my Grand Children,” she said. She was suddenly quite emotional but I wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

“Jesus is very emphatic about it, you must sell everything.”

  It was clearly ringing bells with her, the scumbags from the Cult of Christ were obviously hitting her with this stick already. I began to feel a little sympathetic but then I asked her if she read Hebrew and knew the origins of the man-made Bible and she said she didn’t but that it didn’t matter. Then I asked her about the existence of dinosaurs and she said that dinosaurs were still amongst us. My jaw hit the floor. I looked around, the park was all there, I wasn't dreaming. She really was batshit crazy.

  Get this, the Geckos you see running around would grow as big as the T-Rex but for a global conspiracy of Scientists killing them off before they can reach full size.

   NUTS.

  You live a life and you try your best, to be good, to hold things in perspective, slowly shaking off the monstrous burden of animal appetites and ignorance through the slow evolution of human intelligence. And on most days it all kind of makes sense, and there's hope. And then you meet a woman who not only believes the world is going to end but that there is a global conspiracy by scientists to suppress the existence of dinosaurs. There just aren't enough psych wards and padded cells to deal with the religious. What can you do with people like this? I’m used to debating with all faiths on various sites on the Internet but this was something else. This was sheer bloody-minded imbecility. She's going to get all shes got coming to her. I hope they take her for every last penny.

  Her sign was covered in quotes from the Old Testament.

  “In Leviticus,” I said, “it says: ‘A man or a woman who acts as a medium or fortuneteller shall be put to death by stoning’ clearly, by your own rules you should stone yourself to death for predicting the future.”

  She smiled slyly. “I’m not acting as fortuneteller. What I say comes from God...”

  What can you do with these pricks? The old Son of Sam / God made me do it defense. They pick and choose which bits of the Bible to believe, the small obscure bits condemning gays are true but the clear commands of Jesus telling them to sell all they own are not. The bit about stoning people to death who work on the Sabbath is ignored but Judgment Day is coming. Jesus is all powerful and will answer your prayers and yet the power of prayer does not work at all and they have to create crazy elaborate excuses for the existence of suffering in the world, for example: it’s a test for Christians. It is in such a way that they all quietly slide in step with the congregation from the repulsive Westboro Baptist Church. Acting as a fortuneteller and predicting the end of the world which should get you stoned along with the homosexuals you want to stone is unashamedly sidestepped because it’s not them who’s being a fortune teller, it’s God.

  You point at the paradoxes in their beliefs and they blink like bovine and go right on preaching the faith while fucking up the world. You point out that science delivers where prayer does not and they smile and continue to thank Jesus for the gift of electricity and hummers and the military. Science puts planes in the air and religion flies them into buildings. It’s disgusting.

  And now. In 2011. In one of the most technologically advanced nations that humanity has ever seen. We’ve got the classic replaying of one of the most obvious Short Cons of all time: Judgment Day.

  As you read this, the eBible Fellowship is driving a caravan of buses across the country covered in slogans like: 'awesome news: the end of the world is almost here'. They are gathering in public places, pushing their leaflets and flawed Bible based bullshit onto anyone who gets near.

  It’s just like: 90CE / 500CE / 1000CE / 1284CE (Pope Innocent’s J-day, conjured by adding 666 years onto the foundation date of Islam) / 1669 CE (20,000 Old believers in Russia burned themselves to death to protect themselves from the anti-Christ) 1689CE / 1794 (Charles Wesley’s year) / 1891 (Joseph Smith’s)… all over again. Or, if you’re a Jehovah’s Witness: 1914, 1915, 1918, 1920, 1925, 1941, 1975, 1994…

  This Short Con like this really shouldn’t work in this day and age. The contradictions of the Bible are clear to anyone who has a drop of critical thinking in their heads. But the con is working. The weak and the vulnerable are giving over cash.

  I’ve been in touch with the eBible people and in a bombastic attempt to stand up for the weak of mind, warned them they are going to have to account for every penny next year, when the world hasn’t ended. I got a quick reply back from one of their leading lights, a man called Chris Mccann. He quoted the Bible at me and told me they were a non-profit organization. Their website is pretty slick though, a bet he pays himself a massive fee for running it. ‘Operating Costs’ they call it. Fucking jokers. Why are we not taxing these goons? When can we hold them accountable?

  The Catholic church gained a lot of its wealth with this Short Con in the early years. Now they stick mainly to Long Cons like indulgence selling. You can buy your way into heaven don’t you know. They had stopped doing this after much criticism but have started doing it again in the past couple of years since they have lost so much money paying off the families of the children they’ve raped all over the world, (one billion and counting - oh come all ye faithful drop off your pennies for the pedophiles). It’s a Long Con since the people who are cheated, are dead when they discover the money they gave did not buy them or their friends and relatives out of purgatory.

  The Short Con is much more of a mugging. The victim will know they have been conned when, say, the magic beans do not grow a giant beanstalk or that Judgment Day does not happen. The Short Con should have repercussions on the con artist. They normally have to get out of town and change their name. On May 22nd, these people should be held to account. In November, after they say the world will have definitively ended. We should freeze their bank accounts and repossess their cars.

  I’m a good person and I do not need to invent an imaginary friend to make me be a good person. Nobody does. It’s time, the religious must be held accountable. The Sky Fairy can’t do it, since he doesn’t exist. We need to protect the weak from exploitation.

  Who’s with me? Grab your cyber-pitchforks and let’s storm the castle. If we can deal with this pathetic Short Con we can perhaps go for a bigger one next: The Eternal Con, that is religion itself.