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[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 14 most recent journal entries recorded in
Cavalier going Commando's LiveJournal:
|Friday, October 3rd, 2003|
IF you follow the news and live the life. If you eat political columns for breakfast and take your midnight coffee with a side of Hannity and Colmes. Then, you can appreciate the significance of Gov. Grey Davis' recent assertion that Arnold Shw... admires Adolf Hitler. Even the most desperate and morally disfigured individual wouldn't resort to the infamous Hitler gaffe, but Grey Davis just did. You know a guy's in trouble when he's like "Yea, well, that motherfucker likes Hitler." I can see somebody saying things like, "My opponent supports turning baby's into bologna" or "Dick Cheney's first name says it all" or "George Bush killed Jesus." But Hitler comments are just plain evil, as is anybody who claims to be in the middle class. There is no middle class or high class or low class.
However, if anybody's in the middle class it's me. I make 49,367 dollars a year and have 2.5 kids (one of them is a stump). I shop at Wal-Mart to save money and drive a Saturn because they're trendy and efficient. I watch one or two reality shows even though I tell people reality t.v. is for Nazis. I have towels and soap in the bathroom that's off limits and Thomas Kancade pictures in every room. I have a Van Gogh and Picasso I bought at Frameworks and every single publication ever made about gardening, etc.
Yea, I guess Hitler really did ruin America.
|Sunday, September 28th, 2003|
|White Guilt Assaulted
Just the other day I converted to the Continental Drift Theory. Hungover and praying the oven wasn't about to blow-up, it hit me: Tifton bears one hell of a striking resemblance to Northwest Africa. Then, my roommate Tad, who lived in Tifton for two years and who has attended plenty of science classes, informed me that in fact, the soil compositions of North Africa and the Dirty South are almost indentical.
At first, I just thought the idea was cool and might be useful trying to pick up chics. But then all of a sudden, like an unannounced case of dick burn, it hit me: This changes Everything.
I mean, if this theory carries the weight its balls propose, then American slavery is totally justified. Hence, expropriating black folk to America makes perfect sense because this is technically their home. That said, I don't see what in the hell all the fuss is about. I mean I've worked in a cotton field and it ain't that bad. Nor is being denied basic human liberties, money, blah, blah, blah, all that significant. Hell, those guys whose airplane went down in the Andes had to eat each other for God sake. Indeed, this brilliant finding begs the question as to why nobody thought of this before. Ah, who cares? The South will Rise Again-just like my dick!!!!!
|Thursday, September 18th, 2003|
|Subway Civil (war)
Today, I went into Subway, and ten musty niggers were gonna make my sandwatch. That fat one, the one with the weave, said, "What type of bread?"
Shocked but alert, I replied, "White." It was as if I'd just suceeded from the union.
"What type of sandwich?" She asked in the most appalled way possible?
"I'll have the club." My club, you fucking porch-monkey.
"Salt and Pepper?" she said it just to piss me off.
"Just salt," I countered, almost yelling.
"For HERE, or to-go?"
"To-go." What do I look like, a niggerlover (I was thinkin).
Then, I just filled up my super-sized drink up with Sprite(the whitest thing I could find) and left those niggers in the dust.
|Tuesday, September 16th, 2003|
Trains, they shriek.
Trains, they roll.
1 am, Tuesday. Yes,
Fred McDowell wants to
ride it blind.
Passing the rustic pastures,
amid a deep water lake,
she said, "never stop."
Yet carolina heather and
sarah augustus tolling
9/11 bells notwithstanding.
Trains, they shriek.
Trains, they roll.
Laughing I smoke
the wood and gravel of the
tracks inhaling deeply always.
Fall leaves, like immigration.
Time change and extortion.
Thank god I'm not a lawyer.
Young man, young girl.
"No man, it's called effort."
Don't ever...say ever.
Trains they roll now,
one never knows why,
just who sometimes.
Forbearance and eternity,
hopes so foolish I crave a
low wind and long daydream.
So stupid apprehension.
So futile resistance.
Damn, boy it's vigor, I ranted.
Only to believe
and disagree with candor
unclearing the weather.
Rolling onward toward.
|Sunday, September 14th, 2003|
|If war can't be one, why fight it?
