Saturday, August 23, 2014

Ghetto Biker Update: It’s All About Your Appendages

I've been caught in the summer rains a few times now and it’s been fun. I hear talk of “monsoonal patterns”. But the last time I got caught, my hands got friggin’ cold! And then this morning when I was fixin’ to jump on the trusty steed I realized it was cold and I went in and got a sweatshirt!

I’m going to have to face it: summer is drawing to a close and, all global warming aside, it’s gonna get cold and before it does it’s going to get cold and wet.

Now, it’s been a few years but this ain't my first rodeo riding the bike in the cold and/or the wet, and I recall a couple of things I have learned along the way:

  1. It ain't no thing to keep your torso warm. It’s all about the hands and the feet and the head.
  2. Dry and cold is pretty easy to deal with, but when you add wetness into the mix, things get more complicated. (Yuk, yuk)

So, not being one to get caught with my junk hanging out, I have looked ahead and I've ordered some waterproof socks, some waterproof “storm” pants, and some waterproof gloves. I’m just getting them off of the inter-web, after perusing the pictures and reading a couple of reviews. I've been doing that more and more. It’s so handy. Did a little thought of something you might need slither through your brain? If you can wait a few days, just sit down at the ‘pute and pull the trigger on some likely item. You’ll have a little surprise waiting for you soon on the front porch. It’s a wonderful thing.

And, btw, I can’t wait till they get those drones to start delivering. I’m going to call ‘em names & shit, because they’re just machines and maybe some human being is operating it and will hear my lusty verbiage and will thereby be somewhat gladdened.

“Hey, dumb-ass piece of mechanical dogshit! Don’t be fuckin’ looking at me with your goddamned LED’s or whatever. Just give me my motherfuckin’ package, drone!”

And all like that.

Anyway, we're ready for a cold, wet fall, so bring it on.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

A quiet moment with Kurt...

These people who ridicule our relationships with our animal friends are not thinking very deeply, I believe. I am a dog lover, myself, and I know that the feeling between myself and my dog, Pugsley, is one of deep love and common regard and understanding. You know, these creatures are sentient beings and, though they perhaps are not good at driving and stock trading, etc, they are very good at licking their own genitals and barking and other things. So your emotional relationship with your dog is just as intense and risky and wonderful as a relationship with a fellow human animal, and you should revel in it.

An additional benefit in a relationship with a dog is that you are kind of the god of it. You call all the shots. You begin by cutting its balls off so that it will be a better companion for you and will not have those troublesome sexual habits that get in the way. It’s okay, because he doesn't know what he’s missing, and you can tell by the fond way he gazes at you that he’s glad. And, like, you get to decide what he eats. If he does something bad you can say, “bad dog!” but he will never say, “bad human!”. And you don’t have to worry about him liking some other human better than you because he lives right there with you all the time. And if you decided that a dog is not a good fit for you, you can take it to the animal shelter and just leave it, and maybe some other human will come along and love it, but probably not, and it will be assisted in painlessly exiting this level of existence (killed).

So, I guess to sum up, your relationship with your dog would be almost exactly like your relationship to a human being if that human being were your complete slave in every way and you could kill him or her whenever you wanted and surgically remove their sex organs and never let them leave your apartment except to shit.

Now, if that’s not a win-win situation, please tell me what is!

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

New Poem: why my dog must die

I reached for joy on the bus home from work.
I couldn't see any out of the jerking windows.

Sometimes my ego is a mucous-faced little brother
for whom I have promised to beat up the entire world.
Without that worry I would have turned into an owl,
listening on the night wind for my next meal of rodents.
My eyes would have been huge disks of placid gold.
Instead I sit here twisting my fingers into braids.

I don’t know where to send the checks to pay
for all the life moments I have wasted this way.
Surely I owe a fortune by now, and surely
a war has been declared upon my way of living.

I expect the SWAT team to bust in some night,
and I have enjoined my pug to avoid barking,
but he will do it anyway and they will murder him.

