Posts Tagged ‘agony’

The Pain, The Endless Agony

December 4th, 2016

 

A story no one will like, in tweet form.

 

 

Tomi Lahren, this is you eight years from now.

Tomi Lahren, this is you eight years from now.

Forget It (Some All Caps Yelling)

November 2nd, 2016

 

I’m in a lot of pain right now. World Series, top of the ninth. Tie game at six. Cubs vs. Indians, game seven in Cleveland. I had to turn the TV off because it hurt too much. Like “might sprain myself internally from holding in screams” kind of pain.

 

I’ve had to hold in my screams a lot lately. I want to scream all the time for all the reasons in the world. It never stops. It never stops. It never stops. It never stops. “It never stops” is repeated in that Residents “song” I just posted. I’m so miserable right now.

 

It has been a completely miserable day. The stress has been overwhelming. This is how panic attacks happen because the body is trying to process the stress that the mind ignores and tamps down. “It’ll be okay”, I keep telling myself. “It’ll be okay.” NO IT WON’T.

 

Something like your favorite sports team chumping it in the biggest game of their life (and the biggest game of your life as a fan) is an acute, sharp pain. Contrast that with the dull constant pain that is every day of your life. The things you want, you can’t have. The love you want, it won’t be reciprocated. Your hopes and dreams, they are the empty totems of a meaningless existence. The suffering that we try to rationalize and compartmentalize. Life is tough, and we’re meant to get on with it.

 

But then the sharp, brief pain of a sports loss and you are dumb struck. The grief of mourning without any of the gravitas. You realize that are no better than the birds in the trees, screaming their pain cries.

 

 

That’s how Werner Herzog sees the birds. And that’s really what we are. Birds in nature, screeching in pain. Why do you think they call them “tweets”?

 

Everything I did today I damn near messed up. If I had a long enough dick, I would have tripped on it or got it caught in a storm grate today. That’s how bad today was. And now, the World Series of Professional Baseball’s Game Seven is going into extra innings because. And then a tarp was dragged out over the field because of a rain delay?

 

I hated this year. I hated last year. I hated two years ago, too. Let’s face it, maybe it’s the years. Maybe it’s my life that sucks. I’m trying to make it better for myself but I keep tripping over this dick that I conjured up in the last paragraph. This long, trippy dick that doesn’t have anyone to love it and gets stuck in storm grates while I’m out tending to my errands.

 

Allow me to take some time to vent in all caps.

 

GODDAMN I KNOW CHAPMAN FIRED A GUN AT HIS GIRLFRIEND LAST YEAR. NO I’M NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT EITHER. I FUCKING HATE IT. HE SCARES ME. I JUST WANT HIM TO FUCK OFF AND NEVER PLAY ANOTHER GAME IN A CUBS UNIFORM.

 

AND YET SPORTS FANS ONLY GIVE A DAMN ABOUT A GUY’S CRIMINAL RECORD WHEN HE LOSES. LIKE ROETHLISBERGER. GUY WAS ACCUSED OF TWO SEXUAL ASSAULTS. THEN HE LOSES A SUPER BOWL. AND PEOPLE GO “YEAH THAT’S WHAT YOU GET”.

 

LOSING THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME IS NOT A COMEUPPANCE FOR COMMITTING VIOLENT CRIMES. BUT I GUESS THAT’S ALL WE CAN HOPE FOR IN THIS DOUBLE-STANDARD JUSTICE SYSTEM.

 

I HAVEN’T EVEN GOTTEN INTO MY OWN PROBLEMS. I DON’T KNOW WHERE TO START. IF I COULD I WOULD SPILL ALL THE TEA BUT THEN PEOPLE WOULD KNOW WHAT AND WHO I WAS TALKING ABOUT AND THEN THERE WOULD BE DRAMA.

My Sweet Lord/Today Is A Killer

September 7th, 2016

 

Today is a killer.

 

I maintain that there is a God. A vindictive, petty God. He has made us in His image. He will shit on us. And the only thing you can do is climb out of bed and raise both middle fingers in the sky in defiance of Him. You have to tell Him to go fuck Himself. Because He will make your life as hellish as possible.

 

Being yourself will put you in a lonely place, especially if you are not like the others. You want to give love to people. You want to be loved in return. When you are not like the others, it will make you strong or it will make you whimper. Regardless, you will be rendered bitter and lonely.

 

People who sing to God sing because they need God. They don’t sing for the people in the pews. They do it for themselves. “God knows I need to see you but it takes so long my Lord. . . but everything today is a killer.”

 

And God reassured his flock, the flock that he pranked and trolled and tortured for ages, and he sayeth unto them “I will be there for you when everybody else is gone.” And sadly, many people believed that shit.

#700, A Eulogy, A Love Letter

June 17th, 2015

This is the seven-hundredth post on the Kentucky Prophet website.

