Monday, March 25, 2013

You know that pee thing I mentioned once before? Yeah...

I have this urge to talk about how badly I need to re-organize my bed and belongings facility, and not do it. I have this urge to piss out a gallon worth of coffee and then scrounge through the kitchen for more. I also have this urge to feverishly masturbate whilst covered in Christmas tinsel with trance music in the background. If I were to do all those things at once and record it, it would be a brilliant piece of independent film. Hipsters would go mad.

Barking is too mainstream

I may just shave, eat some dried apricots, and watch some adult cartoons...oh god I'm doing it again.


Or whatever.

Pretty much me, minus the nagging Jewish wife,  and chocolate pudding.

Well I shouldn't go that far. However I made many lols. To myself.

And thusly 
the space time continuum was not disturbed. 
Y e S i T w A s


Some Weezer for your face

"Brooding gives way for creative juices and things and stuff."

~A thing I just said to someone.

So, to go over the news a bit;

People are killing each other for stuff.

I thought we were past all that.

Sunday, March 24, 2013

I just took a personality test...and failed

Lying down on my bed, nay covered in sheets using an old, over heating laptop, waiting for the Five Guys down the street to open so a  fatty fat fat lump of meat can be inhaled to enhance my body, a type described in the youth of old as "chub chub with nip nips." I call that my Sunday ritual. Why not moonday? Bigot astronomers.

So, I had the prosperous vision in my head of a story involving sex crime cops destroying the establishment of some evil sex slave trade corporation, though I believe that can be the result of alcohol and watching too much Law and Order: SVU. My gut hurts. Too many foreign intoxicants be them eaten or drank. I bought a juicer for some juice diet. Seldom have I obliged to that hidden nag to use.

I do think it is near the time in which I somberly and soberly step outside on an empty stomach and enjoy a cigar in the back yard while playing fetch with a dog that isn't mine. OOOOORRRRRRRR, I can ignore those impulses, also ignore mt impulse to urinate, and not leave my computer until it feels like my eyes are about to pop out because of the pressure. Something like that.

It sure seemed like foreshadowing. But here I am, still typing or whatever.

Listened to Justin Timberlake's new album. It was the tits. Primarily because I want to squeeze and spit on it.

It really was, though. The kind of Pop/R&B that can be found appealing by more then just fickle teeny boppers and paid off critics. Good stuff. Even had a track on there that was all Radiohead-esque. They have it for free and shit on youtube and stuff. No I won't post a link. Lazy ass.

That being said, I am just reminded of something. Which I wont share.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

We gotta get outta here, y'see?

"Most of them simply do not see what sort of risky game they are playing with reality - reality as something independent of what is experimentally established."
~ Erwin Schrödinger

I am a detective. Of this I was absolutely sure.

I started out like most detectives, as a beat cop on the mean streets of this city. I saw it's criminal underbelly first hand. I had been fortunate to make it this long, I might even get to see retirement. Other policemen aren't so lucky, this is why I chose to work alone. I don't want to see another partner die.

O'brien's, my home away from home, was a bar on the second floor of a old brick building on 5th, a cop bar where the guys could find a comfortable chair away from work and their wives. I sat, like I usually do, at the bar, and ordered a scotch. I looked at my watch, 7 o'clock.

"How are you doing today Herman?" Mike, the bartender who works thursdays asked as he cleaned a mug.

"Slow day, Mike. Too slow" I said, hitting the whiskey.

"How's the wife and kids?" He said, pulling a glass of pabst and handing it to the man three stools down from me. He didn't look up as he received it.

I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "I'm not married, and I don't have any kids" I said, more then a little confused. He knows that, at least he should. I've come here every day since I got devorced.

"Sorry chief" Mike said pulling out another mug, wiping it and pulling some Pabst. The man three stools down from me did not look up as he received it.

