Forest firs, please, don’t you ever stop
being bed-headed in the sniffling
wind; squeeze out your fur the shower-fed drops
rainbow in the sun & just as tickling.
Both in heat & chill, your bark, it barks
with emboss & bevel, home to so
many worms & birds in many parks,
wake in sun & moon—in both you glow.
But some happy stories become tragic,
for the fir was cut down from its vantage—
disadvantages of too much magic.
They don’t like the taste o’ my tear-soaked beef,
WHAAAR WHAAAR WHAAAR.
They only want chips that crunch with shiny teeth,
WHONK WHONK WHONK.
I’m sick o’ that hideous beast.
That dick’s like last week.
It’s time to clean
that which collects fleas.
¡Texting it in!
¡Texting it in!
That’s what you get when you spend all your attention on fresh lint.
I’m sorry—
you deserved better,
trash bag leaves.
“¿What d’you think he’s thinking?”
“He’s definitely implying something.”
“¿You sure?”
“Def. ¿Can’t you totally see it?”
“I always sucked @ language arts.”
I’m sorry—
your dessert’s butter.
Trash bag leaves.
“I’m boooored.”
“You’re only whining ’cause you’re losing. You’re always a sore loser.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to play anymo’. You can’t stop me.”
“I’m telling.”
“¡Shut up, tattletale!”
“I will.”
“I don’t care. I told you, I don’t want to play anymo’, & you can’t stop me.”
That was the last they heard before the officer found his body hanging in Aokigahara.
¿Want me to talk ’bout the moon ‘gain?
You always savored that gin.
BOOOOOOOOOO.
[A can flies & punches me in the nose.]
They peeled off my latex glove face—¡gross!
When you leave a mess,
you should always scrub.
What what.
I’m sorry—
«you deserve nothing,»
all believe.
So the walrus wails its songs e’ermo’.
He can shove a rancid cactus up his assing fuckhole.
You clocked you could get waves from me,
but the pan came back,
the pan came back with 2 pounds a back
& there’s no going crack.
& then John Jacob Whistlemeyer, having gotten done with his cracked reveries in his sour soup tin while ponderplating Cheerios, Good Day, Sir, wiped his nose & began building a magnificent dinghie—that’s the way he spelled it; it’s Germish without the Germs.
¡What a magnificent dinghie it’s developing to become!
!I can just smell the salt hair brushing through my wind @ the seaset sun white shimmies!
¡Not anymo’!
We need to put germs in that.
1 Sneeze
& I was the who who killed you grand ma ma,
I was the what what jobbed your shove & took it.
I sneaked your Finlandia into Octoberfest Sam Adams
so you couldn’t code the crack as punchly as youth do in your you’d,
& left the Octoberfest ‘hind.
¿Why?
¡But luck!
You superbugs adjust to disinfected medicine,
& always find a new nasty cafeteria to sponge.
There is no such thing as no such free lunch.
‘Twas nice o’ these sneezes to bring me back to my dreams o’ drowning death,
but it’s time to wake & drown in peptodismal pink health,
with no help for to unlistened yelps.
Hopefully
the weather
will treat me better.
Hopefully
we’ll weather
sweet bleak September.
But as the tempests tempt my temples
with their timbering-shivers warm scattered rain “Jib Jib,”
I grasp your collar & hollar,
“¡I won’t land! ¡This is the land’s end!”
E’en if I can see the ice cream looming in the horizon.
& if I ne’er got round to growing that weedseas,
¿was the wasabi I weaned worth it, OK?
It tastes,
& the killer sound waves blow through my skeleton
in ways my skeleton has ne’er felt in months.
¡But lunch!
I’ve had too much
warm medicine,
which is why I’ve been reticent to be hesitant.
Though I don’t feel butter when I feel butter,
I hope I feel butter before I bring home the bread,
as bread’s hardest to catch when I’m not wrecked.
That’s my theory o’ labor—the value theory,
which makes a grape subjective theory, too;
just mix it with booze & the honeyed flu,
as the good doctor, Keens, proscribes with laughter.
That’s why he’s the theory general, all after.
But no one gave me a knife.
It’s peanut-butter-jammed in the toaster.
& if my Lucky®’s expired,
I’m untoasted.
I fill my rucksack with pine cones & acorns,
stuff closets with branches & boughs—
sap so sticky, so golden under the sun—
collect stacks o’ grass in pillow cases—
tickling my nose with sweet dirt-filled fragrance.
