It's like: ferocious and atrocious, slow cancerous death rattle, this american life

a razorblade of kindness or a decapitated head in a greyhound bus

By dusty (August 1, 2008)

I am dying in this hellhole of hotness over here in Arizona. Like the Venus (or anus, depending on your definition of horrible heat) of America, the air conditioning is never cold enough and the sun’s cancerous deathrays are relentless and even moving at all makes me sweat the fiery sweat of satan.

But perseverance trumps perspiration and I am soldiering on in my own little soldiery way (laying in front of my fan; aka God’s cold wondrous breath) and I am saying to the sun: “I hate you”, but it does no good. Monsoon season is pretending not to exist and the dogs are shitting all over my floor and pissing wherever there isn’t shit.

Also, my house was robbed and my laptop was stolen by a too-tall-to-be-a-Mexican with no front teeth and a tattoo on his chest that says “Gumby” in Old English.

Reader, I have not updated you on my life for what seems like a decade but that is all changing because I am back and I am ready to kick some ass and take some names (seriously, what is your name? Let’s be friends). I am lion, hear me roar. I am man, watch me kill.

Let the past not be any indication of the future, though. I promise, things will be different from now. I will change, I can change. Just please, please don’t leave me.

Comments: (3)

It's like: laminating animals, slow cancerous death rattle

quarantine summary in these united states, this century, taking bio-toxins into account

By dusty (April 25, 2008)

Somewhere, a cow wearing a cowbell is nearing a door wearing a doorbell, and an alternate universe is imploding.

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It's like: slow cancerous death rattle, this american life, trepination

exchanging sanity for its younger, slightly better looking brother who just happens to enjoy using amphetamines recreationally

By dusty (April 24, 2008)

The day I was raped of my manhood had all the ingredients of a horror movie. It was a day filled with terror and bliss and pain and screaming and vomit and nudity and choking babies and blood and probably urine. Also it was the day I was born.

You might expect the day I was raped of my manhood to be the day I first entered the workplace, or the day I turned 18, or the day I moved into my own house, or the day I started school. But you would be wrong. Sure, there were times when my manhood was called into question before that fateful day; but none as extreme as being pulled out of a placenta-caked cavity of blood and bodily tissue while pieces of me were being cut off and thrown away.

Things had been going swimmingly in the preceding years: I had beaten all my friends to the fabled uterus to copulate with its beautiful queen egg (who we’ll call Eleanor); survived on nothing but courage and grit (and also a small tube that involuntarily injected various vitamins and fluids into me).

I was in it for the long haul. Trapped in that cave of organs for nine long months, never once did I give up. I persevered, I conquered (and kicked sometimes). I accepted my living quarters and, over time, even grew to enjoy them. It was lonely at times, sure, but there was a certain primitivism to it — a sort of willful disintegration of my pride and spirit (much like prison, except the prison cell was a uterus and the walls were built out of flesh.)

But nothing lasts forever, and just like nothing, neither would this. I was prepared to leave, I really was, but I never expected the horror freakshow that was thrust upon me that winter morning.

In a fit of Nazified rage they came after me — waking me to screams of pain and bleeding, my fragile face pulled through a vaginal cavity surely too small to navigate through. Things began to blur: blood, blood, screaming, vomiting, vaginal walls, more blood, what-is-happening, help, help. I was dying, I was sure of it (or at least going through some kind of Anne Frankian reincarnation). Still dying, though, regardless.

They pulled me out and cut pieces off me, hung me upside down like a prized, freshly slain hog on display in a slaughterhouse. They hit me, alternating the hits with hugs (???) and strange coddling (!?). My manhood was gone. I had become a cog in the machine of emptiness — a vacuous being released from a prison of somatic cells to be beaten and tortured mercilessly in a world of same.

The day I was raped of my manhood.

Comments: (1)

It's like: slow cancerous death rattle, the hunger, this american life

categorizing the lives of pandas and snakes in a college-ruled notebook filled with math equations

By dusty (April 9, 2008)

I wish I was a fat person because I like food.

But, typical of the unfairness that is this world we live in, I was born with an unfairly overactive cracked-out metabolism and an appetite that can only stomach a pound’s worth of food in one sitting (at the very most — even in the most extreme conditions). My plight is real, my fortune unfortunate, and my body not able to eat all the food that I like. This is the dire reality that I live in, dear reader.

