INTROTOLETYOUKNOW

So, here it is: Blank pages suck. You know? I know that this is pretty futile: I
mean, think about it: How many books do you are you aware of? And, out of all
those books, how many have you read? There you go. Turn back. Don't read
this shit. you will learn nothing. asdf. I know I should have written that at the
end of this. For if that nugget of self-loathing were squarely fitted into the
backside of this cesspool, you as a reader would be turned in some way toward
some conclusion about Life or Reading or Ealing or Houndslow or any other
London suburb. Have you ever read "Life in the Time of Cholera"? Really,
neither have I. But I digress.
I'm writing this on a MacBook. I don't know what that means, but it can't
be good. I'm sure that too many shitty book ideas have been written on shitty,
trendy little com-puters. And as much as I want to kick my own ass for this, I am
going to continue. That's right, you're gonna have to listen to this in your head
for a whole mess of more pages. Doesn't that just suck for you. You could walk
away, you know. You could go out and do something instead of reading this.
You could go hop a plane to Pakistan; hitch a ride over the Kyber Pass and
witness the true majesty of real mountains. I say this like I know; I don't know
shit. You know? OK, I guess you are going to read this. And if you must, take it
from me, you're not going to enjoy it. I'll make sure of that. This and That are
some ambiguous-ass words. Check it: This could be a great thing. This is a
terrible situation. That's what I am talking about. There (and don't get me started
on 'THERE") is the problem with this and that. You or me or he, and even she
has trouble understanding what the hell this or that is all about. :Shitty Diatribe, I
apologise. S or Z. Brit or Yank. Too much minutia and bullshit about language
and syntax and spelling and whatnot. Ahh shit, you know. That's the problem
(sorry for that). OK, problem number arbitrary number: trendy operating
systems. What the hell does that mean? Linux (Ubuntu) Mac. It's all the same
bullshit. It's a way to waste time and get on the interweb, which are most-of-time
the same activity. That's another problem. Don't get me wrong, I'm cool with the
internet. But, one wastes so much time. One could be outside doing things.
You could write a book. It's not hard if you put no effort into it. You could find a
real nice real girl in the real world, who would really have real sex with the real
you. Isn't that cool. One could run away from home: 2 Peanut Butter
Sandwiches 1 Bag of Clothes 2 Shoes 1-9 Books (depending on the length of
the run). Go to India. That's cool, right? It's a sub-continent, man. How many of
those are there? All of this can be done. One can use the internet to aid in doing
this. So in false conclusion, use teh(that's right, Internet joke) interwebz in
moderation. Like heroines. That's right an E at the end. Xena: Warrior Princess,
Princess Leia, Ashley Judd in those movies with Morgan Freeman, Elektra, all
'dim girls that kick arse and take the pill. Sexism in moderation as well, man (or
woman).
Hell of an intro, right? It's all gonna be like this. I'm gonna try to organize
the ideas... in a way. I have definite chapter divisions, but what the fuck? Who
needs order? There it is. That's the plan, if this is what you want to read, go
ahead. At least it's not like "Gravity's Rainbow." I promise that my references
are going to be at least semi-factual. Real World Shit, you know. Case in point,
just gettin' this outta the way... "Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nothin' to Fuck Wit'!" Fait
sens? Sorry, sometimes shit's gonna be in other latin languages. Sorry twice.
Kona Coffee. You ever had it? It's good, sir. You should mos' def' try it
sometime. On that subject, follow me.
Hideaway Pizza, Legal Seafood,Ben's Chili Bowl, any Indian restaurant
run by real-ass, dot-not-feather-sub-continental Indians, Popeye's Chicken, and
any place where you can see that the cook is a large black woman and the menu
sounds like a family reunion picnic on "The Banks of Lake Pontchartrain": These
are the eateries that I whole-heartedly endorse. And, food, in general, I endorse.
End of idea. Meat, Fruit, Veg, it's all good, you know. Pasta, Bread, Pies, Cake,
Chocolate, Everything. Eat it all. Moderation is over-rated. Eat. Sometimes, it's
good to indulge (not, a sales pitch for anyone). Other times, don't eat, fat ass!
