These goddamn anti-tobacco ads have got to go.  They are the absolute worst.  They each feature former tobacco smokers whom, due to their ludicrous tobacco intake 20-30 years ago, have had their voice boxes, mandibles, and usual assorted other significant body parts removed, and are typically reliant on rather raucous breathing apparatus.  So even if you’re not actively watching tv, you suddenly hear this just horrible mechanical voice croaking a 15-second tale of self-centered deception, woe, and failure.  “I was the homecoming queen the year I graduated high school…voted “Best Dancer” in my class, and then I started smoking.”  At this point in the commercial, the hapless and passive listener simply must turn to the screen to see what the fuck is making such horrible noise.  Then some half-dead bald woman who looks almost exactly like that little smart ass from Tales From The Crypt.  The producers of the commercial know this, so they wait for that exact moment, when they know everybody in the room is locked onto the screen, to have the Carcinogenic Crypt Keeper do something truly ghastly, like remove their teeth or wig and then dance/hop around as they begin removing other prosthetic limbs in a sort of sick striptease.  “I just someone had told me the cigarettes would do this.”  The Crypt Keeper then stares desperately into the camera, clearly resigned to her own self-inflicted wound (or maybe the producer just paused the video), and then text appears on the screen: “Sharon died 20 seconds after recording this message.”
Jesus Christ…I’m eating lunch!  I don’t want to see this morbid shit!  I never started smoking, so there is no reason for me to be exposed to Sharon’s dying moments over and over again in the course of a single afternoon when I’m just trying to watch Bar Rescue and eat steak sandwiches.

N.P.: “You’re the Reflection of the Moon on the Water” – Grant Hart

Much like a white girl in the suburbs who seems to have misplaced her left Ugg™, I Can’t Even, dear reader.  Maybe tomorrow.

N.P.: “Nothing Is Everything (Skyrizi Theme) – Richard Cheese

The only thing I did today worth mentioning was flirt with an exterminator.

N.P.: “Who Do You Love” – Ronnie Hawkins

I’m edgy, dearest reader…real edgy.
Something’s gotta give.

N.P.: “Boys & Girls & Rock N Roll” – Cheap Trick

Today was pretty much a pain in the ass, dear reader.  Except for one part mid-afternoon when there was suddenly a surprise Jack and Coke Icee™.  That was almost enough to turn things around, but not quite.  Perhaps a second Icee™ was needed.
Wrote some decent stuff today.

N.P.: “Sixteen Tons (feat. Jeff Beck) – Live From London” – ZZ Top

How goes it, able-bodied reader?  I feel I have been neglectful in our relationship lately.  But you know how difficult these long-distance relationships can be.  And I’ve just been busy as hell.  Really…it’s been ridiculous.  But don’t think I don’t think of you.  I do.  And I hope you’re doing well.  Alright…once more unto the breach, dear friend…until tomorrow.

N.P.: “Love Is The Hero” – Billy Squier, Freddy Mercury

“If you don’t like it, you can fuck off!’ ~ the last words of Keith Moon

What’s crackin’, dear reader.  All is chaos here.  Still and always in desperate need of an assistant.  And a vacation.

N.P.: “Boom Boom” – Big Head Todd and The Monsters

It’s a blustery motherfucker in The Creek today.   I can’t hear the movie over the wind chimes.

Had to listen to another idiot tell me that “knowledge is power.”  This trite and patronizing statement has always pissed me off.  Knowledge in a vacuum, unapplied, is useless.  Knowledge strategically applied…that is power.  Or at least it can be.  And knowledge about someone is power over them…if strategically applied.  I was raised by someone who believed in that fervently, and practiced it with brutality.  Hence the Masonic-like secrecy and constant disinformation.  The more you know….

N.P.: “Rollin ‘N Tumblin” – North Mississippi Allstars

My mood is quite unpleasant.  Rather than cause cathartic chaos, it’s likely best for everyone if I just go the fuck to bed.  So I shall.

N.P.: “Going Back Home” – Wilko Johnson, Roger Daltrey

Goddamn, dear reader.  If I must be reincarnated back to this absurd existence, I hope I come back as a Hindu deity, just so I can have at least six middle fingers.  I figure I could use two hands normally, to make sandwiches, bowl, hold a cocktail, et cetera, but also have four other hands constantly giving The Finger, one hand for each of the four directions.   To ask me to artfully cope with this life with two measly middle fingers is ridiculous.

“Slippery People – Live” – Mavis Staples, Win Butler, Regine Chassagne