HST Digest: 2/16/18
2/8: Poetry by Casey Renee Kiser
2/9: Nonfiction by Angelica Arsan
2/10: Fiction by Gary D. Morton
2/11: Poetry by Scott Simmons
2/12: Poetry by Anggo Genorga
2/13: Poetry by damion snow
2/14: Poetry by Cole Bauer
2/15: Poetry by Emily Davidson
See also:
HST Digest: 2/7/18
HST Digest: 1/27/18
HST Digest: 1/17/18
HST Digest: 1/1/18
HST Digest: 12/7/17
HST Digest: 11/20/17
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by
A.
(new)
Feb 16, 2018 07:51AM
LoL My work laptop won't let me into HST's site
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Did some experimenting with font and page colors today which was a dismal failure. Somewhere I heard that this was done a few years back, and it was regarded as more or less silly. I couldn't find anything on the net about it, and would like to hear from someone who has gone this route.
"The teacher's a fool; the preacher's a jerk." A reflective day.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMhjB...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMhjB...
Ah, popularity is such a fleeting mistress.
“Learn the rules like a pro so you can break them like an artist.”
Pablo Picasso
Really liked that one, despite Pabs having stolen it from DFW.
It's been lonely here. Arthur's been telling me that he's too busy to speak with me since 4-17, and Manny's not spoken with me since I upstaged him about five times in a row. It was safer doing the stupid trolling.
I was feeling bad for a while after going back to my first GR experience. It's been deleted and all that's left are a few posts which copied part of mine. At the time I thought that the reviewer pretty much got the gist backward. I really did say so politely, but got answered with a bunch of "fuck you's" from her followers. Then she told me I ought to go to school, and I brightly told her that I went to more school than she did. It was a bit of a bluff. Anyway, there's a post there from her saying that the only reason she didn't get her degree was because of a mental breakdown.
I really felt awful, and surmised that this might be the reason her friends were giving her loads of unwarranted compliments.
After five minutes, I felt better as I figured it to be fair that if one wants special consideration for being a mental defective, that they either make you aware of that or fuckem.
For some reason I then thought of Douglas and his struggle with IJ, and decided not to make any fun.
Pablo Picasso
Really liked that one, despite Pabs having stolen it from DFW.
It's been lonely here. Arthur's been telling me that he's too busy to speak with me since 4-17, and Manny's not spoken with me since I upstaged him about five times in a row. It was safer doing the stupid trolling.
I was feeling bad for a while after going back to my first GR experience. It's been deleted and all that's left are a few posts which copied part of mine. At the time I thought that the reviewer pretty much got the gist backward. I really did say so politely, but got answered with a bunch of "fuck you's" from her followers. Then she told me I ought to go to school, and I brightly told her that I went to more school than she did. It was a bit of a bluff. Anyway, there's a post there from her saying that the only reason she didn't get her degree was because of a mental breakdown.
I really felt awful, and surmised that this might be the reason her friends were giving her loads of unwarranted compliments.
After five minutes, I felt better as I figured it to be fair that if one wants special consideration for being a mental defective, that they either make you aware of that or fuckem.
For some reason I then thought of Douglas and his struggle with IJ, and decided not to make any fun.
"Dem crazy."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k34bo...
Oh, yeah. Got G5 going; stuck again now trying to figure out who the culprit is. GR was a possibility, but they're not sufficiently important. Maybe a canine version of AG. IDK.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k34bo...
Oh, yeah. Got G5 going; stuck again now trying to figure out who the culprit is. GR was a possibility, but they're not sufficiently important. Maybe a canine version of AG. IDK.
A. wrote: "LoL My work laptop won't let me into HST's site"My work computer does, but that's probably just because they're looking for reasons to fire people.
JerseyJ wrote: "It's been lonely here. Arthur's been telling me that he's too busy to speak with me since 4-17, and Manny's not spoken with me since I upstaged him about five times in a row. It was safer doing the stupid trolling."And when did you ever stop doing that?
Arthur wrote; "And when did you ever stop doing that? "
Between 2 and 4PM yesterday. But, of course you weren't paying any attention.
Between 2 and 4PM yesterday. But, of course you weren't paying any attention.
Factors which might show a sign that the "sport" you're watching is farcical entertainment rather than truly competitive;
1) There is a midget-dwarf league.
2) The champion is in excess of 70 years of age.
