Some silences are more golden than others

The great dilemma of our time, & by ours I mean mine, & by time I mean get sleeping, stupid, 'twas solved long ago, satisfaction or no moot like a slack of Anglo-Saxons, & this is a library to boot oooh meta, so shhhh.

Keep waiting for that stanza to close itself. How does one keep mushroom clouds handy? Perhaps that's the great. Hey, for Mordenkainen's Disjunction, I'd settle.

Waiting for Wotan, #14

"I was bringing this to the fair to sell it."

"Where does your shameless marketing go from here?"

"Perhaps you'll have socks someday."

"Now that's the ugliest damn bong I've ever seen."

It's raining, it's pouring, the slacker's snoring

This semester's scheduling, as convoluted as the reasoning behind the Clowns drafting Chris Weinke, Jr. as the next last Winner of the Future, has kept yours truly out of the Towering Slab on Tuesdays, & though the ruby of an extra St. Drogo skull session this week has me giddy as strychnine in the bloodstream of a mortal enemy, & because I plan on spending the rest of the day conjuring the most bestest Wotan installment ever since everyone's favorite troo kvltist tiptoed through the electrons probably my most bestest post ever thus spake volumes, & because I fear a toxic avenging underground revenge scenario from a certain hazmat master, here, at last, is some tuneage. 



Less than a week till the Space Casino, feel the taser sunlight on your face!

Look at all the people not here tonight

When Robert Schumann left his native Zwickau at the age of eighteen to study law in Leipzig, he still didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do with his life, so says this. Some of us are considerably older and still don't exactly know. Whilst I comb through dust bunnies, dog-eared pages, & freezer-burned effluvia pretending to figure such a thing out, here are some pictures sans humans.

Run rabbit run

People dig Instagram, which the above is not, 'cause it's a quick, free, digital sketch of the sepia deceptions we hold most dear, mind becoming a facsimile of a tone poem of a manipulation. Rabbit, you don't know how lucky you are.

Snoopy dancing with myself, or, double-barreled refusal

Metaphor, or something.

Dumping the contents of my spent noodle in the Colander of the Technocrats that doubles as a helmet +1 vs. edged attacks, I find that 94% of my posts are about me, myself, I, & things that these three separate beings & their affiliated homies both flesh & electric hopefully find Pee-Wee's Big Adventure hilarious --

I'm trying to use the phone but I don't get no respect zipzop bopzittybop.*

-- & that 99% of my offline writing (thus, inversely, synaptic warp & weft, too) is the same save that last gig because only about 23% gets interpreted by rods & cones bobbing in other skulls since I maybe fear awkward more than death [ed. note: not really, but being a perpetual optimist, I assume that I'll die when the Wheelie Bus flies off the Detroit-Superior bridge due to an explosion caused by a transit cop firing his grenade launcher wildly at a fare jumper & not whilst in a federal torture chamber or slowly torn to shreds by a basement Necronomicon experiment gone horribly wrong is there any other kind].

Being selfish -- & oh, I am, ask those who know -- this isn't a problem. Being wise -- & oh, I am, for I know that I know nothing about everything except that plus ça transmogrifie [ed.note: I just added a verb to French, go me] -- this is. The need to spill in order to start the change [ed. note: not that shit, fuck that shit, you know the shit I mean] & the aftermath are, well, cue the music already.



Even when I'm being serious, I resort to this blessing, this curse.

The pinball rattle is more complex than what's shown here [ed. note: how to avoid tough rooms: it takes two to lie; one to lie, & that same one to listen, & oh yeah that cold cut tray is all yours], more than a simple aesthetic desire to avoid uninformed artistic commentary &/or factual discourse on either the Satanic puppet army of late capitalism or any other exterior arctic molasses death spiral because 1)I'm kind of dumb & 2)yawn, so I choose to hermetically seal inside a combustible Erlenmeyer flask of cavernous low maintenance ECHO ECHO ECHO Echo echo, white noise routine, & the desire to shout until inky exhortation becomes the mimesis of a flamethrower-throated blues but that would mean guts everywhere & they're real messy & I'm too lazy to clean that up & I don't have any booze to soothe shredded cords fingers. At least some things never change chords, & I'm the poster boy for the reason(s) why. Told you I'm wise.

