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DrunkCityHighCouncilMember
thinkings of late 
Apr. 28th, 06 05:55 pm - going on to ongoing
beatwriter
hey there folks that care
it's been a crazy mad time since i typed the unspoken word
things have happened
nothing surprising
dc is dead
people have fled
and i still haven't found the time
to fill those that desrve it
with lead
hope all is not stupid
for those that read
have a theory
thinkings that it will
get out of control this summer
hope you all remember to wear your seatbelts
Jan. 4th, 06 10:10 pm - I still like to eat chinese
beatwriter
People are always saying that I need help.
You quit smoking, drinking and go off your meds for ONE WEEK and it's INTERVENTION TIME. WELL FUCK YOU! I like being sober. Independent of all things.
10 REASONS SOBER ME IS GOOD
1. I can smell the rankness of my house with perfect clarity.
2. Most people are always ugly. There is no longer that brief magical period around one in the morning at the Pig where I think, hey, if I were single I'd pop that!
3. I am now writing a string of short stories about a pedophilic protagonist. Eww?
4. I wake up in the night and no longer wonder where I am. (though I do miss wondering "who is that!")
5. Instead of spending my money on things that benefit me (smokes and booze) I spend it on nothing, hoarding all my millions in a trust fund for my children who by the time they are old enough to benefit from it will feel the strange and mysterious effects of inflation and probably use it as kindling to light a small fire in an old tire within the catacombs of the sewer system where all will live in hiding from the almighty overlords of the topside! All Hail ZOG!
6. I remember to put the seat 'down' before I shit. (Though I still haven't mastered the PERFECT WIPE)
7. On those rare family occasions when I attend Mass at the Catholic Church, I no longer guzzle the sacramental wine and rub myself while leering at that hot statue of Mary. (You can allllmost see titty)
8. When I come home late at night I have a much easier time explaining and justifying my whereabouts to my girlfriend and my excuses rarely involve vikings.
9. I no longer believe that Titilation is an actual island where I am the King and all you women are my love slaves.
10. I shower more. Clean balls = MORE HEAD!

For these reasons alone I think this sojourn into sobriety should last til friday.
Dec. 29th, 05 04:47 pm - Holy Crap it's cold out here!
beatwriter
My dad came, then I came 9 months later and I'm still coming. When does it stop! Seriously. Don't I need that stuff? I was a baby once, they say, and I don't wish that on anyone, so I'll keep it to myself if that's o.k. with you. How is everyone doing? I'm looking for a nice quiet hut in the mountains where I can see my enemies approach and pick them off with a M1 Garande (fixed with a 350x scope and a recoiless buttrest and maybe a bipod for those long nights on watch) at my leisure. I also would like a steady supply of water and oxygen and booze and food of the raw meat kind so there should be a deer farm around like the one near Kinmount (Antler Acres! And they don't even let you ride the fucking things! What the hell is this world coming to!) so I can stalk them in their chickenwired pens with a dagger fixed betwixt me teeth and scare the hell out of them by yelling ARRRRR! as I stab them in the spine repeatedly and whisper into their dying cute little ears (you bastards should'a took me for a ride! Now you're meat!). If anyone knows of a place like this please email me at one of those emaily thingies and gimme directions. But don't let em know I'm comin' cuz I want to take the place by surprise. Just like Pearl Harbor! Those Japs were pretty smart. Now they make hi-tech stuff. Smart! Hey maybe we can get one of those little guys to walk around in a kabodo and serve me slushi (I like the red kind!) on my new mountain hide out. I'll name him Warshaw! I think I'll paint him. Acrylics? Or paintballs...hmmm..right, so, this place is going to be really cool, and you're allowed to come (even M.E., but for a reason I shall not divulge until later as it might upset the armadillos) as long as you give the right password. It's the type of food I like right now.
Wrong.
So where's the closest mountain anyhow? I bet it's in Thailand or some feaky place like that. God! Do they have deer in Thailand?! Maybe my plan is ruined. Hold on. I need some more beer.
I'm out! I haven't even had any! Fuck. I hate painting. And one day I'm going to be dead. There's a good joke in there somewhere.
What year is it now!
