Yellow mustard is possibly the greatest invention ever. It is made from the ground seeds of a mustard plant, and it is the only mustard that is least likely to make the eyes water or inflame ones nasal passages. That and it’s FUCKING DE-LISH! Seriously, when I was a kid I hated it and now I could gargle it. I’m just mad about mustard. It could be the only condiment in my abode and I would suffer no doldrums.
Here is a poem that hath been inspired by mustard:
Symbiotic appleseed Johnny loveless
Morose torso low forty duckets
Pension guaranteed sinister cooperation
Member at attention in a yellow situation
Smarty mouth
This is a green plug for my podcast that I decided to create last night while considerably inebriated. Check`er out:
Dreams and reality are now undistinguishable. I have been living the life of a sensation-monger, constantly seeking new ways to explore my deranged mind. Being broke and not having any good connections for psychotropic drugs is a bummer. When your broke and addicted to cigarettes, it doesn’t seem disgusting or depraved to prowl around outside malls or grocery stores looking for half smoked butts.
To see how much of a man you are take as much DXM and alcohol as possible and try to run your planned errands. I did this tonight and I am running back and forth from my computer to my toilet. You have to learn to love the smell of toilet water if you throw up as much as I do. One must make friends with the half digested Doritos in the toilet. The smell must be acknowledged as that of a rose, or a delicious meal that is beckoning your call from the kitchen.
My reputation in the town that I live in is completely alien to me. That is to say, I don’t know what I have or have not done. I go into bars and see girls that slap me in the face and tell me that I put my hands around their throat in some past transgression. People try to sell me paintings telling me that they have sold to me before! A very good caricature of Barrack Obama is what this man is trying to sell me, but I just wanted to compliment him on his work. I have no money, I am broke.
I feel like I have been out of town for a few years and my doppelganger came to town and caused all sorts of havoc. It is really just all the drugs I know, that have fucked up my memories. But whatever I have done, and have yet to do, I will always be a-sinnin.
When I cant think of anything to write I lay my head down on my desk and play with the loose skin around my nut sack. And then I envision a world that I could deal with in a fun way. A world where all of the funds that go towards creating weapons for the military (for killing people), instead go towards advancing technology in: space travel, feeding the homeless, and scientific studies of opening more of our brains lucid functionality.
If it was possible to open up all of our communication valves in our brains, then us humans could quite possibly use extrasensory perception to communicate as a whole and come to some damn conclusion as to how to live together happily. This is not the case right now, but I have a feeling that if we put as much money that goes into war paraphernalia into brain science, then we could make some breakthroughs.
Sitting in a seat at a movie theater semen flowing out of puss pudding, Intestine bile bubbling on your mom in San Francisco. Burn a hole for the stomach acid and damn it hurts. Taking a breath is like dodging cowards. Proper way to write innit? Mustard on your shirt and collar. Your half deaf and too fatigued to breathe. Your teeth clench and grate. Holding back the urge to lay in the shower and puke…
Cinderella/ don’t get up tight/ just send franklin/ up his kite/ telegraph the dynamite/ The hunger hurts wonders/ the mother gives birth/masterbate for hate/lacerate the earth/
Refreshing when your face is not sure if its got a cold. Hunchback could be done in London. Thinking of war and shows, or where they go? Rome is rotting.
Forensic shadows alien plateau/ symbiotic lovely relationship/ im great and im hip/ eternal suntan/jump ship/ daddy long legs/ I heard they couldn’t kill you/ but they still got the strong poison/ I stay shew/ funny fake the most intense wank.
this is the very rough draft of the first two paragraphs of a satirical short story that I am writing. Lemme know what you think! (I know that not much is going on here, but a story does eventually unfold I promise!)
Everyone is at a disadvantage. Thinking without speaking, sleeping without drinking, moving adjacent to purpose. Pelicans carry only their purpose and dissections prove that humans carry more than they need, similar to what they find in the stomachs of sharks. Thomas McLeod often envisions perennial societies making excuses for every new unethical law that they pass. He would write his thoughts down more often if he agreed that his ramblings paralleled the society that he lives in. It does, in fact, resemble much of the current state of things, but the untouchable and unpopular beliefs that he carries are not fully understood by him. Anyways, Thomas likes enigmas, and conclusions are always a bit of a let down, yes… it is better to keep pondering without making sense of it all, who knows, you might revise your theories four or five times in the future. Never come to a conclusion, never wrap it all up, that’s what he concluded.
Thomas had gone over a thousand times in his head what he was going to say to them, he dreaded the embarrassment of stumbling during his time to shine. He figured the best way to grab his audience was to skip any pleasantries and open with a bang. With the torch passed, he gathered his thoughts, hoping that he’d perfected his prepared monologue enough to make him feel omnipotent for a short time at least, and then he began. “Indulge like a roman in the most heretical and left-field theories ever conceived to completely fuck your mind up! One could achieve a master’s degree in philosophy and still be less confused and disorientated than a person who has devoted himself to entheogenic essays and theories on theology, cosmology, and shamanic principles. These beliefs that many of us hold and devote ourselves to like religions are all in all irrelevant. If we want to build a new society with the motive of truth, equality, and just law, we must dismiss even the beliefs that we agree upon as unworthy to our true goal. Our goal folks is to fight for a new way of living for the worthy, the proletariats… for us!
