There be no free rides on this bus tonight!

There comes a time in every man's life when his lack of perspective and lust of dreary and dissipated ranting dissolves into the rotten banter that would make any dickensian phrase resemble the leviathanic drudgery of a mobyie dickye quest, with a peg leg and a tatooed oceanian, whatever that may mean.

Hark Mr. Strabuck the turning of the tide, and make it a double latte at that, the moon ist half'd ris'n from the froth of potential and we're all betwixt the legs of the great whore, just before the monthly flood. Man the harpoons and the starboard boughs of all the ships that lay the oceans dry, look to the nooks and crannies for the ratbastards that run from the batlles, envisage our confrontations to come and be the conflagrations however they may be, there ain't gonna be no curtains, see?!

Now my lullies, sit you down for the great stories of our dearlies departed, our own neverwas's and should-a ought-a -a- sort-a have-a beens that never sparked the spark, walked or planked walkings in the pre-planted, post-apocalyptic ramblings or otherwise initiated contact with the great bitcheries of our times.

There be no heroes to talk of, no great deeds to be remembered, just a blinding grind of mediocrity and a few late bank payments, some back pay and a bad case of the internets.

We're not talking human degradation here, we are not discussing the great tribulations of planet human in the great massive and otherwise neverbeforeseenheardordiscussed plan that is apparently ruling the greater scheme of things and certain animal copulation videos on a late thursday evening on animal planet.

This is not your average pseudointelectual discussion about how fucked, depraved, steroid driven and psychotic the pseudo-apocalypse of the interrupted development of planet human really is, but rather the total, complete and totally useless failure said apocalypse hath brought upon our feeble hiveminds.

Forget our tuned-in inertia, the low self-esteems we project to wield our "specialness" in everybody's face like a pachidermic cock of epic proportions, never-before seen since before the Great Flood.

This is an epic example of bullshit and the many ways it can be spawned by simply aboding on planet human and taking some time from the compulsory grind for some complementary you-time.

But back to our sea-dwelling mammals and the instant crude realization of our man confounded by his shallow and inane melvillian uproar to be found on the wrong end of a beer bottle.

Exploring the filth that breeds the human soul he hath come to yonder contemplation that might yet spark the remnants of his brain into guerrilla action, since all of his neuronic minions expired due to in-fighting that spurted into complete and utter bi-polar warfare: there ain't no meaning to nothing.

Onwards then on the great tides of our small insignificant deserts we circumnavigate, yay alas!
the earth be just a piece o paper, flat as the hairy chests of the mermaids of Wherever.

Distraught and yet satisfied to spell said realization without help from glorious God and trusty spellchecker, exit our hero from the planes of outer reality an enter he that is, to the crude and barren kafeneion surroundings of however possible synthethized alter-reality alter-ego , but only on certain days when he's feeling mildly psychotic, bliss.

After a double-decker absynth, anys and anason, some shady cigarettes from crazy looking frenchy drunk people that juggle fire for no particular reason other than the fact that they simply must, we discover him, hapless and unloved traveler on the poorly mapped road to bliss or any other sort of legal and available sexual gratification, in a bit of a rut, a sisyphical pattern that might present his newly found interest in engaging loss of potential.

But being stout at heart, having a weak liver and a whimsical bladder, rest assured his sullen countenance shall not last long and he will move forward on his declared road to self definition.

Yet, he is aware he must face the challenges, the anguishes and other sorts of depraved banter from neurotic, pilled-up lunatics, eccentric visual artists and other such parafianlialists of the great shit peddling that are the post-modern arts.

Forget the nay-sayers, your usually sexually confused humans that gobble up club culture and stalk the post-modern night like sexless vampires deprived of the most commonest of human decencies, the feministas and the strange people that gather over a vodka to discuss Nietzsche, the benign sexual predators and their asking-for-it-underaged-yet-apparently-versed victims, the school kids, the drunks that always fell the need to engage in conversation, the i'm-pissing-in-public-because-i'm-cool-and-misunderstood-and-i'm-
going-to-say-hello-to-you-even-if-i-don't-know-who-the-fuck
-you-are-let-alone-who-the-fuck-i-am-even-though-miction-is-obviously-dripping-on-my-tousers
kinda people, the photographers and fuck really knows what kind of deranged teens that walk the earth and chew on permanent markers because they can't afford their sister's pussy pills or because the falling DOW took a chunk of their investment package.

I'm talking real monsters here, the bad kind, the monsters that are socially approved, the upside-down-nutters, the fruit-cakes, the dark side of the arts, the tutti-fruttians and their surrealistic gala of sexual fantasies and misunderstood motherhood ideal, the yoga taking, vegetabla eating while on crack and talking about their childhood through an african tribal dance performance while wearing a butt-plug for the sake of the arts nutters.

But as Chaplin put it quite eloquently: there musten be einen sacrifitz! we musten tighten die belten!

So suck it in, man with really bad, graphical diarrheea, have a beer, have a smoke, readen sie den melville und den dickensian shait, taken sie den bussen home, forget about it.

Planet Human! Up Yours!

We be typing alone in the dark here.