Painting A Pretty Portrait

       Rob's mom visited the living space of Rob, also known as her basement.  "What are you doing there, son?"
     "Painting a pretty portrait."
     "Really?  And who is the portrait of?"
     "God!"
     "Oh my, that is quite a task I must say.  Good to finally see you setting goals."
     "I know it's hard but somebody's got to do it or we're all gonna die."
     "Never thought of it that way, but Rob honey, isn't that a mirror you're using for God's portrait?"
     "I know.  I want God to look like me."
     "That's fine, honey, but do you really think God has a zit right there?"
     "Yes!  And if I get another fucking zit, God's getting one too! Oh, hey - can you hand me that candy bar there?"
     "Oh Rob, you know better than this!  Why do you have to paint a picture of God that looks just like you?"
     "Because it suits me!  I'm not stupid, OK?  I'm not going to paint a God that hates me.  Jesus, Mom, what kind of idiot loser does that?"
     "Well, I just don't understand how you can be so sure God is just like you."
    "I got laid, didn't I?  How much more proof do I need God loves me?"
     "But that's like saying everyone should paint God in their own likeness!"
     "If they have a brain in their head they will."
     "But what if the objective truth is God is nothing like you at all?"
     "There's no such thing as objective truth!  Grow up, Mom, will you please?  I don't do pie-in-the-sky, made-up philosophy - I do what makes me feel good.  You should too!  What do you want me to do?  Feel bad??"
     "Of course not, dear, I want to you to feel only wonderful things! But it strikes me that anyone who paints God in his own image is a fucking moron and setting himself up for an irrevocable disaster.  I know if I were God I'd think you were a self-serving loser punk without a future - and the price of that would be to lose all your nooky!"
     "Shut up, Mom!  You're a traitor!  You're trying to get me killed!  Don't listen to her, God, she's just making things up to suit herself!"
     "Rob, dear boy, I can't save you from yourself.  If you want to see the true traitor, look in the mirror."
     Rob's mother left the room, leaving Rob vexed and outraged by her betrayal.  With arms crossed and lips pouted, he sulked and stared into the mirror.  Until suddenly, a smile came across his face.  "Oh, I get it!  God is the traitor!"

Epilogue: Rob died and went to Heaven only to find God was a large black woman with no teeth. Rob was appalled. "You're not God! God hates black people! You're not anything at all like me. Get me outta here!" "Suit yourself," replied God, who pulled the lever to oblige him downwards. And thus poor Rob - self-serving to the end - disinherited himself.

Rob's mom:

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DVD extras!!!

The Critics Rave!:

Peter Travers, Rolling Stone: "I'm a media whore! I loved it!"

Kurosawa: "It's the new Rashomon!"

Godard: "I liked it but it needed more pretension and an uninterrupted 15 minute tracking shot of a traffic jam."

Fellini: "Films are recorded dreams.  He dreams well but does not live well."

PRODUCTION NOTES:

The producer states this film was inspired by an Open Salon comment made to him. "This guy tells me that if I tell him not to meddle in my life, then that is meddling in his life! I'd never heard of anything so convoluted and self-serving before. So I decided to get in this guy's head and see where it led me: to his mother's basement. I mean, come on, how does someone like that expect to have a future in reality? Also, it was a classic example of the Peter Principle."

The following is an exclusive interview with the director, the esteemed Mr. Harry Homeless:

"Tell me, sir, how does it feel to be officially named an auteur?"

"It's fucking awesome, dude! About time you buttmunches recognized my greatness. Michael Phelps is coming over later for a bong party to celebrate."

"Did you have many problems getting your fellow homeless colleagues agreeing to cooperate in this venture?"

"Oh, fuck no. It's that or stay in a cardboard box all day. What would you do?"

"Indeed. Also, in your previous twenty-four films, those too had the setting of a basement. Is there some reason behind this or does the breath of genius simply guide you there each time?"

"I'm fucking homeless, you moron! What am I gonna do, rent out Paramount?"

"Can you tell us about any of your upcoming releases?"

"I dunno. I'll probably whack off again before the end of the day. Why do you care?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of a film release."

"Dude, I'm not gonna film that! Unless...you think I'd make money off it?"

"Let me put it this way, are you making any more films?"

"Fucking A, I am! I got this idea about a homeless guy, see, who shits in a park, and then flies land it. I'm thinking people are really gonna eat that up."

"Truly, you are an auteur, sir, a visionary. I thank you for this most illuminating interview and wish you all the luck on your upcoming film."

