Motivation

As I sit, stating at this screen, feeling tension in my right wrist, I can't help but feel boredom; a real lack of any motivation. I'm waiting on season 1 of the State to download; that's about it. I'm going to see how long a can keep this semi-colon streak alive; I'm not kidding. Maybe, if a raving lunatic was waiving a gun behind me, demanding I post the heaviest blog in history, I may have more motivation; would that do it? If you have part of your colon removed, would that constitute a semi-colon; just wondering?

I've attached a picture of me in elation mode. I could use this as motivation; to achieve a similar state of bliss. The truth is, a raving lunatic, waving a gun around forced me to strike that pose; or was it just Kristin?


I could pretend that my very life depended on this presentation; as if it hung in the balance. Usually, threatening the health of my genitalia suffices. Here, take this spiked fuckin' bat. I'm going to put my nuts, just the nuts on the dresser. If I don't write the choicest blog in history, I want you to bash the jewels with said bat; for realz. It's not like I use them for anything lately anyway; such a waste of baby batter. I mean, their are starving wombs in Africa that would kill for my precious man-spunk. Poor, poor spunk starved ladies. Sally Struthers needs your seed!


Do we really need to see images of emaciated people to realize they are starving? Do I need to see footage of a young, African child, unflinchingly hosting a fly on his eyeball to realize his life may feel less hopeful than mine; while I kick back and freebase bacon grease and literally flush $20 bills down the toilet after I've cleaned my poopy bottom with them, post bowel movement? I get it Sally, my life is freaking spent in Shangri-La compared to those kids, however, actually eyeballing the squalor in which the exist doesn't necessarily sway me to take action anymore than the idea would.


In Detroit, the starving Somalian-less suburbs host an even called the "Dream Cruise." It is a nostalgia-filled trip up and down the main Avenue that diagonally connects the City to it's northern, sprawling suburbs; Woodward. If you are a member of the Hasidim, you could pronounce the word, "vood-vard;" or maybe just Eastern European. Members of the baby boomer generation clean off their Thunderbirds, Corvettes and Bel Airs and slowly roll up and down vood-vard at an elderly pace; showing of their finely made, American steel sleds. You wont see many priuses in attendance. Besides, they look like sneakers anyway, right? Geez, I hope those boomers weren't forced to sell their cars in light of our present economic turmoil.


On such an occasion, I decided to imbibe and brandish a megaphone; give these boomers a piece of my mind. I'd tolerated their crap for 20+ years; now it was my turn to speak my mind. The group around me seemed to enjoy my antics, something like a Tom Green meets Howard Stern act. A good time was had by all, until a truck rolled by that had a large picture of an aborted fetus on its side. Now, I'm not really interested in getting into a discussion of the pros or cons of legal abortion. Frankly, I feel some women should have the OPTION, at least, to end a particularly unwanted or unhealthy pregnancy, but using it as a form of birth control is grossly negligent. But, that is beside my point(get to the point asshole!) My POINT is that I am aware of the reality of the aftermath of that type of life ending procedure. I don't feel it's necessary for a pro lifer to throw the image of an expired fetus in my face to get his point across. I get it pro-lifer; aborted fetuses are not aesthetically appealing. I mean, aborted fetuses are not done over in makeup and the latest fashions and paraded down the runway, to the delight of the obscenely famous and flamboyantly homosexual for a reason; they are gross looking.


Then again, newborn babes aren't always the easiest on the eyes either; wrinkled, crying, covered in embryonic fluid, possibly blue or swollen looking. Does that make them evil too?


The dead fetus trunk makes me think of a scenario:


A Child, who has been constipated for days, tells his dad he's finally passed the brown logs of love.
"Daddy, daddy! I finally made number 2!"

"Jeez Steven, I would really love to say I believe you, but I require visual evidence. Let's scope out the floaters so I can see what's what."

As they walk from the kitchen and into the bathroom, a puzzled looks grows on young Steven's face.
"Dad needs to get laid," he thinks to himself, as they enter the sacred porcelain throne room.

"Well I'll be a son of a bitch. Young Steven, I think I owe you an apology. Until the image of your peanut-laden fecal logs entered my brain, along with its overpowering scent, I simply did not believe you son. Kudos, this was clearly a yeoman's effort! Did you make use of those baby wipes; well of course you did! Now, lets go get you some ice cream; make some more logs and memories. I love you son"

Listen, pro-lifer, I don't NEED TO SEE the picture to realize the end result is not aesthetically appealing. But, do you really need to parade your death cart around town, in front of sensitive women and children, to get your point across? Wouldn't it be more affective to go felate a Senator or something? What you could then do is salvage his man chowder and ship that bounty directly to Sally Struthers. She loves that kinda thing.

I mean, we're all out here, in the 90+ degree heat and 90%+ humidity, trying not to break down psychotically and start ripping each other to shreds. That is not a pretty picture; forget one fetus. The damn fetus shot is simply not helping. Does anyone WANT to see that shit? For that reason, I told that man to "get that shit out of here" on the megaphone, much to the dismay of the women and children in the area. Whoops..... . Hey junior, at least there's no fly on your eyeball!

I promise I wrote this blog with my whole colon, not just a semi.

Thank you for your time. Plant a tree,


J