Today: Songs about fatties
Too poisoned to participate, too lazy n numb ta care
But god yer clothes look wonderful, and yer automobile and yer hair.
I took a shower today. Finally. It’s been like 4 bike rides. More days. Dunno. Dun-care. I keep saying I’m done with this fucking planet and nobody steps up to finish the job. Yeah. I’m nobody.
I hope all of you realize how I’ve been prepping you for this. I know some of you saw it. You know who you are. Most of you folks I ain’t talked to since we parted ways institutionally. Look, just ‘cuz we’re in different places don’t mean we don’t have much to offer each other. You know what diversification is, right? Why don’t you have resources invested in regional farms? Really? How do potatoes grow up on that roof? Probably pretty well. I dunno. I’m trying to share something of myself that you couldn’t have possibly seen. An aspect of reality that will necessarily escape you without the input of a me. Blah. I suck.
Raw recordings sound so much better than produced shit.
That’s what your “production” has become, you realize, a censor. It keeps out all the “poison” and “dirt.” Tee hee. All the good stuff! Fucking GOOD STUFF. But, y’all get away from it for so long, and you start to think American Idol is “good” because it was showed at you by the same warm glowy obedient friend replacement what showed you most of everything else you brain-eat. Blech. Real life is so much more vivid. Vivid Entertainment. Word.
I’m not being loyal to today’s topic of con-hurdle-ization, izzit. Fuck all y’all! Eat my rules and lick my flag. BRING! IT! ON!
Bettercore. More like goodcore. I like it, but it’s more fast rock with growling than a –core. Whatever. They can call themselves whatever they want. This is why I hate titles, classifications, and competitiveness. It just makes you competitive. It’s a conditioned response. Not enough food, FIGHT FOR FOOD. Not enough jobs/money/insurance/minutes/ounces, fight for shit. Meaningless, non-existent, made-the-fuck-up SHIT. Lies piled on glittery lies piled on wordy lies piled on numbery lies piled on historical lies. You violently defend your violence, you panopticonic hate-enforcers! You’re killing your father, Larry!
Disfear. There. We. Go.
Oh, it wrrz a black hanes heftyweight t-shirt today, made in hondouras, it were. It gots adverts for “The Skuds,” a fantastically Georgian (USA) Mixed-race beautiful-sound outfit. They played a show in its living room once upon a time, and we talked as humans. Good people. Oh, and the shirt was free. Free to me, anyway. Look, people in Hondouras need to eat, too. They shouldn’t be enslaved by this shit, either. And besides, just ‘cuz it’s made here don’t mean the workers here aren’t treated like ill-performing children regardless of their performance abilities. It’s the American way.
How about you curb your desires for chemicals to mask the smell of the poisonous shit coming out of your pores, or the useless, made-to-disintegrate threads that hide your growing blobs. No, your fat ass makes you look fat. You can say all you fucking want about how healthy you eat. Look at you. You don’t. Yes, you’ve been lied to, multiple times every single day you turn on your lie machines, but when do you take responsibility for the operation of your own personal self? You don’t “own” that body, and when it wears out, you’re outta here. So, what do you do for the gift of this experience on the most technologically advanced space-rock we’ve never heard of…. Right, put sand in the gas tank. That’s hilarious. Literally crush the remains of your lie and swallow *gulp* that lump in your throat and call it good. You boardroom fuckers better kill yourselves before I get to you, ‘cuz once consensus capital punishment is enacted (fuck yes I’m PRO death penalty.), I’m the executioner, too. Look it up, it’s right there in crime and punishment. I don’t get to start ‘til my peeps says go, but don’t think I haven’t been planning that, too.
Or, you give up everything, as soon as you can, all your misdeeds, and we let you live. We’ll isolate you from the humans, and let you keep whatever other “capitalists” you desire or can stand you. Frankly, you’re probably better off just offing yourself, ‘cuz sitting on that desert island resort watching a beautiful sunset all by yourself thinking about the dirty things I’m doing to your ex, daughters, and mother will probably be more like “no exit” than a paradise.
You don’t know hell. I do.
Oh, you’ve witnessed it, sure. That one time before you went zombie-smiles. Pretend it never happened, and that little girl screams and kicks at the basement door of your mind and you turn up the volume on the Price is Right.
Fat boy, watching you slowly commit suicide by ingestion of poison is not my idea of entertainment. Help yourself to survival, holmes.
Insect Warfare. Classy. Grindy. Wave-formy. Now that’s dance music.
