I'm Sorry, Were You Talking?

Here it is, the beloved 70th post, the post you've all been waiting for. All four of you.

Or not.

I haven't been worth a shit in here lately, haven't arguably been worth shit at all, but of late - totally useless. I won't deny it. I've had too much reality going on to focus on this.

Almost everything I've written has been either for money or, well, okay it's all been for money.

And in case you haven't gotten the memo, money is something that is in short supply these days.

Fortunately, stress has covered the gap for the missing money.

It's hard to be us, isn't it? It's hard to get out of bed and care. Or at least it is for me anyway. Who cares about you?

I created this blog to be an outpost of some undefined sort. I foresaw this blog as a place where people could come and say whatever they didn't feel comfortable saying elsewhere. I did this knowing full well that what I would probably get was a lot of nothing, and in that I have succeeded wildly.

We have had a few cursory posts from some, one person in particular, and I am thoroughly grateful for every word spilled in here.

So, thanks for that.

But back to the stressing.

I'm a dad. I broke a family apart to pursue the man I wanted to be, to fulfill what I imagined of myself. As a caring human, that's not an easy thing to achieve. Not without guilt anyway.

Fucking guilt. Plenty of that to go around.

Last night __'s car broke down. At my ex-wife's house.

That, folks, is poetry.

Guess who was kind enough to give us a ride home?

How's that?

As __ took my car to work today I wondered what would go wrong with it. Well, I'll tell you. The check engine light came on.

Dandy.

Cars break. Only a fool thinks otherwise. And yet still, it would have been nice if say they didn't both shit on us in one 24 hour period. Yeah, would have been nice.

There's more, but you can't have any because the train is leaving the station and that's that.

Caught the Watchmen because what the fuck eh? Cars won't fix themselves and what's a little of the old ultraviolence to calm one's soul?

Yeah, exactly.

The movie? I'll preface this short review with a bit of info, perhaps you could see it as a caveat: I am a huge geek for the graphic novel.

So, overall I loved it.

Was it problematic? Fuck yeah it was, and in spades.

Malin Akerman fucking sucks as an actress. Her Silk Specter was played with almost no depth. I hated watching her on screen. And then once she hooks up with Patrick Wilson's interpretation of the Night Owl and fucks the guy in Archie the flying owl the whole thing comes unglued. Fire button ejection in lieu of cumshot, anyone? Pathetic. I don't need to see these people's naked bodies to get that this is unlike your average comic book adaptation. The sex was there to calm down the retards from walking out and demanding their money back (in fact, the tards walked out anyway with about five minutes left because they were either done with the movie or too stupid to realize that it wasn't over yet).

I thought Jackie Earl Haley has continued to make his comeback something fun to follow with his spot-on version of Rorschach. Aside from the heavily overdone husky narrative track, Haley was the best part of any scene he was in. As was the guy who played the Comedian (look him up yourself, I don't want to). That much moral ambiguity teetering into straight-up psychosis could easily become tedious, but this guy hit it right on the head, providing key thematic elements to the story and its underlying message of nihilistic glory.

His happy-face button is the key. This life? A joke. A fucking joke, and the joke's on you. Haha!

Are you laughing? No?

You ought to be, because that shit is funny.

Who doesn't hit that wall in their lives?

Juvenile?

You're juvenile.

I haven't written much in here because of many reasons. I've been busy. I've been lazy. I've been tired.

But most of all, I've been so utterly disappointed in humanity that all I would have been good for was a post that went something like this:

Fuck you all.

Seriously. There is nothing about any of your shallow pathetic attempts of lives that makes you worth remembering after you are gone. And to be sure, you will be gone. As in erased. As in forever.

And that, dear friends, is hilarious.

----

Who wants that crap?

I want you to listen to more metal. I want you to tell someone you love them. I want you to smile at every single child you see, unless that child you see is the little snivelling cocksucker who just threw your kid to the ground. You can go ahead and tell that kid to watch his back or he'll end up on it. I want you to submit posts in here. I want you to stop being so compromising with that total asshole whose shit you've taken for years now. Just one time. Just once. Just once tell him that he is not clever, that he is a walking tumor, that his death will make the world a better place, that you will piss on his grave daily, and that you will forever curse his name until the day that you die.

And don't wear your plumage all splayed out, half-erect penis in hand, dripping bile from your maw, because it's not a pretty picture.

I am a courteous guy. I have manners. I can be very accommodating. But at the end of the day, you have got to know that I will never forget who you really are, and that it will take brain injury or death to stop me from making sure you pay for your disgusting strides through the alleyways on your way to the abattoir.

Make no mistake. You are fucking boring.

Boring.