3) Many televised events end with no decision.
4) No one receives a White House invitation.
5) "Contestants" secrete ketchup.
6) Millennials think it's "cool."
7) There are no discernable standard rules.
8) No little kids aspire to this when they grow up; except stupid Jeremy.
9) There is no real way to tell who won until someone dies; and even then it's debatable.
10) When you were little, the uncle who thinks you're stupid and always annoyed you by talking overly down, gets you a poster of one of the "stars."
11) A website is established for the wannabees.
1) There is a midget-dwarf league.
2) The champion is in excess of 70 years of age.
3) Many televised events end with no decision.
4) No one receives a White House invitation.
5) "Contestants" secrete ketchup.
6) Millennials think it's "cool."
7) There are no discernable standard rules.
8) No little kids aspire to this when they grow up; except stupid Jeremy.
9) There is no real way to tell who won until someone dies; and even then it's debatable.
10) When you were little, the uncle who thinks you're stupid and always annoyed you by talking overly down, gets you a poster of one of the "stars."
11) A website is established for the wannabees.
You probably all heard it already, but I just couldn't resist. THE UK IS OUT OF CHICKENS. As of mid-day today KFC has closed 600-800 of its 900 British stores. Sure, the KFC spokespeople say that there are plenty of chickens around, and the problem is just due to a fuck up of their delivery company.
Sure. They'd have you believe that there's a whole load of screaming chickens crapping in warehouses and on trucks just dying to be eaten. Sure. Next they'll be bringing in some dog meat,and tell you it is chicken. The usually calm populace is outraged. One woman yelled to reporters; "I'm not eating that McDonald's cardboard. I want my chicken!"
But, there's always some entrepreneurally oriented opportunist ready to make money from a bad situation. The conspiracy theorists, led by David Eicke, attribute this to government mind controlled chupacabra run wild.
The Queen was quoted as saying; "Let them eat dog meat." We have not heard the last of this travesty.
Sure. They'd have you believe that there's a whole load of screaming chickens crapping in warehouses and on trucks just dying to be eaten. Sure. Next they'll be bringing in some dog meat,and tell you it is chicken. The usually calm populace is outraged. One woman yelled to reporters; "I'm not eating that McDonald's cardboard. I want my chicken!"
But, there's always some entrepreneurally oriented opportunist ready to make money from a bad situation. The conspiracy theorists, led by David Eicke, attribute this to government mind controlled chupacabra run wild.
The Queen was quoted as saying; "Let them eat dog meat." We have not heard the last of this travesty.
Severe edit.
Ooooh, that is so ................. something, even I recoil from. But, I'm gonna leave it there; hehehe.
The world has ended. The last bastion of integrity is the Arthur Graham assemblage of perverts.
IDK what Jesus been thinkin', but got a strong suspicion about what his dad says.
The world has ended. The last bastion of integrity is the Arthur Graham assemblage of perverts.
IDK what Jesus been thinkin', but got a strong suspicion about what his dad says.
HectorP wrote: "The world has ended. The last bastion of integrity is the Arthur Graham assemblage of perverts."I wouldn't say we're the last, but we're definitely among the dwindling ranks of holdouts still in existence.
HectorP wrote: "He said he was an asshole on his GR page, and I figured it would be fun to find out his reaction if I agreed with him. Turned out unusual. He agreed with me and then told me how I was a bigger asshole."Actually I don't think it's very useful comparing size when everyone knows it's the flavor that matters more anyway.
I can only say; "Oh, shit." There is no way to follow that.
"Well, I move in another direction." Nineteen seventy mufuggin six? Ummm, you know.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7PLyY...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7PLyY...
Finally got "Tetherballs" today. Promised I wouldn't, but .......... Skimmed around, and maybe excepting parts of the prologue, I like it. Leyner can actually write semi-intelligently, it's nowhere near as frantic as I expected (frantic bad for me), and it seems to make perfect comtemplative sense. Despite that, readers of this thread might be thrilled to know that there are things like
CUNNILINGUS SCENE
in there.
CUNNILINGUS SCENE
in there.
New stuff. My jealous "powerful" GR enemies have found a new way to harass me. They found a way to sign me out, resulting in me losing whatever I was writing.
They're so stupid and petty. I mean what I'm writing here isn't worth shit anyhow; so WTF? If they had any balls they'd delete me entirely, but of course they don't.