I have tried everything to overcome my insufferable disability, but it’s all in vain (and by vain I don’t mean my appearance but the fact that I cannot eat a 72 oz. ribeye steak without having a seizure). I have taken SSRI’s (hoping for the gloriously delightful side effect of massive weight gain), I have tried lipo-injection, I have tried laying on the couch for weeks without moving, I have even tried injecting multiple meals straight into my body through an IV. But nothing, nothing whatsoever will cure this horrible affliction. I will never be able to eat more than two plates at a buffet, or eat my family out of house and home (or even eat my family, after a shipwreck or plane crash). I will never fit the American obesity stereotype and also I will never be able to have a gastrointestinal bypass.

Yet despite living this nightmare life of average-sized portions and second-rate leftovers, I will continue to coat my face in grease and cow’s blood and butter and McDonald’s breakfast in the false hopes that one day my stomach will open up and I can eat an entire large animal smothered in gravy in one sitting.

Maybe one day.

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It's like: slow cancerous death rattle, this american life, what are you looking at dicknose?

how to untrap your withering, cancer-ridden body from the belly of a lotus flower with nothing but a pair of pliers

By dusty (April 7, 2008)

This is a hard-knock life. And not just because ‘stead of treated, we get tricked. Or because ‘stead of kissed, we get kicked. 

This is a hard-knock life because God’s got some big fucking hands. And with hands that big, I imagine you can knock pretty hard. Hell, why not knock the whole world on its ass and watch it get back up again. Just to watch the world (itself some kind of symbolic Rocky Balboa) punch that invisible infallibility with hopeless left hooks and useless undercuts — each time getting knocked right back down (and it’ll get up again, he’s never gonna keep it down).

Because life hits harder than anyone. And God damn well surely better be able to hit even harder than that. 

So, how do you take such a beating, besides stuffing your veins with HGH and snorting pure adrenaline while freebasing cocaine? Well, if you know that, you know the meaning of life and be prepared because you are going to get a beatdown for that knowledge from a lot of people and several highly evolved animal species and maybe some deities too. 

The answer may not be clear, but there are several steps you can take to avoid a lifetime littered with beatings and years spent on life’s injury report. 

1. Be Happy. You know those homo smiley face pins? Pretend that is your real face. But don’t actually make your face look like that, though, because you will undoubtedly get your ass kicked. 

2. Learn how to take a beating. Beat yourself, if you have to. Because as discussed above, beatings are the main aspect of life. Be it from God, life, people or animals: you will take a beating in some form or another. Consistently. 

3. Have a favorite animal, so that whenever you see it in the zoo or in real life or if it is attacking you in your house, you can say “awww I love those things”. Mine is a zebra. — because, hey, look at those adorable black and white stripes! (I would still eat one, though. Just because you like something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t want to eat it as well.) 

4. Prepare a death date. It is coming for you. Sooner than you think, most likely.

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It's like: slow cancerous death rattle, this american life

the finalization of the universe as it nears itself in a moebius strip of irony

By dusty (April 3, 2008)

Last week I was red. Not red from paint, or from being covered in tomato juice, but from the sun’s evil, evil (and also radioactive) rays. I am not sure exactly how it happened. One minute I was sitting on the beach in Malibu with no sunscreen and an albino-toned body and then after multiplying that minute for 3 hours a day over the course of 5 days, I suddenly looked like a Mark Rothko painting. (I think I just figured out how it happened, btw.)

When I came home, my mom got scared, and said you’re moving with your auntie and your uncle in Bel-Air. I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought, “Nah, forget it. Yo Homes.. To Bel-Air!” I…pulled…up to the house at about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabby “Yo homes, smell ya later!” I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there — to settle my throne as the Prince of Bel-Air.

Then I flew back home to Phoenix. And I was still covered in the sun’s evil, radioactive poison.

After many days (probably about 4), my skin began to fall apart (like a snake). When your skin falls off, you often ask yourself: “gross” And also, “I am dying” or “I have cancer for sure and it is over for me.” But because I am a better person than everyone else, I did not do those things (that is a lie).

My skin is still falling off, and as such, I have not been able to type on a keyboard to update you, dear readers, on my tales of life and life’s asskickings and donkey-punches.

However, my new keyboard arrived today — it is a special skinless ergonomic model that allows for typing with just bones for fingers.

I think I will enjoy my new life as a skeleton, though. I will no longer have to buy a costume for Halloween. And I can change my name to Skelly, just as I have always wanted. And people can put things through me, which I am sure will be a big hit at parties. Also I can pretend to unearth myself from a nearby grave when people are visiting their loved ones.

But with no heart, will I be able to love again? With no skin, can I ever use the term “sure, it’s no skin off my back”? The answer to those questions is probably no, and that is going to be a hard life to live, my friends.

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