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It is propaganda time. It is propaganda time. It is Propaganda; propaganda; propaganda, Prropagandaaaa thyyyymmmme.

“What’s the subject to day, good sir?”

Outwofar chimes in with a little Dick Tracy voice, “Well Johnny, I suppose we should have chat about the “sish.”

For all you younger noders think sin city when referencing the D.

(Outwofar dances in chair like a young drink slut before acting as if he pulled his neck muscles. Rubs his neck furiously. )

“Maybe a little too much D that time.”

AH. The D,

Can’t do too much without, out you.
Love,

Mr. Johnny Fingaz

P.s. My desire grows until it over flows the surrounding banks, and raises ranks and over takes tanks.

(Mr. Fingaz hands the mic to Outwofar)

“No thanks, I have my own problems to spank. Plus, your allegory stank like it was coming from the flank. Is that all you can make. I hope it is just a prank. No matter the skank, no matter the frank, a wank is just a wank. All fake. That is the shake, no shank. No spark yet, you crank and you crank. So, here mate just walk the plank until your ankles clank. Go find a plug so you can come out of the dark.”

(Mr. Fingaz picks up the mic outwofar dropped.)

“There you have it folks, never play with a shark. There bite will leave a mark.”

Sorry, sorry, I just have to be fair. I don’t really care, but a dare is a dare; and comments they come in a pair. Tit is an exchange, like the right and then the left, just as if you must have both eyes for a blank stair case.

Moreover, two eyes in a wink.

Remember a one-eye man can only blink very slowly to show intention.

Knowledge is power, my friends.

Some Friday the thirteenth super stitching going on. Want a joint end?

Anything sowed into your brain while you were unaware, a twisted vision from the awaiting body of a demonic soul?

What the fuck are you talking about?

Oh, you know what I am talking about, Mr. fingaz.

I am talking about talkin’ to those who are talking, they have no reason to be talking yet they keep talking. That is what I am talking about, what you talkin’ ‘bout?

“H-
Uh”
“I
Suppose
It was
Nothing.”

Fucking.
Insolence.

Pride or haughtiness manifested in contemptuous and overbearing treatment of others; arrogant contempt; brutal imprudence.

Which basically means, when someone says I am better than you even without saying it directly.

Like when religious people do not accept homosexuality into their community even though they have gay sex regularly.

It is like saying, “You didn’t care to address a certain issue I found important within the first 15 minutes of your documentary Mr. Gore, so I decided to stop watching it.”

That is pretty fucking arrogant (having or revealing an exaggerated sense of one's own importance or abilities) and showing no respect (contempt) to “Mr.Gore”, if you ask me. And if it was the same Al Gore that I am thinking of would you have still phrased your comment in such a manner?

“Gee. When you put it that way, maybe I was a tad insolent, and honestly, I don’t have to consider the “tone” of any of my previous messages to understand the behavior I expressed was rather immature and deserving of any backlash. Perhaps next time, I will just keep to myself any criticism if it is not going be delivered in a positive way.”

Precisely my point, you never cared about the response of other person, you were only interested in flagellating others; not even Dawn dish soap can get things that sparkly clean.

Let us take this back a step though, Religious Homosexuality.

Pakistan might not be as porn crazed as fox news as reported, I do not know if the stats were adjust for per capita ratios. The reality is reality, Pakistan porn searches would be of the smuttiest of smut to those in Pakistan, and it just goes practically UNREPORTED.

Until Now.

I mean, these men are lewd by their own standards, the things they do REGULARLY in private are considered obscene. I am jumping to conclusions, but if it is just a curiosity why the trend on google? Could it be because male on male sex is widely accepted in these secular nations yet it is unspoken rule to keep their raging desires a secret?

I don’t know, but it is interesting though. I don’t suggest openly gay Mexican males JUAN-during over there without a personal firearm, government issued or not, I think they have some unresolved issues.

Ok, fine, back to the point.