P.S. I already found a two second procedure to destroy their usual ineffectiveness.
FUCK GR; OR BETTER YET DON'T.
They're so stupid and petty. I mean what I'm writing here isn't worth shit anyhow; so WTF? If they had any balls they'd delete me entirely, but of course they don't.
P.S. I already found a two second procedure to destroy their usual ineffectiveness.
FUCK GR; OR BETTER YET DON'T.
The fools have unwittingly led me to my purpose in life; to heckle monopolies and their flunkies ..................... maybe some others too. Got to stay in practice.
In keeping with the original intent of this thread, I humbly submit a transcript of Donald Trump's review of "American Psycho."
It’s a privilege to be here at this forum, and I’d like to discuss Bret Easton Ellis “American Psycho” with you. Ah, I see that many of you have suddenly felt the need to go to the bathroom. I would like to assure you that you will not be hearing what you likely expect. No, no. That would be extremely redundant, and unworthy of a man who follows in the footsteps of the first great hair man, Ronald Reagan.
For those of you remaining and representative of the great fields, inclusive of business, science, diplomacy, and world affairs; I assure you that Mr. Ellis’ much maligned book, if correctly viewed, serves as a blue print for our plan to promote prosperity and peace, the cornerstone of America’s wish to affirm America's friendship and partnership in building a better world.
Bret, if I may be so bold, has shown in “American Psycho” his complete understanding of the glorious dynamic which you people have felt in your overwhelming support for my candidacy.
The misunderstanding of those libtards who majored in social work, English, and other non-essential, easy college majors has attempted to take communistic charge of the reportage through fake news and the fact that the news sources, excepting Fox, have found a market in readers; completely oblivious to those hard workers who are building this great nation, and have little or no time for dalliances with libtard newspapers.
Ellis is an true American and understands this, as do I. Bateman, who by the way is not necessarily Jewish, but could well be judging by the name alone, in this great country of equality, is a typical good American, who is insightful, opportunistic, and a seeker of ways in which to better himself. Just as I pulled myself up by the bootstraps through hard work, so did Bateman. That’s what we true Americans are all about. Aren’t we? Thank you. Thank you.
Sure, we like our toys; our foreign sports cars, twenty dollar whooos, and a French maid, in one of those too-too things bending over the kitchen sink. Am I right? That’s what we’re working 12 hour days for. Am I right? Thank you. Thank you.
Now, some deride tis excellently written book by saying that Bateman killed a few people. Well, what’s the issue? We’re all going to die and our loved God has knocked off quite a few himself. It’s a beautification program, and Bateman is holding up his end in ridding our streets of slovenly, dirty, smelly losers none of us really want to see. Rapists, drug addicts, child molesters, small time thieves, those who would block our very streets hindering us from getting to our places of employment. Shameful. Losers. Criminals. Illegal aliens clogging our streets. And, along with some confused college professors the constituency of the Democrats. Who in their right mind will miss any of them? Thank you.
Under me and aided by hard working patriots like Bateman; after years stagnation the US is once again experiencing strong economic growth. The stock market is smashing one record after another, and has added more than $7 trillion in new wealth since my election. Consumer confidence, business confidence, and manufacturing confidence are the highest that they have been in many decades. Since my election we've created 2.4 million jobs and that number is going up very, very substantially. Small business optimism is at an all-time high. New unemployment claims are near the lowest we've seen in almost half a century. African-American unemployment reached the lowest rate ever recorded in the United States and so has unemployment among Hispanic-Americans. Thank you. Thank you. And thank the industrious Bateman’s of this world.
Now, let’s talk about an issue everyone wants to avoid; getting pissed on. Let me tell you that it is this Pence guy I got saddled with who has the sexual hang ups; not me. Who here can tell me that they never wanted to get pissed on, and who here can tell me that they never wanted to piss on somebody else? It’s as American as apple pie. And isn’t that what it’s all about, folks? Somebody’s getting pissed on and somebody else is doing the pissing.
Five stars on this book. All true Americans have to read it.
It’s a privilege to be here at this forum, and I’d like to discuss Bret Easton Ellis “American Psycho” with you. Ah, I see that many of you have suddenly felt the need to go to the bathroom. I would like to assure you that you will not be hearing what you likely expect. No, no. That would be extremely redundant, and unworthy of a man who follows in the footsteps of the first great hair man, Ronald Reagan.
