B sides


Dig it?

I’ve got everything I need right here, Chamomile with Milk and Honey, a messy room, a nice rug (it really ties the whole room together) laptop, feet, my uke, my phones, a bed, some heat and some socks, there’s a chair in there somewhere too, Ice Water, freshly frozen- freshly thawed hiding in there too, I suppose there’s a me, and iGidget too.  I didn’t gidget that last part, but that’s beyond me now.  Anyhow, I’ve made it, as they say, granted, it’s not my room, but it’s in a home.  And it’s sprouting all around, like roots, that with a million cries cry “Root!” and there’s the Sea, beside, to drown me.  I die.  A bit each time, when they found me, I mean locked me up and tied me down, but found me.  I look at them still, through the pieces I left hanging in the mirror.  The Ill Suited Reflection, never made eyes at you, never knew how to dance, never said no to me, always gave me a second chance.  But I see you see, we all see with icing, jigger it a bit with lipped tongues and mood swings, I sing like Tigger abit, hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo, I figger he’s a bit bigger than me’an’you put togither, and the strangest thing is- he’s the only one.  Not willin’ to put away these chains, my sister, ya’ll caught up in a twizzle, so drizzle this, 9 out of 10 Rhode Island’s are neither road’s now, nor Islands- Discuss


Par’ o’ an ‘ole

Talking is bitter behind your back, Ritter, we fit her with a vaccuum pump sack, so she’ll suck like no other, Yes the Oreck Excell Spreadsheet 2.0 is the speediest, sauciest carpet munching rug humper on the market, it does twists!  It does turns!  But that’s not all it does, no, our little marmot bagging shit mister is the finest in home appliances today, why it even sucks in corners, in the closet, gets it in the bathroom stall in a jiffy, just plug it into the wall, hold the royal offcolor pink bag and squeeze the trigger at the base of your compliance with the firm handshake of a man that will squeeze the testicles of his sworn enemy for pleasure with pride and panache written upon his mustachioed grin of a man in his forties like a gentleman of the 1932 film “He’s a bit of a Dandy Do-right!” Bobby Fletcher starred as Daniel Day Yu a third generation Chinese immigrant hitting the face paste life of underground drag boxing.  It was a box office smash, in fact they burnt all the movie theaters down in sheer wild orgasmic jubilation, it ruined the industry, but world peace was achieved and everyone lived happily ever after.  Unfortunately that ended with the World War 2 movies and the television on MTV.  Things blew up then, Mighty Mouse was powerless to stop us-  “Here I come to save the day!”  That’s a joke I once heard, anyway it all ended when Harriet met Sally.  They both came in the middle of the diner.  Two women just getting off in a restaurant, and we filmed this, in the summer of ’92 and suddenly world peace again and everything’s great and we can get busy where ever we want now and like we’re giving out handjobs at work today for our end of 4th July weekend concert, you should totally stop by.  They’re not free, but it’s like half off, so it’s pretty good, blowjobs are buy 2 get 1 free though and people are always looking for a third.  Anyway, I saw your mom last week and she’s really great, she’s giving head to the homeless, pro-bono, you know how she is, so giving, but I worry sometimes.  I know she’s safe, but you know, I’m worried she’ll just give up her new dentures all together.


So yeah, world peace was good and all, I mean I’ve never had better sex in my seemingly never ending life story, but then we gave it all up because someone wanted a bigger gun, and created a false electronic reality for all of human kind.  So we’re just pulses now, of tremendous electronic landscapes.  I have a body somewhere but I left it years ago it seems, I live in a computer, of sorts, I watch all my shows, I play all my games, I’m on a team, I have a wife and kids, and a dog, and it’s so cool, and so much easier, the sex is a little different, it feels like everything sex feels like, only it’s just the electronic pattern that might normally fire off in the brain as millions of receptors in your body tap into another human body, your brain can’t tell the difference, your body can’t tell the difference, you’re fed the same chemical pattern.  But there’s no soul in it, even when you’re in love all these little things you create, you create the mate of your dreams, you feel the material of it, but in that soul, whatever plane of existence your soul is on, we know, we still don’t know where it is, how it resides like it does, but we still know it’s there.  Or you could accept the reality you build for yourself…

Down Snow Dude

It started when we put them in our bodies, these machines, maybe it started with TV on the Radio, maybe it started with science fiction or virtual reality, we completed ourselves with them, they assimilated, we evolved, like the Ice Man cometh in the Other Lady.  Something new.  Some people are born with it now, some just hook in, and never come back- like I did.  I’ve been gone now for I can’t say how long, time works different on this plane.  You’re almost everywhere at once, ten million eyes, just this constant stream of data you could choose to visualize, or hear or feel or smell or taste- whatever, there are other means of perception here.  Taste is weird though, especially with numbers, or abstract theories.  The timeless nature of it is strange, we’re everywhere at once, and always.  I won’t know how long it’s been or if my body is still alive, I’m pretty sure it’s alive, I sense that.  But I have seen history unfold, even in the future.  Now the bitch of it is, is that it is not the observance of time that will change, it will observe itself, but that’s a different story, but acting upon it will change it.  Granted I cannot act in reality prior to my observation in the grid nor after when I’ve left my body for good, (unless I robotosize, and you know how that is) but it is nice knowing who’s going to win before they’ve won.  It’s generally frowned upon though…  And mentally exhausting.  There’s nothing funny about observation.

Hey how ’bout that Seinfeld, huh?


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