This is basically me in >500 words

Lots of rain on this horizon

Reminder to self to get one

man with crab

man with crab

http://existentialcomics.com/comic/29
this is the way I want to live - if not meaningfully, then at least, ecstatically —
…”WHOA! UNBELIEVABLE!”

http://existentialcomics.com/comic/29

this is the way I want to live - if not meaningfully, then at least, ecstatically —

…”WHOA! UNBELIEVABLE!”

"What I […] came to understand, via pathei-mathos, was the importance - the human necessity, the virtue - of love, and how love expresses or can express the numinous in the most sublime, the most human, way. Of how extremism (of whatever political or religious or ideological kind) places some abstraction, some ideation, some notion of duty to some ideation, before a personal love, before a knowing and an appreciation of the numinous."
— David Myatt, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Myatt
I want to be happy?

want to be happy?
to be happy?
be happy?
happy?
 ?

Joseph P. Kidd

was a kid who appreciated humor. Dark humor. “Ironic” humor. The best kind.

"I’m going to go on an adventure," he thought. "Steven Spielberg will eat this shit up," he thought.

So he decided to go on a little adventure to the gun store. Nothing but an innocent college kid, you see, young and spry and twenty two, a law abiding citizen who would, of course, use his new toy for good and only good, protecting his home and family.

At the gun store the t.v. was on. “Seven die in UCSB massacre,” the t.v. chirped. “Load of shit”, the owner grunted, and aggressively flipped the channel. “First timer, eh?” he said, for gun store owners are always men. “Yeah,” Kidd said, smiling from ear to ear. Adventures were always so much fun! A few years ago, at this very gun store, a man tried to rob this gun store. He was shot from seven different directions by five men owning thirty two different guns between them. When the ER arrived the man had no head. Or twenty seven heads, if you define a “head” to be a chunk of head weighing no less than a quarter of a pound. They were warm and squishy.

The background check ran clean, of course. And just like that, Joseph P. Kidd was in the clear. “Sweet,” he said, purring over his new A-15.

Now, any other kid on a fun adventure might want to rush and play immediately with his new toy. But Kidd was different. Kidd believed in careful planning and responsible research, like all responsible gun owners. So he went to an NRA gun camp for juniors to shoot some targets. “Pew pew”, he thought, as his gun fired. It took a little while, but Kidd got pretty good at that kind of stuff. Wasn’t too hard, this gun responsibility stuff. Always have your safety on and stuff.

One day, the day came. “Yay!” thought Kidd. It was time to play. It was the Annual Meeting of Members for the NRA in April, and Kidd was ready. It was going to be so much fun! He had memorized the list of the leadership, through and through. He and 75,000 other people were going to cheer and laugh and clap for gun rights. A large conference of responsible gun owners, fighting for their right to protect their families. It was going to be great!

He woke up and drove. The traffic was bad because of the conference. Thousands of people all over the nation. He saw the Crowne Plaza hotel. That looked good, he thought. Man, this was going to be so much fun! He walked in and saw people eating breakfast in the breakfast parlor, sipping coffee like an Americana movie. In one corner he saw a little girl nibbling at a chocolate croissant. “Aw,” he thought, then pulled out his A-15 and shot her in the head. Blood splattered across the dainty white satin tablecloth like a technicolor movie. “Bitch,” he thought, shooting her sister in the stomach. +200 points! It was just like in the movies. He was master of the world, protagonist of everyone’s narrative, and goddamn if anyone was going to spoil his rising tension. As people scrambled like ants under a magnifying glass, he spotted their mother and shot her too. +300 points, he thought, +1000 for the triple combo, +500 for NRA relatives. He’d spent months memorizing the faces of the NRA leadership, months compiling data and names and facts and addresses in his cute Macintosh laptop, months analyzing the best hotels to go to on the day of the conference.