♪ Belly button
you're the one
you make complaining about slack, acceptance & the lack thereof lots of fun ♫

That's not very catchy. Storm of the Yeti, we hardly knew ye.

♪ wizard van
wizard van
haulin' ursanity
protoplasmic Jesus
Scythian axe in the back
next to the munchies
in the wizard van
wizard van
wizard van
yeah ♫

*there's your 80s nostalgia follow-up, tom. You're welcome.

Wilkommen in der bibliothèque discothèque

People don't come here to study for finals check out books, they come here to live out their fantasies & dance the night away, unless they're Falco, in which case it's all that & death by Bauhaus.






Each time a student comes in wearing Victoria's Secret Pink, you have to do a shot. Shit, there goes my liver. My liver! Praise the Lord & pass the onions.

Egads! 'tis almost the



so only time for one more

Ask the Duchess, my Axl wuoaaaahhhh is fuckin' ace, one of three things I do quite well along with harrumphology, & a third thing.

It's dark outside, mes suckas,
beware baby C.H.U.D.s --
I gotta do this again tomorrow? Fuck.

Now that's poemetry.

Waiting for Wotan, entr'acte

As a treat (read: working late, like midnight late, so no work on Waiting 'cause I spent the morn curled up in a little ball because of ANARCHY IN THE USA am lazy), a glimpse inside A Very Special Episode of the writers' room:
 
EARL: "Ye olde metal ha ha ha."
DUCHESS: "Verily punk hee hee hee."
EARL: "What about chuckle --
DUCHESS: "no, try chortle --"
EARL: "I've got it, wheeze."
DUCHESS: "Why not all three."
EARL: "We've got phat rhymes --"
DUCHESS: "& you don't know how to use them. I'd rather wait for the real Wotan or the apocalypse whichever comes first than read this shit every week. I quit."
EARL: "Fuck you."
DUCHESS: "No, fuck you."
EARL: "Morello!"
DUCHESS: "Gasp! Nugent!"
EARL: "En garde!"
DUCHESS: "Finish him!"
LI'L EDGAR: "Children, fighting never solves anything except who gets to write the history books."
EARL: "Now we know --"
DUCHESS: "I'm not saying it."
LI'L EDGAR: "That's all right, G.I. Joe knows you know, you know?"
EARL: "Shall we?"
DUCHESS: "Waiting for Wotan sure beats taking loyalty oaths."
EARL: "Thank Valhalla for low standards."
DUCHESS: "Only reason we're friends."
LI'L EDGAR: "Ouch."
EARL: "Shut up."
DUCHESS: "Chortle, chuckle, wheeze."

Animal farm, or, big trouble in little China

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but by being eaten alive by the animal kingdom in a mirror universe Faces of Death with an elephant or a weasel behind the camera

Pleasant diversion

Because people are pretentious pricks, here's something that isn't.

Full service, or, star-crossed transactioning, or, I'm still twelve years old hee hee hee

I live to give.

♪ boomchickawowowow ♫

I'd do anything for customer service training, but I won't do that.

Trying to buy my silence?

I will not be ignored.

Better that zone than a phantom one.

Although, they've neither patrons nor micromanagers, lucky bastards.

Get out right now

I always feel like Rockwell.

Why should shrooms monopolize fairy rings?

Stop following me.

You too.

Vertigo.

Lilliputian.

OH MY GOD BEAR ATE OUR FOOD HOW CAN THAT BE?

Serene.

Goopy.

Peekaboo.

Lake Erie Monster, fossilized.

Cut it out.

Boom stick.

Archy --

& Pothead.

Pretty ceiling.

I think I shall never see
hey, Sideshow Bob's a tree

Betcha can't find me --

-- if I hide way down here.