From the Mind of Man: Falcon Heavy

Do you follow space exploration? You should, or you are only 3/5 of a human being. Damn your Trump and his gang of thieves. Aren’t you sick in your gut of the whole filthy, stupid business? DjT is the absolute worst person in the US to preside over the executive branch and if you don’t think so,, you are an enemy of the human race. You are a dirty bottom from hell sent here as a joke that will end in human stink, you mark my words.

The mightiest rocket in human history exploded off a launching pad at Cape Canaveral – three reusable rockets: two side rockets, and a “core” rocket. Five million pounds of thrust drove the huge fire stick through a blanket of gravity and air. At ninety miles up, the two side rockets separated from the vehicle and fell toward our planet. Like a cat, both rockets righted themselves, then landed at the same time five miles away from the launching pad.

All those who spew that the landing of the rockets was faked will be arrested and shot without trial.

The Tesla and Major Tom will orbit the sun forever. It will pass by Mars every blah, blah years – to take pictures of the remnants of ancient Martian civilizations, and current stations established by several current planets from our galaxy.

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Thirty minutes Until Friday

Tomorrow is Friday. I wanted to say something about Friday but I can wait a half hour.

So what about Thursday? That the day you begin to ask yourself where did the week go? You didn’t do a thing all week. Too late to start anything. Only got a couple days to work on it, so forget it. I’m gonna lean back and day dream about what an important Juice Man I’m going to be someday.

Don’t mess with my man, he’s got wicked juice, my assistant gurgled.

Forget how that might look – all that juice splashing around. But I’m not the only guy with juice. So even if I’m resplendent with juice, there are other distinguished men of juice entering their fluids into the puddle. Eventually, no one really knows whose got the juice and who doesn’t.

The greater amount of juice belongs to me.

How do I know that? My haters wink

Don’t you watch the Daily Slop and Sprinkle? My detractors howl

I don’t got time for that.

Tomorrow morning. Four AM. Cable 57. My enemies slobber.

Forty percent is mine. I got the juice around here.

Potato Head, Washington. The dirty bottoms sneer.

All right. All right! I blubber.

My flow is go but nobody know.

Another sick tragedy brought to you by Mother’s indifference.

 

69 is the new 89. No, it’s the other way: 89 is the new 109! Right?

I wish to express my deepest gratitude to my 1967 classmates for their powerful, yet tender, rendition of the traditional air, Happy Birthday, at Whitey’s in Richfield, OH. Nancy Archey sent me a recording of the stirring, yet sensitive, performance via Messenger.

The recording opens with a shot of my surrogate. Mr. No No, a remarkable individual completely devoid of shame or self-consciousness at appearing in public wearing nothing below his waist! And it’s not that he ignorant of clothing. He does wear a cute little shirt and party hat.

Let me ask you in all candor: was he or was he not the only person in the restaurant showing the full extent of his lower body nakedness? He gets away with it because he is a bear – and people are afraid of bears!

The musical performance itself was majestic, reminding me of von Klunk’s “Cantata for Choir and Broken Beer Bottles.” The raucously delightful sopranos were sublimely balanced by the alcohol-fueled baritones. The choir maintained a steady rhythm throughout and no one forgot the words!

The performance touched my heart. It also gave me a hard wallop in the solar plexus which cleansed my lungs salubriously. I particularly appreciated the tagline: “And many more!”

Thanks again!

An Event of Cosmic Proportions

Dateline: January 12, 2018                                                                                                                                                                                              Arlington, TX

Grandpa used to tell us kids about the sun, a big, yellow ball in the sky. I never believed him until yesterday when I woke up to see a bright blue sky filled with eye blinding light. The light appeared to emanate from a intensely bright ball in the eastern sky. Was this the sun? I ran to ask Grandpa, but he was dead.

Not Dustin Hoffman, PLEASE!

I’ve admired Hoffman as an artist since The Graduate. From Willie Loman to the Rain Man, his overpowering COMMITMENT to character brings to his work abundant life. He is one of the few actors anointed with genius.

We know most actors are lunatics. Give us our insecure divas and divos, our riotous drunks, our sad junkies, our sexually loose women and men. But harming young women over whom you have supreme power is a sickness bordering on evil.

To hell with you.