SUNDAY, SUNDAY, SUNDAY!!! </monster truck extrava-kwaanza>

(YEAH, I copied and pasted that.)

Ok, Faced-blech’s little “omg, you’re going OUTSIDE FACEBOOK!!!  Be careful out there with the swears and the dirtiness and the non-standard color schemes!” warning is as condescending and stupid as the rest of their site.  Ad hog.  Fuck you.

The next mayor of Stevens Point, WI arrived to work close to 4 pm today.  He was busy “napping” with one of his sexless harem, so don’t expect time to be that big of a deal unless others are relying on full instant everyone’ness.  You time Nazis can get there early and set shit up for when I arrive and the real work begins.  I can do more, and I can make/help/show you more in an hour than most of you gossipy fuck-tards can do in an average 40-hour “work” week.  Not to mention the vast resources you waste attempting to “do your job.”  God, you’re fucking useless.

Fer fuck’s sake, son.  It’s not rocket science.  Here, just send me an e-mail.  Tyler, My name is Mayor Halverson, and I’d like to hire you as a personal consultant.  I realize you’ve decided to enter the race for mayor, and barring a change of heart or your “untimely” (albeit fortunate [sic – NOT A TYPO]) demise, you’re gonna politically embarrass me with your talking-to-every-person-in-town-as-a-human cam’pain.  Oh, the nudity!  Seriously.  Alls I need is rent, a party stipend, and our own little “rat-signal.”  Yes, we’ll be on the same “Droid” family plan, with instant communication capabilities for all your public-speaking panic-freak-outs.  All of the farmers in this town are terrified of me, text messaging and/or e-mail, or are simply intolerable to be around, speak to, or work “for.”  That, or they just don’t want to be around me either.  So, yeah.  If you still want to be mayor, I will gladly help you turn this into a sustainable city.  We can make it the envy of the world.  As any effective consultant, I can fire whoever you can fire, so there’s gonna have to be a pretty massive changing of the guard.  No, they won’t be deported, and we’ll get ‘em actually working (for once) on the city payroll.  New rule, for those types.  You’re “allowed” to work (actual physical labor work) for as many hours as your bank obligations require (mortgage or rent, internet, heat, and electricity), at $10/hour, and you get help from me and my broke dirty hippie/punk/druggie/felon/farmer friends.  Basically, you get to join my coop, and we let you live.

Alright, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here, as usual.  The point is, I see no need to turn any of this into a competition.  I hate competitions.  They make me competitive.  And, what with my propensity for ingeniously creative solutions and indomitable work capacity, not to mention my innate abilities to inspire people to do insurmountable tasks with zero relative “effort,” my role in this whole equation is best suited to “consultant.”  That is, if you still want a “job.”  Imagine what I could do with $75,000 in a year, not to mention what the position itself could allow me.  I’d move all the local fatties out to garden detail, pharm out the new city website project to a bunch of smarter-than-all-of-you brown people and other underpaid geniuses and workhorses.  I’d establish voluntary, opt-in cooperative shared neighborhood (and… wait for it, CROSS-NEIGHBORHOOD) meal preparation and sharing, while teaching everybody about raw vegan food, organic gardening, computers, and the interpersonal dynamics of communicating with other human beings.  You’re all strung-out TV addicts, so you’re going to have to ease into humanity gently.  We can start this out as a few nights a week, if you want.

And as far as my presence, that’s up to you.  Well, I suppose in a sense it’s up to me, but I just don’t care about me.  Never have, not relative to you, anyway.  I want to show you the most useful, helpful, healthy things I’ve found over my 34 amazing years.  I’ve been a bit disheartened that none of you have decided to join me along the way, but I know I strayed way too far off of your path for you to have been able to do that.  Well, I’m back.  As much as it tortures me to just sit amongst you and wait until you decide to start speaking to me as a human being again, that’s exactly what I’ll do.  I’m not smarter than you.  I’m not better than you in any way, shape, or form.  I have different areas of expertise, different experiences, and different needs and wants than you.  I can explain them as well as I can, if you want, but this is me.  It’s the same me you knew back when we ran into each other every day, or shared that actual living space.  I just won’t take any of your shit any more.  Nor should you take anyone else’s.

So, now what?

Well, for one, shut off your tv.  I’m dead serious about this.  Put a blanket over it or move it to the closet and re-arrange the furniture so it’s not the focus of the whole fucking house.  It turns you into a monster, and you don’t even see it.  This is an intervention.  All of you.  I don’t care if you only watch PBS and listen to public radio.  Oh, fuck yeah.  Shut off your radio and hide all your magazines, too.  That insidious shit has got to go as well.  Burn the corporate Gannett b.s. daily in your front yard.  Put the savings in a jar, or leave them in an envelope at Emmy J’s marked LazyAssWasteoid.

Once you sever the machine’s information channels, you’re gonna panic if you don’t replace them with something else.  Go outside.  Walk around.  No, you don’t have a destination, just walk.  Walk in circles for all I care.  Stop and talk to a tree.  Smell some flowers.  Do some weeding at the community garden, pull some weeds from that unused parking lot down the street and start a compost pile.  I don’t care.  Get some fresh air.  Get out into your community and look around AT YOUR COMMUNITY.  You can’t participate in the greening of a city if you don’t know that city.  And guess what… YOU DON’T KNOW YOUR OWN CITY.  Seriously.  You spend all your time in cars.  You look at the world like it’s a sound-isolated TV show that you don’t have to think about.  You expel poisons as you run in circles to purchase poisons that the TV told you you needed.  Yes, you’re that gullible and oblivious.  Even the “democrats” and “liberals” and “hippies” and “anarchists.”  Well, you’ve all got your own things, but I can help you communicate with each other, and to put all of your talents to use for a truly common good.  Yeah, the owners of the banks live in this town, too.  Frankly, I’d enjoy running them out of town on a rail.  Setting up burning effigies shaped like dollar signs in their neatly manicured yards, or just ripping up their sod and planting a permaculture forest on their fucking 2-acres of irrigated chemical wasteland.  I’m the dictator of planet earth, motherfuckers.  Do you really think your little ordinances and zoning regularizations are gonna keep me from feeding my people?  I can crush your soul with a glance, and I’m not scared of any of you.  I have family who are cops, I have family who are lawyers.  I have friends of every race, age, intelligence level, and socio-economic caste that this rathole nation denies.  Shit.

