If a Man is beating you with a whip and you love the whip, what is he doing? Everybody's everybody's whipping boy now
dead1. [Britney Spear's career]
2. Something that is no [longer] [living] and can now be [kicked].3. When you're passed [the point] of something being [hilariously] funny; when you've laughed as hard as you possibly can. Often expressed online by putting an [asterisk] (*) in front of and behind the word itself.
4. used a lot in [the north] of [britain] (anywhere north of [Birmingham]), means very, really, or a lot. used as an exclamation.5. [deceased], an empty shell, [devoid] of life, not alive, [soulless]
6. To no longer live (like...[no pulse]) To be REALLY [boring] To be in serious [trouble]7. An adverb that typically modifies an adjective. Often used as a replacement for
"very," "so," or "extremely" and is [assumed] to have a stronger [positive or negative] [connotation].
8. Severely [lacking] [life]9. to not respond to a text or a message for a certain period of time; usually due to a [forgotten] [brb] or a [gtg] while performing another activity
10. used as a verb: To disassociate oneself with a person [to the point that] they are as if dead. This is usually done to a person whose [actions] are considered [malicious]
and I came to horripilating paresthesia from, first one, then, one variety additional, down a hoarded pharonic trove ...
prepared living similitude from those initial clips to others of common spontaneous reply, those first clips ad hoc folk whose immediate thought to protect themselves from not giving up ghosts, when mentioned, would knee-jerk, no harm, but absurdly stupid -- now sexist, and racist -- I'm sure auto-suggest thinks no less of Elvis when from some more doomed pelicula ridicula comes that crazy lady who knows you more even, than your girlfriend, betrothed, common law lover, whose face when closely to it with yours you hover, does not in the least, although, sometimes you wish it would, begin scrolling down, as your digits you caress the folds of her gown, and then gently tap one time or two, to find out what it is next that you do, that other people who have been here and seen it before, also liked or watched along with your selection, and how they maneuvered or plied out their famous erection, and for women, the same holds equally truthful, this man if you've set it, or set it to woman, he/she know what you like like Cosby likes puddin', and like pudding you dive in to whatever it tells you that if you liked that then this should compel you to continue you your binge or your meal or procrastination not judging, you click with abandon to see what it's decided that the people who she has her information from and the AI Machine whose been programmed by humans, whose taste is not spilling over into their work, you hope to God the checks and balances are supervised, or we'd all be watching Star Trek and Sheldon, and dreadful fantasy fare, algorithmic to a fault these nerds wouldn't dare.
No, because they've inserted Sweet Home Alabama and Beaches at just the right time when Aunt Flo is coming over to visit, and your bestie and you whose roommates you are, lay as if narcotized by one glass of char, receptive as a doe in estrus who hears clacking horns in the root of the season when the deer get to do it, as if never thinking or believing their fate of where they'll be hanging right after they mate, so pick what you like, some stranger did too, and imagine he's watching when he finally gets through, and just for fun, watch something you'd never watch, and suggest something outside your box, and see what you think and then do it again.
hateful Elvis movies gather dross as cash cows too dumbed even for today's audience whose shortlist of reprehensible, dubious, contenders for inclusion miles above Elvis their epicene casts phoned-in, one-shot arcs and plotless corn mazes, or poached of a style, which you catch me now as I do it, off and on, a tribute of sorts to the doctor whose racist, nonsensical palavering we've just found out is the clandestine closeted Klansman de-robed, too vile to conceal, one step for regressing diversity's leap as if lemming gathered lamenting their lives, which I believe I did read it from Geisel himself, I'm lucky I resisted his subconscious suggestion because should I not have I wouldn't be here to write it all out, these fish, he told us couldn't stand it, the life that they'd had no part i creating and sensing the existential peristalsis these ichtheological Jerzy Kosinski's instead of a bath and a bag and a sigh and lights out ...
Jerzy Kosinski Said
The principles of true art is not to portray, but to evoke.