"No problem, man. Oh hey, in the sequel, the dude shits indoors. Blockbuster, baby!"

Neo Blade Runner: Republicant Hunter

Molten lava monster comes dripping down the road, leaving potholes of steam and footprints of disaster. His bowler hat was flaming, his bulging eyes were aiming, and his burning lips were blaming. With snarling flame he greeted a passerby.
"Well," blushed the passing woman, "Hello, Mr. Mayor."
And then he ate her.
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"That's the problem with Republicants: they look like humans, but they aren't. Republicants can act like a human and actually hold down human jobs. Hell, some don't even know they're not human. Those are the scariest. Laughing, crying, singing along with the rest of us - if you're not careful you might forget they're not human too. Until they take over your society and you're left with nothing but ruins and tales of a once glorious past."


"I'm a Neo Blade Runner, hunting down Republicants, shining a light on them - then watching them hiss and scurry like guilty cockroaches. Republicants hate the light - just like they hate the humans. In order to imitate the humans, Republicants must carry a piece of humanity within them to carry out the deception. But the Humanity Piece tortures them, weighs on them and remains in constant warfare for the duration of the Republicant's life. When they speak of an 'enemy that must be crushed', rest assured, it's an enemy within."


"The most important thing for Republicant infiltration, obviously, is not be seen for what they are. They must demonstrate themselves as caretakers and saviors of a society. The best time for infiltration is when good things start going bad. And, boy, have things been going bad lately. Like the bugs they are, Republicants come crawling out of the woodwork with promises to make it all good again - with one simple catch: make the Republicant king. But once a King Unit takes hold, wholesale devestation follows."


"Not all Republicants actively penetrate, some merely follow in the miners' footsteps. Like support beams in a mine shaft, they shore up inroads already burrowed. It sounds like mindless work because it is. These units are Disconnects, having disconnected the brain mechanism from receiving messages of reality. King Units love the Disconnects for their blind obedience and cheerful ignorance. They mockingly call them 'useful' for their gleeful willingness to sacrifice their - and everyone else's - welfare for the greater good of Republicants - not that there is any greater good. Of course, these units are only gleeful of their demise because of the disconnected brain."


"On the surface, it may seem difficult to spot a Republicant from a human - especially since they have the Human Piece to avoid being exposed as the parasites they are. But really it's just a matter of looking. Republicants don't have feelings - so they are silent when others suffer and loud when quiet is solemn. When a Republicant leaves a room, the room is always angrier than when he entered. You see, no matter how hard they try, they just can't quite master the human touch. Instead, they leave a grating, searing mark on the human souls they encounter. That's when Republicants turn around and slyly whisper: 'Don't you feel stupid for being human? It's smarter to be like we are.'"

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The angel calls the demon a "demon" because that's what the demon is. The demon calls the angel a "demon" - because that's what the demon is. The words are the same. It's up to you to decide who's lying.

Paddling The Jobless

"The truth should never be taken for an insult." - Asian proverb
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"Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV,"
"And you think you're so clever and classless and free,"
"But you're still fucking slaves as far as I can see."
- John Lennon, Working Class Hero

The line into the detention center snaked for miles.

"Get them in here - get them in here now! That's right you worthless worms, feel the sting of my righteous paddle! I'm going to tan your little hineys and you're going to like it! Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

"Do you know what I am? I'm rich! That means I matter and you unemployed eunuchs do not! Tell me what it is you contribute, sponging off the hard work of others, breathing your unearned air - you're totally useless! You losers are fucking things up for everyone else!"

"Yes, sir! We know, sir!"

"Excellent, do as I the rich man say or you'll never amount to anything! You there - the cute one! I shall spank you first and excite my little weenie! Now bare your buttocks!"


"Oh, that was most satisfying! I hope you learned my lesson, young lady! Who's next? I want to find a really big loser...ah, the father with four children - excellent! You shall answer my questions as you assume the most submissive of positions! First, tell me why you're shit!"

"I have no job, sir!"

"And that means you don't deserve to eat, right?"

"Yes, sir!"

"And your expendable offspring deserve no food, either. Right?"

"That is correct, sir!"

"Exactly! And none of your feculent family deserves to live indoors!"

"Not a one, sir! They all depend on me, sir!"

"And who are you?"

"I'm a worthless soul, sir! Thank you for belittling me!"

