Category: Ramblings

[EDITOR’S NOTE TO SUBSCRIBERS: Audio files don’t always embed properly in emails, click on the READ IN BLOG link at the top right for maximum “enjoyment” or whatever the euphemism is for self-punishment]

Yeah, yeah, I know, I haven’t posted in ages ‘cuz I had a mental breakdown after losing my cat. But most of you know by now that me having a mental breakdown was always imminent, and probably loooong overdue. Truth is, I found it quite cathartic.

And you know what else? Fuck you! I apologize for nothing. It’s not like you assholes are adequately bankrolling my Ferrari fund with your shitty donations. You can totally do better to support my sorry ass, fags. Love you!!

Anyhoo, today ain’t about filling you in on all the shit that’s transpired between posts. Today is story day! Coming to you once again from my favourite inspirational town, Aymler, Ontario.

Not sure what it is about the vibes here, but it’s always conducive to writing, relaxing, flushing the system of mental and physical toxins, and doing a basic factory reset before trudging along once again down whatever upcoming path Planet Stupid has in store for me.

Now that I’m self-employed once again, with nary a thought to ever consider whoring myself out to corporate overlords for a bi-weekly paycheque, I have to engage in a good ol’ fashion, quaint ritual I haven’t done in years — puttin’ some freakin’ cash in the bank! Oh, the nostalgia! My direct deposit days are fucking done, and good riddance to the lying cheating manipulating book-cooking wannabe-GM sleazy manipulator accountant erroneously crunching the numbers every 2 weeks to intentionally cheat me out of hard earned dollars. Fuck you skankface!

Okay, let’s go! Cue the subtle, bouncy background soundtrack…

It was another balmy and sunny Aylmer afternoon — the perfect time for a stroll through the park and a quick stop at the bank machine to replenish that absurd account that allows me to walk out of a building with shiny new baubles in hand, all because I tapped a piece of plastic on an electronic sensor. What a world!

I generally enjoy the habit of leaving all electronic devices at home when walking or hiking, cuz of the “fuck everybody/leave me the fuck alone” thing, which especially includes phone calls, and/or new tiktok reels sent to me from an unnamed Dutch fishing fag who has a thing for short reels about amputees being thrown in pools, and down syndrome people cooking. Fuck you, freak!! You smell like cologne and rotting fish guts. Also, thanks for all the fish, love you!!

But every time I wander tech-free, I invariably wind up in an oddball scenario where I wish I had photographic evidence to share in a blog post, and regret not taking my infernal pocket computer, aka my phone, with me.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: A new digital camera would remedy this situation, so get on it already you cheap lazy fuck.]

So, in the spirit of expected adventure, I decided to bring my phone with me. And, as fate would have it, because of a recent upgrade to a new device (thanks generously to my bro for gifting me his latest hand-me-down, love you!), I made note of an audio recorder app I hadn’t used in ages, and for some reason put the icon on my home screen. That’s like, foreshadowing, eh?

Enjoying a slow, relaxed saunter, I made note of the new businesses popping up in town — all of the them pizzerias, making Aylmer the new Pizza Store per Capita leader in Canada, second only to Goderich, Ontario. I made a mental note to sample a slice from each one next time I was here, and determine the veracity of my theory that a certain overseas ethnic group (the ones commandeering Tim Horton’s) has cornered the market, like they have in Goderich, on a once Italian staple food.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: You ignorant racist fuck!]

As I approached the indoor bank machines, some dude was standing in the doorway, clearly with very little intention of capitulating my access to the building.

I’ll never carelessly bandy about the term “crackhead,” as I find it dismissive and insulting to others that choose not to play by the rules of so-called “society,” but I’m gonna use it here to paint a quick picture of the wild look in buddy’s eyeballs as I scooched past him in the narrow gap he allowed me.

“Sup dude? Sorry, excuse me,” I said as I slinked by.

No response, no biggie.

There were 2 machines inside. The first was being engaged by some Mennonite old woman in traditional garb. Or maybe Amish, I don’t fucking know.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: You ignorant racist fuck!]

The other machine was free, and regretfully had a bit of a divider between them, so I lost my visual of what transpired next, aside from the knowledge the dude was still planted in the doorway.

