THERE IS NO DOG.

Welcome to "There Is No Dog". This is where I uncork my ears and pour wine into your eyes.


Tuesday, June 21, 2011

And Jill Came Tumblring After...

"The map has changed and with it me."

Vibrato! Vibrrrrrrrratoooooooooo!

If I had the gall I would have said if I had the balls.

If I had the balls I'd punch a cop in the badge, so that my hand would crack open and release my bloodjuicies all over his shirt. He would be a flag: red (through bloodjuicies) blue (via mandated uniform) and white (because if I have to explain that one than YOU obviously need to brush up on your stereotypes). I'd ask him what it was like to be a flag and he'd probably say something like, "Black people are called coons!" And I'd tell him, "WOAH! Hey man, I just made a half-joking non-joke about you being white because you're a cop (and vice-versa) and the least you could do is not validate your racism!" And he'd say, "Sorry, but when it comes to the stereotypes you choose to embody than they're much harder to cast aside than the ones you're supposedly born with, because it's inherent in everyone to contradict themselves to the fullest extend of the law you Mexican asshole."

The cop in this story's name was extortion-

-NO!

The cop in this story's name was "Murray." Sorry, Murray.

Anyway, this asshole Murray was such a cop that when ever he copped a feel he'd say, "Hey, I'm coppin' a feel!" and then he'd beat you to death and eat you. Told you he was a jerk.

But cannibalism aside, Murry made a few good points while gumming on my toes: everyone wants to be an anomaly. I'm an anomaly in that I don't want to be an anomaly at all.

Wait, that doesn't work? FUCK! I GUESS I'M STILL NOT AN ANOMALY! THIS CLUB IS HARDER TO GET INTO THAN THE DIABETIC INDIANS OF CONGRESSIONAL POST-ROCK!

But I post-almost-digress: Anomaly rhymes with you + me except that it doesn't. And just like it doesn't, we all doesn't. We all doesn't even close to it. It's what makes us not want to be like our parents. It's what makes us not want to be a caricature. It's what makes us want to be like our friend's parents. It's what wants us to be like a character. It's what wants what we want to what's what? Okay!

Just because I can't articulate my thoughts doesn't mean I'm not typing that one thing I want to say or something. I want to be the text-equivalent of your brakes locking-up before a bridge-out sign.

But what you don't understand is that AHHHH OH MY GOD THE BRAKES AREN'T WORKING FUCK TOYOTA FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK TOYOTA!

But our will to go against assimilation is the same thing that keeps our foot clamped shut on the break-hammer (I don't know how cars work) even though we know we're going off the cliff and we're all going to die fat virgins and our bloodjuicies are going to paint a hilarious portrait for some wandering immortal who loves Jackson Pollock.

What I'm trying to say is: there's a reason you meet so many Jeremy Pivens.

What I'm trying to say is HIGH WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MAH FRIENDS!

HIGH WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MAH FRIENDS!

HIGH WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MAH FRIENDS!

OOOOOOOH OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH YEAHHHHHHHHH

The Wodner Yeats.

~Kip