Romany Hominy

possibly the worlds creepiest disease.

it puts the lotion on its skin.

phobia guide.

this is the shit. accents.

beginners guide to whaling.

these are the movies i've gotten from amazon so far: assault on precinct 13, irreversible**, the grand silence, samurai fiction, videodrome, zombie, death race 2000, and finally the good, the bad and the ugly.


**warning** not to be watched by people with feelings.

monkey's knuckle

Employment Terminated.

Unique Guitars.

Instruments you've (probably) never seen.

Dial-An-Accent.

Minnesota in the news.

Lucifer #2

Another AZ dream:

I'm on my back patio in AZ. It's a hot fall evening my wife and her foster daughter are with me. We're just sitting around shooting the shit. We hear a car go zooming by. I walk down the short walkway along the side of the house towards the locked gate to see what's going on. All of a sudden people are shooting at us.

I yell at the women to get in the house and call the cops. I pull my own gun out and start shooting back over the brick fence that separates us from the street knowing that the bullets aren't coming anywhere near close to hitting whoever is shooting at me. As I'm running up the walkway to get into the house a lucky shot hits me in the leg. What had been a short walk of a couple dozen feet suddenly seems like miles. I keep shooting back hoping to distract them and maybe scare whoever it is off. All the while I'm thinking 'Who the hell are these people and why the hell are they shooting at us?' I start to wake up, but as I'm waking up I become confused and wonder 'Is this a dream or am I dreaming of something that really happened? Will I wake up and be the age I am in the dream or much older and reliving a past event while I'm asleep?'

*submitted* --Lucifer Speaks

Post apocolyptic AZ:
I'm walking in the AZ desert. I'm in my 40's. I'm dressed like a Bedouin desert dweller. All wrapped up in various articles of clothing. The clothing is all hodge- podge. Different colors, styles, and types. It looks like a department store threw up on me.

I'm walking but I don't know where I'm walking to just that I have to keep walking. There's a
kid with me. He's probably in his late teens. He's going on about how this is a grand adventure
and how cool and romantic it all is. I tell him to shut up that this isn't no damn adventure that it's survival, one mistake out here and we're both dead. We keep walking.

Eventually we come to a castle carved out of a mountain. The way Mount Rushmore is carved
out of the mountain. I know that this is where I need to be.

uncomfortable lump

There's just something about black and white.

For the smart-ass in training; Got Facts?

666.

I can't believe I haven't put this up yet. Stick Fu.

irascible bastard

you might remember these guys from a while back,
french aliens and clones cult.

are you a nazi?

these are some interesting motherfuckers.

How many have you visited?

A lot of you have seen me doing this.

Don't throw away those ballpoints.

james best, A.K.A

roscoe p. coltrane.

saw froyd talking about dukes of hazzard, here' s what old roscoe is up to.

there are worse things to do in your old age.

back to form

one thing about dreams that continually suprises me is their ability
to replicate or render a complex emotional state, often without any supporting details or information.

it's like motherfucking alchemy or something.

case in point:

a while ago i met this girl. the sister of a friend. She was one of those people you have an immediate liking for. The kind of girl you'd date, only you hope she has better taste. anyway, that night i had a dream about her.

there was nothing specific, no places, dates or events, but the overall effect was that of falling in love. it was like the first electric phases of a relationship condensed down to its barest emotional detail. i woke up feeling as in love as i have ever been. the day unfolded in front of me, practically pulsing with beauty and promise.

for about two whole seconds.

needless to say, it messed me up. hard.

thyroid ballistics

i'm at a small card table in the desert.

the president is there.

so is jean claude van damme.

on the table is a hunting knife and a bottle of tequila.

addled primogenitur

i wake up to the sound of a thunderstorm. for some reason i am not living in my real house, instead i'm staying in my grandparents old place across the gravel road.

the sky is huge, as if i am seeing over the trees. scanning the horizon i see a funnel cloud touch down, turning from a vaguely discernible twist of air into a thick black column. it skips through the trees, making its way towards my parents house. i'm getting a little worried, then i notice one, two, three, four, five other funnel clouds. the columns align looking like the scariest cathedral i've ever imagined.


dreams don't mean jack.

