The Minimus 7 Letters, Part 1

By Minimus 7 / M7


replicants all around me, where is Deckard when we need him?

tongue of silver, heart of pain

I have escaped my fear of MEANING.  It was about time.  It is so difficult to lose the fear of a thing which doesn’t even exist.

Existence implies effect….except when you watch TV…..then you leave nary a ripple……remote controlled nirvana……extinction with the stab of a {POWER} key.

Mercury may have been debunked as a cure for syphilis but one must admit that the mercury poisoning takes the mind off of the lesions.

I held the squirrel to my ear but I did not hear the ocean.

I am weary of serving this society.

Make new friends, but keep the old one is silver and the other gold; pile up friends around your feet because we can never have too many friends so don’t lose old friends, but seek new ones too!  we must be surrounded by as many people as possible until we have to take up the axe and just start swinging because too many friends just pisses a guy off, you know?!!!  the song implies NO limit to the number of friends!  what shallow cunt penned this idiocy?

i have to get out of here,

hugh japrick.



What the hell does cotton-eyed mean?  It sounds frankly disgusting. Perhaps cotton-eyed Joe is a hillbilly code word for the male pee hole (meatus).

the fiddle, the banjo, the washboard, the shotgun, glistening puddles of inbred gore

Lucky me, Nerdlinger has called me twice today.  He is just as charming on the phone as he is in person.

There are somewhere near 1 million aikido practitioners in the world. According to an article I read the other day, there are only about 15,000 jodo practitioners in the world.  I found this shocking as I thought that there were more.  Also, I’m sure that the great majority of these 15,000 actually have aikido, karate-do, or kendo as their main art.

The reason that this number disturbs me is that I instantly formulated the following list of categories which include more than 15,000 people in the US alone:

  • charismatic snake handlers
  • private owners of one or more grenade launchers
  • people who have had sex with an animal in the last week
  • people in jail for killing with their bare hands
  • doctors who specialize in cosmetic surgery
  • homeless bemedalled veterans

Now, I would love to take these homeless bemedalled vets and teach them jodo.  Maybe they won’t get roughed up in the parks and alleys of America if they can shove a four foot length of oak up some punk’s ass.  (Officer, it’s just my walking stick!)  As a colleague of Joan of Arc said, arms automatically ennoble a man to where they will fight even a king!

It’s OK to have a low number of people doing jo.  I don’t think it’s in any danger of fading away.  But, it sure doesn’t hold the average person’s interest as aikido does.  Aikido lends itself to fantasies of taking out five thugs in some parking lot.  Jodo is so close to real combat (psychologically) that no fantasies are necessary.  Old martial arts (koryu) did not necessarily develop training methods which were intended to expose the student to a wide range of battlefield scenarios.  They did, however, develop specific ways of psychologically preparing the warrior for close-quarters combat.  Let me tell you, having a big piece of wood hurtling at my face only to stop a centimeter from my eye provides a big pucker factor. Plus the times I have actually been hit have only been light accidental taps–and they hurt like hell!

So, this psychological factor of facing naked danger in every practice tends to discourage the faint of heart.  What a rush, though!

“Those guys are fags!”–Jeff Spicoli

In my case, I’m not sure which particular guys those may be, but generally, they are the ones who are always going on about combat reality and street fighting although they would wet their pants upon seeing a fist clenched in anger or a large man with a knife.  In other words, dilettantes, dabblers, and blowhards. The true way is the way which cannot be spoken.



As I was walking back from lunch, a big noise erupted out of the sky and lo and behold there was a B-1 bomber flying overhead.  It was travelling West–on it’s way to wipe Hawaii off of the map, I’m sure.

Yesterday I rode right past Nerdlinger as I biked home.  He was walking toward me, definitely saw me and did not say anything or make move one when I said hello.  He completely dissed me!  Then, about 40 minutes later, I was lying on my living room floor reading Pascal Krieger’s outstanding jodo book when the cordless next to me rang.  I picked it up and the voice said, “Hello David, it’s me.”  I expected him to tell me how he didn’t recognize me in my sunglasses or some such, but he didn’t mention snubbing me at all.

Instead, he said, “Are you busy?”  I said, “Yes, why?”  He said, “I just wanted to talk to somebody about my relationship with M, other than her, of course.”  I should have said “what relationship?” but instead I said, “Well, A and I are about to leave for OKC, so I won’t be able to talk with you.”

