Thursday, September 25, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Ya'll Gonna Make Me Lose My Mind...
I feel it necessary to offer a bit of social commentary on a particular subject that has pained me for quite some time. I've remained silent, and kept opinions on the backburner of discretion, but I can be silenced no more. For several years now, the gears have been slowly grinding my indifference to a slow pained "fuck all" for this particular subject at hand.
Pitbulls.
What the fuck?
I'll start by saying, unless you're this guy, or you fall under one of the following self-defining categories, you should never...I repeat NEVER claim ownership over a pitbull:
~ White
~ Middle-class
~ NOT a rapper
~ College student
~ NOT in a music video featuring rappers
~ Child-rearing parents
~ Expectant parents
~ You work at a Fortune 500 company NOT called Bad Boy/Rap-A-Lot/Death Row, Inc.
~ Preachers
~ Michael Vick*
*With regards to the latter, you might even want to give dog-ownership (any breed) a second-over.
I see no regalness, nor choice-affirming endearment in the breed AT ALL, actually. I think it's been made widely understood by prevalent hip-hop culture that these animals are not to be confused or mistaken as heartwarming companions. I believe it's been shown to be blatantly obvious that these animals are a respectable substitute for your firearm...should it go missing or become defective. Also, in special circumstances, they've found themselves to be successful instruments for gambling. Sharing the characteristic of inflicting wounds, that can only be deflected with a bullet-proof vest, is not something I am looking for in a personal companion of the natural world...and I don't know why your dumb-shit ass is either.
Labradors, Boxers, German Shepherds, Golden Retrievers...these are acceptable breeds.
I run through Zilker probably 5 to 6 times a week. I run the trail at Town Lake almost every day of the week. I've seen more pitbulls than I've seen the Stevie Ray statue. It's fucking unbelievable!! Every time I pass one of those savages they stare at me with those beady eyes and I know what they're thinking. "I could dismember you in 2.5 minutes, shit in your carcass, and skull fuck you when I'm done." AND THEY COULD!!! What is appealling about owning something that can make splinters of your bones???? Who needs an animal that can bite with 742 million pounds of pressure per square inch????
Not a week ago, Robert comes in to visit Austin, escaping from Hurricane Ike. He drops by for a visit at my apartment and says at the moment of his arrival, "Did you know you have a baby downstairs?" I say, "No, I did not know there was a baby downstairs. Those folks are a little strange, and I've never really paid much attention." To which he says, "Well when I was walking up the baby opened the blinds and there he was."
Not five minutes later we're sitting on my balcony sharing a smoke and swapping a few stories. All of a sudden, underneath our feet we hear something reminiscient of the scene in Jurassic Park where the T. Rex has his way with the plexiglass in the "dino-flaged" Explorer. I look through the cracks to see what hound of hell has taken residence on the second-story balcony of my apartment complex and I see a three-foot tall, 150 lb. bag of muscles in the shape of a pitbull. His head was the size of an NFL regulation football. He's apparently not a fan of our conversing above his head, which leads me to believe that if he is irritated by something he cannot see, nor most likely smell, or even get an exact bearing on, he is probably not a fan of anything else. What lays beside him??? A turkey. A fucking whole, cooked turkey is resting half-destroyed (I assume as his meal; by the way, it was 400 degrees outside...it ain't turkey cooking season) in a rusty basting pan right beside him. Wanna know what's wrapped around the basting pan?!?!? A fucking 20-foot rusty tow-chain. A. TOW. CHAIN!!!!!
Pitbull? Check. Dead turkey? Check. Rusty tow chain? Check. Baby inside? Check.
A baby.
A fucking baby.
Pitbulls.
What the fuck?
I'll start by saying, unless you're this guy, or you fall under one of the following self-defining categories, you should never...I repeat NEVER claim ownership over a pitbull:
~ White
~ Middle-class
~ NOT a rapper
~ College student
~ NOT in a music video featuring rappers
~ Child-rearing parents
~ Expectant parents
~ You work at a Fortune 500 company NOT called Bad Boy/Rap-A-Lot/Death Row, Inc.
~ Preachers
~ Michael Vick*
*With regards to the latter, you might even want to give dog-ownership (any breed) a second-over.
I see no regalness, nor choice-affirming endearment in the breed AT ALL, actually. I think it's been made widely understood by prevalent hip-hop culture that these animals are not to be confused or mistaken as heartwarming companions. I believe it's been shown to be blatantly obvious that these animals are a respectable substitute for your firearm...should it go missing or become defective. Also, in special circumstances, they've found themselves to be successful instruments for gambling. Sharing the characteristic of inflicting wounds, that can only be deflected with a bullet-proof vest, is not something I am looking for in a personal companion of the natural world...and I don't know why your dumb-shit ass is either.
Labradors, Boxers, German Shepherds, Golden Retrievers...these are acceptable breeds.
I run through Zilker probably 5 to 6 times a week. I run the trail at Town Lake almost every day of the week. I've seen more pitbulls than I've seen the Stevie Ray statue. It's fucking unbelievable!! Every time I pass one of those savages they stare at me with those beady eyes and I know what they're thinking. "I could dismember you in 2.5 minutes, shit in your carcass, and skull fuck you when I'm done." AND THEY COULD!!! What is appealling about owning something that can make splinters of your bones???? Who needs an animal that can bite with 742 million pounds of pressure per square inch????
Not a week ago, Robert comes in to visit Austin, escaping from Hurricane Ike. He drops by for a visit at my apartment and says at the moment of his arrival, "Did you know you have a baby downstairs?" I say, "No, I did not know there was a baby downstairs. Those folks are a little strange, and I've never really paid much attention." To which he says, "Well when I was walking up the baby opened the blinds and there he was."
