Posts Tagged ‘pain’

I’m So Broke

June 9th, 2017

I have a gig next month and I don’t want to play it. I shouldn’t play it. I’m prostituting myself for a quick buck.


Playing old songs that I don’t want to play. Songs I hate playing. Because I know I’ll get paid. I need the money. I hate it. I don’t want to do it.


I want everyone to feel what I feel. I want everyone to feel my pain just for a moment. Those old songs barely hint at how I feel anymore. I’m screaming on the inside.


I need the money. I’m such a mess this gig will help me take care of a few expenses. I need everyone to hear my pain. I want you to hear my pain. You should hear my pain. You deserve it. I want you to feel how I feel. Why should you get to have a good time? Why should I suffer alone?

The Fahrenheit 217

May 4th, 2017

Today, the House of Representatives voted 217-213 to approve H.R. 1628: The American Health Care Act of 2017. The repeal and replace of Obamacare and the attempt to institute Trumpcare.


Imagine replacing a car that needed maintenance with a car frame that looked great but didn’t have an engine at all. That’s essentially what you got with Trumpcare now. It will go to the Senate. I’m not positive that the Senate Republicans will vote this down. They might decide to throw a lighter into a jet engine and blow the whole thing up.


I’m too pissed off to actually give cogent analysis. So I’m going to just snap on the 217 assholes who decided to hurt their own constituents.

  • Brett Guthrie, I will vote against you in 2018. I will donate money to your general election opponent. I will piss in your boots if I see you. You are a partisan hack. You have no courage. You should be ashamed of yourself.
  • Andy Barr sounds like “candy bar” which is something a diabetic shouldn’t eat. I hope your cock gets gangrene, you future eunuch.
  • James Comer’s name is close to James Comey, the FBI director who feels mildly nauseous about having any impact on the 2016 election. I hope you feel nausea every time you try to raise campaign funds. I hope you vomit on the shoes of a Koch Brother.
  • Hal Rogers represents Harlan. I hope you get arrested for sex crimes.
  • I want to credit John Yarmuth and Thomas Massie (a Republican, nonetheless) for voting against this bullshit bill. 
  • Larry Buschon of Indiana. I hope you have to live in Indiana for the rest of your life.
  • Trey Hollingsworth of Indiana. I hope you die like a character in “Children Of The Corn”.
  • Steve King of Iowa. You’re one of the lowest form of life in Congress and that says a lot considering who your contemporaries. Nearly every time there’s a piece of garbage racist law brought up in the House, you either brought it up or co-sponsor it. I hope you fall into a paper shredder, and your remains are turned into low-grade toilet paper to be bought and used by the poor.
  • Mark Sanford of South Carolina, you know this bill is shit and you voted for it anyway. You should have stayed in Argentina with your mistress. Pull an Eva Peron and pass away prematurely.
  • Joe Wilson of South Carolina, you’re the guy who yelled “You lie” at Obama. You should have been kicked out of office years ago. You lie every day. I hope you get a kidney stone every day.
  • Jason Chaffetz of Utah, you are the lowest of the low. The biggest hypocrite of the bunch. You just had leg surgery. A pre-existing condition. And you voted to take away that protection for Americans. I hope you o.d. on pain meds, you big bag of oatmeal.
  • Paul Ryan of Wisconsin, the Speaker of the House. You did this just to save your job. You miserable prick. If we’re not all dead by 2018, you will be gone. I will donate to your opponent too. It won’t take much, which is a sentence you’ve probably told your wife plenty of times. You needledick, wannabe frat boy fuckboy. I hope you get a metal rod rammed up your pisshole.

You are the Fahrenheit 217 now. And you are going to be wiped out. If we still have elections a year-and-a-half from now. Maybe Dear Leader Trump will ban elections. I wouldn’t do that if I were him. We may just march on Washington, drag the bastard out of the White House and eat him alive. Just a fair warning.