Of course, the above can’t convey the shakiness in his 8th grade demeanor or the long uncomfortable pauses he insists on inserting into phone conversations.  I’m getting very tired of him.  I’m beginning to entertain cruel fantasies.  I invite them into my hotel room and get them drunk so that they will reveal their terrible secrets.

He’s like a limping, confused baby antelope on the savannah.  He lies down and hangs his slobbering head.  I am a black fuzzy spider.  I climb to the top of a grass blade and leap two feet onto the antelope’s neck.  I sink my fangs in, injecting an unknown-to-science venom which combines the best attributes of Botulism, Rift Valley Fever, and Colon Blow Disease.  I do this not to feed upon him, for I prefer snails.  I do this as a part of the planetary immune system.

The foreign entity was spotted and I was sent by the grocer to deliver the bill.  The buzzards are circling.





“I’m going all the way down, I’m leaving today.”–nin

A called me Tuesday night, after her surgery.  She said it went well and the most uncomfortable part was the tickle as they would brush past her eyelashes.  I got a message from N last night that she had talked to A after the day-after check-up.  N said that A’s vision tests at 20/20 now!

This is going to be weird.  I’m expecting her to walk up to me in the airport, squint, and then say, “I thought you were better looking.”

I guess I have lost part of my relationship identity as “the good-sighted one.”  No more hilarious mistakes like “chicken bouquet.”

And, you are right, it is quite awesome when one considers that we can just “fix” a person’s vision now.  Later, I’m sure that the cost of the procedure will fall and many more people will take advantage of it.  A is going to bring us before and after topographical maps of her cornea.

I get the feeling that my subconscious is chewing on some sort of important information and that at some point a nugget of wisdom will shuffle out onto the dimly-lit stage of my consciousness without fanfare.  I have a recurring visual and somatic image of a whipping type of sword cut that begins behind the head combined with a simultaneous lowering of the body by bending the knees.  It just started up a couple of days ago, and I feel/see it several hundred times a day.  I have copied the action physically, but I haven’t gotten rid of the spectre.

It is interesting to note that most medieval schools of Japanese martial arts were started when the founder retired to a shinto temple until he had a vision or a revelation which showed him the central principle of the school. In some cases, warriors went up on a mountain and received instruction from Tengu, or mountain goblins. In the case of the old system that we are involved in, the Shinto Muso Ryu, the founder, Gonnosuke Muso, went up a mountain to a temple and ensconced himself there for 36 days.  He then had a vision where an angelic youth gave him a message about the end of a log, which he interpreted to be an instruction regarding the jo-a four foot staff.

The exact message is unclear and can be interpreted in several different ways.  In any case, this recurring feeling/vision which I have been having could be interpreted as a vision from beyond if I were in the medieval mindset.  The problem is, what the hell does it mean?  I think it has something to do with the hips and gravity.  The fun part is, after I start my own martial tradition, I get to travel around and prove its worth through training sessions and duels with warriors of other traditions–this is called MUSHA SHUGYO.

Though they rub their legs together, it is still called singing.




fallopian and wandering

a lusty finger

a flick of dried mucus

there stood the dream

outlined in purple

there was no escaping it

my viewpoints were a-titter

a chattering bird,

a pontificating monkey

and a moist beaver

walk into the bar

all heads smash to the floor

from the rapid decompression

caused by the complete evacuation

of any sanity from the room

a round of mescaline

on the house.

lapdog of proletariat,




gutless isotopes and wandering jews do not a subculture make

“Step inside.  Surprise!  Lies!”–nin

no surprise at all to me, Trent.  i guess it rhymes ok, though

Enormous dogs taking a dump with bright red erection, by anonymous. (The permanent collection)
Enormous dogs taking a dump with bright red erection, by anonymous. (The permanent collection)

Well, since so many have made such a tremendous pretense of knowing what they are talking about, now we can’t tell who the wise people are.  I think that they all got fed up and went back to Geidi Prime.


by Buttmaster Ingrid

I sing the body fantastic

    no room for error

    a delicate operation

There is no perversion

    all flesh is equal

    only the accelerated fist is rabid

There is no Law

    sentient rules are by nature shallow

    only the wind way abides

There is no disgust

    who can be embarassed once dead?

    the water mingles freely with the Earth and the Sky

There is no preference

    all orifices are equal

    all flesh may quiver

Multiple portals abound

    holes are meant to be filled

    the body is rife with protrusion

Of course, in the original dialect of the 38th Dynasty, it is quite a bit more beautiful and lyrical.

