I AM NOBODY

Life is a big fucking boring waste of time if you’re a nobody.

You get a job, work it for almost half of your life in complete anonymity — that’s if you’re lucky enough and don’t get laid off, fired or outsourced — and then, when you’re too old to do the shit you’d have done when younger but couldn’t since you had to occupy that cubicle instead, you finally fucking retire and, yes, sit at home all day watching t.v. or surfin’ the Internet. The same fucking thing you do now, except for spending half your day at work.

I can’t say it any better than Charles Bukowski did about life in general for the 99.9 percent of us who’re regular and insignificant Joes and Janes. Here’s a few lines from his poem Born Into This:

We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this

And here’s some lines from Cause & Effect:

the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them

I can’t wait for the Big Sleep. This living shit is wearing me out, especially after almost 48 years of it, and with over half of those l o n g years spent as a working stiff. I’m bored. I don’t sleep well. I’m going grey. I got a big, disgusting gut. The hair on the top of my head is thinning. And, if not for my right hand, I would never get laid.

If I ever won the lotto I’d probably just lay in bed all day saying “Fuck all y’all” over and over and do nothing, just like I do nothing now. But with money at least I wouldn’t have to worry about bills. I think that alone would relieve a lot of my drug-controlled stress (thank the Gods for Effexor XR) and teeth grinding at night. I could get laid, too, with that kinda cash. And get really good drugs, like coke and some of that pot grown from Amsterdam seeds, the kind that is an extremely light shade of green, contains no seeds, no stems and is very soft and fluffy, melting away quickly as you fire it up and suck on your bong.

Then, and only then, would life be worth living.

Right now, however, if a car or truck runs me over and I’m deader than a doornail I’d be very happy ’cause my life sucks, has sucked, never didn’t suck and probably will continue to suck. So suck on it, mothersuckers.

A friend of mine, who just retired after almost 30 years at the same god damn job site, wrote me this e-mail the other day, “I am now a non-productive, useless drunk old fuck on a pension. I got Jane (his cat) some little plastic balls with a bell inside each one. She loves to chase them all over the house then bring each one back to me and then I throw each one out for her to catch again and bring back to me. That’s about all I do now. Soon, I’ll die, probably in bed, and will be rotting away when someone from the county hauls away what is left of my carcass.”

But soon thereafter he wrote me again. This time he was full of life, the sort of full of life feeling you get when one is in horrid, non-stop pain, especially the kind that one could have avoided if one had been a little more careful instead of carefree. His e-mail:

“THE HABANERO PEPPER IS ONE OF THE MOST POWERFUL THINGS ON EARTH. I’VE GOT A SINGLE PLANT GROWING OUT IN MY NOW DEFUNCT SQUASH GARDEN, AMONG THE DEAD PLANTS OF LAST SUMMER. THE LEAVES OF THE HABANERO BUSH I HAVE ARE SHINY AND GREEN AND HEALTHY AND THERE ARE PROBABLY 40 BRIGHT ORANGE HABANERO PEPPERS DANGLING FROM THE BUSH. I DECIDED TO MAKE UP SOME HOMEMADE CHILI THIS MORNING AND I CLIPPED TWO TINY ORANGE HABANERO PEPPERS FROM THE BRIGHT GREEN BUSH. WHILE I FRIED UP A POUND OF HAMBURGER I CHOPPED UP THE PEPPERS AND THREW THEM IN THE MIX WITH ONIONS, PINTO BEANS, TOMATOES, ETC. I DO NOT RECALL RUBBING MY EYES, LIPS, OR ESPECIALLY, MY BALLS. BUT RIGHT NOW, I WILL TELL YOU, MY EYES ARE TEARING UP, AND I AM NOT SAD, MY LIPS FEEL LIKE I PUT GASOLINE ON THEM AND SET THEM ON FIRE AND MY BALL SACK FEELS LIKE A COLONY OF ARMY ANTS HAVE TAKEN UP CAMP UPON IT. THE MORAL TO THIS TALE IS THIS: RESPECT THE HABANERO PEPPER, EVEN IF YOU ARE PISSED OFF AT MEXICANS INVADING US, NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON A HABANERO PEPPER. EVER.”

I don’t know the point of this, what I’ve said here. I don’t really care. It’s just your typical bitching from a guy who knows the score of his one life and that score is a big fat ZERO.

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JESUS HATES SANTA

Whilst out shopping at a Half-Price Books store in southwest Fort Worth several years ago I spotted this word graffiti on a back driveway loading dock door. I have to agree with the writer of these three short but powerful words.

