Don’t read this

I don’t know

Born Milton Teagle Simmons on July 12th 1948. He had a gym, called Slimmons. . . in Hollywood*. . . I’m assuming, I’m only skimming the Wikipedia after all. *AH Beverly Hills. Then I guess because he’s such an enormous douche, and, those were “in” at the time, he made a work out video. . . Then another. Until this annoying fucking douche had permeated almost every home in North America. With his fake tan positive body image gospel, set to Such great oldie hits as ‘My Boyfriends Back’ and ‘The wanderer’ and “Blame it on The Boogie’
I can’t even begin to tell you the imagery this song evokes.
I can remember the day that someone brought one in to my high school gym class. . . I don’t know if we were being punished for something, or what the fuck? But it was hideous. All of these fat sweating people, dancercising themselves to a ‘better’ body, and a better them. Fake tans and makeup, sliding down fat sweaty faces, on to fat sweaty bodies. Fake hoots of triumph and jubilation, as if fat people can actually be happy!
**How did I get to be talking about Richard Simmons? It’s been a good 15 or 16 years since that fateful morning. . .Sweatin’ to the Oldies with my gym class. That guy was sort of a big deal at the time, I guess. . .I don’t keep very current on my current events. I don’t know if there was internet at the time, as I didn’t discover internet until some years later when I got my own computer. ** Some guy did a tweet, reminding me that Richard Simmons was still alive.
Maybe.
I didn’t read that far, Yes and, he’s currently providing a voice for something, on some show. I looked at a picture of him and thought, I might literally be uncomfortable being in a room with this guy. I’ll bet whether he’s gay or straight, he’s been paying for sex since he could get a paycheck. Creepy pubic head, fake, smiley, tanned guy. I kind of get a queasy feeling in my stomach thinking about it. Can prostitutes refuse service? I guess only the free agent types.
I guess the real point I’m trying to make is, there isn’t one. No, point. If there are talented writers and artists and comedians out there, doing their thing un noticed and unpaid, and then a douchy, fake, smiley, tanned, guy like this Simmons fuck, gets to be famous and rich, it just furthers the proof that we have ceased to evolve. Well, a certain weird majority has anyway. Those of us evolved enough to notice, are reject, hipster malcontents. Non racist, non biased, We get a lot of smile/nod combinations, but, not a lot of cred. Except for in our own community. I wonder why?
Psh
Whatever.

*talking to myself.
**also.

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Just sayin.

Spell check is for sissies who can’t handle their own humanity.

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WTF?!

Three hours ago, I set out to place a simple exchange of words here, between my son and I. At which point, Word Press in all it’s pristine knowledge of dell computers and software, decided I was running on a version of internet explorer which is too old. What the fuck difference is that going to make I thought. . .I’m only writing words to put on the internet, not too daunting a task. So, I agreed to updat the software right then and there, far be it from me to not allow wordpress to run at optimal whatever it need’s. Basically I don’t know, I just updat the shit, and hope for the best. At any rate it’s done. And, I’m back. . . but now I can’t remember what it was I wanted to type.

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Interwhaaaaa?

Borg, consulting the masses, checking and rechecking opinionated tweeters and twats.

Whatsapp everyone? 

How we gonna  feel today?  

What does the world think about it first? 

Where has my true opinion gone?  Lost somewhere in an oblivion of mass media and, a virtual who’s who of followers and followees, deciding for the world and their anti peers what’s pure and good enough. 

It’s rough out there, or,  in here, or,  however one would define it. 

It’s a lowly existence there at the top, deciding what’s true and cool for the moment. 

Let it not slip for fear of the impending hordes of people just waiting to be cool like you. 

Mere shreds of dignity created by an invisible community,

my immunity to the real world.

Hurled insults and cheap shots  at people who will never see it, Just be it.

Cool.

Snide.

Hide from the real ones, dictate from on high, and I am one of them and at least here we are gods.

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Uitdaging

Come on darkness,
wrap me in your baaaaaad self.
Let’s see what you got.
Run your long sleek fingers through my hair.
Breathe on my neck, do your little dance.
I got the one thing you don’t.
The one thing you ain’t, and that’s light.
In spite of you.
Probeer opneiuwe.
I got another quarter here.
And an ace in my sleeve.
Says:
My game’s not over.
Cause this little light of mine…
I’m gonna let it shine
let it shine
let it shine
let it shine
I got my arsenal of bravery, love, and strength.
The cavalry’s comin’
Summin’ up
You’d best be shovin’ off.

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Settle.

The universe is coming to collect.

Bend over

Some things we need to accept.

Like, how nice things are meant for other people.

Not me.  Not yet.

Like how everything’s within sight, more than reach.

My desires impeached, perimeter breached.

I’ll settle.

For now.

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My Mom Jeans

My mom jeans got tired seams, and stains where I wipe my hands.

My mom jeans got a low waist and no knees.

I like these.

My mom jeans got tired threads, they turn heads.

Try not to stare, as I strut by.

 I catch your eye and hold it.

I’m so bold, It bugs you.

My mom jeans got no factory fade. . . That’s hand made

Over years. 

Authentic  vintage  wear.

right there

My mom jeans got character, made by me

And my friend who helped me revive ‘em.

Market them?

Never. What-ever.

These are jeans  you earn you can’t buy ‘em.

Can’t even try ‘em

 They’re mine

My mom jeans

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