The same problem presents itself with different issues, like with muggings at knifepoint in the United Kingdom when compared to the impervious Japanese nation.

For that matter, any statistic when compared against Japan. What the fuck is up with this country? IS there something in the water they are drinking or perhaps the soil?

And don’t say it is the radiation, we have radiation all over New Mexico. New Mexico also has natives connected to their ancient heritage as well, so what the fuck is up, man?

I am not saying I hate New Mexico. Completely. The mountains are beautiful.

I also had Colon cancer, I drank the water, now I am cured. It also could have been the special brownies I made, not officially saying which one did the trick, all I know the Doc has been tracking my nodes, and everything looks positive.

I kid. As I write this, the only colon trouble I have is in my writing.

When someone is talking to you because you were talking to them, why do you turn around and ignore them?

Do you have Alzheimer’s?

Are we talking about hash?

Oh yeah, The Peppermill in Las Vegas has the best hash ever. It is fucking delicious; with some concentrated marijuana, it cures hangovers.

Today was an alright kind of day.

 

Mother is moving house, and I'm playing the part of the hired muscle. It's mostly moving boxes to a storage unit downtown, but it also includes some (unpaid) sorting and digging trough my childhood cargo. I lived on and off every other week moving from her to father for many years, so it was always one of "my rooms". This leads to there being more than a few old treasures and buried memories lodged in boxes, heaps of papers, in the bookshelf or in the bottom of drawers.

 

The process of sorting out what to keep and what to discard from my formative years is not an especially easy one for me. I've never been exceedingly tidy, and any kind of system to organize always ends up as disused as the articles it is intended to plot. How many old school papers do I keep? I certainly want to keep some of the short stories that got good merits. Notebooks half filled (always half filled. Never cover to cover, for some reason) with ideas and plans I can still recall the purpose of. Travelogues and souvenirs from mine and others' travels. Plastic doodads that recall some or other situation...

 

Seeing as I'm neither tidy or blessed with great situational memory, these items all work as memory keys, triggering a cascading sequence of sights, sounds, smells and situations. I am of a mind to catalog and image everything, store it somewhere digitally and recall it at will, but I know that would probably take too much time, and lose me the kinesthetic factor of many of the items.

 

I have less than a week to finish the job. Some things are easy to ditch, like gifted childrens or young adult books I've never read or intended to read. My manga collection can be gifted to a budding japanophile I know (excluding the AKIRA-book) and most of the cartoons go into a separate pile. I haven't decided what to do with those..

 

Let's talk about old birthday cards. I almost always keep them, and seeing them again after many years is both melancholic and pleasant. In times where depression takes most of the emotional energy I'm alotted each day, seeing kind words and the signatures of family and friends living and deceased is nostalgic. But also pleasant. It's an anchor that keeps who I am today, connected with who I was then, and who they were.

 

I'm beginning to see why the self storage business is one of the fastest growing. I also know that I'm unable to keep everything indefinitely unless I do follow through on making some sort of intelligent thingspace to store everything both physically and digitally.

 

Sigh. For a first personal daylog, this isn't much. Vote me up or down as you feel, I have no illusion that this is good. If you have pointers on what parts could be omitted or rewritten, I'm open to feedback. Even nuking, if this is really that bad.

3/3/15. {Insert number of years} and my life is still / trying to get up that great big hill....

Apologies in advance for this meandering stream of consciousness.

This daylog is my 700th node. I'm officially entering the 700 Club, which is perhaps like the mile-high club, but without the definitive conclusion. This is especially important to people who give special significance to numbers evenly divisible along a base ten number system. So the question of the day remains.... What's going on?

Well, I learned that the reason your microwave oven notoriously leaves cold spots in your food is because microwaves really do come in waves. Think sine waves, with the low points being the ones not getting any energy distributed to them, and so not cooking. But even more importantly, I learned that a grape can destroy your microwave. Seriously, if you have a spare microwave oven and want to see it go up well, slice a grape nearly (but not all the way in half, leaving a bit of skin connecting the two halves. Put it in the microwave split-side-up and let run. The concentration of microwave energy all going into that little grape will cause the tenuous connecting grape skin to explode into a ball of plasma, the fourth state of matter.