For those of you remaining and representative of the great fields, inclusive of business, science, diplomacy, and world affairs; I assure you that Mr. Ellis’ much maligned book, if correctly viewed, serves as a blue print for our plan to promote prosperity and peace, the cornerstone of America’s wish to affirm America's friendship and partnership in building a better world.
Bret, if I may be so bold, has shown in “American Psycho” his complete understanding of the glorious dynamic which you people have felt in your overwhelming support for my candidacy.
The misunderstanding of those libtards who majored in social work, English, and other non-essential, easy college majors has attempted to take communistic charge of the reportage through fake news and the fact that the news sources, excepting Fox, have found a market in readers; completely oblivious to those hard workers who are building this great nation, and have little or no time for dalliances with libtard newspapers.
Ellis is an true American and understands this, as do I. Bateman, who by the way is not necessarily Jewish, but could well be judging by the name alone, in this great country of equality, is a typical good American, who is insightful, opportunistic, and a seeker of ways in which to better himself. Just as I pulled myself up by the bootstraps through hard work, so did Bateman. That’s what we true Americans are all about. Aren’t we? Thank you. Thank you.
Sure, we like our toys; our foreign sports cars, twenty dollar whooos, and a French maid, in one of those too-too things bending over the kitchen sink. Am I right? That’s what we’re working 12 hour days for. Am I right? Thank you. Thank you.
Now, some deride tis excellently written book by saying that Bateman killed a few people. Well, what’s the issue? We’re all going to die and our loved God has knocked off quite a few himself. It’s a beautification program, and Bateman is holding up his end in ridding our streets of slovenly, dirty, smelly losers none of us really want to see. Rapists, drug addicts, child molesters, small time thieves, those who would block our very streets hindering us from getting to our places of employment. Shameful. Losers. Criminals. Illegal aliens clogging our streets. And, along with some confused college professors the constituency of the Democrats. Who in their right mind will miss any of them? Thank you.
Under me and aided by hard working patriots like Bateman; after years stagnation the US is once again experiencing strong economic growth. The stock market is smashing one record after another, and has added more than $7 trillion in new wealth since my election. Consumer confidence, business confidence, and manufacturing confidence are the highest that they have been in many decades. Since my election we've created 2.4 million jobs and that number is going up very, very substantially. Small business optimism is at an all-time high. New unemployment claims are near the lowest we've seen in almost half a century. African-American unemployment reached the lowest rate ever recorded in the United States and so has unemployment among Hispanic-Americans. Thank you. Thank you. And thank the industrious Bateman’s of this world.
Now, let’s talk about an issue everyone wants to avoid; getting pissed on. Let me tell you that it is this Pence guy I got saddled with who has the sexual hang ups; not me. Who here can tell me that they never wanted to get pissed on, and who here can tell me that they never wanted to piss on somebody else? It’s as American as apple pie. And isn’t that what it’s all about, folks? Somebody’s getting pissed on and somebody else is doing the pissing.
Five stars on this book. All true Americans have to read it.
Sometime back, Jeff wrote; " Write something that isn’t boring and pretentious AF. I’ll find no fault in it. "
I've been aiming at the boring, pretentious market. After being on GR a while, I've come to see that there seems to be lots of them.
I've been aiming at the boring, pretentious market. After being on GR a while, I've come to see that there seems to be lots of them.
deleted user wrote: "FUCK GR; OR BETTER YET DON'T."
Still contemplating. That's really deep.
Which nerd friend of yours is this one?
24 hours- Oh, it's Douglas' funny and insightful deconstruction gun. Haha.
Which nerd friend of yours is this one?
24 hours- Oh, it's Douglas' funny and insightful deconstruction gun. Haha.
"Sharp edged summertime sits on my shoulder, cutting deeply into my skin." I think this belongs here.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgMNI...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgMNI...
Definition of pretentious- attempting to impress by affecting greater importance, talent, culture, etc., than is actually possessed.
The word gets used a lot here; and it is not always aimed at me. Its use does seem to have a direct relationship with its articulator's lack of abilities, but I could be wrong on that. I didn't make any calculations.
But right now its geting to be one of those popular words or phrases used most often by GR reviewers, which is kind of funny. You know at various times it was self-indulgent, "liked it for what it didn't say as much as for what it did," "should have shown rather than told," "information dump," and more.
