Do they really believe all that they say, and if so, how the fuck do they sleep at night?
But they’re politicians. Everything they say is a lie.
So how do they sleep at night?
Let’s imagine, for comedy’s sake, that there is a politician who actually cares, who votes his conscience, who is everything we expect politicians to be.
How does he sleep at night knowing that he is part of a huge structure, the very purpose of which is to shut people like him up? How does he feel about the fact that our men and women in uniform are fighting for bullshit political reasons and NOT freedom. Haven’t we licked that “freedom” Popsicle long enough?
Every vote he makes is fucking “symbolic”. How does he sleep at night?
How do we sleep at night knowing roughly half of the bank tellers in this country are on some form of public assistance while, last year, banks made a profit of 149 billion dollars?
If you wanna know where a lot of your tax dollars are going, it’s to subsidizing employees of giant corporations who, frankly, do not want to share.
Many giant, profitable corporations do this, including Walmart. And yet…
How do we sleep at night?
We demonize poor people, like fucking idiots, meanwhile we are in a new age of robber barons. Where is Teddy Roosevelt when we need him? Where?
When I sleep tonight, I will totally dream about Teddy Roosevelt. Hopefully.
I’m not a man who likes to swear, but I hate the sound of being alone. — Neil Diamond
It’s funny how two simple words—“I promise”—will stall people for a while. — Jack Handey
Today is the coldest March day in 120 years, according to the paper. Various electronic signs pegged it at -5 to -2 as I drove along. At the beer store, a news guy was there with a camera and microphone, interviewing people as they all said basically “Jesus fuck, it’s cold out!” I walked in line of the camera and flashed some titty.
Just kidding—I was wearing too many layers.
I’m glad they hurried up and changed “global warming” to “climate change”. You can’t blame global warming for this, the coldest winter in our local recorded history, but you can climate change. If it’s really warm, it’s climate change. If it’s really cold it’s climate change. If it rains or doesn’t, it’s fucking climate change.
Don’t cha just love religion?
The other day I washed my food processor in the dishwasher. The lid got warped from the heat and now it doesn’t work anymore, all because of climate change.
Stay warm, people.
I was living in North Dakota, working as an EMT. This was quite a few years ago, before I worked as a pretend psychic, but after I worked as a real supermarket produce manager. This was also before the current oil boom in North Dakota. Back then, people not only ran from North Dakota, they also walked, drove, flew, whatever it took, to get the hell away from it. Those who couldn’t do any of those things dreamed and drank and snorted and mainlined their way out of it, probably with tears in their eyes.
North Dakota, in case you’ve never been there before, is America’s Siberia. It’s flat, barren, and frozen, the geographical equivalent of Adolf Hitler’s soul. There is nothing—NOTHING—in North Dakota. Imagine, if you will, the surface of the moon. Go ahead, close your eyes and conjure it up. Ok, now imagine if that surface was sparsely covered in dead grass.
Welcome to North Dakota.
Things are very different there these days. The place is rich. I have seen people pack up their bags and actually move there, on purpose and everything. In the towns near the fracking fields, rent is on average higher than in downtown Manhattan, and that’s the truth. $2,400 a month for a studio apartment!
Don’t get me wrong, North Dakota is still a shithole, but thanks to fracking it’s a wealthy shithole. In Dickinson, a McDonald’s employee starts out at $15 an hour.
When I lived there, a McDonald’s employee with three years service made 25 cents more than minimum wage (if not Native, that is. Natives, if they managed to get hired at all, always made minimum wage). As an EMT, I made 12 bucks an hour, but I was paid even if I didn’t do anything.
My job was to go to what we called “the clubhouse”, which was basically an apartment over the ambulance garage, and wait for 911 to send us out. Half the time they didn’t. This was, as I pointed out, a flat, barren, frozen place. Half the time I would sit in the clubhouse drinking tea and watching tv getting paid 12 bucks an hour. Then I would go home.
The other half of the time I was slipping around in afterbirth and dragging the torso part of a cut-in-half person off the highway. I would give CPR to people and even shock them with the paddles. On tv, people you shock with the paddles almost always come back. In real life, almost never. I knew what to squirt on a severed hand to give it the best chance of being reattached.
I know exactly what brains look like on the soft leather seats of a high-dollar Beamer.