Trembyle, you're so right and so wrong. I mean, sure, we can go litter the mosques with pigs blood. I won't complain. However none of these tactics get to the heart of the issue, and that is: RELIGION STINKS. When Modest Mouse says,
"The universe is shaped exactly like the Earth. If you go straight long enough, you'll end up where you where."
they are not just jacking off with words. I mean, Christians should get off their lazy asses and go kill those fucking towel-heads. Look, at least they really believe the shit they believe, unlike Christians-who if there beliefs where a beer it would be named JESUS-LIGHT.
Instead of being a bunch of pussies, the Christians ought to get off their asses and go to war. WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? I knew Jesus, and I can tell you plainly that he was not a guy prone to compromise. If he were here now(granted, he may be back at any minute), the kid would break into the nuclear shed and get to work. The thought of pig-bombing the mosques might make him laugh, but it wouldn't be taken seriously-unless he got really drunk.
So, the way I see it, Christians should have to go and fight the terrorists to save there beliefs and stuff and let me just sit here and ridicule them for actually trying to be good people. Oh yea, and the war can and will be won because if we can't win it, I see no reason to continue fighting, though I admit this a VERY weak defense.
|Monday, September 8th, 2003|
But a fledgling, the herald's laconic and eclectic prose coalesces the masses and obviates the necessity to delineate the fodder which corroborates the thesis, pious and intrepid as it is. Though fawning and gratuitous, the critics blanch while begrudging in cursory if listless detail, ad nausem, the kid's cogent, incessant, and immutable benediction. Craven and furtive, using pedantic jargon, the clarisy deludes its readers with egregious, embellishing lies in an attempt to hide their penchant for candor and nuance. The kid's work, a galvanizing and esoteric jaunt into euphoria, puts him in a class with other deft, imperious, philanthropic pariahs.
|Sunday, September 7th, 2003|
|Hangover Part Two: Not Again!!!
There is nothing worse than a raunchy hangover. One of those were you get up at 7:15 and limp to the tolliet to take a leak. Then, midway through it, you get nauseas and have to choke it off or pass out with you dick in your hand, possibly cracking you head piece on a number of different objects. Or, you get the one where you can't even swallow it's so bad. You limp to the bathroom looking for something-it's not clear what-only to turn right back around and dive into bed and the malay of covers and books embedded there in.
For you smokers, it's always the "shit-mouth" hangover. That one where you actually gargle Hydrogen Peroxide out of desperation. The Red Coat Marching Band is inside your head, and one of those corny bastards is banging against your temple as if were a bass drum. Moreover, some lame as telemarketer calls you at like 8am and ask if you want to go on a majestic vacation to Williamsburg, Virginia for $100 and you're like "yea, right. I wish that were true" while slamming the phone down really hard only to wish you hadn't because the violent sound is too much. Hence, binge drinking isn't for everybody. You've gotta be driven but completely void of will power. Moreover, you've got to avoid doing anything productive for three days out of every week because to be good at it takes a lot of practice.
|Friday, September 5th, 2003|
|Damn I hate Communism
Every single time the government infringes on a "civil liberty" people get all bent out of shape and start calling the administration "a bunch of god damn fascists." While on the other hand, some seemingly philanthropic legislation gets farted threw Congress, such as a Prescription Drug Bill for seniors, and everybody on the right calls it "a piece of Communist horse-shit." It's as if anything that has to do with surveillance and crackdown equates to fascism while anything designed to help the downtrodden stems from a communist value system.
As Larry David once said, "You no what I like about Hitler. He didn't take no shit from magicians." Hence, fascist are not undercover or discreet about anything. In fact, they're a lot more honest than Communist. For instance, you won't find a Fascist coming to your door late at night trying to kill you. If he wants you dead, he'll do it on-sight, without regard for witnesses. If the witnesses don't like it, they can die too.
Communism cuts in the opposite direction, albeit with a much bigger knife. Communists are afraid to just go ahead and kill because of what people might think. Instead, they cause big nasty famines and make everybody wait in the world's longest bread line (of course, when you get to the front, there's not one damn thing to eat, except the maggots that had been on the bread). Also, they pack hundreds of people in one apartment and cruelly wait until they all kill each other. They blow up nuclear reactors and let the radiation melt you away like you were a God Damn piece of chocolate. Moreover, the're always spying on everybody. They spy on spies for God Sake.
