I am deeply disappointed in 52% of the California electorate. I spare no contempt for the ideologues on the 'Yes' side in whose shame I have no faith, but the larger segment of that majority I cannot hate: the ignorant. Their bigotry is inexcusable, but its cause is no capital offence. They have been persuaded from their morals by who knows what slick-talking charlatans. Their trust in whatever institution - religion, tradition, TV advertisements - has been exploited by the unscrupulous and those pious demons have shouted down their better angles. However they cannot be forgiven their disgraceful behaviour toward their fellow human beings. They will be an embarrassment to their children, if not to themselves.
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fucker fucking fucktard fuckup fuckshit fuckfuckfuck fcuk fucklicking fucksucker fuckmeinmymom deepfuck fuckalicious William F. Fuckley (the 'F' is for "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!1!").
Can the Big One just take out 52% of California? Please? Like, right now?
I'm really at a loss. The towering idiocy of these moral lepers rains burning shit upon the land. Prop 8 glistens on the brow of the Golden State like some throbbing abscess, dribbling pus into the corner of America's eye. I can forgive Texas and Georgia and Arizona and, like, 40 other states for being morally retarded, milky-eyed cunts, but we're talking about California for fuck's sake. If this 52% of the electorate can see out from under their foreheads, maybe they can vote their way to a chopstick and do us all the tremendous favour of lobotomizing themselves through the eyeball.
These people's God, if he existed, ought to have taken greater care when aiming his cumshot. Jizzing all over the fertile face of the Earth has enfranchised every tailless sperm from his backwash semen. Maybe next time he should put his pud in the divine sock. Those holes in his hands have to be good for something.
Well, I'm off to the gym.
Then I'm going to get gay-married in California. OH WAIT.
KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!
Dear America,
Hey, it's me, Scott. So listen, I have, like, a little favor to ask. You're probably going to do this anyway, but I thought I'd say something just in case. Please, like, elect Barack Obama. 'Cause I really like going to the gym. The gym is, like, an important part of my life and something that I just need to do. Like a habit, or something. You know? And if John McCain is elected president, I'll get really depressed and probably won't want to go to the gym for, like, two or three months. And then I'll get really out of shape, and I probably won't be eating well during that period of time either, so it'll be even worse. And then when I finally do go back to the gym, everything will be really hard 'cause I'll be weak and stuff. And then I'll be thinking, "man, if I'd only gone to the gym the past two or three months, I'd be fucking ripped by now. IF ONLY JOHN MCCAIN HADN'T WON THE PRESIDENCY!" So, like, if you could please, elect Barack. Because I really like going to the gym. OK? I'm sure you understand. Cool. Keep in touch.
Son of the Nation,
Scott Peterson
In New Zealand, I am the one with the accent. This is a topic of conversation with about 60% of the people I meet. I had some trick-or-treat-ing kids the other night ask if I was American. Oddly enough, the large majority of adults guess Canadian. Perhaps they have offended one too many Canadians with a presumption of Yankee heritage. Americans on the other hand think nothing of being mistook for a Chinook. Kids appear less politic in their estimations.
Little wet ones commit little wet deeds in my name and in my light and if I could frown my face at them, I would. They abuse me with poems and songs and I abuse them with tides. Still I am their Man and their Woman and their Night and their Love. These delicate little wet ones of mine: they think they have souls, but don't they know? Beauty is a lie and love is a symptom of death. We've known this forever, we the stars and the moons and the planets and the galaxies. We've spied across the eternal void and seen the truth of space and time: everything is alone. All stars know this.
Well, most of them do.
A senile sun sometimes falls for a brilliant neutron star haloed by rings in all the colors that don't have names. Or a crazy quasar finds fancy in the fires of some distant mist; a billion-billion stars beheld as one. And a confused comet is occasionally smitten by the glow of a constellation in whose lights shine the finest visage of Creation. Such old fools have dared to burn their light in Love. Such have swelled with their sick delusions, and such have shone with the nova of their foolish devotions. They all now feed their singularities on black space. Any sane celestial body knows: everything is alone.
I've chased around the heavens of my world forever and I will forever renew my circuit with a winking eye to the little ones. I wink to let them know, "You are alone." I wink to let them know, "Look elsewhere for you gods." There's nothing up here but sensible spheres and a few crazy stars.
- Earth's Only Moon
I am bald. Again. Had to get two haircuts: the first lady couldn't bic it. Even the second guy didn't use a razor, so I've got stubble. Should have hit a barber shop. I may razor it myself (with help, I imagine). Was going to do an Uncle Fester costume, but the party tonight is no-costume. I KNOW! Also got a cool new hat to keep my baldness warm. Summer is a little chill thus far. I miss New York.
Sam's mom brought me back some American Special-K from The States. I am elated. Special-K is my favorite cerial and the New Zealand variety is subtly different. Sam's dad also saved us some Krispy Kremes from his trip to Oz. They obviously weren't straight out of the river of boiling fat, but what can you do?
I have recently noticed a larger percentage of white hairs on my scrotum as compared to the rest of my body. I suppose that is preferable to other genital prematurities.
Many of my friends have different people-mapping schemes. They map a human person to some other noun in a given category. Several of my friends, for example, are "really good" at picking people's Disney character. I myself make a habit of pairing people and literary figures. I find these mapping schemes very interesting. I think it would be fun to group people in a workplace or prison or something by, like, what Beatles album they are. As according to Mr. "Really Good" At Picking People's Beatles Album. Or something. Anyway, today I was picked for a camel by someone with a gift for picking people's animal. It's in the eyes, I'm told. Large, with long lashes. Also of interest to me is the relationship between a person's scheme and the frequency with which it accompanies the phrase, "In a good way."
I eat copious amounts of eggs. They are easy to prepare and they come in $7 packs of 36. Over easy, scrambled, hard boiled, and as part of my famous 3-egg ham & cheese omelet. Eggs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They are delicious, nutritious, and an indication that I need to broaden my culinary skills.
I just ate two large pizzas at a cost of $27, if that gives you some idea of my day.
Three months and no blog. I'm not apologizing. That's vulgar.