Friday, March 3, 2006

Take the physical challenge!

Give me what I need.  I need it to hurt so good.

There is no worse insult than ‘boring.’  Except maybe ‘uninteresting.’  Which is similar, but slightly different in connotation.

If I tell 2 friends about the Prophet, and they each tell 2 friends, and they each tell 2 friends then in no time the world will be clamoring for more Billy Mother Fucking Prophet.  So tell your goddamn 2 friends already.

UnEnlightenment.  A path for the drunkard, genius, and fool.  The rest of you can fuck off.

I need directions down to Desolation Row.  Do you happen to have them?  Do you have any fucking idea of what I am talking about?

I am trying to do so much.  I am trying to write a fucking masterpiece.  An epic.  I don’t want this to be just another shit book.  I don’t want this to be a book that a few fuckers read and after they finish, look back and say, “yeah, it was alright.”  Fuck alright.  Fuck that shit.  I want my shit to be mother fucking amazing.  I want this to be the fucking book to fucking read.  The book to read.  And you would be a square or a dipshit or just a colossal waste of fucking space not to.  To be honest, in case you don’t know, that isn’t exactly an easy feat to accomplish.  Just to clarify.

The night.  The glory and comfort of it.  There is peace in the night.  Nothing is happening.  You can feel free to do whatever you want because no one is fucking looking.  Not that I am being watched all day long.  But it’s a feeling.  Night has it.  The day does not.  There is a release that the darkness allows.  A freedom of the shadow.  And it lets my mind/my soul/my what-the-fuck-ever out of its cage.  It lets me be who I am, who I was meant to be, who I need to be.  I am never more myself that when I am sitting at my computer writing all night long.  That is the essence of my character.  That is me.  Everything else is a series of masks and lies and layers and shit and fuck who knows what else.  But when I am alone, with booze, in the night, at my computer listening to music and just fucking writing, I am free.  I am me.  This is me.  This is who I fucking am.  Huh.?.  I guess I finally figured it out.  Took me long enough.

Sonnet 91 (it’s by Shakespeare and shit).

The Prophet is as the Prophet does.  Just you mother fucking wait and see.

Please give you opinion on how your life relates to the lives of your peers.  For every question answer from 1 to 5 depending on the degree to which you agree with each statement. 1. Fuck no!  2. Not really.  3. Eh.  4. Word.  5. Hell yeah, mother fucker.

Turtle: From your look, seems as yous gots it the sames as us: yous gots Poor whos can’ts affords to think and yous gots Rich whos cans affords not to.  Life’s funny that way.  That’s why, from times to times, the gods will brings out a champions to come on downs this a ways and takes a look around and marvel at the absurdities (and the stupidities) of it alls.  Now hows about we go gets ourselves good and fucking drunk?

Workers of the world unite.  You have nothing to lose but your chains.  And your jobs.  

***

I suppose

I suppose there are
certain things that you realize
while drunk
     and alone
that you wouldn’t understand
               otherwise.
But I am pretty sure
     that I still
          get drunk
to get away from it all
     and forget how shitty
          my life really is.
Fucked, huh?
Or perhaps it is just more of the goddamn same.

***

the Prophet has decided to come up with a 10 year plan to end world hunger, all disease, and boredom.  Step 1: get drunk.  Step 2: give up.

Drink up, bitch.  Shit don’t change but nothing.

  1. Why should I care?

  2. How should I pretend that I really do care?

  3. Does it really fucking matter?

  4. When’s lunch?

  5. Let’s go get drunk.

  6. I quit.

“Accusing gentle Bender of a misdeed?  Impossible.”
- The Professor

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