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Weibjunge
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Country: United States
State: Georgia
Metro: Macon
Birthday: 5/15/1987
Gender: Male
Interests: various activites that result in bodily harm being visited upon others, being a personification of pure evil, abusing small children, eating puppy sandwhichs, burning stuffed animals, desecrating sacred grounds, being a man-whore, urging other people on to do stupid things, and baking cookies....oh, did I mention sarcasm?
Expertise: ...does being a smartass count?
Message: message me
Member Since:
1/2/2004
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| Been a long time; doesn't matter. Whims are bitches that way - for those few of us who don't disguise our ventings as verisimilitude and parade our prejudices as stories, it comes and goes, whatever it is. (Some of us, on the other hand, are merely too fond of alliteration, and need to be shot. Twice.)
Of course, those people are merely better liars. Go with it, kid, or get out while you still can.
Only fault of the devil I've ever been able to pin down to him is he wanted to do things too well; I've never understood why mediocrity plays such a key role in the whole Great Plan, but if the guy upstairs has any answers, he sure isn't handing them out wholesale.
Doesn't seem to stop the warehouses from filling up with answers nonetheless, though - just about as fast as they pile up with questions.
There's enough mongrels chasing their tails over that one though. As to why, I couldn't venture - never seen the point of chasing a tail that's my own, or making up answers to questions that nobody is sure even apply, or for that matter exist. Maybe it's just how they get off - they beat their bibles, I beat the syphed-up slit of some barfly, and whose to say who comes out on top?
About the only thing we agree on is that the whore gets the shaft, and anything more than that is words on deaf ears. Doesn't keep 'em from being said, me with my beer-belly overspilling underwear once white yelling out the window at a street preacher hunkering against the rain in his placard as the whore, smug smile backlit by cigarette glow, crosses thighs thick enough with cellulite and calloused enough from mens hips that she doesn't even feel the splinters the rickety motel chair gives her.
It's a long hot summer to begin with, and the dog days seem to stretch year after lonely year.
-Blake
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| Isophyllus
Never met a woman who wasn't a piece of something
or a work of something else, be it ass, decor, or nerves;
most of 'em strike me as works of art, however, though
nowadays that means everything from smearing shit
on the walls to drawling the national anthem of Iraq
backwards to protest and get famous doing it.
No, when I say art, I mean like the Mona Lisa, slightly
mysterious, almost virginal, and all the more beguiling
for being surrounded by veneration and red velvet lines.
There's something to be said about being admired by a crowd,
as God and catwalk models will both tell you if you can get an honest
meaningful word out of either, but that's another story for another time.
This might explain the urge I always have to tear them down, slash them
to shreds, ruin the beauty, torch the Lourve, match and machete to palettes
untouched for so long by anything save time, stasis snapping like dry twigs or
old, brittle bones...
Of course, I delve into the whole revulsion/attraction duality - my conscience makes it
so that women make me long for steak, which is at least meat I can be honest with
and still expect to hold it to its promise but fork in hand I still spread pleura and crack
ribs to get at the sonofabitching heart that they tell me lies open and beating for me,
which is of course words they use to lend weight to their hollow lives, lead weights for
bird's bones that refuse to believe in their own fragility even as they splinter.Most times,
I leave them just to see if they will die like they say they will but I run into disappointingly few
honest women, though that might just be the men rubbing off on them, that being true any
way you choose to take it. Really, what I want is a painting without delusions of grandeur,
a bit of art without the presumption and a little bit of beauty I could honestly call my own.
This in a world of Clinque Covergirl insecurities, Tupperware therapy, sex parties, speed dating,
breast implants, idealized soap operas and rampant romanticism gone batshit insane with
the need to live the life worthy of a gossip columns poison pen. I want a woman without the need to say
there I am in glorious color hobnobbing with the knobs I used to slobber, which Janice, is the way I got here...
spare me the celebrities, soften the limelight, save the drama for the stage, I just want a statue I can
watch crumble, my own nice little private show as everything slowly falls away.
So, where's the shame in wanting the raw and red exposed, ganglia waving in the glare of a
three hundred watt bulb, no more truth to dig down into because this is rock bottom, nowhere
else to go - maybe I want to tear it all down so I can build it back up, might be that I just don't
trust any hand save my own to keep it all together when it comes to creation, might be that I'm
just a bit paranoid, and might be that I just might be right. Silver words from silver tongues tarnish
in time, and golden promises turn green with age wanting fulfillment; life, its own best satire, and all
the diamonds of tomorrow, the masterpieces of next year would not dare compare to the unfettered
glory of the begger today, empty bowl like a open mouth like an open sore leading to an empty gut
that'll take all you have and a little bit more next to a crudely drawn sign, no humility in hubris, black
felt tip swiped from seven-elevens shelves scratching one crude word: "give".
-Blake
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Yes, I do. However, in this case, too much is not enough - if I am going to waste my time with shallow reports, biweekly fashion updates, scathing celebrity gossip and tidbits about people I will never know or hold an interest in, I want the meatpuppets to be as attractive as they can be made to be and rediculously surgically enhanced if at all possible. Make the best of the worst, as it were - if you're going to fill your head with tripe, at least make it as asthetically pleasing as possible to give yourself some justification.
My advice? Read a fucking book or jerk off - either will be more productive than learning about the happy sobstory background of the latest attractive white female who got gangbanged/raped/abducted/murdered in a country with a name like a spilled bowl of alphabet soup and an annual GDP that rivals almost an entire suburban American city block. That's on a slow news day, though - what with dead soliders and live politicoes, there are matters much more dramatic to cover on a regular basis.
