It’s difficult to produce content on a consistent basis. There’s a reason I post so many chat logs and filler content; it’s sometimes a struggle to produce a single article a week, let alone three. When writer’s block strikes, it triggers anxiety about not being able to break free of it, which in turn adds fuel to the writer’s block fire. It’s a vicious cycle.
Thankfully, there is a fairly reliable technique to break open your subconscious mind and get the creative juices flowing. It’s called free association writing, and the idea is to just write whatever comes to mind without any filters. You don’t fix typos, you don’t correct grammar, you don’t try to turn it into a narrative. You just open your brain and let it vomit out whatever it wants, without trying to steer it.
So today I thought I’d share some of my stream of consciousness experiments with you. In some cases, I went back and fixed the grammar and spelling and formatted the text to make it more readable. In other cases, I left it raw.
Which is nott the proper spelling perfunctionacative reproach availed to this particulate missive, this being in which it is now th’ first. I was mesmermizzled with glorious nerdgasm at the mad and fancy works of John Lenoon and later discovert to great dismantle that he COPIET from either Maxwel PROOST who wrote about cookies that make you trip balls and that Joyce guy who wrote Yulbrennersies and Gilligans Wake, bnoth fine and glorious examples of psychedelic literature, the worst of which would probably something by Randy Rooney if he ever dropped acid right before they started the ticker on 60 Minutes.
This is not a redemptive assertion, this is no hurly burly asswiping of the masses, this is obvious some kind of memetic virus gone lose all inside the collectible human psyche and make no mistake! Soon there will be terrible firequakes and earthwars and going out of business sales and business as usual is not going to be on the menu anymore, but you’re missing my point is you start quibbling over VERBS, you tool. Perry Eisner’s callosity bag spilled all over my porch, but it was full organic fruit juice, so it turned out ok.
(two months later)
Think about this now and with the extra drugs doses which I drug=s a minuter too ago now I unersand what this documentary is about is sex endangerment hyper imposed upon a nanocloud of crystalline information entities – self-transforming machine elves, self-dribbling jeweled basketballs in five dimensions that are created entirely out of language somehow. SOBER! N AMAZINK! We hold this truthes toby self-transcendent and we deny ourselves the right o be lazy even if it means we have get off the couch once in a while or so.
You can spin the camel to the desert, but you can’t get him to eat his own spleen. Camels are a pain in the ass. I have some cats instead, and they probably won’t eat their own spleens either, but anything else’s spleen? There’s a good chance they want it. Put you goddamn hands back on the table where I can’t see them!
Arnold Schlotzenfratzer wants to have a private worm with you in his orifice. Please leave your weapons and Icy Hot on the table. I will make sure these items remain safe. No you don’t not need a ticket, I’ll remember YOUR FACE.
A BATHROBE DOES NOT COMMAND RESPECT
There are three kinds of shinguards in the arena of battle hamster sports and none of them woprk very well, and I don’t care to explain how or why I came to this conclusion, it’s not important, what’s important is that you listen to me very carefully because I’m about to break down some serious fucking science to you, sir: you live in a cave full of shadows or shadow puppets or some damn thing. An old Greek guy said that, and a lot pf people seem to agree, so who am I to agree? I mean disagree. You don’t care care, do you? You’re sitting there in your stupuid felt hat and your jodphurs. What the fuck ARE jodphurs? Aren’t they like jockey pants or something? How did that catch on in the non-jockey community? Who looked at pants worn by creepy midget men and said, “yeah, that looks good, I want my pants to have flares starting at the knees, so I”ll look like I got stuck in a clothes presss.” Somebody saw that and thought they’d look cool in it, and they looked like a retard but a bunch of weak-willed people said, “That guy is more interesting thanh me, maybe I’ll be interesting too if I dress like that”, and THAT is the basis of all fashion, and it’s why I don’t view it as a valid artform. If you asked me whether I wanted to be comfortable or shiny, I’d choose the former, and that’s why