Thursday, December 31, 2009

Merry Annual New Year Celebration Day

AH!!!! 2010!! Congrats to all of us for making it to such a futuristic-sounding year. The robots haven't killed us yet. +1 Humans.

But 2010, when I imagined it as a kid, was different. We have cool stuff, I guess. But I want Moon Casinos and light sabers. I want miniature Tigers and Elephants as designer pets. I want virtual motherfucking reality, dude. Where's my flying skateboard? I was promised this, and I demand it. I also want Nano-bots to make me not have to exercise, sleep, work, or quit smoking.

Also, where are the laser guns? I'm not pro war, but I am pro lasers. And when are the Aliens going to show up? Are they waiting for a more futuristic sounding year to land? Fucking Prima donnas.

Anyway, I hope more time for writing appears in my world next year. I hope for a lot. But instead of rambling on, tell me what you hope happens in 2010.

And until then my friends, I bid you all adieu. Recon out!!!!

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Here Comes Ranta Claus

This is the second time I've started this, and at least the 20th time
I started writing a post inside my head over the last weeks. Writer's block? Maybe. I think my mind is just lazy from being used so much during the work week that it shuts off the moment I walk through my door.

My job is cool. I love where I work. I'm lucky to be around cool shit all day. But if I could just somehow take the 'work' part out of working, I'd have a less crappy time from Monday till Friday. God I hate it (the work part). Even when it's awesome it's still wicked fucking not-terrific. And if it indeed builds character, that character totally sucks compared to the character that being lazy and thinking about lasers creates. (btw, that character is DJ Jazzy Awesome, and he lives on the moon where the power of his break-dancing makes the flowers bloom.)

So, during this brief moment of awkward silence shared with myself and current taxi driver, I tap out these words like a mountain gorilla and realize it's been a while. My fingers feel funny. (Let's hope they actually are, or the rest of this is going to bore the shit out of both of us.)

Another iPod rant written in the back of a cab. Work has swallowed my life like a giant metal whale from the abyss, and now I find myself in its belly surrounded by suits of armor, barrels of nails, xerox machines, excel spreadsheets, and pain. Yet with all the 9 to 5 Dilbert bullshit I still clock vampire hours, with no regard for my bear-like craving for long sleeps. Is that what life has become? Writing invisible letters to myself in the back of a man's car that I just met? I guess so. Fucking Internet 2.0.

I can't do anything without a machine telling me what to do or telling a machine what to do in order to do anything. It's crazy how these robots are all up on me. It makes me think that freedom is much more than a word Mel Gibson says before sword fighting in dirty fields. It's what I want. Just some time to be way from all this day to day pay the bills meat and potatoes hum drum daily grind malarkey.

Freedom. Yeah. That's the ticket.

Hurry up, red light. I want to go home.

I think Hemingway said it best when he said, "Time is like the Hamburglar." It makes sense to me. All those precious minutes I'd rather spend eating, loitering, and enjoying nerd stuffs are constantly being used up by some asshole named Work. What a dickweed that guy is. Time is his boss, and although we've never met, I here he's a major league fucker. Watch out for him. He sneaks up on you and steals your shit from you while you're not looking. Total fucking criminal, that guy.

I have a scientific hunch that there's a powerful chemical reaction occurring inside us when MSG is ingested while watching television on large screens after dusk. The effects of this are not dissimilar to being shot in the neck with a circus-grade tranquilizer gun. Basically, the reaction causes one to feel like a slightly less retarded facsimile of Sloth from Goonies, but minus the energy, happiness, or ambition to do things.

All that shit that old people told us when were kids about not eating after 8pm? Totally fucking true. I routinely eat dinner after 10pm, and like Swiss fucking clock movement I wake up the next day I wake up feeling like robots are fighting a laser war inside my body. If only I could get paid to feel like shit at 8am. I'd be the P-Diddy of that industry. Take that, take that.

So where was I? Oh yeah. Nowhere exactly. But at least words are coming out again. Thank god for that. Since I haven't been able to write, I never shut the fuck up. It's like my mouth is on Cocaine. Those of you who have met me know how annoying I can be when I talk. It's ok, I know it's true. I'm cool with it. For those that haven't, my real life voice is tinny and shrill, like what you'd imagine a tired wolverine to sound like if they swore too much, smoked too much, and lied too much. Seriously,
If I have to hear myself talk anymore I'm going to delete me from my friend's list and avoid the shit out of myself. If only I sounded like Louis Armstrong or Ernest Borgnine. When they talk, it's like my ears are at Disney World on a sunny day with no lines.

Anyway, I'm done. Feel better. Jump back, wanna kiss myself. And it's Friday, which is filled with things that don't suck.

It feels like just 4 days ago I was an angry man frowning it up on the Monday morning iron horse ride to oblivion.

Then Tuesday rolled around, and I got scared because I couldn't see the weekend when I looked behind me. So I held on for dear life.

Wednesday was better, but then the work attacked me out of nowhere when I was just starting to enjoy the sunny day. I felt like an evil golfer in a Cynthia Rothrock film

Thursday I caught a movie. Actually, when I say 'caught a movie' I mean I worked late and didn't watch a movie. But if work on Thursday was a movie (which it was not), it would be a tragedy. The plot themes would be pain, crying, and hopelessness, and the star would be a exhausted yet still handsome me with an attitude problem and flagrantly sassy disregard for the rules.

And, my's Friday.

Fuck yeah.