Tuesday, January 16, 2007

I blame the plastic

It was cold last night. The first cold night of the winter, really. I stopped by the bridge and found Glowenda and her purse dog and four or five other kids. I gave her the key to the house. Told her she and her friends could use it until the utility came by. It wasn't much after 10:30 I heard them come creeping in the back door.

I'll maybe see Rothgar, if I get a chance before I leave.

I gotta go. There's nothing left here for me now. I'm sure The Proper Authorities will be showing up any day now. Sunny Days.

The Big Event had an apocolyptic seizure. Saturday.

A lot of serious fucking out.

We stopped by the doctors country house as as we said we would. Loubeena was nervous, but once Gaspardo the greasy wop got a look at Shawnelle, any professional steeliness or other learned and put on shit just evaporated.

We were fucking within an hour and a half. All Five of us. We all knew why we were there.

A chemical fuck fest, as opposed to a alcoholical fuckfest. There was some sparkling wine to begin. But then Gaspardo brought out the pills and we went chemical for the rest of the night.

Chemical fucking is a different fucking. You do things you wouldn't otherwise. Or have never done.

Which is great for the camera. Your focus is on performance. And the pleasure comes im that last second draining of everything you've got left and then on the other side you find love and a new level of trust and openness. You're fucked out.

That's what I found.

Shawnelle and me went all out. She was still miffed about me and Loubeena but was jacked about the big event, enough so that my offer of a morning at the spa was a green light make good. I got my balls shaved by this emo. Had to at once keep my dick erect and contract my balls. Not easy. You try it. Emo helped out with that as Shawnelle lay two feet away on her belly getting a rub.

Fuck did she look good. Never better. The body. The tanning. And her hair.

Fuck me.

I was watching some of it back, sitting in Gaspardo's leather recliner, naked, thinking that, with a big permastiffy. Shawnelle, my god you have no idea how much I love you right now.

I went to find her. Loubeena and Jizelle were past out in each others arms in the main set masterbedroom. I went down into the kitchen, walking around this big country house with this big country hardon.

Shawnelle was in the kitchen cuddled up with Gaspardo sipping tea and talking.

And it was as if everything that we had just done upstairs - the massive fucking out, I mean Shawnelle eating out Loubeena was fucking sensational - that and all of everything over the past few weeks, the general over all fucking out that we'd been through, the attention, the power - it was as if none of that had happened and that I had just here and then walked in on my wife post missionary coitus snuffling with her lover and sharing intimacies.

I blame the plastic. The plastic clogged a sort of other dimensional artery in my being and the proper flow of nutrients and shit was disrupted. My brain went off and I reverted. Or regressed. Or whatever. Became for no more than five minutes The Jealous Homicidal Maniac.

I had forgotten my personal history. Is what happened. The well documented personal history. The stuff they have on me. The shit. The goods. It just wasn't there to help me digest the scene of my wife in a bathrobe kissing and talking to her lover. My memory failed me.

History repeats itself mostly cuz us dumbfucks can't even keep our own dumbfuck histories in mind. Or some dark forces are at work swinging shit its way. God, as you may imagine, certainly doesn't fucking enter into it.

But like I say, we move on.

And I'm moving on. To live in the bush.

The job is gone. The dream of the chicken roaster business gone.

And Shawnelle. Gone.

I'll never love another like I did her.

I gotta go. I can feel The Proper Authorities circling.

Monday, January 15, 2007

File it under F for Fucking Fucked Over

They got you coming and going, the cocksuckers. Sprung it on me last hour of the last night - morning to you, 7 AM and I've had no more than a total of eight hours sleep over three days.

Dick in Charge. His office. For a conversation.

Dick doesn't wait as he normally does, no so what's up? no so what's going on with you? It was straight out, Wally, you assaulted an employee of the company, physically, that he was your superior is irrelevent. the fact that he is sixty-four and three weeks away from retirement, that he is if nothing else, well-liked by most, is just nothing short of despicable behaviour which runs contrary to this company's policies etc and so on.

Dick in Charge plopped down my employee file. Thick. The documentation. He stepped out for a brief meeting but asked me to read some of it, peruse.

My jaw dropped. The shit they have on you. Holy fuck.

I suppose Dick was hoping I'd be shocked or embarrssed by the file. I was proud of it.

He came back in, and says I do not see any choice here for me. I have to fire you, Wally. I see no other option.

Generally, everyone in the joint was expecting that to be so. See me walked to my locker for cleanout, the walk of shame, a supervisor and the security fuck on your flank, and then walked to the front door never to darken the darkness again.

I told Dick he should take weekend to think about it. I told him I was going for shower. And when I was back next week for my regular shift, I'd give him the details of the plot to kidnap his children.

It's a ways off. Nothing in the offing. Early stages. Don't let it spoil your weekend.

And, walking out, I'll give up the two Al Qaedas in IT.

There's no way I was going to spend one second thinking about my file. My work history. The stacked against you goods. Spoil My weekend. If if I wanted to think about it I couldn't. It was a big weekend for fucking out.

Too bad the fucking out got so fucking out of hand. I mean fuck me.

I'm fucked.

Saturday, January 13, 2007

Keep your fucking mouth shut

We finished up at Loubeena's about three-thirty. I had nowhere to go so I went into work.

I went into to the cafeteria. To kill time. Some of the dumbfucks looked at me sideways. I grabbed a paper and a coffee. Not five minutes later my dumbass supervisor comes in and says oh glad you for my message, looking for you, do you know where the such and such is. Your wife said you were here, at work, didn't know you had booked the night off -

Before he could go much further I was pounding the living shit out of him. Stupid dumb ass fuck. A few guys pulled me off.

I could get fired for this, The only thing that will keep me my job is a session of corporate torture, humiliation attempted, their abiding concern for me and my inconsistencies in behaviour a guiding fucking light. But they are just so fucking lame on that. Like quasi nazi air cadets interrogating a loon. Quack fowl. And I won't be bothered.

Or I could get a promotion. Who knows with that fucking place.

I went home at eight in the morning as usual. I went in the door on the offensive. Cursing Dumb Ass. Explaining to Shawnelle about my bruised knuckles. Made a fancy communication misdirect and cursed Dumb Ass for phoning home when I got a message to Dumb Ass I was going to the hospital, fucking Dumb Ass, having slammed the car door on my knuckles in the parking lot -

It's not that the women ever believe your lies. It's just the details of the truth are usually tedious. Even in this case. I mean you want me to go over every detail of the six hours I was down on Loubeena. Divers get more surface time. That was fucking work. If I told Shawnelle the truth here - that yes i skipped work to bring Loubeena to her initial full blown adult orgasm, or, that, yes I was at Loubeenna's, but no, I didn't sleep with her and, no. I didn't fuck her - truth is she wouldn't believe me anyway,

Best thing usually is to keep your mouth shut. And wait for them to bring it up.

As soon as I opened my mouth and began my little spiel I knew it was a mistake.

And by the end of Shanwelle's bawling I had wished I'd actually ripped Loubeena a good one. Fucking dummy, me.

Truth be told I think she fears that the big money is going to stop rolling in here soon.

Have to admit, it has made for a pretty comfortable fucking lifestyle.

Check your dick at the door

I went down on Loubeena for six hours. By the end Jizette had mounted the camera and was stroking her hair like she was giving birth.

She came at 1:23 AM.

We caught the orgasm, recorded it.

It's a beautiful fucking thing.

Why is it wrong to fuck your sister-in-law? It just is. That's why I didn't fuck her. Just went down on her. Til she came.

You should see it.

You won't see much of Loubeena's pussy. But it's stunning. Take my word. Not what I expected at all. Trim, wet, layered, with a clit that responded to my tung angling right off. Lipnibbling. She liked the humming, too. Sousa. I played her like a tuba. I never played tuba. Once. Played it like it was a vagina. Fucking is my music.

The moan Loubeena gives when she finally comes is outstanding. Twenty five minutes of the loveliest sound on the planet. A legitimate moan. Authentic. Tapped into Robert Fucking Plant. More, they should play a loop of it at the mall. More men would be there more .

And don't get me wrong, I definitely could fuck Loubeena. Will. Easily. Fucking cans are magnificent. A+ in a C cup. But not without Shawnelle being there.

Jizette blew me a couple of times during the tunging which kept my dick and its will to appropriate the experience in check.

You can't always keep your dick in your pants. Next best thing is a strange woman's mouth. Works for me.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

If Shawnelle knew

It made me sick to my stomach. It was Al-Jean that was killed by the Proper Authorities. They shot him before he knew what the fuck was going on. He went down and he killed the other two dudes with six ihots from his .22. Reloaded with a fatal wound, they say.

There was a four hour cleanup after forensics did their thing.

Al-Jean's body was flown somewhere in a metal container via military helicopter.

Ten minutes after his last breath Al-Jean turned to plastic.

Cremation, at this point, is not an option.

I took tonight off.

Shawnelle doesn't know. Never reads my blog.

I'm going over to Loubeena's. She wants me to fuck her. Without her controlling sister around.

I'll pack my lunch like I'm off to work. Shave. Normal shit.

Then head off to Loubeena's. Fuck me, I mean i do not mind telling you I'm nervous, fucked up. Jizelle is coming by to tape us.

I mean fuck me, it's wrong. But I'm gonna do it.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Proper Authorities

Well, Proper Authorities fucked it up. There are three dead down at the plant. I just woke up to that news. I'd go down but I just don't want to see the place or any of the cocksuckers there. Though there are a couple...dead - I'd like to see the bodies bags being removed. God help the company if Proper Authorities shot one of the Indians. Oh fuck. I mean fuck me, that would be funny. Fucking sick.

I can't think of anybody that would have been working last night that I give two shits about.

Fuck 'em.

There'll be enough discussion tonight. Crime scene analysis.

Loubeena called last night wanted to set up a get-together with Shawnelle and me and her and the two doctors, in the food court at the mall. I told her to grow a fucking brains. She wouldn't give me the dudes number. They got a country place, tell them we'll drop by Saturday for a social. We know where they live. It's not like they can stop us from dropping by. We'll just show up anyway.