When we were driving home last night, we ran into many bugs.  A said, “all these bugs commiting suicide….country bugs will never make it to the city.”





“And I didn’t even need to stop.  I just kept on going.”–hendrix

Herbert had no preconceptions about the details of his demise. The only fact that he needed to entertain was that he was definitely going to die and that it was definitely going to be painful.

When he had awoken in his small pink cell on this ubiquitous spring morning, he had no idea whether this was, in fact, to be the day.  Prisoners never knew when their numbers were up.  They only realized that they were doomed.

Herbert had been dragged out of bed about three weeks before by the leather-clad JP–the Joy Police.  Some of their full-length leather jumpsuits were teal, some were canary, all were festive.  The member of the JP who stood over Herbert’s bed as he groggily sat up happened to be wearing a lime green jumpsuit with wide epaulets.

“Good Morning!” the cheery bastard lisped nellily.  Then Herbert had a large sack thrown over his head and he woke up in his brightly lit pink cell. Little had happened since then.

He got three meals a day, two showers a week, and all of the TV he wanted–in fact the huge screen in his cell could not be turned off or muted, though Herbert could switch the channels.  Herbert had not received a hearing or trial of any kind, though every citizen knew that the Joy Police never packed anyone off to detention unless ordered to do so by BS, Bliss Sentral.  Every citizen also knew that no one ever emerged from the huge detention block at the edge of the city complex.  Herbert knew that all of his friends and his coworkers would have simply written him off as a goner, though there was no stigma attached to being arrested, as it seemed to be an act of nature rather than a deterrent.

When Herbert saw the door to his cell swing open and a Member of the Sanctified Organ step in, he knew that this was to be the day. The Sanctified Organ was a state-controlled group which ground religion down to its essence.  There was only one ritual within the Sanctified Organ and this was simply known as “The Ritual.”  Nobody ever witnessed The Ritual outside of a state sponsored church other than those who were to be executed in the detention block.

The Ritual simply consisted of the Member raising her right arm to the sky, pointing her left arm to the ground, looking Herbert in the eye, and intoning in a freakish Southern drawl, “You are sinner.  You are forgiven.  Enjoy Paradise after death.”  Then two JP’s led Herbert down a long brightly-lit hall with inclined cement walls, so that Herbert felt like he was walking on the floor of a huge artificial valley.

Herbert and the guards reached the end of the valley where he was escorted into a tubular chamber.  There, he was stripped and strapped to a rack-like device, face down.  The steel rack had a slight tilt so that Herbert’s tush was a bit more elevated than his head.

A viewscreen descended from the ceiling until it stopped directly in Herbert’s line of vision.  When the screen popped to life, he could see the feed from a camera behind him as two JP’s attached a clamp device to Herbert’s buttocks that caused his cheeks to be widely spread.

Herbert shivered as the cold steel caressed his bottom.

When the clamps were firmly in place, the viewscreen showed that a large pair of laser crosshairs were being calibrated and targeted directly on the center of his anus.  Once they were aligned, the viewscreen showed an array of nine objects.

As all of the JP’s left the chamber and sealed the door behind them, Herbert heard a voice over the intercom which somehow seemed to boom and lilt at the same time.  The voice said, “The sacred number of the State is NINE!  NINE be BLESSED!  Our luxury is NINE!  Herbert, there are nine objects on the viewscreen.  Choose only one.  Indicate your choice through verbalization.  NINE!!”

After looking at rotating three-dimensional representations of the rocking chair, the baseball bat, the abacus, the wine bottle, the watermelon, the cat, the roll of barbed wire, the anchor, and the tractor tire for a few more moments, Herbert loudly announced “Watermelon!”

When the word “watermelon” escaped his mouth, Herbert saw a huge door slide away in front of him. By looking in the viewscreen, he saw that he was being provided a live feed of a similar door sliding away to his rear.  It now seemed to Herbert that the tubular chamber was actually only a small part of a giant tube which extended as far as he could see fore and aft.  He continued to watch the viewscreen as a series of images kept repeating themselves.  Herbert soon grew to understand that the “tube” he was in was actually a giant hollow ring far under the earth.  This donut under the ground seemed to be hundreds of miles in diameter.

Suddenly, 20 meters in front of the viewscreen, a large watermelon dropped into the tube and hung motionless in mid-air.  As Herbert watched the new images on the viewscreen, he began to piece it all together.  Finally he understood that he was inside a giant mass accelerator and that the mass of the chosen object would shoot around, accelerating until it reached fantastic speed until it encountered its target, which was currently pinioned under the ruby crossbeams of the targeting laser.

