Quetzalcoatlus: RIP

What does the Fox News audience care abut the Quetzalcoatlus? They watch their watered down Simpsons and listen to the news spin around like a broken washing machine in the rubbery jowls of pasty presenters while the furry Lorax is morally kidnapped to shill IHop chocolate chip pancakes, Mazda SUVs used by soccer moms burning Iranian children to get their own children to flute practice, and also, left wing political conspiracies. I'd love to be able to give you a picture of a living Quetzalcoatlus but that's impossible since they are now extinct and it's all because of the selfish proclivities of the Taco Bell generation who have dinner at the drive through and learn their economics from an Kebler elf chosen for her breast size. Let's all sleep soundly with our Ambien pills snoring through the whisper of wind on the Quetzalcoatlus' wings as he glides gently over the fern prairies, content with the world. These animals needed our protection and we shit on them just like we are attacking the Arctic Wolf on all sides. There is no mercy from the merciless and the spell check mentality that keeps us in our easy chairs while the magnificent Quetzalcoatlus rots in his desert grave. Go on and live with the blood of the Quetzalcoatlus on your hot sauce stained hands. Once monkeys roamed the parched desert and died in fierce anonymity and now our Cadillacs roll over the dusty remains of the Quetzalcoatlus, once man's friend and once the symbol of great majesty in this corrupt land, now a distant reminder of our senseless assault on the habitat of the impoverished Dixie werewolves.

Won't Learn My Lesson

4 am applying Joint Compound to damaged wall. Clueless.

Turkshead coxcombing that represents my internal logic system

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.

Random Quotes of the Day

Oggy: What's the code for Romaine Lettuce?
Self checkout attendant: Look under Lettuce.
Oggy: (Was looking under Romaine)

Jose: I been in the area for 2 month looking for work. My uncle, he die in Mexico, cartel kill him. If you could give any money so I could send it to my sister.
Oggy: What state?
Jose: Durango
Oggy: I want to go to Vera Cruz.
Jose: If you could...
Oggy: Labor Ready is the only hope. I'm also broke. No job. I'll give you a ride back to Durango. Is it near Vera Cruz?
Jose: No. Very dangerous road.
Oggy: Well, I'm starving to death here. That's not safe either. You want a free pair of plaid pants?
Jose: No.


Oggy: So if I mix this joint compound with paint so it's thin enough to roll on with a one inch nap roller then I'll get a texture to match the wall that was destroyed by the leak?
Paint Store Cashier: I guess.

Nurse: The dog pissed all over the floor. Didn't you put a diaper on her?
Oggy: I did. But I gave her water. She filled the diaper up.
Nurse: Don't give her any water.
Oggy: She's dying for water. Look at her. She begs for water constantly because of her disease.
Nurse: She can't hold it. No water.
Oggy: So, we'll kill her from thirst but not put a bullet in her head?
Nurse: Just shut up.
Dog: Woof!


Text conversation:
Dustin: What U up 2?
Oggy: Painting walls.
Dustin: In the Army that means 'masturbating.'
Oggy: I'm doing that 2 but the color is all wrong 4 the furniture.

Oggy: Hi! A buddy in San Francisco found these cool plaid pants in a storage locker. They're too small for me. Are you interested in buying them? Excellent condition. Not a stain on 'em. Made in U.S.A.
Gay Vintage Clothes Store Cashier: (makes face like he ate a sour apple)
Oggy: No?
GVCSC: (Shakes head)
Oggy: Plaid isn't popular anymore?
GVCSC: (Makes face)
Oggy: Because everyone in San Francisco is wearing highwater plaid pants. They're hardly worn. $5 and they're yours.
GVCSC: (Shakes head)
Oggy: Ok. A buck. One dollar and it's a deal.
GVCSC (silence)
Oggy: Your loss. I guess I'll look around? You got any buttons?
GVCSC: (Nods toward a wall)
Oggy: 'cause I got a disco shirt that's missing a button. And a coat with lame buttons. Gotta hate lame buttons.
GVCSC: (forced smile)
Oggy: Hey, I'll trade you these pants for a few buttons.
GVCSC: (Shakes head)
Oggy: I'll trade you these pants for one button.
GVCSC: (Shakes head)
Oggy: One button? They aren't worth a button?
GVCSC: (shakes head)
Oggy: So, you'd throw them in the trash if I left them here? Vintage plaid pants from a dead man's hotel room in San Francisco? Where am I, J. fucking Crew?
GVCSC: (Nods)
Oggy: Maybe I'll take my business elsewhere.
[Oggy leaves]
GVCSC: Have a nice day!