Shawnelle and me last night were feeling at bit distant. We downloaded some homegrown porn and watched it on the plasma.

I brought up the idea of our own domain and member's pay site again. She pointed out the fact we were watching homegrown porn for free. Why buy the cow.

I feel so humiliated when she's right. I hate it. We had a hate fuck. Where you're so mad at them you just have to fuck them. Shawnelle plays all submissive. Don't beat me Mister Washington. Throwing her ass up in the air, on her knews begging. Of course in the past it's been the hate fucks that have lead to some trouble with Proper Authorities. Me getting carried away. But like the agreement says, no bruising.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

My new old fetish

The rumors have stopped. Something imminent is about to happen.

Al-Jean's crew is planning an armed takeover. Guy, fucked over as ever, his crew is trying to do an employee buyout. Donkey's crew is pooling their resources and going out with a big bang on the lotteries.

My crew? Looking at what if anything we'd buy at auction.

Still, why are they waiting? These cocksuckers are up to something.

Currently they are boring us to death. Meetings charts memos emails. The most important decision I make in a day is at the food machine. Spearmint or everfresh green.

It's only when the place is down do you realize what a beautiful old broad she is. The plant.

Machines of the industrial age itself. A Museum, really. One of those odd quirky ones you see as you drive, off some distance from the highway. That no one goes to. I saw the place as that.

I was going to make sure I had a part of that future. Secure, yet isolated. Telling tales to dropbys the odd time, of they way things used to be,

I went up to speak to Management.

I gave them some information.

In return, a confirmation and a promise and a position.

Things are rocky, they admit. They confirmed that changes are imminent not at liberty just yet to say. And the promise that they were doing their best to keep the patient breathing.

Big fucking deal.

I talked myself into a position. Leader, Economic Disaster Preparedness Team. On a closing down of the place. upon the cessation of pounding, I would be - will be - the last man out. I have the keys to the plant.

Post-cessation site manager.

I called them on The One Thing They Know to get the position,. They knew I knew. Plastic lives. Plastic is immortal. You cannot bury plastic in the back forty and expect it to die.

As the globe warms, the plastic will take over. It's in your blood. It will seap out of the toys and gadgets. People eyewhere will stiffen and harden, turn to statues, plastic, brittle, but still alive, alive but dying. Not sure of the details but there are studies.

As well, tonight, coincidentally, Proper Authorities will arrest most of Al-Jean's Crew as they attempt to enter the plant with firearms. If Proper Authorities don't fuck it up. Which they will.

Part of it in me is getting back at Al-Jean for whipping his dick out in my kitchen and ordering Shawnelle to suck it. So I can't take a joke. Fuck him over.

The other part - I just can't seem to let go of the plastic. It gets into you.

A big wedge has fallen on my head and split me in two. I gotta ask: if the plastic goes does the fucking go as well?

Toxicity is a fetish. Fer sure.

Monday, January 08, 2007

Taking it slow down at the plant

Things are slow down at the plant. So much so I got to sit outside for a bit. Take some time. I sat at the picnic table down by the pier where the tankers drop off the oil that we turn into powder.

There hasn't been a tanker drop in a while. Normal in winter when things freeze up. But not this winter. So the winter where it can get dropped it doesn't cause there's no need get the oil to make the powder cause the powder is just sitting there anyway.

Fucking typical. It amazes me how the place ever existed. It's just such a fuck up.

There's been an influx of students after Christmas, Quitting school and joining the workforce. It's a pattern that will never be broken. Either way you see it as a dead end. Work, school. It's the same thing. You are just some dumb monkey off the street into to suck on some big monkey tit. A piece of cheese being passed around at a party. A germ. A mushroom cultivated in the dark. A zit.

One of the young girls is back. Big girl. Tall. Huge rack. She came and sat on the picnic bench beside me. Tells me she saw the video, on the net, that me and Shawnelle are her heroes, and she really admires what we're doing, at our age! ya know, expressing love and capturing it visually.

We're artists apparently, of the performance sort, and huge in college dorms.

I'll take what I can get, Chrysalis tell me. The money now. My boyfriend is gone. I introduced him to your ideas. Asked him if we might not open things up a bit. He thought that was okay if it was a girl but a guy freaked him and he fucked off. So I'm going to take the money and the time and the body that I have and I'm going to explore.

I was kinda curious to know how she picked up all this from a fifty second clip on the net.

Apparently she has been reading this blog.

Hi Chrys, you won't mind me saying you have a nice rack. Because you do.

Loubeena, Loubeena

Loubeena, Loubeena. Like a song.

Loubeena came by last night. We told her we were swinging. Left it at that. Let that sit out there for a bit.

Loubeena swings on her own, in a way. Dates, tons, six minutes in, in false love. She has had - best guess - a hundred and fifty lovers. No biggie. Why not, she's young. Why not enjoy the full benefits of fucking. The full benefits.

I was beginning to wonder if Shawnelle just wasn't bullshitting me about Loubeena never having had an orgasm I mean, fuck me, that's impossible.

Former lovers, women, stay in touch. No male friend formers. There's next to no chance of sex with an ex-girliefriend, so why waste time.

She's 'seeing' a couple right now, she says, something new, doctors from the hospital. She dropped that volley out there. A trio. Met in the food court at the mall, recognized vaguely, them. Struck up a conversation which lit the entire atrium so much was the electricity of their meetup, she says, the three of us, each of us attracted equally to the others, a heightening of the aura around some postive energy blob of light. Or some such shit. I can't follow the way some people think.

Still, it's fucking hot to think about two chicks and a guy. In a relationship? Ongoing? Freaks.

We should all get together. I threw that out there.

I stared blatantly at Loubeena's tits. Still a full pair. Smaller for sure, but in spec.

Loubeena said she'd mention it to Doctors Eikner, Gaspardo and Jizette.

At the door she gave Shawnelle a long hard hug. And gave me a big hug and kiss and when we kissed I slipped a little tung into it and put my hand on her left breast ever so lightly not even enough pressure to get a true feel on the cup size. We were going slow here with Loubeena, but I just thought I'd throw it out there.

And did. In the form of a joke, maybe the three of us, just us, could get together. You two. That's fucking hot.

The two sisters laughed. Loubeena looked at the floor. And then came up and gave Shawnelle a really hot piece of tung. That would be fun.

Yeah, no kidding, Loubeena. Fucking offside.

If I was going to take it to the next level, as they taught us, there'd be a lot of bullshitting and lying ahead to get Loubeena in. I may be fried by the end of it. But as a man of erotic action, I have to. This may be the precipice I'm thinking. At the edge. Looking down and in. Love. Like an open pit wound. The big black paw lurking ready to grab you by the balls and haul you down in there.

I mean, fuck me. There's nothing really conceptually wrong with the idea of me being in love with two women at the same time, two sisters, each as gorgeous as the other.

Yeah I'm seeing Loubeena differently.

I lay on the couch exhausted after Loubeena left. Some people's prescence does that to you. Whacks you. Drains you. That's the sound of your soul. Shawnelle sees it and knows it and gave me a long slow loving fucking glorious fucking blowjob. We woke in each others arms, on the couch, in the early morning. And started again.

Shawnelle came channeling as I whispered 'I love you, Loubeena, I fucking love you' in her ear. I caught it on camera, too. Looks great on the fifty two inch plasma. Shawnelle's pussy's the size of a garage door. I'm going to try to post it somehow on the net, too.

Throw it out there. See if you like it.

Amd how are the kids? Glowenda and her purse dog are lving under a bridge with eight or nine other teen runaways and the boy is back in juvie, something to do with weapons and school property, some bullshit, the kid was only picking off squirrels with a .22 for fucksakes way down the bottom of the field out back. I'm not sayin he should have been doing it, but jail time?

Not that me and Shawnelle are complaining. Gotta say when you look back it's been a bit of a fuckfest around here. We're talking about having a party here at the house. A lot of local interest. Lot of people saying they never seen me or Shawnelle happier, together.

Fucking makes you think. Fucking makes you happy. Fucking makes you wonder why there just isn't overall more fucking, more often.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Time is on our side

The depression that accompanies the prospect of returning to work can onset at any time. Hours even days prior. It will hit me sometime today. I'm back to it tomorrow.

The only thing that gets me by is my professionalism.

We'd sing but the noise of the plant would drown us out. There is no music to be heard, other than the noise of the pounding or in quieter spots the static of one local radio station playing the worst of the seventies.

If I'm not concentrating on my job I'm thinking about Shawnelle. There are some twelve hour shifts where the only thoughts I have are of Shawnelle fucking other guys.

It gets me by.

I'm not obsessed or deranged.

It's a game I play. Time passes.

As I say, time is your friend. Set it aside. Or better let it carry you along. You do the thinking.

There is nothing your mind can do to stop the depression as it mounts, as your time for work advances like a dark storm. Jail Time. Best you can do is ease yourself into it, knowing that you do get out the other side, that this will end.

Death is liberation enough for the Fucked-Over.

In the meantime, there's drinking and fucking and partying and music.

And today is my day to drink. Work at 8 AM sharp t'mrow. I'm starting now. Estimated time of pass out 9 PM.

Shawnelle's just left now to go to a murder scene somewhere else. Private investigation. May not be back til late. Lot of driving. Probably grab a stress fuck when she gets in. If I'm in shape. Maybe I won't drink. Maybe I'll go down on her for two or three hours. Just take some time.

One of the interuptions last night

'Bout nine there's a knock on the door. Al-Jean bursts in walks over to Shawnelle sitting in the breakfast nook unzips his pants whips out his dick and tells her to suck it.

Three things went through my mind.

Do I kill him or just hurt him? In my kitchen or do we lure him to the bathroom? With a frying pan or a meat cleaver?

Shawnelle just dissolved it in the way she does and Al-Jean stuck his dick back in his pants and laughed.

He came by with some information. On indentured slaves and popular revolt. Some analysis. Al-Jean was developing some options. Him leaning to an armed takeover of the plant. Which is fucking nuts. Which is one of the reasons as I say I avoid him. I mean we don't want remain there. We want to be home. Fucking.