My ears began to ring as I saw him walk away, down towards patrons at the far end of the bar and I stared at a shot of whiskey looking brand new and shiny in my hands. I thought about Susan, my beautiful bitch of an ex-wife. Her mother told her to never marry a cop. She and I learned that the hard way. I really missed her. The ringing in my ears made my skull hurt, like a vacuum in another room sucking up pennies.

I finished my scotch and looked at my wristwatch. 12:30 it said. "I better get home" I mumbled to myself.

"Not so fast, Rockwell" a chilly voice told me from behind. No, I thought, it couldn't be him. But surely enough, the voice belonged to no other then John Mulloni, the infamous Kazakh. I just couldn't believe, couldn't comprehend what I was seeing. The man I've been hunting doggedly for the last six years, the man responsible for killing my last six partners, all in more grotesque fashion then the last. John fucking mulloni just walks up to me in a bar? after all of the hell he put me through? The reason I will forever work alone, the reason I couldn't sleep unless I was drunk.

"look, I know this is crazy, but I need to tell you something" John whispered to me, but I could only understand half of it, I felt so sick I couldn't help but look away. My eyes glazing over as he looked at the empty beer in front of me.

Beer? Why is this beer in front of me?

"I was drinking scotch" I whispered, bewildered

"What?" John said, grabbing my arm, making sure he heard me right.

"I was drinking scotch, not beer" I said as I looked at him, all of a sudden more drunk then I had any right to be. "Look, Herman, we gotta get outta here, y'see? It's happening quicker this time!"

"What's happening?" I asked, my eyes rolling uneasily in my head, I felt like I was going to fall asleep. Then thats when I realized that something was very, very wrong. The bar was completely empty save for me and John, Mike was gone, so was the man three stools down from me, the patrons on the far end of the bar, the boys playing darts, the ones around the pool table. all gone. so was the pool table and the dart board. the frames on the walls didn't hold pictures anymore, just coregated cardboard. The sight of the cardboard in those frames put my teeth on edge and my stomach in my throat. Those were pictures where of good men who died in the line of duty. Men I buried. Gone.

I could hear a vacuum cleaner calling me. all I could see before my eyes closing was an empty bar, where did everyone go?

When I finally came too all I saw was John but I could still hear the vacuum. As the sound of the vacuum and the empty feeling it gave me faded away, reality faded in.

John was whispering my name. Or was he? He looked like he was screaming at the top of his lungs.

He gave me a hard open handed slap, not to knock me out, but to wake me up. Only then did I realize the seriousness of the situation we were in. The walls, the walls, oh my Christ, the walls were shrinking! The fixtures, too, the doors, the windows, they all began to contort into ugly, asymmetrical shapes before they all got smaller, John grabbed me by the collar and basically threw me out of the ever shrinking front door, looking more like a dog door now, his face was red, and all he could say was "Go!" "Out!" and "NOW!" or maybe he told me more, I couldn't hear. All I saw him do was kick out the window, and jump out.

Drunkenly I began to walk down, down, down,
                                  down the stairs.

when I went to that bar tonight were simple steel steps up the side of the building, but as I ran away from the bar I couldn't seem to merely walk down them. I had to crawl down them, some because they wouldn't stop getting steeper and some because they wouldn't stop squirming and giggling underneath me. And as my vision honed onto the ground and faded to black, so to did the infernal noise of the vacuum.

When I came to my entire body hurt. The first thing I did was suck in as much air as possible, but I couldn't catch my breath. The air was thin and tinny, it didn't feel real. My vision was blurry and all I could smell was burnt rubber belts. The noise in my ears was the thudding of my heart like a hammer knocking against my skull. On my back I looked at the sky, thunder and lightning struck and it began to rain ice cold water onto the streets. I just laid there for a moment, trying, and failing to process what had just happened to me.

Then I heard John groan, he had jumped out of a window to roll onto the floor like a cat, he was sore for sure, but he could probably run away without a moments hesitation into the night. He could always do that. The bastard.