There will be a final yelp and a spattering of pug parts;
eye here, crooked leg there, a piece of wrinkled jowl.

No point whitewashing it, this is serious business;
far too serious to be entrusted to me, and all because
I refuse to live as the condemned man I am,
waiting for the arrival of my final meal,
sneering at my victims’ families through bulletproof glass,
a priest muttering god-spew into my trembling ear.

It’s my understanding of this which makes me a profligate.

Ignorance would absolve me, but it’s too late for that.

As I move about my house the pug watches me.
There is something held back in his dogly love.
Somehow he knows that I contain his undoing,
and as I pick up his shit in the yard before mowing,
I see a wizened buddha's face of judgement 
in the whorls and contours of every dark turd.

Ghetto Biker Update: Don't be THIS guy!

This is the bike rack at my work. My trusty commuter steed is parked correctly there on the right with its cute saddle bags & shit. That bike on the left, which is rudely taking up over half of the rack, such that if someone else needed to there'd be no place for them to lock up, was placed there by some unknown utter fucking scumbag piece of dick cheese.

I have made inquiries as to the identity of Mr. Cheese, so far to no avail. This lack of information has led me to speculate.

Now, that's a pretty nice road bike, but it shows no signs of wear and there is none of the gear associated with the vagaries of the long and winding road. I have a pretty nice road bike too, but I don't bring it to work. See, I threw my bike on the bus this morning because after work I'm going to zip down the the Ogden frontrunner station and take the train out to Salt Lake to do the Mestizo open mic. By the time I get done it will be dark for the four mile ride from the Clearfield station to my house. So, my bike has a headlight and a tail light. Also, in my bag at all times I have a spare tube and the tools I need to change a tire, plus a hand air pump. There is no 'Plan B' for the Ghetto Biker. I have my water bottle of course. During the hot part of the summer, you want that even on little rides.

But, what does Dick C. have? He ain't got shit, just bare bones. He may even do big rides on the weekends. Maybe he uses one of those camel backs for water. But he will drive his fucking SUV to the starting point, rest assured. And he figures, "Hey, I have sucked enough executive dick to get to where I've got a few mouths on mine now, so fuck it. I do not really recognize your needs and barely your existence if you are outside of my small circle of fellow cheeses with which I interact on a daily basis. So it's not like I was even being rude intentionally or anything. That was just the easiest and most stable way to clamp my bike on there, you know? The rest of the world can kind of fuck itself, as long as it does so quietly and does not disturb me in my fellating of ever larger penises in my endless quest for status."

Now, due to a bug in the firmware of the human female, guys like The Cheese here keep succeeding in reproducing, and this is unfortunate. But, I would beseech you to try not to use him as a role model. Do not be a dick cheese yourself. We got more than we can use already.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

A Quiet Moment With Kurt...

You know that song, “I Believe There Are Angels Among Us”?

Well, whenever that song comes on the radio, heck, I just belt it out and I don’t care who hears me. I make a joyful noise unto the Lord, because I know there are angels among us, Mr. Doubting Thomas!

There are many anecdotes that I could share as proof of this fact, but I’ll just tell you about a recent event that comes to mind.

I have a neighbor named Stanley Sessions. Now, Stanley is a very religious man, but his struggle in life is that he is addicted to drugs and alcohol. And pornography. And gambling. And I guess you’d have to say he has an eating problem because he weighs well over 400 pounds. But all these struggles notwithstanding, Stanley is a very devout man. He reads his scriptures daily, he told me, and, though he’s too fat and sick to make it down to the church, the visiting teachers minister to him regularly at his home, especially when Stanley has those young ladies he knows from the Internet over. I guess they want to minister to them too. They look like they could use it.

Anywho, I heard some very bad news from Stanley a while back. It seemed that Stanley’s sixty-year-old liver had just gotten plumb worn out from his lifestyle, and if he didn't get a transplant he would be called home.

Now, Stanley has a rare blood type and so he was very worried that he wouldn't get a new liver. But it just so happened that a few weeks later a young man with Stanley’s blood type was hit by a car. And this young man happened to be a relative of Stanley’s, so Stanley heard about it right off and after a few angry phone calls to the boy’s grieving parents, Stanley obtained his liver.

