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