Avtomat Kalishnakova

I just ordered a gas powered AK-47 pellet gun. I hope it arrives in time for the family gathering on Christmas. I plan to waltz in with the following in hand or on my person: boots, boxers, whiskey, sunglasses, air-rifle. That should make a great impression. Hopefully I will have taken enough Benzos that I will make some poor choices, in slow-motion. Maybe I'll open fire at the Turkey. The pellets aren't made of lead, so who cares, right?


Happy holidays, shitheads.

My Analyst Says I Should Live In The Country

"The Country makes me nervous. You've got crickets. And its quiet. There's no place to walk after dinner. And there's the screens with the dead moths behind them. You've got the Manson family, possibly. You've got Dick and Perry."

...

"Where's the God damned Valium!?"

How I Spent My Christmas Vacation

http://pimpmygun.doctornoob.com/app.html

Yee-Haw

So the Blizzard of '09 is coming down. Slowly now, but there is more than enough snow and ice on the ground to make my fellow Richmonders turn into complete maniacs on the road. No one here can drive in the rain. Imagine what they do in the snow...

" SATAN IS REAL. WORKING IN SPIRIT. YOU CAN SEE HIM AND HEAR HIM IN THIS WORLD EVERY DAY. SATAN IS REAL. WORKING WITH POWER. HE CAN TEMPT YOU AND LEAD YOU ASTRAY."

Working my way to the bottom of a bottle again tonight. Keeping warm with my friends J & B. That's Justerini and Brooks for those of you who don't drink whisky that will put hair on your balls.

"I'M GOIN' STRAIGHT TO HELL. AIN'T NOTHING SLOWIN' ME DOWN. I'M GOIN' STRAIGHT TO HELL, SO YOU JUS' BETTER GIMME ONE MORE ROUND."

There is something dignified about drinking something with a history. I don't mean a brewing or distilling history. I mean a cultural history. American beers that have stayed true to their roots and the men (and I guess women, but fuck 'em) that drink it. Pabst comes to mind. I know plenty of limp wristed trend hoppers in their skinny jeans, with their art degrees who drink pabst for the price. Or because someone years ago noticed the price. And adopted it as the hipster art fag beer of choice. The reality is that the true pabst drinker would have no time, or patience for idealized political naivete, uninformed "graphic design" "art work", and fashions including, but not limited to: skinny jeans, septum piercings, dirty vans sneakers, and all things American Apparel. Try work boots. Get the fuck outta here.

"I BEEN BEAT UP BAD. I BEEN KICKED AROUND. I BEEN THROWN OUTTA EVERY OL' BAR IN THIS DAMN TOWN. I GUESS THEY DON'T LIKE THE WAY I LIKE TO HAVE FUN, 'CUS I'M ALWAYS OUT THERE, AN' I'M ON THE RUN, AND I'M RUNNIN' AND A GUNNIN' AND A LOOKIN' FOR A REAL GOOD TIME."

I've done so much trip I can't look you in the eye. If only that was my excuse. I've actually done so little "trip" I can't stand to look anyone in the eye, for fear of what I might do. Were I to have done "so much trip" I would probably be able to stare blankly. At you. In the eye.




Now excuse me while I depart for a trip across various planes of existence. Various realities. Various sleep states. Various states of chemically induced intoxication.

"WELL I'VE BEEN AWAKE FOR EIGHT DAYS STRAIGHT, IT MUST'A BEEN THEM PILLS I TOOK. I BEEN TWITCHIN' AND TURNIN' AND SEEIN' VISIONS. IT MUST'A BEEN THEM PILLS I TOOK."

Cotton Mouth

Something is fundamentally wrong about the state of alcoholic dehydration, manifested in the colloquial "cotton mouth", rearing its ugly head BEFORE I have gone to sleep. It's one thing as a hang-over symptom, but a pre-somatic consequence of imbibing? Fuck you; not cool.

Resurrection will be the death of innocence

So looking around this room I live in... One. Single. Room.

I notice that my home begins to look more like that of a crazed politico (not the kind that rallies for a candidate... the kind that shoots a candidate from the building across the street with a high powered rifle)

On my futon/bed alone currently there sits: a small pile of U.S. Army field blankets, a surge protector, a copy of "APOCALYPSE CULTURE" edited by Adam Parfrey, an air pistol, a pair of scissors, two empty beer cans, and a half empty bottle of whisky.

My life has become Le Samourai, without the... stylization.

My black Docs are muddy, scuffed, and finally broken in. I drink more often that I eat. I take my scotch with no ice, and less water. I've watched "Il Conformista" 5 times in a month. I want to kill.

My life has become a primal scream. I dress in clothes that would not look out of place at a gun show. I frequent gun shows. Looking for deals. On rifles.

I own more weapons than my entire county combined. I carry a combat knife in my boot. In my suburban neighborhood. I assess store clerks as potential violent threats.

I work in medicine. I save lives. I preserve the future of the youth, and keep the old from moving on. I want the old to die, and the youth to see through my disillusioned eyes. I feel that not one soul I see on any given day has any idea how fucked we are. How fucked this country is. How fucked the world is. How fucked humanity is. How fucked this state is. How fucked this city is. How fucked this neighborhood is. How fucking naive they all are.

I talk with co workers. And take my jokes one step over the line. I laugh, they stare.

I watch violent pornography and only the punching/kicking/slapping/spitting is worth my attention. Sex is not personal, it's nothing but biology. The only thing that makes fucking worth the physical exertion is the possibility of feel new sensations. Like chipping a tooth, or breaking a finger, or tearing a muscle. Sexuality is far less complicated than the blind romantic would have you believe. Love is chemical.

"I GRIND MY TEETH INTO FANGS"

My floor is covered in shit. Black shit. Dead matter. Dust. Clothes; I cover myself with shit.

"No one 'knows' anyone, ever. Not really."

I sedate myself with chemicals. Anti-psychotic-depressant-convulsant-anxiolytic-alcoholic chemicals. My blood:outside psychoactive agent ratio is 1:1. Cut me open and I would bleed white powdered pills.

Fuck you. Look what you've done. I've gone and written myself into a stink.