Laura Ingraham

I sit down and think that I want to write a bit. I turn on some music and notice that I’m not getting any sound. God damn it. What the fuck is going on? Check volume in Windows. Check that the right playback device is selected. Test playback device. Nothing. God damn it! I then realize that the TV my computer is plugged into has the sound turned all the way down. 

I’m angry today. 

Fuck CEOs. Fuck you if you are a CEO. 

Fuck the carceral state. 

Fuck The Supreme Court. 

Fuck Tucker Carlson. 

Fuck white nationalism. 

Fuck white supremacy. 

Fuck capitalism. 

Fuck Jeff Sessions. 

Fuck the War on Drugs. 

Fuck the lawyers who fix shit for rich motherfuckers who do bad shit. 

Fuck Goldman Sachs. 

Fuck Chase bank. 

Fuck Capital One. 

Fuck Netflix. 

Fuck the Democratic Party. 

Fuck the Republican Party. 

Fuck fascism. 

Fuck fascist superheroes. 

Fuck the state of Israel. 

Fuck SWAT teams. 

Fuck the NFL. 

Fuck the New England Patriots. 

Fuck Tom Brady. 

Fuck Robert Mueller. 

Fuck James Comey. 

Fuck the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Fuck welfare reform. 

Fuck Bill Clinton for welfare reform. 

Fuck Bill O’Reilly. 

Fuck Paul Ryan. 

Aight. That went on long enough. 

I wrote nothing on Monday or Tuesday and that frankly is unacceptable. 

Are you still reading? I don’t really care if you are but it’s nice if you are. Thank you.  

I can’t concentrate. 

I just want to sit for a spell. 

I want to be high and not dread tomorrow. 

I want to be sexy and brave. 

I want to show someone the way. 

Tell me every way that you’d like me to fuck you 

and I’ll do it. 

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

I had nothing so I typed the same word over and over and over again. That really didn’t get me anywhere. Seriously, all I accomplished was typing the word ‘fuck’ over and over again. That is all I have to show for it. Maybe that’s all I have to show for this entire day. A single word. 

Fuck. 

A word uttered when shit gets real. 

A word uttered just because.

A word she whispers when you’re doing it right. 

The last word before a sudden fade to black. 

A word when you got nothin’ but the rain, your sweat or your bones. 

A word that’s just way too motherfuckin’ honest 

for some people. 

Wanted: 

The people I can use it liberally with. 

---

Fuck. That was kinda lazy. 

Yo. I didn’t get too much of an intermission between crises. Sick dog and then corporate office warfare. Johnny on the spot with the duct tape, the kind words and the bullshit.  

Kinda tempted to make an NSFW blog. Yeah. Be more open about my freaky side.

It’s tough to write things that aren’t just things. I’ve never put together a shopping list but I imagine that’s fairly easy. I mean, I guess it’s easy if you got the cash to cover it, right? It’s just a list though. You write down what you need and that’s it. 

Trying to write something that’s pretty and honest and makes someone cry or fucks with them or makes them angry or just mildly annoys them, that shit is nigh impossible. 

It’s Sunday. I’m not high. I don’t even wish I was (that much.) Nah, I’m indifferent to the fact that I am not high. I love being high. I dig the feeling of focus, how easy it is to smile, how sometimes it puts me in the mood for some love, how it can help me flip on a flashlight and descend into the dark cave of my feelings but I don’t need that all the time even if tomorrow I gotta punch a clock and it hurts to think about. 

If you’re reading this and the above paragraph worries you, please don’t worry. 

It’s misting outside. It’s gray. I dig it. 

Sometimes I think I should just drop all this and be a man. Learn to be alpha and all that shit. 

I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that my soul or whatever the fuck it is is the soul of an artist. My medium happens to be words. I hesitate to go around saying that shit because that’s pretentious as fuck. 

I got an appointment with a psychologist at the end of the work day tomorrow. I never really know how to prepare for those. I hope I can get something out of that. 

I’m afraid of women. I don’t know how to fix that. I have been for my entire life.

I think serial killers are not interesting at all. Serial killer groupies are pathetic. All this media that dwells on serial killers is propaganda that justifies heavy-handed policing. Fuck police states. 

I’m a weirdo but not in a particularly interesting or novel way. 

This is me reading two of my posts. 

Tucker “Heil Trump” Carlson

I woke up irritable and thinking of Tucker Carlson’s stupid fucking face. It’s the weekend. It’s god damn lamentable that my thoughts are dominated by that soulless motherfucker. 

I struggle. I chase my nickels and my dimes. Dolly Parton sang that workin’ 9 to 5 was a hell of a way to make a living. It is. You do what need to and then in the background, you got Tucker Carlson corrupting the minds of your parents and your grandparents with hatred for The Other, immigrants from Mexico and elsewhere in Latin America. 