"Oh, how my avarice loves to hear that! Did you not see the Good People toiling at two and three jobs on your way here? They work from sunup to sundown with never a hope to their future or their health. They will die with nothing because I was meant to have everything. These are what I call Good Citizens. Don't you wish you could be them - or better yet, me?"


"Yes, sir, I want to be you, sir. My life has no meaning if yours has no meaning, sir!"

"Excellent answer! At least you and your miserable lot will die right. Now get out to the street where you belong!"

"Thank you for letting me die, sir!"

Outside, eager investigative reporters (eager to keep their jobs, that is) swarmed onto those thrown into the cold, wintry weather. A breathless girl with camera in tow tackled the ejected father with four children.

"Sir, sir! Are you angry that you live on the street now?"

"Oh, yes, we're angry! Damn right, we're angry! I'm fucking angry!"

"Well, what do you plan to do about it?"

"Die, like a good citizen should. Please understand, we don't want to change anything! That would be selfish and self-serving of us to ask that and me and my daughters is good people, you can count on that! We'll always have my pride." His dirty-faced children nodded in defiant agreement.

"But, sir, we really need a scandal if we're going to sell papers. Isn't the rich man who victimized you the source of all our problems?"

"Oh, hell no! I'd do the same thing too if I could, yes ma'am I surely would."

"But he forced you to bend over and be paddled!"

"Whadda you mean, "forced"? We all volunteered for that so we could show how much we want to keep everything just like it is now! It's OK if we all die just so long as people think good things about us."

With that, the reporter turned to the camera with a deadpan look and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. "Well, there you have it, folks. We're fucked."

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"We must learn to live together as brothers or we will certainly die together as fools."
-Martin Luther King

Being Saved Means [War Criminals] Never Have To Say They're Sorry

All alone
At the end of the night,
Twisted dreams
Fade into fright...

He sits in a castle-prison, the strings of power ripped from his clutching hands, his day in the sun passed. The Thousand Year Reich failed yet again to materialize for a madman's dashed hopes, leaving a trail of destruction for his time and times to come. But the ghosts of evening come calling now and no army can he summon to fight this terror. The ghosts of Soldiers Past and Families Present and Babies Future wail into his ears from a place no press release can reach. How shattering to realize he's back where it all began: the drunkard's dilemma - both hating himself and failing himself.

And so he grabs the musty, stale crutch out of his closet and voicelessly slumps into the cripple's pose. No longer can the daylight vampire feed upon the lives of others, laughing as he watched unsuspecting villagers drink from the well he poisoned in the night. He'd been their leader and god to hold above all criticism and like needy children, they could not bear the thought of their god destroyed. He knew this and loathed their patheticness as he loathed his own. "I poison you and you worms revere me. Pardon me while I smirk as you die!" But such joyous times are gone now with the wind.


Looking back, it's all to obvious a disaster. The little boy blowing frogs to bits with firecrackers was a soul destined never to be loved. Love became his enemy and he raged enviously on the sidelines of life as gods flowered while he decayed. There would be many drugs in this boy's life but none would surpass approval. As failures mounted, his suburban nightmare engulfed him in choking despair, invariably cutting him off from approval's relief. His abuse incarnated with drink and drugs, lost in the vague hazy hope of drowning his sorrows and drowning himself.

"One of the heads of the beast seemed to have a fatal wound,
but the fatal wound had been healed.
The whole world was astonished and followed the beast."
- Revelation 13:3
Vultures spotted this prize specimen of rancid soul though, and licked their beaks at the thought of finding one so dumb, a Loser Who Would Believe Anything. They would parade him around in silver boots and fancy lies, knowing this illusion many would buy. Preachers of profit proposed to save him from his living hell with secret rituals that promised a lifetime of undeserved praise and worldly reward. "You're saved now!" officially proclaimed the ordained witches. "In God's eyes you are holy. No longer must you worry about right and wrong." Nor did he.


At the height of the Mayan empire, the emperor would engage in ritualistic masochism in order to divine a vision for the path the empire should follow. The answer was always the same: war. As the Loser gained confidence in his treachery, war lust besieged him also. War legalized the rape and pillage his burning heart desired. Innocents would be slaughtered and lives ripped to pieces - just as he'd done to his - and a populace of Popes would cheer the beast of war with three of every four.

For a short, glorious time, the nightmare dream came true. The Competent Man was the new bad guy - he's not one of the people! Lying was good for the country and only its enemies spoke truth. Cowards were heroes, saving themselves while ordering the deaths of true heroes. He'd made the world a perfect place for such as he and his ilk - he'd made the world his frog.


