Monthly Archives: April 2008

The Terms of YOUR Agreement, Explained

Who cares if the disingenuous ant wanted to fight the mischievous caterpillar. Let’s be honest, really honest about this two-toned machination that only started becoming a problematic after the loaded-gun effect entered into the equation. So she was provoked! Big deal, alright! Matters of this complicated nature are a daily occurrence and by no means should be treated as statistical anomalies that fail to materialize. Her defence lawyer argued many-a-times, in previous proceedings, the ant’s propensity or for you schoolchildren of a more respectable social class, proclivity, for a pugilistic one-two after the ingestion of four pints into its depressed cavity.

Either way, you’re all insane, utterly mind-numbed. If you really believe the prosecution in this instance, you are only creating precedence for what is already quite obvious, namely that the man-made statute, erected for the benefit of the public at large, is now being appropriated by those with sufficient ulterior motives, to make me want to discontinue vomiting following a session of gorging on “propaganda popcorn.” Ah, such unnecessary evils.

My suggestion to the mother caterpillar is to stop playing one petulant child off another and rear-end herself into a different cause, preferably at a speed that can provide for her injury as well. No, nothing less than that proposition can ever be entertained and if less is suggested, I shall decree with the intention to repress and if my perfect state of imperfectness ripens by that point in time, oppress as well. Regardless, this cultural drama is creating a state of affairs in which I cannot, at least this time, do my best to avoid. Circumstantial evidence aside, my self-diagnosis is telling me that if I continue, psychological harm might just be recoverable, provided that my persuasive essay grades are high enough to convince a toothless but no less effective geriatric, perched atop an infant’s stool and with the moral savvy of a, pardon me, inflatable orangutan (sans the orange hair), that I, above all others, need legal treatment in every sense of the two words. Take this offer as you find it, I am not willing to sacrifice more of my continued perseverance, so that you may find yourself yelling at a television set without probable cause but most likely with an insanity conviction shortly after the foundation for the prosecution, a blind congregation of near-sighted bats, with four-year plans and a penchant for ridiculously low-rates, discovers that inside your chaotic but surely idiotic exclusion clause, you have hidden the terms “in no way” and “liability,” so as to inflict upon those less brilliant, a harm that lacks both an intention to ridicule and the act itself.

This all brings me back to my initial claim, in which I have every right to demand that I be reimbursed for my losses under the Fake Names Act 1429. My black-belt in corruption shall be honoured and principle will succumb to your will only insofar as you will bend to my desire for corrective justice in the playground. It is time the elephants met me in my office, or, if so desired, down at the Zoo, where we all can partake in the ginger petting of innocuous animals for the promotion of the public good. Otherwise, if the dinosaurs get here first, and I do mean what I say, I will only be open to negotiations if they furnish me with polyester dentures – must be made somewhere, anywhere will not suffice – and a carton of desperate vocal chords that were stolen from a location I will provide you with once I have made myself aware of what it is that I want to steal.

Repudiate at your own risk, but I do warn you that the offer is final and if you provoke me, unilaterally, arbitrarily and absolutely binding too.

Note: If you find the act of swallowing hard, please seek professional advice from a confectionary salesman. They’re trained to alleviate matters of such discomfort and will only recommend the most noxious of pleasantries, if of course, such are deemed necessary to cure your anxious but rather macabre depression.

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I definitely need to get myself a bigger jar in which to urinate. [A SECOND ATTEMPT]

Anonymous,

Surprisingly, or rather incredibly, I did not have to blame myself this morning for wetting my bed – it just happened. Naturally, the consequences were always relevant. However, incoherent ignorance kept itself in-play for long enough to allow my conscious to regain temporary control and, once all of this sustenance shenanigan took flight – into God knows what dimension – I got my slippers and went to the washroom.