Shawnelle asked him that.

I'd be home fucking if I was fucking you.

What about Stephora?

Yes.

What if we could arrange a rendez-vous, on the spiritual plane?

Al-Jean was a little weirded out. And left.

I'm an entreprenuer. I thought about what you said, Wally. I can see my path. As a sexual healer. Bringing the living flesh into contact with the living spirits. I could do that. For a fee. And I could be happy.

I couldn't stand it anymore. She walked into the bedroom and was waiting legs spread by the time I brushed my teeth.

And , what, I'd rather be down at the plant?

Loubeena called

It's what we are up against.

Not lack of time. Lack of desire.

Shawnelle and me tried to hook up for a foursome last night but shit was happening. Like calls and knocks on the door. Not for a lack of desire on either of our parts.

Between, I tried to convince Shawnelle that we needed our own web domain and members only site. And I still couldn't convince her that the offer form the feds was a come on. A bunch of cop pervs. They are there. Extra padding in the budget. You show them up at their jobs. You like to fuck. They like to watch.

There is no job.

You are an entrepreneur.

Dead end.

She sees her powers whether physical - the fucking - or extramental - as in the timeshifting and space alignment, the telemetry, reading a murder scene - as Done in the Service of Good.

Shawnelle is a good person. She wouldn't gang bang some of the feds just to have shit on them. I threw that out, I have to admit as a bit of a test. That's over the line for me. She barely acknowledged the idea.

I asked her about Loubeena. How was Loubeena? Have you talked to Loubeena. It's been months. She was away over Christmas. With a new guy.

Yes, she was away. By herself. At a retreat. She says she lost forty-five pounds.

She's coming over for tea.

Loubeena with forty-five pounds off. She wasn't that big. Fuck, I hope she didn't lose her tits.

UPDATE: Loubeena stopped by real quick this morning. For tea. At five-thirty. Tea? Tea.

She just left. She barely got her coat off. I barely got rid of my morning stiffy poking out of my pyjama bottoms. On her way to the City. To her Job. At a Hospital.

Not sure what Loubeena does there but she does like to fuck the doctors. And their wives, we think. Great friend to the womens auxillary.

Couldn't make out her tits fully. Shawnelle thought she looked great.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Fantasy as reality

See, when you make your fantasies a reality, it purges the plastic from your system. I bring this up as by saying:

There are three grocery stores in town. The high-end union shop, the high-end non-union shop and the low-end non-union shop. The first two have a chicken roaster and counter and the low-end non-union shop doesn't.

Everybody buys roast chicken. Except for vegetarians but they're all queer, so who gives a fuck. So the low-enders like me need to go to either of the high-end shops both of which are clear across town.

There's a space in the mall of the low-end non-union shop. I want to put in a shop with roast chickens. That's all. A one man shop. A man and his roaster. Wally's Roast Chickens. Whole chickens, roasted by Wally. No need to complicate it.

When the plant closes, and it will close, I would open, coming out of it, getting the plastic
out of my veins, up for air, that shop. That reality, handing out the best roast chicken available in town - no small promise - with that, I will be cleansed.

Everyone is praying for the end. To the plant. Everyone has their fantasy. Of what they would do.

No matter what your fantasy, the plastic goes, must.

It rules your being. You much more than me. I'm immune, built up over time. Resistent.

As well, my wife and I are living out our fantasies to our mutual benifesscence.

Which begs the question. Can a rising internet personality still hawk chickens to the locals?

And why does this need to be predicated by our end of work at the plant.

Because we are slaves. Our liberation is never easy. They're not just going to let us go free.

Talk of the Chinese and the Albanians is just shit to keep you off balance and fearful.

We are the fucked over, the mass of humanity, fucked over and over throughout time. I cannot see the future but my guess is we got more coming. We got fucked going in. The New Fucked-Over. We will never take over. We just want out. Alive and fucking.

Bad news

Bad news from down at the plant. After a lengthy holiday shutdown and an anticipated plant closure the worst has come to pass. The plant is, as of this morning, still up and running.

Clarity

Well, me and Shawnelle got into last night.

Seems like not only all the folks on the Metro force saw the video, some Feds did too and so they want Shawnelle to do some undercover work for them, luring other couples to join in some swinging.

She's so fucking stupid at times, really. It's not illegal now, no, she says, but fucking may become illegal or the capture of the fucking may, or maybe some unforeseen copyright issues may arise and the feds want a register and a headstart and in the meantime they'll pay for the bandwidth. Just want to monitor the situation, they say.

I'm sure they do want to monitor the situation.

Fucking perverts. Have shit on people.

Fuck Shawnelle, grow a brain. Was she always this naive? Am I just blind?

There's some percentage of us out there getting together and doing some very righteous leading edge fucking. Bending the envelope and slipping it in the best orifice on offer. The Authorities don't like this. They don't like people fucking in the first place never mind out there, ya know, full on, full view, full time. Fuck in a dark room with the windows closed lights out. Keep that part of yourself to yourself and keep your self away. Leave the fucking to the beautiful people.

It's the theory of containment. Stay in your place. Don't venture forth. A cards and flowers universe. Where the moaning comes out muted, diseased, and self-defeating. As pain.

See if people really knew their potential, what they have in their pants, the authorities would be in trouble.

So would the Bosses.

If any of us took action on even ten percent of the sex that goes on in our head the world would be a better place. Nothing would get done.

See.

She's still thinking about it - whatever the fuck the offer was, I mean the shit people are asking others to do these days is getting fuck rank weird and they're getting away with it, yes let me give you my time and brains for nothing but some sort of goodwill borne of fear - despite the fifty-five rational arguments put forth by me I don't want to, but I may have to, kick the shit out of her, clear the way for some fucking clarity.

She is a professional psychic not an undercover porn cop, our sexing-out a reflection of our love, not a for lease tool of social control. She just sees the money.

Who knows what dark hand is at work here now out to sabotage her more than fucking likely, discredit her, Shawnelle always showing up the gumshoes, knowing shit, where the bodies, are what the motives are - she's got enemies within the justice system - your honor, the lead investigator is a known internet based pornographer - who knows who is out to get your ass, the better angels selling you out for box seats at an event of unprecedented monotony.

Controlling fucks.

See, they know that fucking is power. A display of fucking is a display of power. I felt that yesterday as I made my way round town. People were looking at me different. I Am The King. And I'll discount the cowering runaway shitlettes, they will always exist, little fucking mice scurrying around looking for a hole or a church or a rotary lunch.

Smiling, approaching, generally engaging me most were. I'd say it was envy if there were any shame in me. But no there is none.

I felt power.

An electric walking talking big on.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

My mom just called

My mom just called. Holy fuck I'm thinking. But she is so far offline it's not funny. I mean she listens to the radio. Holy fuck, I mean, ya know?

She had news. They buried my dad Tuesday last week, never called to let me or her or any of us know, he'd been missing in the bush for two months, alive and healthy and all, until some greenie with a shotgun plugged dad thinking he was some buck, my old man a big man and under the right conditions fog and sleet and snow and shit you might think he's a sasquatch or something but it was a clear sunny day and this computer programmer from the city out for bear fires one off as my old man emerged from a stream having just washed himself down.

All hairy and wet and naked. That's how he went.

He was conscious through the whole ordeal - three weeks from stream bed to hospital bed to death bed. He comes from Hill People. Who knows what they did with his remains, who knows what they mean by bury. I try to ignore that side of the family. Smoke their dead, preserve them till spring, and the ground thaws. It's been a mild winter, maybe they did dig a hole and toss the fucker in. Where he belongs.

Rumor

Another guy down at the plant called. Guy is really fucked. Real dark mind. He's still alone at sea in his head. I didn't bring up the video, neither did he. Seems though without divulging his source, as ever, the coy fuck, he's heard that it's a group of Albanians or some fucks that are buying the plant. Not the Chinese as was generally expected. Of course it could be a coconsortium of the fucks. Ganging up.

Of course it could be a rumor. And Guy is the monger. Skill transfer. Moratorium on cod.

Tears

Shawnelle just called. She was in tears. She left early this morning. For some work with the Metro force. Everyone there has seen the video. She wants to talk tonight.

Horn Bending Shit

Holy Fuck.

The video we shot at Coco's or whatever the fuck her name was, the scenarist, it's on the net. I've had eight calls over the last eighteen hours. The first one was Al-Jean, that fucking lascivious fucked over bag of geriatric seed, the shit, no doubt he'd see it, page view one.

Didn't know Coco was going to show me and Shawnelle to the world. Shawnelle seemed disturbed, subdued, and, perhaps, wet. She looked around last night for three hours and couldn't find it. We're not number One on YouTube or nothing but it's pretty horn bending shit, if you see it.

I can't find the site. Al-Jean, the forthcoming little prick said I should be able to find it easy enough. Pornhound. Eyeing my wife. Darknet dwarf.

Plus work called. I didn't talk to them. They didn't leave a message.

WTF?

I haven't even had a coffee.

UPDATE: Yeah, right, okay Bellla. And if you see the site let me know.

Monday, January 01, 2007

New Years Day

Took Glowenda and her purse dog down back behind the plant to the duck blind I got there with a thermos of scotch just to sit still for a while. There was some activity at the plant. Closed but eight or nine rust and squeal vans, bald tires, in the lot...other than that no signs the place is been overnighted or otherwise sold. Be like them no doubt. Cocksuckers. Just let us all die there one day.

What happens when the dog goes Glowenda wants to know. We should open a dog cemetery. When the plant closes we will.

Three Scenarios

We whipped through three scenarios in an hour and a half. Bella Concord's house down the road. Nice place. Walk in and you are in another world, perfect for waving dark shit.

The first she lead us on was a real estate agent scenario. After a quick and somewhat potent cocktail Shawnellle and me were perspective clients looking to buy this condo, Bella sporting the full real estate whore outfit, a trad business suit, no sign of those big balloons and just the tiniest bit of ankle, still, in black silk hose, enough to get you started.