And then it began…

I wouldn’t call it yelling or screaming necessarily, but it was definitely LOUD! Buddy had a deep, baritone resonance that penetrated your soul. Here’s what he said…

I hate people that make me feel small!
I hate having my back against the wall!
I hate being talked down to!
I hate me! I hate you!

Whoa. Wasn’t quite prepared for that as I was holding 800 bucks cash in my hand. Wasn’t sure if he had a previous beef with the woman, or what their current “relationship” was. Then it happened again. Slight variation this time…

I hate people that make me feel small!
I hate having my back against the wall!
I hate being talked down to!
I hate you! I hate me!

Hm. Interesting. So now my holier-than-thou brain slipped into defensive mode, wondering if it was necessary for me to intervene, and tell the dude to take a walk and stop harassing the old lady. But then a third time, new lyrics!

I hate people that make me feel small!
I hate having my back against the wall!
I hate being talked down to!
I hate your rules, I hate ’em all!!

Wait a second… I just realized there was some serious poetic shit going on! And then it happened again, with more lyrical variation at the end, and I realized I should be recording this, and quickly pulled out my phone, voice recorder at the ready…

By the fifth variation, I was in the groove! My feet were tappin’, hips aswayin’, and I was quietly mouthing the words with him each time he layed down the next stanza. My phone was ready, and I hit record…

Then nothin’.

I finished my deposit, and looked over. Ghost town. I walked outside, expecting to see a confrontation of some sort, but there was not a soul in sight.

Aw fuck. I blew it. I successfully recorded the last 3 beeps of my transaction, nothing more. Drat.

As I started walking back home, I quickly realized his words were stuck in my head. They were good! Did he write that shit? Was he a musician? Or was he just another nut-job just like me? Fuck, I’d never know!

Ah, but then fate realigned me with my quest as I was stopped at the red light waiting to cross. Out of seemingly nowhere, buddy was a foot from my face, staring deep into my eyeballs, and said:

“Hey, you know what?”

And I did know what.

He started right back into it, without the slightest expectation that I would be vocalizing his words in perfect synch:

I hate people that make me feel small!
I hate having my back against the wall!
I hate being talked down to!
I hate me! I hate you!

I think I got the ending wrong, but that initial wild look in his eyes were now dimmed to those of just another dude sharing a random conversation with a stranger at a bar. I asked him if he wrote that.

“No man, that’s Overkill.”

“Who?”

“Overkill.”

This time I was quicker on the phone, and asked:

“Let’s do it again, I want to record it!”

I guess I was still a bit slow on the draw with my phone, or maybe he had stage fright, or maybe just a short attention span, I dunno. His next words were:

“Let’s go get high!”

As I muttered a polite no, he responded with, I DON’T HAVE ANY WEED! and turned to run top speed (like, Ben Johnson TOP SPEED!) across the street and down the road, flames licking at his heels, quickly out of sight around the next corner.

Fuck, I missed it again. Or did I?

Walking away, I knew something got recorded. I’d have to review upon getting home. Well, here it is, as I remind myself to once again be prepared for anything and everything that might happen out there in our weird, whacky world. Sucks that I missed the best parts of it, but what I captured has me laughing my ass off, especially at the end when I didn’t realize I was still singing along out loud to myself, lol…

 

SYNCHRONISTIC SIDE NOTE:

Typing this outside, 2 kids just rolled by on their scooters, and here’s what I overheard…

“I saw the crackhead again! He’s outside Mcdonald’s!” said the first.

“Cool, let’s go!” his buddy replied.

Hm. Could it be? My imagination says yes. I can hear him singing already…

I love this town!

Oh, how much I want to unleash every profanity under the sun replying to the spineless, gutless, “posted as anonymous” cunt-slut-fuck who sent me a message regarding my missing cat.

Holy fuck, you have NO FUCKING IDEA THE BARRAGE OF NEWLY INVENTED SLURS I JUST INVENTED IN MY BRAIN TO SEND A COMPREHENSIVE MESSAGE TO “ANONYMOUS 668” JUST HOW BADLY HE/SHE/IT FAILED IN UNDERSTANDING BASIC EMPATHY WHILE TRAVERSING OUR INCARNATION ON PLANET EARTH, DESPITE THE FACT THEY/THEM/WHATEVER CLEARLY HAVE THE PENULTIMATE SYNAPSES FIRING IN THEIR GREY MATTER THAT FAR SURPASSES THE REST OF US DUMB FUCKS JUST TRYING TO MAKE ENDS MEET.