Herbert followed the now blank viewscreen with his eyes as it slowly ascended into the ceiling once again.  Amazingly quickly, the watermelon shot away and was out of sight.  Just as Herbert was about to scream “Why!?”, his query was silenced by the thunk of melon merging with its target.

blooded hands,




An ampule of vitriol fell off of the shelf.

The smell of wormwood filled the room.

Reeling with absinthe, I stumble into the rectory.

All of the doors are locked, but I just float on through.

Bloody Scythian poetry dribbles from my lips.

A Dybbuk is crouching in a dense corner.

I explained Nerdlinger’s particulars to Yvonne last night: never had a girlfriend, 29, lives in dorm, teaching asst., sample phone conversation, posture, corporeal proximics.

I never called him a name or presented any info that might sway her eventual independently-arrived-at conclusion that he is a complete loser.

Why don’t you describe his poetry to me?  Does it explain why he is so clinging and pushy about your opinion of it? This guy is like 20 times the deep social idiot that Nietzsche was.

mum in her couth,




the still air of an ancient cave is no place to make cabbage rolls

The Gay Junkie Fisting Scene of Santiago, Chile:

Raul had no morals, as he was raised by three old junkies gathered around the rotting corpse of latino fascism.  He had been hustling for food, for money, for attention since he before he could talk. Raul had entertained all of the scams, haunted all of the tourist vistas.  But, today, all of that would recede.

Chichi was her name, but not just because she had big tits.  She had long black curly locks and a rancorous demeanor.  She could cook dope in her sleep and she had never seen a fist she couldn’t swallow with any of three glorious holes.  Ironically, the oral one was the most dangerous.

Lindo always wore white.  His smoothly shaven face allowed full viewing of the numerous small scars on his face.  Feline cunnilingus is not without its dangers.

Esteban captured it all.  In the opinion of others, he was a poet, but to himself he was simply a biographer, a historian, a journalist. Others saw his work as poetry because his opiate-addled consciousness could not express itself in any straight manner.  The sinuous turns of phrase which he employed were quite bland to him, searingly beautiful to others.

Manuel Vega had made his way to junkyville from some Ecuadorian backwater.  As soon as he hit town, he set up a divided-tent glory hole on the edge of a shithole barrio.  He was excellent at his craft, and the pesos came rolling in, but his life never went anywhere because the algebra of need dictated that he invest every peseta he made in a complex and well-defined smack habit.  He wouldn’t even buy food for himself.  The doctors at the free clinic who examined Manuel once a month told him that he only survived because the massive quantities of semen he consumed were full of protein and vitamin C.

Mariela DeRosa had been a fine young woman until the first time her lover Gloria had tied rubber tubing around her arm.  After that, she lived for the fix.  She was usually too dry for her customers, so she could have been the poster girl for “el K-Y.”

floatation crevice,




“Covered in Coke and Vaseline, still cannot fix this broken machine.” -nin

There are advantages to being an incognate blunderfist.  For starters, one never need be bothered by the itching followed by the creasing followed by the oozing.

Fourth of all, there is no sex like the sex one has with Jesus.

We should calculate, in calories, the amount of mental energy each one of us spends sublimating, redirecting or simply holding back anger.

What kind of psychological damage has it done to me when I didn’t chase down that car that almost ran over me and rip the fenders off of it?  By how many years has my life been shortened because I didn’t swing a pickaxe through the heads of every one of those fucks who certainly deserved it?  I have sacrificed for this failed society and I am weary.

I tire of nebbishes slinging pebbles at me.

At one point I must shrug.

sparkle diligently,




A fine mist caresses the greater nuances of the edge-urban sprawl.  A body of geniuses unites and they decide on peppermint.  Tamarinds whorl with delight.





Instead of inflicting any more damage, Ronald decided to give up his thriving insect eradication business in order to concentrate on more sublime affairs–such as the one he was currently having with Nancy the Priestess.

It’s like a blade that simply cannot be dulled.  As for the wide open gashes, well, what can I say other than “apply pressure”?

Loping along merrily, Theodore saw only those colors which screamed the brightest.  He brought his huge hammer fist whistling through the air where it connected with absolutely nothing other than the ass end of his dulled perceptions.  Every day, he stalked around under the I-40 overpass looking for lost cultures in abandoned aluminum.  Once, he found a cracked Timex.  Theodore knew that it wasn’t working, but he took great pleasure in walking into various establishments within the rotted shell of DownTown, laying his gaze lovingly on the cracked face of his treasure, and loudly announcing that the time was “thirteen o’ fuckin’ clock.”  Lately, though, he had stayed out of the local businesses as his pants-dropping maneuver in the local Taco Hell had not gone over so well.  He had been warned.