They try to stop me.
They say I’m crazy.
What’s wrong with crazies?
What, are they Nazis?
‘Cause I know they’ll take it all ‘way someday—
the sky & the clouds & the rain,
the moon & the stars & the sun,
the blooms, the bushes, & the dirt,
the trees & their fall-fallen leaves,
the bees, their precious honey, & their wicked hives,
the wind & the rain & the snow,
my skin…
So I squeeze it ‘tween my shoulders,
huff it up my nostrils,
like one deserted in a desert, just coming into contact with water for the 1st time,
‘fore someone warned her that huffing water is bad for one’s nostrils.
No!
You can’t have it back!
Just give me a few mo’ minutes with them!
No!
You always say you’ll give them back later—
but I know you plan to destroy me ‘fore that comes.
You always plan to destroy me ‘fore summer comes ‘gain,
& I always barely miss destruction.
But I know this time won’t go so well.
This time’s different.
You’ve got me just where you want me.
Checkmate.
…
I’ll miss you, sweetie.
(Kisses oak branch.)
Noah Smith might be in the running for the whitest white guy e’er to exist, so I’m always eager to hear his surely experienced wisdom on race issues.
After misinterpreting Cornell West’s rant gainst Ta-Nahisi Coates o’er who’s indier than thou1 as being purely ’bout evil capitalism, when the very quote Smith puts in his article includes a list o’ problems, only 1 o’ which being capitalism’s vileness (although I guess the imperialism stuff might be connected) & giving some simplistic history lesson ’bout how revolution & vile communism lead to Stalinism—’cause all critics o’ capitalism go round slaughtering monarchs & o’erthrowing governments, you know,—Smith offers this jewel o’ advice:
If history is any guide, the only option is to increase tolerance.
¡It’s so simple! ¡We can end racism by not being racist! ¿Why haven’t we tried this? That’s right up there with that guarantee o’ becoming rich by making a lot o’ money or laissez-faire libertarian’s solution to government being not to have it anymo’. In fact, I’m not sure why Smith’s criticizing revolutionaries so much, since his advice is quite common: ¡let’s just not have the system we don’t like! I don’t know why silly black leaders like Coates or West have all o’ these complicated arguments when Smith, Certified Expert in Black Issues, made it all so simple—& therefore mo’ efficient in economics thinking. Why, it’s so simple that it’s utterly thoughtless—¡you can’t get mo’ simple than that!
I have a better idea: let’s just do what privileged ditzes like Noah Smith do without external stimulation & sedate our minds from all issues with drugs so that in our mind’s there’s no mo’ racism, poverty, responsibilities, or nothing. Let’s just completely ‘scape from reality & just babble o’er & o’er ‘gain sugary phrases like “¡Hang in there, Jere!” & “¡Be Something!”
…
Actually, now that I think ’bout it, that ‘scaping from reality thing truly does sound nice. ¿Where can I get those drugs you’re taking, Smith?
Also, can I think Smith for warning me gainst this “o’erthrowing capitalism in a bloody revolution” idea & warning us ’bout this “Soviet Union” thing that happened ‘hind all our backs. I can’t count all o’ the Americans who’re thinking to themselves,—’long with “I ought to start my own business” or “I ought to go to a protest,”—“you know, I think I really ought to try o’erthrowing capitalism & putting into power the dictatorship o’ the proletariat.” But then they read this blog post & slapped their foreheads. “¡I forgot all ’bout the Soviet Union & Stalin & all that stuff! & here I thought communism would be nothing but us all sticking our vaginas & dicks in each other’s bums. O well, I guess I’ll just have to douse the misery in my heart caused by 60 hours a week o’ minimum wage work that is slowly whittling my body into dust by getting drunk & masturbating, like usual.”
1 I’m not taking sides in this delightful fight; I’m just criticizing Smith’s vacuous comments. Unlike Smith, I react as whites should to black people having arguments ’bout racial issues: nervously tiptoeing ‘way.
I’ve oft risked mental deterioration—e’en mo’ than what has already transpired—while perusing these money-grubbing hacks’ simplistic top-14 lists, but Problogger.net‘s so shitty it almost crashed my browser with its artery-clogging ads—the equivalent o’ having a trash can dumped onto your face. I know they’re the McDonalds o’ writing, but do they have to give my computer a heart attack as badly?