But I ain’t gonna do it.

Cuz that would make me a lame-ass raccoon-fucking-slut like THEY/THEM.

I’ve got something cooler.

A quote from MLK. And some fun moments with KittyKat.

“Returning hate for hate only multiplies hate, adding a deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

– Martin Luther King, Jr.

Think about those words for a moment, as I will, the next time you watch the fucking news, or doom-scroll TikTok, or wander through the supermarket believing you’re some fucking genius-enlightened-being who ain’t gonna be food for maggots at the end of your day, just like the rest of us.

And now, tribute to KittyKat…

Love you KittyKat! See you in the Void!!!

Just about finished a thousand word essay on being a holier-than-thou piece of shit because I no longer work a thankless job, hence have no need for mind-numbing alcohol and cigarettes to get through my day, as I wake up every morning at 4 AM to brew my last vice, a pot of coffee, waiting for my sweet spot to go spend an hour at the gym when the fewest amount of humans are present there.

No beers, no smokes, no women, just an insane focus to lift weights, clean my room, do laundry, wash dishes, design murals, clean my truck, fiberglass my solar panels, and plan my best strategy to do the things I love to do without ever considering engaging in thankless pursuits for the sake of earning a meaningless paycheque from shitty fucking restaurants who giveth not a fuck how much I actually sacrifice my mental well being to do a job better than every idiot who lacks pride in their efforts.

Proofreading that piece yesterday, ready to hit the fucking publish button, waiting for my KittyKat to come home to feed him so I could hit the gym again.

And then KittyKat didn’t come home.

And I don’t need to hear any bullshit from anyone about being irresponsible over my animal, or any bullshit about what I could have done differently to keep him prisoner or microchip him or treat him like a fucking slave.

Kitty loves going out every morning, patiently allows me to put his collar on, and enjoys the fuck out of whatever he does for 4 hours before coming home and feasting on tuna or salmon or whatever awesome food I provide for him so he doesn’t end up like a fat slovenly fuck eating dried shit that the pet store tells me is good for his fucking digestion and omega 3 balance.

Kitty didn’t come back yesterday, and I fucking hate this.

Kitty is not stupid and he knows where he lives. I’m trying to tell myself that maybe he found a better place to live, stay, eat, fuck, but all I can picture in my stupid brain is some asshole snowplow hitting him as he crossed the road to go bang his Calico pussy girlfriend, and leaving him buried in a snowbank until I find him in the spring, while I continue hating myself for not protecting him from this shit-hole planet we live on.

Kitty was always meant to be my independent friend, with free will to enjoy the outdoors and experiences that were his God given right.

I let him explore the grass, I let him explore the snow, I let him make his decisions to learn about the machines and assholes and other stupid animals that he encountered.

And Kitty learned, and came home if he was cold, or hungry, or just wasn’t interested in taking a dump outside.

And now I fucking hate myself for not knowing where he is, or if he’s alive, or whatever else I can do besides facebook posts, or flyers nailed to trees, or combing the fucking neighbourhood 3 hours a day, or going outside every 20 minutes and yelling KittyKat in a falsetto voice, or ringing his dinner bell in the hope he’s hiding under a porch eating a fucking squirrel and ready to come hang with me again.

So what now?

Back to drinking and smoking.

I don’t give a fuck anymore.

I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of feeling like some fucking loser who tried to improve or be better or give a shit about anything on this stupid planet.

Kitty’s dead, and everyone else I love is heading down the same road.

Fuck everything. Fuck the effort to be better or improve or care or inspire or any other meaningless shit that’s supposed to make me a better human.

In the end, we’re all dead, and nothing means shit.

This entire reality is bullshit, and I care not to participate.

End fucking transmission

Miss you Kitty. Was secretly hoping you’d outlive me. Fuck everything.

 

 

 

 

 

Ya gotta love the boneheaded automation of all the asinine algorithms governing every single fucking move we make interacting with digital 1’s and 0’s.

