Zen and the Art of Commentary Maintenance

Likes and Loves and Laughing Faces
Thumbs up Thumbs up
We’re off to the races!

A cheap thrill sensation
Brings joy and elation
With so much emoji
We’ll never be lonely

But cheap thrills ain’t lasting
Only forecasting
A sugary crash
Just a quick flash

It’s comments we want
No matter the font
Comments are golden
They fling the door open

Provide inspiration
Never inflation
True comments auspicious
And very propitious

Writers need feedback
Not smiley Prozac
If compelled to emoji
Don’t do that only

Take some small time
Drop a thin dime
Comment away
Make someone’s day

 

The Art of Blogging (Bullshit-Free Edition)

Truer words not heard (in a while)

SOZ SATIRE

wordpress val

I wrote this as a counter to one of the most unintentionaly hilarious, misguided, and pretentious pieces of old bollocks it has ever been my misfortune to encounter in the language of Shakespeare.

The Art of Blogging by Danny SoZ

1: Write any old shit

2: Visit other blogs containing shit just as bad, or even worse, than your own literary effluent

3: Lavish the ‘writer’ with praise, so risibly over-the-top, they will begin to think you’re in the throes of orgasm

4: Wait a few hours for reciprocal bullshit

THE END

Danny Soz is the managing editor of The Dunning-Kruger Syndrome Gazette

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SHITTY PITY PARTY

Lance walks into his ‘physic’ therapist’s office and slumps down…

“Hello” too effusive psychotherapist says. “And how are WE today?”
“Shitty,” I answer.
“Oh no!!” he says. “We can never feel ‘shitty’, as you say. WE are always ‘happy’.”
“Fuck you,” I say.
“Mister Marcom. WE do not talk this Way.”
“Fuck you Doc, I talk this way AND I am paying you so I CAN talk this way.”
“OK, why then are you “shitty” as you call it?”
Leaning back… wondering how long this court – ordered bullshit must go on, I decide to hit him with it:
“I am shitty ‘cause I have written some good shit on my blog and no one is reading it.”
“Please do go on.”
“Well… there is that one about Southpark
“You mean J.R.’s ranch?”
“Do you have a degree, Doc?”
“Of course, right over there on the wall, see it?”
“What’s it in, your degree?”
“Phycology.”
“Yeah, guess that makes some sense; knew it wasn’t in Pop Culture, Pops.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Never mind.”
“Let us get back to your problem and away from my credentials, shall we? No one reads your ‘shit’, but why?”
“‘t-l-d-r’ in the vernacular.”
“Tee el dee r’? I’m afraid I do not understand your meaning here.”
“’Too Long; Didn’t Read’ Asshole.”
“Mister Marcom, I must implore you not to continue to abuse me with such language; I am merely attempting to help you here. Why is it too long? Do you hate your mother?”
“Well, it took days and days to write… And who ARE you? Do you even know what it is ‘to write’?”
“Let us focus on ‘your problem.’ shall we?”
“Doc, let us focus on yours: I don’t want to be here and THAT is YOUR problem. I just want folks to read my shit.”
“I cannot help you there, Son. Perhaps though if I may proffer a suggestion?”
“Sure. Fire away.”
“Write some better ‘shit’, as you call it.”

Y’all Wanna Know The Worst Tactile Sensation Ever?

Shitter.png

 

Of course you do.

It is when you go to flush the toilet and that handle snarls back at you, rather limp-wrist’d, as if to say,

“Not tonight Asshole. Go back to sleep.”

(Now, in some truth, I could probably improve this post. For example: I should not have referenced ‘limp wrists”. In truth, y’all know how it is when you go to flush that toilet and there just ain’t no resistance. “Limp Wrists’ was just about all I could manage at the time of publishing…. (Isn’t that funny? Like I am a fucking news paper?) Dead-lines!

Some one shoot me!

(Make it quake! Head Shot! Right thru the mouth–or better…the mouse.)

God and some foll’ers will thank  you.

Foretelling  ‘Foreboding’ (See? I tend to edit as as I go… My father once tole me, “Lance! Enuff! Enough! It takes an editor to be smart; that is why we make more monies.”) some deep sea-toilet trolling (trolling?)  diving to fix.

Yeah…

Really?

Don’t think so.

Maybe tomorrow…

(There are three (other) toilets in this ‘Mouse-House’)

“So, fuck off.”

(My toilet did not reply)

Yes,  I talk to my toilet… don’t we all?

“Take your hand off that mouse Mister! Don’t make me come over there.”

“Yessir! Please don’t shoot me; I’m just the piano-player.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me. What do you think, Jim?”

“Yeah. Bullshit. Shoot him.”

“OK.”

Bang! Bang!

“He gone.”

(Sorry, Si Robertson; some of this … this is probably out-of-context)

Then again…

Maybe not.

We will not even begin to speak about your brother.

Damnit! I miss Christopher Hitchens!

 

Even more embarrassing:

You know the toilet is broke dick dog.

Yet…

You still try to ‘visit.’

And it takes three tries to get into the door.

(Yet, it is a really small door–just sayin’– and not so easily navigated, drunk nor sober)

Only to be so disappointed (yet again) over the the whole toilet experience.

OK.

Fine!

Resist?

Naw!

Below, please discover Lenny’s take on toilet-training.

(and of course: entertaining, or reasonable facsimile)

 

FaceBook’d

Recently… (A while back)

I killed my FB account. (This is a habit with me)

Yep

For reasons I’d rather not disclose, but numero one’oh is detailed below:

Anyway, I grew weary of reading about how much Jesus loves me, how I need to say ‘amen’ if I agree all the time. (They never tell ya what exactly to say when you do NOT agree), et cetera,  et al. So… I just say what I feel, which generally gets me into trouble.