I guess that's why communists have it so good now. They were always just a bunch of pussies, too scared to do the killing themselves. Meanwhile, everybody's still scared of the fascist including me, so that's why anytime the government taps a phone line people get all bent out of shape. However, it's funny to note how real fascist like Castro are portrayed as communists simply because they once claimed to be. Hence, communists are such pussies, they're scared to kick the fascists out of their club. Give me a break you red, candy-ass...
|Wednesday, September 3rd, 2003|
I have been dreaming of moss-gilded creeks in heavily wooded forests. Of lands I visited when I was a navigator. When I would drift the beaches of Africa looking for slaves. My sail raised, my anchor cleared. Wondering I searched. Drifting I floated. No slaves anywhere, I sailed onward. Always, high-stepping through the brush, clearing it away with the machete, the sweat, too, I cleared. My machete notorious, the creek euphoric. I drank regularly back then. Clearing everything-the anchor, the brush, the slaves, and the sweat-leaving nothing to chance. Always searching,not just for slaves, but for virgins. Naked virgins of perfection on the savannah. But like the slaves I found none, never dreamed of finding one. Just knowing how to clear, I kept going, relentless hunting for the unattainable. Back then it was always good enough even if I was just dreaming.
|Tuesday, September 2nd, 2003|
|Never Pull -Start Prose
Trying to write is like trying to pull-start your granddad's lawn mower. No matter how much oil you add, or how many times you choke it, the damn thing just won't start. For example, just the other day I was trying to hot-wire this piece on "Patriotism" and it wouldn't crank. This morning my live journal cut off half way during a mow.
I went and asked the old boy down at the local hardware store about it. All he could muster was, "Got any gas." Frustrated, I wanted to slap him and then write about it. I didn't though, slap him that is. It had plenty of gas.
So I took a break and read the instructional manual. Then, I just got bored and threw it down and walked down to my shop and tried to force it. There I sat for two hours, just a pulling and heaving the cord on every mower, all of them silent except for the cord return and my foot kicking the tires. Finally I came inside and it dawned on me. When I moved the mowers the other day I left them in gear where they won't crank. Even though it was late in the evening, I decided to give it one last shot. Sure enough, everything I had writing was out of gear. Putting it back in neutral I thought to myself, "Why in the hell didn't I think of that before." Mow on!
|Monday, September 1st, 2003|
|Viva la Socialism!
"Well, here it is you Commy bastards," I yelled aimlessly on my way to get a paper. "Go on, hit the streets. Get out your picket signs and hemp necklaces. The capitalist have you on paid leave this Labor Day."
Then to myself I was thinking. Go ahead, vote for Howard Dean. Let's raise the minimum wage and cut the work day again. Demand a 401k, health and life insurance, overtime, etc. Fear not, you can always blame a conservative for the recession, rise in unemployment, and years of never getting a raise that will follow. You just sold out cheap. Can't you see that Capitalism is adaptive?
Not to mention your holiday vacation just got cut in half. Prices are now higher, while the fat-cats take the belly meat off the bone they just threw you. Putting my money in the newspaper vending machine I had an epiphany: Socialism is for masochist.
|Thursday, August 28th, 2003|
|Nascar Blues: The Trilogy
Dale Earnhardht is dead. I will never forget where I was when it happened. Like 9/11, that day is forever branded in my mind. I was down at the Jiffy Lube gettin my tires rotated and my oil changed. I'd just bought a number 3 to go on my truck when the t.v. came on and said the Intimidator had been in a serious accident. I didn't think nothing about his dying and me having just bought that sticker then, but sure enough, minutes later he had done died.
Thinking back, I think I probably felt like the Christians did that day when Jesus died. I kept saying to myself, "Oh, he's coming back. Don't worry about that." But unlike Jesus, Dale didn't. I know cause I went to his funeral and sat there on the headstone for days maybe weeks just thinking, "I'm going to be right here when he gets up." I guess I was being ignorant, I never had nobody in my family die. Except Dale.