Not five minutes later we're sitting on my balcony sharing a smoke and swapping a few stories. All of a sudden, underneath our feet we hear something reminiscient of the scene in Jurassic Park where the T. Rex has his way with the plexiglass in the "dino-flaged" Explorer. I look through the cracks to see what hound of hell has taken residence on the second-story balcony of my apartment complex and I see a three-foot tall, 150 lb. bag of muscles in the shape of a pitbull. His head was the size of an NFL regulation football. He's apparently not a fan of our conversing above his head, which leads me to believe that if he is irritated by something he cannot see, nor most likely smell, or even get an exact bearing on, he is probably not a fan of anything else. What lays beside him??? A turkey. A fucking whole, cooked turkey is resting half-destroyed (I assume as his meal; by the way, it was 400 degrees outside...it ain't turkey cooking season) in a rusty basting pan right beside him. Wanna know what's wrapped around the basting pan?!?!? A fucking 20-foot rusty tow-chain. A. TOW. CHAIN!!!!!
Pitbull? Check. Dead turkey? Check. Rusty tow chain? Check. Baby inside? Check.
A baby.
A fucking baby.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Indignant Little Piglet
Cursory words.
Action verbs.
Running, sitting, wanting, choking.
All of it heard,
You ain't the first,
Working, hurting, laughing, you're joking.
Paint.
Write.
Sing.
Tonight.
Stop with the shit,
Just quit,
Pick up that song and put your heart in it.
New.
Blue.
Get it right.
Some birds say,
Even though they're in pain,
"You don't know what you're doing."
I don't pretend to disagree,
Or even have a clue.
And I hate to mention this,
But neither do you.
Action verbs.
Running, sitting, wanting, choking.
All of it heard,
You ain't the first,
Working, hurting, laughing, you're joking.
Paint.
Write.
Sing.
Tonight.
Stop with the shit,
Just quit,
Pick up that song and put your heart in it.
New.
Blue.
Get it right.
Some birds say,
Even though they're in pain,
"You don't know what you're doing."
I don't pretend to disagree,
Or even have a clue.
And I hate to mention this,
But neither do you.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
In and Out v.2
in: 6k
out: 3.5 miles
in: Autumn
out: Summer
in: SoLa
out: SoCo
in: college football
out: baseball
in: American girls
out: Canadian girls
in: Ike
out: Gustav
in: Obama
out: McCain
in: tostada
out: enchilada
in: not falling for the exact same girl
out: falling for the exact same girl
in: bred
out: board
in: Delta Spirit
out: Kings of Leon
in: straight tequila
out: pussy-ass margaritas
in: my imagination
out: Perfect Megan
in: lorazepam
out: anxiety
in: jangly-ass guitars
out: finger pickin'
in: last cigarettes
out: last cigarettes
in: being 29
out: turning 30 (shit)
in: pen pals
out: myspace friends
in: robot
out: cats
in: robot sleeping on the floor
out: robot sleeping on my face
in: hovercraft
out: buffalo exchange
in: Club deVille
out: Key Bar
in: any place else
out: work
in: digital
out: analog
in: Frio River
out: Guadalupe River
in: Goat Cook-Off 2003 and before
out: Goat Cook-Off 2003 and beyond
in: going to New Orleans for Labor Day
out: cancelling New Orleans for Labor Day vis-à-vis a hurricane
in: hurricane (drink)
out: hurricane (weather)
in: drunk texts spelled with surgical precision
out: drunk texts requesting nekkid time at unholy hours of the night
in: single girls
out: married girls
in: interest from single girls
out: interest from married girls (geez)
in: Ardmore
out: Kingsville
in: meeting my own expectations
out: meeting someone else's
in: peep
out: wang
in: Johnny "F'in" Horton
out: every-fucking-thing else
out: 3.5 miles
in: Autumn
out: Summer
in: SoLa
out: SoCo
in: college football
out: baseball
in: American girls
out: Canadian girls
in: Ike
out: Gustav
in: Obama
out: McCain
in: tostada
out: enchilada
in: not falling for the exact same girl
out: falling for the exact same girl
in: bred
out: board
in: Delta Spirit
out: Kings of Leon
in: straight tequila
out: pussy-ass margaritas
in: my imagination
out: Perfect Megan
in: lorazepam
out: anxiety
in: jangly-ass guitars
out: finger pickin'
in: last cigarettes
out: last cigarettes
in: being 29
out: turning 30 (shit)
in: pen pals
out: myspace friends
in: robot
out: cats
in: robot sleeping on the floor
out: robot sleeping on my face
in: hovercraft
out: buffalo exchange
in: Club deVille
out: Key Bar
in: any place else
out: work
in: digital
out: analog
in: Frio River
out: Guadalupe River
in: Goat Cook-Off 2003 and before
out: Goat Cook-Off 2003 and beyond
in: going to New Orleans for Labor Day
out: cancelling New Orleans for Labor Day vis-à-vis a hurricane
in: hurricane (drink)
out: hurricane (weather)
in: drunk texts spelled with surgical precision
out: drunk texts requesting nekkid time at unholy hours of the night
in: single girls
out: married girls
in: interest from single girls
out: interest from married girls (geez)
in: Ardmore
out: Kingsville
in: meeting my own expectations
out: meeting someone else's
in: peep
out: wang
in: Johnny "F'in" Horton
out: every-fucking-thing else
Eyes
My eyes turn from blue to green and back again.
Usually pointed out by someone who's smiling.
If I can ever get them to red...
Lookout world, you're all mine.
Usually pointed out by someone who's smiling.
If I can ever get them to red...
Lookout world, you're all mine.
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