In the bedroom Bella unzips my pants - this is where the condo gets really interesting - and goes full mouth hard just to get things started which is pretty much instantaneous then Shawnelle takes over while Bella strips naked on the bed except for a tie which she is choking herself with the other hand fingerfucking her trim underpate, gets me to go down on her and then hands Shawnelle her vibrating Treo to stick up my ass, then Shawnelle goes down on Bella while I'm backdoor in Shawnelle's ass and playchoking Bella as she ties the tieround my neck pulling me off Shawnelle landing agob the oversized nip on her left balloon sucking and committing to the deal based on Bella's promise that she'd come visit all the time and not choke me to death now.

There were a couple more. During one some guy that was operating the camera - introduced on entry but barely registered - was involved, his dick on entry, in Shawnelle's pussy at one point. It was a bizarre one. Bella was an uptight middle-aged virgin school teacher. And me and Shawnelle have chosen to be the aggressors - we're going into the scenario as repurposed school board sensitivity trainers who now administer registered in class clit massage for teachers on lunch and I invited 'the lay high priest' in to administer the High Anglican Colonic - this twenty two year old freelance camera geek - into the scenario and I guess he just went with his dick, the kid.

The stuff he shot looks real good, too - all chaotic movement - burned a CD. Watched it when we got home. The Motorhead we chose went good with the shots. Real good. Went to bed just after midnight. I haven't been to sleep yet. Been up all night. With Shawnelle. Trying to conceive a miracle baby she said at one point.

She's changing, Shawnelle. Talking more in bed now. I'm getting deeper inside her kissing a brand new face.

Fucking Jesus Fucking God Fucking Christ I fucking love her.

Sunday, December 31, 2006

Time to get fucked up

Shawnelle has us set up for an hour and a half with a sex worker tonight. Down the road. Holy fuck. You should see her. Fucking A class. Flash website and all. But then I know what pictures can hide. And what they can't. Like the balloons on this chick. Videos show more of a scenario based excursion. She does some sort of costume thing. Appropriate. Me and Shawnelle always treat New Years like Halloween. See you on the other side.

Time for a shit

No one understands shift work.

Basically, I'm fucked all the time.

Even Rothgar and Glowenda born in to it don't get it.

It's unnatural. I like it.

Three-thirty AM is different when you're working it. You're still trying to think. Meanwhile that sock in your brain that holds your dreams is overfull and the bung is leaking.

Six is beautiful, cleansing all the little malingering thought squares.

You become thoughtless., fluid with time and motion. Operating, not being operated by, Machine.

Time is Machine in Itself that will chew on you like a stick of gum and so you do what is only necessary, set time aside, outside your view, and when you do that you set time up so that it takes care of you.

Time is your friend. Just don't let him dominate you. Take the lessons you have learned in life and apply them to your life. You haven't learned anything til you do. Lesson learned. No. Not until it's applied. Apply. Otherwise, it's just a hypothetical universe. Lived in theory and statistics and abstraction - all agents of Machine. You have bought the notion that they care. No one cares about you. Apply that to your life and get on with it. Okay you mom does okay, fine, fuck me, but other than that, none. That is what Time teaches. It's a deal. Repeat cycle.

Irregardless, time pasess. The work doesn't. Irregardless, they'll throw shit at you until the shit they throw out the door no one wants not more.

I think we're there now.

And Machine itself is an old beast, incontinent, grumpy, and full of stories dull and determined - but gone! done! past! Machine that would eat you and your sister and your brother and your kin is fucking dying. I'm the male nurse in the back of the photo op holding the bedpan.

Gone Times. They are accumulating. These are the Days of Polyethelene. We'll look back on this Time with the deatchment that Time allows. Life is a limited number of phases. You just hop and pray the next phase is better at best or no worse at least. Time is a healer. Can be a cancer, too, but.

You don't know it when you're young, Love - live these - unaware, blissful, in pain, the whole nest. I never left the seventies. The problem is I grew up in the eighties and nineties. In the history of man. Best Time. As I say I didn't see it because I wasn't there. If I had been I'd have wanted to be in another time as well more than likely I realize that and that keeps me sane and not an Elvis Impersonator. Still. I'd have been happy a cerf in feudal times. From what we know.

And what we know here we know from Shawnelle.

Shawnelle is a time traveler and she goes pretty much where in time she wants when she wants. On a bus. Not that she's ever on a bus. But if she was, she can and does at will transport her spirit back in time the way some women entwat three stainless marbles juggling them coming all day long while logging or collating or, say, riding a bus. For those then she'd be a lurking spirit - good, evil, toss of the coin.

Does not do forward, Shawnelle. Time is lateral. We are riding on the ever arching crest of a static eternal wave. That's the given visuable. Sidewise is okay. Down, under, and back are all cool.

At that there are some fucks, I'd say maybe, that can emport forward and break the time barrier and cause a sort of psychic boom. Kinetically, astrologically, I'm one of these. All the potential in the world. I love being a fucking constant disappointment. One of my hats. Neverwise, this is my gracious understanding of Shawnelle's world view. She'd disagree, squeeze my nuts with a wrench, and talk your ear off about time and travel in that low clipped voice of hers all logical and sexed up. Drives me fucked nuts that voice. And with a pair of vicegrips. Duck if you're spunkaphobic.

Change. Don't like it.

History. Don't like it and don't much like where it's headed. The thing is your story is increasingly told in raw data. A file, a dossier, a byte, somewhere on you and what you do with every waking fucking minute of your day interacting with Machine and you, who else. yeah you, you think I'm talking to myself? into the void? like no one is listening? are you fucking nuts? You should be envious of my time because my time is spent right the fuck away from what most might refer to as normal people or those who would feign shock and be all affronted when confronted with the idea that there might be maybe hello in there Machine there a priori there fucking pre their fucking egos.

I do not know many normal people. Ball of dough, them, anyway. They may be normal, those that I sorta know but vague someone's cousin from another town shit - you really never can know.

But those I do know are not normal. You can't be to do what I do. Theoretically, you'd die.

I sleep while you live. I have the advantage of seeing Night under the glow of high efficiency lighting, random shards driving into the eyes like steel swarf fines, commodity grade robotics factory grown coffee and midleavened vat spat dough stewing in my gut, ready when it says, on its own timetable, resulting in an exhaust not to be sensed by any human, noise to go with the general overall pounding on the soul, to the beat of Corporate's big fat soft shoe show and dance.

In the Valley of the Sleep Deprived. Distance keeps us sane and out of jail. Get the fuck out of my way or get the fuck away from me is the general through-hum.

Man takes a pounding. Gets up and takes it again. On fours hours.

That's fucking sick. I love it.

Saturday, December 30, 2006

Friends, yeah right.

It's maybe making sense now. The phone has been ringing all day. People wanting to know.

The rumor has been flying around.

We dodged the christmas shutdown, thought we were through the layoff time.

But word is out.

They're closing the plant over the holiday, new years. Everybody is talking. It's big. Walmart is abuzz.

Thing is I'm in tonight. I got the keys to the place. I'm shuttin' er down for the new years break. I could be shuttin' 'er down for good, permanent. Truth, I'd look forward to that.

People were calling asking like I had some conduit to the company. Fuck man, I just have these visions, lay off me. Fucking union mentality that. We're all in it together. No we're not. We're all in it alone.

I have the keys to the place. Typical. I'm not even the captain.

The place does not run without me. Me, prideful. DDMIV

See, the plastic has worked its way into me.

I'm dead on top of dead on top of dead.

Friday, December 29, 2006

Pillow Talk

Was it then just the size of my cock? Or was there more?

It was the singularity. You lost that.

It wasn't the anal plateau?

Not with me. Perhaps it was with you. The things you were doing, saying. -

- the plastic got to me,

I'd say so.

What can I do?

Open up and give me what only you have - your thoughts, your feelings, your desires.

I want to fuck your sister Loubeena.

You are unique. How many men would fuck that cow.'

I would.

For me?

For me for you for Loubeena for fucks sakes.

I'll call her. No promises.

Fine.

You'd do that? For me?

You ever get these gut feelings?

As we all live daily a sausage of delusion, denial and mistrusts sensing the truth is a lost art.

Never mind knowing or telling. Some times you can only sense it.

Like climate change say. Don't know why it's happening or much care really, I sort of like it, but it is happening. I can sense it. It's around me. Happening.

I understand things on an entirely intuitive plane. I vote that way too.

Al-Jean wants to know my plan. I don't have one. Nor do I have a vision.

I have a gut feeling.

We're fucked. That's all. No biggie.

I do however need to rein in my consciousness as its power can point the course of events in unprecedented directions. I'm as much too blame for 9/11 as anybody. Doomed, me. I feel and I say it and the next day boom.

We used to fight

A lot. Now we don't.

We used to get into donnybrooks over the least thing. Like marble bread.

Shawnelle one night packed me marble bread sandwiches. I like normal bread, nothing fancy. Like my coffee, normal. And my beer. Normal.

The marble bread sent me. We had a screaming match later that week that escalated into a battle royale followed by the redemptive full on fuckout. That was the night Rothgar was conceived.

We'll be grocery shopping and Shawnelle will tease me with a loaf of marble bread and I just want to smash her in the face and then she slips me the tongue right there in the bun section and I melt all to hell.

It's not just her pussy, man. It's the whole fucking package makes me fucking nuts.

Thursday, December 28, 2006

Outside The Box Buried In The Permafuck

The continental shift breeds mental defectives and the emotionally skinned. Evidence. The family meal tonight. Everyone at table wanted to know what my big fucking idea fucking plan fucking notion and or fucking vision was for the plant after all my fucking whining as they see it.

I fucking exploded.

Find out what they want and get it to them with no fuckups when they want for the price you say.

It can't get any simpler than that.

But I screamed it. Shouted it. The hours of sleepless nights compounding out the goods the stuff the shit. The plastic living in your veins. AND SO nobody heard nothing in the metalism but the sheer drained fucking whacked and fucked over will of me. Never heard shit about the shit.

Never heard what I was saying. Look at you funny when they do anyway - when you make sense - so, what the fuck?

You know, like, the core is now outside the box buried in the permafuck.

I mean, fuck me.

You know?

Fuck. Me, really.

Seriously.

