And I was lyke dAAAaaayum! Boi you got it goin on!

Rory McIlmoil is a man of passion ;-) loaded with a shit ton of brains. Like real quality brains that get you thinking and quantifying to come up with creative ways to argue against the gross control that coal companies have over the real dirt poor areas of Appalachia. This guy, man, a real hell of a guy if you ask me, has stood up to the coal industry and called them out on their hegemony that gets people so sore. Like their impact on the state budget of west virginia, they say they give the state all kinds of money in tax revenue, but really they are prevaricating like hell! Those companies really pull the wool over the eyeballs of those states. And Rory, being that real hell of a guy that he is, has really countered this will some real swell research into the truth, like that truth that is actually the truth, unlike that other kind that isn't.

I’m sorry for the way that I am...

I’m sorry for the way that I am, but I guess just get hung up on stygian thoughts. Like, sometimes, I lose myself in images of bleeding wrists and purple lips. Yeah. That would be the life. So dead you didn’t have to worry about anything. If you can’t understand this, then you probably shouldn’t keep reading.

Anyway, I wish I could get into all the surfeit of consumerism and the materialistic securities of my lousy generation, but all that stuff just makes me sore, like something about me isn’t good enough to fit into their no good yuppie lifestyle and their goddamn yuppie clothes.

You know, my mother is always said, you can’t believe anyone, and that is sure as hell the truth. These sybarites walk by me on the streets in their meaningless new clothes that they’re crazy about and they look happy, but they aren’t. I mean, you can see it in the eyes, everybody is compensating for something.

Like Lucy, she is always ranting on about her quixotic dreams of getting her goddamn degree and being a secretary in some stuffy New York office building, but that is just to make up for the fact that she hates her boyfriend Jimmy. You know, people like that make me so sore. They stay in relationships just to get a fuck or two every week at the drive in, but that’s not even why they stay in their relationships- it’s because they are too goddamn scared that no one better will ever come along. That’s all that marriage really is. Settling for what you have because the next set of tits aren’t going to be as great as the one you own now, a way to eshew making yourself better. You can then focus on things to distract you from your worthlessness, like making lousy kids that are going to grow up and think you’re a hypocrite and a real trophy of an asshole. The constant battle to please is a hefty goddamned distraction. You could probably go years, or even lifetimes without even having to place one thought on your own self worthlessness. And then something happens, a heart attack, stroke, or even doing your own self in like a real champ and your life gets truncated off instantly, like a power outage. One stroke of lightning and you’re toast.

What really gets me about life is, the sycophant, you know, a real kiss ass, is going to get the stentorian place in the world, the people that will just roll over and take it from anyone. They are the ones that end up telling us what to do. Like they are the fucking boss. But, you’re not the boss of me. My mind can’t be governed by some tacit sense of mandatory conformity to make me goddamned happy and pleased with myself. Nobody is just happy being themselves. I guess that’s why women exist. There’s nothing like a plump rack to take your mind off of things.

I guess that really what life is about. Finding things to take your mind off of it, like quaffing down some stiff drinks and having a laugh with some of the guys. Yeah, that’s what happiness is.