Don’t worry.  It’ll all be OK.  I won’t make anyone read the crazy words if they don’t want to.  “You are free to do what we say.”  “Do not question.”  “Your excursions into unauthorized areas are not appreciated.”  “Please feel at liberty to peruse the offerings of the new Fall Season–there should be plenty there to keep you occupied.”

“Refrain from introspection, inspection, retrospection, or elocution on fringe subjects.”  “YOU ARE FREE TO DO WHAT WE SAY.”

this is the point,



st. regis of cunt lick county,

“I have no faith that keeps me from tasting the joys of the world.” -mary my hope

Driven to some sort of technocratic extreme, Impulse Sintral decided that all of the open land shall be sterilized and that all food shall henceforth be naturally hydroponic.

I told my office mates about the “now semen free” and the “microwavable!” food product decals.  They thought it was cool! I think another good decal would be to shrink the image you have pasted in the green notebook and have a motto under it which says “William S. Burroughs approved!”

How the FUCK are we gonna tear this sunbitch down?  Will decals and rude noises do the trick?  Mainstream water sports?  Massive crack habits fed by bestial fisting?  We need a reverse neutron weapon which destroys all the industry and structure but leaves the people standing.  On the other hand….. some dumbass’ll just build it all again.

some folks’ll,

st. lemuel of reacharoundshire.



michelle controls Sputnik

i am humbled

sky controller

is high priestess

one day, perhaps,

a failed Vulcan death grip

will force her to dangerously

re align orbital paths

space junk rains down

artificial nerves are rendered silent

what’s the weather gonna be like tomorrow?

“And I’m putting out fires with gasoline.”–bowie

one) pouncing trance object

two) jizzmonic fugue device

poopfrau) penile plot twistings

It didn’t seem to move too much, but it was ominously perched all the same.  We didn’t see it coming did we?  It eventually had a life all its own and our stupor was only multiplied.  We were fooling ourselves all along.  Clawless cats climb few trees.

Pulse one pulse two pulse three deeply breathe now.  Hot licks of the precious fluid splatter her backside as she moans in faux agony. After all, she had handled much larger than him.  But the need for drama dictated that she squirm like a pinioned worm about to be dissected. In fact, she barely felt the invasion, but the hypnotic pumping made for a good plot device.

One’s life only gets fatter and fatter as more pressure is applied. Soon enough, the tool is numb as it has been overused.  The thrusting continues, but the numbness makes it an exercise in futility.  No one is getting off this time.  Few ever realize that it is OK to pull out.

slickened walls,

protruding nubs,




“I killed about a million people and it took about half a day.”–cure

He had been drumming up business all day, but his special ampules just weren’t moving.

In NAKED LUNCH, Burroughs refers to doctors as “croakers.”

“Hand in hand is the only way to land and always the right way ’round.”–cure

I pulled an old box out of my closet and found an old cure tape.

Can’t you tell?  I also found many frat pix, some Cheryl pix, and a couple of letters from Joe Buckley that you simply must read.  These letters, dated before I knew any of you, will conclusively prove that I have long courted denizens of the intelligent/psychotic fringe.  I hope that none of my old surreal companions ever “grew up.”

Speaking of surreal, Yvonne and Alison just came by asking for “Steven Martin.”  Oh well, they’ll get braver and cleverer later when they want to try and embarrass me.  Last night, A and I had to explain to them all about the movie phenomenon known as SHAFT.  All sorts of unintended double-entendres then occurred–i.e.  “We were sitting around talking the other night and SHAFT came up.”

the uninterrupted hooting of the gibbons

“Don’t worry, I don’t worship Satan or anything.”–what I said to a girl named Torrie.  She was in my frat room and she sort of looked askance at my Cult subway poster.  She really obviously wanted nothing to do with me.  I don’t think I ever apologized for my decor again.  After all, if apologizing didn’t get me any nookie, why repeat the performance?