On my way to the release, I noticed something uncomfortable about my left arm. It wasn’t that I have never seen this appendage before, but just that it stuck out like a monster peeking from under my bed. On purpose, I forgot all about this nonsense and continued my journey. I had to get a smaller apartment, I reminded myself, while shuffling my feet without realizing it. Soon, I got tired and did not feel like visiting that repository of sad memories. I turned around. Was it really already noon? It really is incredible how life ticks and tacks and all I have to show for it is a careless shuffle that, if you were to ask me yesterday, is really nothing but an attempt at recuperating what has already been done. And now, I remembered the soiled sheets and the impossibly far walk back to my room.

Thirty minutes later, I find myself standing in front of my dilapidated single mattress, absorbing the ammonia that had begun to befriend the friendlier of the more contemporary air molecules. It was uncomfortable, a decision to continue felt like a move towards embarking on a belligerent journey without any remorse or mercy. Adding to the list of faux-pas ingredients, the cancerous and blatant reality that stood erect before me, had already acquired a sort of look on its face that only sterile commercialists would have been able to understand. I took the entire transaction as a patronizing exercise in playing dumb… the imminence of a future purchase being, for the most part, a determinist component of my free-agent existence, all bundled up in gift-wrapping and ready for shipment. It is not that I was shy or that I had retraced my steps so as to reconsider. That I certainly did not.

I jumped, eyes closed, straight into the deep end. Warmth was to be expected. The whole experience, from tail to head, was nothing but uncompromising. My tired set of deprived follicles, fortified by the loosely hung smug-like smile on my face, provided the entertainment the entire time – depression was circumvented and the closing ceremony promised salutations of a high enough degree to justify torture. I also have to add that it did, however, feel surreal… like I had just gained forty-three pounds in one sitting and didn’t even bother to make a genuine note of what had transpired in my telephone book. Either way, while suspended in mud, crawling uphill, screaming, kicking, discouraging profanity but really failing heroically, it all ended. It all ended. I wiped the sweat off my forehead with my suspicious right forearm and made myself proud by piling the remains in the corner for ‘another time’ – same genome, different species – to concern itself with what would happen next.

And then the phone rang. It did sound like the voice of a man who was liked, but certainly not by many. Maybe. This incredible tempest of pent-up-ness, came through with so much assertion and certainty, that I felt comfortable enough with my own demeanor to continue the conversation. He asked why I was naked. It all felt strange. In anger, I addressed my trespasser with an even more unlikely answer. “My washer is broken and I have nothing to wear.” This apparently concerned me more than the man on the other side of the temporary but dyslexic chaos. After silence was interrupted by a slight inconvenienced sigh, I became so disengaged with what this creature of promises had to say that I simply lowered the item into which I was previously speaking onto the table on which it was geographically located and walked out of the room in which my person was previously compelled to enter into.

Clothes. Where was I going to find clothes for today’s adventure? The floor provided a wide array of options, choices and half-stale alternatives that really didn’t hydrate my palate to such an extent so as to convince me to make exceptions. I was adamant by now that the only possible items of clothing that I felt even slightly ambivalent about wearing today were going to be the ones that I was going to purchase in the immediate future (perhaps a future more immediate than distant), right after I showered and ate a small but no less nutritious breakfast. The thought of where I was keeping the fridge aside, what made this decision even more salient and perhaps solidified my desire to distance myself from this excruciatingly warm establishment I called ‘my home,’ was the obvious reality that I now had to enrich others for my own mistakes. On the one hand, the necessity for new sheets made sense, they were not going to be reused, especially not while my washer was hopelessly out of order for a time undefined. But the clothes? Why the clothes? They were an unnecessary added extra, an unfortunate and spontaneous irrelevancy that left the conundrum unresolved, for I had yet to shower, breakfast-up, find a solution to my mad intransigency and also take my life off hold. Or, possibly and with little shame, confront the famous philanthropist that just rang, with the sort of unfettered desire that even married nuns have difficulties with.

[TO BE CONTINUED?]

