It is.
As easy as searching google.
And soon that will be all we will know.
You’re only as sharp as your processor speed.
The new medulla oblongata.

FIRST CHILD BORN WITH INTEL PROCESSOR KILLS SELF
"It was dead when it was born if you ask me," said Cornelius McMullins.
"Fucking hunk of metal and shit," said Jose.

So you better get yourself a good seat cushion.
And a jumbo tube of Anusol.

What the fuck is in this damn thing? It annoys the hell out of me like a rock solid boil on my back that I can't reach. And I want to pop that fucker and shoot white goo all over my wall. So I grab the plate, cock my arm straight back and smash it with a flat, efficient thwack right there on the table. It shatters neatly into a pile directly in front of me.
The restaurant help all look at me and then at each other and affirm one another that all is okay. They must figure I'm part Greek or Jewish or some other supperware-smashing culture.
I look like neither, I look like all.
I thumb through it scrambling for the secret but all I see are shards of porcelain.
"Maybe it's drugs. I can chop it into powder and cook it on this spoon. We can shoot it up. Hehehe." I work it into a fine texture with my dinner knife.
"Go ahead try it," she says. " I want to see what happens."
"I don't like needles. I don't even do drugs. I'm trying to be shocking."
She looks at me like I were an otherworldly creature, takes the straw out of my margarita glass and snorts up some cheap powdered mexican china.
AAAWWWOOOO!!!!! She yells and punches her fist into the air. Blood quickly shoots out of her nose.
"You're like the perfect garden accoutrement."

I can never spell that fucking word on the first try ever.
Dumb. Word. or. Me.

Day 3 without cloud filled skies.
How I'd love to scoop just a glassful of cloud and slurp it all up to clear my head of these thoughts.
Strange empty thoughts of nothingness.
I never have those. And you would think that empty thoughts don't even exist.
Like if they're of nothing then they're not even there.
But no. I see fully illustrated thoughts of the inside of vaccuum cylinders.
Of no color, of no sound, and of no content.
Empty-headed fucks probably actually have fully formulated thoughts.
Highly descriptive concepts of barren nothingness.
Can you picture this?
How the hell can I?
It PAINS me.
And I can feel everything too much.
There's a pounding that shakes my whole upper body to the rythm of my heart beat.
It's like a 1070's VW bug engine, loud and boisterous and pumping.
While it's refreshing to know that I'm alive, the whole rocking back and forth like a rowboat in high surf makes me want to gag empty stomach contents and bitter saliva all over my bedspread.
I can feel the blood racing through my veins like cold white light.
A stark shining feeling. Like the screaming white noise and static of a tv with no cable or satellite hookup.
Like speeding traffic of coked up drivers on an uncharacteristically high paced 405 freeway.
It's all so fucking serious.
I'm so fucking serious.
And don't you hate me this way?
I do.
As I do with you.

Come on,
Just give me ONE taste.

About 3 years back my wife was doing some psycho obsessive cleaning
and when it came to the infinite papers of bills, receipts, credit card invoices, etc.
the SHREDDER made its way into her arsenal.
Yes, this is where we're going with this.
We had tons of crap. So much that she was going into the wee hours with the grinding buzz and crunching of wood.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. I was hearing for like 7 hours.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. and Bzzzz only. No other noise but that.
Until her eyelids started drooping from the machine lullaby and the monotony of it all.
Bzzz. Bzzzzz. AAAAAaaaaahhGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
"Honey, honey, help, help."
No friggin way, I thought.
"Holy sheep sh*t!"
As she began to nod off, her reflexes were obviously slower and she didn't let go of the paper in time.
It was full-on stuck. Her index finger was being ground to the bone.
The Bzzzz was now BZZZZZ and Oh oh oh oh.
I made like Superman and quickly pulled the power cord from the wall and tried to pry her hand loose.
That thing was in there tighter than superglue or welded metal.
I pulled harder and nothing. Ow Ow Ow.
"If I pull any harder your finger's gonna detach."
So, quick-witted hero that I am, I popped the AC cord back into the wall,
slammed that baby into reverse and hit the power button.
ZZZZZBBBBBBB. Out she came!
Expecting Texas Chainsaw Massacre (one of my favorite flicks), I got Looney Tunes (one of my faves as well).
No blood, no gore. Just a clean and perfectly flat index finger.
FLAT. We're talking millimeters here. Like 3 sheets of paper.
She was in shock for about 5 minutes. Literally. Like gunshot shock.
Then we jammed to the ER to find no broken anything.
The Doc asked if she'd like some hydrocodone (that would be VICODIN)
And she said "NO."
"Lady, I don't think this is working out between us."