"Are you alright, Herman?" John said, his sincere tone disconcerted me. He gutted my third partner like a fish. His mission in life seemed to be to torture me, and the fact that he was concerned for my safety all of a sudden enraged me. I sat up, more sober then I've been in years and walked over to him. Grabbing him by the the throat I socked him in the nose. He took it lying down, there was no fight left in him. So I kicked him, he just sat there and took it. I was overflowing with rage as I continued to wail on him, but as he continued to just take my abuse I was beginning to feel a chasming sense of dispair well up. I knew he felt the pain, he just didn't care anymore.

I ran out of breath before I could beat John to death. and when I relented, placing my bloodied hands on my knees hunched over to catch my breath I could hear John spitting out teeth, cool and calm. He said "We're wasting time. We need to leave right now".

"Damn fucking straight, we're going to the station" I said, pulling out my handcuffs. This is when I expected to see John make a run for it, even though he just let me beat the piss out of him, almost as a sign of good will. Rather he just held out his wrists and rolled his eyes behind his swolen lids. as I put John in the back of my cruiser I looked up at O'brians. The windows were bricked up. nothing there but the shadow of a neon sign long gone from the wall.

The drive to the police station was quiet, too quiet. the only noise the city was making was the rain now falling like a faucet on the street and the noise of my cruiser speeding to our destination. There where no other cars, no pedestrians. and when we got to 12th, there werent even any cars parked on the sides of the street. on 16th, there werent any parking meteres, no news stands, no phone booths. The police station on 18 from the outside looked long abandoned and I parked infront of it with a screeching halt. and ran inside, leaving john in the back seat with the car running. I made the mistake of leaving him alone in the backseat before, He got free with a peice of hanging interior trim and made it into a shiv which he cut my 5th partners head off with infront of me. I was sure he didn't feel compelled to escape today.

What I saw when I entered made my heart sink. I couldn't help but run through where all the walls and offices and cells and desks used to be to get to my desk. My desk was the only thing remaining in the now vast empty room that used to be a police station. The lamp was on, but it wasn't hooked into anything and my notes were in the desk but there was nothing written on them. A bottle of scotch with a label as ornate as it was blank, a gun with no trigger. My lord, what is going on?

I shouldn't have been shocked when I got outside to see John outside of my handcuffs and my police cruiser. He was smoking a cigarette and he flashed me a perfect grin which he had recovered miraclously from the severe beating I had just administered. I was angry all over again but I did not see any use in beating him again.

"What the fuck is going on?" I shouted over the cruiser. John just shrugged

"All I know is we gotta get outta here." he flicked his smoke "I'll drive"

I pressed my hand against his chest and pushed him away from the front door. "I'll drive" I said, he put up his hands and turned away to the passenger side. "I have to go somewhere"

"If it's anywhere but outside of the city, it's a waste of time" John offered, I wasnt having any of it.

"Why don't you tell me what you know, huh? Where is everybody?" I said, driving like a maniac to the other side of town.

"I'm not sure, It started a couple of days ago. the boys started acting really strange. They'd forget things, keep repeating themselves. I knew something was up for sure when they didn't remember I have a daughter. I told shep, I told him to get some roses for my daughter. He says you don't have a daughter, Boss. Like fucking shit I said. Then I started hearing that fucking Vaccuum cleaner."

Vacuum cleaner? I thought, "You heard that to?" I asked

"I thought I was going crazy, I've been hearing it on and off for days now." John, lit another smoke, now visibly shaking. "My boys, I haven't seem them for days now, everyone I know is gone, even my daughter..." he began to cry.

I was taken aback. "You through my first partner off of the peir with barbed wire wrapped around his neck, what about his daughter?"

He looked at me and smiled behind those tears, I almost clocked him again but he asked me a question that knocked me flat on my ass.

"You don't even remember your first partner's name, do you?" John had me. I didn't. I couldn't, no matter how hard I strained, remember any of the names of the six men who served by my side and had their lives cruelly cut short by the man smoking a cigarette in my passanger seat. "I don't remember my daughters name either. I couldn't even tell you what she looked like."