I hate Christmas too. All it is is a corporate fund raiser. Remember, Jesus hated the money-changers.

I’m already sick of it. In fact, even more so, because I spent over two hours at work last week helping the ladies, who care about Christmas as if it’s more important than life itself, erect Christmas trees and dangle garland all around the rooms the trees were in and then I helped put up that other crap you hang on the fake, plastic, metal-based “tree”, the lights, angels, colored balls, shiny strings, etc., on two different floors. Now I have to spend everyday at work, until AFTER Christmas because they never take the shit down until AFTER New Year’s Day, looking at this shit.

And don’t to forget to buy shit for the annual Toys For Tots drives you’re e-mailed about at least three times a day at work unless you want to be looked upon worse than Mr. Scrooge. And, yes, I did that non-paid duty by buying poisonous Made In China (is anything made anywhere else?) hand-held games and Hot Wheels cars at the Dollar General store on Granbury Road and Hulen Street.

I’m such a Christmas grump I actually kept the coolest looking one of the Hot Wheels cars I purchased.

Yes, I will go to your so-called Hell but I will find people there like myself and we will have a blast for eternity while the rest of you fools swirl around in the clouds in white gowns forever listening to Perry Como and Johnny Mathis tunes.

Oh, I have a buddy who hates Christmas maybe more than I do. Read his X-mas sucks rant here: Meatlights 39

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HELL AND HIGH HEELS

My doctor told me, after checking my prostate and confirming what I had told him that it was inflamed, “Are you having sex?”

I said, “Shit, man. What white guy at the age of 46 is having sex?”

He then asked me if I was masturbating. He asked because masturbation is necessary for good prostate health. In other words, a man has got to come to keep from getting prostate cancer, which kills more men over the age of 50 than any other cancer. Meaning, most men in their 50s aren’t masturbating and aren’t getting laid. See, ladies, you’re literally killing us by not letting us fuck you silly.

“Shit, what white guy at the age of 46 is masturbating? Besides, when I come home after working 10 fucking hours a day the only thing on my mind is alcohol and t-fucking-v. I’m trying to get my mind-numbing on not a hard-on, motherfucker.”

He prescribed me some medication for my inflamed prostate and asked me if I had a girlfriend.

“What white guy at the age of 46, with grey hairs spreading out all over his beer belly body, and the hair on top of his head dying, workin’ full-time and lives with a cat, has a motherfuckin’ girlfriend? If you could prescribe me a whore, and if my insurance covered it, I’d gladly go down to the nearest titty bar and fill that prescription, niggo. But, you see, doc, this is America. And America don’t like people having sex, especially our President, who thinks abstinence is the Holy Grail. So I am fucked beyond all reason, if you want my opinion on the matter.”
Here’s a pic of Lex Ann from when I went to
Fred’s Texas Cafe a few weeks ago. She waitresses there and Quincy, the night manager, got her to put my “Fred Burger w/Cheese” women’s t-shirt on and model it.

She said she used to work at The Smoke Pit, a bar-b-q joint on Belknap Street east of downtown, where the waitresses all wear bikini tops and on Mondays and Tuesdays they wear bikini tops and bottoms. I asked her if she got propositioned while working there.

“All the time.”

I asked her what was one of the more outrageous offers.

“To go with this guy to Germany for $5,000. I asked him if that amount of money meant I had to fuck him and he said, ‘Well, yeah.’ Then I told him, ‘Only if you gave me enough drugs so I could stand to fuck your ugly ass and I really don’t think there’s enough drugs in the world for that to ever happen.’ He didn’t appreciate that. I gave it back to him. I’m kind of a smartass.”

I told her I liked that in a woman.

After taking the pics and bidding adieu, she hugged Fred’s kitchen manager and head cook, William Bryan Massey III, who was also leaving because his shift was over, and then, just as we’re about to walk out of the patio area and into the parking lot to our cars, she tells me, “I guess I’ll give you a hug, too.”

Oh, thanks, sweetie. Glad to get something back for giving you a free fucking t-shirt and having all the guys standing around gettin’ hard-ons lookin’ at you with it on.

God, women find me disgusting. Well, I am. But, who fucking cares anyway? I finally got a pic of a hot chick thanks to Quincy and his smooth talkin’ manner.

The subject of the t-shirt came up when I told Patrick, another Fred’s waiter, if he wanted one of the “Fred Burger w/Cheese” t-shirts since he saw me wearing mine and said how cool it looked. So I told him I’d give him one for free.

