the real alcoholic (non puking)

 my name is loser
and i’m a real alcoholic
i break down alcohol 40 percent faster than non-alcoholics
and 50 pecent of other alcoholics
i break alcohol down into a chemical that is very similar
to formaldyhyde
its called acetaldehyde
dont even ask me how to pronounce it
dont ask me to pontificate
or clarify
because i’m getting to the jist of the matter
and cant be bothered with minutia
i’m an idea man
an ideal alcoholic
i wasnt created by environmental issues
1. mean daddy
2. slutty mommy
3. father flannigan
4. mental illness
a.bipolar
b.tripolar
back to acetaldehyde (fucked up word to have to type)
my liver cant deal with the sheer volume that i produce
so the excess gets mixed up with
seratonin and dopamine and becomes a substance that my body
thinks is
OPIATE OPIATION
it fills the opiate receptors
and explains the attraction

as for the other alcoholics
many are too stupid to drink
too crazy to drink
undiciplined children that ask the coppers to beat the shit out of them
just plain old people who grew up traumatized
the pukers
pukers should have their own 12 step program
puking is a sure fire way of knowing you’re not happy
nose like a firehouse
apologizing between heaves
eats shoots and heaves
thats all

the burden of truth

  i get bored easily
therefore i stir up shit
i annoy
i enjoy
“its not aimed at anyone”
dylamn bob dylamn bobdamnit
and i fear boredom i hate boredom
i just love to be entertained
and i happen to have a lotta time on my hands
i’m sorry
but i need to stay occupied
and i cant fucking walk (or stand)
until the medical beauraucracy gets done running its course with me
you see
i have insurance
but they dont want to fix my knees because i’m fat and they figure that its my fault that my knees have gone south
but i have sturdy
stout legs
the legs of an austrian ridge trudger
a swiss little stout man w2addling to and fro
to the next pup you see
the next pub i see drinking stout lager and stomping my way through life
my wife is talking to me as she packs my bags
i’m off to seattle tommorow
and i have to go back and spell bearaucracy correctly
its this placemarker thing in my brain and as i write its nagging away that i’ve misspelled a word (twice now)
and i’ve bugged my wife into “the shits”.
can you believe that the spellchecker didnt catch the waddling word with the numeral in it?
and what does this blog have to do with alcoholism?
well..an alcoholic wrote it.

alonesome loon laughing

i seem to be in the eye of the storm
a full moon storm
whereveyone goes the wrong way but me
this happens a bit
when i get out of whack but its not me
i’m ok
you’re not
and all i feel is pain coming in from the moonbeam masses
you wanna talk about fear?
i cant. i’ve already planned my death my suicide
i know what the bottom is for me
if i have some notice
if i have a choice i will be drunk on the day i die
but thats just me
i’m ok today i’m living right here right here
but i know the pain of a lover leaving i know the ripping guts out pain
i wasted so much time in it too much time in it
and soon i’ll be swept up in the moonshine myself
the ability to feel pain  to sense pain is bonded to the gift of great joy
all of my defects are indeed my greatest assets
and i wouldnt change a thing

boning strippers

 the dark side
leg crack
smokin weed i grew in basement
guns, rap, blackjacks and ass smacks
humility is sharing who i really am
fat hookers..real fat hookers
i’m a fat bastard and i like fat hookers
that smoke weed
smoke pole
smell my nasty nuts
smell my darkness
nothing wrong with a little testicle odor?
nothing wrong with waking up to poontang dragging across my lips
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb

the magical power of repetetive power

repeat after me a lot of thymes just over and over do something like something like something like
chicken in a bucket with a soda pop can
blue blew put a color lame sexual practices practices
sexual practice practices sexxual pver and over and over practising and practicing the sexual practices of sex.

the fast food wisdom of lsd

 i like fast food
“lou, stop!” timothy leary is here and wants me to stop.
what are all those icon?
 like 99 cent shamans, right?
99 cent religion
my vagina hurts
i was on a rock smoking rock sucking cock
when my hair my long hair
paul revere
hair whipped into my eyes and said
cut you hair or i’ll kill you
and i stopped looking at all the tatoo’ed law students
and wondered why my hair
the flip hatz and the pedal leads
the bro’s like those dudes that drive those big trucks
monster muggers with nutsacks on the hitch
anyway why did my hair grow long?
why did i let it get into my eyes?
because i need the feedback from
your eyes it is what i live for
 the feedback that you give
the reflection of my projection
it gives me reason to live
arent all tatoo’s meant for others to look at?