It's that simple. Not to go on a long, boring, tirade, but this American obsession
with one's weight and shape and mental state is ridiculous. I mean, come on.
Who cares what you look like if you're not happy and cool. You can be knock-out
good-looking, but if you ain't good shit, you won't last long. I know, that that's a
bald-ass, hairy-faced lie. There are some at-one-time-good-looking homeless
folk, who are as smart as a garage full of whips (or as smart as a "Saucer Full of
Secrets")(or as smart as a London bloke at the fin de siecle)(or, no, I got nothin'
now). But, I digress... or ingress, I guess. Playin' chess. Makin' a mess... of you
on this Tommy Tu...(pause)...Tone record...: 867-5309. Sorry for the shitty rap.
It happens. Yeah, my point; I have one, dough'n'chya know. Appearance is
important. That's all there is to it. Americans seem to put a little more pressure
on themselves to look good physically, though. That's the funny bit. The fattest,
most out-of-shape folks on this planet, or plante, see their own media force a
false reality of semi-unattainable physique. That's fuckin' ridiculous. Not the
state of the country, but my opinions on it. Don't listen. BTW, this small diatribe
of self-loathing is going to appear several times on these leaves, so get used to
my neurosis, or go the fuck home. Getting that out of the way, here is the crux of
the shit: the world is becoming a place of giant dealing by small folks. What I
mean by that: seemingly insignificant mecs sont en control of the world's major
decisions. As I see it, at the know-fuck-all age of 20, folks done screwed to
proverbial roach's poached eggs on this one. You ever wonder how Richard E.
Grant's hair worked in those nineties movies (Jack and Sarah, Hudson Hawk,
Dracula, Withnail and I(1987 right, I know)? That's always bugged me. Must
piss, laters.
 WHITE FOLK CHAPTER

Why don't White folks call each other "Brother"? I mean, what the fuck?
couldn't all the white people get together, not like the Klan, but more like a sense
of community. It could be cool. barn-raisings and whatnot. Extended families
could also benefit white folks. Them Latinos got that shit figured out. You keep
in contact with your second cousin's sister's baby's bowel movements. That's
cool, right? Knowing that you have this huge support system has to keep one in
good spirits. White folks need some help, man. People can't keep going in some
kind of plastic existence. Human contact would be great. 'Das why white on
white sex is hilarious. It's like, "This is what these parts are for, but I don't want
to delve deeper into the bigger picture of these forces. Instant gratification is jus'
fine wit' me!" That speaks to a lot of America's problems, or "The White Man's
Experiment" as I prefer to name it, at the times when I feel most like a 5%
Qur'an-totin' Nation of Islam-Malcolm-lovin'-
whatthehelliswhithallofthesefdamnhyphens-son-of-a-bitch. No more
hyphens(what a lie), je promets. What are your views on that, by the way? Are
you down avec les maths supremes? Personally, I don't know. I mean, I can get
with it, but it jus' too much rhetoric to get with all of the time. I am too simple for
that lot. If I got to choose a life creed that's been pre-established, I'd rather go
with the Rastafari. You know, 'd' original I-Life. Livin' I-tal is I-right with I. Das'
cool, I and I know.
So, there it is. What, I don't know. Back to the top. I'm gonna start callin'
other Anglo-lookin' guys Brother. Shit...Fuckin' hyphens. I'm such a lyin'
bastard. I'm also (if I have the balls in the future) gonna call other races brother.
I mean, everybody comes from the same place and, as stated by the Law of
Conservation of Matter, er'ybody ends up the same, aussi. Ashes, dust, nails to
rust, a white man to fear, a nigga to trust. you know?=I flow+got right, get tight,
keep the fight, goin' hard like Medusa smilin' at me See 3. The one and only.
Lifted the prior. Lines t'ain't designer. Mexi-Cali hyphen-dash;;; semi-colon, oh
too brash. Not a rhymer in the Rhyman...Auditorium. no more Tenn. whore.
Dinah Shore, Robin Givens, F. Kafka, Heinrich Ibin (ohh yeah Ibsen) playwright
avec R. Are you too... a bad practitioner of Voodou? End it now the bad rhymes
got to stop.
