Wednesday, August 26, 2009

This Happened...


Carmen Electra is now Linda Hamilton.  Weird.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

These are the ones I hate...

The people with the sunglasses hooked on the back of their t-shirt.  It looks ridiculous.  I don't get it.  These people come into my store all the time, and they are usually middle-aged men, or just twenty-something aged men who are waaaay too ready to be middle-aged, and they are wearing cargo shorts, and they have their fucking wrap-around shades hooked on the back of their stupid t-shirt.  I don't understand...  This does not seem functional, it seems hard to do, makes you look silly while you reach up and over your own shoulder just to retrieve your dumb sunglasses (because they invariably have bad taste in sunglasses), and blah, blah, blah...  I just hate them, that's all.  

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Helpful Hints Time.

Hey kids, here's how you kill yourself:

1)  Take, like, four aspirin.
2)  Wash them down with a couple of wine coolers that you stole from your stepdad.
3)  Call the emergency room and tell them what you just did.
4)  Wait patiently for the paramedics to arrive, then, when they do, start flopping the fuck around and act like you just can't stay awake, no matter what.  Also, it helps to spread a bunch of aspirins around on the floor like in the movies, because nothing is more scary and suicidal looking than an empty bottle of pills, with almost all those pills lying innocently on the floor.
5)  Don't actually die, but repeat this process every few months so that you can make sure to have everyone's attention.
6)  Wait a few years, then tell everyone how you used to be all suicidal and shit, and show them the scar from where you "cut yourself up" with a safety pin that one time.
7)  Fuck you.

Have a Great Weekend!!!
      Super Cooper

Tuesday, May 5, 2009


He found beauty and peace in places overlooked:
Beer and cold air; cigarettes and mint tea;
High scores and stripper poles reflecting
light, spinning around a cock-eyed room.
He would sing and sing and wait for that
definite surge through his body to come, as it always did.

Inspiration keeps no schedules, he knew it.
No belief in muses, here.
He had, but not anymore. Too many feelings
involved. He had done away with sappy lines
scribbled in fear of losing a feeling, being 
left with nothing.

It was when the nothing came that 
the pen became a sword.

(And another one)

Scylla's Breath

I'm in France at this place
where the naked ladies dance, and
this man is telling me, Brother, the only way to win is to not turn it on at all.
I ask what he means by this, and, in way of response, he lifts a glass of fire and
drains it in one, consuming himself as he drinks.

I turn back to the Boom and the Swagger on the stage,and soon become 
hypnotized by hips and ankles, lost in a sea of beauty, gone slightly to seed.
I can smell their persistence and the smell is the taste is the smell, 
all menthols and talc and fear. I nod to the beat of the band in the
corner of the club, and as I do I begin to Nod in earnest, 
my own rhythm moving me to a ship, now, caught in some 
massive whirlpool, worthy of Homer and Odysseus.

Have I angered the Sea God? If so, what have I done to
set loose this wrath? But then I see a hand in the heart of the maelstrom,
one finger crooked and beckoning, and I steer the 
ship towards it, unafraid, because what lies at the bottom has to be safer 
than my choices up here: I can smell Scyllas' breath and 
on it I smell talc again, no chance there, no life at all.

Then, everything goes blank; I can't see or hear a thing.
It feels like 1998, in Albany, Oregon.
Yeah, boy, the end is certainly fucking nigh, and our collapse
is fueled by the sharp insanity of crushed Ritalin and vanilla.

For whatever reason...

The Worst of It

He said that the majority of the time, the

average day to day, was like civilian life, a regular

9 to 5.  Occasional guard duty, but mostly working

on trucks.  Inside on a good day, out of the dust and sand,

otherwise you couldn’t leave your tools laying out, unless

you wanted 3rd degree burns on your

hands.  That was the worst of it, he said, the heat.

Day in, day out; 110, 120, in the shade.  But,

every once in a while (and here’s where his eyes became shaded and looked away) 

sometimes you saw other shit.  Like the time 

he was driving with a crew to some little town outside Baghdad and 

they saw a group of people on a huge pile of rubble up this side street, and 

from where they were it kinda looked like they were carrying rifles, and 

one of them had something else, but 

they couldn’t really tell, they might’ve just been carrying shovels or lumber 

(and some of ‘em looked pretty little, like fuckin’ kids) and 

they didn’t have orders to get any closer, but they called it in anyways, and 

they got the response back...

Light ‘em up.

So they did.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Why Russia is Better.

When NASA first started sending up astronauts, they quickly discovered that ballpoint pens would not work in zero gravity. To combat the problem, NASA scientists spent a decade and $12 billion to develop a pen that writes in zero gravity, upside down, underwater, on almost any surface including glass and at temperatures ranging from below freezing to 300°C. 

The Russians used a pencil.


Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Amos Moses

Here's this:

Here's why:

Lord, he was perfect.  And he was Snowman.  He's the reason I own this: 

I'm just gonna prolly stay up all night and watch me some more of him.
Fuck it.