So.. I said some evil things.

Have since apologized.

Been offered a promise of a promise back in Iraq (rhymes, don’t it?)

I will go there.

In’shall’allah

–Peace

(Lance)

The point of this post is thus:

I am back on FB; for whatever good that might mean. (or not mean)

-L

“Is one the moon, Dear Clown, tied to a string for me?”

(He tried, but he could not get it down)

And yes: I have been in – love with Joni Mitchell for neigh onto forty year here.

Oh! And I love Emmy Lou…  Too!

And.. Frank Zappa, and Tom Waits, and, Carly Simon, And Lenny Bruce, and… I suppose my love comes cheap.

Sorry ’bout that. So sorry Wilson.

I am sorry Wilson.

(Truly)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-zaO-hUYag

 

Y’all

Now, let us ‘deconstruct’ “Y’all”

Why not?

In the English Oxford Dictionary, ‘you’

“Used to refer to the person or people that the speaker is addressing”

See?

Plural.

Simple.

Yeah, not so fast.

Southerners having none of that.

See? English English breaks down right there.

We (us southerners) need more.

Southerners need ‘Y’all’

Now ever’one needs “Y’all”

Sometimes… we need “All Y’all.”

(just to make certain there is no ambiguity)

Jes’ sayin’…

And P.S. My good friend, Pain,  over at http://exileonpainstreet.com/

 once said, and I try to quote:

“If I see too many posts in My Reader… I get ‘overload’ and delete them all.”

He said that.

I admire that: his truthfulness.

I too, try and usually fail, to read… ever’one.

But..

But… I never delete.

I just try to catch up.

That’s all.

Y’all.

 

It is (Still) Morning (Mourning?) in America!

“Oh shit!” ‘Sorry Ronnie Toopac… Nancy’Melania!

It is ‘SundayTuesday  Wednesday in Amerika!

“Let us watch ‘The Golf’ read my tweets!”

agusta

“Huge vivla la diff’ eh’?”

“Oh Me ah me! What ever do you mean?” (Said Nancy Melania)

“Ah shit Nancy! Melania! I mean it is morning in Amerka! Didn’t I say that?!”

“No, you are a Commie if you did!”

Nancy! Melania! I am soooo Sorry! I lost my place! Here was I, back in the Eighties! Working for law and land! Money, lust, and US!

I even enlisted! I served my Country! What did I get? Bupkis!” What did I get? Rich!

“Butt… We (Ronnie and I—don’t he look cute—riding that horsey? Honey?—Now…what were you saying? You middle class? Oh Yeah! Something  about entitlements?”)

“Uh! Ya know what? Nancy? Mel? Never mind. We got ours. And ya know what? We got that Commie Bastard!—That Gorbo-chov!  That Puttie… God Bless America!”

“But… where is the money?”

“for America?”

For us?

Where is our prosperity?

I thought we won the war?

Where? Where are the fruits?

They just evaporated.

Didn’t they?

“I made enuff money to buy Miami, but I pissed it away so fast…”

–Jimmy Buffett

“Just say no,” “Make US Great”  was all she said, as she walked away.

(The conversation is ambiguous, waxes and wanes, for a reason: we are all to blame)

“You let ’em come home…” America.

We all should be allowed to come home. After all: it is the only place that stays open–all night.

We all should be allowed to come home. After all: it is the only place that stays open–all night.

We all should be allowed to come home. After all: it is the only place that stays open–all night.

We all should be allowed to come home. After all: it is the only place that stays open–all night.

We all should be allowed to come home. After all: it is the only place that stays open–all night.

We all should be allowed to come home. After all: it is the only place that stays open–all night.

The US of US is the only place that stays open all night. For All. We sort em out, once they (manage) to get here.

The US of US is the only place that stays open all night. For All. We sort em out, once they (manage) to get here.

For All.

Well, I just got back from New York city; Kris and Rita done it all

“Rita Coolidge, Rita Coolidge cleft for me”

ritacoolidgeandkrisk.jpg

–Willie Nelson

Since it is still Texas Independence Day, I am gonna continue to bombast my Blog with Texans I admire.

Here is (in my mind) one of the greatest (and most misunderstood and underrated) Texans: Kris Kristofferson, Rhode’s Scholar, ruffian, redneck, poet.

He married well. Too bad it didn’t take. Rita Coolidge! He should have found a way to make that work…

How I came to live in the Shit Hole Garage Apartment which was not really a garage apartment, but only a Shit Hole underneath a garage apartment

Memory fails, but I have pieced together something approaching honest fact. I lost my posh digs at Ponderosa Apartments, and was forced to down-size. Madelyn was living in the ‘Proper Garage Apartment’ and was ‘in good’ with the Landlord. She informed me he had this ‘wonderful little apartment’ for rent, which was ‘just perfect’ for me. Read CHEAP.

I checked it out, paid my fifty bucks and moved in. The moving in took all of two minutes, for I had not much to move.

Working for Ruth at her Liquor store in Ladonia and making a solid three dollars fifty cents an hour (plus ‘benefits), it was indeed, ‘perfect’ for me.

Now mind you, I never complained about living in such a place. After all, it did suit me and no one would have cared anyhow if it didn’t. It had some kind of ‘certain charm (just like this place) to be sure. How many folks could invite a guest into their home and lead them past the shitter before arriving into the living room/bedroom/kitchen/study proper? As far as I knew, I had the only such place in all of Commerce. It was special.

And truth be told, I did some ‘entertaining’ there a couple of times. The only person who I would invite over was my girlfriend. She never judged me. She was always happy to be with me, no matter the venue. (Yes, that sounds conceited, but there it is Gentle Reader—c’est vrai, or quel dommage, or… choose your own français).

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