Vocab Paragraph #5 I'm sorry for the way I am

I’m sorry for the way I am. But it so hard to be so goddamn brainless. Whoever thought this whole living thing up was one sore mother-fucker. You know as soon as you feel like your finally livin’ he truncates your being; he throws you a curveball. Like I knew this guy, boy was he a sybarite and he would go out every night, enjoy himself a lady and the next day be back out on the market. He worked the stock market and he was really a swell guy. Then he met this woman, completely sucked the soul out of him, made him grow up. All the sudden he turned into this bumbling fool, completely mindless. But that’s what broads do to you , I guess; when you find the right one, they suck out your brains and you’re never the same. I guess once you put the ring on her finger, it’s just tacit; you’re owned by something. Like the slaves, they all lost their souls, once they were bought and sold a few times, they had no more humanity; you lose that sparkle in your eye, you’re not whole anymore. Gosh, just thinkin’ about it makes me blue as hell. He was a real pal, he was, before he lost his brain to that girl. When I get thinking about guys like that, you know, real swell guys, I go to that stygian place in my head and those are the days I just wanna sit in my bed all day hating the world. God, that’s been happening more and more and that’s when I get all quixotic. I’ve been considering joining the force lately, becoming a military man. Girl’s really dig that sort of thing in a guy. Yeah, I’ll get myself a girl before I go overseas. And I’ll write her every other day from inside my bunker with the stentorian sounds of war in the background, she can almost feel it through the paper when she reads it. She will be so much in love with me and I will be as much in love with her as a man can really like a woman. I mean I’ve never more than like liked a girl. They are just good for a little shag here, a little neck there. It’s comfortable, you know. Girl’s really dig that sort of thing, when you’re not attached to anything. It makes things easier too, less names to remember and you don’t have a surfeit of lousy girl prattle floating around your brain, taking up space in there you could be using for smarter things. Anyway, back to this girl that would love me. So she’s a real pal, eschews other guys, even though she doesn’t really have to, not for dumb old me. But that’s what girls do, they put themselves through hell for big oafs. And we write and then when my service is finally over and I come back from cross seas, she’s waiting for me at the airport, in her nicest skirt and one of those cardigans that really does good things for her bosom. She even put on stockings; you know a girl really likes you when she puts stockings on. And when I come off the plane, she can’t stand it any longer she missed me so much; she comes running over with the biggest goddamn smile on her face and jumps into my arms. I swing her around and in that moment I become the happiest man alive. Then I put her down, gentle-like, kiss her on the forehead. Man, that’ll do her in, make her weak in the knees. I’ll get down on one knee and propose. She’ll faint because it’s all she’s ever wanted and collapse it my arms, come to, say yes. We’ll kiss and everything will be all over from there I guess. We will live happily ever after. I’ll come home to sandwiches and kids and a clean home and she will love me like every woman should love a man. Good ole whatever her name will be, she really comforts me when I’m down. Yup, that’s how it should work. Instead, all them girls out there, all of them are just sycophants; they tell you how handsome you are and then you buy them a drink, a teddy bear, a fur coat, you neck a bit and then they up and leave you; they strip you of your goddamn soul. And guys like me, we’re all just too yellow too care. Then all us broken guys go to the bar and quaff our yellowness away, get all the yellow out. Once our yellow is out, the blue roles in and that’s when we lose our brains. You know, I think that’s what it’s all about. You’re born, you grow up in this fantasy world as a kid, not thinking anything is ever gonna be wrong ever, and then you grow up a little, get introduced to real people and the world turns on you. Then you lose your brains. No matter who you are, you’re gonna lose your brains sometime. There’s no escaping it. That guy that thought this whole living thing up, what a pal. He’s a a real swell guy.

This weeks Posts will be dedicated to the one we really love, you know, even if he makes us blue as hell

You know, when I think about the environment and fossil fuels, I get blue as hell. And those Green house gas things everybody talks about, some people think those ain't real, but they are. You know, I go outside in my red hat and it makes me sore how much warmer I get now. You know I get all sweaty, but it's not like I'm going to do anything about it. That's the problem nowadays, nobody does anything about anything. Everyone's yellow. The whole world is yellow AND THAT'S WHY GOOD CLIMATE LEGISLATION DOESN'T EXIST YET. BECAUSE OF FREAKS LIKE HOLDEN CAULFIELD.

Putting the otter on the trapeze seemed an ill-advised idea.

Putting the otter on the trapeze seemed an ill-advised idea. However when one is lacking an alternative, how could he object?

Oliver collected. He had a Russian satellite that fell out of space, the pumps Madonna wore for the first concert on her first tour, an impressive collection of bugs that are bigger than a fist, one of Julia Childs’ aprons, an anchor from WWI, the list goes on. The trapeze was the only scrap of sturdy surface left to claim in Oliver’s climate controlled basement.