In celebration of these fun facts, and today's and other like-minded milestones, I have decided to return to node auditing in the near future. And for that, TheDeadGuy and Transitional Man are in the queueue. I node-audited jessicaj a while back, but am going to go through those again as well. Blessings, all!!

Poor girl.

Since her surgery she hasn't been able to do much of anything except lay in bed, miserable, watching episode after episode of some damn show that I can't bring myself to get into. I know that it is incredibly popular among women, but the political agenda is painfully clear after only a few seconds of listening while I brush my teeth. Gun control. Jesus Fucking Christ. Why can't they stick to gay marriage, abortion, and marijuana? Things I'd actually support.

She hasn't been able to cook our paleo menu and I'm way too fucking busy so we've both kinda accepted that our hugely successful weight loss program will just have to be put on hold until she can get back in the kitchen. Til then I guess we'll be eating out quite a lot.

Coming back from a breakfast that was anything but paleo, I stopped at a gas station to pick up some smokes. Newports, please. Shorts. Yeah, the green ones. Do people even smoke the red ones? Fuck that, at $7 a pack if it isn't menthol why not buy Pall Malls or Winstons? I leave her in the Sequoia to go burn one, my first of the morning, around the side of the gas station because there is NO SMOKING ALLOWED WITHIN 25 FEET from the propane tanks in their cage by the ashtrays at the front doors of the convenience store.

Standing in the little-used rear driveway of the station I am staring down at my phone, checking my emails and browsing the news while I smoke, and I can see, peripherally, a vehicle approaching so I quickly hop over to the curb out of the way and continue smoking.

The vehicle doesn't move, and without looking up from my screen I wave them on by, go ahead dude, I'm smoking, you're safe to enter.

The vehicle still doesn't move.

I look up to find out what is going on, why they are still parked.

It's a baby blue VW microbus, a Mommy Slug Bug- worth two punches in the arm in some families, and the driver is a scowling, shaggy bearded older man in a dusty wide brimmed hat. Hawk feathers and multicolored bead trinkets hanging from his rear view and sticking up out of the air vents along the dash.

Apocalypse Hippy Cowboy Gandalf Gypsy are the words that come to mind.

We stare at each other. I at him and he at me.

Shit is getting strange.

I shift my cigarette to my left hand, calmly drag smoke and tuck my phone away in my front right pocket. A whispered sonuvabitch escapes my lips as I feel the vacant spot on my hip where I usually have my pistol holstered. Not today though, we brought the truck instead of my Outback so I couldn't even sprint to grab a rifle if Cowboy Gandalf in the little Hippy Wagon wanted to make big trouble here in the sleepy parking lot of the Chevron.

A few more seconds of staring and he slowly raises a Canon D50 SLR digital camera and takes a picture of me.

What the actual fuck?

I glance over my right shoulder to see if this is one of those times when you think someone is looking or waving at you but it's really someone behind you, and it's not because nobody is there and I turn back to see he is already setting the camera aside.

This shit is too weird to walk away from so I puff smoke again and he pulls up to the curb next to me and motions for me to come around to the driver's side, which I do and take note of the fact he has only rolled his window down three inches.

Cowboy Gandalf has a sleeping bag and a gallon jug of water on the passenger side and he asks me something I don't quite catch so I give him the say again? command that is probably never going to leave my vocabulary.

"Do you have a badge?" He repeats, much louder, over the edge of the window, he tips his face up so his mouth is next to the opening between door frame and glass.

"A badge?" I ask. I thought he might have asked for a cigarette or for directions and I was already reaching for my pack.

"Are you a cop, man?"

"You think I look like a cop." a statement, not a question.

"You look like a detective, I seen you reach for your gun."

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