The principle of art is to pause, not bypass.
I can create countries just as I can create the actions of my characters. That is why a lot of travel seems to me a waste of time.
Gatherings and, simultaneously, loneliness are the conditions of a writer's life.
The things I write are for those who are willing to accept a new relationship between the reader and the author.
Travel gives me the opportunity to walk through the sectors of cities where one can clearly see the passage of time.
As I go to sleep I remember what my father said-that one can never be sure if one will awake. The way my health is now, this is becoming more and more real.
I look back into past history, the stored experiences or products of the imagination. I look no further forward than the evening.
made a day of it, brought picnics and wine, and as the hour struck midnight just like that they vanished threw themselves over like Thelma and Louse, Butch Cassidy and Billy the Kid, and whoever else does it in films except for Bud Cort, they jumped to their death, although, it turns out, that for all these years, taking some solace in this nihilistic fish right to die or fly imperative to snuff it on your terms before they make you run, it was all just a hoax, a pipe dream, a rhyme, that Doctor was out of control and likely out of a job, his Hippocratic oath wasn't doing its job, he was slipping and giving Asians chopsticks for eyes and pandering to publishers whose first 25, said thanks but no thanks as security ushered him out where he just walked up and down Mulberry to see what he could see and then over Canal to Mott to see what they got, and although it was cold his idea was hot, so he stopped in casually for a cup of their Tea, and as he drank it its rooty Proustian pronouncement screamed out to his sense of Austenian sensibility, don't write what you know,
write
what you see, and you'll know it from that, and he paid them and bowed appropriating or mirroring what the chinaman did, and it was there that he saw it, it was there his book took,
fuck all those bashers, and trollers and looks, I'm writing what I'm writing, if you don't like it don't read it, but just remember this, the people who people my little short books, whether children, or parents, or language-learning cooks, they don't care how I draw 'em, in fact they like it, like that Asian the say it's not nice, well, I'll tell you something about that one of a kind, he said give me chopsticks for eyes and a long ponytail, and a crazy red cap like an upside down bowl, and whatever you do the Fu Manchu's on you, Coolie, but what would really be great, what would really be nice, is if when you draw my hair, you could draw in some rice.
i am certain by reputation they gathered meaningfully of Fennigans Wake or any list reprehensibly academic, of which I'm poaching like crazy, anatomical smizes on immigrant stalwarts, whose habitable-just enclosures of sorts, or the garb they are currently required to wear daily, the one which got clobbered in the Brooklyn Vegan, and such;
and last, least, in whichever order it comes, whatever you see, once you see what you see on Mulberry Street, please, and for Winnie of Winnie's sake, 安良工商會 in tow, drinking Crown -- she on Remy, don't repeat anywhere else whatever it is which your eyeful is shot, because Winnies over Karaoke and 安良工商會 can hear, but it's Z's who displeases them, root out homeclub like some Truffle Seeking Piglet for Winnie's ain't really what Zeds think, in their heads, think, when they say, 'hardcore, bruh,' but you never know, and if I could I'd take that one Z out back and show him, but before I did it, I'd say to him first, 'first, just do me a favor and hold onto my purse, I gotta get a picture on my iPhone of this for the Gram,' so many likes I'll be trending like -- bam, so now when I say, 'say this to make yourself smile,' say it, 'OK, Boomer!'
Okay, thanks I got it.
Don't bash Seuss, see? Do. Not. Bash.