To cut down on the bullshit: Fuck fuck fuckity fuck! Fucking fuckity fuckarama fuckaroo, fuck-me-sideways, fuck-me-through, FUCCCCKK HOMMMEEE ALABAMMA WHERE THE SKIES ARE SO FUCK.
yay!
-Blake I just answered this Featured Question, you can answer it too! | | |
| I, too, was once an onion
It's almost time to pay the piper and give the devil his due; but we here at Felder, Grosky and Fenwick, in the name of equality, ask this: what about the due the devil owes you?
I mean, let's be honest here, you're a longtime customer with a platinum account, effortlessly performing the sort of everyday sins (you know, between you and me short denim skirts have lead more men astray than all the whispering beckoning of all the demons in hell combined, and impractical promises of eternal power really
don't hold much of a pitchfork to owning a new herbal Jacuzzi nowadays) with a reckless abandon rarely seen outside of a stunt driver with a gambling problem rolling bones down Atlantic City way. I mean, come on - it's hardly even 9AM and you've already imagined finding out if my secretary is as slutty as the clothes I make her wear or if it's just like accessorizing, buying Danish furniture to match the Norwegian drapes. Here's a secret - either way, it's an act, though I think it is a good time to point out that she is, in fact, French.
You've been faithfully serving the ideals of hell for well neigh fifty years now, and it's about time for some recognition, don't you think? We might even be able to get you a plaque or something in the main waiting room- the commerative cobblestones for the road to hell are hard to secure nowdays, as the road grows ever shorter - hell, they're talking about doing away with the good intentions entirely, though those are rare enough nowadays that it's mostly a matter of phasing out the old stock - you've gotta be someone like the Pope to get one of those these days. Oh, don't look so shocked - it's a simple law of mathematics. More children born into soul-crushing dogma masquerading as enlightenment equals more serial killers, rapists, pugilists, thieves, and above all, guilty lapsed Catholics simmering until they climb a clock tower with a rifle or rape the altar boy. It's a grand example of extremism and human nature in action - after a lifetime of oppressive dogma, most people are all too happy to trade in their souls for a little chance at freedom. Most of the time, we don't even have to give them anything but justification and sometimes not even that.
Forgive me, I've been rambling on overly long - could you sign here, here, and initial here? That'll see us done, and well on our way to getting you the recognition you've earned with a lifetime of service. Thank you, Ramon, you'll feel like the weight of the world has left your shoulders now. It hasn't, because the only vulture on your back was your conscience, artificially engineered and swollen - but now, you've got the curious freedom of the damned. Remember! We here at Felder, Grosky and Fenwick believe that the old song put it wrong - freedom is not a word for nothing left to lose, but rather everything to gain. Have a good day now, and Ramon...
See you in hell, buddy!
-Blake
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| Twatrocket thundercunt ahoy!
I've not been intensely bitter enough for a long enough time to be articulate about it - instead, I just take a delight in imagining most of those around me simultaneously going into renal failure.
I've lost five pounds in three days, and am currently working on my new diet book, "Seething Rage Masked By a Calm, and Even Pleasant, Demeanor Through The Artifaces of That Heartless Bitch, Necessity". This has had no lack of inspiration over the past lifetime in general and week in particular, but the current source stems from the fucktard college kids who live in the apartment above me who don't work for a living and instead play shitty house techno every goddamn night until 3 in the morning. I've put on Pig Destroyer on the living room speakers, which shut them up or at least drowned them out for about an hour with the glorious sound of inarticulate screaming and guitar sodomy, but they apparently didn't get the point.
Two nights later, I swear to fucking Christ I heard Darude. They could at least blast some Daft Punk from time to time, goddamit! Though I'd probably throw an embolism, as I don't think I could quite wrap my brainmeats around the fact that they might actually have some decent taste in music. They all just sit on the balcony talking anyways - who the fuck plays techno to sit around and talk? I thought the entire point was to have an excuse to ingest illicit chemicals and get your knob slobbed by some rave mama even more fucked up on drugs as you are, judging by the color of her hair dye.
I need to get some blanks for my carbine and start firing them off and screaming while on the balcony, preferably while naked and clutching a bottle of my favorite brain-poison in my off-hand. Need to build a wire cage around my bolt, though, so the shells don't go flying off and become evidence in some sort of 'disturbing the peace' or 'attempted murder' charge trumped up by the couple of cowardly fat fucks that trundle in and out of the place daily and always glance at me uneasily, despite my being half their size.
Then again, it mightnot be so much my physical presence as the fact that I shave my head on the balcony with my room-mate while screaming racial slurs at the rundown ghetto behind us (known by the name of Pleasant Hills - irony abounds even in this backass place, or perhaps especially so) and talking about various intricate forms of reducing humans into a pile of functional organs serving only to keep the whole mass alive, a pleasure/pain cortex, and a moist orifice we refer to only as "the glory hole". We're a couple of objectionable assholes, but we get laid. Or he does; I'm currently nuturing a misogynyst streak large enough to make Weininger spontaneously generate enough internal organs for the sole purpose of shitting his death-shroud, and the thought of actually pleasuring a woman makes me physically ill.
Of course, that might just be my not-so-latent homosexuality kicking in, though I doubt it, as guys are generally like girls, only with more pretense and more fragile egos. Bullshit and bluster, just what I need more of! Plus, dick tastes weird, and they always want to cuddle after, those fucking fairies. At least most girls have been trained in the art of how to be properly objectified over the years by sex-hungry boyfriends, philandering husbands, staring co-workers, and groping hands on the metro city bus - most of the time, there's just enough spirit left that crushing it is fun, but not so much as to actually detract from the experience of callously manipulating their lives to bend around my vile and puerile whims.
Viva life!
-Blake | | |
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