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Today, I accidentally stepped on a snail on the sidewalk in front of our house, and I thought, "I too am like that snail. I build a defensive wall around myself - a shell if you will - but my shell isn't made out of a hard protective substance. Mine is made out of tinfoil and paper bags."
Probably the saddest thing you'll ever see is a mosquito sucking on a mummy. Forget it, little friend.
When you die, if you get a choice between going to regular heaven or pie heaven, choose pie heaven. It might be a trick, but if it's not, mmmmmmm, boy.
If you get invited to your first orgy, don't just show up nude. That's a common mistake. You have to let nudity "happen."
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[some Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy, yo] | | |
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Painfully dull and morosely indecisive...how unbecoming. There’s no one to blame, little can be done, it’s not personal. Only that it is. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing you’ve done, per se. We just have no use for you here,” or something like that. It’s all well and good to be virtuous, but hedonism makes a more convincing argument.
See, I’d like to help...
But...what?
Oh, it doesn’t matter, does it?
You don’t care, do you?
Eh, I’m inclined to join in those sentiments. Path of least resistence, you know.
And then comes the paralyzing convergent perspectives, and a terrible case of double-think, and what if...? Then...? No matter what, I’ll regret it. Should’ve done it differently, better. Should’ve tried harder. What if this has all been a massive miscalculation? What if it wasn’t, will I ever know the difference? And then there goes the spiral into age-old classic philosophical oblivion. You know how it goes. Awash. A wash.
There’s no escape, which heightens claustrophobic sensations, and since anything worth taking seriously is worth making fun of, I start laughing because it’s pretty damn hilarious and, ha-ha, I still don’t know shit!
Coffee and Cigarettes: "...you know, that's not a very healthy lunch."
"I don't know how many times someone has come up to me and said, `Hey, Lets dance!' I hate dancing. God, it's stupid."
---David Bowie
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| How can you not like an album called 'Total Soul Rape'? It was an impulse buy. Not a bad trip, I actually really like it, but then I think of all the other albums I am burning to possess...I wish I had that money back or something. Oh well.
It may not be apparent, but I meticulously rake through films/pages [web or otherwise] to find my favorite quotes, the ones I post ad nauseum. They all have some personal significance, meaning, hilarity, or quality that I find really striking. Usually. Probably. It's self-indulgence, yes, but that's what a blog is---self-fucking-indulgence! How reassuring.
I know nothing. I remember nothing. Those are half-truths...a state of being which oddly enough only futher supports my 'know nothing' and 'remember nothing' catch-all nets of doubt. So I did what any person would do. I loaded Full Metal Jacket into the DVD player, a sure-fire mind-fuck. Still a little dazed. As usual I'll get over it. Everyone does, and I'm no different.
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JOKER: Is that you, John Wayne? Is this me?
SGT. GUNNERY HARTMAN: Who said that? Who the fuck said that? Who's the slimy little communist shit twinkle-toed cocksucker down here, who just signed his own death warrant? Nobody, huh?! The fairy fucking godmother said it! Out-fucking-standing! I will P.T. you all until you fucking puke! I'll P.T. you until your assholes are sucking buttermilk. Was it you, you scroungy little fuck, huh?!
COWBOY: Sir, no, sir!
HARTMAN: You little piece of shit! You look like a fucking worm! I'll bet it was you!
COWBOY: Sir, no, sir!
JOKER: Sir, I said it, sir!
HARTMAN: Well ... no shit. What have we got here, a fucking comedian? Private Joker? I admire your honesty. Hell, I like you. You can come over to my house and fuck my sister. You little scumbag! I've got your name! I've got your ass! You will not laugh! You will not cry! You will learn by the numbers. I will teach you. Now get up! Get on your feet! You had best unfuck yourself or I will unscrew your head and shit down your neck!
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SGT. GUNNERY HARTMAN: Do any of you people know who Charles Whitman was? [silence] None of you dumbasses knows? Private Cowboy!
COWBOY: Sir, he was that guy who shot all those people from that tower in Austin, Texas, sir!
HARTMAN: That's affirmative. Charles Whitman killed twelve people from a twenty-eight-storey observation tower at the University of Texas from distances up to four hundred yards. Anybody know who Lee Harvey Oswald was? Private Snowball?
SNOWBALL: Sir, he shot Kennedy, sir!
HARTMAN: That's right, and do you know how far away he was?
SNOWBALL: Sir, it was pretty far! From that book suppository building, sir!
HARTMAN: All right, knock it off! Two hundred and fifty feet! He was two hundred and fifty feet away and shooting at a moving target. Oswald got off three rounds with an old Italian bolt action rifle in only six seconds and scored two hits, including a head shot! Do any of you people know where these individuals learned to shoot? Private Joker?
JOKER: Sir, in the Marines, sir!
HARTMAN: In the Marines! Outstanding! Those individuals showed what one motivated marine and his rifle can do! And before you ladies leave my island, you will be able to do the same thing!
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I find these to be delightfully sadistic. In draftsmanship and writing, it is a quality webcomic.
http://www.cheston.com/pbf/archive.html It's called the Perry Bible Fellowship [anyone know why?] and it is written/illustrated by Nicholas Gurewitch. Submit alliegence now. | | |
| My whole problem is that my lips move when I think.
It's always shocking to see one's existence reduced to a blurb.
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ADAM: For those folks who don't know Aaron Spelling, Aaron Spelling is probably in his mid-seventies, he has more money than God, and he is revered in this town [L.A.] as one of the greats of television. But he is really just a crap merchant. I mean, he cranks out crap. That's what he does.
DREW: And the rest of television is...
ADAM: Unsuccessful crap merchants. He is the most prolific of the crap merchants. It's tantamount to a guy being an artist, and being very prolific, but he only paints dogs playing poker.
DREW: You're just jealous.
ADAM: No, I just wish he would get out of the business! All you old people that are rich and still hell-bent on cranking out junk, just get out! Get on a boat and do some deep-sea fishing, for Christ's sake! You know, it's funny, and we always get back to this, but I say to them, "Look, why are you doing it?" Like when we were talking to Alexandra Paul about David Hasselhoff, I said, "Listen, this guy owns a chunk of the biggest money-making show in the world; he doesn't have to work anymore. Why is he still working?" And she says, "Love of the craft!" And I said, "He did Baywatch Nights! Baywatch Nights is him walking around in a tank top and Dockers, trying to flush out the Sasquatch that's hiding underneath the pier in Santa Monica! That's craft? That's art? Please!"
...
ADAM: I know this is coming from a guy with a radio show and a TV show who yells at people all night, but I--
DREW: Who talks about masturbation all the time.
ADAM: Drew, be fair, I talk about farting sometimes too. Please.
DREW: And lighting farts.
ADAM: You see? That's three dimensions right there! Or at least two and a half.
Man: I'm telling you the light would work better if it pointed out to sea.
Sea Captian: Arr, shut up. I know what I'm doin'.
(a boat crashes in the distance)
Sea Captian: Arr, I hate the sea and everything in it.
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