Attack of the Killa Mike

Late night sessions in P-slim's garage abetted in the background by the elusive BuggaSG brought forth a monster rap which will be unleashed on an unsuspecting populace. The killa mike featured prominantly in the creation process, and we had trouble controlling it. BuggaSG, the main MC, busted some rhymes to define the spine of the lyrical beast, and yours truly contributed a verbal entree to the hip hop feast.

A sample of the monster rap:

To bug or not to bug
Don't even try to aks me
My lyrics are so money
The Feds just wanna tax me
I'm worthy
To bug you all the time
So say, "Crazy mutha bugga!"
When you hear my rhyme...

Here is the latest mix of the beast from monster producer, P-slim.

This Child of NineEleven

Born with the breaking of metal and glass,
I passed through an orifice like a TV screen
Into the bright sheen of a media campaign
Red white and blue red white and blue
As I tumbled to the checkerboard floor in the hospital
Where spin doctors picked me up and cooed
“The truth. The truth. The truth,” they said,
“Is that we love you, our sweet consumer.”

Rumor has it that my garden is full of terror plots
Tilled by nimble fingers that linger over vulnerable power plants
And spots where scant lines of defense are furrowed in dry soil.
Hot days are spent rubbing oil beneath straw hats buzzed by military flybys
Spies are everywhere
Terror is everywhere
White convolvulus blooms, weaving its way into desert sands
Abrams are jammed in a bad gag commute
Hands, tied by ticker tape news,
Outline the rise (and fall) of the price of crude,
Imply democracy while others pay our rent.
Let’s portray sporadic resistance
(Turn your head and cough)
Then in the distance the bombs go off
And everyone bows down to our (fallen) monument.

(Cue music)

Five years on with my umbilical still attached
I come back to the TV for warmth
Your glow of digital manipulation
Mama mama mama
Don’t abandon this child
Stay with me stay with me stay with me
Keep me awake, keep me abreast
With news breaks and shakes of paranoia
Amid earthquakes and floods and the falling stars
Keep me safe in my shell
Keep me safe in my shell
Keep me safe in my shell.

The Wake Up

Gotta get down these moments of clarity
These pieces of me on the greasy cloth seats
The train riders half asleep
Despite electronic beeps and jerks of electricity
Thirty years of diseases and dirt
Left by countless soles rubbing the rug under their feet
Thrive with each minute of human humidity.

The sycophantic backs that circle
The sycophantic backs that stare
Swing their slow legs
Dressed in tidy threads
Business threads still absent of sweat
Shiny with iron marks
Dull in the daylight of the clouded windows

The gray sky turns and stays away
From the lengths of cars speeding towards the hill
The tunnel beckoning suggestively

I have ruminated about life
Over the click clack of tracks
Fluoresced until my eyes watered
Begging for sleep until my head waggled
Watching the line of people wander towards the leftover empty spaces
The fat, the thinning, the old, the aging
Staging their way through measured spans of time
Transitioning through the double-doors to the next car to find a seat
Forgetting their daily decay until they are reminded.

This morning I watch their groggy thoughts stumble and slip
After toothbrush automation
As a prelude to sunglasses half-sleep shaken open by the ride
Their demands are just keys to be pushed repeatedly
Pressed by my fingers in their delivery

Gotta get down these moments of clarity
These pieces of me
Each with a feeling and a memory
Needling nerve endings like a ringing phone
Each alone, but together a symphony.

Today I Threw You Away

In the papers and letters
The stacks of square notes you scrawled
The physics books, the math books,
The dated pamphlets in triplicate,
From the hard candies to the soft socks
I hauled you to the dumpster and threw you away.

Today I coughed what was left of your dust
And sneezed it out into your cave
The white walls your pre-grave
Silent from countless clicks and stares
Your folded chair cold
Despite the hours you played freecell

Today I threw out your old life
Your first wife, your first son
Paid one of your parking tickets
Chucked your debris:
The one-armed reading glasses
The 1945 yearbook
The broken ukulele

I squeezed you out
I wrung you out
I washed and wrapped you
And put you in a box.
I threw you away.

I crushed what was left of you,
Crumpled what was left
Smashed and folded and shredded
Your post partum remains.
I destroyed what was left of your chains,

And today
You are free to go.

Bush on Borders

A little immigration humor for you since the subject could use some about now...

Minimalist Laughs

I never saw Brokeback Mountain...

..And now I don't have to because the bunnies have done a 30 second summary for those of us with short attention spans...

I also like their summary of Pulp Fiction...

Calling all Radioheads

P-Slim is the man.

How he was able to secure a pair of tickets to an upcoming Radiohead concert, I have no idea. Tickets went on sale at 10am. By 10:05 they were all gone...

Discover Your Music's Genome

My wife fowarded me this link which allows people to put in their favorite songs and then find music which is similar in genre. Then it plays the music in sequence like a CD. So far the result is pretty bloody entertaining...

You're Such a Pig

Draw a pig and you'll be told what kind of person you are...