Oggy: One dark chocolate shake with peanut butter cups. The fresh ones. None of those nasty ones you got laying on the floor like last time. Ya hear me?
Speaker: [static static] ...at the window

Oggy: Where are your needlepoint supplies?
Goodwill Cashier: Needlepoint?
Oggy: Embroidery. Coxcombing. Whatever you call it.
GC: All our arty stuff is here.
Oggy: Nice. I'm making a punch pin patch that says "Econoline". I need weaver's cloth.
GC: Anything else I can help you with?
Oggy: In fact, there is. How much does this Beach Boys record cost?
GC: One dollar.
Oggy: Whoa! They're retired, you know. They don't need the money anymore for hookers and drugs.
GC: Today's fifteen percent off bric a brac.
Oggy: So it's eighty five cents?
GC: Before tax.
Oggy: Still pretty high. It's got scratches like Run DMC practiced sample hooks on it.
GC: Is there...?
Oggy: Check it out. Pretty nice jeans I found over there. Vintage Levis 684 elephant bell bottoms. Classic "Dad" wash. Hardly worn. They don't fit but I can take in the waist. I always say, 'You can't have a bad day in bellbottom jeans'.
GC: Let me know when you want to check out.
Oggy: ...and these awesome plaid pants. Two bucks! I bet that gay vintage clothes shop down the street will pay ten bucks for these. I'll make a bit of hustle money. But no needlepoint?
GC: Ok?
Oggy: I guess I'll just buy the jeans and the plaid pants. And this Beach Boys record.
GC: And the shirt?
Oggy: Well, what do you think? I'm undecided. It's a white Givenchy disco shirt. Givenchy For Chesa. It is pretty awesome. But it's missing a button. Does it fit alright? What do you think?
GC: Fits ok.
Oggy: Any discounts for military personnel?
GC: Not today.
Oggy: Because I was in the Boy Scouts.
GC: Are you ready to check out?
Oggy: Ok, you twisted my arm, add this groovy Daniel Cremieux paisley pullover golf shirt and we're all set. No more! My mom lets me shop for myself and see what happens? haha. What's the damage?
GC: $8.
Oggy: Whole wheat Jesus! How can a poor man face such times and live?
GC: Excuse me?
Oggy: Hey, what's this?
GC: Ironing board elastics.
Oggy: Cool. I bet I could use those to keep the stovepipe in my van stable. The thing rattles like hell when I cross train tracks. How much?
GC: Fifty Cents.
Oggy: Come on. A quarter and you got a deal.
GC: Fifty cents.
Oggy: You drive a hard bargain. No needlepoint stuff you're hiding back there behind the desk? You're sure? If I don't finish my Econoline punch pin patch I lose my license to be hip.

Givenchy for Chesa disco shirt and Levis 684 Bellbottom Jeans. This outfit sells for $400 on eBay and I already ruined it with joint compound.

Blues For Dixie

Warning: Do not watch this under the influence of LSD or other hallucinogenic drugs.
I'm practicing my western swing songs for my next career as a swing band leader in a Texas honky tonk.

This is "Blues for Dixie" by Bob Wills except with me as a werewolf and a vocal effect of an old black sharecropper. So, an enslaved, cotton picking werewolf who also sang the blues because he was beholden to the man. It's a full moon and NOW we're finally getting crazy.

I heard a few people upload videos of them playing this song like a ragtime, nostalgic, happy song. It's called Blues for Dixie. You don't know shit about the blues until you've been a black werewolf sharecropper with a busted guitar.