In the not too distant future, the last of our “live” customer service centres, all located in India of course, will join the ranks of the shunned and forgotten — the good ol’ fax-machine, the public pay-phone, cassette tapes, landlines, pagers, the dodo, shit like that — and slip into obscurity, unceremoniously replaced by textbots, automated prompts, chatGPT bullshit, conversational AI programs, and whatever the fuck other tech exists to facilitate the final excision of the minimum-wage-earning-flunky still fighting for scraps on Planet YerFucked.

The algorithms exist of course to control, manipulate, influence, gate-keep, censor, and all the other fun shit predicted decades ago in the “fictitious” writings of Huxley, Orwell, and the like.

The sad part is, no one really seems to give a shit. Apathy is at an all-time high, and independent thought an all-time low. Critical thinking is deader than fucking dead, and the telescreen, in all its variations, has a death grip on Western society’s last remaining brain cells.

Yet again, creative innovation and advancements in tech — all imagined into being to facilitate a less arduous, less stressful, more carefree human experience — have made people lazier, stupider, and increasingly ignorant. Throw in fatter as well.

But I’m getting waaaay off topic here, sorry. The rant here today has nothing to do with trying to awaken braindead zombies from their chosen paths of following fellow media-inspired lemmings over the cliff. What I actually wanna share is rather amusing, and I still haven’t the slightest fucking clue what to make of this shit, so any ideas would be appreciated…

3 days ago I set up a simple portfolio on FacefuckBook to start strumming up some traffic to my revitalized mural painting biz, when I got this notification:

Huh? What the fuck, censored already?? Lmao. What the fuck did I do this time? Pretty sure I kept this page clean and professional, what gives?

And then I see this…

Uhhhh….. what?

Again…. what???

What the fuck am I missing here?

Apparently, according to the Facebook algorithm, a painting of a bulldog sticking his head out a car window is in violation of the Terms, Policies, and Conditions keeping the Facebook public safe from Hitler, Satan, and all things unholy.

My only appeal is, of course, to the algorithm — asking it kindly to reconsider its decision to censor me from Fagbook users.

Its response? A recommendation to be patient for 4 days, while it ponders my petition for leniency.

With my hands tied, I only have one proactive move left to further my status on Facefuckbook… I will edit my image to seem less aggressive or monstrous or evil, or whatever reason the algorithm thinks bulldogs are terrifying, and unfit for public consumption.

I won’t go so far as to remove the image, but if I alter it to add human interaction, demonstrating the animal is kid-safe and friendly, Facebook will have no choice but to let me out of Algorithm Jail.

This oughta do it…

You know what the sad part is?

I have a degree in Graphic Design and Advertising, yet somehow I’ve chosen to brand myself with the most unmarketable, ludicrous name and logo that even an ignorant 5-year-old would consider highly inappropriate and juvenile.

It started as a running joke way back in the day, and I guess I never thought it would get this far when I decided to start the BonerFruit blog, mostly cuz I never thought anyone would read it. And I sure as hell never considered writing a book, let alone 5. Meh, go figure.

I’m reminded of an old expression that perfectly fits the situation…

“In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Yup, too late to turn back, I’m all in now. And that includes starting up the ol’ art business again. MC Designs was a fun and profitable venture, but its day has come and gone. So what would be the most logical and asinine successor to a business that was the epitome of ultra-professionalism and hard work?

Yup, you got it…

Haha, I fucking love it.

We’ll test the waters for a bit with the played down “BF Designs” as a portfolio showcase on faggoty-ass facebook, and see where it goes from there.

But I guess that opens the door to a lot of fun answers to the soon-to-be-invariably-asked client question:

“Hey Mike, what does the BF stand for?”

I dunno, Bottom Feeder? Bung Face? Bitch Fairy? Bastard Fag? Take your pick.

“Mike, I’m shocked!”

Haha, Just kidding. It means you are my new Bestest Friend! So happy to be working with you! Butt Fucker.

Official launch date of BonerFruit Designs coming soon. Spread the word.

For now, I’m still on vacation.

Daily Bread comin’ up shortly, and maybe an excerpt from the new book. We’ll see…

Later freaks! Go shovel some snow!!