old dream #2

i'm in the middle of the woods. it's night time. i'm leading a small group of men down a small path. we are armed with spears. it is my belief that this is some kind of manhood ritual. a symbolic raid against a nearby tribe. the responsibility for its success belongs to me and in preparation i made this trail myself, it's known only to me.
It comes as a two-fold surprise when we are ambushed by warriors from our own tribe.
The leader of the other group resembles a kid i went to high school with. for whatever reason, he wants me to fail my mission.
i easily defeat two of the warriors but my rival takes advantage and blindsides me, knocks me to the ground. He tries to stab my legs but i avoid the blows by rolling to either side. he feints successfully and drives the stone point of the spear into my thigh. i pass out.
when i awake i am alone. my leg feels week and there is a pool of blood congealing on a carpet of dead leaves. I stand up and find, gladly, my leg is strong enough to support me. from my belt i produce a small stone knife. it's teardrop shaped, the round end wrapped with leather and is made from flaked obsidian or flint. it fits nicely into my palm. outraged at my betrayal, i take off in pursuit of my rival.
he is still on the trail, heading home alone. he has abandoned his spear. he doesnt hear me as i sprint up behind him and throw him to the ground. i pin him down with my left hand pinching his adam's apple. the knife is upraised in my right. the feeling of anger and betrayal mounting i scream questions at him, why why why. his only answer is a snarl of rage and his face twists into features that are almost cartoonishly rat-like. i plunge the dagger into his throat and walk home.

old dream

I'm in a large colonial city in south america. Rio or Sao Paulo. I'm standing in front of an old hotel. I go in and make my way to the top. There is a secret room, an attic. Inside there is a young Johnny Cash. He asks me if i want to learn his secret song. I do. Suddenly i am playing the song alone to a small congregation. i take up a small cold statue of the virgin mary. she begins to shed tears of blood which i use to perform the eucharist for all those in attendance. some time later
I'm leaving the hotel. Following me are secret agents from the Pope. They are wearing white suits and matching white panama hats. i elude them and disappear into the crowd.
Im having a beer in a restaurant. I am talking with a girl i knew a long time ago. I see the cops enter with a few of these white-suited papal agents behind them. I grab the girls hand and lead her out a side door. I ask her if she has a car. she does. i ask her where she's parked. Her car is parked at the bottom of a hill. When we get to the bottom i catch a flash of light from the top of the hill, sun on a sniper scope.
They mean to kill me; the thought hits home.
I yell at them to shoot, do their best. They do. As the bullet approaches i attain an almost mystical awareness of its trajectory. The bullet seems to slow as i pivot out of the way and slaps harmlessly into the dashboard. What was that, the girl asks. Nothing, i say. Drive. Just drive.

untrustworthy muffin

Probably the world most famous aspiring artist.

People love animals. Especially cute ones like cats and dogs.

Apparently this Jihad thing comes with a manual.

What does your country do best? Maybe it's cherries.

There's nothing wrong with music videos.

What did you watch when you came home from school?

Why pay the eight bucks when you can get your trailers for free?

i've got friggin' beans in my jeans

dreams.

salvador dali is alive and well and living in japan.

Ever wonder who coined the phrase "come get some?" This guy.

Forget cuneiform and the ABC's. Master the symbology of any language you choose.

Another breed of ninja. RPS. Learn the secrets necessary to defeat any opponent regardless of size or strength.

the lightsaber.

Saga of Ass-Whup; the Prequel. History of combative arts 1350-1699.

Ever wanted to throw a knife? Of course you have. It's all in the reflexes.

Zombies.

manly handful

Meet his majesty, King Mswati III

I guess this is what most people use their blogs for.

I think I'm changing my major.

zombie survival guide

More ninjas

...which reminds me of the greatest ninja site ever

liturgical surgery

159 Years of Ass-Whup.
Begin Hi-Yah here.

Question: Do Russians kill also with the bare hands?
Answer: Yes.

Zippo ninjas.
Ninja the fuck up.

The Japanese are controlling your dreams. With machines. I too wish the power to cloud mens minds.

If you were this good with crayons
you would be a Scotsman named Richard Wawro.
amazing applications of the childish.

Hero ex machina, or, paper dolls for guys living in their mothers basement.
Go team nerd. Go team nerd.

Finally, a concise dictionary of Old Icelandic.
Translate Bjork.

Get your music on. Release your inner something. Release!