Monday, November 19, 2012

Snapshots of self-loathing

 I've been drinking heavily lately to medicate my own lack of redemption and silence the howling of the undefended wolf who haunts my van nightmares. My shirt doesn't fit because I bought it when I didn't have two pesos to rub together and I was a gaunt 120 pounds from eating the left overs at the Jack in the box dumpster and now I've grown too big for the shirt. The television shows me insane drug smuggling and slavery followed by beer ads and medicine to make my cock hard. I don't like or appreciate anything and the repulsive stank of fuckwads who berate me for not bending to the will of the world and then when I bend to the will of the world call me a hypocrite are lower than worm shit and I should know because I'm lower than worm shit and break my arm daily patting myself on the back because I can install solar panels for $8 million dollars and sniff a crumb off the table of the Halliburton. Oh, but get a stick up your ass because I'm wearing my elbows out at the local bar or fucking my landlord but TOTALLY IGNORE the hydrofracturing that is going on. That makes as much sense as anything our pitiful public schools teach as fact like Indians trading corn with Pilgrims for smallpox. Texans drink and eat like starving Somalians at a Hometown Buffet free for all and they play like hyperactive kids at Chuck E Cheese wack-a-mole festival. Don't hate me for trying to fit in.

My heart isn't the only thing that is a hobo. My knees are also hobos.

 Scraps from my brisket lunch. I was a vegan once who avoided salt and pepper because it was a luxury that Gandhi wouldn't approve of and now I lick the flesh from the indestructible styrofoam. Go ahead, point out how grotesque I am. I also ate something called Mollejas. They were delicious.


I'm not the first wayward asshole to hang his hat in this museum to 1981.
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2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Forget the text beneath the picture. This picture speaks for itself. I will state the obvious, then you tell me what's really going on.

1) You are walking away from the Van

2) You have an axe in your hand

3) Waking toward a gate with a shirt that spells irate.

Lots on your mind with an axe to grind is like it doesnt matter who we are, Repulsive fuckwads, or wormshit. It is to me as if you are writing just as feverishly as your fellow Texans are eating.

Please do yourself a favor and sit down with some Peyote, mescaline and white blotter and figure out some shit.

Or prolong your lifes misery so it is easily identifiable as alcoholism. But for now, put down the axe and don't give in. You crazy cooter. Enjoy the time you are here. Relax smoke a joint and watch Smokey and the Bandit. Hydrofracking will go on despite your futile efforts to stop it.

November 20, 2012 at 8:06 AM
Oggy Bleacher said...

In futile homemaking of lonely abode I decided to actually bury the clay flagstones that lead to my door instead of balancing my pride on their uneven and wobbling surfaces. Then I discovered why they were not buried in the first place as the deceased Lady of the house once had great fruit trees here now also deceased...and their root balls were as strong as iron so no one wanted to bury the flagstones. But Oggy refuses to bend to the immutable destiny of dead trees and he wore his back and torn shirt down to bury them deep in the ground while my resentments are reborn as dead flower blossoms.

The drug smuggle trade is repugnant, simple, dumb, and unsophisticated and the lack of ethics and geometry of the sad fucks who smuggle like mules and the political Knights who chase is repulsive to me. I can't abide by their lack of restraint and their blighted worldview pains me.

You sound like a doctor telling a SS guard at Auschwitz to watch his cholesterol.

November 20, 2012 at 7:42 PM

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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.