 

I have not been in a writing mode lately so I will take the time to share and link to Young Mary’s Record and the eulogy she wrote for her late boyfriend, Colonel Jon Hensley, which she read aloud at his funeral. It is funny, sad, touching and long-running like any goodbye worth bidding. No one knew him better over these last few years. Jon and Mary barely had two years together but they were closer than any couple I know. Tracy and Hepburn? Captain and Tennille? Jordan and Pippen? Amateurs, compared to Jon and Mary.

 

A few snippets from Mary’s eulogy, which you should read in full.

 

. . . he’d already been off the phone and heard me inside talking to the landlord and he knew just how my voice raised when I was happy and which one of my comments were genuine and which ones were fodder and he hadn’t even needed to come to the doorway.  “I can always read you,”  he told me.

 

The thing about Jon is – if he knew I had such an audience – he’d want me to have spent none of this time talking about him.  He’d have wanted me to tell you about how his mother and sister are the most beautiful and his daddy was the strongest.  He’d have wanted me to tell you about his Shooter Jennings and about how he is the most fearless  talented musician and the most loyal friend – He’d have wanted me to tell you about his Wanda Jackson – the first female to ever record rock n roll – the apple of his eye.  He would’ve wanted me to tell you that in 1980, Merle Haggard became the only non-jazz musician to be on the cover of DownBeat Jazz Magazine.   And how Dwight Yoakam is a revolutionary.  And how Marcy Playground Sex and Candy is the best pop song.  And how Bob Dylan did not suck on Letterman and if you thought so, you just don’t get it.

 

I laughed yesterday here in this funeral home and I saw a woman look at me, confused.  I could almost read her expression – wasn’t that the 30 year old widow? I worried immediately.  Like every other time, I’d found myself uncomfortable in social world, I immediately wished for Jon.

 

 

No Complaints Department

October 15th, 2014

“There is no complaints department/it’s only up to you”

 

I’ve been getting into new old music. Old music because it is old music. New because it I have never heard it before. Such is the case for “No Complaints Department”, a song by The Sensational Alex Harvey Band recorded in 1978.

 

 

What a sad song. Alex Harvey lays it all out. “My best friend was killed in a plane crash/my brother was killed on the stage” and that shit actually happened. His brother Les was in a band called Stone The Crows and was electrocuted onstage in 1972 after touching a microphone that wasn’t grounded. His manager and friend Bill Fehilly was killed in a plane crash four years later.

 

This song is just one big “it is what it is”. Lay it all out there. There is no complaints department for life. It’s only up to us to get through. If we sit around and compare our problems, it’s just gonna turn into a pissing contest. “Oh your brother died? I wish I had a brother. I can’t even afford to feed my family.” “Oh I wish I had a family to feed. My dog has a malignant tumor in his belly.” “Oh I would dream of my dog having a tumor in his belly. Would be a sweet fantasy compared to what I’ve got going on. The doctor wants to amputate my legs.” If we’re not careful, we’ll turn into an unfunny version of that “Four Yorkeshiremen” sketch from Monty Python At The Hollywood Bowl.

 

As for Alex Harvey, things picked up for him. The Sensational Band broke up after recording this song and he died from a massive heart attack four years later.

 

He’d probably get a laugh at that line, I hope.

 

 

 

 

Too Much Right Now

July 29th, 2014

I am going through one of the most difficult periods of my life.

 

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I took this picture right after I stopped crying.

 

I don’t want to cry. I don’t want it all to burst out of me. The way I handle these type of things is not healthy, in any sense of the word.

 

I have a lot of thoughts that I can’t deal with. I have a lot of feelings that I can’t express. That’s not why you came here. You came here for words. But right now I have things going on that are too fucked up for me to sum up in one blog or a subtweet.

 

I can’t even vague-blog my way out of it. I either put it all on the table or I keep it offline. But what if I said what I had on my mind? I would cross the line from self-expression to self-immolation. Or self-flagellation. Either way, some type of self-abuse (and not the fun kind you can snapchat to that special someone).

What Can You Do To Me Now?

June 11th, 2013

 

What can you do to me now
That you haven’t done to me already
You broke my pride and made me cry out loud
What can you do to me now

I’m seeing things that I never thought I’d see
You’ve opened up the eyes inside of me
How long have you been doing this to me
I’m seeing sides of me that I can’t believe

Someway somehow I’ll make a man of me
I will build me back the way I used to be
Much stronger now the second time around cause
What can you do to me now
What can you do to me now

The Walking Wounded. . . Inside

April 8th, 2013

Hey you. I have a personal question for you. Are you wounded inside? If you are, I promise you are not alone.

 

If it makes you feel any better, me too. Me wounded too.

 

Can’t worry about how it happened right now. Not the time for that. If you have any ounce of feeling, you want everything to work out for yourself and those around you. If you have any sense, you know it’s not always possible. That is the source of the sadness. The inevitability. Father time will win in the end and we will be gone. We will watch our loved ones get sick and suffer and it will make us cry and hate being human. We will curse life because of the price it carries.

 

I have to find a balance. I have to recall my best memories, my happy times. These are sore spots, but they will fade like all scars do. You cannot live without experiencing the full panorama of human emotion. To avoid it is to avoid humanity, to fail to appreciate love and joy, shunting off good memories because they do not jibe with present day realities. But good, joy and love are as much a part of the present day as anything else you can imagine.