I loath Tucker Carlson. I would not mind him undergoing some kind of Damascene conversion. That would possibly be a beautiful thing but real life isn’t a movie. Real life is messier and sadder and dumber. I doubt he has it in him. Barring some kind of Damscene moment where he comes to see the strangers in our land as not strangers but brothers and sisters, I would love to see Tucker Carlson and others like him hit with urine filled balloons everywhere that they go. 

The Tuck is on my mind because I saw a clip of him last night where he basically called undocumented immigrants trash. It’s not surprising. The man does possesses a seriously kinked social conscience but it’s chilling. It’s clear to me that what we’re seeing is an insidious campaign of de-humanization aimed at undocumented immigrants. 

I’ve said it before but it’s hard for me to shake. We all live our lives. We deal with all the insignificant bullshit that comes with that but in the background, the way is being paved for horrifying crimes against humanity. We shouldn’t kid ourselves. The crimes are already in progress.

I’m no expert on the infamous Rwandan genocide but I’m reminded of the fact that Rwandan media executives were convicted of inciting genocide. See, the poison that was being put out over the airwaves primed the population to grab machetes and go out killing. 

Do I think that we might see vigilante mobs going out to kill Latinos? We’re about one Fox & Friends segment away from something like The Purge. Okay. Yeah. Maybe I’m completely wrong about that but you can’t just write people like Carlson off as harmless clowns. We do that at our peril. 

I don’t like hearing Trump. 

I don’t like looking at the fat orange fucker either. 

Friday War Story: Man Versus Wide Format Printer

The week been gentle. The week been chill. Too gentle. Too chill. I don't trust it, man. Shit has to get a little crazy some time. Why not today?

I get in. Email waiting for me. See, there is this special printer on the third floor. It's this beast of a machine that is used to print and scan technical drawings. It seems most people cannot scan to their network folder. Turning the machine off and then back on did precisely dick so it falls to me to exorcise the demons from this fucking machine.

 I ascend one flight of stairs to see this for myself. Stick the piece of paper in. It scans. Well, son of a bitch. It works, right? Well no. For some people, it scans and then prompts for a password but guess what? The touch screen provides no way to actually enter in a password so whenever it prompts for a password, I'm sunk. That's a brick wall.

 This has me sweating. Everybody is being nice about this but if I can't fix this, I'm thinking maybe it harms my reputation. Maybe people start thinking I can't hack it. It occurs to me now they probably don't care THAT much but being the anxious, neurotic son of a bitch that I am, I sweat.

 So, I'm about out of ideas. I've not seen this problem before and Google is no help. Fuck. Why the hell did I come to work today?

 I let the office admin know that I got no idea what the motherfuck is going on. She puts in a call to the printer company and she says they will call me and send someone out. Thing is though, I know they are gonna push back cuz there is no god damn way this is their problem. They call me up and tell me to piss off.

 Yeah. I get it but fuck you too, brotha.

 Aight. MacGyver time, man. Think. I'm up and down those stairs. Hey. Wait a minute. There are a few ports on the back of this printer. Got an ethernet port. Got some funky looking serial port and a USB port. Hmm. I run downstairs and grab a USB keyboard. I plug it into the USB port on the back of the printer and... IT TYPES. I can type in the password now. I type the password I think it wants and check the box that says 'remember my password.' ... IT WORKS. Holy shit. I fixed it. Inside I'm ecstatic. I walk tall. I'm like that guy at the end of The Right Stuff walking away from the wreckage with a cigar hanging out of his mouth.

 God damn. I need to chill.

God damn it. It’s just too hot these days. Everything will melt into nothing some day. Some of us will be left alive while we watch the rich and the powerful launch themselves into space to escape this rock. 

Or maybe not. Who knows? As the great Yogi Berra said, “It’s hard to make predictions, especially about the future.” 

My brain is fuzzy. My brain is like a huge bag of cotton balls. I just want to go into a dim room and drift off into dreamland. Maybe I’ll see you there. I’m making my peace with this day. I’m ready to say goodbye to it. Just let it go wherever days go to die. This day was unremarkable. It did not offend me but I sure as hell will not leave flowers on its grave. Of course, Monday will pull a Lazarus and come forth again. Jesus is too righteous to take bribes.

I’ve failed at a lot of things. That’s not me beating up on myself. That’s just a simple statement of fact. I haven’t really tried sincerely at a lot of things. I’ve half-assed a lot of things. 

Debating is for nerds. I can’t do it. 

I feel like I’m barely not a normie. That’s a weird place to find yourself. The weirdos weird me out way too fucking much and the normies just fucking bore me. 

Actually, most everyone bores me. Married folk. Single folk. Serial killer groupies. Lana Del Rey fans. Trekkies. Gamers. BDSM freaks. 

WHAT THE HELL YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT, MAN? YOU DON’T TALK TO ANYBODY. 

Just vibin’, man. Relax. Just playing with these here words. That’s all I’m doing. It’s like that guy who sits alone in his apartment and strums his guitar.