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Hello Anonymous… [what i wrote on the typewriter at http://writer.bighugelabs.com/ one night…]

Hello Anonymous,

Today I wanted to speak to you through a different medium, a different formula. You understand don’t you? Before I woke up today, my smallest toe on the left or the right foot – I don’t remember – decided to depart from the bigger picture and smell the roses on its own. This came as a surprise to me. I have never before had to discipline a martyr; never mind a dissenter. Martyrdom. Pregnant with ideas about what I was going to do to this microcosm of a problematic, I dispatched mother apathetic to cleanse its soul and extort, ever so preemptively, any future references to how the dinosaurs laughed before… you know… the BIG BIG BIG meteor surprised the unsuspecting. Coy.

So let’s feel the vibe. Slightly ever so imperfect, who are these canaries anyway? Joe the machinist surreptitiously invited me to his wife’s pre-birth celebration. I am lost and beyond confused. Why must I acquiesce to impossibilities of this nature? Either way, I’m going to bake her a dozen or so drama cookies and just post-date their arrival until I feel like it. Who needs a social anthropologist to apologize – I can do it on my own, regardless of the consequences.

Now the fire that broke out at 4 past 3 today was definitely intense. My God was it ever bright. By the time the fire parade came to diffuse the time-seeking heat bomb, I was on my way out the door, jacket in hand, preparing for the worst. On my way to the bus stop, I came upon a simple mind who needed directions to the avant-ridiculous procession that had gathered to observe authority defeat the monsters in their heads. Shame, really. I told him that I had no sense of direction and that he should probably pursue other more obvious alternatives. Definitely need to get a Dictionary and figure out how this City works. The bus finally came and I got on it. Once Inside, a grave disorder appeared to have taken over those commuters who had felt it necessary to increase their volume for no apparent reason. It was nothing – a man had forgotten his sister’s birthday. Either way, I listened until my stop and got off. At the lights I made a left and walked until I reached some sort of neo-post-modern contraption. By this time, it started raining. Not having brought along my prophylactic, I got wet. It wasn’t long before it stopped. A man yelled across the street and his intention was to get my attention. I turned my head around, like a conditioned citizen and focused in on this creature of agitation. It was him, the man who called me the day before to ask for my assistance with some sort of out-of-context historical reference. I waved and crossed the street.

Before I reached this predetermined destination, a further distraction appeared to have led me along a different path. Perhaps this time, or at the very least for the time being, temporariness was to provide me with more benefits than otherwise. Incredibly…

[TO BE CONTINUED???]

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a script, an eleven-forty tango with “CREATE,” the captain of mice

swimming fish

the car

just got back from spain where i had a 1.2 polo. small. but what a pernicious beast. it gave me confidence and i appreciated its character for what it really was (not what it tried to be). the rival it sat next to in the driveway was a peugeot 308, hdi, with all the excessive ergonomics of a marketing executive from a third grade ‘play-duh’ session.

one morning, having awoken from a mass exodus of accumulated urine in my lower chamber, i took this poignant sliver into the sunrise on a mountain road until its ready-to-wear-consumer-shoes began to beg for friction to forgive. incredibility, but reality is measured using ‘sweat factors’ of nine.

part of the trip… the start (at least)

serially, sunsets are manufactured consent. i appreciate it, insofar as i can express it. the burst of a “wider-than-life” bust is impossibly sexy, erotically undefined but almost always tragic and endlessly pessimistic. spain, a country of obsessed one-to-fivers, a playground for the tired, a bathtub of simplicity and a flabbergasted pot of unanimity. i became instant coffee, the moment the airport become a visionary reality. we touched down at some random time, on some random day, on a bed of chaos, the breaks of our bird fighting statistics and reminding its inhabitants of the futility of order.

next came the peeling off of the outer layer. we became exposed to the intricacies of religious miracles. a small “trocadero” reminded us that life in general is sometimes impossible to diversify, but for a slight notice that reads: add salt water, fourteen palm trees and nonchalance by the bucketload. who was i to dismiss novelty?