So Sorry. Promise not to take it so long again. I feel it though,
sometimes. I'd like to think that, at times, I have the ability. But, eh, what can
you do? That's the thing. I don't know if a lot of people have this same feeling,
but it seems that the "media" blows black now. Sorry for the quotes, that's
something that really pisses me off in real life. But, it do indeed blow black. It's
like all black folk are cool and all white folk got to overcome an inherent obstacle
to attain some level of cool. The Game blows back and forth, and now cultural
reparations are being paid. Yeah, that's right. Forty acres and a mule turned into
"hey, everybody rag on whitey." That's cool. Not that I dig on the sociological
aspect of this bullshitted cuspidor that is the world, but cultural capital is being
paid in spades, to spades. This is kickin' in a major way. To some extent, this is
far better than any monetary-government reparation (shit, again with the
hyphens) scheme. That's the heat, ici, tu sais? It's as if, the white culture that
predominated America for most of it's post-colonial life(Fuck hyphens, the
unsightly bastards.) has been almost uprooted by a Black
Thot<>streamofconciousness sort of business. That's the neatness of it. As if to
make up for slavery, racism, continuing racism, and the inability of a black man to
catch a cab in Chicago; the Game, or media, or whatthefuckever bullshit system,
has begun to inhale a nice noir breath of fresh air and blow out a lung-cleaned
(aughegh) visage of what should be "Black on Both Sides," but what is now black
only in theory. Howe'er, black in theory, to the masses, who are, in theory,
asleep, is a big step forward. Alors, this whatthefuckever system exhales an
inauthentic product, but a product nonetheless. Consider it 40 emcees and a
President. On a broad social level, this is the coolest time to be alive. Not to
take away from any other tougher generation, but now, we see a lot of shit goin'
down. The world, in a way, is in your lap. By the world, I mean a metric shit ton
of porn and every jack-ass's ukelele cover of "Hey-Ya." Global Social
Networking. Need I say more? How else would I find out about drought and fires
in the Bunyip? But, that's another story.
MONEY/MATERIAL POSSESSIONS CHAPTER

I don't know anything about this shit. I'm gonna level with you. So that
being said, take any advice I give with a salt-shaker's worth of Paprika (good
anime, so I'm told.). I really can't get into that stuff either, yo know? It's like, I
have a lot of friends, acquaintances, and whatnot who love that anime, Japanese
business, but I can't do it. I like my cartoons a bit more Western. That's probably
just me. Money. Take all the advice that Roger Waters gives you. You might
also want to listen to none of the Talking Heads on T.V. about money. I mean
who likes Peter Gabriel, anyway? No, like Suze Orman or Dave Ramsey, who
the fuck are these people to tell you how to protect ya neck and your knot. For
that matter, who am I? I don't even know, so you might just best me on that one.
It's a funny business that money stuff. I don't have a lot; neither do most
people. I am comforted by the fact that most people are at my economic level or
lower. Riches breed contempt. Nobody envies that homeless guy that pisses on
your doorstep and then asks you for money, and then the next day you see him
again. Put money in his cup, only to find out that it's coffee. Now he's pissed off
and pissing on your stoop. You can't win with those people. That's right. I said
those people. What of it? I, for one, am occasionally jealous of those homeless
folk. I mean, there has to be a certain freedom in the bondage of poverty. I don't
know, but that's my romantic ideal of homelessness. I might be wrong You
never know. You know? You or One, I guess to be less personal, should listen
to dem hip hop folk when it comes to money. Sum'a'dose motherfuckers are all
about gettin' money, and keepin' it safe. That's to whom you/one needs to listen.
Josephine Baker, also needs to be studied on an economic level. She gave all of
her money to her adopted children, of which she had more than a few. Or Billy
Eckstine. He kept a gun with him at all times, when conducting business.
All of these example are good ones. Of course they are; or else they
wouldn't be mentioned. but more importantly, Communism. What do you think?
Good or Bad. Historically, I guess it could be argued that it has been pretty bad.
you know what else is a bad idea? Talking about Communism here in this shit.
That being said, I will not mention it anymore. So, How are things? Oh,
really, I'm fine. But, back my point. Yes, I have one. I value intellectual property
far more than I do physical possessions. It seems that physical things are so
transitory that to attach value to them would eventually leave one "penniless and
insane, trying to play a phonograph record with a peanut." If one is to value
physical property and whatnot, one ends up caring too much about "things."