When you're down to 3 squares you realize how little toilet paper you really need to wipe your ass. You can use a q-tip size rectangle of tissue and efficiently remove the shit marks. And it's not even like you're OUT of tissue, it's just that the stash is all the way in the pantry through the living room and through the kitchen and there's no way in hell you're going to walk bow-legged and arched and half naked through all of that real estate. And only a psychotic would pull up his drawers and trudge with shit crust creaming to his fruit of the looms. So instead you take each square and cherish it, fold it into umpteen layers of shit wads and realize that you've been so wasteful all of your life.
Imagine the trees and the rainforest and magnificent chirping beetles and rare species of owl that you and minds like yours have extincted. And when you're done and all cleaned up you replenish the roll and next time you shit you ball 6 or 7 or 8 squares up, wipe once and ball up another 6 or 7 or 8 squares and wipe once and ball 6 or 7 or 8 squares and keep repeating until your roids are raw. And you forget about the Hook Mouthed
Badger family that just lost its existence in the universe forever.

I mean I need to get coffee.
It helps to wipe the snotty eye boogers and stretch out the hamstrings.
So all I have to do first is take a preliminary shit, clean it really good
Get on the elevator and follow the hardwood path to the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.
The robots all chant in choruses of middle C.
Beautiful, lilting lullabies of C.
So soothing, so relaxing, so tempting.
And I've sworn those little fuckers off.
They're not so little with their one way street philosophy and constant glimmers of hope.
More than hope, they can help you get back to where you were when you got here.
Back to normal. Back to neutral. Back from the nasty red.
But I trudge on refusing to give way to their mating calls.
Though it sounds more soothing than a heap of xanax tablets.
"Come to us. Let us bring you back. If not to happiness then to non-depression."
"Fuck you all! I need coffee. It helps me shit."
"Where we'll take you, you won't care about shit. You won't need to shit."
"No. no no no." I've got strong urge suppression techniques.
I run. Make a break. Timberland rubber soles bouncing off the hardwood.
Go straight! Hit a few people, it doesn't matter. They've all been hypnotized.
Except the drunky who wants a little squabble but there's none here right now.
Run run run. Past all of the little robots. They're moaning now. Purely sexual sounds.
Ecstatic bacchanalian shit that they're trying to pull here. Like an aircraft hangar full of them sexy little machines writhing and wriggling for my attention in the hopes that I'll put it in.
I see the light at the end of the hardwood and peel their strong feminine hands off of my biceps and shoulders. Get off me bitches!!!!
I pause to collect my breath.
"Triple shot Americano por favor."
"Chooer. Room for cream?"
"Yes sir."
I turn around and look out at all of the humans in the Food Court eating machine food.
Carageenan and sodium nitrite. Guaranthan gum, sulfites and mononucleosis. Yum-o.
Sing it Rachael Ray, yum-fucking-o.
The most human thing here is what, Cherry Garcia?
Yes. They only use non-growth hormone induced steer. Excellent.
I stir in some modified cow sweat (yes, that would be milk) and take a huge drag of warm coffee goodness. O hell yes. Tastes good. Feels good. Warm body tingles.
Almost as satisfying as beer. But that comes after the morning crap
Which I have to get back up to my room to do.
I need to get by the robots again though.
I head back on the wooden path and hear the robots moan.
I stick in a five dollar bill. Push buttons, pull on the levers for a few minutes
And out spills a coupon for twenty-five dollars even.
Hey, that's not so bad. That's pretty fucking great in fact.
I cash it in, go up to my room to shit
And head back downstairs for some free beer (gotta start with lagers) and to give them the 25 back plus whatever else is lingering and paining me in my pocket.
And next comes the black jack tables.
And there we'll move on to bolder ales.
And then I gotta get out my debit card.
Aargh you fuckers.
But I love Vegas. Everybody loves Las Fucking Vegas.

It's easy to sum it up if you're just talking about terrorism.
We're sitting here, and I'm supposed to be a Presidential candidate,
and we're talking about terrorism.
I mean listen, we're sitting here talking about terrorism,
not a game, not a game, not a game, but we're talking about terrorism.
Not the game that I go out there and die for
and play every game like it's my last
but we're talking about terrorism man.
How silly is that?

Now I know that I'm supposed to lead by example and all that
but I'm not shoving that aside like it don't mean anything.
I know it's important, I honestly do but we're talking about terrorism.
We're talking about terrorism man. (laughter from the media crowd)
We're talking about terrorism. We're talking about terrorism.
We're not talking about the economy. We're talking about terrorism.
We're not talking about unemployment. We're talking about terrorism.
We're not talking about the Constitution. We're talking about terrorism.
We're not talking about the environment. We're talking about terrorism.
We're not talking about Corporate greed. We're talking about terrorism. We're not talking about an overpowerful, corrupt federal government.
We're talking about terrorism.
We're not talking about a fraudulent Federal Reserve.
We're talking about terrorism.
When you come to America, and you see me play,
you've seen me play, right? you've seen me give everything I've got,
but we're talking about terrorism right now
(more laughter)

Doctors and fake doctors, all bullshitters. Worse than a starry-eyed Sears Roebuck mechanic selling you redundant rotors. Trigger happy and ready to give you some weird pill you don't need but will grow to need. Coerced corporate dependence. Doctors are barrels filled with Xanax bullets ready to fill you full of feelgood lead. A money market as American as Spam, Vienna Sausage and Sodium Nitrite. Placebo with a nice buzz that makes you forget why you came and keeps you coming back for mas, mas y mas...