I talked to Stanley about it after his transplant, when he was feeling much better. He was stuck at home because his car was in the body shop and he couldn't get down to the bar, so out of boredom he'd called me over. He was pretty drunk from drinking Jagermeister so it was kind of hard to understand him, but he still managed to tell me, in his slurred language, an amazing tale of the Lord's handiwork.

It seems that no one ever saw the car that killed that boy. And there were no skid marks or anything. The police claimed it was a hit-and-run, but I knew better than that.

“Stanley, that was an angel driving that car," I said. “It was a ghost car, made of celestial material. And it was specifically sent to get you your liver.”

“You think?” said Stanley. “You know, that kind of makes sense in another way, as well. That boy had decided to go to college instead of doing a mission for the church. If he had been on his mission, he never would have been struck down by that car.”

“I’m getting chills!” I told Stanley.

“Here,” he said, handing me the bottle. “Have another drink.”

Monday, August 11, 2014

Ghetto Biker Update: Gravity is a Thing

So I've had the new bike trailer here at heaven151 for a while so I think I’m getting the feel of it. I hauled the the pug down to the vet. He had a sports related injury, or he would have had if he were a football player. What he really had was a dumb-ass gettin-old tryin-to-jump-off-shit-too-high injury. And I got him some special food and a diet plan because he’s a fat little fucker, of which my hauling his ass behind my bike has made me acutely aware. It is a gently downhill ride down to the vet but this is mitigated by the fact that it is a gently up hill ride back. That’s a thing with bikes, huh. Even just a little downhill and you’re just blazing along. Just a little uphill - and it’s fucking work, and it’s fucking even more fucking work when you add on a 25 lb trailer plus a 25 lb pug = 50 lbs more than I’m used to hauling.

It’s all right though. I got gears.

I did a shopping run down to the Walmart, too. Got a couple of cases of Diet Cherry Dr Pepper and some chips, etc. I guess I've let my healthy eating policy kinda go to hell a little bit. Oh fuck you.

Anyway, the thing has a pretty smooth ride for the pug, I think. Plus he gets to bark his ass off at anybody we roll by & shit. I hauled him up to the groomer yesterday to get his nails trimmed. Speaking of which, I need to do a piece on dog grooming folks. They seem like an interesting group of ladies.

But, to wrap it up I think the trailer is a valuable addition to the ghetto biker bag o’ tricks. More later.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

A Quiet Moment With Kurt...

Let’s just take a look in our spiritual toolbox this morning, which we come to with a sense of reverence, to see what we might want to share.

I see ‘prayer’ lying there.

There is no more important spiritual tool than prayer, but so few people know how to use it properly! Because, like any tool, it can be misused. 

Some people want to use prayer for selfish ends.

This is the cause of a lot of confusion when people’s prayers aren't answered. God isn't going to go to that selfish place with you, I’m sorry to say. Some people actually pray for God to do bad things, if you can imagine that! People pray for worldly things, like money or power or even sex.

That’s right. Some people seem to think that God is their pimp or something. 

Not that God is entirely un-pimp-like. He is the coolest motherfucker around, by definition. See? I can speak the vernacular. I can be on the street with my homies. Yeah, maybe God is a pimp. He’s the baddest-ass pimp in the hood, Holmes! And if you dis on God he’s going to slap you like a bitch! He’s a gangsta-God, so don’t fuck with him. He’ll cut ya!

I hope these words of mine will reach some of these misguided young people. I hope by speaking their language I can bring about some change in their lives. And that they will then come to the Lord in prayer. Because it is through prayer that we can speak to God.

Just close your eyes and let the peace of God come upon you. And, if your mind and heart are very clear and open, God might speak to you. And he might even say, “How’s it hanging’, motherfucker!”

Who knows?

With me he usually just agrees with everything I say.

When that happens, you know you’re using your prayer tool correctly.