Sunday, July 29, 2007


Born into a dying world we adopt its dying ways
And hasten death with every day we grasp toward the sky
We scorn our saviours from our birth, our tormentors we praise
and cling to poison, kiss our pain, our very souls deny

Thus we as rotting creatures do descend into the mud
So fit to all our characters this purposeful despair
Though baptized late with water, we were baptized first in blood
Our first words incoherant screams, our last words always prayers

And on these amber days with their honeysuckle songs
We remember that which owns us but forget that which we owe
And cherish our due right to commit nothing but wrongs
And so long to ascend we always fix our fate below

O Purgation! Molten slag! Eternity of fire!
O burning taste of hell at the feet of heaven's gate!
If earth's pain cannot tame our hearts before our lives expire,
can there ever be a man who finds his death comes far too late?

A Nation of Law, Not Men

John Adams should have stuck to the family brewery.

I was watching a democrat on TV this a.m. and she quoted Mr. Adams, that "we are a Nation of laws, not of men" (this in reference to the writ of habeus corpus and the Gitmo "prisoners" (she of course sets the standard for "taking no prisoners")).

A flood of thoughts rolled through my being...of the synedrion...of King George.

The law-givers and the law-interpreters - the lap dogs to tax collectors who look more like Jabba the Hud or Ted Kennedy.

I also thought of our own George. Mr. Washington, I understand, was simply trying to make a go of it as a businessman, but due to inferior product from England and repressive taxes (the teeth of the law), he was unable. Caught in the snare of a free will caged by a repressive King.

I'll bet King George was a fat-assed drunk too. Probably sat around drinking aperatif and eating bon-bons all day while he wiled away the hours talking about Camelot. I wonder what Ted Kennedy does all day?

And then there is our own George - a man, subjugated to the law. One might say enslaved.

Gee whiz, how is this any different than our modern Congress? Our law-givers, and law-interpreters - our own King of tax levee.

I don't know about you, but I feel as if I am in a straight-jacket.

And we are a Nation of laws and not men, indeed! (Consider this source, would you?).

Blood courses in my veins, but not because some Democrat on Capitol Hill deemed it so.

Cursed is the law, and cursed those who incessantly quote it.

I am a man! (and not one defined by the laws of this Congress).

There is a song that I've picked up from an internet radio station...I don't know the band, but it has one of those driving beats punctuated by some minstrel-sounding dude reminiscent of a Rolling Stones diddy. The main riff and verse, I can't get out of my head "Tell me all the rules...girrrrrl - I just want to get along" (da don don don, da don don don, da don don don).

Well, I'm going to tell ya, I'm tired of all the rules, and I'm tired of "just getting along", girlfriend!

Trust me, I am no advocate of only leads to pain. However, something has got to change as one begins to weigh the pains that are caused in a system through which there seems to be no redress (and hardly fair when you consider we are the closest thing left that resembles capitalism and we are having to support a world of socialists, all on the government cheese), and that god-forsaken alternative, revolt. Which is the more painful?

When the weighing comes down to this, the scale is so easily tipped.

The hippies crossed over to becoming females in the 60's. They are the "girls" who are making the rules. I say it is time to deflower them.

When boys become "men" they often hear phrases like "that'll make a man out of him", or "mit the rope's end" or that inevitable "attitude adjustment".

So what does it take to bring a girl into "womanhood"?

Well, we all know the traditional concept (archaic - I'm no advocate of caveman philosophy...but in truth, in a wife, I'm not seeking an absolute equal - I want one who is equally different in all the right ways).

But what is the cultural equivalent of this "then you will be a man, my son" concept?

Now that they are leaders, what is it that causes them to go through a similar "phase-shift" ?

Well, whatever it is, I believe, they'd better team up with their hippy-assed boyfriends and figure out how to mit the freying ends of the rope before someone else decides to do it for them.

I've dated some women who constantly set rules and expect others to live by them when they constantly break them themselves. Arrrogant twits, they were...and completely self-absorbed. As a point of reference outside my own realm of experience, reference this Lohan chick or Ted Kennedy. You do the math.

There is an extreme sense of desperation afoot, and from an historical perspective there can be but one answer to it.

I sincerely hope that someone in Washington will get a clue, before we all begin to feel like the city's namesake and seek our independence yet again, and once again, as free men at heart and breaking free of those surly, albeit freying, bonds.

Mit them up, Washington.

-Visum, enraged

Saturday, July 07, 2007

Why No Science, is Good Science

It occurred to me today that I should not mourn the death of valid science.

I should get used to the fact that it is gone, and move on with life without.

So, I began to ponder, wouldn't it be interesting (now that science is dead), if I join the fray of the noveau-pseudo's and form my own observations about the universe.

So here goes: (WARNING: the following contains references to the Al
Gore's, bad acting, homo-eroticism and the blogosphere. NOT FOR THE KIDDIES!!!).

1) The world will end as the result of excessively poor thespian performances.

Here's the hypothesis (can we have those in the new science?) - the world will eventually end because we will all, ultimately, become bad actors (given that life emulates art and all).

The date of the implosion will be April 4, 2008 (at the Greater London celebration of the Bard's Birthdate).

What will happen here, essentially, is that a chain reaction will begin at this celebration event in which the audience begins to "bleed" into the performance (the acting was so poor on the stage).