"Pew pew!" he thought, and a boy lost his leg and a man lost his wife. Man, had the practice paid off! At this rate he’d be over 9000 by lunch. He walked over to the boy. The boy was clutching his leg and whimpering. "Too bad he didn’t have a gun," Kidd thought, shooting off the boy’s other leg. "If he had a gun, he could have protected himself," Kidd thought, shooting the boy in the arm. "Fucking dems, give this boy a gun!" Kidd thought, shooting the boy in the other arm. The boy moaned like a drunk sorority girl being dragged off for rape and slaughter. "How feminine," he thought, this boy’s moan. "Why couldn’t he just be a man and take it?" Kidd fired into his mouth, once, twice, thrice. The boy stopped moaning, and his eyes went anime-wide. "Ugh, don’t give me that look," and he shot his eyes out too, raping the kid’s face with his weapon. Kidd felt such masculine power, such absolute domination, such utterly, complete, devastating control. He was a GOD with a capital G-O-D, and he would make them bend to his will.

His masturbatory murder had taken so long, many of his victims had already left the cute breakfast parlor. Responsible gun owner, he, he had taken the time to make sure he switched the safety back on. “No point in wasting bullets,” he thought. Behind him, he heard rustling. He ran over and lifted the tablecloth. Well, goddamn, it was the wife of Wayne LaPierre himself! This was hilarious! Kidd grinned. “Nothing like some poetic justice,” he thought, completely fucking up the definition of poetic justice - or was it justice? -, pointing the gun at her face as she whimpered formulaically. “Please, no…” she whimpered, just like all those other weak female objects in all those glorious glamorous movies made by men who insisted that they treat women “right”. But no, this was real life and he was the man and she was the women and he had a gun and she had a cunt and this story was going to end just like all the other ones. It would be almost wrong if he didn’t shoot her.

As her blood spurted and stained the red carpeting a gorgeous deep maroon, Kidd relished the deep literary meaning of the moment. Here he was, twenty two, a living embodiment of a new American epitome, the maybe naturally-deranged, maybe socially-influenced young alienated male madman, to piss like a dog and make his mark on a world that taught him the world was his for the plucking. A week later liberals would secretly giggle in college towns and elementary school breakrooms and hipster Brooklyn bars, giggle and giggle and giggle at the all-too-real plight of a man who fought for Kidd’s God-given all-American freedoms and rights. Giggle as Wayne LaPierre exercised his God-given American right to shoot himself in the head with a charcoal black handgun. Giggle as that unyielding horde returned to that tried-and-true line - “it’s just mental illness!” - failing to realize that for all the therapists in the world, the government just had to protect Kidd’s right to a gun, since he, like a lot of other fucked up kids, slipped right through the cracks of an imperfect system. Giggle as the NRA elected a new leader, a new leader with a $972,000 salary, and soldier on defiantly even as they lost 6 of their own members and 24 of their members’ family members as Kidd continued his narrative destiny, knocking on hotel room doors and massacring elevators and cornering cowed World War II veterans in bubble baths. 

As Kidd reached the beautiful climax of his solipsistic story, as NRA members shot his face in Tarantino revenge, Kidd reflected on his life and appreciated the humor of it all. “It was a good life,” he thought, as bullets pulverized his chest.

There is a place and time for every story. This was America in 2014, and goddamn if Kidd was denied his right to be a responsible gun owner, protecting his family by massacring the NRA. 

*brought to you by Joe the Plumber, of "your dead kids don’t trump my constitutional rights" fame.

Just read the most horrifying bit of history I’ve ever read

The annihilation of the Herero because of German military culture, advocating total destruction of the enemy. They drove the Herero into the desert, then held onto all water oases and shot at the Herero until they were all shot or starved to death. All in pursuit of an ephemeral “military victory”.

It was so surreal it was like fiction… but it was all too true.

Indiana Dunes at 3 am

A++

gotta watch for them roofers though. and the shooting stars

1 of 20
Themed by: Hunson