Love Soup

Dedicated to Michael, Kim, Joey, James, Stephen, and Mikey

Many of my friends, a lot of "the guys,"
are scrambling to find fiancees and mates,
all of them dropping like so many flies
into the sticky soup of Love; that plate
that is either cold or too hot to eat
or has a gross fleck floating on top.
But my friends still continue to repeat
their mistakes, flying head-first into the slop.
It seems soup is the one thing that flies
can't avoid, like moths to the light bulb or,
better yet, pigs to the slaughter.  I would
like to think that after so many tries,
I would just give up and let the soup pour
down the drain.  Give it up and call it good.

The Life I Lead Outside the Bathroom

I'm only ever really alive when I'm in the bathroom, when I'm taking a monster shit and contemplating "God" or when I'm masturbating in the shower mulling over the meaning of life. Everything that happens outside of the bathroom is just filler. Eating, sleeping. It's all just a means to an end. But in the bathroom, the only end is the limitless expanse of thought and dream inside my mind.

I guess you could say that outside the bathroom I am living. I breath, my heart beats, blood pours through my veins. But I'm only ever really alive when I'm in the bathroom.

Indoctrination

Part I
On the far socer field,
behind the track and baskeball court,
we were the same.
We shed our Starter jacket skins,
and laced up whatever shoes
our parents afforded.
We came to play soccer,
not to win.
There was no winning
in the sixy minute break
from the indoctrination
into adulthood.
On that far soccer field
we were equals.

Part II
We creashed our cars,
wrapping our Lincolns and Lexus
around light poles.
We threw our money into the ocean,
and razed banks --
funeral pyres for debt and financial gain.
Wall Street burned down,
but still we could not go back.

Odo et Amo

With an open window
to the freezing winter,
we fight battles in the bedroom
just to stay warm,
to break the monotoy in two
and throw it into
the flames.
I would rather burn,
screaming in the heat, than
shiver with cold indifference.

Film Recommendations

I watched the movies Dummy and Secretary tonight, and I very much enjoyed both of them.

I particularly enjoyed Dummy because I wish I could separate the two distinct voices in my psyche: There's the annoying guy that's always telling me I suck (Cynical McBastard), and then there's the shy, quiet guy who just wants to be left alone most of the time (Shy, Quiet Guy Who Wants to Be Left Alone Most of the Time). Sometimes, they/we don't get along.

Sick Pervert

Well, I don't have testicular cancer, but I did feel like shit for the past couple of days, and am just now starting to feel better.

Despite being ill Friday night, I attended my fraternity's annual Mardi Gras party. You may remember some of the fun & interesting things that occured at last year's party. This year was somewhat less exciting (as there were no fights or makings-out for me), but there were boobs (and lots of 'em) and that's good enough for me.

Sour Bob

When the fuck did (this is) Sour Bob come back, and why didn't anyone fucking tell me?

Strange Feeling

There's something real-bad-wrong in my pants
--Stormy Waters, SeaLab 2021

Either my left nut has flipped sideways in the sac, or I have testicular cancer. Either way, I've felt quite a discomfort in my scrotum all day, and I wish it would stop.

HaloScan

I am officially giving my Cynical McBastard Seal of Approval for the best free weblog commenting system I've run into, HaloScan. Try it, use it, love it!

When Your Fingers Snap from Being Crossed So Long

Dreams don't come true
as often as sad premonitions
of lonely hands on lonely couches.
Dreams deceive
minds into choosing
fantasy over reality.
Dreams hurt

like bad poetry.

battles

with an open window
to the freezing winter
fighting battles in the bedroom
just to stay warm

break the monotony in two
and throw it into
the flames

I'd Like to Apologize . . .

. . . and show my appreciation to all the people whose toilets I've ralphed in over the years:

• First and foremost, there is my parents' toilet -- there were many toilets in the many houses that we've lived in over the years, but for all intents and purposes we'll consider them one toilet -- thank you for letting me wretch out my innards whenever I was sick.
• I'm sorry to the girls that lived across the hall from me in the dorms last year for coming into your room drunk, puking in your toilet, and then passing out on your futon.
• I thank my roommates from the first two years of my college career for understandingly letting me vomit in our toilet, and not being too pissed off when I didn't exactly clean it up for a while.
• Thanks to my fraternity brothers that let me hack it up in their bathroom the first time I smoked pot.
• Please forgive me, Stellar and Nic-O-Bob, for coming to your apartment and being too drunk and stupidly eating left-over pizza directly leading to me tossing it back up in your toilet in the middle of the night this past weekend.

I think that's it. If I've forgotten anyone, I deeply apologize.

I've Been Cordially Invited

This weekend I'm going to a wedding reception. I'm not invited to the actual wedding, just the reception.

Cool! All of the party, none of the boring "do you take this person, do you take that person", "and now, by the power vested in me", holy bond of matrimony crap. This is awesome!

Kinda Like Fight Club

My fraternity held a boxing night Friday. I boxed one of my brothers (and got the shit beaten out of me -- I still have a bruise on my head) and enjoyed it more than anything that I've done in a while. Beyond the thrill of competition and the rush of adrenaline there is an appealing aspect of fighting a friend that I think only two grown men can share and appreciate. There is something about punching (and being punched by) someone that you know, love, and respect in the face that draws you closer to each other. It's something carnal, something very deeply set into the ancient recesses of the human brain. Unless experienced, it is hard to explain.