Then, one cares about small-scale money; then, one worries often. This
incredibly naive opinion is, of course, coming from a person who has never had
to financially support himself. But, that's not important, right?
Economies are like piñatas: everybody takes a crack at it, and whoever
busts it is left dazed and confused while everyone else grabs the candy. Good
analogy, right. That's how it is. It's as if no one listens to the guys who keep
watch over market trends; then again, maybe those market watchers are all deaf-
dumb-mute-ass geniuses. I, personally, don't know any of these market watchin'
folks, but if I did, I would mos' def' be askin' him or her what to do with the play-
paper that we call money. I mean, it's like only these guys and gals get that
money on a grand market scale is not a concrete thing. It is not but a pithy
plaything, an invisible Humble Pie, Dust in the Wind, an intellectual property.
That's right! Did Abraham Lincoln suffer from the deadly sin of sloth? I don't
know. OK,, so, money. cc: Pink Floyd. It's strange, you know, because the
same idea (for that's all that money is: an idea) that buys some punk kid his
favorite Chucks is also used to win and lose Wars and overthrow Countries.
Crazy makin' bad-ways business, right? Without a Gold Standard on the world's
stage, all of the big kids in the international monetary playground are slinging
gum-balls of debt into the hair-dos of the members of the global economy. That's
weird shit. Debt is almost as powerful as cash, on the grand stage of the global
economy. Let's repeat that in such a way as to make it sound even more
ridiculously absurd: The absence of money is equal to the having of money.
Cool, right? What's up with that? On the small-scale, money does mean
something. Even if one is to "live in a van down by the river," one needs money.
It is, in most parts of the world, a much needed system. In the concrete world of
the diner, money is much needed in the procuring of a B.L.T. and a milkshake.
What? I love bacon. Deal with it, punk. Unless you have figured out how to
survive in a state of hunger with little to know shelter form the elements, you
need the dough, son. You can't be Robinson Crusoe, and even if you could,
you'd die before you remembered all the shit that you learned from countless
hours of Survivorman. Oh yeah, fuck that. Get a shitty job and a shitty
apartment. Hate your life, but save all you can so you can enjoy your twilight
years. Or not.
Keep your money. Spend your money. It's all the same; you know?
Never saw a movin' van behind a hearse, and all that lot.
LOVE, LUST, ETC. CHAPTER

Is this it. I mean, staying up all hours of the morning and night, because you
can't sleep. You second guess every move you make with this person, like
you've got to be ultra sensitive. Like a Bad-Ass detective. You've got to become
Columbo when this girl takes the notion to talk to you. You got to analyze
everything she says; double check the tone and timbre of her voice against
predetermined socio-cultural norms of behavior. This terrible feeling in your
stomach, like you're some kind of Marquez character, who swims the entirety of
the gulf of Mexico, then down the Rio Hacha, just to be with this one person for
an hour. It's like gravel and bile and the bad oily parts of fried chicken in the pit
of your stomach. I've always wondered about the whole "pit of one's stomach"
thing. What is that. It's some seriously barbarous imagery; this deep chasm
under your navel. It's downright hellish. Digression about Digestion; figure that.
I shouldn't feel this way. It's not like some lame-ass Taylor
Swiftian/Shakespearean Romeo/Juliet thing. This is more like a bad Steve
Buscemi movie. And, there's no mysterious Mariachi in town, so it has to be like
fuckin' weird-ass "Trees Lounge" shit. Not like child molestation, that shit ain't
right. More like strict definition statutory rape. Maybe. Favorite Dylan album?
Dunno. Have to be Highway 61 or The Times, but maybe Joey. I mean, One
More Cup of Coffee is a hell of a song and I'm in Love with Emmylou Harris. I
don't know if this particular case (not involving Ms. Harris) is Love or not. It
might be, but one never knows. Shit?? That's a lie. Movies and greeting card
companies say that you've got to know. It's Love at First Sight and whatnot. I
Don't Know. (Seems a running theme in this work, yet your still reading. must be
fun to WATCH A STRUGGLING WRITER FLOUNDER IN THE PIT OF HIS
OWN EFFLUENT EXCESSES OF LANGUAGE AND MISERY.) What is Love?
