Posts Tagged ‘Failure’

Redeye Fragments #2

November 21 2011

Aimless rambling and harmless, nonsensical bullshittery induced by plane-based semi-somnia– a wake-lite but sleepless state not dissimilar to purgatory, I bet.
This time, though, the eyes are red due to the three preceding days of having four times more drinks than hours of sleep.

Whenever You Are In Sight

Heads invented necks so that I could find you. In a crowd, behind me, with friends, over there; amongst all the others who wish you were theirs, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for

Heads invented necks so that I could see you. All of you. The whole thing. All day. All night. All the time.

Heads invented necks so that, if/when kissing, I could really do a number on your mouth. Just get in there and do all the right tongue stuff. Or, when dancing, be closer, more close to you. To feel your heart in your head and

Heads invented necks so that when sleeping there’d be a crook to doze off into.

Later: Sleeping.


What were we like before you? What were we like before necks:
Scientists are divided on the issue, with three competing theories angling for dominance over the field.

1. Shoulder-Head Hypothesis
The Shoulder-Head Hypothesis predicts (well, postdicts really) that before we had necks our heads sat directly on our shoulders. No swiveling, obvi. But, bonus: an express route for food to the stomach, rapid shrug capability, a moment of solace for MtF transgendereds who wouldn’t have to worry about Adam’s Apples.
But if this actually happen why don’t we remember?: we do, we just don’t think about it ever.

2. Everything Before Necks Was False Memories Implanted By Our Alien Progenitors
How come? Also: then did aliens have necks and where did their necks come from and how? Was my need to crane towards you our Big Bang, then? Have we always been invented, then then? Or did each and every one of us have our own particular origin myth / object of desire / goal? Can you tell me yours and what if all of ours are about each other but different– i.e. we all have a special someone who has a special someone who isn’t us. Like the aliens are giant jerks conducting a planet-size experiment in heartbreak? No one ends up with who they were supposed to, who they wanted. (In this scenario every goal is romance-centric). Maybe some people are born with non-specific targets, just quotas to reach. I guess they’re the lucky ones as long as they’re equipped with the adequate aspects/qualities– looks, charm, geniticular implement– to conceivably achieve their goal.
A: We are correct. It was a weird, sad experiment in heartbreak. The numbers differ slightly: five percent of us are matched; fifteen percent of us have no single match [either having no match (3%) or a quota (12%)]; with a surprisingly strong showing, eight percent of us have a match that is not a human person; and the rest of us just want the one we can’t have.
Optimistic supporters of Headspermia, those disposed especially generous towards our manipulators, offer an alternative interpretation — that this is not per se an experiment in heartbreak, but rather the invention and refinement of compromise. They extrapolate that these aliens must see us as we see laboratory mice (pronounced the British way), and suffering from the cancer of constant conflict and crippling divisiveness (pronounced the British way), they have created us as a self-solving solution to how to learn to settle. They are so far unsatisfied and we will soon be shook up and down etch-a-sketch style and restarted. These people are idiots and the truth of the matter is far crueler and they are dumb and I hate them for suggesting (pronounce the British way) otherwise.
See: the figure of five percent is somewhat misleading. It does not account for the vast size and population of Earth, that ninety-six percent of the perfectly matched never even meet their intended, let alone make it work. (It is estimated that only 3% of the 4% of the %5 who both meet and are matched ever marry or achieve some kind of marriage equivalent. Almost two-thirds never even try for various reasons (ex. were children when they met, were elderly when they met, were already married -or even just dating- when they met (those fortunate to have been attributed perfect matches unfortunately tend to be more virtuous than those imperfectly matched, and far more likely to defer to those best practice codes of social conduct that no one actually follows (i.e. monogamy, fidelity)))).
Now, all that being said, we do have 420,000 perfectly matched who, against all odds, find, meet, fall in love with, and marry each other. New Heartbreak, now in 3-D:

A. Divorces! while the perfectly matched tend to be more virtuous they are not infallible and some things just can’t be forgiven. While the perfectly matched are matched perfectly, perfectly matched imperfect people are still two people who are imperfect. Unhappy or discontent or selfish or thinking the universe owes them something better, something more. Would you know if you were in a perfect match? Can you tell– 100%, for damn sure– that the problems you perceive, the fights you fight are due to some disconnect between the two of you and not something unfulfilled or unfulfillable inside yourself? When you think, say “I hate you now” will you trick yourself into saying, meaning it? And, dignity due, will you follow up? “I hate you now, and I used to love you– I hate you and, now, I never want to see you again.” What are your priorities, actually, deep down?

B. Death! being real good too each other does not make you murderproof, is not a vaccine against cancer, does not render your car uncrashable. Being real good for each other actually increases the chances of these tragedies occurring by an amount slightly greater than the margin of error. It’s probably just due to the small sample size, but who knows!