What Song was #1 When You Were Born?

Someone with a great deal of time on his hands put together this website. It's worth a look...

Saturday Morning Nostalgia

I got into a discussion with my co-workers today about Sid and Marty Krofft, the creator of many a memorable Saturday morning kids' show such as: H.R. Pufnstuf, Sigmund and the Sea Monster, and the Land of the Lost. These titles bring back vivid childhood memories of me sitting in front of the black and white TV with a bowl of cheerios and being entertained and confused by the Krofft Supershow with such memorable serials such as Electrawoman and Dynagirl, Wonderbug and the Lost Saucer with Ruth Buzzi and Jim Neighbors (of Gomer Pyle fame at the time before we found out about his "friendship" with Rock Hudson). I even remember going to see the HR Pufnstuf movie at the Seaview Twin theatre in Pacifica.

Those were such innocent days. I felt a pang of nostalgia looking through this website that reminded me of the hours I spent glued to the tube. You can click on the titles of these great shows to see the creativity it took to entertain the children of the 70s...

Also in my searches, I found that they are remaking Land of the Lost into a feature film starring Will Ferrell. Since the original show was the essence of camp, I hope they still carry that through to the production as it is the main reason I would ever part with the money to see it.

ritualized

i placed my trust in her
my thrust in her
her bust bronzed and unforgiving
she stares at my profile
prefering plato to plotinus

her divinity was just a phase
assigned by guilty assignations
motivations to repair
the heat she dissipated
into the dusty books she preferred over me

the bird of madness flaps wet wings
and sings in the cloudy mirror
shower steam swirls like fog
the streams of blood left to memory
drained into pipes and smoked before dawn

with her gone i preserved what i could
and now she is good for ritual

Ways to Describe Someone as Stupid

This is definitely not a conclusive list...

1. A few clowns short of a circus.
2. A few fries short of a happy meal.
3. The wheel's spinning, but the hamster's dead.
4. All foam, no beer.
5. The butter has slipped off his pancake.
6. The cheese slid off his cracker.
7. Body by Sony, brains by Mattel.
8. Warning: Objects in mirror are dumber than they appear.
9. Couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel.
10. Fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.
11. As smart as bait.
12. Doesn't have all his dogs on one leash.
13. Her sewing machine's out of thread.
14. One fruit loop shy of a full bowl.
15. Her antenna doesn't pick up all the channels.
16. His belt doesn't go through all the loops.
17. Proof that evolution CAN go in reverse.
18. Receiver is off the hook.
19. Not wired to code.
20. Skylight leaks a little.
21. Her slinky's kinked.
22. Too much yardage between the goal posts.
23. Got a full 6-pack, but lacks the plastic thingy to hold them together.
24. A photographic memory, but the lens cover is on.
25. During evolution his ancestors were in the control group.
26. Gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming.
27. Is so dense, light bends around her.
28. If brains were taxed, he'd get a rebate.
29. Standing close to her, you can hear the ocean.
30. Some drink from the fountain of knowledge, but he just gargled.
31. One sandwich short of a picnic.
32. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
33. One of her DuraCells is in upside down.
34. His elevator doesn't stop at all the floors.
35. One taco shy of a combo platter.
36. One beer short of a six pack
37. The porchlight's on but no one's home

The Road to Coachella

Last year P-slim pitched the idea of going to this music festival in the Coachella valley as a "boys' weekend out" for some of us to hang out and enjoy the cornucopia of artists in a veritable orgy of music. The thought lasted a short while before the reality of regular life made the idea a pipe dream.

However, through this movie that's doing the festival circuit, I might be able to get a glimpse of what I would have experienced. It's a poor substitute for being there, but at least it is something.

the end of the spectacle

blowflies flit their wings and ovulate
maggotizing flesh in the midst of august nuptials
the first blush of dead blood
on its journey to becoming dust
(nothing more than liquid rust, i'm told)
though the repetition is getting old.

in paris they pray for a giant cunt
to fuck the eiffel tower once and for all
in st louis they pray for the arch to fall
in frisco that god will pry apart the golden gate
and light will expose these late wonders
as nothing more than a publicity stunt

gog and his dog eat pecan pie at nations
his jaw filled with fish hooks fights
washed with libations of soda water wine
hermaphrodite whispers fill skirt hems and straps
sidewalks crack under herr man's weight
promises of six sex annexed by gomer's fear
queer pushes humping sawhorses before gun shots
riddled with cum foreskin fumbled poses
dry humping
wet humping
pumping pneumatic dna mail delivery

of course you're alright baby
the cashmere cardigan hugs your lumps
and love sumps lick the foam from stiff fomentation
next of kin postulate reprobate morticians
drain the hose blood, refill the skin
pack the dead to suit the living's nose
with vitriol octane for the revival.