But, getting back to pretentious, a correct usage of the word necessitates the user being clairvoyant, which is most likely a very pretentious claim. It assumes that the user knows the object's intent (to impress), and that the user is qualified to make an accurate assessment of the object's abilities vis-a-vis their guess at the degree of ability the object happens to possess.
This may have half validity in the world of sports or some other measurable endeavor, but everyone says that writing is not of that sort.
SO THE SIMPLE TRUTH IS THAT WHOEVER DIRECTS THE WORD PRETENTIOUS AT SOMEONE ELSE IS TALKING TO THEMSELF, AND I SUPPOSE THAT I JUST DID THAT.
Please tell Douglas not to read this, as he's already having sufficient difficulty with IJ.
The word gets used a lot here; and it is not always aimed at me. Its use does seem to have a direct relationship with its articulator's lack of abilities, but I could be wrong on that. I didn't make any calculations.
But right now its geting to be one of those popular words or phrases used most often by GR reviewers, which is kind of funny. You know at various times it was self-indulgent, "liked it for what it didn't say as much as for what it did," "should have shown rather than told," "information dump," and more.
But, getting back to pretentious, a correct usage of the word necessitates the user being clairvoyant, which is most likely a very pretentious claim. It assumes that the user knows the object's intent (to impress), and that the user is qualified to make an accurate assessment of the object's abilities vis-a-vis their guess at the degree of ability the object happens to possess.
This may have half validity in the world of sports or some other measurable endeavor, but everyone says that writing is not of that sort.
SO THE SIMPLE TRUTH IS THAT WHOEVER DIRECTS THE WORD PRETENTIOUS AT SOMEONE ELSE IS TALKING TO THEMSELF, AND I SUPPOSE THAT I JUST DID THAT.
Please tell Douglas not to read this, as he's already having sufficient difficulty with IJ.
From "Prince" done in the old stream-of-conciousness days. It's a fight!
Feeling almost at peace with the world he dozed off.
The arena had a dusty, dirt floor and a five foot solid wooden fence around it, giving off the stench of death. The graying unfinished boards were horizontally nailed into six foot posts at eight foot intervals and were firmly sunk into cement poured below ground level, ages ago. Above that was planked seating, twenty rows high, currently occupied by laughing men, holding beer cans and an occasional cigar. He ran to an edge and his white body attempted to scale the wall. He leaped, in an attempt to reach the higher echelon without any assistance. The men in the stands found that humorous, which he couldn’t comprehend. Many pointed at him, simultaneously nudging their nearest companion, dog fighting fan and increased their level of loud merriment. He looked up at the bloodthirsty crew and mistakenly tried to ask for their help, widely opening his limpid, brown eyes.
One yelled out; “You gonna die, stupid.”
Others found that “wisdom” the height of hilarity and for them it probably was both.
He didn’t understand the words, but correctly surmised that he was in some kind of serious trouble and was not going to get any help from the smelly, sweating men, who seemed to be enjoying his demise. He was as frightened as a swimmer in the rapids approaching a rocky waterfall, but proudly decided not to give the cruel, cowardly watchers the satisfaction of showing them that.
He walked to the middle of the arena, as loudspeakers blasted out Eminem rapping “Lose Yourself.” Boompah, boompah, boompah, boompah filled his ears, getting louder with each beat, overtaking his awareness of the cutthroat useless crowd. A door opened and a huge German shepherd strutted out. The door closed behind him and the crowd cheered and yelled encouragement to which he was now deaf.
“Get him, Assassin.”
“Easy prey tonight.”
“Dinner time, big boy.”
“Kill, Assassin. Kill him.”
Assassin seemed extremely sure of himself and paraded around the perimeter of the arena, slowly nodding his head to, what he must have thought were his admiring fans. At 100 pounds he was about four times the size of the white puppy, who was now fully alert, watching the self-confident dog delight his ravenous onlookers. The drumbeat went up another notch.
Suddenly Assassin charged, knocked over “Little White,” and kept going, back to the perimeter, where he opened himself to more accolades. Little White righted himself and was now 100% sure of what he had formerly only strongly suspected. Assassin charged again, accomplishing the same thing and again strutted away expecting to receive his applause. However, this time his safely distanced, murderous, base patrons displayed impatience for the impending bloodletting.