His face brightened up and he said, “Really? COOL!”

I said, “Yeah, man. Be right back with it.”

So, as me and Bryan walked out to my car to get Patrick his shirt, he mentioned the new waitress, Ms. Lex Ann, and that she was formerly working at The Smoke Pit, which Lex Ann referred to as, “basically a strip joint.” It is but they don’t do table dances. So I asked Bryan if he thought Lex Ann would want one of the small-sized women’s “Fred Burger w/Cheese” t-shirts.

His eyes got big and he said, “Hell, yeah!”

When we brought her the t-shirt Quincy was standing there, this was out on Fred’s patio, and he asked her if she’d model it for us guys.

“Sure,” she said and disappeared behind the patio area to change shirts.

And the rest, as they say, is herstory.

Lex Ann said some guy at Fred’s had asked her what her name was the other night and, after telling him what it was, he asked if that was her ‘stage’ name. She asked him, “Is this a titty bar?”

“No.”

“Then it ain’t my stage name, honey.”

She’s got spark to her, a real sassy lassy.

Charles Bukowski described life as non-stop burning down of your soul. Down, he said, “to the nub.” Just like when you smoke a cigarette and finish it. Look at what’s left. That is your life. He said what drove a man mad wasn’t the big catastrophes in his life but the little tragedies, the shoelace breaking when you’re late for work, the boss on your ass for not selling enough used cars during the end-of-the-year close out, the blank faces on fellow humans you see during the day, the lack of humanity and compassion throughout the world, these things, all of them together, over much time, yes, Bukowski felt, that is what makes a man finally go insane.

In fact, Bukowski said, the reason the slasher flicks are so popular is because human beings identify with the the murderous killers, the psychos, the freaks, in those movies because they viewed them as being free from society’s grasp. They did whatever they wanted to do. If Freddy Krueger wanted to invade your dreams in order to kill you he could. If Leatherface wanted to slice you up with his Texas chainsaw he could. The audience saw that freedom of the beast and envied the beast and not the hero. The hero was there to keep things status quo. But the film’s viewers, secretly, wanted to also take out their frustrations and extract revenge in the same way Michael Myers did on Halloween night.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we ARE in hell. We don’t have to wait and see IF we’ll be going to hell because we’re already there. We’ve died and ended up here, on a toxic coated ball of dirt spinning endlessly in space, the dark chasm were nothing escapes, that is lit daily by a flaming mass of cosmic guts that shows its face to us everyday, like an eye, an eye of brilliant luminance, a shine so bright that it clearly let’s us all see the death and deceit and destruction all around us. Scientifically, if what my high school education taught me, that means we, quite literally, are being burned every day of our existence. Therefore, any questions of life after death have already been answered for you.

Just like me you went straight to Hell.

And Satan welcomes you to the party.

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A KICK IN THE TEETH

Dildo Misanthrope‘s Motel Todd, my good buddy who comes over each Friday night to get FUCKED UP like only white trash mofos can and watch MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann’s COUNTDOWN and, later, HBO’s REAL TIME with Bill Maher skewer King George and his buffoons and just generally shoot the shit otherwise, is shown here in a pose I commissioned in order to test my new Nikon Speedlight SB-600 (it rocks) and my new Nikkor 24-120mm VR zoom lens (RULES!) using my Nikon D80 (ROCKS!).

Unfortunately, the camera and it’s accessories worked so well it recorded a flaw in Todd’s looks (click on the photo and hit ‘all sizes’).

After I e-mailed the photo of MT to my near 70-year-old mother she wrote back and said, “Todd needs to see a dentist. His teeth are YELLOW.”

Ouch.

Sorry, Todd.

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Straight Flesh

Found a really old pack of playing cards named Honey Brand “54 Models” Playing Cards in a drawer I hadn’t opened in months and went through them and chose the best lookin’ babes for a straight flesh, er, flush.

The reason I put a photo up on my Flickr page of these hot naked babes is because I’ve noticed how many people check out, for obvious reasons, Flickr member pages who have photographs of women showing off their sweetly luscious figures.

So, shit, I thought, these playing cards will be as close to a nude model I’ll ever get to so I might as well try to generate a few more hits to my barely viewed Flickr page (despite having cool photos on it that aren’t babies or gorgeously Photoshopped landscapes) by taking a photo of these cards and posting it on there.

Well, the ploy worked. So well that I took some other honeys from another “54 Models” pack of cards, this one named Gaiety, which I found next to the Honey cards, and, so far, the three photos of nude model playing cards have generated roughly 2700 hits in just five days.