            Oliver’s friend Dave knew just who to call when he found the dead animal petrified by the dry cold winter. When he received the call he knew he was almost out of space, but his proclivity could not be overcome. Oliver said he’d love to have the specimen and thought that it would be an impressive addition to his petrified lizard and mummified inchoate stillborn kitten and mother cat still attached by the cord.

            Once he was sure that the otter was stable on the circa 1954 High Flyer Trapeze, one of twenty still in existence, he exited the basement walking with heavy steps up the wooden stair case lined with stacks of every National Geographic magazine ever printed.

            Emerging into the kitchen with the powder blue curtains and the oak cabinets carefully designed by his wife last spring, he found her smoking a cigarette in the breakfast nook. His wife Patty was a patient woman. She denied his hedonism of hoarding and acted with proper probity in everything that she did. She insisted on emitting an image of their marriage as a blissful idyll. Her card club was so impressed. She looked up from her crossword puzzle to examine her husband and lowered her eyes again to enter FABFOUR in 36 across with an imitation smile pushing up her cheeks.

            Oliver loved his wife. She let him collect and she made delicious dinners. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect mate. At dinner he would always prattle on to her about the lovely things he had collected and dreamed of collecting, and when she had friends over, she would allow him extra money to go out to the bar with his friends so that her company wouldn’t bore him. He had never had to impugn his wife about anything or prevaricate about the things that he did and wanted to do. Yes, she was tailor fit just for him.

            So when the local museum closed and sold the things they did not gift to other museum collections, Oliver went and spent prodigal amounts of the couple’s money. He bought countless Native American artifacts, an antique wringer, three sets of china from a Charleston high society family- pre civil war, two log cabin quilts, a Bostonian desk from the 18^th century, and a smorgasbord or pictures among other acquirements. His collection no longer fit into his basement and he was forced to expand into the rest of the house. His wife no longer had room to do her crossword puzzles in the kitchen nook, but like the rest of her life, she ignored this imbroglio. She now sat in the middle of pathways running through the house to do her crossword puzzles, and she smoked outside, as to not stain her husbands collection. She stopped being a part of card club and continued her life as a miserable woman, all for the sake of pride.

VP #4 : Putting the otter on the trapeze seemed an ill advised idea

Putting the otter on the trapeze seemed an ill advised idea, but trying to impugn anything Mo thought up was ballsy, to say the least. Mo had an iron stomach, clubs for hands and something like a brain, or rather something like a rock. But, like most walruses, he also had a big heart; Mo had taken them all in without question and given them the closest thing to a home any of them had ever had.

Years ago, the planet warmed and the animals were chased out of their homes by a reckless race, the prodigal species: humans. They had a proclivity for greed, consumption and pop culture; the government prevaricated its patrons to believe that all their wants were needs and soon the forests disappeared, the clouds turned grey and thick, and the ponds became a viscous sludge. And so, the critters that survived The Change fled northward. Because of the limited space available, most of the animals became ruthless, trying to claim as much of the land as possible. The gangs of New York had mirrored themselves in the ecosystems. There was a group celebrating what they called probity, though their moral fiber was questionable; these were the apes. Among others there were the Behemoths, the Aves, the Vermin and the Sliths. Those that were against the segregation were isolated from the community; some became hermits, some perished and others were picked up by traveling bands of animals, like Mo’s. They traveled along the edge of civilization where they could get the most business and hoped they wouldn’t get picked up by a vicious gang or put out by the Fish and Wildlife Service for being in the way. They put on shows for humans and got paid in food and other things they needed. Most people had never seen any animals their whole lives, so the animals didn’t have to work hard to please them. But Mo insisted that the show had to be bigger, better and more “unique” every time they performed.