“Come on.”
“Make him bleed.”
“Show me something.”
“Do it.”
Assassin moved purposefully toward the much smaller puppy, who had again gotten up and faced him squarely. Little White only saw Assassin’s steely eyes and only heard a cacophony of drums.
Assassin charged, again taking Little White off his feet, but this time got on top of him, pinning his body to the dirt ground. He looked up at his admirers, who were out of their seats, screaming; “Kill.” He savored the admiration a moment too long, as Little White summoned up all the strength he had and sunk his teeth into Assassin’s exposed neck and bit down as if he was trying to snap a rubber bone in one protracted shot. Assassin tried to shake him off, but got nowhere. He lifted Little White off the ground, but couldn't break his grip. He tried to make a bite of his own, but found he had no angle with which to do so. He frantically shook and as a result, tired himself. He began to have difficulty drawing a breath.
Assassin fell on his side, got still and looked up at his former admirers, who were now cheering for the new champion, when the lights went out. Little White was now red with dripping blood, with his teeth still holding vice-like to an unmoving, fallen Assassin’s neck.
Five men ran from the door and over to the former action, now more of a still life. They tried to lift Little White off the dead shepherd, but he still wouldn’t let go. The crowd was crazy with shouts of exhilaration, whistles and laughter. Little White saw and heard them for the first time since he had walked to center ring. He realized that the limp body he was holding onto was no longer a threat and let it go. He stood next to the dead dog, dripping blood from his mouth onto his already saturated body. The five men were cautiously stroking him, wild with excitement, a mirror reflection of the crowd. While Little White was proud of himself for having won, glad that he was still alive and uninjured and liked the admiration, when he scanned the contorted faces of the blood-loving men, for the first time he knew the meaning of disgust. One came over with a running hose and turned it on him. “Some prize for winning,” he thought for a second, but he then looked at the motionless carcass of Assassin and decided that the pitiful “prize” was preferable to losing. The hose slowly did its work and the blood streamed away from him, forming pink puddles and then was swallowed by the hungry dirt.
The celebrating men kept smiling obscenely at him, babbling some jubilant sounding words that meant nothing to him. After the blood was almost completely off of him, one of the men pointed at him and said; “Look. Look. He’s no Little White. He’s got spots!” For the first time in his short life two irregular, roundish, black spots appeared on his left side. Another celebrating man said; “He’s a Dalmatian.”
With open disdain, he shook off the water that covered his body, doing his best to spray the nearby revelers. He turned his head around and got his first view of what excited the men. His first thought was that he may have not been properly cleaned and didn’t like the dark “imperfections.” He rubbed up against the pant leg of one of the men trying to get the stains off, without success. He openly sighed and sat silently resigned on his haunches, allowing the men to congratulate him by furiously petting his head and body. He did his best not to gag on the residue of blood he could still taste, remained perfectly still, aloof and openly disdainful, though the men equated his posture with pride. He thought; “I’ve got to get out of here.”
Prince’s trembling and sweating body jarred awake in his solitary confinement.
Feeling almost at peace with the world he dozed off.
The arena had a dusty, dirt floor and a five foot solid wooden fence around it, giving off the stench of death. The graying unfinished boards were horizontally nailed into six foot posts at eight foot intervals and were firmly sunk into cement poured below ground level, ages ago. Above that was planked seating, twenty rows high, currently occupied by laughing men, holding beer cans and an occasional cigar. He ran to an edge and his white body attempted to scale the wall. He leaped, in an attempt to reach the higher echelon without any assistance. The men in the stands found that humorous, which he couldn’t comprehend. Many pointed at him, simultaneously nudging their nearest companion, dog fighting fan and increased their level of loud merriment. He looked up at the bloodthirsty crew and mistakenly tried to ask for their help, widely opening his limpid, brown eyes.
One yelled out; “You gonna die, stupid.”
Others found that “wisdom” the height of hilarity and for them it probably was both.
He didn’t understand the words, but correctly surmised that he was in some kind of serious trouble and was not going to get any help from the smelly, sweating men, who seemed to be enjoying his demise. He was as frightened as a swimmer in the rapids approaching a rocky waterfall, but proudly decided not to give the cruel, cowardly watchers the satisfaction of showing them that.