Is This The End Of The World?

April 14th, 2017

If you have been paying any attention to the situation between the United States and North Korea, you would know that tension is high, and leaders from both countries seem too eager to START with a nuclear bomb.


I am going to note some of my thoughts and feelings at this strange time in the world. I don’t even feel like I’m writing for anyone in 2017. If the nukes get dropped and a lot of us die, I want to talk about what I was dealing with at the point it happened. I’m writing this for some survivor years from now, or the next generation or later.


I am a thirty-nine year-old man from Kentucky. I have things I want to do before I die. I have goals and dreams and aspirations. I live in a small apartment. Right now, my grandmother is staying with me until she gets approved for her new apartment. She hopes to get into a building complex for elderly people. It may take up to two more weeks, she has been with me for three weeks already. Although she doesn’t mean to, sometimes she gets on my nerves. She means well and she worries a lot. We don’t worry about the same things.


I wish I could be with a girl I care very much for but she has a boyfriend. Maybe its for the best, especially for her. Maybe my life is a labyrinth that people should be warned against nearing. Even killer whales mate, don’t they?


I hated the circumstances that led us to this moment in time. It seems so preventable now that I type about it. Somebody should have done something to stop all this from happening. Eventually, all of us end up in the meat grinder of the industrial complex. Some people don’t know and some don’t mind so much. Some people do know and mind very much and they fight back.


I truly hope that Trump is taken out of power before he gets us into a nuclear war. He has been in office less than 100 days. He doesn’t know how to de-escalate a problem. No one in North Korea is going to put a check on their dictator. It’s up to us in the US. Two idiots at a standstill willing to blow up the world over a pissing contest. It would be funny if it weren’t so depressing and plausible.


I don’t want to write anymore today. It hurts to think about this too long.

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.









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.

I Have Already Started The Bargaining

September 2nd, 2016

When I last wrote on this website, I mentioned I was going off Twitter for the month of September. I have already started bargaining. It hasn’t even been two full days.


I clicked off Twitter on 11:50 pm on August 31st. . . and logged back on twenty-four hours later. And I’ve logged back in since then. I haven’t tweeted anything. Hence the bargaining. “I’ll log in, I just won’t tweet.” I’m such a weak-willed person. I will be tweeting within the week. “Okay, I’m logged in. I won’t tweet. But I’ll retweet other people.” It’s a slippery slope, kids.


No one is going to care. I’m the only one holding me to this. It doesn’t matter. What do I care? I need this break, though. Do I need to chime in on the topics of the day? Does it matter what I think about Lena Dunham (spoiler alert: not a fan)? Does it matter what I think about Donald Trump (see Lena Dunham, only more so)? What can I say that the rest of the universe hasn’t already said, in many ways already better and funnier? I deliver cold takes, people. Cold takes. I’m the opposite of these Slate writers and ESPN analysts and talk-radio hosts. I’m too even-handed and I take too much time to think of a reasonable take. I’m not divisive enough. I’m borderline mature and it’s dragging down my ability to wish strangers would die of leukemia because we disagree about pro wrestling.


Because if I’m not being smacked in the face with blunt ugliness and meanness, I’m being smacked with sobering reality. The blunt ugliness of people being mean and ist and phobic to each other all being thrown into a volcano only to have sobering reality upchucked back at you like spurts of lava.


So it’s smart to get away every now and then. Or maybe avoid it forever. But I could not do it. Barely a whole day and I logged back in. I’m addicted to being scalded by lava. “Why are you hurting yourself?”

What You Think About Rock Bottom

May 4th, 2016

I can’t let Prince go. I still have to write about him. He left a lot behind. The music. The memories. And a lot of unanswered questions. Is it possible that Prince would have not made out a will in his fifty-seven years of life? A man worth at least 300 million dollars who had been married and divorced twice, accumulating an infamous vault of unreleased material that could be exploited in many infinite ways not have a will? A man who worked throughout his career to help local charities throughout the country without publicity not have a will? It doesn’t make sense.


