My Morning Feast

No this is not a sloppy post about post-hippy music. It is about the morning’s bounty in toast form. Breakfast, bitches.

Towering stack of crunchy bread slathered with all manner of sugary muck stabbed with a two foot long ice pick then eaten with a cartoonish gulp like a drunken Fred Flintstone. Toast. Peanut butter and honey and bacon toast sandwiches as your Granny picks the ticks out of your hair while the Pekinese licks out your toe jam. Pine cone sap jam wadded up into baseball sized clumps melted down into buckets with ripped hunks of bread toasted by a Zippo lighter dunked in the sap jelly awesome. Little houses made of toast that are crushed by children then eaten by beagles. Toast discs flying across the room in a domestic dispute over egg yolks and body hair. Political manifestos burned into the sides of toast then passed out at Tupperware parties that start the revolution to overthrow a lot of governments.

Fucking toast, man.

Feed me like a bald eagle.

Just chew up something and spit it into my mouth. I will guess what it is and re-feed you. Oh, God its love!!!

(pause)

Michael Jackson was buried today…

And all I could think about was an awesome girl re-barfing food into my mouth while beating me with a whip made of beef jerky? Now hold on… HOLD ON! I know that’s pretty gross (for some of you). And I don’t really think I would like to spend EVERY Sunday evening being fed Hot Pockets like a baby eagle but I do think that the object of my undying love is a girl who is willing to spit food into my mouth like a zoo creature. A woman like that holds no fear and is truly free.

Unlike Michael Jackson. Did he know true love? The Ferris Wheels and the pony rides? Yeah… alright. PYT? Uh, I’m not going there. His idea of love was a bizarre combination of his desire to remain a five year old mental patient mixed with society’s insatiable appetite for moonwalking. He was half ogurt. On the gloved hand he lived on his own terms and didn’t really give a damn what everyone thought. Plus, he didn’t have a nose and grabbed his crotch with compulsive frequency. Cha-mon! The creative side of him was fearless and inspiring like true ogurts are known to be. His brilliance was driven by his lack of fear.

But then again, on the non-gloved hand, he was a prisoner. He wasn’t free and lived in perpetual terror. He bought the lie with so much gusto it turned his brain inside out. He let society’s expectations of him dictate his life. Some would argue that his imprisonment was unavoidable due to how he was thrown into a life of insanity by a freak out of a father and that argument has merit. Like all others who become embroiled in the vortex of fame and self-importance he lost. To others he was a monster end of story. He was crushed under incredible public scrutiny anytime he did anything (some well deserved) and drastically altered his appearance with disturbing face stretchings and frightening chemical peels to retain his false sense of celebrity appeal.

This isn’t a hate piece. This is a minor rant on the tragedy that was MJ’s life and how he moved away from himself and became a horror show. He acquiesced. I’m sincere in these views and how fear wrecks everything. This blog is about being ogurt for chrissakes which btw, is the total opposite of fear. Because to go out in public like this:

You are most definitely ogurt and cannot give a FUCK what people think.

And MJ is a prime example of this. The first thirty years of MJ’s life? AWESOME. In the moment, each second better than the last. A creative master with an entire planet receptive to his energy. The last twenty five years? A complete nightmare. Fear took over and warped him into bleached skeleton sideshow clown. He lived a sad and twisted life. So when I think of the fear that controlled his life for the last twenty years I am moved to want the extreme opposite. I think about love and how love feeds upon fearlessness…

Now feed me like a bald eagle!