SEMPER UBI SUB UBI or ALWAYS BE PREPARED

I love watching the news.  Today, there were only two stories: Egypt, 

and Monster Storm a-Brewin'.

Since I can't do anything about the situation in Egypt, I'm preparing for the storm.

That's right.  I bought extra beer and cigarettes.  I also brought all the cattle and horses inside.

Hey, you guys ever seen Hoarders?  The dude with the ga-fucking zillion rats loose in his house was one sick puppy, eh?  Me, I have no obsessive-compulsive-animal-hoarding-psychosis.  I simply enjoy the hijinks of huge, over-ripe mammals cavorting in the snooker room.

So... blow, ye winds, and singe my white beard.  Or whatever it was that Lear said.

And to Hosni Mubarak: too bad, so sad.  (And really, man, this shouldn't come as much of a shock.  You had thirty fucking years to get it right, eh?)

Time for a smoke and a brewski before the snow starts.

WORRISOME TENDENCIES

I'm losing my touch, possibly my entire grip.  Lost two games of chess today then found myself watching  several old episodes of Criminal Minds.  (Hey, it was an A&E marathon.)

Any day now I'll be playing canasta at the old folks' home and watching Lawrence Welk on PBS.

Right now, I feel like donning animal skins and hunting for stuff down by the river.

(Coyote tastes like chicken, right?)

MUSIC HATH ITS CHARMS

Hosni Mubarak has been conducting the orchestra in Egypt for three decades.  The brass section has become moribund.  There is a lack of pizzicato in the strings -- no real pluck, as we say.  In fact, the man's entire repertoire is more than a little repetitive.  (Get fat; torture guys; skim billions out of the treasury; allow the small folk to starve; laugh and fuck; pay the police to masturbate in your silk glove with the iron ribbing; pretend you're respected by the people; rule without actually stooping to lead, etc.)

One hopes these latest events usher in some more... convivial vibes to the national experience.

In other words, Mr. President: I hope your song is kaput.

THE SALACIOUS WIND FARMER

There will be no post this evening.  I simply liked the title.  (It came to me, unbidden, on the drive home.)  

Yes, I'm off my meds.

Yours ever,

F. Armadale

WHAT HAPPENS IN THE UNIVERSE STAYS IN THE UNIVERSE

Let's pretend that you and I dead.  The world doesn't require our presence, after all.  I mean, it's not as though our demise would disrupt the laws of physics.

Now, let's pretend that all the sentient creatures in the universe are extinct.  (Assume: sentient creatures are those who are aware that they are aware.)  If you think about it, that still leaves the universe overstocked with assholes -- mainly certain family members and co-workers ... and fucking insects.

But at least we're no longer here.

And that must be of some comfort, to some creature, somewhere, sentient or not.

See?  It's all good.

SPARE ME YOUR SCRIPTURE

It's a silly-assed world, isn't it?  Churches and 'holy men' dispensing judgements upon the rest of us.  A two-thousand-year-old, highly lucrative business.  Oooh... and nothing excites the bimbos more than holy men with wads of cash.  Especially if those 'holy men' are closeted gays.  (You figure it out.)

This prick is one of all too many phony, self-annointed, money-driven, butt-kissed, coffer-swelling, smarmy smiling, hypocritical assholes.

"I choose to live my life by what I read in the scripture," he says.

Right.

Hey, Joel: eat my shorts.  They're kosher.  And blessed.  And I'll send 'em your way for a hefty donation to my 'church'.  Failure to respond with cash money shall doom thee and thine to gum boils and the Armadale curse.  (Which, like your 'scripture', is pure horse shit.  But if it makes me a buck or two, who gives a rat's ass, eh?  Let us pray.)

THE BOOK OF LIFE, by F. Armadale

You're born.  Helpless as all get out; sucking on a teat; half blind, bald, noisy and useless.  A few years later, you have hair.  You're still noisy and useless, but at least that off-putting soft spot is smothered in something more substantial than baby smell.  (You're also likely off the tit.  If not, way to go, fella.)  End of Chapter One.

Chapter Two.  You're in school, probably for the next twenty years.  By the time this chapter is writ & over, you won't even recall being  helpless and noisy.  But you will still be nearly useless.  (That is nature's way.  Don't blame me.)

Chapter Three sees you embark on a wondrous journey through marriage, procreation, divorce and depression -- not necessarily in that order.  These will not be the best years of your life.  (Spoiler alert: you've already spent those happy bucks back in Chapter Two. You were simply too young -- getting high, getting fucked, laughing and carrying on -- to realize that the good times were about to come to a screeching halt.)

Chapter Four is basically the same as Chapter Three... except that now you can smell yourself, despite the frequent showers.  Oh, yeah: this is also when people you know begin to drop dead with alarming frequency.  With any luck, you've put away a bob or two for Chapter Five.

Chapter Five looks long, but that is because your eyes are nearly kaput.  Chapter Five is really quite short.  As is your breathing.  And your dwindling physical stature.  Your mind is no longer suited for the rigors of daily work.  Instead, you spend most of your waking hours attempting to recall your name.  Your prostate is the size of a canned ham; you have managed to misplace your teeth, likely for the fifth time in twenty-four hours; and that ringing in your ears? Why, it's the school bell!  And you are in Grade Seven again, sporting a chubby for Mary Lou Plumtree.  (Did I mention that the only people you interact with on a consistent basis are medical personnel, paramedics, and the hosts of TV game shows?  Yes, I did, you forgetful old bastard.)

From this point on, it is all Epilogue.  In some books, you might be reincarnated.  Lucky you.

Next time, we will examine satire, sarcasm and tone of voice.

RECKLESS BEHAVIOR 101

I'm afraid to dabble in things like FaceBook -- or anything else of the sort.  (That Classmates site, for example.)  All such endeavors to 'connect' with one's past are shortsighted at best.  Time flows in one direction for a number of very good reasons.  Chief among these is the often hard-earned luxury of not having to relive all that shit.

Be grateful you've put some distance between your leathery skinned present and that ignorant (albeit taut and tanned) carcass you once inhabited.

WHY THIS BLOG?

Well, let's face it, life is a crap shoot chute.

And I have precious little else to do.  Or, to be strictly accurate, there is a shitload of stuff other people want me to do.  But, as I've become exceedingly lazy, I'd rather flush this stuff your way.

Besides, I'm going to be dead soon.