one more esoteric insult

"This budget is to budgeting what Frankenstein is to humanity - a frightening approximation."

-hilarious line in an otherwise boring story on municipal politics


esoteric insults for the stressed out reader

(your friends will be shocked; your enemies will be puzzled)

  • Quit crackin mirrors, you nose-necked fishgurgler!

  • Your ass-crevice is canyonesque.

  • You put the dope in dopamine. The pinhead in ePINephrine. The tone-deaf in seroTONEin.

  • Hey, I need nincompoops for blender-play - and you look just the type.

  • Drop the attitude or no one will fertilize your ovaries.

  • Wipe that clown grin, putznerd.

  • Yo featherhead - methinks you got roosters driving your cockpit.

  • Is Elvis alive? Hell no! He thought of you - and killed himself again.

  • You bloody box of earwax; you make me puke out snotrags of shit.

  • If you were a musician, you'd have a 'worst of' album. And it would be called 'Greatest Hitlers'.

(FIAC: on the cutting edge of phrase-coinage since 2004)


Things that feel like glonk

aka Things that Feel like Glonk, the Explanation:

First off, what is glonk?

In terms of numerology, glonk lies halfway between flazz and jasswald. It is a measure of crunk, at least it was when crunk was the currency used in Hogfoom, before the Depression.

Efficiency-wise, glonk could out-wamble a gaspatcho blarney, for glonk is neither goffal nor vax. Indeed, glonk is terribly straightforward for most japesters but I’ll elaborate for the uninitiated nonetheless.

Glonk was the original hoo-ha pucknugget, the first ever droning noise recorded with a manx-magnet amplifier. Glonk was in fashion with spandex but fell into disfavour with S Club 7 and the whole “Should I Sleep with my Friends, Just Because I’m lazy?” trend. Glonk’s influence on our times has been wiggling and yellow, and the dictionary has never been the same.

So then, things that feel like glonk:
1) the frustration you get when trying to wrap up an extension cord.

- now some would say that’s the only thing that feels like glonk. Some glonkish-conservatives would limit glonkery to the realm of household appliances and AC adaptors. But have those people ever urped in a doon crank? Likely not. So yah, whatever…

Other things that feel like glonk:
2) Fighter-pilot buzzcuts
3) Jellied curry (and curried jelly)
4) The unburnable lightness of bee stings


5) Counting to 1,000,000 but forgetting to include 456,209, but only realizing that sad fact at #789,203, and then having to start again and wasting an entire year of your life. Dang - that’s some pretty harsh glonk!

Anyway I'd love to write more but my 60 GB iPod is all buzzing and glonky.

(ps this post is not an allegory for the balkanization of our language on the internet. I only thought of that just now, to be an asshole - I swear)


August 11 2005

I got better this year.

It was a mixed message, a contradiction, a confusion between intention and intension, a philosophical quibble that blew the latch off the universe. Johnny Cash unleashed the hordes, and cracked me open with a ragged chord, the man came around, knocking on every door in town, the man came around, get your knees on the ground. There's no reason to cower under a burlap sack, but there is also no cure for a heart attack. Wishing well parables, the vacancy of fame, the mundanity of reality, the adoration by hypocrites is all we can count on. This was morose, corroded your mind, asking the trees for a ledge, to climb, Zacchaeus on the edge; an invitation to the masked ball, rip down the decorations and charge drunken through the hall.

Lou conjures lyrics, raw as a teenager.

Why do we assume truth is good? Lies are more easily understood.

The mat upon which I sit in the gym, provides clarity of thought at a strange angle, prostrate I contemplate the moments of my day, I see futures pasts and conversations overheard as premonitions. When I lay down a chorus in surreal raucous chaos is so sweet my eyes rush close to join the Sandman. I can't repeat that sweetness; is no one else touched by that sweet madness; of course I'm not the only one; don’t you think you are the only, Roy Orbison touched a nerve singing ‘you're the only one with a broken heart’ for what is a broken heart but a vicious certainty that loneliness is permanent, no hope for connection with Supreme things in the sky. Let's draw useful wires from this cotton-candy-spinner-kaleidoscope of consciousness mixed intentions and unfinished nirvanas, half-built skyscrapers monuments to cognition ie please stop and think, face facts I could run over a buffalo with I could turn you inside out like Stipe I could unravel this whole week and lay the blame at your door.

What words are prohibited; why is the writer the only one who wants truth, but the speaker is silent and ashamed, trying to put humpty together again, Richard III the humpback in me, so sly and cunning and shy?

I tumbled from a glass, a rag in the sink, I had a bit of soap on me, was a telephone receiver left too long off a hook, beeping uncontrollably, so many noises it irritates, and the desert in the heart needs irrigation lush growth in explosive blooms after a storm. My pathetic fallacy's an Achilles heel, my metaphor's a crutch.