Stephora

I saw him coming. Al-Jean. Half newf half frog. Big pit bull head on the body of a chihuahua. Haven't really talked to him since I lost his travel brochures for sex havens within a days drive kinda shit I didn't ask for them he just gave them to me - Al-Jean is a dirtbag. Low down, mean, explosive. Near now five times he's been fired for almost threatening some fucktard or other. Just stand and get in their way with his arms crossed challenging any fucker he likes the bigger the better his rep hard won during some long ago bar fights some of which went on two days.

One that didn't last long: A guy came up behind Al-Jean's fiance Stephora - a real beauty too, over six foot him no more than five four A Greek-Swede. Big hairy blonde forearms.- grabbed her, kissed and hugged her.

Al-Jean didn't wait. Less than fifteen seconds later Buddy was simply waiting on the floor for an ambulance to return to consciousness only some four months later. Of course it was Stephora's brother. She killed herself around the time they split up. Al-Jean goes round telling everybody how devastating that was for him.

So, see I avoid him when I can. And I can't tell if he still holding a grudge, Don't much give a fuck either. He's an asshole.

What the fuck was that all about congratulating Dick in Charge after his morning shit?

Part of a plan.

Unless your plan is in part or all about getting dick in charge the fuck out I don't want to know about it. He's fucked. We're fucked. You better know that.

Well of course I know it you little dipshit.

Walking on, if we get wind you're kissing ass we'll kick yours. You will owe us that.

I'm not alone. Which scares me. I hate people. Generally and specifically.

Am I supposed to care? Just because we are all so fucked over I mean fuck, that's our commonality? Fuck that shit.

People give me shit. I take what I want. People looking for a return are lost.

I mean where do they get these ideas?

Voices in the morning

I came home from work this morning beat. Had a beer. Looked at some pussy on the net and then crawled in beside Shawnelle. She was naked as ever. I lay there with no energy to start anything. She rolled over and began giving me a tug and sticking her tongue in my ear smuttalking about how I'd like to fuck her little sister with her big fat boobs and big round fat ass and the like slipping from the erotolingua to some warped persona appropriation shit, Shawnelle is offering the real deal here, telestrating in Loubeena's voice and whispering all sorts of intimacies, little butt Shawnelle gets her little titties fucked by others why not you and why not me you know wally I've never had an orgasm with a man that bitch Shawnelle told you that I know that even though I asked her not to wally and she's told me about you and her and what you could do with your tongue on my big fat wide dark pussy -

Well I tripped into this heady space of ecstasy and exhaustion and emotional release. Not sure who said what I was hearing, but I heard it.

Timeout for talking

Dick in Charge took a timeout to talk to us. Not sure if it's a tactic or a hole in his personality, but the shit he spews, his perception and picture of things as they is, is fucked. Eleven key business elements based on flawed measurement and gooseshit visuables all contradictory and selfnegatory - I mean fuck.

Best would be if he's fucked. Just toss him. But if the Shit He Spews is working its way up the chain or is conversively working its way down the chain, that's the end of times for all of us and we may as well pack it all fucking in right fucking now and just begin fucking all the time which is kinda where I'm headed I'll tell you that.

He called us in for a timeout - lines down important shit look at me I'm the dancing fucking monkey man - at 7 am our last night in.

Torture is there just to keep you off balance as much as anything, give you a glimpse of their darkness. Animals of the forest shit, nothing more. This talk was an inveighing. shifting weight and work. Food Though. Feed Machine. Machine Like Work. Be Machine. Whatever.

Cause when you listen as I did, you realize they are scrambling, but not in a good way, like hamsters frying on a teflon treadmill, or at least Dick Van Dork is.

I like Dick don't get me wrong, I'm not. He is. Wrong. Wrong man wrong spot wrong time wrong wrong wrong.

There's three ways to consider the puke he horked at us:

Not at all. Like most. Let the colors and sounds lull you into a wakeful sleep. Tune out. Like it's your mother going on again.

Be attentive, yet confused, yet sure. Respect the Word of the Man because He is the Man and Its His Word. He has a position and a speech inpediment in that there is no impediment or constraint on his talking gums a flapping automatadata. It's the new way to get on in the world. Just open up your mouth and go. On and on. Up and up.

Or be right on the edge of your seat taking it in by looking at it all sideways. I always take my seat to the side. They don't like that. Any of them. Front row, back row. Preferred. Cheap seats. Seat selection by highschool personality grow ya dumb ass fucks.

Basically, when you take it in and let it swirl around the entirety of your being you come to know that there is on the horizon new levels of control, new tools of measurement, a new rigidity in thinking and foresight and for the most part this is exactly what's not needed.

I know what we need.

Not a second before eight o'clock. Dick wraps and asks, 'Any Questions?'

I says. "Dick, thank you for that. Going forward, this morning, each of us I'm sure will be reflecting on your words and bar graphs as we drift off to sleep, hopefully not . Next week Next Year. Your plan speaks to us, - I think I can say on behalf of at least some of us, if not most, too overwhelmed perhaps by the freshness of it all - us: what we need to do. It's clear. Thank You, Dick. Nice job."

Some stares, handshakes, happy new years, and bodies hurtling toward the gate at speeds unseen during the prior twelve hour shift.

I walked out kinda sad and slow. I can smell the end.

We're fucked.

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

The Anal Plateau

See, the way I grew up, you liked it clean or you liked it dirty.

Shawnelle was 31 when we met. I was 23. Within three minutes of our eyes meeting we were fucking. In a bathroom. At a party. We fucked without a break for about a month. We moved locations yeah sure. Ate. Used the can. But for the most part we fucked.

At the time Shawnelle was just coming off some hard ride she'd been on with a lawyer who worked for bikers. Kept wanting to tape her in a gangbang. The night we met her hair was completely shaved off. Of her head. Bald. Her pussy was this wispy blonde pixie dust cotton candy thing. Her head hair grew out over that month. Blonde.

My Life's Whore was an Angel. I won the lottery.

Our relationship grew. Sometimes they'll go backward these affairs. Slide from out of the box lust into something reserved shy conservative, tentative and retarded. A coma. still life sort of snap, of things.

For me and Shawnelle our desire was being drawn by the moon. And the stars. And the planets. We were hot for eleven years through kids and death and my shiftwork and her career as a practising psychic - most contracts with some fairly major metropolitan police forces. But what happened was we hit the anal plateau. Once we had done anal there was nowhere left to go. Maybe it was Mercury in retrograde. I'm not the one to ask.

Everything I know about sex and love I've learned from Shawnelle.

She was upfront. Out of the gate said 'I love cocks'. Plural. Men. Like snowflakes. No two were the same. She told me the faces were now vague but she carried an image of their cocks within her self. I was her second biggest. She was upfront. Some guy drove a cab she dated and lived with for a time. Cared for but didn't love. She loved me. Who knows.

More than The Midget even. Who was a spiritual life guide and friend to Shawnelle as much as he was a humping stumpy hornbag.

But now it's my turn to lead. Get beyond anal. Take it to the next level.

Monday, December 25, 2006

Plastic lives

The thing is, plastic lives. Somehow the people in charge of misinformation - whoever they are - I can't name names but I know they're out there - you know, THEM have got the world thinking that plastic is an inanimate object. Plastic is laying dormant. It's a fact. If the average temperature of the world goes up four degrees all the plastic in the world will begin to melt. A guy at work told me that. And I believe him. Why shouldn't I? If you have to believe in something why not believe in something that you can at least turn to your advantage. All the other shit that's fed at ya. Fuck me. I mean, really.

Who fucking knows? Right.

Well, I know.

If all the plastic in the world melts, all I know is they'll need more and better plastic. I've got a job.

And that's on the minds of everybody down at the plant. I mean we know it's coming. The change. Management has for years threatened us with the change or die scenario - Compete! Fuck You , - now they're not talking cause they know change is imminent and they is the ones that is about to have change thrust down their throats.

See the plastic isn't going to melt. It's going to shiftshape.

Plastic has its own intelligence. And it will soon be surpassing us. Not sure which way each of us is going - plastic and humanity - but I can see the merger just ahead. We do not yet know their purpose, Plastics. Assuming we will even have the nut to comprehend, then, when the what. Youse know. Or you will.

Or not. Beyond help. There now.

Fuck me.

We are all fucked. But you probably more than me.

I'll be okay. I'm loaded for bear.

Sunday, December 24, 2006

Not half bad?

Yeah, not half bad. Despite it all I fuck the most gorgeous creature on earth.

Can you say that? Fuck you can, you cunt.

Most guys meet my wife they get an erection. Doesn't matter who. She is boner city. She just has the smell, that look, that smile, that way - fuck me I'm fucked. Which, as I say, considering the way I see the world, it's a pleasure and a problem.

That she fucked another guy with my foreknowledge, consent, and encouragement - my fucking permission! yeah right! - gets me hard and breaks my heart.

That's fucking cornball country. But breaks my heart is it.

We are all fundamentally broken in some way. I got gears working against each other here.

So where have I been?

Hey, it's Christmas$. I've been busy.

Today, me Shawnelle and the kids went to visit my parents. They're fucking bizarre. Always have been, always will be.

Later, we got hammered. Spanish coffees, wine, beer - pot. We were over at 'friends' - ostensibly picking up an O - when M. in the cabana had a spazmo and his hip went out and I had to put it back in.

One of the dogs has arthritis. He's eating shark cartilege. Makes him puke. Running is bad for him, but still he loves to run. The pain - at what level does another being understand pain - I mean, it's pretty fucking obvious - an individual, a culture, a fucking society - pain looks the same.

There are different colors of pain. See, when you see that. Pain in all its splendid color, you are grateful. Some pain is blue. Mine is black.

Like oil. Which is the basis of plastic.

See, when you start seeing the world like this, you are fucked.

Every gain has its pain. My life is black.

You get used to it.

And it's not half bad.

See

You get inside things, they make you crazy. Color, for example. Shawnelle. To get insde and see the numbers, the code, the dna, the whatever the fuck, when you get inside things, and see the fucking structure of it, not of the thing, but of all the things and how they connect - you're fucked. I mean. fuck me.

