Sunday, April 28, 2013

The Trouble With Women

Here’s the problem. Girls throw their feelings around like threatened squids or something. Maybe, I’m just emotionally stinted (I’m probably somewhere on the spectrum.), but I’m pretty sure that it’s not fair for some lady to spew her bad day at my face. Apparently, she lost her car which she relied on to get to her job. I’m aware that this is a bad thing and I’m aware that I take the vague form of a Peoples but I’m just barely that. I can handle, maybe, seven emotions a day and I’ve got to be mad at least once and horny at least twice.


Part of me wishes that I could live back in the fifties. Only part of me because I’m black and the only reason why a black guy wouldn’t get his ass kicked in the fifties is because everyone was too busy beating up a gay guy or a Catholic. The part of me that’s dense enough to think I can get away with being a black guy before the eighties really wants to go, though. This might not be accurate, but I’m pretty sure that feelings were invented in the sixties by the fucking hippies. Before that, people were just sociopathic blank slates and it was cool. You worked a twelve hour day at a job you hated and that was killing you slowly and then you came home and beat your wife. There was no conversation about why the beating occurred or how anybody felt about the beating. It was like the rain. It just happened.


And women. You could hospitalize a woman for flinging her feelings around. Not, like smash in her rib cage, although men did that anyway. You could literally have your wife committed to a mental hospital for feeling too much. Like with everything else, there was a protocol. When you wanted to get rid of your wife, without murdering her (Pussy.), you first beat her, as always. Then, you took her to a doctor, who would masturbate her to cure a good, old-fashion case of Hysteria. If the problem persisted, then you would repeat that action three times and then, you got to dump her at the funny farm. You just drove up and told the doctors that her vagina was broken or something.


“Harry, I…I can’t have this baby. Physically, I’m capable but if I bring this life into this world, I know I’ll resent it and I know I’ll resent myself for hating it. I can’t think of anything crueler to do to a child.”


“Peg, I heard you. I understand what your saying and I’ll tell you what. I’m going to force you to have that baby but you won’t have to take care of it. I’ve been sleeping with my secretary. She’ll take care of the tike and you, my darling, will get a new white jacket that’ll hug your tight and a white room that’s just for you. Now, how’s that sound?”


“What happened to Dr. Goldberg and the dildo?”


All of that changed during WWII when the brave men of America crossed the Atlantic to beat German women. With no men around, the American women started to build up something known as ­self-esteem while playing Baseball with Tom Hanks. You might be saying to yourself, ‘Tom Hanks, the baby? Was Tom Hanks even alive during WWII?’

If you actually asked such a stupid question, then I feel sorry for you. Everyone knows that Tom Hanks is a Time Lord and went back in his time machine. A League Of Their Own was a documentary and Shelby Marshall redacted the time travel aspect because women make bad decisions. See All the women I’ve ever slept with. So, Tom Hanks helped foster the Feminist movement instead of killing Hitler because Tom Hanks is selfish. Think of all the horrible things that have  ever happened. Tom Hanks could have stopped them, but he played Baseball and drank grain alcohol, instead.

Well, maybe it’s not fair to say he’s selfish. I don’t understand the time-space continuum. Maybe things would be much worse if Hitler didn’t rise to power. Maybe, there would have been nuclear dinosaurs, instead. Just big-ass, Nazi dinosaurs with radioactive blood snatching fucking planes out of the sky and eating the pilots’ faces. Here’s some homework: Find a WWII veteran. You should probably hurry because they are dying, right the fuck off. Find a Vet and ask him if a Nazi ever tried to bit his arm off. Dinosaurs are worse than Nazis.

Let’s take the top war machine of WWII, the Panzer Tank. Let’s pit that against the top predator of the Jurassic Period, the Tyrannosaurus Rex. The Panzer has a lot going for it, but I have to maintain the T-Rex would fuck the Panzer tank in its cannon hole. It’s a Motherfucking T-Rex, Motherfuckers.

“No, because the Panzer has a big gun on the front. You can just shoot the T-Rex in the face.”

Hey, Smart-Ass! Guess what? No, you can’t and shut the fuck up. The Panzer has a fixed barrel. Unless you’ve got some guys to lift the entire tank up at a 70 degree angle and hold it there long enough for you to fire at the T-Rex, then the Panzer is going down. Now, do I know if that part about the fixed barrel is true? Nope. And I’m not going to fact-check this. It’s clearly bullshit. Listen, it doesn’t matter what type of gun the Panzer had, it’s piloted by people and the only response to seeing a Tyrannosaurus Rex is, ‘Holy fuck-nuts! A fucking T-Rex! Oh, god! It’s fucking us in our Cannon hole!’

This is all deviating from my real point. Girls, I’m not your boyfriend. I shouldn’t have to know about your goddamn feelings. 

Friday, April 5, 2013

I Don't Know What To Write...

I've been working off-line for a while, nearly a month now. I'm sitting in a McDonald's with a Big Mac sitting at my side. The internet isn't back on.

I'm stressed to say the least because I'm a creature of internet and I'm trying to make money off the internet [(Just like everyone else.) Shut up, Matt.] My most recent finished novel, No Magic For Luke Peters rests, unpurchased on Amazon Kindle and I'm currently working on its sequel, No Soul For Luke Peters.

I had a thought and I'm not going to say it because it'll open me up for ridicule. Let me try to rephrase it so that I don't sound like an asshole. The stress of my life (my father's increasingly brittle temperment, my dwindling standing at my current job, and my inability to work in the medium I want to work in) should be good for me as an artist, but it's hard. I don't know what to write.