Thursday, February 23, 2012

Workaholics

I usually dump on bad pop art so I have to be fair and promote mass produced art that I enjoy. Portandia on IFC is one series I find amusing and the other one is Workaholics that is a jewel in Comedy Central's crown. I guess one has to be jaded for so long that the jaded-ness becomes a cliche in itself and then other jaded comedy writers start to sound funny. But if you are newly jaded then nothing is funny. If you have been jaded for a long time then let me recommend Portlandia and Workaholics. If they aren't funny then you should get some psychedelic mushrooms and eat them in the Santa Cruz forest. You won't stay jaded long and then you will stop your self abuse long enough to come down from your jaded monkey perch in wood smoke obscurity, fearful of your own shadow, crying about your sad affairs, hugging your dark secrets to sleep with hog hunters and storage wars to keep you company while the lesbian lawyers make sure you cut every blade of artificial grass on their lawn so you can stoop your fat belly fat over to pick up the check taped to the granite mailbox. No, better to champion your own fragile disappointments like a Rock-em Sock-em Resentment cage match....while the cuffs of reality close in. Wolves crawl around all our doors and I hear them sniffing me out. We're all asked to adopt alliances with our allies but our allies were taught by a drunken English teacher named Cal who wanted the summers off so he could golf so we must decide for ourselves what is a lie and what is truth and when you break your back for powder puff families who later prosecute you in court then it's a climate change of tears that will wash away the fire of your torment. Go ahead and break your arm patting yourself on the back as Critical Thinking is the class that was cancelled when your bad breath pulled the fire alarm at PHS. We're born again with no laws and no friends, the Kickapoo Indian's bones beneath the St. Louis Arch and the gateway to the West won by Apple and that is the latest in an attack on reality as the lie is much easier to propagate now. Turn your frown upside down as the colon cancer diagnosis on your transmission WILL NOT SILENCE THE GLADIATOR IN MY HEART. I Will walk on my arthritic toe into the wilderness of the Guatemalan rain forest, passing through the cartel ravaged Mexican drug land, gasoline burning in my wake because I need you all to point these things out to me. Yes, let's debate about Oggy's hypocrisy because he doesn't already have insomnia because his last employer thought he was stealing leather gloves from his truck when actually he was trying to save time by not returning to his own polluting disgusting pervert van that is parked outside the courthouse with smoke wafting from the stovepipe, and because in Oggy's haste he left his gloves and his keys in the van, locked himself out of it with the alarm on and so, in front of three sheriffs he would be breaking into his own van through the leaking escape hatch with the alarm going off in his Tinnitus ear while he hunts for the keys so he instead grabbed gloves from his employer's truck and then asked if he could borrow them and that sounded and was admittedly suspicious and led to his immediate dismissal and nearly a fist fight with a Kittery punk who called him a thief with ass crack snobbishness and chest pumping and all of this has now returned to haunt him and wail of his regret in the shadows of his Vespa. Sure, with the ghosts of Christmas past he'll never need to be reminded of the cause and effect of his van on the Kazakhstani children and Syrian infants. Oggy's real fucking slow and he needs everyone to be psychologists and interpret all his words. Let me save you time and say that I'll be dead and dust in a Tibetan Sky burial by the time you catch up on your slow footed Escalade Nike tongue-tied travesty and tell me what I'm thinking. Yes, I'm real obtuse, real hard to figure out that you need to hunt and peck like a fucking one eyed chicken for my weaknesses. Good times! Bravo! Let's all pretend there is no cause and effect and the clown next to the amusement park ride has a finger that's twenty feet high so no one gets to go on it and we can all watch it go in empty circles because I can type with ten mother fucking fingers and not make one fucking mistake and I'll do it all day long at 90 wpm but no one in their cardboard mansions will get rich off these fucking fingers if they want to ignore the clown next to the ride and the stale fried dough sold by the girl with acne and the stumbling Indian in alligator shoes and all the Italian scooters that will heal the Arctic Wolf. Conviction isn't sold at Walmart and Dignity isn't kept frozen with the ice cream where old crones gossip about broken heroes. Conformity, however, is mass produced in China for your convenient consumption and when faced with a free individual you will tear him down and produce the bones of Iraq prison guards as evidence that freedom isn't free because you can't be more cliche if you had Rush Limbaugh stick a hand up your ass and use you as a ventriloquist dummy while Kid Rock dances in the background with an American Flag condom on his syphilitic cock.

I did not intend to cross this gateway into Tiradlandia but my betrayal has been betrayed and my Jazz fakebook gets faker every day with the blood of a scorpion running across the treble staff. Let's all defend our misery because that's what we're good at. Bullies belong on fakebook because they can have the power to befriend and unfriend digitally and comment at will in circular jerkoff fashion. This never was a forum so I'm not going to pretend it is anymore. They have Elton John fuck fag forums somewhere on the internet and if you like glory hole anonymity to your words and cock then go there to yap your outdated gossip and idiotic ego pump. Or cry about it like a six year old in your basement because you get good at what you do. In the meantime watch some funny shows where people dance and distract as the Syrian/Chinese apocalypse is captured on facebook fraud accounts where classless cunts sign yearbooks repeatedly and click refresh on their own unlikeable comments and legless cowards stoke the fading flames of their own life lived for the dollar that is owed to someone else in China. That makes more sense. That's the answer because a golfer named Cal said it was.
Creative Commons License
Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.