To figure out Shawnelle. Fuck me.

Better chance at color. I've often thought that being color blind was the same as suffering from blind love. You know you start out and it's the full spectrum so to speak. Then: fifteen years, two kids, the fucking full weight of existence, and you're fucked.

That's what happens on the color table. When you look at color for fifteen years, you're fucked.

Plastic lives. You have no idea.

If you knew, and I can't tell cause all things considered, I've got a job, and how fucking good I am at my job - make no fucking mistake, I'm am the head crack in a crack team. We risk our lives 24/7 - explosions, death, fumes, mutilation, bad catering, mad fucking bosses - I mean fucking mad, insane over the moon fucking nuts in the fucking head idiots - but the one thingh we deliver on is 100% pure color plastic.

We have the machines to prove it. But more, we have the bullshit artists to explain it. I mean fuck me.

So it wasn't without some surprise that as a complete incompetent I landed a job beyond the reach of my skills. I'd seen it before. So have you. In yourself, you cunt.

Don't deny it brothers and sisters. You suck. Big Time.

And so does Shawnelle.

I mean I'm fucked bag deep in love.

Merry Christmas , babay

Shawnelle came back to me tonight. I ate her out. Big Time. God Bless!

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Think of the children

When Shawnelle left me on the weekend, she never took the kids. I just realized that now when I found that all my beers have been drunk and my smokes smoked. I just assumed they would go with her. Wherever she's gone. The boy's been downstairs watching TV for four days. Where the girl is I've no clue, but there's a note in her room asking me to pick up some condoms for her at the drug store. Fuck me. She's thirteen. You think she'd know better. Hasn't she heard of the pill?

Fuck me. I've never even spoken to my kids really on any level other than to say shut the fuck up and now I'm gonna have to...what? What does a parent do?

I'm fucked.

UPDATE: I just called Children's Aid to see if they would take them off my hands. Seems it doesn't work that way. There has to be some signs of neglect or abuse. Just a matter of time, then.

Changes are afoot

Change is as good as a rest. Someone sometime somewhere sad that. It's been one of the guiding principles in my life. That and you've only had eight beers it's okay to get behind the wheel.

I put it for a new job down at the plant. New to me. It's seen as the primo cushy job there by those that don't know.

Working the color table. Making the call on what's good and bad and making the adjustments.

I got the gig.

Odd part is I'm almost completely colorblind. We'll see how long I last. The last two guys to hold the position didn't last. Mysterious circumstances there on both. One may or may not have been a suicide. The other guy just walked out the door one night and never came back. Never went home either.

Thing is...they just saw way too much. When you get into that world, get into the color of things...you just may never come back.

Crop rotation

The Irish have to be amongst some of the dumbest people on the planet. Along with negroes, women, and the poor. And we have one down at the plant. A real one not like the faux fenians going with handles like O'Really and McDoodle whose forefolk left the emerald shit bog in the late eighteen hunderds cause they couldn't wrap their malt sodden imaginations around the complexities of an idea as simple as crop rotation.

Mick loves his mother, too.

Fortunately for me he brings his tea and spuds and occupies another lunchroom, working in another part of the plant where inattention to detail and monotasking are prereqs of the position and we only cross paths in the locker room where his inanities are generally ridiculed if not just completely ignored.

Mick got a lousy job review the other week and was complaining. Seems he was told he needed to be more selfish. Seems he's been spreading himself a little thin, helping out others when they're having a bad day. He sees this as part of human nature, being part of a team.

Like I said he just doesn't get it. Now he's all mad and offbalance and without even realizing it will sink himself further into the job. An angry worker is a productive worker. Add to that low self esteem and a need to please and you have employee of the month. GDP is a measure of the national level of of a people's compliance.

They may pretend to want team players, may say they want cooperation. But they don't. They really want a group of people that hate each other, fend for themselves, trust no one, and understand that they are daily in competition with their coworkers, creating an atmosphere of mistrust and blame-shifting where lies trump facts, obedience truth, and the subsequeous rule the day and get the prime shower times.

I'm just surprised that the company laid it out for him so honestly, so straight ahead. Maybe they themselves know he's that fucking stupid that the literal truth is necessary. Or maybe they're up to a new level of evil that I haven't sniffed out yet.

When I get called in and am given a stellar review I'll know something is up. Actually come to think of it my last review was stellar. And they held back my raise.

You just don't know with these people. And that's the real killer. Doubt.

But what other option is there? For me it's either the underworld or my current counter reality.

These are head spinning times, man. We're all Irish now. Time to think about crop rotation.

Monday, December 11, 2006

Fucking fucktards

Went in for overtime last night, not for the money, just to get away from things. Guys are talking about the new process engineer they hired. Wok Sum Dung or some shit like name. Chinaman. Just off the jet, all smiles and bowed good graces the cunning shite. Barely speaks a word of English. Fucking idiot, I say, and the fucktards go on about all the improvements he's making and how bright he is.

Fuck me.

Funny how racism works. Cuts both ways. All the fucktards think the guy is bright cause he's a Chink. Meanwhile I have to point out that China is a communist country. And do they think the communists are going to willingly let go of anybody with half a brain. No the Chinese sent this fuck on his way, sent him packing because he's a fucking idiot and if he did have half a brain they'd have kept him working on the bomb or some shit.

Like Castro. He's a communist. He let all the criminals leave Cuba for Miami.

People just don't fucking think.

Swinging

Like I said, you never know.

I threw it out there, the idea about going to a swingers club. To break the monotony. It had been two years since we fucked. Wasn't like I didn't want to. Shawnelle was the heroine of my every waking fantasy, part of my morning ablutions - shit, shower, shave, Shawnelle. It's just somehow we became like the friends of your parents, Cranky to each other, sleeping in separate beds and from what I read swinging often saved relationships made couples stronger. I didn't think about all that bullshit, I was just going with my gut. I wanted us to be like it was in the beginning. Wild, adventurous, open, together. Nothing we didn't try over the years. Maybe that was it. We'd done it all. Like a really good bender, there comes a time to stop, reflect and then quit.

We'd tried everything to fix things. Couples therapy and what not. The only thing that worked over the long haul though had been the fights. When we physically got into it. Threw shit, kicked, screamed and duked it out - fists and biting. We always ended up in bed all fucked out and laughing. But the peace bonds and restraining order put an end to that. Nosy fucking neighbours.

So when I threw it out there, it was a move of desperation, not knowing how she would react, not knowing what else to try. She snorted, squinted, turned her pretty little head asked if I was serious.

We went Friday night. To a swingers club about an hour down the highway just so's we wouldn't run into nobody we knew. From what I read about swinging it was all about trust and allowing other people to say no thank you. I didn't really see that as being a problem for me. I headed for the bar and Shawnelle went to mingle and flirt - troll. At the bar there was this hot little wop with large olive bazooms serving and I asked her where her hubby was, but she was just there to work.

I turned drinks in hand to go and find Shawnelle, and there she was introducing me to this other couple. My first thought was this ain't going to work. He was this geeky sort and so was she. Not Shawnelle's type for a guy. Nor mine for a onenighter, even with a twelve on board. But what the fuck. We had agreed to give this a shot. We were there for the experience, as a way to shock our system back into normal not to find long term friends. Reminded me of the early days when we use to role play. You know, go out and meet in bar and pretend we had never met each other and then head out back where I'd rape her in the back of the van. Fun shit like that.

We drove back to their house, an A frame in a subdivid, and sat around the living room under the cathedral ceilings breaking the ice and having drinks by a roaring fire, establishing a comfort level and living the cliche. I offered to roll a fatty but the guy seemed to be against that. Don't know what he did for a living but obviously he wasn't a cop. The awkwardness dissolved fairly quick just the same, at least for me and Shawnelle and me as we good body stone on from hash brownies we eaten in the Olds on the way down the road. They''d been doing this a lot, I'd a guessed, though we talked about everything but the fucking that was inevitably to take place. In fact the fucking had gone out of my mind really such was the atmosphere, like we were getting ready to enjoy a night of euchre They weren't trying to sell us on the benefits or shit although he did offer me a Viagra.

Somehow Shawnelle and the guy - Dave, I think, did I say that? - had separated themselves from me and the chick. Gone off to see the rest of the house. Her name was Debbie. She came and sat closer beside me on the couch. Everything I said made her laugh. I was on a roll. And when I get on a roll it's hard for me to stop.

All at about the same moment, she stopped laughing and began kissing my neck and nibbling on my ear. She put her hand on my crotch. And I heard Shawnelle. Coming from upstairs from an unseen loft bedroom. She was moaning. Things were underway.

I was rock hard. Debbie was really starting to get turned on by me undoing her hair from a bun and straddling me on the sofa telling me what a real man I was and the like.

And Shawnelle was upstairs moaning.

Suddenly I was overcome with regret. There I was with my tongue down the throat of a more than acceptable if somewhat conservative bit of tail, and I distinctly remember thinking to myslef, what have I done. Which is not normal for me. I normally never say that to myself till I'm in jail.

Shawnelle's moaning was at once turning me on and making me sick, like watching a cat get run over by a truck. I could tell she was really enjoying it and I could also tell by her moans that Dave was going down on her. There was a way she moaned then when I did that and only when I went down on her. And I'm not sure if she ever fucked around on me but I was sure that the way she moaned was reserved for me. Apparently not.

I didn't really have to imagine much, and when her moaning stopped after having arrived and his began all staccato oh oh oh like he was the stick boy in a stag scene on a bad sitcom, I concluded that she was now dick in mouth. She could work my cock for hours. Had a way of bringing me to the brink and back. And with him on Viagra I thought this may be a while.

I was doing my best to concentrate on Debbie. Grabbing her little ass and pulling her hair. But she kept talking. Fuck do I hate that. Shawnelle never talked. Neither did I. We only ever moved over each other without as much as a word. Worked on some level where communication was entirely physical.

And here was Debbie, talking.