Library’s closing.  I’m gonna go type more outside.  Brbz.

Ok, so now I’m sitting outside ‘el “lib”rary, and the fucking fortinet “personal storage” filter is preventing me from seeing twitpics of my followees.  Annoying as fucklessness.  Honestly, isn’t there one single woman in this town who wants to fuck?  Not one?!?  Alright.  I’m just sitting here waiting.

Ok, where wuz we.

It had just established a transitionary procedure for re-classified city employees, local drug-offense inmates, and “businesspeople.”  How’s that for lumping.  Heh heh heh.  Then it came outside and listened to this and re-writed its twit-bio to: “dayn’sir, con’slut-ant, poly-tis’chan, goo-roo! Cheep service, free love.”  It likes.

It now shall commence with the fashion re-cap of the week:  We’ve been sticking mainly to skinny clothes, for how else shall our customers see the merchandise?  Those dumpsterred jeans are clean(ish) now, and worked quite well, and our stand-by stretchy brown cords lasted two days.  That and the black skintight (G)L*O*V*E(S) hoodie, which now accompanies its pink and white velvet awesome-pants.  Yeah, well, they keep dicks away from me and make non-uptight girls smile and giggle.  Do you think I do anything not on purpose?  Fuck.  Boots got polished a few days ago, and despite their age and battered complexion, they beautify the whole package.  No, she is a princess, even when she’s not dressed like one.  The others who can see through appearances already knew that, but then again, that’s the reason you don’t let them speak in the first place, isn’t it.  Whatever.  We all just want to help.

Ok, how’s this?  You hire me as your consultant and I’ll be able to afford to finalize my appearance.  My mangy locks will get all braidy mohawky, and my skin will reveal henna traces that your daughters and grand-daughters will have placed on my very living flesh.  We’ll trim up the outlyers of this beardy-mane and brush the pussy juices out of our teeth before actually showing up at your office, if you’re gonna be all uppity about appearances.  No, your cigs, exhaust, perfume, cologne, and chemical cleaners, deodorants, and shampoos smell WAY worse than me, I’m not giving you any of that.  If everything smelled like sweaty vag it would be a vast improvement over what you got goin’ on now.  Fuck.

If you talk shit to or about any of the people who speak to, touch, or admire me, I will hurt you.  The punishment shall be of your choosing.  But I promise, it will be far less painful for you than your insults have been to me.  Citizen soldier, DA, Judge, Jury, and Executioner, all wrapped up in one neat little package.  How cutesy!

I’m really feeling this “blogging” thing today.  Can you tell?

Just texted (to my last manager): Stop contacting me.  I find you clueless and offensive.  Tell yr boss I’m on strike, if ya like.  E-mail or public meetings only from now on.  Best, t

This is the really real world, fucktards.  I am.  Wake the fuck up.

Where was I?  Oh, that was prompted by an indirect communication from him.  Slimy little worm.  I hate even thinking about him.  Ick.

I have bigger fish to fry, and more important things to do with my time, it seems, even during potato harvest.  I need to make some real money to be able to accomplish anything of note.  Y’all don’t think I exist while I’m giving everything away for free.  Your system of thought can’t contemplate my existence, let alone my relative awesomeness compared to the old ways of doing “biz-ness.”  Bow before me, assholes!

I’m serious about the needing sex, though.  I don’t know your little reindeer games, and I would cheat at the rules even if I knew them!  I’m giving an open offer to an entire demographic of a municipality, and all you have to do is approach that strange shy, apparently socially awkward bearded man in pink skinny pants, and ask him if you can try out.  That’s it.  We can go somewhere to talk.

I’m gonna go look at twitter for a bitski’s.

It’s 5:48, a chipmunk and bee said hello, I’m being serenaded by chirpy birds and traffic, and I’m listening to primus and lol’ing at Paul Basset Davies’ blog.  Werd’up.  I have a pretty serious primus addiction these days, huh.  Whatevski’s.

Tweeted: LOL’ing on fast off-hrs wifi @ MT @thewritertype Do unto others […] if you were tied up in their cellar. #newproverbs

I tend to agree with him on twitter.  It’s by far my favorite social media site.  FB has potential, but its execution is shitty.  Not that twitter isn’t shitty compared to what I could do in a weekend, but whatever.  Slow-pokes need to feel like they’re contributing, too.  Just don’t expect me to not be high while I wait for your dumb asses to awaken to the obvious conclusion that I’m right, and always have been.  Funny thing is, I don’t give two shits about credit for “being right” any more.  I just want sex, and a place to retreat, for the purposes of sex.  Whether I have any more meaningful work from now on is totally up to you.  I’ve put all my cards on the table.  I’m all in.  Let’s see some hands, folks.

It’s six oh-nine.  I just farted.  I have to pee.

Oh shit, I have to post this.  No, seriously, HAVE TO.


~ by LazyAssWasteoid on 2010-09-19 (Sunday).

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