C. Dystopias, Nightmarish! They’re coming– soon– and once they get here no relationship is safe! Sure you’re together now, but what happens when one of the 5,006 Global Oligarchs gets a hankering to manage, fund your wife’s hedge? Money is law now and not just in the sense of petty bribery and the hiring of goons/private militaries. If you are given a sufficient amount of cash the matter is settled and everything (everything) has a price. And good luck thinking you’ll just use their money to buy back what they took from you/do unto– you forgot about the crippling 106% tax rate on all those below the trillion dollar per year tax bracket. The Global Oligarchs need that money. They create jobs and you want there to be jobs don’t you?

NOTE: all jobs are in hydrogen skymines now. They are 24 hours per day, 6 days a week. You have to spend the half of the seventh day in Space Church (it’s like regular church but way bigger and football games go on during) and your compensation is your life. Thanks for curing sleep, thirst, hunger, injury and fatigue, nano-machines! Thanks a fucking lot.

2a. More Bullshit: an offshoot of Headspermia, Orbit Theology, postulates that rather than being programmed by a sapient race of extra-terrestrials, our false memories were the result of an encounter with the divine. In the form of tiny asteroids– which struck each and everyone of us smack in the middle of the shoulderblades– God reached down and finally granted us necks so that we may find Him hidden way up in his castle in the sky. No one has been successful yet, but that just means we have to keep looking. Slash each issue of Highlights for Children is a secret bible, giving us the skills needed to find the shape of Him (and he is a him (and how (six dicks (eight balls))) and His castle hidden in the daytime sky. (Part of the reason we haven’t found Him yet, Orbit Theologists explain, is that his castle only comes out during the day and the comets that give us the ability to stare into the sun haven’t come back yet. Every year one faithful volunteer gives his eyesight to see if it has happened yet. Twelve years and twelve sightless idiots).
Oh, clueswise– try reading The Timbertoes sometime. I mean really reading The Timbertoes, not just seeing the words.

3.  Floating Head Theorem
Remember how this was a list of different theories about what our heads were like before they invented necks? Well the third one is just that our head was still above our shoulders like a neck would make it, it just wasn’t kept in place by a physical support. Just emotional support. Most emotions help, but specifically bashfulness. Everytime you didn’t do what you wish you could have done your head stayed afloat one more day. But you have to be genuine about it– retiring and deferent and slightly humiliated and self-conscious and deeply humiliated and aware of exactly what you’re not doing. If you can do that, you get a head that floats two to four inches above your body. It’s still fixed. It’s not until we got necks that we could really peer or look around.
Note: The Floating Head Theorem does not have a canon explanation of how or why this happened; the pluralist interpretation is that eventually our poor genitals — underutilized, and atrophying fast due to our bashfulness– signaled the body that some drastic solution was needed so as not to lose sex as a form of communication altogether. The result? Our genitals sacrificing their formally impressive girth/ungirth in order to fund new necks for everyone.
Double Note: Most people who support this explanation are gross and dumb and just looking for an excuse to f your neck. Don’t let them kiss you there or else it is too late (they all wear lipstick that is actually a topical anesthetic (they are immune to it but you are not)).

Anyways: necks you guys!

Everytime you fuck up your hearts hurts.

When your heart hurts it means a laceration; it means you fucked up:

Whenever you feel your heart hurt it means you fucked up. Like a laceration but not visible… yet. We’ve created a new machine. It’s still in the prototype stage, and we’ve not yet worked out all the potential health hazards. I think I heard something about slight mutations that create dual-lobed ears, but that was only in children, and why would we test this Heart Hurt Machine on kids, because how badly could they have fucked up? 1. Some of them pretty bad I bet. 2. Just to make sure it’s safe; it’s not safe so keep testing.

Let’s run the Heart Hurt Machine and see what it tells us:

We see you’ve been through a lot.
We see you’ve had a number of major heartbreaks– technically, obviously, nothing broke– — what we’re seeing is scarring from old wounds that seeps back into the heart creating apparent fractures or fault lines.
From the relative shallowness of the damage, i.e. more gully than canyon, we can tell that two of the heartbreaks are very recent.
Let me shrink down and go inside your heart.

And Then They Never Came Back:

Dealing With Disappointment

Don’t! It’s better this way. Slash you need it in order to fuel your future non-failures double slash or make your future failures look relatively unimpressive in context.

Build A Better Life Through Failures

Build a better life using the sum of your failures. In this scenario, one time only, you get to choose which failures of your past you get to turn into successes in order to construct your new life. New old life. Your past: change it! A de facto time machine except you don’t get to experience firsthand the changes, are not responsible for not fucking the materns of your maternal line.

Wait. What? The better life you build is a Voltron-like robot that places you inside it’s the Black Lion and never lets you out? The robots are physical manifestations of your redeemed failures.