that the car really had a past

my first was a 528e. old, expressive, full of emotion. rust became it. i recognized its deficiencies, but really did not mind. my love for the animal (incognito) was a precocious prerogative that has yet to leave me. it was a 9-5 on the weekend that car. never will i forget it, never will i forgive it for spewing its guts after exiting one of the more major highways that makes its way from the west to the east, along a colourful barrage of allusions and beast-like accommodations.

second time, i failed equally. probability is a science. and i’m a lawyer. the 325 entered into my garage as easily as it would escape from a three point turn on a roundabout in the countryside. she had two-doors, love handles and a big smile on her face. i would take her out on breakfast, lunch and dinner dates. at the local gas station. insatiable, a love that made humans weak at the… 

my “mode” is now altruistic. my magnanimous inside is on a collision course with my aristocratic outside. walking saves the planet, and i’m convinced that the exit valve on cows are equally destructive. but i refrain from making more waves than is really required by the upper chamber of frivolous disgust and imposed “fees-for-life.”

i miss my two bmws, i will miss them for a while. but now, it looks like i may have a new love, a new hope, a new mistress. audi…

… thank you for making the r8.

…and without the means, the ends would have turned into knots…

50 mm 1.8.
+ kit.

i don’t believe in the kit, but the 50 is all i shoot with, religiously. 

i have shot with many, many camera[s] (+ obviously… ), and only really feel connected when (abstractly) attached to ‘my 50’ while on the run hunting for “the shot” or being hunted by those who feel my presence is leading their existence into a chaotic depression.

lens hunger is ubiquitous, but extremely unsatisfactory. purpose should really drive your appetite, rather than a desire to accumulate slash horde for socially inexplicable reasons. that’s just “my own” escaping…

wait.
an attempt… end?

so why was it explosive. why was it emotional. and why was it so disturbingly beautiful while at the same time satirically constipating. maniacal equations are required to explain. my small back pocket – and i have two – offer little in the way of “a solution.” it was life, full of it. the sand was neither moist nor dehydrated. we are all “counters” and at the very same time “weights.” egos define us and will eventually ruin us, slowly, bit by bit, until the last living seagull will find another “bone to pick.” but this is traditional. amorous, polyamorous and all of the feelings in between. on the record, there were no regrets, just impetuses and small hostile drags with nothing to pray on but ineffective plastic hairs and carbon fiber. meticulous. m…ind… n… umb… in… g.

ants live in colonies of x numbers. their abode is garnished with cubism, their artistic tendencies preferring the less double, the less famished. i’m stuck. seriously.

i’ll come back later. wait for me…

00:0x.

[note: these are excerpts from things that i wrote on the day i published this blog. these excerpts were not written FOR THIS PURPOSE, but came together to form what is before you. boo.]

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hra – better than nothing? and has the EU really made a difference?

the herd, lining up

hra – better than nothing? and has the EU really made a difference?

– what does that tell you about how much the HOME OFFICE (a creation of some prime minister or another – i think in this case it was his royal tony-ness that transgressed) really cares about the HRA

– in my personal and humble opinion (yeah right ;)), the answer will tend to be “not really that much”

– they are constantly entertaining a state of complete apprehension, a state of being that paralyzes their foresight and continues to entertain the grossly inappropriate blinders-on effect that has been the status-quo for way too long in this nanny-state of a country

– i guess the thought of queens, kings and KINGDOMS conjures up warm and fuzzy feelings of slavery and repression with its gardens of evil and sand castles of hardship for the promotion of the social collective, the nation and the prosperity of the PUBLIC (and the PUBLIC’S GOOD)…another deep-throat anachronism that even my grandmother has stopped paying attention to…

– everyone is hiding behind the ‘public good,’ while we, the voters, the deciders, want accountability

– but really, when the closet monster makes a boo-boo, s/he blames it on the need to promote the public good, or some other utilitarian smith-slash-mill-like hit-and-run argument.

[note: the above happened ‘on the fly’ or ‘in the moment’ and its contents are unaltered so as to not entertain an adherence to certain unfounded and unjustified standards of expression or formalities that only restrict the audience slash reader to a given matrix of possible interpretations. art, a creation, a process.]

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