Monday, December 9, 2013
I don't really know anything about Nelson Mandela. If you have a facebook account somebody probably posted about how Paul Walker (who I also wrote about) got more...I don't know, social media noise/attention/fan fare than Nelson Mandela.
I will admit my first instinct was to write a bullshit cut and paste from wiki type memorial thing, but then I thought...so a white, pretty actor dies suddenly and an old, black...politician? dies and people are SURPRISED that the former got more attention than the latter? It gets even more ludicrous when after doing some digging, it turns out Mandela's not even American. As my buddy Tyrone always says, if there is anything lower than a black man in this country, it's an African. Actually Tyrone doesn't always say that, but he did say it and recently.
So yes we're not all broken up because some African country lost its first black president. Hell, we don't like our own first black president, even though he saved the economy, kill Bin Laden and provided healthcare. Apartheid? Most Americans who know what it is would love to have it back.
Again, I don't have a lot to say as I didn't really know anything about him. I will say that he is part of the reason we have mandatory sentencing. I mean, if you can lock a black man up for 27 years and still have a risk that when he gets out he might be President...
Posted by Literary Consultant at 11:57 AM
Monday, December 2, 2013
Nothing like a death of a young, attractive, rich and famous person to bring out the haters. I get it. When you are food insecure and your only experience with cars are non-mobile ones that serve as shelters hearing about a pretty boy famous for movies about street racing die in a car crash falls squarely within the vast area of shit to joke about. I'm an asshole and so are you. If I can think of a way to make one of the millions of women who fall asleep dreaming about Walker's cock feel even worse by figuring out how to work in the phrase "fast and furious" into one of their post comments. They cry, we laugh, life goes on.
But here is some shit that won't fly. First, don't be that guy who posts a picture of a random dead kid and is all like "Why does everybody care about Paul Walker and not little _____?" Uh, because we don't know, nor have we ever heard of little _____. Also don't act like you call that 1-800 number late at night when a clean-cut white person shows you a slideshow of brown kids living in filth and then asks for 28 cents a day. We know in the abstract that kids die everyday but we can't be sad about shit we don't know about and news is about 1) making money. It also used to be about having an informed citizenry, but that's dead.
Next, don't be one of those it ain't all that sad because the fuck did he ever do for anybody and we got nuns and shit dying and nobody fucking cares type people. First, I believe he died coming back from some kind of charity event. Next, y'all are discounting the very real nature of temptation. If that real civic minded motherfucker you love so much had been born handsome and lucky, then shit he might be waist deep in cocaine and prostitutes. The reason that celebs do more tabloid shit than you and me ain't because their character is less than ours. It's just easier for them. Don't believe me do a little test: imagine you could have actually had sex every time you've looked at porn or actually gone out and bought every car you've ever admired in a parking lot?
So yeah, haters gonna hate myself included. But don't try and make this about dead children or unsung do-gooders.
Posted by Literary Consultant at 12:41 PM
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Time for a convict to add his two cents. Well, maybe one and a half cents. Because there is very, very little to say here. Just two things really 1) this is how the justice system works and why it doesn't particularly give a fuck if a thug beats the rap. It's not about preventing future crime or crime victims...it's about winning. Thugs are always back. It's about winning 2) It's not about karma...wife beating =/= child killing.
I don't even know if this is her. But everyone beats their wife. And nobody cares. Slapping your significant other around is a common topic of conversation in the clink. Most women who are in the clink are there for retaliation for being slapped around.
Last thing - for those of you who just want a conviction so he'll get the train run on his sphincter, sorry. He'll get his ass kicked once or twice but the only salad he will be tossing belongs to whoever runs the Aryan Brotherhood wherever he ends up. There is no one drop rule for wetbacks.
Posted by Literary Consultant at 1:20 PM
Saturday, November 9, 2013
We here at Team Gonzo, have no idea, but through the spontaneous art of improvised story, how to bring any meaning to this world. As the lead writer here, I started this blog sometime last year, only at the advice of my best friend, and my ex-fiancé. Having always had a colorful mind, and rich and unique experiences that transpired into spontaneous, and hilarious stories…frequently told with comradely and beer…I have noticed that we as human beings all poses some intrinsic value.
I have noticed through my adventures, that if I took the time to understand some one, I usually could learn how to explain things, so that they began to understand me. This truth I have experienced will defiantly propel me into some concept essays of the future. Back to the crude and tasteless shit you all love to read.
So am I just really fucking crazy? Have an over exaggerated criminal mentality? Take too many random… (And FREE) drugs? Publically pronounce my self “The Street Urchin”? Who knows if I’m making all this shit up and I’m really an Indonesian diplomat pretending to write as Wylie O’Rylie? For those who know me better then others…the answerers should be obvious…but this is Gonzo, so maybe it was memories of a dream so powerful one swears that was real?
The goal here is to tell the truth like it really is…THE REAL TRUTH!!! Not just a story about some crazy shit that may or may not have happened (due to legal, social, and moral reasons) but the real lesson deep down inside…the crux of the biscuit.
Many of us (as an example) have experienced a fight with our “better half” (which would imply we are the shitty half). Apologies, honey moon, another fight. If we take a moment an honestly evaluate the even, and admitted our place in it, TO OUR MOTHER FUCKING SELVES…there would be quite a different story, because, we all know that the “Truth is stranger then any fiction”.
Having said that, you all have a great weekend, I’m going camping…someplace where I won’t get arrested. Gonzo Journalism…stories so fake, they just might be real...and here is a Gonzo video for your viewing pleasure.
|CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!!!!!!!!!!|
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Exactly. For those that can't read the caption it says "Better than Christmas." I wouldn't say "better" since I'm being contemplative, but I would agree with the underlying sentiment which is that it is Christmas on crack. The reason Christmas is so kid focused is that Halloween is Christmas for adults. Let's be honest. We love our friends and tolerate our families. Families are what you fall back on when you have no friends. But enough pontification, time for a sleezy sex story.