A wave of panic flowed over me like a two tonne blanket as I saw her home. A townhouse at the ending of a T intersection between two brick buildings twice its size on either side. Her home, our home, seemed so serene, even under all the rain now flooding most of the streets. I breathed deep as I put my hand on the door handle. John put his hand on my arm and shook his head as he watched me leave. "Don't do this." he said, a look of genuine concern on his face. I pulled away and left the cruiser, making the excruciating walk up to her door.

I knocked on the front door and it opened just a crack.

"Susan? Susan are you there? It's Herman"

I opened the door to her home and saw nothing but wet dirt and rubble on the other side. The home I bought us after we were married was now nothing more then a false front of a house. I fell to my knees and burst into tears. I didn't even notice the deafening roar of the vacuum cleaner as John ran up to me and drug me away, balling like a child into my own police cruiser. I kept crying as he sped off, the roar of the vacuum fallowing us we went to one bridge then another, all exits from the city now for some reason or another unpassable. The Mathew bridge was drawn up at the center at a perfect right angle. The Errickson was desolved at the center. The 8th street bridge, most bizarrely of all, was tied into a tidy little bow.

I have always been afraid of water. Deep water that is. but when I saw that there was no escape from this city, John and I got desperate and ran out into the early morning tide. we ran and ran, the further we got away from the city, the less we could hear of the vacuum cleaner. The further we ran, the more we noticed the water wasn't getting any deeper. The further we ran, the more we realized the shore on the other side of the bay wasn't dozens of miles away, but more like a mile and a half away from the shore we just left.

The place we saw on the other side wasn't more then a collection of things that mostly werent there any more. A roof would float 20 feet above the ground as if it were being held up by a house. An engine and an exhaust manifold sat there idling as if there was a key in the ignition of a car that wasn't there. Half of a tree, half of trash can, half of a street leading away to a featureless horizion. John and I kept running, the sound of the vacuum fading into the distance.

John and I. We've been running for what seems like days. We never get tired here, never get hungry, and the sun never rises past the little sliver on the dawn. There's nothing here. nothing but distance and a faint noise of the vacuum cleaner.

It's so cold here. I couldnt guess how long we've been running. John is beginning to lag behind.

John died today. He told me to hold up, the sound of the vacuum has been getting steadily louder the last few days? Weeks? We talked, tried to speculate about what's been going on.  We know, I know now. Johns last words before his head shattered into a million pieces were Thank you for making my life worth it.

He was my worst enemy. He was my only friend.

I made it, John. I made it to the edge. It's so cold here. the edge is razor sharp and there are words now, written on the ground. They told me your daughters name. They told me her name, John. Her name was Susan. I know if I walk off the edge now, I would just float away into the nothing I'm staring at. Just a step. There we go.

I am a detective. Of this I am absolutly sure.

Big Mike.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Introversion and beer

When one starts the lose the general grasp on things thought by the mass populace, its easy to thing such things are broken. But when certain social impulses literally don't exist, its mainly just cause for feeling awkward. What is super shitty about it, is that when you become a full adult, you can see and feel, plain as day, that you lack these impulses and understanding of social cues. Let me explain it in a different way.

A person with perfectly functioning legs spends most of his time sitting, because he just doesn't want to stand or walk. He  can eventually chose to stand or walk by finding either new fervor on his own, or being pushed by others.

A person with no legs spends all of his time sitting, because he was never born with legs in which to stand on.

And now, I don't mean to make the analogy have these feelings seem TOO dire, but pretty much this is overcome by mutual entertainment, witnessing or creating. Once that is gone, though, so is the linking to others with no mutual understanding of other things.

On the bright side...I...uh...


Tuesday, January 22, 2013

tell yourself, in your quiet moments, that you were born to control affairs

If one was to be leader, one  cannot be seen as flawed. A shaken understanding of confidence causes fault to be seen. When this is e noticed, powers are diminished regardless. Remember who you are. Remember that you are the greatest. You cannot argue actual fact.

But keep it fact.

I know though, frustration happens anyways. It is natural.