Around that time I decided to try and treat women like friends rather than like an audience to be performed for.  “It does not matter if you are ladies, bitches, cunts, whores, nuns, wives or mothers!  You are all equally worthless in my eyes!”  I tend to enjoy the company of a woman who likes being treated like a generic human rather than insisting on being crowned as the carrier of the ova.  Older women tend to hold it against me when I don’t treat them as special because of their gender.  I suppose they would be happier if I were flip, charming, leering and chasing them around trying to pinch their asses.  But, no matter how much they may yearn for the old ways, I refuse to cheapen them.

sex machine to all the chicks,



white hunter,

“Knowing is a farce, gentlemen.  And this farce can do nothing but harm the integral freedom of men.  Therefore, let us create in this world a way in which knowing can never be accomplished.  Let us create an unholy diversion from which the seeking eyes of humanity can never be torn.  Let us engage the world of business and lead them into dire fantasies of efficiency and easy manipulation of symbols.

“To these ends, let us create and unleash the personal computer.” -Chairman Frank Codswiper of IBM, meeting of the Board of Directors, February 3rd, 1967.

“In our world, the absent referent reins supreme.  When our strongest device is something that doesn’t even exist, we have come no farther that the Crusaders or the makers of Ankor Wat.  We are enshrouded in the unreal.  The nexus of the past and the future is not the now, it is the void.” -Charles Kuralt, in TAO OF REVOLUTION

The lives our parents lead, those lives of grandiose assumption, the worship of that terrible god named “progress,” is a cluttered existence–this we cannot deny.  But, we must realize that focusing upon the faults of a nearly dead generation will get us no nearer to our goal.  So, in order to eliminate THE MAN, we must first destroy memory itself!  We must behave as if we are the first generation of humans to grace this planet.  In this way, we can totally forgo any phase of materialistic destruction that an armed revolution would entail.  By a simple change in the structure of our inner relationships, we can simply erase THE MAN from time itself.  If you meet THE MAN on the road, do not kill him!  Simply pretend he is not there. -THE BIND, writing in revolutionary pamphlet entitled “Time and THE MAN.”, distributed to coffeehouses in Berkley, Detroit, and Vancouver in July, 1969.

everything is wrong,

black heart.



“I’m afraid of Americans.”–david bowie

The history of one’s life is often seen as a journey.  From a certain perspective, my life can be seen as a slow walk away from America. Taking a ten year slice: 1986:  I drove a metallic baby blue 1968 Chevy Impala.  Each and every part was made in this country.  It had glasspax and it roared like a motherfucker.  It had never seen a catalytic converter or emission controls.  It was made of steel, rubber, vinyl.  Two bodies could be hidden in the trunk. I had three guns in my closet.  Double-barrel, rifle, pistol.  Lots of ammo. I wore a letter jacket and played football.

1996:  I drove a miniscule red Honda which I barely fit into. Hadn’t touched a gun in years. I wore a parka. I did Japanese stuff.

Of course, there are a lot of other details, but you get the gist. I’m starting to think that Americans would not be so charming if we didn’t drive every day or if everyone weren’t packin’ heat.  After all, danger molds us, does it not?  What danger does the average Brit see every day?  Perhaps some thug won’t let them pass on the sidewalk so that they have to step in the mud.  Maybe while walking to the green grocer, a dog will bark at them.

A Chinese person might step on a rock on the way to the rice paddy or maybe the neighbor will yell at them for playing their radio too loud.

In America, anyone who gets in a car cheats death with every mile.  A person can get shot for no reason, or for simply for making eye contact with the wrong character.  Often, people are shot IN their cars.

this makes us crazy

we make war on each other

death is all around us but we won’t acknowledge it

just because we are technologically advanced doesn’t mean

that we aren’t barbarians

face it, without our cars and our guns, we would be as boring as

Austrians or Paraguayans

we are so harsh

we shine beautifully in our simple, insane fashion

“God is an American.”–bowie


double action.



from the Chlorine Chemistry Council:  98% of all U.S. drinking water systems that disinfect rely on chlorine.  Chlorine use in water disinfection has played a major role in the 50% increase in U.S. life expectancy in this century. Yeah, I want to live in medieval times, sure. Yep, a lone cowpoke out on the range, wouldn’t that be wonderful? I want to be a gladiator! I must be strange, as my fantasy life seems to be stuck in the present.  I just don’t see the romanticism of widespread poverty, wildfire-like epidemics, trephination, illiteracy, etc.

In every era, man looks back over his shoulder, shakes his head, and mutters “I was just born {x} years too late.” This attitude will chase away bliss as surely as a barking dog will chase a rabbit away.

If we accept who we are, and love the times we are in, then the rabbit of happiness will curl up on our laps.

“The time is nigh!  Time to do or die.” -living color