fromanyalley

I couldn’t find this. So what? Hahaha. I came here in my heavy boots and my really ripped, not factory installed ripped, grimy jeans and my worn-out face to write, not to piss around with putting a blog together. From scratch. As if I know how to put a blog together. Or even what one really is.
Like any other place, they laughed. I didn’t actually see them, or capture them on my cell-phone, since I don’t have a cell-phone to capture anyone laughing at anything. But I could feel them laughing. You know. Don’t pretend you don’t. It’s like when you close the door and eight pin-headed-pencil-necked-geek supervisors are behind the door. You know. The looks, the raised eyebrows, the small, so small, shaking of the pointy little head. You can’t tell me it’s paranoia born of years of drug abuse and choosing evil women who try to carve a nice roast out of your running as fast as humanly possible ass, and then THEY call the cops. It happens.
I don’t mind so much, anymore. Abuse is, after all, institutionalized, rationalized, excused and condoned. When we live in a place where highpriced bigtime lawyers are allowed to question whether or not water-boarding someone is torture, a little humiliation is chumpchange by comparison.
I was not born with a mouse in one hand and a keyboard wrapped around my neck in place of the good old oxygen-restricting umbilicus. How was I to know? And the thing is, I can’t pound on a desk, or a door. I can’t engage in any pissing-matches, dick-measuring contests, gray-back chest-pounding or alpha dog nipping at the omega dog’s ‘nads. I am here and whoever is laughing and saying, “Shit, not ANOTHER one” in that nasal, high-pitched voice dripping with private schools and German motorwerks privilege is over THERE, very figuratively speaking, across the pixels in the Place of THOSE in the KNOW.
I have never been there, myself. I’ve been close. But, after the security guards got done showing me how real cops do it, the real cops showed up and showed me how the real REAL cops do it. And they do it very well. Mechanically. No emotions. Nothing personal in this. Here, gargle with this pepper spray while I make you dance like that nauseating Irish guy by zapping your unoffending ass with 50 bajillion volts of pure high-grade plasma-powered phaser-gun PAIN. Do it again? Okay. And I smelled roast cooking in Alliance-fucking- Nebraska on a crisp fall Sunday afternoon 50 years ago when everyone smiled and the house was rich with the aroma of fresh bread, pine-sol, and Wild Turkey. Do it again? Oh, okay, ’cause all I have to do is pull this little trigger…Oh, oh! Shit, sorry, man, my bad. Into the back of the car ya go. A little crunchy around the edges, but it’s all good.
That was as close as I ever got.
And as close as I’ll ever get, probably. Because right now I am in a place where the computer and its manifold manipulations is the BIG dog with the big DICK. I can be used as a new mop-head by anyone who actually knows why nothing ever disappears from the hard-drive of my computer. And I know there are people who have understood exactly why that is since they were approximately 2 years old, or about the same time they were starting the application process to Stanford. I cannot just storm in here and challenge any and every one to a quick game of stuff-a-jackrabbit-up-your-ass-head-first. It is fun and burns many calories and the look on the rabbit’s face is worth every minute of the agony I’ll put you through to properly seat the little fella in the middle of your colitis- wracked colon, but I don’t stand a chance.
I’ll back up. Hi. I’m new here. Can one of you nice smart clean people point me to where a fella could put one word down after the other and keep right on going until he decides it is time to stop?