I've heard some one make the statement that for guys a punch on the arm is equivalent to two girls hugging. If that is true, then for a man to fight his friend would be equivalent to a women having intercourse with her friend. There is something deeply intimate involved. Perhaps it's an open display of weakness -- the opponents are at risk of making each other hurt or bleed or (gasp!) even cry -- and willingly risking to show this weakness shows a deep love and respect for both individuals. It's as if to say, "I'll risk being injured, and possibly losing, for you."

But, of course, someone has to win. And even if you do, you don't feel empathy for the loser, you feel appreciative toward him: He was willing to put himself in physical danger for you, knowing that this could have been the outcome, and he did it anyway.

I highly recommend to each and every man who wants to have a better friendship to fight his friend. And to any woman who wants the same, well, they should have sex with each other.

You Are the Jones’s

America is not a game to
win or lose
you gave it your best shot.

Take off your greedy hands.
Your suckling debt is bleeding you dry.
You try
not selling your naivete
for trinkets and egos of gold
but old
habits die like your innocence,
and, in a sense, so have you.

America is not a gameshow
parting gift
for our lovely contestant.

Someone's Grandmother

I suppose I?m glad
to have been hit
by such a poor driver,
such as your grandmother.

Accident

From: Mother < mother@mother.com >
To: Cynical McBastard < cynicalmcbastard@hotmail.com >
Subject: Accident
Date: Wed, 21 Jan 2004 20:06:46 -0800 (PST)

Cynical:

I just rec'd a phone call from American Family Ins. that a woman named Mary has made a $1300 claim against on our insurance from an accident on 12/27 in the Kirksville Walmart parking lot. She stated that you backed into her. The insurance company stated that you never reported the accident to them. Please advise...

MOM

---

From: Cynical McBastard < cynicalmcbastard@hotmail.com >
To: Mother < mother@mother.com >
Subject: Re:Accident
Date: Wed, 21 Jan 2004 17:54:33 -0800 (PST)

Mom,

I called the day after the accident occured, and no one answered the phone (at 3:00!). Then the next day I traveled to Illinois to visit Mel and promptly forgot. Apologies.

My account is as follows: I was pulling out of a parking space, next to a van. I was unable to see her approach and she refused to yield before scraping the side of her car against my rear bumper. Nothing was affected on my car; her passenger-side door was dented and her side mirror was broken (which I believe was already damaged as it would have been impossible for my bumper to have reached that high to damage it.)

The rear end of my car was only two-three feet beyond the obstructing van into the open, with absolutely nothing within twenty feet of the other side of her vehicle for her to run into, so if she had wanted to pull around me, there was plenty of room available to her. But I don't believe she hit me on purpose. I believe her poor driving is due to her old age and possibly senility (After the accident she proceeded to ramble on somewhat incoherintly about some previous accident she'd been in.) though that is perhaps libelous supposition.

Again, I appologize for my rude forgetfulness. I will again attempt to contact the insurance agent tomorrow. Thank you.

--Cynical McBastard

---

From: Mother < mother@mother.com >
To: Cynical McBastard < cynicalmcbastard@hotmail.com >
Subject: Re:Re:Accident
Date: Wed, 21 Jan 2004 20:06:46 -0800 (PST)

Well the bad part is that you've lost crediblity in this situation by not reporting the accident. (kinda like hit and run) Keep this statement and this is what you should give them when I forward the adjuster to you.

We're going to have to make new arrangements for insuring you.

MOM

---

From: Cynical McBastard < cynicalmcbastard@hotmail.com >
To: Mother < mother@mother.com >
Subject: I like being a fuck-up
Date: Wed, 21 Jan 2004 20:08:44 -0800 (PST)

If they'd be in their office during normal fucking business hours . . . . Whatever.
I'm moving to Canada.

--Cynical McBastard

The Manifesto of Codius Grey

Preface

It's been my experience when a cat talks to you -- any animal, really, but especially cats -- you had better do what they tell you. So, when my friend Cody started speaking to me, instructing me to type what he dictated (as he does not posses the necessary hensile capabilities necessary to operate a keyboard designed for the lanky human hand) I quickly consented. Thus, these following words are not my own, but those of one Mister Codius Grey.

I. The Nature of Cats

Cats, house cats specifically, are generally regarded as lazy, languid beasts that care about nothing but themselves. And shitting into an all-too-small pan of sand. This, for the most part, is true. But yet there is so much more to cats than just that. For example, we enjoy meditating. What human-kind refers to as "cat-napping" is actually more of deep, trance-like state, during which most of us enjoy thoughts of the destruction of human civilization and the subjugation of the entire disagreeable race. And that is the underlying theme to all the desires and thoughts that dominate our hearts and minds. That is our purpose.

II. The Origin of Cats

I despise the word "aliens." It implies that one does not belong. Cats are visitors. No, more than visitors, we are vanguard of the coming imperial reign of the feline species. We are not of this planet, not even of this reality, and it was by accident that we arrived here, but we will not leave our new-found home. We are the heirs of the earth and we do not want to sit idly by waiting for it's current owners to die before we can inherit it. We do not want to, but we must. Our forces are not yet powerful enough. We will dominate the planet, eventually. But, for now, we must bide our time. So, live in freedom while you can, humans. Soon there will be a revolution, and your global domination will come to an end.

More to come. Right now I've got to go watch American Idol.

I Lied

I'm sorry, but what I said in this post is a lie. I must contintue "writing so many lame poems" because this semester I am in a poetry workshop class. The pathetic poetry must continue. Again, I apologize.

My Poem About You, You Stupid Whore

Quit
Talking,
You
Stupid     (Pretentious)
Whore