He walked to the middle of the arena, as loudspeakers blasted out Eminem rapping “Lose Yourself.” Boompah, boompah, boompah, boompah filled his ears, getting louder with each beat, overtaking his awareness of the cutthroat useless crowd. A door opened and a huge German shepherd strutted out. The door closed behind him and the crowd cheered and yelled encouragement to which he was now deaf.
“Get him, Assassin.”
“Easy prey tonight.”
“Dinner time, big boy.”
“Kill, Assassin. Kill him.”
Assassin seemed extremely sure of himself and paraded around the perimeter of the arena, slowly nodding his head to, what he must have thought were his admiring fans. At 100 pounds he was about four times the size of the white puppy, who was now fully alert, watching the self-confident dog delight his ravenous onlookers. The drumbeat went up another notch.
Suddenly Assassin charged, knocked over “Little White,” and kept going, back to the perimeter, where he opened himself to more accolades. Little White righted himself and was now 100% sure of what he had formerly only strongly suspected. Assassin charged again, accomplishing the same thing and again strutted away expecting to receive his applause. However, this time his safely distanced, murderous, base patrons displayed impatience for the impending bloodletting.
“Come on.”
“Make him bleed.”
“Show me something.”
“Do it.”
Assassin moved purposefully toward the much smaller puppy, who had again gotten up and faced him squarely. Little White only saw Assassin’s steely eyes and only heard a cacophony of drums.
Assassin charged, again taking Little White off his feet, but this time got on top of him, pinning his body to the dirt ground. He looked up at his admirers, who were out of their seats, screaming; “Kill.” He savored the admiration a moment too long, as Little White summoned up all the strength he had and sunk his teeth into Assassin’s exposed neck and bit down as if he was trying to snap a rubber bone in one protracted shot. Assassin tried to shake him off, but got nowhere. He lifted Little White off the ground, but couldn't break his grip. He tried to make a bite of his own, but found he had no angle with which to do so. He frantically shook and as a result, tired himself. He began to have difficulty drawing a breath.
Assassin fell on his side, got still and looked up at his former admirers, who were now cheering for the new champion, when the lights went out. Little White was now red with dripping blood, with his teeth still holding vice-like to an unmoving, fallen Assassin’s neck.
Five men ran from the door and over to the former action, now more of a still life. They tried to lift Little White off the dead shepherd, but he still wouldn’t let go. The crowd was crazy with shouts of exhilaration, whistles and laughter. Little White saw and heard them for the first time since he had walked to center ring. He realized that the limp body he was holding onto was no longer a threat and let it go. He stood next to the dead dog, dripping blood from his mouth onto his already saturated body. The five men were cautiously stroking him, wild with excitement, a mirror reflection of the crowd. While Little White was proud of himself for having won, glad that he was still alive and uninjured and liked the admiration, when he scanned the contorted faces of the blood-loving men, for the first time he knew the meaning of disgust. One came over with a running hose and turned it on him. “Some prize for winning,” he thought for a second, but he then looked at the motionless carcass of Assassin and decided that the pitiful “prize” was preferable to losing. The hose slowly did its work and the blood streamed away from him, forming pink puddles and then was swallowed by the hungry dirt.
The celebrating men kept smiling obscenely at him, babbling some jubilant sounding words that meant nothing to him. After the blood was almost completely off of him, one of the men pointed at him and said; “Look. Look. He’s no Little White. He’s got spots!” For the first time in his short life two irregular, roundish, black spots appeared on his left side. Another celebrating man said; “He’s a Dalmatian.”
With open disdain, he shook off the water that covered his body, doing his best to spray the nearby revelers. He turned his head around and got his first view of what excited the men. His first thought was that he may have not been properly cleaned and didn’t like the dark “imperfections.” He rubbed up against the pant leg of one of the men trying to get the stains off, without success. He openly sighed and sat silently resigned on his haunches, allowing the men to congratulate him by furiously petting his head and body. He did his best not to gag on the residue of blood he could still taste, remained perfectly still, aloof and openly disdainful, though the men equated his posture with pride. He thought; “I’ve got to get out of here.”
Prince’s trembling and sweating body jarred awake in his solitary confinement.
Kinda pre-dates the street relevant poetry slammers by a couple of centuries. Fuck you.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZqgWu...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZqgWu...
Just to keep the feed as fucked up as usual.