I have to assume she was getting more turned on by her imaginings of what happening to her hubby than by me. God you've got nice big shoulders and your hairy chest and your strong arms and I'm thinking just shut the fuck up and trying to figure out a way to get out of this situation cause my hard on is receding the more this bitch yaks and I got gas and gotta take a shit and the idea of Shawnelle blowing some guy is no longer a fantasy, its real and all I want is to be at home with my wife like the way it was thinking this probably has broken the barrier for her and I'm ready to leave and Debbie keeps talking oh you have such nice strong hands not like Dave, oh really, Dave has tiny little hands, oh really - I mean obviously she really isn't into me as much as she's not into Dave.

I mean their wife swappers, something gotta be not right in their relationship. Like everything maybe.

I lift her back off me - at this point her blouse is undone and what was barely filling out and A cup has spilled out and are flopping there - I mean small tits is one thing, but small floppy tits like a bitch all milked out by her pups is another, and I say look, I gotta go to the can, but it's broken and I can't get Dave to do a thing round here and the pair of them upstairs are now humping and I can tell that Shawnelle is into this guy as much as she's into the fucking and I'm disgusted with myself and fell nothing but shame.

As my only means of escape I offer to fix her toilet. It's better back there. Away from the moaning. The can is just off the kitchen. Debbie offers to make tea. Funny how some women when they're rejected turn all servile. I threw down my bag of dope and told her to roll one. Go on, never mind thumb dick, I says and she does fumbling and giggling and sparks it up while I disassemble the tank and take the float out and begin to fix it on the counter where Debbie is now sitting cross legged and smoking up and all relaxed and laughing again at my dopey remarks and my mind is off the shit that's just gone down out there, up there, when just there, in the doorway to the kitchen, is standing both Shawnelle and Dave, all fucked out, both with the most disgusted looks on their faces, both of them saying almost at the same time and with the same level of contempt, what the fuck is going on here?

The drive home was silent, Shawnelle just staring out the window arms crossed. The only thing she said was a real indignant I can't believe you fixed somebody else's toilet when you won't even fix ours. I didn't really realize it just then but something had gone from our relationship for good at that moment. Normally I'd pull the car over after a remark like that and start beating the shit out of her.

But I didn't.

We got home and she went to bed. I looked at some zoo porn on the net had a drink and crawled in beside her. I put an arm around her waist. She removed it. Don't you ever touch me again, asshole.

Got up late Saturday morning. Shawnelle was gone. She left. She'd left before, many many times, but this time I knew it was for good.

I mean, fuck me. She was the only woman I ever loved.

Friday, December 08, 2006

Me

Turn on

Let's get one thing straight. I don't give a fuck about anybody else. And neither does anybody else. Give a fuck. About anybody else. Especially those cocksuckers that claim they do. They is the worst. Like fucking union guys. Out for them fucking selves

Besides that, Dick In Charge brought around the new head of HR. Middle aged broad. Degrees hanging off her like earrings. Perfumed so that it overtook the the smell of vent oil. I knew by the way she looked at me. By the way she offered her hand all extended like. By the way she smiled at me. Batted her eyeballs. By the way she said she knew all about me. She wants it in the ass. That or I'm fucked and out the door.

There's something in the air. Personably, I think she's there to clean house. The oldtimers talk about it. The purges. The way they bring in some cunt who's got no compassion. All head counts and redundancies. Gotta play my cards right here. Only the strong survive. Like I said, I only care about myself. You go to.

Maybe she likes head. I do. Maybe I gotta give a little.

Give her some names. Union organizers. Heads on a stick. Tongue to her.

Fuck she turns me on.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

All I can think about is food and sex

All I can think about is food and sex. I'm like some beast. Thing is, I'm not getting any of either. My life has been reduced to serial masturbation and instant breakfasts. And as with all things I blame life down at the plant.

I stand at the food machine and watch as the casseroles and days old buns go round and round. Not that I don't want food, I'm thinking about food all the time. I just can't find any. Like ass.

I see it. I see it all the time even when it's not right there in front of me. Every broad I run into, first thing that pops into my head, wonder what she'd be like, wonder what those are like, wonder what she likes to do, wonder if she'd like to do it this way or that way. Cashiers, cleaning ladies, school teachers, moms - doesn't matter. And although there's a kind of age bracket thing, it's ever expanding and I gottta wonder when is it gonna get scary or illegal. So far it's eighteen on one end and about sixty on the other.

I stopped off at the local to pick up some wings for the kids. The place was empty, save the three wait staff. On the drive home all I could think about was sex with all three of them. Separately, in three different places and times. So it wasn't one of those weirdo dreams. And I never touched a wing though they smelled awesome.

Or like, I was out front doing some fine carpentry on the porch the other day when this lady walked by. And I mean a lady. Class. Carrying library books. Neat as pin. Bit of money you could tell. She made a remark as she passed, asked something inane, do you enjoy doing that? Measuring shit and applying a controlled power? Yes I do.

Well, it's all I could think about for the next hour or two. Finery. Elegance. Her heady lust and my beastliness all over her. Imaging her in her town house, some classical music playing and me just going at it under the goose down on top of the fine threads. All tongue and growls and skilled hands.

Delusions of a beaten man.

See, the wife's continuing contempt has taken on a higher form. Hate. Full blown.

I hate my job. But I do my job.

My wife hates me, but she won't do me.

Won't feed me either. She's a good cook. I'm not. I know it's not the manly thing to admit these days but I have no interest in cooking. It's why I stopped hunting. I mean no point killing deer if you're not going to gut it and roast it. The fun goes out of the kill. At least take it down the butcher for sausage. Not that I expect her to cook, it's just she's so good at it. She has no interest in learning how to wire an outlet or hang a door. I respect that. Still.

And so I go without. Lunch for work is whatever is left over, forced down and for the most part thrown out. I spy the cornucopia of what the other guys get, and I have to admit I'm not the least bit envious. Food for me is now an abstract thought, a mental thing.

Something has got to break. This standoff has escalated into a dilemma.

Maybe I should bow to the reality, shave my head, declare myself celibate, and don some purple robes like them buddhist monks. I mean even with all the interent porn, I'm running out of spunkulus. And those monks look happy, laughing like they're on gas, every time any idea enters their crank they laugh it off. I got all kinds of ideas entering my head - apart from the food and sex - and most of them are rank fucking stupid. If I could just see that at the time. I never can.

And besides I gotta figure she's sizing up every guy she runs into. I mean she likes sex. A lot. Giving and getting. It's not something that goes away. And she's got a meaningless daytime existence, much like the rest of us. So I'm thinking I'm going to introduce the idea of going out to one of them swingers clubs. Or a have a swingers dinner party. Just throw it out there. No hints. Just lay it all out. Problem with that is it opens up all sorts of dangers and potentialities. One: who knows? I'm figuring there's no such thing as recreational heroin. Two: she might not like the idea.

You never know.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Safety Daze

The way I see it, putting yourself in somebody else's workboots isn't just good exercise for the toxic gray sludge under the hard hat - you know, empathy being a splint for the broken heart and a damn fine cauterizing agent for a mind bleeding like an open pipe - you also come to realize that you are not alone in your confusion, mental shortcomings, and perpetual suicidal ideation: there are others worse off than yourself. And if they're not thinking of killing themselves out of shame - if nothing else - they should be.

Here, of course, I'm speaking of management.

Seems injuries at work are on the rise. From my point of view there are two causes of injuries. Human carelessness. Or lack of decent engineering controls. There's also just plain bad luck, but let's leave the voodoo to my wife who is off to the psychic tonight for an appointment so it gives me three hours of peace and quiet and if not some rational time some time that is at least not completely fucking irrational.

Worst accident I seen happened some years back. A Newfie went and managed to lose his leg in an extruding plant. Dropped a cigarette into the mechanical flow of things, stepped into the unguarded and unforeseen nether regions. You know, places where you need to project using any tool from common sense to your imagination. A preheated aluminum bolt, the diameter of a telephone pole nearing 2000 degrees came down on his leg mid thigh, jamming the mechanism and putting a halt to production, not only on his line but plant wide as just about everyone downed tools and came by to see what all the screaming was about and then staying to watch the guy slipping in and out of consciousness pleading, crying, imploring, begging for someone to put a bullet in his head, put him out of his misery.

I went out to my car to oblige him - only had my crossbow, but what the heck - and ended up pucking my guts all over the paramedics as they hauled their stretcher in through the shipping bay.

No one should be made to see that level of trauma, let alone go through it. And never mind me, think of the guy caught in the machine. If I was that guy I'd want a bullet in my head. Or a gold tipped broadhead. Maybe years later I'd be glad I was still alive what with offtrack betting saving me hauling ass on public transit and video lottery terminals now in the hotels and even the most rundown strip joints with wheelchair ramps and all - yes, society has made some advances - but at that moment with my flesh cooking and my bones being turned to meal - I'd want out.

Wouldn't you?

Fortunately, things has improved industrial-wise. Most of the real bad injuries - like death - have been eliminated through off shore outsourcing and the like. We've exported a lot of pain to other places and other peoples. And I really can't think about that too much. My empathy isn't transfuckingnational. Besides, they're used to it.

And so when some schmo down at the plant got cut for fifteen stitches the other day, it was big news. Alarm bells went. Not literally, though there is a traffic light at the employee gate that goes to either yellow or red when an injury occurs, depending on what it costs the company in terms of lost time, outside interference, and liability, just so us children know, something out of the ordinary happened, a defect per million ops. Stray cow.

This was the fourth accident in four months. Never mind that one was on the whack piece machinery I screamed to the horsecock-sucking head of safety about as being a fucking hazard and was asked why I had to be so negative. No, let's fucking ignore that, I'm not the hero of this piece.

Let's not investigate the particular circumstances surrounding the incident. No, let's look at the statistics. It would seem upon doing so that the ratio between recordable incidents (injuries) and near misses (could have beens) was out of whack. It seems that if more near misses had been recorded there would have been less injuries. Right? That make some sense. Right? Corrective action and all that shit. Right? But that wasn't the point.

The point was we needed to increase the number of near misses to better reflect on ourselves as an organization. Four injuries and no near misses that won't do. Better if there'd been five injuries and a death as long as there were a couple of hundred near misses. This is the logic. I kid you not. May as well get the head of scheduling a deck of tarot cards and a dildo for the rest of her time.