Sometimes people kid me that I killed Dale Earnhardht because I told em about buying that sticker. They think it don't bother me because I don't let on, but down deep I'm a mess. I know I killed him just sure as shit. I put that damn sticker on my Ford pick-up. Everybody knows Dale was a Chervolet man. I guess I deserve it for trying to have it both ways.
|Damn I hate religion
Yesterday some dudes in Alabama wheeled out Roy Moore's mini-Ten Commandments from Alabama's Supreme Court. Next thing you see are these burly, bearded rednecks raising God Damn and Fuck That. I'm like you damn redneck son of a bitches, go to a football game. What's even worse is their opposite, and Mark you know who I'm talking about, gets on the high horse (like Napoleon going into Russia) and are like,
"Hey motherfucker, there's a God Damn deep line that separates Church and State. Thomas Jefferson and James Madison and stuff." Shit, I say. There ain't no line, like there ain't no God (God I'm kidding).
For example, when I was a small boy we went to church in the state patrol office and they had all the doughnuts and coffee you could eat after mass was over.
I'll never forget it because my dad just sat their while they took my mom out of the handcuffs and said, "Lord have mercy" and proceeded to sign off like, "E nomine Patris, E Spiritus, etc." That's when I knew the Lord was merciful. DUI's can ruin you.
Was that a violation of Church and State you Commy bastards? Tell me that.
Anyway, religion stinks for a whole bunch of reasons. First of all, nobody likes to go to Church with a hangover. Like the other night, this guy starts telling me all about how I shouldn't give up on "The Church" while he just gets hammered and goes to bed at 4(a.m.). Next day, I'm up at 6 and on the golf course feeling as holy as a waffle house breakfast. Later that day, he comes by my place all churched out and shit, being real polite and friendly, holding his girl's hand and got his hair all G'd up. I'm like fuck God. Why didn't I think of that?
The way I see it religion is just an excuse to get laid. I mean I'm not going to church all dressed to kill by myself to see this dude "Jesus." That's not the reputation I want following me around. The only time I'd go to the big house is if I had some fine as girl on my arm who wanted to go see Jesus and then come home and you know.
However, one good thing about J.C. is that he ain't a cock blocker like most you mother fuckers. He's up front about it. He's like girl I don't want to hook up. Hook up with Pate, but remember, I own your ass you little ho. I guess religion wouldn't be so bad if I was God.
|Sunday, August 24th, 2003|
Before engaging you with my prose, perhaps an introduction is in order. Telemachos, the man that I am and damn you don't know, was, of course, the under appreciated son of the great Odysseus. Forever immortalized by Homer, Odysseus the journeyman, the dragon slayer, the woman-layer has had his day in the sun. Movies, countless novels, and infinite short-stories have rightly paid homage to that brave man. Yet Telemachos, Odysseus' loyal and self-righteous son, has taken the literary shaft. As one of his few decendents, I must take this opportunity, no matter how minuscule it might be, to learn you in the ways of great men like Telemachos.
When his father didn't return from war for many long years, Telemachos found the home of Odysseus surrounded by disgraceful thieves. This cadre of men, void of moral fiber and common decency, were constantly attempting to woo away Odysseus' wife for themselves. Having resolved to resist their invitations, Penelopeia, Telemachos' mother, had only Telemachos to protect her. And so he did.
Though only a lad in terms of age, Telemachos proved a clever and persistent protector of his mother's honor. Anchored by his faith, Telemachos maintained that his father would return, that one fine day, Odysseus would emerge from the epoch of war to reclaim his home and his wife. The boy never doubted that day would come. In fact, he secretly yearned for, if not plotted, the arduous massacre of his father's enemies that would eventually follow.
And follow it did. Upon learning of his father's return, Telemachos capitulated his defense of the family home and abidingly joined his father's side. In what was a wrath of accountability and justice, Telemachos rode shotgun in his father's homecoming celebration, decimating at every turn those callous bastards who dared to fuck with the great Odysseus of Ithaca.
Hence, Telemachos was a great wing man. He was capable in the art of loyalty and forever attending to his principles. Such will be the aims of this writer as well, in this, my own personal odyssey in writing.