It’s not as much about her politics as much as it is about that wicked bunt. WTF.

Lovely.

Ogurt pictures!

Slobbery.

I leave baseball games looking like a just sneezed a landfill. Peanut shells, hot dog rinds, crushed beer cups, and corn dog sticks are strewn about like a junk food bomb blew up and landed in my lap. If I’m not unzipped and slouching with cheap mustard dried across my cheek than I feel like I let down God.

Movie theaters? Please. When I leave I am required to cut through a musty, butter cloud and wade though a mountain of half eaten popcorn. I commit violence on junk food during a film. My buddy and I left the other night and he found popcorn in his sleeve and I found some in my shoe atop a ring of trash strewn around us like we lived there.

My face is droops like a junkie from all of the snacks. It’s like I just ate a handful of valium except I’m stoned on Goobers and watery Bud Light. The sugar and nitrates leaves me moaning like a dying wildebeest with a boner. Mix Rambo gun fights and sports and you got yourself the entrance to a special vortex called the perfect slob out. YES.

It reminds me of the other night when I was gluggin’ beer and eating pretzels as my friend wiped crumbs off of my gut. It was beauty in pure form and she was perfect. The next morning I found some salt in my belly button and of course I ate it because that’s what you do when you find food in your gut. (Am I the only one that does this?) Fuck yes let’s be slobs.

Slap bread displays. Argue with specialty produce. Get offended at the presence of an iguana. Learn yourself to say, “I don’t even care”. Grow a crustache. Wear a cloak and a monocle and scoff at coffee drinkers while eating a Twinkie. Announce to the world over the intercom at Wal-mart that you are a sleuth on a blimp.

I write here because I need to exercise the demons of my beer deprived brain. Someone crush some pork rinds and make a paste so I can rub into my skin the grease freaky. I am in need of a shift in motivation and priority. I am searching for the key to unlock my own psychosis. I want to quit thinking and perform and create and leave a lash on this fearful world. Someone give me the words to entrench myself… become consumed. Leave the world and focus on the hum of my skull.

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.

(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!

WTF creepy ogurt:

The guy above’s favorite ogurt band:

and FTW:

!!!

What do Dale Earnhardt and Pink Floyd have in common?

Their last hit was the wall. But oh I love sports themed meat chunks. I want to build the frame of my house out of Intimidator Meat Snack buckets. A new fort impenetrable by forces of anti-awesome. I will live in this new fort surrounded by tributes to fallen mustache gods in the form of tiny turd looking meat chewables in large buckets formed from petroleum removed from an Arabian gully.

When sports and meat combine like this its like… its like God’s blowing his nose on America. This mystical snot glop contains tiny bits of energy that cause us to wear beer helmets and shave race car numbers out of our back hair.

Worship NASCAR and Jesus and meat right now!

Oh yes.

Suddenly, Mamaw stumbles into the living room holding a TV tray with oyster burritos and slutch (a casserole where you mix mac and cheese and turkey and gravy and bake it until its almost burnt).

“Hell boy, get yourself up on outta there and eat you a good supper…” Mamaw says smiling.

“Sheeit… I got me one already Maw-Maw. You ain’t seen me eatin’ with the bulldawg?” You say waking from your hockey coma fart cloud. Mamaw stomps her foot…

“Hell naw. I just sat right there and thought you done said you ain’t gonna get none.”

“Well, I did”.

“Good. Well go get it.”

“I done got it!”

“Sheeit…” Mamaw snarls and plucks a Skoal bandit into her lower lip. She spits on the carpet and leaves the room. The bulldog grunts and a tiny snot bubble pops out of its snout. You turn up the television and glare deeper at the screen and sigh….