Douglas Hackle is a pig, and a slob, and a disgrace to his family. Worse, he is too stupid to understand "Infinite Jest," choosing to feign to see it through the lens of a "down brutha from da hood," when in fact he is a pussy ass poseur with zero street credentials. I hate him and wish him a lifetime of unrequited boners.
TrojanHo wrote: "I hate him and wish him a lifetime of unrequited boners."Gee, I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, let alone a swell guy like Douglas, who you know has done nothing to you... Why on earth do you always have to be such an UNCIVIL, UNKIND MEAN MAN??
Ahh, well... It's good to see you two having fun again :)
Arthur wrote; "Why on earth do you always have to be such an UNCIVIL, UNKIND MEAN MAN??"
Various reasons; but in this case it was just to lead up to "unrequited boners." It's like a DeLillo thing which the lowbrows just don't get.
Various reasons; but in this case it was just to lead up to "unrequited boners." It's like a DeLillo thing which the lowbrows just don't get.
Arthur wrote; "Gee, I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, let alone a swell guy like Douglas, who you know has done nothing to you... Why on earth do you always have to be such an UNCIVIL, UNKIND MEAN MAN?? "
Well, golly, gosh, and darn Arthur. I was sure that you'd understand the obviously comic display of one as cultured as yeztruly; in saying the horrendous things that a low class slob might. I like Douglas and wish him all the luck in the world with his writing. I like to challenge him in a way. Often people respond with an "Oh, yeah, fuckhead; I'll show you," whereas they may get complacent with the seemingly supportive disinterest of one sentence "likes." Saying that sort of ruins the intended positive effect.
I do empathize with Doug as I imagine it must be horrible to have all the hair fall off your head like that; no doubt prompting some unrequited boners, if that's still possible. And I really don't think he gets IJ at all and is just dragging his feet so as not to be in the position of trying to explain it and embarrassing himself. But, that]s OK too; as its why they invented the Bizarro genre.
Well, golly, gosh, and darn Arthur. I was sure that you'd understand the obviously comic display of one as cultured as yeztruly; in saying the horrendous things that a low class slob might. I like Douglas and wish him all the luck in the world with his writing. I like to challenge him in a way. Often people respond with an "Oh, yeah, fuckhead; I'll show you," whereas they may get complacent with the seemingly supportive disinterest of one sentence "likes." Saying that sort of ruins the intended positive effect.
I do empathize with Doug as I imagine it must be horrible to have all the hair fall off your head like that; no doubt prompting some unrequited boners, if that's still possible. And I really don't think he gets IJ at all and is just dragging his feet so as not to be in the position of trying to explain it and embarrassing himself. But, that]s OK too; as its why they invented the Bizarro genre.
Hey homies. Lissenup. I be proud a all you poets tellin' the man like a big fuck you; and all you bitches, ho[s and baby mommas; whatever, it's all good puttin' down and out all dat stuff about dat sweet and nasty sex. The man know that down here in the hood we be fuckin' like give his momma mufuggin palpitations. Shit.
U b Juggalo, u b fuggalo, u b whatever; but u b low; down wit da peeples. Da revolution be comin'.
FUCK PEACE; DIS BE A WAR
U b Juggalo, u b fuggalo, u b whatever; but u b low; down wit da peeples. Da revolution be comin'.
FUCK PEACE; DIS BE A WAR
That's why your dumb ass got CENSORED by Bradley Motherfuckin' Sands. Heh.
Douglas wrote: "That's why your dumb ass got CENSORED by Bradley Motherfuckin' Sands. Heh."
I really don't get the why in context. But, like I'm supposed to really give a fuck about Bradley Sands? Motherfucker's a worse writer than ...................... never mind. "Dodgeball High" has got to be one of the worst exact copies of something done previously that I ever heard of, ............. except Mellick.
But, if you'd be kind enough to specify why it would be helpful, as I could use it on other shithole threads.
I really don't get the why in context. But, like I'm supposed to really give a fuck about Bradley Sands? Motherfucker's a worse writer than ...................... never mind. "Dodgeball High" has got to be one of the worst exact copies of something done previously that I ever heard of, ............. except Mellick.
But, if you'd be kind enough to specify why it would be helpful, as I could use it on other shithole threads.
"Until that day, the dream of lasting peace, world citizenship, and the rule of international morality will remain but a fleeting illusion to be pursued, but never attained." "We don't need no more trouble."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPZyd...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPZyd...