I look like a bundle of cloth and wires. Not wires. Strings. Wires are notoriously uncomfortable, especially when they dig into the soft pink flesh of your underleg and begin to chafe away the skin so it sloughs off in sheets. Meat sheets. I’d like a package of meat sheets and a stack of butterhams please. Butterhams aren’t food, they’re a type of pants. They look like what you’d get if you wrapped your legs in pirate skin and wrapped in razor wire. But it’s not really wire or even pirate skin, it;’s actually terry cloth with a festive print on it, so it’s fine and dandy and comfortable and nobody looks good in it, because even cool people can’t make terry cloth look cool, not even a bathrobe. A bathrobe does not command respect. I don’t know for sure, but if the Jedi order were made yo wear something other than bathrobes, they’d still be alive today, and that whole thing with the Sith would have been quelled easily, but becausethey were wearing bathrobes, they were instead defeated by an old man and a dumb angry guy who was trying to impress a girl with the emotional range of a piece of wood. Not the chick from Twilight, she actually IS a piece of wood, and we shouldn’t judge her for being what God made her. And by God I mean Stephen SPielburg, who also invented ET and Nazi’s and the falvor orange. Not THE orange. The orange had no flavor at all until Spielburg came along and that’s why you should ust get down on your knees right now and suck hit fucking balls and tell him how grey his stupid baseball cap looks and try your bestg not to get crushed by the bags of money that are constantly being handed to him from all directions. They tend to piler up and cause casualities. Where’s my spy camera? Where’s my teleavotr? Where’s my sprugles? Where’s my sperglord hat? Why are you staring at me? Why can’t I go three words without making a fucking typo? IOs this because my left brain is overriding my right brain, or it becayse muy fingers don’t work in ocnert with my brtain? Does it matter? I go to hit one key and end up hitting five lkeys or five keys over or somehow the fucking speaker which is like a foot away and I am LOOKING at the goddamn keyboard right now. What is wrong with me, why can’t I just type. I can type 60 mistakes per misnute, but if you factored them out I’d only manage about 20 words per minute. Otherwise I’m slamming that shit at like 60 words a minite bare minimum. I wanna go to the zoo and smell the penguins. I don;’t think the local zoo has poenguins. Can I even expect to be a rfobot if I don’t have a sturdy penguin to lean on>? What that’s mean? What’s any of this mean? I’ve covered myself fin absolutely nonsense gibberish. Lol Rimmer. Yeah hatr was a good rium break oh fuck I quoted Beck tiume to kill myself and maybe somebody else, because I think scientologists are ki9onda like eypgtians in you have to take the whole fucking house with you all yours cats your slaves your mom your boarsm, whatever.
These are some words that I am writing that probably won’t mean much, but who cares about that? I am just a gigolo, and I got to do what I got to do and if that means flopping around like a fish on the floor like in that Faith No More video, then so be it. Don’t judge me you shart-licker, I’m gonna be a star and you can’t stop the noise once it starts, says the man who farts, because that’s where the magic happens. In my pants. With the sharts. Yo, that was a dope rhyme, makes me think of Eazy E, that mofo got the aids from sexing up Charlie Sheen in a bunker under the treehouse last night. Suck my balls. Suck my genius penis. Do it and scream, Blackula, scream! Scoot Blackula, star of Quantum Shart, a brave show about a dude who sucks off a polar bear in the woods of New Jersey, because that’s where you find Polar Bears and Coca Cola and pictures of naked men which have been hidden under a rock for some inexplicable reason. I can’t explain it and I don’t want to try. I’m just going to jerk off to it like a man, and never ask questions. It’s like Fight Club, only instead if Brad Pitt it’s Louie Anderson and he’s wearing a latex sex costume and a ball gag and angel wings and is wearing a deflated basketball on his head like an Army beret. Fuck that fat cunt, I’d like to punch him in his fat belly and tell him that the survey says he deserved the abuse doled about by his father when he was a kid. Suck my balls again. Link the sausages together and make a gravy train that ends in sorrow and a little bit of cum. A lot of cum. A swimming pool full of cum. Never doubt it. Don’t fight it, just bite it!