For god’s sake, they actually have a link in the top bar called «Make Money.» One with a smidgen o’ self-awareness would’ve realized that such lofty promises o’ riches are a stock joke.
Which made me realize: these websites are the modern form o’ those after-midnight infomercials. You know the 1s: with their tacky production values & lecherous ol’ men gripping tightly to their books in all-caps like drunken millennials1—«MAKE MONEY WHILE SCRATCHING YOUR ARMPITS.»
The web design certainly fits. Let’s gander @ all o’ the «business website» tropes seen in a million websites already:
Problogger‘s isn’t so bad, however, ’cause it disappears inexplicably after a while—so much so that it took me a while to make it reappear, to the point that I almost thought I only imagined it.
O wait, now I see: it’s s’posed to change, but that other stuff hadn’t loaded yet.
These are like telemarketers who breathe into your ear, «You can’t ‘scape from me darling»; & as hot as that is, rather than making them just stay in the same place using basic CSS, they for some reason added this delayed screeching animation like Wile E. Coyote.
O, & sometimes it doesn’t work, ’cause Problogger‘s scripting just sucks that much.
Not only does this article have a title that screams, «¡We have all o’ the answers!» like a cult, their answer is simply «stuff that people want is what they want most.»
This article gives immensely rare advice, such as «be original,» «use storyboards,» & «understand how money works, dumbshit,» for planning.
Let’s face it.
Faking emphasis.
Through over use o’.
Rare breaches o’.
Proper writing style.
Doesn’t work.
When this rare tatic.
Is overused.
Any questions?
Yeah, ¿do you expect me to answer you through my monitor? Otherwise, ¿why would you be asking me a question?
¡If you have any questions, post a comment!
To be fair, «Let’s get hacking,» is honest.
They also use buzzwords like «effective» that Dilbert’s been making fun o’ since the last few decades.
This brilliant idea involves manufacturing a «struggle»; make oneself an artificial Cesar Chavez, but ‘stead o’ the goal being to help fruit-picking workers not have to use said fruit as their toilet, make the goal ’bout oneself getting as much money as possible. An honest person would call this «emotional manipulation»: tricking dopes into loving you even though you only love their money. This is, indeed, an effective trick, though 1 that doesn’t need the silly euphemism o’ «fight.»
I never understand how this fits with the optimistic tone: success isn’t based on how much work you put in, but that you think & look as some hive mind wants. Where I come from, this is called an Orwellian nightmare. ¡No thanks! Silly ol’ me would rather succeed by working hard & still maintaining a shred o’ individuality, thanks.
Please don’t make me discuss it.
1 Just ’cause I’m in their age group doesn’t mean I’m 1 o’ them, ¿you hear me?
¿How can you hear me through this article? ¡Stop that wizardry, now!
Soft caress against my swollen
tongue, so sticky, O so sweet,
smells like honeyed springtime pollen,
tastes like roasted coffee beans.
Friends with butter, bread, & jelly,
but best friends with creamy chocolate;
but just ‘lone it still fills bellies:
scrape a spoon & take a long lick.
In the time the pantry’s light,
how you filled those lonely nights
just before food stamps arrive.
What bristles me most ’bout bohemian bourgeoisie is that though they like to depict themselves as free-thinking libertarian types, their views are actually quite soulless, repressive, & bleakly conformist to the point that they remind me o’ those cheesy stepford-smile dystopias mo’ than anything else.
I came to this epiphany ‘pon reading a Smashing Magazine article giving the usual career “advice”: look for careers that are good. As usual, the focus is on “career culture,” an incentive buzzword companies made-up as a way to sway attention from falling wages & rising work time—aspects that workers actually care ’bout. That this writer would write so blatantly as if she’s the Pointy-Haired Boss is curious. Then ‘gain, I should expect this from the “Talent Ambassador” @ “Digital Telepathy”—a truly “zany,” as you hiphoppin’ stompin’ kids say it, enterprise, you can bet your pogs.
Anyway, she says that one should only work with companies that are just like oneself, since she assumes her readers are as shallow as she is. Then she lists off specific attributes o’ companies you should look for. ¿Notice something there? She already assumes your personality & culture. You should look for companies that embrace risk ’cause surely you embrace risk. You’re looking for a computer business that puts shiny colors ‘bove actual programming quality like Apple ’cause ‘course all web designers mistake well-designed with vacuously pretty. & ‘course you value the creepy quality called “togetherness” ’cause you, too, urgently demand that your occupation simultaneously serve your needs for a cult as well as a paycheck (so much for capitalists being “individualist”—I’m kidding: no one who isn’t blatantly lying to themselves believes this).