And so a week long safety blitz was initiated, by she who loves horse more than men, where we were to record every near miss we witnessed. And, there was/is a prize involved. Personally, I wrote out as many as I could - most involving aborted post meeting suicide attempts - in the time available. I was told by Winny Von Dyke I wasn't taking this seriously.

I tried to see the world through her eyes. But my empathy isn't transdimensional.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Fuck Me. Again

I mean really. I'm fucked. Fucking guys at the plant. That run the show. Basically, in a nut, they're making us come in on our days off for fucking Nip based action workouts. Fucking kaizens. Attendance is mandatory. On your day off. And like they're doing you a favor they're offering up a free meal. Bowl of rice. And the fuck is that half the fucks are are buying into it. Fuck me.

Dick In Charge thinks we should care about our jobs. Says yesterday that we should fucking care enough to come in on our days off to work on things we can't otherwise when they is burning us out regular hours.

Caring is mandatory. How fucked is Dick in Charge to think that we care in the first place? Well of course he knows we don't care. That's why attendance on our day off is mandatory.

Fuck me. Used to be you could go to work to get the fuck away from things, like your fucking wife and screaming fighting kids - tie yourself up with some real problems that need solving and shit, get some shit done without being interrupted, just get on with it, without having to prove all the time that you fucking care, that you're fucking engaged, that you're fucking involved.

It's not that I don't care. It's just I'm fucking all whacked out from pretending to care. I really just don't fucking care anymore about caring, looking like I do, or otherfuckingwise.

Fuck me.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Out of time

It's March and I've burned all my holidays.

Fucking place drives me so nuts so much so often - I had to just get out of there for a while. So I took all my vacation time. Now. At this time of year. Not even the end of Q1 and I'm done.

Here's the thing. I just couldn't fucking stand another second in the place.

We work the continental shift. Which means 3 12 hour days on followed by 3 12 hour nights on followed by three days and three nights. Then they throw this short turnaround at you once a month where you finish up on a Monday morning at 8 AM and your back in 8 AM Wednesday for three more days.

Following that is your only real full weekend off over eight weeks. But by Friday you are so beat the weekend is just a fucking dead loss. You're too tired to drink, even.

And what's so tiring, so debilitating, so fucking annoying about those last three days is not the work - the sucking up of the fire retardants, the leeching of the pigmemts into your blood system, the torture of the ceaseless noise - even hearing protection can't prevent the pounding your soul takes - even in the oasis of the lunchroom the hum of the shitty fridge and the flourescent lights just fucking gets to you and the scraping of chairs bouncing off the concrete walls, yahoos snorting and coughing, microwaves buzzing and beeping - no it's not really any of that.

What really gets to you on that last Friday are the fucking meetings. Management in their infinite fucking wisdom decide that Friday is a good day to hold meetings. Round tables, crew talks. And you sit and listen in awe. Jawdropping fucking awe.

I'm not in the mood for days during thr week. Some dimbulb in khakis coming out on the floor and exposing his ignorance to you by offfering up the solution to a problem that does not even exist. Suggesting you do something that you already do anyway.

And you realise these fuckwits haven't got a fucking clue what the entire enterprise is about, and that they are in charge.

I could become a trained killer easily. Six days of work in seven days, without time to take a shit in your own toilet at home and I'm ready to behead a monkey. Why a monkey? Because that's what everybody is at that point. Fucking monkeys. Saw my own head off.

And the problem with the meetings is not that Dutch Boy gets up and says we need to do more - nah that shit gets you mad, fer sure, but that's not it. What really gets to you is when they say we have to work smarter. Like they'd know or recognise smarter. We need to begin to measure ourselves. We need to learn to set goals.

And meanwhile you are just fucking physically metally emotionally hanging on by a thread. Goals. If I could set fucking goals why would I be working in plastics factory? Why would I be out of holidays before Easter?

And next week is March break. And I'm on nights. And the kids are home. And I'm sleepping all day. And the wife is working. And I much prefer that hell than the hell of three weekdays in the hole.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Locker Porn

Best part about guys coming in from other crews for overtime is that you get to see the naked broad pinups in their lockers. Every guy has some sort of pinup. Topless, page three, gash. I don't. I'm just too old and my eyes are just too awful.

But when a guy who you don't work with comes in it's a bit a of a break to see some fresh quim.

Sounds decidedly sexist pig like.

And I could say yeah well fuck it.

But there's more to it than that.

Beautiful naked women are beautiful. And my world is damn ugly. Why shouldn't I be able to add a little beauty to it.

You have no idea how fucking ugly my world is, my working world. It's starts about a mile before I get to the plant and it gets worse and worse and worse.

Grease, dust, piping, blue and yellow paint, dented tin walls. One time last summer during a slow period we were made to paint the equipment. Just because. I decided to add a little artistic touch, mixing a bit of yellow and blue, and ragrolling this egg-shaped dust conveyor.

Of course it was a wonder I wasn't fired. I wasn't even made to paint over it. I think for the uniform mind of a lot of the cocksukers there, it heightened the ugliness of the place. People like to wallow in it you know.

So back to the naked women. It's funny. At various parts of my life I've been turned right the fuck on by various parts of a women's bodies.

Legs. Ass. Tits. You know the big three.

Tits have been a constant with me. Ass and legs less so. But still.

There have a times also been other odd parts that have inexplicably given me a jones.

There was this one girl one time who's neck just sent me over the moon. Her neck. And she was pretty, with a great rack, long pins, and a bucket from heaven.

But her neck just sent me.

Go figure.

But now I'm getting old and I can look at women more objectively. You know, with some distance, not get all randy, judge a woman as a package, the sum being greater than any part.

Who am I kidding. I barely have the energy to raise a johnson let alone whack off.

And we got some hot young babes down at the plant. Students.

I wish I was nineteeen in some ways. Just to feel that rush again. That constant instant hard-on.

But no. All these babes and they just don't do anything for me. I'm bemused at best.

Until this morning. But what a mind fuck.

There this young girl, straight off the farm, really pretty. I talk to her and goof off with her. I'm older than her dad. Who I know. Which kind keeps me in check as well.

I was standing at the window this morning looking out over the lake as the sun was rising. She suck up from behind. We started yakking.

The spot is the quietest part of the plant. We shot the shit. About sunrises, being up all night. How weird it made you feel, how you didn't know most of the time if what you were seeing was real. It would be like drugs but you just wanna lie down and go to sleep, more than anything.

I'd never noticed before how beautiful her eyes were. Blue. Light blue, sky blue. We talked and talked for what seemed like an eternity. I kept staring into her eyes. And she - being this sort of naive open trusting direct young thing - was just looking at me, straight ahead.

And I got a boner.

Never happened to me before in my life. Never really noticed how beautiful a woman's eyes could be. Never got a jones looking into the eyes of girl unless it was just a place to put them while avoiding her gaping cleavage or imagining what her wet cunt would feel like.

You grab what you can at the plant. Little slivers of beauty.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Here we go again

Jesus, it's back to the plant tonight for three nights of Khandahar-On-The-Lake.

Fuck me.

What to expect?

Oh it'll all be different this time. Something interesting might happen.

Like the place might blow up. Someone might get killed.

Hopefully it won't be me.

Fuck am I depressed. Just thinking about the next three nights and how they'll just be knocked
from my life.

Well, at least I'll be out of the house. Won't have to listen to everyone screaming at me - You're a failure! A loser! Can't you make more money?

No. This is it. It's all you get kids. Eat your mac and cheese and shut the fuck up. It's good for you. Brain food.

Fuck me.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

Tired

Give you an idea of how tired you get after a week of work.

First off, we worked six shifts in seven days. Three twelve hour nights, a day off, and then three days.

By the end of yesterday you're just hangin'.

It's not your body. That's tired. It's your brain.

There was an article on the internet the other day about how sleep deprived people are about as functionally capable as drunks.

I've been drunk and sleep deprived and you'd rather have me on the road with a load of beer in my gut than face me coming head on after night two of three.

What cracks me up about that is they could have come to me and I could have told them that. The people that run the internet And everybody is all over it. Makes me bitter.

I could have told you that, you dumb fucks.

You didn't know?

That's why I started writing this shit. Get it out there. Make it available.

It's plain to me that the people of this world are plain fucking stupid and that I could fucking act as a kind of maven or opinion leader somehow.

You wake up tired and you're woozy.

What, you didn't fucking realize that? Just come to me, I'll straighten you out. I'm out there on the edge it seems. Leading the way. Follow me into the darkness, o ye of little gray matter.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. An example.

I just went to have a sip of coffee from my mug. I brought the coffee to my lips and it all just poured down my front and all over the keyboard and my shirt and shit.

I'm pretty sure the mug was to my lips, that my mouth was open.

When it all spilt, I thought for sure there was maybe a crack or a hole in the mug. Nope.

That's what life is, a series of dumb fuck illusions. I guess. You gotta think that way elsewise you go insane.

You see people with shit spilt down their tops're probably working shifts.

Dumb Cunt

The Dumb Cunt That Drives an Hour and Half Each Way to work told me he was listening to public radio on the way in the other morning. Polar bears, they've discovered, dead ones at that, are filled with fire retardant. Implying that there was some sort of connection. Between FR and dead polar bears.

Fucking communist.

FR. Same shit we breathe in on a regular basis down at the plant so your computer doesn't go shazzam when the fucking internals overheat and the screen melts.

He had some notion that the fire retardant had entered the food chain. Like the bears are eating plastics workers. Or plastic fish. Or plastic at the dump. What do they call it? Seepage? Leakage? Leaching?

Fuck, who cares.

You die of cancer or whatever. It's not like anybody's offering up immortality.

You don't think if they would if they could. Get people fucking working forever.

That's only reason the company wants you to retire. So you're not puking up your lungs on their site. That and because you've just gone too fucking stupid in the head.

So the Dumb Cunt's all worried about cancer meanwhile he drives home mornings an hour and half after a twelve hour night shift. That, and he listens to public radio.

Not sure if you're stupid coming into the place or the place heightens your stupidity.