I’ve been thinking about the sad last days of Prince. I’ve heard that last show in Atlanta. The second of two shows. A man and his piano lighting up the room, lighting up the world. A take on “Nothing Compares 2 U” that is so profound the man himself walks away from the piano and leaves the stage because it’s simply too much. He sounds alive, as alive as ever. He doesn’t sound frail or ill. He sounds like Prince, stronger than life. More valuable than gold or diamonds.


The man who graced Atlanta’s Fox Theater for two shows on April 14 did not sound like a man who would be dead within a week. He did not sound like a struggling opioid addict. He sounded like a master of his craft, a showman of the highest caliber.


Prince on painkillers got done more before lunch on than most of us will accomplish in a week stone sober. Isn’t that frightening in a way? Not because of what it says about the common person but because it speaks to what we think of when we think of “rock bottom”. We think of shameless, hopeless wretches who are alone, broken down, in the gutter of life. We think of people who end up on “Intervention.” We don’t think of people who function in some ways better than us.


Once upon a time, I had a roommate who was an alcoholic. I should have known because he drank warm, shitty beer. He bought the cheapest stuff and kept it in the box but wouldn’t put it in the fridge on purpose. But he held down a job, had a social life, kept his bills paid and seemed to be in a far better place than I was. Maybe I’m just too far gone and not representative of the average person. But he was definitely an alcoholic. He did better than me because he met a nice girl and moved to the Pacific Northwest, settled down and got married, and started a family. . . which came apart when his wife kicked him out of the house and divorced him. Because he was an alcoholic.


Thankfully his story ends with him getting himself off the booze and resuming a sober life so he can have time with his children. Maybe it’s me who can’t see it when people have hit rock bottom. Maybe I’m the myopic one here. Do I have a bad idea of rock bottom is?


Gang, I may be at rock bottom and not really know it. But I’m sober. Oh shit.

My Arm Hurts

April 22nd, 2016

My left bicep hurts. I hurt myself this morning when I was adjusting my mattress. I fell over and used my arm to keep from banging my head against the wall. I didn’t bang my hang but I pulled a muscle. What made me think I had the arms of Samson that would keep me from banging my head and also keep me from falling down? I have taken a pain reliever but that’s it. I hope this is a temporary situation.


My computer needed repair again. Do not buy a used computer. My used computer did not come with all the screws in it. It cost $50 to get repaired. The lack of screws caused the housing to come loose which caused the power jack to come loose and then the the zzzzz…… my god. The hinges and the screws and the power jack and used computer. Never buy a used computer.


Since I last checked in, Chyna and Prince died. I don’t know what to say. I enjoyed watching Chyna in the WWE. I liked a lot of Prince songs. Still do. I’ve heard more unreleased Prince songs than I’ve heard released Prince songs. I was really sad about Chyna being dead and then Prince dies and then Chyna becomes an afterthought after a few hours. I haven’t even thought about Prince yet.


I keep thinking about how hard it has to be when one is removed from reality and humanity. When you really need love and compassion and empathy but you can’t seem to get it at that moment. Prince was a superstar, a beloved musical legend. Chyna was a fallen star, a reality show reject who dabbled in pornography. And they both died, too young and alone. One from chosen isolation, one isolated by default.


I try to be kind to everybody now. I know what it’s like to need kindness and not be able to get it.

An Inefficient Fairy Tale

November 7th, 2015

Once upon a time in a dark kingdom of wickedness and tall dead trees, there lived a peasant boy with his kindly grandfather in a long metal cabin.

The peasant boy was taught by his grandfather that he was just as good as the mightiest prince and that no man, be they of noble stature or nay, was better or worse than he. The peasant boy took this to heart and remembered it his entire life.

