I haven’t forgotten about you. I have been researching vast techniques of ogrosity inside a vortex on my couch upon mattresses of spent deli meat. I have been stockpiling content in hopes of launching a huge fog of win across the internets. Soon I shall return to further educate the masses to the energy of pure ogrismo. Until that day in the very near future I wish you sportz and fearless awesome.

Free up a bunch of corks and build a fake cheese wheel to throw at sandcastles built during AA meetings. Embed a barrel of frozen snow peas in the middle of a cake walk creating a barrier to the elderly’s circular sugar trance. Do an unannounced limbo at a funeral for a stranger. Plant corn in a random gully. Go to the ocean and sink yourself while punching the water. Talk to a specialist about getting tattoos on your teeth. Break into a lab and attempt to put an amoeba in a leglock. Go forth and create for yourself a frenzy of crazy. Let’s all go insane and lose ourselves in our own comic psychosis.

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.

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.

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!

A friend of mine has an innate sense of ogrosity. He can smell it, digitally, across the web and pluck out ogurt from a binary fog. He’s a bloodhound for ogurt. He just knows… Here are a few of his recent finds…

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.

Cook up some sports words in a rusty wok. Bunt, kickball, shuttlecock, nose guard, Frisbee… while enjoying flatulation in the throes of a beer coma during a televised charity hockey game taking place in Hartford between pro wrestling legends vs. a group of crab fishermen. Pork rinds lie in crumb piles around the head of your bull dog. Someone burps in the dark hallway in the center of the house. Then there is silence…

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….

There is no material around that we can buy that will match the proprietary felt that stays clumped inside our vacuous navels. Just let it live. Let. It. Live.

Wait a couple of months to harvest the crop of lint that, by that time, will have amassed an intriguing variety of cloth and cheese. Make up a new origami. Load up a slingshot and torture passed out drunks by pegging them upside the head with frozen rocks of your clammy gut velvet. Build a fort for a tick. Just do something so that belly button lint persecution can stop. End the madness, people. You have the power.

So I am off to California for a brief spell to investigate new ogrismo. It should be abundant. LA and San Fransisco can be off the charts bizarre with a good plethora of weirdos and freaks. Huge trees, hippies, junkies, schizo homeless, dramatic coastlines, giant fake boobs, blond hair bleached so many times it whistles, MAWs (model actress whatever), Asian food, and hopefully a visit to the Troubadour. I am looking forward to some fresh ogurt. And what better place than LA?

Word.