It was a helluva job and I don’t recommend it. My partner, Don, was the driver. He had taken an additional EMT course given by the North Dakota Highway Patrol on high-speed emergency driving and thus was my superior and made 14 bucks an hour. He was a good guy and I was glad I got partnered up with him. Glad, because, as opposed to me, he clearly knew what he was doing, but also glad because he was completely fucking hilarious.
I am serious. The guy was the funniest person I have ever met. One time, we were racing down the highway, sirens blaring, easily going 90 or a 100 miles and hour. I was strapped in, hanging on to everything, terrified. He turned his head and looked at me.
"Gee," he said, grinning, "I hope no one’s hurt."
Anyway, I’ll let Don himself take it from here:
like 80 booths, held at the local rodeo grounds.
The smell of stale horseshit was everywhere, literally as far as the nose could smell.
The booths ranged from the vintage and expensive, to, like, actual garage sale stuff: toaster with only one side that works, 25 cents. Also, there was some oddball stuff: “Cowgirl Halos”, a booth where an attractive young woman hawked headbands she had gaudily decorated with glued-on sequins in shapes of rifles and pick-up trucks. One booth had a guy running for governor, another wanted me to try the protein shake.
"Is one of the ingredients semen?"
"Then, no thanks."
I spent most of my time browsing the guy with boxes and boxes of used records, finally coming away with three Devo albums and three Merle Haggard albums.
I am nothing if not ecclectic :)
I picked out the Devo first and handed them to him, and he went into this sales pitch about his downtown shop. “We have lots and lots of new wave and 80s selections,” he claimed proudly, then went fumbling through his pockets for his ‘card’. “You should come by and see us,” he beseeched, using the business plural.
I handed him my three Merle Haggard albums, which he looked at uncertainly.
"Do you have any semen at this downtown shop of yours?" I asked him.
"Semen? I’m not familiar with them," he said. "Are they underground?"
"Depends on if you dig a hole or not."
Overall, a decent Sunday is being had by me. I’m sipping on a Budweiser 40 now and pretending to be an Okie from Muskogee.
Things could be worse.
"Call me old-fashioned, but the only thing I want floating in beer is my liver."
—Norm Peterson, remarking on Frasier Crane’s Corona with a slice of lime.
So I am here in the parking lot of a coffee shop, using their wi-fi like the whore it is.
It’s amazing to me that internet isn’t free at this point. There are people out there actually paying for it.
They probably think it’s smart to have good credit, too, not to mention other things the tv tells them to do.
I do not pay for internet. Or tv. I have a pay as you go phone but I’m currently outta minutes, so I don’t, in fact, have a pay as you go phone.
On March 4th, though. Oh, baby! I be callin left and right.
You would think that the government has vested interest in getting everybody on the net. Remember that Edward Snowden, NSA crap? If everybody was on the net, golly gee, they could totally track us all.
It’s 2014 and I know enough to know that the internet needs me more than I need it. Therefore, why ain’t it free? Why make us think that we have to pay for wi-fi when you and your dog knows that it’s just floating around out there like fucking radio waves?
Leeches like me will change the world.
I will not pay for internet (in any capacity).
I will not pay for tv (in any capacity).
Government and “society” wants me involved with these things, therefore
THEY WILL BE FREE.
So, since I live in the middle of nowhere, I’m just hangin’, waitin’ for the brave new world.
The Marquam Hill EP by the Fire Nuns. Cover art by Trina Williams.
One of our local mountain goats. Pretty, huh? They have been declining in numbers since about 2000, but thanks to recent conservation efforts are finally showing some improvement. Yay!
Currently at the bar, listening to, of all things, the BeeGees. I am not in charge of the music here or it’d be all Devo all the time.
I am intoxicated enough to call a cab, which I will. DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE KIDS!
Spent an hour before this listening to a MLM plan involving supplements. I have all the literature if you want to take a look and give me $700. Hit me up on my ask. I explained to the guy, who was very nice, that I didn’t have $700 to spend on a supplement MLM plan, but I don’t think he believed me. The guy bought me a beer, so I nodded and smiled.
He’s probably reading this. I gave him my name, which is all over the internet and which eventually leads back here to my tumblr.
I’m a terrible salesman. Friends have told me so. “You hardly ever mention that you have written books on your tumblr” they tell me. Apparently I should be all up in your face about how I’ve written books, but the fact is I don’t require that much money. All’s I need is a fridge full of beer, a car that runs, a woman willing to touch me when I’m naked, and some Devo ON THE FUCKING JUKEBOX!
3 outta 4 ain’t too bad.