I'm Soooo BORED!

Here is a recent photo of me in the Patagonian rain forest. I took some of the native Viagra, which stretched my pecker out two feet long, and it became inhabited by parrots and monkeys.

Does that make me an interesting person? Nah, anybody can come up with a few bucks for a plane ticket. So what makes a person interesting? A lot of New Yorkers think having some money will make them interesting, like Madoff, so they chisel and steal and kiss butt for their entire life and they get the money, and then they blow off a load of hot air about their house, their cars, I don’t know what else. It’s blank tedium.

Sometimes I have a few drinks with my girlfriend, Magpie, and I tell her what’s on my mind. Yesterday I tried to tell her that I felt Michael Jackson’s father, Joe Jackson, should not be continually excoriated in the media because he might have smacked Michael for not working hard enough when he was a kid. Michael Jackson said in numerous interviews that his father would hit him with a leather belt when he was not performing to the extent of his potential.

“Look,” I told her, “Gary, Indiana is a tough place. It used to be a city of steel mills. Now even those are gone, and the whole city is on welfare. Joe Jackson had to raise nine kids by working in steel mills, working two jobs at once, doing God knows what to put food on the table. What little money he could scratch together, he spent on musical instruments for his kids because he figured, even though it was a longshot, maybe they could get a band together and use that as a way to get out of the ghetto and escape poverty. If it weren’t for that they’d probably all be crackheads today.

“So he smacked the kid! Maybe he felt Michael was not working hard enough to exploit the talent God gave him and not appreciating the sacrifices that his parents were then giving him. It’s the same story with Serena and Venus Williams. Their father never struck them because they were girls, but he rode them unmercifully when he felt they weren’t competing hard enough. But now the Williams sisters are millionaires. Michael Jackson died owning the equivalent of whole countries.

“Another thing. Nobody ever wondered what Joe Jackson had to endure in his life. He probably got beat up a lot, both as a child and as an adult. However much he may have chased Michael around the house with a leather belt, he probably figured that this was nothing compared to what he had had to endure and was still having to deal with, being responsible for raising a big family under horrific conditions.

“I don’t care what Anderson Cooper might have to say on CNN about Michael Jackson’s nightmarish abuse as a child. Anderson Cooper was Gloria Vanderbilt’s son and he grew up in the lap of luxury. The worst thing Anderson Cooper has ever had to endure has been to take a big one up the butt without sufficient lubrication.”

Magpie looked at me, aghast. “How do you know that?” she exclaimed. “Did you research it?”

“What, Joe Jackson, or Anderson Cooper’s butt?”

“You need to consult a psychiatrist!”

“I don’t think I need to see any psychiatrist for stating what are plain facts”.

Magpie’s solution for me is always psychiatric therapy. Which is astounding, considering the whack jobs she associates with. Any time I reflect on a situation and come up with a conclusion that varies from what she has seen on television, it makes me a candidate for Bellevue’s psycho ward.

That’s why people are so tedious. OK, most people are severely limited to start with. Talking to them is the equivalent of poking a caged animal with a stick. Nobody knows anything. Even if somebody should be struck with the inspiration of an original idea, he’s afraid to express it or fear of being accused of mental illness. What we are presently dealing with is a situation of enforced conformity. That’s why people dress so shabbily. They think nothing of spending millions of bucks on their houses and cars, but their freakin wardrobes are from J.C. Penney, so that they won’t be perceived by their peers as being stuck up.

Anyway, even if people would have the audacity to think of something interesting, nobody could express it anyway, because with Twitter and text messaging they have lost the capacity to spell and write, if they ever even had it, which is doubtful. This is how Shakespeare would look on Twitter:

2B or not 2B
Tht is the ?

Fuckoff! Don’t waste my time, moron!

I’m an exhibitionist, OK? Some people like to expose themselves on subway trains. I like to expose myself on the internet. Believe me, as nuts as this blog is, there is still plenty that I’m holding back (big surprise!).

But I am not going to let myself be driven into a hole because my freakin girlfriend or her phony-ass friends don’t approve. She has one friend who is so full of baloney that she has got a full Rogers & Hammerstein grand piano in her living room, and she can’t even play chopsticks. When Magpie told me this, my immediate reaction was, “She should put in a harmonica instead. It takes up less room, and she can’t play that either”.

Magpie exploded, “You idiot, you don’t know anything!”

Yeah, I don’t know anything. I’m an idiot. I’m a dummy! HA-HA-HA, look at the dummy! Look at ol’ stupido!

I may be a freakin idiot, but I’m not stoopid enough to fill up an apartment with a grand piano I can’t play!

Fuck this. I think I’ll go get drunk. I wish I had some reefer.

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Posted on 7/3/2009 ( Permanent Link )
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