television is frikkin ponderous

so the bastard has been watching a lot of x-files with his free time.

which i would up today due to the fact that it's sort of lost it's luster after 7 seasons and the fact that mulder leaves the show at this point only to be replaced by evil t-1000

so i figure between that and a shit attention span, i should move on to something more retarded like say high school of the dead.

but as i bid the show adieu, the bastard has to wonder...

...is there really a magazine called feng shui life?

and who the hell would read it?

subscribe to it?

what the hell?

—the bastard

wheels up…

…pants off.


and so it goes.

the bastard has climbed onto his illegal warehouse rave of an airplane.

this is how Richard Branson rolls.



purple lights and all sorts of kooky shit.

but ware house rave or no,

the bastard goes home and leaves sin city until next year when he will pollute it again with his presence.

viva

—the bastard

…on the cattle and the creeping things

so we have these fancy new bathrooms at the office.

and while I'm sure it has that "new bathroom" smell when the mad pooper of our office doesn't leave a hanger in one of the stalls,

the bastard has to wonder what would possess a man to sit in his stall without his shoes on.

not once.

but, twice.

we're owned by Swedish people now.

perhaps it's a Swedish thing.

but I'm notsomuch with the sureness of this matter.

—the bastard

this hell is real...

...and it is now.

—the bastard

the palace at 4 am

the bastard takes drugs at night.

no not those kind of drugs.

i'm allergic to the cat so i have to pack myself full of benedryl so i don't wake my ladyfriend

and the baby

and the cat

and perhaps the people who live downstairs.

anyway, i went to bed at one.

woke up an hour or so later and had to go to the bathroom

fell asleep and woke up in a dark room.


bewildered because i was sitting in the dark and disoriented from the benedryl, the bastard walked into a wall.

i was very concerned as i reached around me only touching flat surfaces, i envisioned that i had died

and had gone to hell.

and marcel marceau was the devil

and that hell is a small black box that you get to stay in for all eternity.

with a toilet.

i didn't have my knife, or my iphone.

i was horrified and reaching around in the dark until i wacked my hand into the towel rod.

and i realized that i wasn't dead.

relieved, i found the door,

left,

went back to sleep.

as the bastard drifted back into a benedryl induced slumber, somewhere in the distance, i could hear a mime crying.

—the bastard

adventures in stabbing

so the bastard needs to stab someone...

sure we all get the urge.

but i get it more often.

especially when some cock gets in the train with me and because u brush up against him, he calls me a nazi.

yes, I'm a nazi because this mentally ill fuck can't control his tourettes syndrome.
and now the bastard has to watch him jam his bagel down his gullet because he's too incapable to function in normal society.

but let me back up for a sec: i woke up later than i wanted this morning.

you know

the daily.

and this guy and i roll onto the e train as the doors open and we get ourselves a seat. two people get up so two people sit down.

only this wasn't what crazy wanted so he snarled some unintelligible thing at me and gave me the stink eye.

i hadn't taken my shades off yet and at this point, i wasn't i was crammed up next to some crazy person muttering at me so i told him, "go fuck yourself".

he responds back, "nazi"

"i'll fucking stab you dick" i believe was the next thing that crawled out of my mouth.

okay, we're back: so this goes back and forth he mumbles unintelligibly and i just mumble various conjugations of the word "stab".

"stab stab stabby stab stab. right in your neck"

you can build a song around it and the bastard just might.

pull into my station and he gets all happy-ish because he gets some space for a second before a gentleman who looked like reverend run was about to take my seat. so i decided to put the kye-bosh on said glee with my favorite gesture from eastern promises. i looked him square in the face and jammed my fingers into my neck and his face ran cold. or maybe it was blank all along.

oh well.

everyday can't be all "normal" people on the train.

—the bastard

...on rats and fat cats

...and lots of shouting


now the bastard tries to be about fair play.

but there has been these picketers protesting across the street all day.

and it's starting to fuck with my flow.

you see, the bastard is wearing many hats now and none of them are made of cheese.

so i'm not down with the rat these thugs have been dancing around for the last 8 hours.

ok truth to tell the bastard isn't too sympathetic in general let alone a bunch of people who have more job security than most of my friends have seen in the last two weeks.

hell, i had a few things to say during the last transit strike we had and i have to say that not having job security doesn't give you much sympathy altogether.

so shut up thugs, the bastard has work to do. thank you.

—the bastard

special sunday revelations edition

the bastard is a super model.

now go to hell.

—the bastard

atlas shrugged, the smoker's pole...

...and other dumb shit the bastard did this weekend

"hey bastard, whatcha eatin'?"

"i dunno, what are we eating'?"

"let's got to the california pizza kitchen at the atlas park mall."

"ok"

so this was the beginning of some of the bastard's most idiotic feats of driving for saturday.

now let me preface this by saying, no, the bastard is not a very good driver. the mofo has built an entire comedic routine around this which also consists of the bastard being gay, a yuppy, even though i lack the two out of three of that tryptic, (hint: the bastard is neither young, nor is he professional but, he sure as shit is urban), or annoying or whatever else is built into the routine at the time for maximum "my brother is a jack off because..." effect.

oh yeah, i also used to throw my combat boots around the bedroom we shared growing up along with throwing my laundry over his head while he slept too (i was drunk and that was where the dirty clothing went) but, i digress,

i'm not a good driver.

and i had been huffing paint fumes since i got home on friday night. the landlord finally finished repairing and painting the flooded remains of the bastard's apartment so i was a little hopped up on goofballs at the time when he decided to take the long way to the atlas shoppes. figger it was a 40 minute drive to get to a place that was essentially 10 minutes away.

oh yeah and i almosr hit a kid blowing through a stop sign that the chairman pointed out afdter i decided to stop listening to him.

oh, and i clipped my mirror getting into the parking lot because i decided that i was too mad at blowing the stop sign and killing kids to read any of the parking signage that the chairman had taken the liberty of reading but i digress, i almost killed a kid.


and i killed a teenager with a trident on my way to the california pizza kitchen.

but more importantly, the bastard had never been to the atlas park shoppes. it kind of looks like godzilla had eaten part of this art museum up in the berkshires called massMOCA and then ate part of the woodbury commons outlet mall upstate and then proceeded to vomit it all up in an empty lot in glendale, queens.

oh well, the pizza was good. then i went to a party where everyone had an iphone. it was kind of creepy, but fun.

—the bastard