Baby, don't hurt me. That's right, I went there. I really don't know about this. It's
tough shit. I've had my share of bad drunks, but this is much worse and much
longer lasting. Like bad peyote in a never ending desert. Or salvia in a cramped
dorm room. Shit taste in your mouth, pass for a few, then back to bad taste and
despair. What the fuck does a moaanin' dove sound like? That Bob Dylan
comes up with some stuff, you know. For lyrics you can see, touch, taste, and
feel, he has the market upped. That's not to say that Chuck Berry doesn't get a
nice share of this imagined market as well. I've never seen a chocolate colored
Cadillac, but I know what one would look like because of Mr. Berry. I you have
yet to notice, I have no plan as to how to deal with this. I am totally unprepared
for what I'm gonna call Love. But it seems to me that no one should be.
Unpreparedness is what Love is supposedly all about. Shit, Whatever. Fuck
Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck That's quite the easy word to type. One
letter left hand-one letter right-repeat steps 1 and 2. Cool. Cunt doesn't get used
enough in polite conversation. It's some kind of word. Like, there's alot of power
in those four letters. Four tiny letters combine to make one syllable that can put
you in the dog house faster than Hank Williams can sing about it. Shit be crazy.
Wack as hell. you know. I've heard that Love is when you and your girl or guy or
slave or whatever are alone on the couch after just having supped on a delicious
bucket of chicken, and there is only one piece of said chicken that remains.
Instead of snappin' up dat chicken faster than a starvin' ATLien, you let your girl
have it. In other words, you sacrifice for your mate. Others, still, say that Love is
a roux. Flour and Fat. The basis for most good things in the gastronomic world.
The rock and base for a dish to stand on. In my eye. That's right, I got one. Just
like Bushwick Bill. Not really, only foolin'. Two eyes, six foot somethin'. Can't
rap. Bushwick and I have not alot in common. In my eyez (All of them aren't on
Me), Love should be some kind of Irie Feeling. Could also be a feeling for Ire, if
you a shamrock mutherfucker. Irie like a good Dennis Brown song. When
e'ryt'ing's Irie, it's like indescribably great. That's what Love should be to me; not
a hurricane, but a gentle breeze over a couple in beach chairs looking out into
the Caribbean from a beach that is empty but for the aforementioned couple.
Most folks tend to disagree with me on this topic. Most of the shit that I've read,
heard, and watched describes Love as this giant torrential force that exerts its will
on mere mortals like some Greek or Old Testament God. Like some big loan
shark who works you so good then springs this outrageous vig on you after
you've promised him your car, your house, and that extra pound of flesh that you
won off of Shylock in that fictional character poker game that you got in on only
because of a special invitation. My love shouldn't be like that. I mean might be a
Mountain High Enough to keep me away. My love might not be Deeper Than
The Holler, or even Stronger Than The River for that matter. Is that a bad thing.
Does Love _NEED_ limits? I Don't Know Much, But I Know I Love You, And
That May Be All I Need To Know. There you go. I mean, Shit. There you have
it, my boy. What about abuse? Is that a limit to Love. Look at Billie Holiday: So
abused and mistreated by that dope fiend husband of hers until she O.D.'d. I
don't want to digress into the nature of Good and Bad, that would be another
piece of shit you might be bored enough to read someday, but this situation looks
to have gone not in her best interest. If her Love were limited, and she got away
to live happily ever after, would that be better than influencing millions of folks by
her sadness. Like a martyr to Love's alter of desperation. I just don't know.