Do not give in to temptation, it’s late and you are alone, but someone is always watching. This is a lesson, about discipline, about waiting for your moment, waiting waiting you have learned a great deal of patience. Oh boy you tickle those thoughts and flirt with lightning; everything leads to your private crescendo. Now open up those eyes and look 360 degrees, what is a chicken butt, how is now - why made obsolete by a newborn baby’s cry. Nothing better than dinner for two with a hazel-eyed angel; she speaks in silence and oozes grace, her lipstick on my cheek - so I refuse to wash my face.

O lady, quiet in the park; love bites or frostbite? I can’t tell in this dark.

I keep her perfume on a shelf; I sniff it every month, reminds me of Niagara Falls, of strawberries and mangos and jet-screams at airshows. I want her to knit me a scarf; I wanna ask her about silk. She took me to a movie once – it was fun, yeah but I’m still cookie-crumbs in her kitchen and I’m about to spill the milk. I'm fine fettle with a mop, and I'll mix it up with filth; I can't keep clean forever though, I need a signal; need to draw up the will.


Discredit to the gender

(put your stereotypes in a can and shake)

I was stuck in the gaze of the great gorgon mother, all love-me and smother and did she feed me extra dessert and did I get that blanket for my feet? False promises, I was a young man in need of affection, she a directionless vortex, daughter of divorce sucking in all sympathy guilt and feeling to feed her inferiority, to make her mammoth all attention-sponge and no product, no space to breathe air in her conversations, all complaint and no inquiry, nothing left for the universe and when war broke out, she cared only for mirrors from her roofless foundation-cracked house, her diaries and anecdotes heedless of objects worshipping her as a subject, the devil in melodramatic details, deadening drill of ‘your day? Lemme tell you about mine.' Was she self-absorbed, feeling this and feeling that, not “I’m just a girl” but “I’m every woman” she said but coyness a lack of politics and is this feminism? Fashion mags at checkout aisles is this feminism? She scrapped civilization ate the cosmos and bought Cosmo and I’m getting stupider just thinking about - not feeling - her.


Got work to do

Due to outside pressures I'm taking a wee break from my dear dearest. Otherwise she consumes my thoughts.

Back in a bit.

See total delights, a new cupcake sidelink, for thought-provoking posts on blogworld and other relevantia*.

*ie stuff that is relevant, an original FIAC word


like crap

is how I
feel right now.
by the time you read this
I will probably be better
so don't feel obliged
to comment,
or, better yet,
congratulate me on
navigating another pesky
mood swing.
i'm better already
really it's your eyes
that heal me
too bad google
remembers everything;
my next
will be a thousand pages long in a
dead language and be
The Emoticon.


What she was

Fertile fields she plowed, her talent bore fruit. Cosmetics? No. Production values? No – she meant what she said; she led. I talked her over to my place, for a cup of peppermint tea. I concealed my true intentions, made no mention of her eyes, lips, smile, hips. She was green but full of spring, fascinated with chicken wings. I loaned her my heart, said ‘keep the change’ but then everything changed and I'm splattered, puddled and mixed up like a swizzlestick. I wasn't infatuated, I was bewitched, she was obtuse or innocent, grinned when I hinted about getting hitched. She talked in shy syllables, popped gumballs to Benny Goodman, talked about cannonballs and fat men with cast-iron stomachs; I must have been in a rut cuz this was a pickmeup. She didn't laugh so much as tolerate, something icy, something hesitant; but I have this thing for punctuality and she was never - ever - late.

('absolute rubbish' factor: 7)


vaguely squeamish

(disturbing images factor: 8)

fridge pigs squeal when the door opens, so many lights illuminate a porkish priggishness. el porko mucks it up in the butter dish, squeezing nubs on a batch of green onions. onions sue for harrassment.

catch me under the fitzwiggin tree, I'll be slurping snails from a spoon.

yoghurt mould grows into a mask, I cake it on my face. beauty only in bacteria.

pumpkin seeds leftover from hallowe'en commence a messy tumour, multiplying mitotically. jack o' lantern o' cancer. yikes.


Angela the waitress

(I love tresses and waitresses and angels)

Angela the waitress

Got a tattoo
between her blades
splotchy green wings of an eagle
I never knew you cared to

sometimes shoot by my house, you
so upright
were borderline uptight
-what is this new

sometimes I
wander from the
Dominion to the
café where you work and where
I try to work too
but I just wonder

sometimes you put your hair down.



This is a personal note to my online friend. TIF - please come back. Nothing beautiful can be killed forever. Illegitimis non carborundum est. Don't let the bastard grind you down.

Mirage #99

(just like following a script)

One day straight hair
the next so curly
yeah so what if I'm short
at first glance
I thought you were my girly
although you don’t eat meat, at least your clothes are neat
a fastidious vegetarian?
whatever, I’m smitten by
your folksy expression

where I’m from we don’t say ‘golly’
or decorate for Christmas on the second date.
something resonates, your earnestness
you wanna be a stage temptress
milady it’s not too late.

could I call you (date) number 2?
you said I could call you anytime
but I can’t, really, I won’t
another snuffed siren in a long line
weary of these false alarms
‘where there’s no spark, there’s no fire’
you and I and the rest of us afraid to death of harm