The otter, better known as Opus, had heeded Mo’s requests; he had put on the pink spandex suit even though the sparkles ruined his rugged persona and he had swung on the trapeze a few times, but this last request was too much. Mo had asked Opus to sing a song and that was the last straw; Opus would never put himself through such an imbroglio. As Opus struggled high above the main stage, Loquacia, the Lory, was prattling on and on to Phoenix, a pheasant, about how her ex-boyfriend had just nested up with a girl and she had already laid four eggs. “What a whore,” she squawked. Loquacia was a fighter; she was raised in a family of eight and was inchoate much longer than her brothers and sisters, thus making her the fireball she was today. Phoenix and Loquacia made for an odd pair; Phoenix practiced hedonism and focused on soothing the self through meditation and herbal remedies, while Loquacia settled her soul by gossiping and pecking things until they bled. Also traveling with them was Stewart (a mild mannered snake that narrowly escaped a nasty fate when he left the Sliths), Beruca (a Beta fish and the chef of the lot), Helena (a hare with a knack for pick-pocketing), Kevin (a very sleepy Koala with a drinking problem), and Praline (a cynical praying mantis who happened to be a lovely violin player).

Mo finished rehearsal early and they gathered for a family meal. Though they had originally come from different cultures and parts of the world, they were family now; they were all they had left in the world. They carried on and made conversation into the late hours of the night and eventually headed for bed. They slept soundly, dreaming of blissful idylls and when the world was unscathed. As they rested, a yellow haze filled their rooms. The Fish and Wildlife Service had found their tent site and closed shop; there was no room for them anymore. They were developing, you see, they needed the housing complexes built by morning and couldn’t wait to wake them up, couldn’t wait to move them out, couldn’t wait for Opus’ last act.

Mr. Chips, More Like Mr. Hips

Me Chips. Puss For Change.
Me Hate fossil fuels but love
low carbon content

Thank heavens for happy people! Climate justice has a friendly face.

So Jimmy's Fleshy Roman Matron and I moseyed our way down to Connecticut two weekends ago, impressing our rides with our articulate grownup vocabulary. We can make poop sound like it has a lot of syllables.  The reason for our journey was The Pricing Carbon conference, the reason for our drooling was James Hansen. However, once we got there, we were absolutely delighted by the presence of this man. James Handley was so refreshing! The smile on his face sparkled in the lecture hall filled with stuffy prudish types. Sadly I didn't get to go to his workshop but I have found out some encouraging information about him. He works for the Carbon Tax Center as a lawyer and his blog says he makes music on the side... He should make music on my bed. I hope he knows how to play percussion.

What a Babe! - Theo Colborn

Dr. Theo Colborn is the founder of the Endocrine Disruption Exchange, a non-profit that is dedicated to getting chemicals, specifically endocrine disruptors out of our homes, our bodies and our environment. She is the author of "Our Stolen Future: Are We Threatening Our Fertility, Intelligence, and Survival?--A Scientific Detective Story" and has done a ton of work on figuring out what the mystery chemicals in fracking fluid are and how they might affect our health. What makes her a babe, you ask? Well, besides the boyish hair cut, glasses and that sparkly smile, she has a bachelors in pharmacy, her masters in science and her pH.D in Zoology and works against those pesky natural gas drillers! What a hotty.

Kittens For A Cause

Please allow me to introduce Neville.
Neville is a young advocate for the Anti-String Sniffers. He has been a dedicated activist since his mom pooped him out. He has picketed in front of numerous String Sniffing conventions and spoken out against string politics. A warrior and also, a softy. He has recently developed a conflict of interest and has fallen in love with his arch nemesis; the string. This shows hope that Big Oil and Gas CEO's could learn how to knit clean energy policies into their work. Neville and his string thing are an inspiration to us all.

Vocab Paragraph #3: I know someone who will soon be under attack...

“I know someone who will soon be under attack,” Secret Agent Man said into the phone.

5 miles away, atop Town Hall, sat Heroic Endeavor Dude, with perfect equanimity, listening to tonight’s first mission. Someone in Mockton was in danger. Secret Agent Man said there was a strange black figure scaling the side of the Mockton Nuclear Research Lab. The Lab had been doing some groundbreaking work on a new weapon. It was said to be the most ultimate weapon in the whole world and Secret Agent Man had been keeping his eye on the Lab for awhile now, knowing that it was only a matter of time before some evil-doer decided to pull some sort of chicanery. And tonight was the night. “I’ll be over in a jiffy,” responded Heroic Endeavor Dude.