What is this feeling. Time can't move fast enough. The sun is your only friend
when it comes to Love. In the Sun, you can attempt to momentarily forget. This
assumption is, of course, contested by the Rain Wishing Motown scholars, but I
think it holds true. In the Sun, it's alot easier to be productive. Go to work or
school. That can keep your mind off of that girl. It's wen the sun goes down that I
have problems. In the learned words of Son House, "I didn't feel so bad until the
sun went down, and I didn't have a soul to lay my arm around." At night you are
alone. In a cold bed by yourself, you get lonely. Touch yourself all you want, but
that can't give you that warm body you long to have sleep next to you. Alone,
you can't feel that warm breath on your shoulder that reminds you that you are
not alone in this world. It's hard to describe the difference in the feelings of
waking up after spending the night with someone you are so comfortable with
and waking up alone, again, like so many nights before. I mean, You Can't Hurry
Love, but sometimes it's good to try. I don't mean to say that you should stalk
the one you want like a somewhat less demented Ahab. That shit's creepy, and
could get you arrested (not if you stalk an Indian, but that's another treatise). I
can't sleep. That is my Love: Insomnia. I don't know why, either. No sandman,
no dreams, just the hard cold reality of loneliness that fills ma chambre sans les
filles with a palpable smell of despair and the disheartening strains of Stanklove
by Outkast. This is my life: Physical and Emotional separation from everything
and everyone. Some would look at this as clinical depression; I look at it as a
transitional phase. A pupal metamorphosis in which I become more of a person.
"You're a no good heart breaker
You're a liar and you're a cheat
And I don't know why
I let you do these things to me
My friends keep telling me
That you ain't no good
But oh, they don't know
That I'd leave you if I could
I guess I'm uptight
And I'm stuck like glue
Cause I ain't never
I ain't never, I ain't never, no, no (loved a man)
(The way that I, I love you)"

Most days that Aretha can hit the nail on the head. The Beatles do pretty
fair job as well. It's like you can't win for losing when dealing with the opposite
sex, or the same sex for that matter. Interpersonal relations are a complicated
monkey to train. Far Out. Why can't cocksucker be a term of endearment? If
done well, it makes one pretty endearing to the recipient. Random thought in a
sea of well thought out prose, I know. Why is it that one person can have such a
hold over you? It has to be psychological. She can't be that in-tune with the
hippie-dippie cosmos that she gets all of the upper hand just by reading your
aura. You do it to yourself. same goes for the dudes. Those men have a
penchant for being manipulative, psychologically abusive sons-of-bitches. By
over-thinking the Love game, you ending Fucking yourself, and then Fucking
yourself in a more literal sense. You give your partner all of the power by over-
thinking shit. Not to sound like that bald, UNT Alum, but hey, whatever, piss it.
That's it. It's all over but the titty fuckin'. No problems were solved. No advice
was dispensed. Nothing productive occurred. My half-ass job is whole-assed
done. AND, I worked in all seven of George's Dirty Words. S.I.L. Motherfucker.
INTERNATIONAL POLITICS

OK, here 'tis. Without Supreme Mathematics or that damned Alphabet, here we
go. Spread the wealth. Make sacrifices. Don't assume that your way of doing
things is the best; that goes for everyone. Wear more hats. Experience
otherness, you know. That's enough of this broad generalization shit. I'm a-
gonna-try to not do that anymore for the next couple of paragraphs. (Like I have
a plan; I don't know what the fuck I'm doin' when I'm doin' it.) To the point:. Most
people don't empathize with shit. I mean, It seems to me that most of the pop.
and Pops of America just want to know who's gonna be booted from American
Idol; they don't give a flyin', flippin' fuck about shit that ain't in their damned
mashed potato backyard. More folks need to listen to more folks.
YounawtImean? People are so damned de-sensitized by the plight of they fellow
man that mos' people don't even care about hunger or any other big-ass huge as
a King Kong Kondom problem that's facin' the world these days. It's like America
and some o' 'd' otre big shit countries jsut think they can defecate where they
masticate. Whatupwitdat? Like These "industrialized" countries don't get that
"what they sow is what they reap." Come on. If you shit on everybody else all
the time, eventually folks ain't gonna take it. Like some Twisted Sister Shit. You
listen to the Who? I digress; A warning. Some of those Latin-y(not "and" en
Español) languages do this cool thing where one can pose a question by making
the statement, but raising the voice at the end to put an inquisitive bent to the
sentence. This is a very cool way of doing things. In English we do this
occasionally, but not as often as to make it a solid part of our communal linguistic
mindset. I know; not because I'm a wicked smart linguist, but because I've tried
to use this method many times with a wide variety of results. I mean as wide as
a set of results can be when there are relatively few socially acceptable options
open as for modes of response. The preceding is not a complete sentence. I
realize that, and fully accept it. Does every though have to be complete? Good
question, eh? Digression completed.