The actual "acting" on the stage will have degenerated at this point to the level that everyone there ad libs at such a level that Hamlet begins to look like an episode of Family Guy (the episodes where there is a great deal of injected silence, to the point where you think about changing channels, but for some, odd, reason - continue watching). The performance will be rife with melodrama, Jerry Springer-esque incestual relations, beer, and fist fights.

It is widely rumored that Alec Baldwin and the rotting corpse of Paul Newman (although, his acting stinks so bad that no one is really sure he is dead) both drop trou and moon the booing crowd.

Well, of course, the audience (as the audience always does at such affairs) will be drawn into the "performance", at which point civilization will begin to break down into its "essence" (think Greek philosophy here).

Each "atom" (in the form of individual "thespians" from the crowd) will begin a reaction in which a sort of mass psychotic break takes place, in "piggy-back" style (appropriate for actors).

The truly humorous thing is that the acting in the crowd actually begins to take on Olivier qualities, and could one only observe the situation, one would certainly find it of the highest caliber entertainment.

The unfortunate thing is, anyone who observes it will immediately have a psychotic break and join in the "thes"-tivity.

Well, you can imagine just how fast this will spread. The entire planet will become populated by thespians in a, ahem, New York minute.

The culmination of this thespiaddict armageddon transpires when the last two educated inviduals left are about to be "infected".

One, a used car salesman from Walla Walla, Washington (who we only know as "Harvey") faces off with a young exchange student from Liberia who has just landed in America and was seeking his way from the airport to his host home via Harvey's car lot (a difficult thing to do when all the cabbie's are trapped in an un-ending episode of that highly-esteemed and classy show of the 70's "Taxi" (or was that "Taxi Driver", I get them so confused).

The exchange student, Yamballa (or "Yams", to his chums) had never even seen so much as a movie. The closest he'd come to a performance was watching two ants fight over a blade of grass (hardly qualifying).

The unique thing about this is, Yams was essentially immune to the bug (his immunity recognized by an underground group of Cock-fighters who predominantly got their entertainment from fighting with their cocks and seemed also to have a degree of immunity to the disease, along with some homosexuals who were already living in an alternative "staged" reality and found the new disease rather "ho-hum" - at some point we will have to delve into those underground groups who survived the bardeggedon) - but I digress.

Yams and Harvey it seems, were discussing the price on a 1955 Custom Country Club Nash Rambler when the "final act" was about to transpire.

A roving band of actors (led by none other than Albert Gore the toid) happened upon the scene and began producing a performance of that acclaimed work "Love Story" in which Al Senior and Al da toid portray the principle leads in homo-erotic incestual style.

Well, Harvey thought it a porno script (and who wouldn't, given the caliber of acting - did I mention the mutations? Yup. Nuff said) any rate, Harvey turned a flip and was nekkid before he hit the ground.

This scared poor Yams to a point that he took note of a rather thick rope hanging, seemingly, from the clear, blue sky at which point he lept into the air like a gazelle (practically leaping out of his loin cloth), grabbed ahold of the rope and - you guessed it, brought the curtain down on the entire planet.

One of the underlings told a reporter later that he could not get the picture of the two Al Gore's out of his mind as they descended netherward toking on a bong fashioned from a blogosphere (truly, a site to get your head wrapped around).

Next week's pseudo-scientific hypothesis: the world will end as the result of flaccid brains.

Friday, July 06, 2007

(Negre) Quoth du Jour

"I find fleas irritating. They are difficult to see, always itching, wriggling and biting and you just can't seem to get rid of them. Like Democrats - the flea would have been a much, much better mascot than the donkey, for even the donkey suffers of the flea."

SEV, ought, ought sieben

Midnight Marmelade

Oh to you, dear Titus,
wher'er thou must be!
Thy son is deemed now "wreckless",
and your head must now hang low.

Oh to you, dear legions
who follow in his steps.
For tis you the earth is warming
to your herb-induced entreaty.

Oh to you, Madam Marteau
pound for pound so delightful
for the masochist, Freudian Bourdeaux
and they the people will drink 'til none are insightful.

Oh to you, merry legions who follow!
with the fate of the marching lemming
o'er cliffs to a chasm that is redeeming
for the souls that are surely hollow.

And to that marching soldier
lone against the crowd
may you trudge on through eternal
thy soul to their incite never cowed!

SEV, ought-ought sept

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Ode to an Injured Friend

My pal, you've been with me
for many a year now;
many, many more than most -
the kindest friend, confident and host.

I've trusted in your judgement,
and hung life on your very word.
Your friendship has been enriching,
your humor, salve to haggard soul.

Never a man more true have I met,
and never one for whom
I've more enjoyed the bon mot,
the laughs, the charm - the fun, and rot.

And now you face some troubles
few would wish on any one.
My heart, it lies there with you
in your troubles, in your shun.

If only I could stand in,
for that sentence coming on.
I'd gladly do so just to know
a freedom for you and son.

But now we go into this day
a squint against blinding sun.
One day again we'll both live free
and once again be ... "all for one".

(Negre) Quoth du Jour

"There are few things in life one can do extremely well; some things, one can do fairly well but there is one thing for which we are all exemplary - living that well-intended life".

S.E. Visum