Three or four years ago I was drinking for free at an Irish bar dressed as a Leprechaun. I can't remember if people were buying me drinks or if they were truly on the house. I am thinking the latter because whatever I was drinking it was some seasonal mish-mosh crap that bars with absentee owners and/or cater to yuppies buy, but nobody actually orders. I remember what I was drinking because it irritated my tongue which led to my unusual response to the query I was about to receive
"Hey, if I straddle these stools will you eat me out?"
Now when my idiot friends retell this story they always make the same mistake. They always phrase the questions as "if I stand on this stool will you eat me out?" That's when the one person still sober enough to visualize something as related calls bullshit. Details are important people.
Going back to the original story - so I look up and there is this topless bottomless witch wearing a corset around her waist and nothing else but smeared green face paint and one of those pointy hats. It's impossible to tell whether the mess on top of her head was her real hair.
"Anything to get the taste of this weak brew out of my mouth"
But as I approached I was hit with such an offensive odor of cheap rubber, plastic and battery acid I had to take a step back. Now as many of you know, I shave my head - and at any given time I by necessity have most of my earthly possessions on my person. So using the head of a Guinness and my razor I begin to shave the unruly, stinking bush I was presented with so I could breathe while dispensing pleasure. I made $200 off someone who said I couldn't do it without drawing blood (which of course I failed to do but blamed the appearance of bodily fluid on spotting). I ate her out until she predictably fell whereas I carried her to a booth and finished her off the old fashioned way.
Another mistake my friends make when they steal this story is to actually downplay it by taking the witch to the bathroom. After all, why would bar security allow this sort of thing? But if that's your way of thinking wouldn't they have barred an essentially naked woman from coming into the bar in the first place? Normally I like to play off such details as the pure panache I bring to any situation - but in reality when something like this goes down at a bar it is because a regular with deep pockets puts a few hundred bucks on the table to let a situation play out. I gravitate to these bars because these are the individuals who are willing to buy me drinks so long as I entertain them.
Read on for one last comment from the unitiated.
Posted by Literary Consultant at 11:38 AM
Monday, October 28, 2013
The banging was intermittent and the screams failed to arouse that gut instinct to help that compromises our small but redeeming humanity. It was when she stopped screaming and the grunting continued that I felt it - a combination of the realization that rough sex/roll playing or sexual assault/rape was in fact the latter. I had broken up attempted rapes before, with the no harm no foul understanding (the times when I was successful). But now I was dealing with a victim who was at the very least unconscious, could possibly be bleeding out or was already dead. I had a buddy in the clink doing a dime because such an intervention led to accomplice status. Mind your business and forget you have a sister or mother. Or in my case just a sister. My mom just ain't worth it.
The above account was a random Tuesday in November a couple years back when I was not in fact incarcerated. Yet, for a large segment of our society we scare ourselves for fun. Evolutionary speaking, this is more absurd than folks who jog for exercise. We purposefully trigger mechanisms designed to protect us from imminent death and unimaginable pain...not to train for some apocalyptic event BUT. FOR. FUN. Imagine being the sort of person where your human need to identify obstacles and dangers was so underutilized that you could latch on to the things crudely depicted in drugstore aisles starting the day after the Fourth of July. Imagine that intersection of privilege and weak-mindedness. You think Haitians are scared of ghosts? No, they are scared of Earthquakes. Trailer park kids of Tornadoes. They are both scared of drunken fathers and strung out mothers.
Oh and let's not forget the candy. Most holidays you eat rich food with family. Halloween you eat candy from strangers.
What about sex? Sure, most holidays you hook up with a fat addict to make up for the fact that you're alone, but Halloween we dress like sluts, shun our families and have as much (usually anonymous) sex as possible.
So forget Christmas as the ultimate testament to our consumerism. Believe it or not, it's Halloween.
Posted by Literary Consultant at 11:47 AM
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
By the time I had arrived at Market Square, the vernal sunset had reared its ugly head. Market Square, magnetically attracts everyone in town, for NO FUCKING reason, what so ever, then to drink, or admire the southern landmark. The result looks like a Phish concert, being held in an Amish community.
Traditionally, eastern towns had a farmers market at their centers. These squares, act as a main nerve for commerce, and a center for communication and communicable diseases, for the rest of society. Following suit with tradition of the east, Knoxville kept this bleak and desolate, quasi-soviet structure, in the interest of "historical preservation", and lined the perimeter of the square with bars, pubs, and restaurants...in an act designed to appease the growing tourist and college populations. This was done while simultaneously pretending to care about the historical landmark, and the locals that loved it.
This carefully, crafted, concoct sounds good on paper, was as natural to watch as a French maid fucking a buffalo, while licking a tree frogs ass, but not as strange as watching the chick who played Precious, give a midget a lap dance! Since I had a fucked up morning, and was already half drunk, it was time to play the game of personality roulette, where I'm cool as shit to some people, and randomly a total asshole to others!!
The alcohol starts making pre-rationalized suggestions to me, that are amusing, profitable, and morally prudent. I decided to enter the "Preservation Pub", in an attempt to right an injustice, that prevented me from overdosing on moonshine, just two nights prior (and for that, I'll make the fuckers who work here pay!!!)
I had grown tired of watching "Get on the Bus" with Bobby Lee, and grown tired of pretending to listen to his furry, fat wife. I took leave of the company, and went for a walk when I ran into one of the strangest denizens of "Knox Vegas".