the savior swills his miller lite
and satan savors a vanilla coffeemate enema
before the fight, the faceless place their bets with cardinal bookies
confessions are at an all time high
so are thighs opened to receive penance
fragrances by mennen leap off the shelves
as obsession sales drop into the abyss
the great reversal as foretold
bold strokes of visionary fools
retooled by market forces felt in wall street

god is a corporation dispensing libations to the creation
too broad for the market?
how about:
god - everything you've always wanted from the beard, and less...

dryheaving dastard's liniments (straddling poohs of derivity)

slumber sticks to me like oil
dark graffiti for my eyes
pulls my fingers into light sockets
tangential to tangerine tangiers tarrantino tangled
queers quell quills quick my underpants are burning
this sicks to ficks the licks a;laskf laksdjf laskjfa;slkfj
i am boring snoring whoring touring blustering
a dullard with map but no wish to burn brun brum
what do ia wanna do wap dee doo doo

she's short on love but long on sex talk
where's my chequebook
fix me some eggs and lox my beechwood birch
could you hand me down a beggar bowl
my penis (or should i say crotch) is buried in the dirt pillorying this confounded vine
vitreous veneer venutian vitruvian vaginosis

alamanda connuculus tweaks her full cleavage until it resembles her ass
until she forgets if she's coming or going (but usually coming)
buttressed against the butler’s butter churner with pneumatic accuracy
delicate digitalis substitute kidney filters
her liver spots lurk under bleach paste
she preens in her pink party dress
coke snot dribbling the scar of her harelip
post nasal drip slipping after the xanax and cognac chaser
she flips her compact and checks the jagged rip of her lipstick luscious lolling perfect

dastard testiculi rocks the foxtail doorknocker mocking shave-n-a-haircut rhythms
jisms in his chinos a propos to his flimsy flick hairdo ego
ergo he knows he's devastatingly erect effecting felonious falafel eating fanfares
alamanda knickerless flicks on the porch light shaped like a pendulous boob
lubes her crotch wrap with cool whip slapped on like a butter boat
coaxes the sticky deadbolt closed then open then closed again
a house shag is always better when distressed dividends dissipate distant dust devils

dastard pulls open his blue van heusen button down and yanks his nipple ring
sings volare and swings his pendulous perfunctory hosebead
until passing out from oxygen deprecations devious anemic deficit
following falling doric delineations ironic into the holly bush
crushing his plush hush puppies with dismorphic rushdies

alamanda eyes her peep show and oils the hinges before opening the door hole
"damn ghost knockers" she mutters and unclasps her cross-your-heart bra
drool dribbles her double chin while she buffs her king clovis crown
corsair whips her wet harelip in the gale moonlight until it gleams

pristine chris green drives by pissed on listerine
observes the scene in the bordello whoreway
careens into a doily store totaling his volvo vagoneer squareback
virgo houses his yugo yogurt until he un-tangos from his wreck
peckering the path with the crumbs of nutterbutters
peanut paste smacking lipscombe larder tongue stuck to his palatial pope dome

"lllluhhhh lmlmhhhll lllluhhh" he mutters lovingly to alamanda's nylon knickerbockers
"well?" alamanda spits in his eyes and spies his lugubrious lovelorn lollygagger
"lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!" he lists about wringing fists and pinching his nip/tucks
"twenty bucks!" she beckons with her latex fuscia beef pole towards the pink hole in the cupola.
he drags his tripod tiddlywinks towards telltale titillation through the doorway
disrobing in flirtatious strips ripped in rope lengths across the foyer.

alamanda connuculus and chris green vaginate vacillate vegetate until daybreak
fossilizing in the deep freeze when the axis flips
and end up as stone chips in the terramundo excavation display on argos 3 circa lun 23059030
admission by free donation of 45 dsplicaboijs to the overlone musalero preldibabthoerean

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end-o

new year new

exploded fireballs are shiny markers between numbers flipped over six channels of regis and half-brained dick discoballs and tongues catching confetti to jutting hips and drunk cops patrolling cleavage gowns split in even halves sequined slits wet with banter swaggering talent greased for cameras sliding between legs of years spitting cigarettes in gutters churning trash party hats twirled from expectations with new orgasms thrust froglike in dark armpits stumbled over sidewalk of vomit puddles splattered in beer spray again again spray beer in splattered puddles of vomit sidewalk over stumbled armpits dark in froglike thrust orgasms new with expectations from twirled hats party trash churning gutters in cigarettes spitting years of legs between sliding cameras for greased talent swaggering banter with wet slits sequined halves even in split gowns cleavage patrolling cops drunk and hips jutting to confetti catching tongues and discoballs dick half-brained and regis of channels six over flipped numbers between markers shiny are fireballs exploded

"Well...

"...the amateur drunks have taken over and will hold this town until Jan. 2…driving on the wrong side of the street, running red lights, bellowing the same songs. Figs of people, twigs of people, shits of people…MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY NEW YEAR. Christomighty, yeah.”

-Bukowski

He talked exactly what I wanted to hear

People may think that Dubya speaks badly due to substandard intelligence. But actually it is all part of the genius of his main speechwriter...