Everything will be ok. Eventually.

Anyways, I have been thinking a lot about the closer to the taboo as of late, especially because of the woman I last dated being a stripper. I know some of these  people have a fucked up background, but so do plenty of "regular people." But honestly, they're just sexual conquerors, bridging the gap between the natural behavior and culture.

God damn do I miss smacking that ass. Just saying.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

43% of what I say is true.

This last month I got into a car accident, got into a shoot out with the police, sold some PCP to Alex Jones, masturbated to five on one dude porn, killed members of congress, pawned my panties and bought a car battery. It's been a shit show but all things considered I'm having a wonderful time. Wish you were here... Killing congressmen with me.

Speaking of people who need a gun pointed at them, I say anyone with a gun and a Jesus/pro-life bumper sticker is in dire need of a locked room, a bushmaster and rations with just enough mercury to make things interesting.

Don't get me wrong, I think guns are pretty cool, I mean when I feel sexually inadequate and scared of everyone I like to just stroke my ar-15 and whisper myself quietly to sleep.

It's my right and duty to America to protect myself from crazies with guns by buying more guns then the crazies all around me. You know those liberal fascists trying to take my guns so they can put me in white slavery re-education camps so I can play patty cake with tree hugging Maoist dyke African baby adopters. Not on my watch, you cunts.

I bet you don't even go to church.

Love Big Mike.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Two pence buys you the ending of happy thoughts!

I pity the world once that vile, super overrated, super media hungry whore offspring comes screaming out of the black man eating death trap of hers.

May the fickle mob have much of a bounty to come.

Tunes. And Peace.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Your interwebz is broken...use interwebz to find solution?

Some gory details...

I spent yesterday vomiting out of my ass and puking from the apparatus of my asshole. Luckily my sister saved me with a sprite and some chicken noodle soup. It was funny, because apparently I came stumbling into the living space where my dad was, and I go ;

"Hello Jason. My name is god. And I have a plan for your son. I am going to put him through the most agonizing pain he's ever experienced, he wont be able to hold down solid food for a couple days, he is going to vomit as if expelling demons, and every time he does vomit, he will also, literally, shit himself."

"And then what, lord?"

"Good night" And then I stumbled back into my room and passed out. What does that tell you about his plan for us? Pain.

Anyways, some pleasure for your ear/eye holes

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Theres a Devil in my ass!

Interesting video from the Young Turks, a personal favorite of mine as far as news is concerned.

What good is a religion if it makes being gay seem like full blown possession? If gays were possessed with the demonic rectal baby of Satan himself, you would have been mauled by one in a drama department or a musical or a Vietnamese nail salon or some other stereotypical gay hang out. Homosexuals are a lot of things, but possessed by the dark one they are not and to think otherwise is to display a clear break with reality. It's clear this guy has been shamed into thinking all sorts of craziness. You can see it in his big gay eyes.

Point Being: Catholicism is a helluva drug.

Love Big Mike.

Friday, January 4, 2013

Fuck Steve Harvey

Anyone notice there's no musical satanic arch nemesis to conservative America anymore? Is there nothing the unclean haven't tainted? Oh the children! The children! Lets barricade ourselves in our churches and self immolate as a protest for common decency.

15 years ago mainstream musicians stopped trying to schlockily piss off parents and decided to see who could be the queen of tacky. The only shock now is how low they stoop. The amorphous incest party that is mainstream music repository will finally sink down the drain as it has been doing for the last 60 years.

The good thing is that unlike the 90's music as weak sauce as today's pop rock landfill will never be blamed for a mass murder. As we all know the really good shit is on the Internet.

A band so awesome it'll never end up on TV.
 The bad thing is nothing truly shocking would ever make it to music television channels even if music was still played on television. So in the interest of spicing up inter-generational relations here's some music to play in your moms minivan in front of the middle school. Keep up the good fight!