But those times are never to return. Secretly he was crushed to return to his smelly old crutch but he knew with every fiber of his being that never again must he face a sober moment. The unthinkablity of having been wrong along, of being a butcher and not a savior, that his future lay not in heaven but in hell - these thoughts made his old crutch of emotional drunkenness palatable. The final days for the [anti-Christ 43rd President] will be in his prison of denied conscience, trapped by worldly goods in a snake pit of poisonous lies slithering across his body and biting his writhing flesh, too scared to ever leave, too scared to ever breathe - his death to be not grieved.

Homeless Tip #82: Finding Cash

I read this story and puked:

MOUNT COMFORT, Ind. – Three state highway workers cleaning up litter picked up an abandoned tire — and found about $100,000 inside.

Indiana state police suspect the cash, in denominations of $5 to $100, — may be drug money. State Police spokesman Mike Burns says a drug-sniffing dog found the scent of drugs on the bills.

Police said the workers found the tire Friday in a ditch along Interstate 70 just east of Indianapolis.

Police say the tire appeared to be from a large truck. It isn't clear how long it was in the ditch.

Detective Sgt. Keith O'Donnell commended the workers for their "honesty and professionalism" in contacting police.

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OK, folks, let me clue you in when you find money in a tire: don't fucking report it! First off, any money you turn in will turn up "positive" for drugs, that's an old police trick for confiscating cash. The cop congratulates the guys for being naive morons so others will fall for the same trick.

Another tip is if it's a bank bag you happen to find, be sure to cut off all the bands because those can be used to legally identify the money. Also be sure to go through all the cash to check for transponders and then move the money to your own bag.

Laundering is difficult because large cash purchases are reported and the old standbys of casinos and other high cash volume places are tight as a drum now. Best to make systematic deposits as if they were paychecks (this is illegal, btw) and make everything look routine.

The usual caveat applies if you think the money belongs to a single (non-criminal) person: give it back or you'll hate yourself for the rest of your life.

P.S. Yes, I've given a lot of thought to finding money - my life has purpose.

Ware Tada Shiru Taru (A Zen Proverb)

She was genuinely enthused and excited by what she read. "I've read your words and they are amazing. You're obviously extremely intelligent and have a unique perspective. I think it would be a grand thing to share these with everyone. You need to go out and get these published!"

"No," he groaned, hoping that would be the end of it.

"Why not?" she relentless pressed. "Don't sell yourself short -"

"Can't you understand? I don't want to." Pain swept across his face.

"I don't care if you want to or not! It's what you should do. It could change your life. Maybe you should open up and listen to someone for a change. You haven't been doing so hot, you know. You don't know everything!"

"I know what I want. I'm not here to publish writing."

"But you're so good at it! How can you say such a thing?

Pain - pain that dogged his heels year after year - sought him out like no other. Any soul of happenstance felt free to state what was best for him! Starved for attention, he allowed the meddling to happen but the pain, the pain it brought - the pain of continual explanation, the pain of no adequate answer, the pain of the break it always forced.

"Look, lady, just fuck off, OK?"

She stabbed him with verbal knives as she departed. She who professed to only want to help, to make the world a better place fixing one person at a time. Vincent writhed under her words as she departed for he had no protection. He had to stay true to what made him feel alive while imprisoned on a planet of the worldly and their "practical" ways, where only he could see what he saw and to whom no one could he justify his life. All life was an act of faith for Vincent.

Van Gogh's letters were indeed published one day - but only because of his true art. Ware Tada Shiru Taru is a Zen proverb I translate as "I alone know what I am content with". As a fellow fan of the Japans and its culture, I hope Vincent would approve of my applying it to him - and I ask all others to remember it to apply it to me also. Wakarimas ka? Domo!

Top Ten Homeless Pick Up Lines

How come no one ever thinks of a homeless guy with a boner? Oftentimes I like to saddle up next to a hott honey on the sidewalk and whisper these sweet nothings in her ear.


10. Hey, lady, your alley or mine?
9. Bet you've never seen anyone who can burp like I can! (demonstrate)
8. Can I at least have sex with your car?


7. Ever wanna do it in a cardboard box?
6. I know the BEST public restrooms!
5. Yuppies make me horny!


4. I've lived indoors before, oh yeah.
3. You know, I could be a secret millionaire...
2. Showering - it's way overrated.
1. Hey, baby, I'm ready to pop. You wouldn't believe the last time I came!