Furthermore, since no one was better or worse than he, there was no reason to assume he could not one day be considered noble. Because while he may have been taught that all men were created equal, he did not in his heart believe that. Or maybe he did, and recognized early on in his young life that those of nobler stuff were given more praise, more rewards, more chances to succeed, more. . . everything. Certainly more than a lowly peasant boy living in a long metal shack would get. This made him feel sad at the way the world was and sad for himself because he was not a noble.


The boy would spend the rest of his life trying to become a prince, or a king, or something of higher stature than he grew up in. He went into the world and attempted to be seen as a noble. But no matter how hard he tried, he ended up being a jester.


He sang songs, he told tales, he made merry and he developed a sharp wit. He became a very good jester, a very fine jester indeed. But this did not make him happy. Being a jester left him at the mercy of those he entertained. If they enjoyed his songs and jokes, he may be invited back to perform again. If they didn’t, he would be banished. Sometimes they liked him but could not figure out which other jesters and troupes to have him perform with.


The jester performed for big crowds and small. Mostly small. Sometimes he would begin performing in a king’s court and find part of the way through the performance that the King, his Queen and most of the assemblage had nipped out for a cigarette. Verily, the jester would announce he had two songs left to perform and a few patrons would drag themselves back in out of sheer politeness.


All the nagging feelings of self-doubt that plagued the jester in his childhood grew up with him and continued to haunt him. Was he really a good jester? What if he was actually terrible? There are other jesters who are far more successful than he, having found major-label patronage by a big time noble or clergyman. He attempted to pass the hat on the street corners but would have to give all the money back after the deadline passed without meeting his funding goal.


The jester began to feel like he had banged his head against the wall over and over. Perhaps he should not have become a jester. Perhaps he should have gotten a real estate licence instead. And furthermore it occurred to him that the most successful jesters make far less than they earn, having to tithe a percentage to their agents, managers, vendors. Plus they had to recoup expenses. Furthermore, he had never seen a jester become a king.


He discussed this on the internet but what he got in response didn’t help. “Try being a female jester. A three-day jester festival may only feature a dozen female acts or female-fronted troupes out of hundreds of performers.” “You think that’s bad? How about the feminist movement excluding jesters of color?” “I’m a trans jester and I prefer to spell it ‘jystyr’.” This didn’t not make him happy or thankful that he wasn’t a transgender woman of color. It only made him sadder and seemed to confirm he had made a bad life choice far too soon.


As a child, he had wanted to be a noble. Then he wanted to be a jester. Then he wanted to be a success. But he wasn’t a success. So he decided to stop being a jester. And now he was nothing. Now he had no purpose and nothing to work for. And he was still sad.


He went home to his long metal cabin/shack. It was falling apart. His bed was broken. His favorite comfy chair was also broken. His grandfather was older and becoming infirm. It would not be long before his grandfather was gone. Then what would the ex-jester do? He became afraid to lose his grandfather until the old man became so sick that the boy wished he would pass if only so the old man could have peace.


When he was a boy, he had a dream and the support of the one person who loved him the most. Now he was older and he didn’t have his grandfather. And he didn’t have the dream anymore. He had a broken-down bed and a chair that was uncomfortable to sit in. He turned out to be less than a peasant. He was not able to earn his keep, as a jester or as anything else. He was disenchanted. He was disenfranchised. He was dis-abled. He was disabled. He was disabled.
He is disabled. You can not hear him in the courts of noblemen any longer. There are always merry bands of singers, those who practice jape, and hilarious jester. He is at home in his ill-fitting comfy chair playing Tetris and waiting for the next event in his life to happen to him. He does not feel empowered to go out and change the course of his life. He does not feel like he can change the course of his life, not without significant help.


Because he is disabled, you see.


This was an inefficient fairy tale. It didn’t have a snappy ending and it took to long to get there. If you want, go back and reread it and stop every few paragraphs to listen to a song from your favorite Disney movie. See if it helps.

#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.