Little did they know that lurking in the shadows of the night, only a block away from the Lab, was Good Effort Man. Good Effort Man was an officious character who was erudite with computers and had tapped all the phone and radio lines in the city so he could listen to what was going on. He intercepted every call between Secret Agent Man and Heroic Endeavor Dude. Good Effort Man had no super powers and was a bit clumsy, but he tried really hard. He was the sore in Heroic Endeavor Dude’s side, but had no idea he was being meddlesome, in fact, he thought they had a lot of fun fighting crime together. Good Effort Man had had a penchant for Heroic Endeavor Dude ever since he was a kid and now he just wanted to be part of the action. So every night, around 8 pm, he would top into Secret Agent Man’s phone line and get in on the night’s action. He shut the receiver off, turned on his jet-powered rollerblades and sputtered on over to the Lab.

Meanwhile, Heroic Endeavor Dude was peering into the third story window of the Research Lab where the strange black figure had taken off his mask and revealed himself to be Dr. Destructoid! Destructoid was a vicious enormity who wanted to take over the world and was also Heroic Endeavor Man’s arch enemy. Heroic Endeavor Dude had recently busted him when he had tried to steal the Hubble Telescope. Dr. Destructoid was going to try and use the reflective mirrors of the Telescope and laser technology to make the biggest laser in the entire world. Heroic Endeavor Dude was sure that Dr. Destructoid was here for the weapon and nothing else. From their episodic meetings, Heroic Endeavor Dude had noticed a pattern in Dr. Destructoid’s ways. As soon as Destructoid found what he came for, he liked to reveal his plan and bask in it’s greatness. This is the moment when Heroic Endeavor Dude would attack! He waited patiently in the shadows for his moment of glory.

Good Effort Man was experienceng severe ennui waiting for Heroic Endeavor Dude to make his first move. “What was he waiting for?” he thought, “Maybe Heroic Endeavor Dude was waiting for him to make the first move.” He assumed this to be true, turned his jet-powered rollerblades to the vertical setting and prematurely ejaculated into the third story window with the weapon and Destructoid.

“How nice to see you again.” equivocated Heroic Endeavor Dude as he watched Good Effort Man foil his plans once again. He went inside and saw Good Effort Man and Destructoid sprawled on the floor; Good Effort Man had taken himself and Destructoid out when he zoomed through the window. There was an odd ticking sound too. The source of the eerie ticking was the weapon. There was only five seconds left on the timer; Heroic Endeavor Dude looked at the weapon in defeat, knowing it was all over. A tear rolled down his cheek and he uttered a final epithet, “Shit Weazle.” And BAZOW! The weapon opened up a black hole and the world was swallowed whole, sucked into another dimension, never to be seen again.

Babe Alert! Nathan Hall

I'm reading a book called Something's Rising. It's an oral history of various people affected by mountain top removal. Today I read Nathan's story. Reading his clearly reasoned thoughts about how he thinks MTR is going to be changed made me want more than anything to intern in his bedroom. Rar-wer. He is rational and realistic, yet is still incredibly optimistic about changing the coal based economy in eastern Kentucky. He graduated last year with a degree in Sustainable Agriculture from Berea College and received a grant to help him with the business he started East Kentucky Biodiesel. So, if anyone knows how to apply for that internship, let me know!

Vocab Paragraph 3: I know someone who will soon be under attack...