Let me say that I understand and accept metro-sexuality. I do not personally care whether my shirt is goodwill or Gucci, or if my shoes look like their talking when I walk, but I do not judge. What I can’t quite get my head around is seeing television shows, movies, and now even books that have heterosexual men flaunting their half-million dollar necklaces and earrings. There are music videos with barely clothed women lap-dancing on men with more jewelry (sorry, Bling) on than the queen of England. Manicures, pedicures, intricately cut hairstyles, and tanning are…masculine? I must have missed that meeting. There is a common stereotype that many women like to shop when they are feeling depressed, therefore filling an emotional void with material possessions which give them a false sense of worth, which in the end just makes them more emotionally empty. I am not saying that most women do this, but I have had a lot of them tell me that shopping makes them feel better, I have never heard a male say this to me though. Why then is there this surge in heterosexual men decking themselves out in so many rubies and diamonds? Is it to get girls? I doubt that very many women find it attractive to see men adorned with nicer accessories than them. Is it to show off their wealth? I would like to jettison myself off of this planet with the aid of a high powered cannon if we are getting that materialistic. Could it be that this obsession with “ice” is just so that these men can cover up some deep emotional hole? Who really knows why some people do the things that they do, this is a diverse world and I like it that way. In my opinion, “Bling” is nothing but jewelry for men, take it for what you will.
Preface: The flollowing is a rant, a mean fucked up one, I typed it in about 2 minutes while drunk and mad at something. I would never harm another human being (except in self defense).
That being said…
Little spoiled cunts need to have their faces smashed into a door and their assholes fucked with crowbars. This goes for girls and guys, the ones that I see at 16 years of age driving around in brand new Lincoln Navigators with “princess” or “Dave Matthews” stickers on them. These people with their “drama” that control and fuel their terribly empty existences, where the tragedy of the day is that one of their friends deleted them off of myspace, and their phones don’t have the capability to satisfy them sexually (stick them up their asses and put them on vibrate?). The fact that science is actually helping people become less human, less connected with themselves, instead of working diligently at getting us off of this polluted planet makes me want to throw up in a glass and swallow it back down. What would some of these sheep be without their online personas? Without their cars and phones and fake tits? I can imagine a scene of rapid devolution, many people uttering broken phrases and trying to scratch their skulls (which they couldn’t get to do to overuse of hair products) while slowly grouping together with whoever they come across, and walking aimlessly until they all tumble off of a cliff. This all could just be an overblown fantasy of mine, but I bet the scene would be quite grand.
I am a well paid lawyer and I hate sex. I hate having to get undressed for what, seven minutes, and getting dressed again. You could be completely comfortable in bed, in a nice semi warm room, you feel great and at ease, then you have sex and you get all sweaty and hot and you gotta fuckin sleep naked and turn the fan on high blast and pull the covers off, its ridiculous.
Then you wake up in the middle of the night shivering and cold, gotta pull the covers up tight around your neck or brave the cold and put on pajamas. I never get a good night’s sleep when I have sex, and I am always groggy and disoriented for work the next day. I cannot be bothered to shave or press my suit in the mornings which I was taught to do by my father, and always gave me a great feeling before a workday. If I have time to wash my face in the mornings after a night of sex I consider myself lucky.
I can only shave and get ready properly when I don’t fuck… god even the word makes me want to be abstinent. Of course if I didn’t have a sex life I would be the butt of jokes for my colleagues. No, if I have sex the night before I never have time for my Starbucks or my bagel which practically gets me through the day at work.
I usually like to have a morning smoke with my next-door neighbor who is a mechanic; he always has funny anecdotes about the idiotic clientele he gets. No time for anything I like to do when I have sex the night before. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t despise the act, I just don’t think its worth my time. If I am to be the best I can be I need to be efficient! Last week I even had to miss a shiatsu massage that I had planned before work, that one would have made my whole workweek way more relaxed and pleasant.
Tonight I have a date so with Elizabeth from accounting; she is the prettiest accountant in the office so I would be an idiot not to go for it. If it goes good, well bad in my opinion, then ill probably be pretty grumpy tomorrow.
After literally months of searching for a job, I think I am about to get hired at Coldstone. I got an interview and it all went well so now I just have to “audition” because they make you sing and dance for tips. I am comfortable with being a whore, especially these days when singing and dancing for money would be many a poor boys dream. I may even have to stop stealing food! I probably wont, old habits…
In stand-up news, my local comedy club does not currently have an open mic night, that blows balls, so I will have to brave the DIY warehouses scattered about town until comedyzone gets their shit in order.
Oh.. whats this? I have a tasty little jingle irking at my brain. Imagine a tasty fluorescent pink beat:
Mustard gas for the sunday mass
pan in a flash penis with a rash fetus in the trash
Posted by David Keene 