This is a common occurrence ‘mong bohemian bourgeoisie, as I noted with Goins & those assholes @ Lifehacker: they assume everyone has the same desires, goals, & beliefs as them & damn those who don’t while @ the same time depicting themselves as open minded.
But I love the creepy implications o’ her advice:
While waiting for the interview or when exiting the office, look around you. How do people look? Happy? Miserable? What do they have on their desks? One study suggests that messy desks indicate a creative environment (perfect for designers). If you make eye contact with someone passing by, do they smile or quickly walk by without acknowledging? These are all ways to better understand the corporate culture in which you might be working.
Yes, ’cause nothing’s mo’ professional than being an anal asshole who refuses to work with anyone who doesn’t subscribe to their shallow, specific criteria o’ keeping their desks messy. I always thought creative businesses were all ’bout diversity & that shit; but I guess there has to be a line we can’t cross. I mean, if we accept coworkers with clean desks, we might as well accept coworkers who greet us by sticking their hands in our pants & stroking our genitals (for the record, I only work @ companies whose employees do this—that’s the only company culture I’m comfortable with).
& I love how while there are children who every day have to worry ’bout sawing their fucking fingers off on the machine they use all day, this asshole’s all like, “¡How dare you ruin my creativity with your neatly stacked papers! ¡How dare you distract me from thinking with the deep depression I feel after not being smiled @ when I said hello! I can’t work in these conditions!”
Also, it’s good to know that “one study” hiding somewhere out there in the wild shows that people with basic cleaning skills are incapable o’ creativity & should be avoided like AIDS. This is as opposed to our “Talent Ambassador,” who has done nothing but show her creative streak by spewing the same narrow-minded assertions every other business blogger does.
The obvious takeaway is that wise employers punish employees who don’t smile so that they can maintain the same happy-slave facade all totalitarian regimes have—including corporations. After all, the ethos o’ loving your work—“¡Whistle while you work!”—comes straight from Soviet propaganda.
This is 1 o’ the few times I’d put my coin in with Keynes: I’d rather have less work, like anyone who isn’t lying to themselves—or are privileged ditzes who aren’t truly working—thank you. However, since the left is an utter joke, I don’t see that cute “15-hour work week” will e’er happen this millennium1 & will stick with my 40 or mo’ hours o’ misery & despair per week, thank you.
[1] I love how the masses o’ moderate-liberal Keynesbots mock Marx for his ridiculous optimism ’bout capitalism’s collapse, but don’t mention the laughable absurdity o’ Keynes’s own predictions.
Perhaps 1 reason the left’s such a joke is that it’s impossible to find a member who doesn’t base one’s economic views on economist-worship ‘stead o’, I dunno, some semblance o’ independent thought.
In this article, Careerealism teaches readers how to be invited to the cool kids’ table on imaginary social media that the average person doesn’t give 2 shits ’bout. This makes sense if they’re like Careerealism’s writers; if one is a hollow husk o’ vapidity & ignorance, then I can understand why one would crave other people to fill the hole that is their own person’s emptiness.
According to J.T. O’Donnell, founder of CAREEREALISM.com…
“WHEN OUR FOUNDER TELLS US TO DRINK THE PURPLE KOOL-AID, WE DRINK THE PURPLE KOOL-AID.”
So, like, as the writer talks like a dipshit teenager stereotype ’cause they, like, totally think their readers are fucking morons, they advise you to be a matchmaker ’cause people don’t find them annoying @ all.
The idea is that you should make connections by matching the connections you already have… which means you aren’t gaining any connections. ¿Or am I to believe that this writer truly believes that some businessperson would be thrilled to have some complete stranger confront them—which I think requires one to pay for some extra privileges in LinkedIn, & you don’t want to pay that shitty website anything—& trust said stranger to give good advice on whom to get help from?
Yeah, that sounds careerealistic to me—fuck, I hate that god damn name, it’s so stupid.
I know that you taste just like
lemon heads or gummy worms;
your bright stars with just 1 bite
blow up in raspberry bursts.
Drink up all your empty black,
drown myself in cherry cola;
don’t care if I rot with plaque—
my sole hope is super nova.
Then I’ve eaten all the stars;
now my universe is starved—
as ‘twas my eternal start.