Back to the real shit. Oh,damn. One reads in the news about certain
dictators around the world. These guys get some shit press, you know. If,
indeed, no press is bad press, these guys are media darlings. Around the world,
it seems that the larger, more powerful members of the international community
are allowed to point fingers at the folks who rule their countries in a manner that
might not match up with the Western Way. Now I not sayin' that every Tom, Dick
and Duvalier that gets a bad wrap in the press is some kind of misunderstood
humanitarian; I just mean to say that occasionally the international world can turn
puppet master in a hurry. Those powerful types seem to have the ability to turn
the tide of public opinion within a matter of minutes. You ever think about time?
Like units and whatnot. Who decided the lengths? Minutes,seconds, hours, all
kinda sounds made up. Like, this shit's ridiculous. Fuckin' time, you know. What
if there existed no time? I'm not goin' out in the toolies here, I'm just thinkin' for a
second(or not). No time equals chaos; so say some. I say, "Fuck That!" You
got to shift your paradigm. No time could equal freedom. Shift your think state,
sir. Sorry for that. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? SORRY, again.
I really apologize for this whole section. It was a mistake from the GET-
GO. If the publisher (yeah right, like this flaming tome of water buffalo guano
could ever get published) asks me to pull this, I would do it without a moments
hesitation. It just turned into a big fat greek apology. And I already have a
section of this work that acts in that capacity. (Flip ahead to the next section, if
you haven't already done so.) For those of you still on this page, check
it. To pass this test, the questions don't matter. You've come this far; I should
come clean and say that you probably shouldn't take any of this any more
seriously than you would a joke on a Laffy Taffy wrapper, or a fortune out of a
soggy fortune cookie.
SHIT TO DO INSTEAD OF...

Instead of reading this festering turd of book thing, you could go to

Langeland, Denmark and hang out with some pretty cool islanders. Instead of
skimming this work for anything close to a point or a message, you could be
running sprints with some bad-ass motherfuckers in Port Royal, Jamaica. You
could be devoting all of you faculties to touching yourself. You could be chatting
up an undercover who is posing as a hooker. You could be taking three of your
best friends to the Eiffel Tower to make a short film about God-knows-what. You
could be rockin' out to the jammin'est Soca band in St. Kitts. You could be
overseeing the unabashed beauty of the last large buffalo herd in America.
Instead of being forced to read this in your gay-ass "Post-Modern American Lit."
class, you could be goin to a Pow-Wow in Ponca City Oklahoma. Go to see
Brother Machine live. Just do it. Wear your Nikes at the concert. Just do that as
well. May I also recommend taking a listen to anything by the Geto Boyz. I hear
joining the Armed forces can be cool. It's adventure, travel, guns, and a hell of a
workout plan; who can top that? Army,Navy, Air Force, Marines, who cares?
Pick one. Even the Coast Guard is full of Bad Motherfoyas. It's cool, and gotten
a bad wrap from the last couple of decades. Start a Ska band. Also cool. There
needs to be more Ska. Hey, you could just start producing Ska; Sly and Robbie
are getting pretty old. Replacements need to be found. As long as your not
reading this or surfing the YouTubs, I'm cool. In
conclusion,.............................Psyche. It's not over. That was a fake, you know,
like a Pickled Herring. A false stop. Like a bad telegraph operator. That really
shows my age, a telegraph reference. You could climb October Hill out by
Portland. Or Go to Oktoberfest in Munich. Shit anything but Sue. I still hate that
name. Fuck. You could become a Highwayman. Break Glass for fun. Steal shit
from your boss. Pilfer office supplies to make that life size paper clip statue of
Patrick Ewing, or Patrick Stewart. Whatever floats your ship. You could come
up with hilarious descriptions for simple states of being: (ex.) "That's tighter than
a nun's cunt on Good Friday!" "This is shinier than a diamond in goat's ass!"
This is just a sampling of the mass of available time wasters that the world has to
offer.
Until I decide to waste another couple of hours, see you later.