Can You Quack: A Complete Breakdown

February 4th, 2013

The video you may or may not be watching below is a live performance of a song informally titled “Quack Like A Duck” or “Can You Quack” by the G.O.A.T. (God Of All Texas) and his backing band, Your M.O.M.

 

 

I will attempt to chronicle what happens in the 2:53 of this video for the less-than-brave who can’t make it through such a video. You’re welcome.

 

0:00:  “Here it comes.” We have no idea who says this (perhaps the cameraman?) but considering what is about that happen, that puts it mildly. A voice is heard off camera: “Shut up and sing the song!”

 

0:07:  By this point, many of you have already clicked off on the video, as you can see that the G.O.A.T. is a gamey, bearded man nude but for a custom flag worn as a cape and a Texas-flag banana hammock which he proceeds to jiggle frenetically for an uncomfortably long time. His backing band (a bassist and drummer) have begun the song, but you likely missed that.

 

0:11:  The cameraman zooms in on the jiggling banana hammock, which may or may not be in time to the high-hat.

 

0:18:  The camera finally zooms out as the G.O.A.T. begins to sing his now-infamous lyric: “Can you quack? Can you quack like a duck when you suck?” The band is performing outdoors, perhaps at a backyard party. There is no guitar player. Perhaps they had a guitarist who quit the band due to embarrassment.

 

0:25:  It continues. “Can you buck like a horse when we fuck? Can you take every inch up your butt? Can you shit on my chest for good luck?” G.O.A.T. has not stopped jiggling his package. This might be a form of animal sexual presentation. I’m over-thinking this.

 

0:33:  A man in a black shirt, jeans and denim vest walks over to cup the G.O.A.T. man’s package as it jiggles. This has gone on for too long, and now more questions. Is this new man a biker? And there are people in the background! Is this a biker party?

 

0:43: Denim vest man is flicking the guy’s package up and down like a light switch and looking to the others off camera as if to say “Isn’t this something?” Exasperated, he finally grabs the tip of it before walking away befuddled.

 

0:52: After what feels like an eternity, the G.O.A.T. stops jiggling and enters a power stance so he can growl once more “Can you quack like a duck when you SUUUUUUUCCCCKKKK”, which leads the drummer and bassist into a very sad breakdown.

 

1:09: Aaaannnd he’s doing it again. This might be his only move. Why is the camera zooming in again?

 

1:18: I notice that he’s wearing red suspenders, too. Now that’s ridiculous.

 

1:26: Double-time breakdown over, they return to the main theme and the G.O.A.T. begins singing his infamous verse again. Repeating verses, just like Nirvana did.

 

2:02: “Can you fart on my balls when we fuck? Can you stick your whole tongue up my butt?” This is what we in the music trade call “variations on a theme”.

 

2:04: Mercifully, the camera pans to the right and we see that there are many, many people at this backyard shindig. What are they thinking as they watch this? Everyone in attendance maintains a very safe distance from the bandstand.

 

2:14: They return to the double-time breakdown that sounds really sad without a guitar player. I now believe that the G.O.A.T. fella rejected the idea of guitarist as it might distract from his lyrics.

 

2:19: There’s a woman at this party? That is one unfortunate girlfriend? “My last boyfriend was a web developer. My new boyfriend plays drums in a band. What band? I’d rather not say.”

 

2:21: A stocky kid  is trying to get a mosh thing going. It will not work. This party is being held in an ugly, barren backyard.

 

2:41: The kid who tried to do the mosh thing is now poking at the G.O.A.T.’s banana hammock with a tree branch. Clearly, this kid doesn’t understand the difference between good touches (denim vest man) and bad touches (poking a dick and balls with a tree branch). Even the G.O.A.T. turns away from this nonsense.

 

2:48: The song ends. A few people cheer. I have no idea why. Shock? Fear?

 

2:51: Someone in the crowd yells to the band, “Play that nigger song!” Somehow, this is not the most disturbing part of the video.

Not Ready For Romance

January 18th, 2013

I might not be ready for romance. I’m just judging on the evidence of my life so far.

 

Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? I am a serial non-dater. If this were something I wanted, you could classify me as an ascetic. But I would prefer to be a dater. Instead, I am one letter off and I am an “eater”. When I want a thing I can’t have, I try to fill that need with a thing I can get. People do that all the time. Some people make addictions out of it. Perhaps I have, but with food. I don’t eat every second of the day but when I eat I go overboard. I’m trying to shut up the gaping maw that is my stomach.

 

I’m probably not ready for love and romance. I’m not even close, am I? What a drag. If I were ready, perhaps I’d be in the moment, being in love, being in some sort of relationship.

 

Being in love is a great feeling until it turns into a bad feeling. It can be bad if you want someone who doesn’t want you back. You can’t make the world fair. You can’t make them love you back. If it doesn’t fit, it can’t be forced. Cows don’t make ham. I’m not ready. Booooooo. . .