Who the fuck else haven’t I screamed at, yet? Oh, you fuckers who act like controlling bitch-tards to your kids because they’re 24.73x smarter than you and you hate admitting it. Let them teach you. Give up on thinking it matters. It’s so frighteningly common, and you sit there in silence when you have a guru professor sitting across the table from you every day, and you berate her/him about clothing and homework. They know what to eat, far better than you do. Forcing shit down their throats so that they’re as fat stupid and unhappy as you is just child abuse. Knock it the fuck off.
Yeah, I’d put headphones on all the time too if I had to listen to your regurgitated capitalist drivel, 50’s high-school mean-girl act, and general screaming-about-nothingness violence. You shut the fuck up, your mid to low-volume droning is even more violent, and you still talk about shitless nothing. How is that even possible? You look like a hippie. You hang out with actual hippies, sorta, yet you’re an over-“protective” capitalist lie-defender who gets off on making other people jump through your condescending little hoops. I’m talking about Voldemort’s loyal who set up your program, tard-bug. I know you’re a decent human. Just gotta quit lying to yourself, compartmentalizing all your thoughts, feelings, and actions, and learn to look past the regurgitated venom. You saw spirited away, right? No-face is in detox mode.
IsteronProject. Ear heaven. The structure is so complex you’ll think it’s random noise at first. You hear more each time. They get better each time.
So, busking in Wal-Mart parking lots and sleeping in my car it is. I’m almost out of money, nowhere to go, and nobody to talk to. If it weren’t for mother nature, I’d have left here a long time ago. You people are intolerable in your present state. Yes, you, normal, black or white, brown or yellow, rich and poor, artists and bankers, farmers and lawyers. It’s going to take ten years of re-education to get through your fucking defense mechanisms even to be able to approach the ready-to-learn listener. Get outside. 5 hours per day. I don’t care if you spent half of it sitting in the shade. Breathe. Listen. Stare, think, and BE FUCKING BORED. Get pissed. Scream if you have to. Not at other people, or even while other people are around, you violent shitbag. Deal with your own fucking self. IN THE RAW. Yank out some hair, bash your shoulder into a large tree (tree moshing – all the rage), and babble like you did before mom-n-dad put the kai-bash on your god-given-right-to-have-a-nice-day.
Ok, Links on.
Computer lock-down. It’s going crazy now. Picasa? Google? Hello?
Oh, that… fuck your feelings. I care about your health. You use your “feelings” to excuse the state of your health. If you don’t care about your own fucking health, what the fuck can I even do? Contribute to the multitude of art out there that’s trying to get you to see the moronicy of your ways? I’ve been doing that, too! Any time I tried to let you know that’s what I was doing, you yelled at me. YOU acted hurt. As you insulted my chosen life, no me. You acted hurt while insulting me. I didn’t put you in this ridiculous mess where you’re required to lie to everyone and dodge any and every conversation about anything of substance. You don’t even recognize substance any more. Fluff is all you see, all you can stand, and all you care about. The way you hide from your own children, spouses, parents, siblings, and the very people around you who aren’t in the same plastic-wielding shit-consuming socio-economic group. YOU MAKE ME FUCKING SICK. Go listen to Vomit Dichotomy again. Over and over. Put it on repeat for 33 years and you might have a slight idea how you fuckheads have treated us. I say us because I assume there’s at least one other person out there who thinks like I do. I’m going to keep screaming until it hears me, finds me, and holds me.
Poney’s on again. These kids make me happy.
What is all this “sensitive” information everyone is talking about? The need for encryption? That’s just the how-you-enslave-us stuff, isn’t it? Anything about us, at the lower level, that’s just out there. Upper level data analysis, that’s for the slavekeepers alone. The logic of your whole world is so entirely backwards, it’s no wonder you’re nearing collapse.
If shit ran like your lies make it sound it should/does, there would be no point in “attack,” let alone a need to defend it. You spend all this time and effort determining reasons and explanations and algorithms to explain why you’re NOT giving us any information, sustenance, or truth. Give it away, now. So much easier for all of us.
Why am I listening to Psalm One now? She gave it away for free. Well, her label did. Smart folks, them Rhymesayers. Rappin’ girls? Awesome. Man up? She’s mean. Really mean. I like her a lot. Really a lot.
“If I don’t make your top ten, that’s alright. I don’t make my own.” LOVE! From “Top Bottom.” I still think you should auto-tune “Fuck Up Your Life,” and quit censoring it. Sorry, sweetie. I just switched to Mass Grave.
Bands I couldn’t add to MySpace ‘cuz it’s fucked up, again.
Four pages of mean today. Need I post it?
I think I do.
Fuck all y’all.