In
Winnie's the yips took and shot full of holes, because guess
whose book they first read and learned non-violence from?
and at last but at least, whatever you see when you see what you see on Mulberry Street, please, and for the sake of Winnie of Winnie's,
do not repeat anywhere else, no matter your eyeful shot, hears first cake pills
choked with
shabu in red-lit fumid tribute to ancestors possessed of hell money, not tender to this world, staring narcosis the ancient Spirit,
everybody's everybody's whipping boy now
if you can't beat 'em, as Charles M. said,
'Just join 'em like this when their lashing you:
lettuce and radishes for his man, "Kraftmensch" later, Sturm und Drang, that is the degree to which need appeal outside authority, save self, nor be tempered by rationalism— by pursuit of noble nor true motives, but revenge and greed (even by proxy --
military officer, anti-aristocrat slouching, seeking to elevate all good things humble, natural, or real; though painful, tormenting, or alarming, windows open to suggestion, to drippy performance, and melodramatic transformation through pliability Elvis perpetually possessed, to entertain his heart,
desire, during this commonplace, but mature appreciation, where many their love highly regarded, operatic; however Pop genius of turning Opera to Pop hits, and striking kids' parents between the fourth octave
and pocketbook, clearly detected, later subsumed his late period of play with Liberace-like Sartorial presence in material, eschewing and derisively of checking, hound dog for a light opera, albeit, nearly too sincere for appraisal, uncolored by spectacle (Malcolm Gladwell would naively ask why, to find how his queries created fascinating reading to the opposite litterateur whose devoted consumption of atrociously dated, the New Yorker, careers like Gladwell's rely).
However it's due to
narcotics and Ann Margret ass occupied off-time on set, his mansion, L.A. where he and his Guys and his monkey named Scatter, were uninterrupted in a very live childhood which incidentally, they'd shared until
extracurricular sturm und drang went howling through Graceland, a chronic Grace to not [*fr1] sink-in until, well, once once it ungraciously landed arduously strayed and in brambles outside Graceland, on the brink of the building Coletta's, Home of Memphis's noted BBQ dish, BBQ Spaghetti, proximate to a Malt Shop, where the guys, sinking dishabille, drug sick mixed with Novel Pavlovian response for Proustian Madeleine Dogfood, and thus, Remembrance of Things
quick, past, and alas, ever to recall Ann Margret's ass.
1, 2, 3, 4 -- if he anthropomorphize scenes, he had to surveil Chop Suey joints up and down Mott, until exotic, objectifying features he got, the last grain of rice in the long ponytail as it whipped down Canal;
he had his wife type it, another Salome veil dropped, and she typed and she bartered like the first of the troika of thre Lady Martyrs, Eva the Braun, she never gets due the credit she's owed for the many of the few whose bartering A. at the top of the Nest, she did wearing heels, she did to her best; guilt by association has ruined many men's lives, but if you think that's too bad, check out the chicks out on a night on the town, 'what were you wearing,' cop says, she's downtown, reporting an assault by a gentleman caller who held open her door, led her to the floor, fed her bubbly, listened to her rant, then just when she'd told him her house would be empty he'd stretched out his double breasted wingspan in mawkish expression of the time getting late, or they were too high, but you could see in his soul but not in his eye, he'd been gentlemanly to a fault, how many i wonder, and when they were home, well it went quite asunder.
then there is Tammy Wynette, she drank George Jones' poison so that at the bar or home, he'd only drink half of what he thought he'd drunk, and that's what I call taking one for the liver, for the team, taking it all the way to a martyr's dead-end, she died on a couch so amazingly high from the Versed she got from a friendly anesthesiologist, way before Michael Jackson made Thriller, previously only concocted this cocktail of sorts by Docs and those who had access it gave you a nap like sewage gives you sepsis, and when you awaken, you're not fresh as a daisy, because, Versed and Propyphol don't let you REM-sleep, which means it's why there's scapulas, towels, even some keys in near your sternum, because Doc's nodding out and gets some intern to close ya. Anesthesiologists (besides nurses ... oh, they're all whacked out, just look in their purses), but it's not martyrdom they abuse all your drugs, leaving you water, it's from the grind that they grind as Registered chicks, whose job is to watch them die of take your pick, it's from the pain of sensing everyone in pain all the time, a victimless crime -- except those Angel of Death Nurses -- all men. Really psycho fucks. Watch out for COVID?
No, the Angels of Death ... Watch out for them