Jul. 20th, 04 01:25 pm - Long time running
beatwriter
Starting to feel somewhat like myself again. Good god what happened to me this summer! I usually reserve month long benders for december or february. Unfortunately I fell off the wagon, down a cliff, into dark stagnant waters and sunk so far down the drunken abyss that I'm quite shocked to find myself in July. What happened to May and June! Anything neat? I don't know. Somebody get me updated! The permaslipstream is quite a mindfuck. Apparently I went to my cottage by myself, armed only with a sawed of shotgun, a typewriter and a trunk full of booze. My records indicate that some sort of military transport jet buzzed my isolated location and part of me appeared to me semi lucid as I refrained from firing at the intrusive black beast. I returned from my lonely sojourn only to find that the world I had left had changed horribly somehow and the bender continued. Everytime I needed the hair of the dog that bit me, I ferociously devoured the entire dog. Some other stuff happened, but my pages and tape recorder are non sensical so I'll just assume that I did nothing inappropriate and this bout of sobriety will find me good and well with all my acquaintences and the police.
Duka.
P.s. I apparently spent my savings in the past few months on booze and smokes so I have to work again. But no gas station madness for me! I am a proud employee of The Spill Coffee shop. I don't know how that happened.
May. 22nd, 04 11:29 am - uncommic book
beatwriter
So I woke up to needles pin prick squint and an offer to buy breakfast at vanveens. I agreed. But before that...a dream. Why does this house create such an atmosphere for the strange and deranged...
The dream (which I think could make a good gaphic novel) went something like this...

POV of a jaded faded middle aged man entering an old mansion with a few of his friends. The house of course was haunted, you got the feeling of the mood instantaneously. So "I" look around and I see a german shepherd that's obviously a ghost (the transparent body gave it away) and I threw it a bone (looked like a human femur) and it chased it. Then I saw a woman dressed in black, short old thing with a face I couldn't recognize, but this too was a ghost. And I knew that I had to do something with her...then there's a ethereal flashback to this same old woman in a bed of an old southern home. She's in a coma and her sister and her sister's husband are on the front stoop sipping lemonade and discussing her will. Apparently when this old woman kicks the can they make a bundle. But it has to come natural. They talk of her ghost wandering her home and how it's this old woman's soul, this ghost..got that? Tired. Incoherent I guess. Anyhow back to the old haunted mansion and I've picked up this old woman ghost and taken her to her upstairs room much to the chagrin of my friends. I take her to her bed and bed her. But as I "bed" her something terrible happens and I get a view of this old woman's sister screaming and the old woman in the coma comes out of it and suddenly there's a sense of pure fury and madness...and I get the feeling that I've opened a bad can of something horrible. The german shepherd's howling and the house is collapsing and I'm running down the stairs and the sky turns a marvelous shade of red as I break out of the door and into the yard, my friends following. That's it. Needles woke me up and I wrote it down in this live journal thingy.
Breakfast time now.
Moral of the story. Don't fuck ghosts no matter how desperate you are. It never works out the way you think.
duka
May. 19th, 04 01:03 pm - Write and Run.
beatwriter
So then there is the now. Beautiful day out there and I have chosen to stay inside instead to get some much delayed writing done. Apparently this is the life I'm choosing. To be trapped within the confines of a shelter tapping away at the keyboard of the typewriter alone and happy. Wyrd. Have you ever tried to write an unlinear screenplay. It's fun. You should try it sometime. The only thing I can think of that might be a little more fun than that is trying to open a beer bottle with your groin. It can be done but the aftereffects are only slightly rewarding. Anyhoo, I think I'll get back to the damn script and hope that my brain clots. Maybe I'll wake up in that hospital like the one in Sexy Nurses 3. MMMMM. Dead fish.
duka
beatwriter
So here I am in cyberspace. This is a journal. Well what happened today. How can I even begin to tell you how mad this life is and how much it's madness no longer really affects me? I wont. Bugger off.
Broke my balls on a bike seat and the heavens pissed upon me with acid rain. That was fun.
I saw some girls cooch tonight and it did nothing to arouse my groin.
I drank beer. That was good, better to be light headed than sober these days. Do you even read or watch the news? Of course you don't. Neither do I.
You know...sometimes I think this world would have been better served had we perfected eugenics and cauterized the seed of the stupid.
Am I to harsh? Perhaps you are to dense. Yes. Watch the tube and believe in Rupert and family fear. Cry as friends that don't know you leave you. Believe in happiness and stupidness and childishness; somebodies got to. And while your doing that I'll be in your fridge stealing all your food you blind sycophants.
P.s. I'm drunk.
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