This successful experiment of mine demonstrates one thing: 99.9% of the people surfin’ the Internet tubes are doing so for one purpose and one purpose only: to see naked chicks.

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JUST ANOTHER KING OF PAIN LOSER

I invited a female friend over via e-mail. She accepted. We’ve been friends for years and have had sex a few times. Well, I was hoping she’d be in the mood on this occasion since I was horny for some odd reason (having sex with yourself for weeks, months, years and more does get a tad boring).

Turns out she wasn’t.

She just wanted to watch cartoons.

While laying on the bed next to me — as she frantically punched the remote control.

“This fuckin’ Charter cable sucks! Where’s the cartoon channels?”

She was looking for SpongeBob Squarepants.

“I don’t know what the channels numbers are for cable cartoons! I don’t watch that shit! I watch politics and sports…and crappy Skinemax porn. They don’t even show the intercourse.”

As she frantically pounded the remote I decided it was time to make my move. I gingerly brushed her blonde locks to the side and kissed her on the soft skin behind her ear and gently caressed her back. My attempt to ignite something was a dud.

She matter-of-factly told me, “I’m cramping. I’m not gonna have sex.”

So we sat there and watched cartoons.

“I don’t know why you don’t like cartoons. They’re so funny. This shit isn’t for kids.”

One of the characters said something funny about the misery of life. I laughed because I identified with it, knowing all to well, after spending almost a half century on this dirt clod spinning endlessly through space, that life is a joke on every human being ever born.

My reaction made her ecstatic.

“See, I told you you’d like this shit!”

Then her cellphone rang. It was her teenage son. He asked her when she’d be home and that she needed to make sure to stop and get dog food for Missy.

She put down the cellphone and told me I was just like every other guy — always wanting to get laid.

She said it as if it was a bad thing, as if the act of sex was worse than flying planes into buildings, and it made me feel like a shit heel for simply trying to sleep with her.

“My, God,” I thought. “I have to feel guilty for being horny? For having a God damned hard-on?”

She decided to leave to go take care of her kid and dog.

I walked her down to her car and we kissed on the lips and said our goodbyes. She was off and I slowly walked back up the stairs to my place.

Disappointed at yet another failure, I glumly hit each step. At the top I looked up and out at the world, wondering why I’m such a consistent fuck up, and suddenly found myself stumbling foward, off-balance, out of control and flying through the air, headed straight down for a collision with the concrete balcony. I slammed hard and rolled onto my back. I took account of myself. I didn’t feel broken bone pain. But my left elbow and right knee were skinned red and bleeding. I was able to pick myself up and limped back inside. I went into the bathroom to look at the damage. I cleaned my wounds with hydrogen peroxide and fell onto the bed, immediately grabbed the remote and changed it from that motherfucking SpazBoob Faggotshorts to ESPN and NFL Live!

So, within minutes, I went from the hope of sex to absolutely no hope of sex to outright physical pain, humiliation and alienation, a truly sore loser once again.

Yeah, the hard-on, ladies and gentlemen, had left the building.

I think this time, this failure, this knife into any pride I might have had left, was the death blow once and for all in me engaging in any further attempts at getting laid by her or anyone other woman. The pain and suffering from being rejected hurt worse than the skinned red skin.

Oh, the photo. That’s not her, if you were wondering. It’s of Lex Ann, a former waitress at Fred’s Texas Cafe in Fort Worth. She’s wearing a shirt I designed. She’s here to illustrate what I’ve written above. That women, those nice and pretty creatures men will kill each other over, can make you feel lower than dog shit, not worth a damn to the world and every other bad thing you could think of when they blow you off as easily as a gnat on their blouse.

So that is how I spent a weekend. From her leaving Friday afternoon to me crashing and falling and having my spirit, pride, hopes and dreams dumped directly into the recycle bin of life (again) and pouting about it, while tending to my physical and mental wounds, until the alarm for the shit job woke me at 4:55 a.m. Monday morning.

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I’m HIGH. What Are You?


Paid a buck for this non- working butane pot leaf lighter I found on a table of other garbage at Fort Worth’s largest open air flea market, the Henderson Street Bazaar, and bazaar doesn’t even begin to describe the incredible amount of pure d grade bullshit you can see on these hundreds and hundreds of tables and booths.

But that’s what makes a flea market so fun. And the reason I bought this thing in the first place. Too bring it home and take a photo of it and show it to y’all. It’s a iconic piece of Americana no one should not have an opportunity to view.

Hell, yeah.

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