Green = You picked the wrong fight and got beat bad
Yellow = You think you did something and you go about living your life as if you did but you didn’t and now it’s too late
Red = You panicked and ran away; you panicked, stayed, and made an even bigger mess of things
Blue = You tried but not hard enough or tried too hard or tried just right but were just insufficient

Black = Should have but didn’t go for it; went for it but now wish you never did

No genie’s curse, no unforeseen negative repercussions; each redeemed failure turns out at least reasonably well. It’s not like all your dreams come true, or that your jaw-snatched successes make your life perfect forever– they’re not magic and you still have to do all the normal hard work and follow-up in order to maintain them. Just, you know, you’re now trapped inside the guts of your robo-self, doomed to forever watch your life be lived on your behalf with no control.
Which would be worse: to now become more successful than you’ve ever been or a miserable failure? Do you eventually come to terms with your captivity and learn to love, appreciate, vicariously celebrate your robo-successes? Or, even though it is ostensibly you who is having the one you wanted but couldn’t have, do you seethe more than you ever have, infuriating yourself into a kind of jealousy-based fugue state, as you are forced to watch your desired fall to love with you-not-you– the better you you couldn’t ever be (until space robots reclaimed your many failures and forewent your human weaknesses)?

1. Miserable failure. I mean, you would be miserable and a failure. While that may be true right now at least you have the delusion/hope that if things were otherwise then what. Now you would know that you are an All-Time-/-Space Fuck-Up.
2. After a time, yes (though to say that there remains a ‘you’ recognizable is a stretch)
3. Yes. For like eight months straight until you finally break, shatter and fugue into the eerily accepting and contented weirdo indicated in number two.

Whenever You Are In Sight

I don’t know what to say and, later, try twenty three hundred plus words to not say it.
I .


Why I Was A Failure as a Standing-Up Comic, part one

November 27 2009


I am of the ever-increasing opinion that Fox News gets a bad rap.


Not because any of the criticisms against it are unfair–

basically anything you can say about them is true.


Uh, Roger Ailes, lost a Labor Day baby eating contest

because he wanted to savor every baby-eating bite

and he had run out of babyque sauce




It’s 98.9 percent true,

where the other 1.1 is whether it was held on Labor Day purely out of spite.


No, Fox News gets a bad rap because

on October 25th,  2007

the Year of the Boar

Journalism ended

And somehow, it wasn’t their fault


Because on that day

There was a headline, so perfectly crafted

by the events of life itself

That not even “Belgian beauty booed at pageant” could top it.


It was better, than “Man puts rattlesnake in mouth comma, gets bitten”

It was better, even still, than “Family hopes for miracle –>Comma<–… Gets only ashes”



Pitbulls, kill.

Cancer Boy’s.

Miniature horse.



Pitbulls kill, Cancer Boy… ‘s miniature horse.


Just the image of that happening:

Because, the family– the family didn’t own these pitbulls.

They weren’t the neighbors. And, as of press time, nobody knew Where the dogs came from.


Put yourself, in his electrical wheelchair

(and no doubt painful legbraces)

And try to fathom


Out Of Nowhere–

as if Metastasized into Existence by his Lonely Tears

A GANG of pitbulls– multiple pitbulls! not just one


Fly, through the air, tackle this tiny horse,

and eat it to death.



Maybe next time you, ‘Make a Wish’, you should ask for a pitbull-proof pony, You Stupid Asshole!









I used to live on the South Side of Chicago

Had to get out, though

had to get out.


Because: as a half-hearted parody

of an insincere impression

of a 1980s observational comedian

my imaginary material was starting to bum a crowd out.


Who are the Ad Wizards that came up with Rent-to-Own

Pay 16 times the sticker price for an off-brand Hi Def TV,

just because you’re desperately poor and woefully unaware of what value is?


That hardly seems fair.


What’s the deal with Outpatient Rehabilitation?

More like ‘In-and-Outpatient’: Am I Right?

(… Am I? I- uh..—)

I haven’t seen a recidivism rate this high since the DSM IV

declassified Gayness as a BRAIN DISEASE


We’ve all been there:

You’re sittting in Quiznos and ALL of a Sudden

a full grown man bursts in:

snot-nosed and crying,

torrents of hot tears streaming down his dirty face,

hard hands chapped and swollen to the size of catchers mitts:

not asking for anything; just crying

Completely broken down… in front of the Pickle Bar!



I hope the stains on his threadworn jeans mean his pants

are full of Giardinare

Because I nE-e-EED some Pickles!



That’d be my catchphrase?

It would not get me very far.






So that’s not actually true.

I really left Chicago because my roommate’s hairspray was

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas of male grooming aides.


It was so foul, and its reek was so pervasive, that I kept coming up with

more and more elaborate ways of telling him how much I hated it

until we were no longer on speaking terms.


What started off as:

Your hairspray smells like rancid hi-c

quickly became:

Your hairspray smells like Jonestown, two weeks after.

which, in turn, became:

Your hairspray smells like an herbal essences ad, shot entirely inside of a locked port-a-john that was built on a tilt-a-whirl (for some reason).


His hairspray smelled like an alternate Gangland cartoon universe

in which the My Little Ponies iced Strawberry Shortcake

and were hiding her bloated corpse in that very cannister until the heat blew over

— And the heat never blew over.


If I had to compare your hairspray to any putrid vanity project of the inordinately rich, it would be

a celebrity vineyard

built on top of the ruins of a cambodian killing field

from which all the human remains had been excavated

save a mile square pit of fossilized dongs,

with which Lorraine Bracco personally pestles the juice

[Ives-y] From every last grape. (duh nuh nuh NUH nuh, duh-nuh nuh NUH nuh).



Ah. Merry Christmas