I know someone who is about to be under attack. His name is John Crichton, AN ASTRONAUT! He has a penchant for Aeryn, a prudish, bad ass, geek's wet dream type. Little does he know that she is about to perform an enormity on their friendship.
Aeryn is about to prove herself a master of chicanery. She has already washed her hands and applied saliva to her finger, AN INDEX FINGER! Her hand is behind her back and she is now engaging in equivocate conversation with her target. "Crichton, you aren't terribly ugly and stupid, and I may not hate you." A bat of the eyelashes and John Crichton is entirely unsuspecting.
Aeryn clicked her super serious leather boots as she walked with confidence and leisure behind the dull man and swiftly made her attack. She really swirled it around in there. John Crichton's eyes popped wide open as he quickly lost his equanimity.
"What the hell are you doing you ding dong? Hello!! That's my freaking EAR!" He cried in outrage of Aeryn's officious act.
"Oh, you'll live you big baby. Pilot needs to speak with you. He asked me to alert you," she paused to chuckle. "I assume you are free to come?"
"Huh? Yeah, sure. Let's get it over with." John started walking through Moya's corridors to see what pilot needed. He was nearly there when D'Argo tackled him to the ground, knocking him out, and began yelling Luxan epithets at his unconscious victim. Chiana and Aeryn soon joined D'Argo in the corridor.
"This is for every arrogant and idiotic thing you have ever said in my presence," said D'Argo.
The erudite Zhaan walked in on the scene as Chiana and Aeryn were tying Crichton up. "Oh Good! I was suffering from ennui in my meditating room. Finally! Something to do!" said Zhaan in her usual regal tone.
Crichton began to regain consciousness and episodic irrelevant colloquial human phrases began to stumble off his lips.
"Quick! Destroy him! I can hear no more of it!" shouted D'Argo.
Aeryn responded with her warrior instincts and smashed his skull in with her right booted foot.
"Oh thank the goddess!" ejaculated Zhaan as they all exhaled a long awaited sigh of relief.

Babelicious Part Two: Director Josh Fox

Allow me to introduce to you Josh Fox, a film director and founder of the International WOW company. Besides being incredibly handsome, he has also recently directed a very influential film called "Gasland." "Gasland" is about the booming Natural Gas industry and how it is killing thousands of people around the country through a dangerous extraction process called hydraulic fracturing. He has been traveling the country letting people know about the terrible consequences of fracking. He turned down $100,000 from the a natural gas company to drill on his land in Northern PA; I don't know that there is anything more attractive than turning down cash from Big Oil &Gas, except maybe those glasses...

Vocab Paragraph#2: He had finally captured it...

He had finally captured it, the very essence of the character. Giorgio was cast as a 1950’s dilettante named Norm. It was his best friend’s first play and he would have felt bad to turn down the part, even if Norm was an egotistical goober. The play was called “Owlton: An Opus to Obdurateness;” it was about a town, fully populated with dogmatic denizens who only stayed in the town because they were afraid of the diverse thinking of the outside world. Let’s just say, it was full of rowdy arguments, asinine asides, and long-winded doggerel. While there was some witty dialogue and a few heart-wrenching ballads, the script was sloppily put together, much like most of the cast. Giorgio was a professional community theatre actor (he had played Scrooge the last 5 years in the Christmas Special) and the cast was full of know-it-all amateurs straight out of college. The advice he gave them, didactic in nature, was often misconstrued to be nit-picking, nagging, or negligent. The children, as he liked to call them, will realize, once they had seen Giorgio in action, that they were stupid to demur his most helpful advice. His stress seemed to follow an exponential curve as the play progressed and rehearsals began to get longer. His friend knew he was a talented actor and had allowed Giorgio a lot of freedom in the interpretation of all that was Norm. Giorgio had been struggling with being Norm for the entire production and he had finally captured it, the essence of the character. It had come to him as he was practicing Norm’s soliloquy in the final scene. Norm had just realized that he could leave the partisan ways of Owlton and live with other people and had finally come to terms with who he was and exculpated all conflicts; then he bursts into a yowl of pure realization, Norm is Norm! The play closes on his final sound ejaculation. And as Giorgio screamed, his body distended and he found Norm, too. On opening night, Giorgio was giddy for the last scene; he knew it was his best. He had felt like an outcast throughout the entire production, and in that final wily dirge, as if to gainsay all the children’s contempt for him, Giorgio howled into the night, into the audience, into himself. He left Owlton to explore the world; he would be more than a professional community theatre actor, he would be a star.