- A stack full of amplifiers and a heart full of hate
- Turtle power!
- Putting the "ass" in "assassin"

Love Big Mike.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Jeff...part 1/10

I can never really decide if the world if the world is a big place or not. Under some circumstances, it is easy to make the revelation that all human beings, and the cultures in which we create, how somehow similar after breaking down the aspects on them. Under all remaining circumstances, however, things are so alien on the same level in which they are similar, that it seems obvious that everyone is cut from different cloths. Everyone is very, very far apart. 

Now, don't get me wrong. Don't mistake me for some pseudo intellectual or some shit just because a mother fucker has a vocabulary past your average chump. I've seen my fair share of shit. I've done some things. Not that I'm trying to impress you. Mother fucker. I just really want to get my incredibly unnoticed and significant story across to you cunts so that you can worship me like the god that I'm not. Or whatever.


Chicago. Late 1940's early 1950's or whenever. An asshole is born. Said asshole is one who would, in his apex, either;

A. Rule the world
B. Invent the cellphone
C. Take a crap on a sidewalk a couple of times.

This choice C. fella would end up growing up in a neighborhood full of brothers, and end up having a full time job by the fucking time he was six GOD DAMN years old, emphasis intended. I am bored already.

"Nigga you dumb." My man Terrence shouted aloud, taking another hit off the joint. His eyes squinting, rolling around a bit, then coming back to what I guess would be this brother's version of normal would be. He exhales
"Nigga you so dumb, all dem dumb niggas be niggin about how dumb," takes another hit, holds it in, points at me with full lungs and a distored voice "dis nigga be." He exhales. I looked at him with less disdain and more confusion.
"What are you talking about?" I took the joint from him. Creaks being heard in the ceiling of his shitty studio apartment.
"That gay shit you sayin. Sayin you in love and shit." I told the joint away from him, or at least tried, only to realize I already had it.
"Man, shut the fuck up. Also, why are we standing in your god damn, smelly ass, cockroach infested shit hole kitchen, when we could be sitting in your god damn, smelly ass, cockroach infested shit hole kitchen, on your smelly whatever couch?" I stopped and thought about nothing for a second.
" said kitchen. Ha, nigga, there aint two kitchens. H..ha. Haha! We both started laughing hysterically, falling over. He into his stove, and I stumbling through said kitchen, onto his couch, which resided in his god damn, smelly ass, cockroach infested shit hole kitchen. Couch. Damn it. After another solid minute or twelve of laughter that could drive a monk to slit his wrists, he joined me on his couch. He looked for joint, only to realized he had lost it, and let it burn itself out.

"My man, all fucking around aside. That is some serious shit you talking about. Then what? Marriage. Shithead kids? Black lacquer counter tops? Boring ass, 9-5 job in an office callin some chump ass nigga 'boss' and 'sir'? Nah. Fuck, that. Fuck that SHIT. Nigga you dumb." I rolled my eyes.
"Man, the fuck I ever say about marrying the bitch? I love her, don't want to marry her. Yeah, I get it man. That whole shit would be as dumb as your black ass."
"Nigga shut your cracka ass right the fuck up. She got her self that fine, FINE, ass, hit it. Buy a bitch some flowers, take her to that new movie about white people doing whatever boring ass shit you devils do. But love? That, real love, denotes real fucking shit right there." He magically had a new, lit joint in his hand. I took it from him. I hit it. Remained in deep though. Hit it again. And continued to remain in deep though. 
"Damn, man."
"Yeah my man. Damn."

That night me and Shelby went and saw a movie that would turn into quite the classic. She was upset when my interest in a more serious situation waned. I tried to explain, and she wouldnt listen. What we've got here is a failure to communicate.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

The Cold Hearted Efficiency Of Non-Lubed Masturbation

The evening is chilly, and alas! I am filled with spaghetti.

I could not use the picture generator I normally use. I do not know why it wouldn't work. God Damn it.

Anyways, I am working on a new story. It will be good. I have spoken.

That is all.

Also, ever notice how the black characters in very dramatic shows tend to die in the length of just one season? Yeah...