The Further Adventures of HoboBob

Breaking the Back of the Jellyfish

2012-01-11T16:10:00.001-05:00

I'm not happy.

I don't care if you think I am. I'm nota happy camper... ever. There are just some things that can't bechanged or derailed. One thing is for certain, you can't derail mybad groove. People and things put me there. Especially the people inmy building. I'm not knocking them, I know that problem is me for themost part because I hate to leave my room. I hate to walk outside andbe seen by people because there is a threat to my life. OR it feelsthat way.

When I walk outside the clock isticking. I have to get out and get back before time is up. I ammoving hard. In and out. So I hate being detained because some Skekfeels like talking, and Skeks ALWAYS feel like talking. So I go downstairs, do some light shopping and onreturning to my mailbox there is a screwball standing in the centerof the corridor to the elevator. He is gesticulating to me with hishand. Is he saying hello? I frown, my face reading: What the Fuck?

“Do you have a pen?” He finallycalls out, realizing that I can't read his one handed sign language.I go to the post office box, and pull out a ton of mail. I don't goto the mailbox often because I don't go out often. So I fist my mailand head to the elevator and my friend in the hall gets in too. Whileriding up the elevator this gasbag looks at my mail and says: “Don'tgo to your mailbox often?” No, I don't. “Neither do I. When I doI have nothing but bills.” I'm sad to hear that. “That's all Iget, and a letter from the ASPCA, asking me for a donation.” Myeyes roll, my mouth yawns.

The elevator doors open and jugheadsteps out. Stopping at the elevator threshold, he turns around to meand holds the door open. “Like I have money for the ASPCA. I saysave the whales, right?” I look at him, my blood pressure rising.“I'm not a cat person anyway, and they have pictures of these sadcats on the paper. Who cares, right?” Yeah, who cares, my mindthrobs. I'm about ready to blow my stack. This numbskull is under theimpression that this conversation is holding my attention.

My response is to sigh openly and starehim down angrily. The message: Get off the fucking door. I do and hereads me clearly. “Yeah,” he says and takes a step back,releasing the door. I reach over and press door close and it does inhis face. Thank God. I ride up and see Paula and other non-essentialsin my hallway. I mumble hello and make it do my door, opening it andslipping inside. I am happy now. The good thing in my life is my fourwalls and a ceiling.

Life's been good to me so far.

Hobobob

Finding Others Without Compasses

2012-01-10T21:20:00.002-05:00

I like being alive.

I write poetry when I can. I likepoetry too. What do you say about that? I also struggle and fight,because every day is bedlam. Yes, mayhem walks my streets and I haveto pay respects. I don't fuck around because, honestly, if I do, I'llhave my ass handed to me. That's one thing that I don't like, getting shoed in the ass and pulling someone's fist out of my eye.

Take today for instance. I had a lot todo. For one thing, I had to get on the ball about my herniaoperation. I can't keep letting this thing slide before it turnsfucked up dangerous. That won't be funny at all. Death because myhernia turned back and corrupted my intestines. Death because I wasjust too damned lazy to get my ass up and get checked out and have itdealt with. Look, I'm turning 50 this year. That means that my lightscan go out at any minute. I don't have youth on my side anymore.Translation: I'd better take care of myself or take a dirt nap.Otherwise known as 'sleeping with earthworms up your ass.'

So today, I took a shower, combed myhair, dressed up in clean clothes and underwear and headed to theMetropolitan Hospital. I had an appointment to see Dr. Feelgood and Iwanted to get to them today. Knowing how fucked up things are inhospitals with their 'hurry up and wait' attitude, I dulled mysenses. Oh no, not with alcohol or drugs, I have a dial in my headwhere I can dumb myself down and not feel anything from the masses. Iclose my mind off to the world around me. This is imperative,especially when I'm around crowds. I can't handle that shit. So Ishut my head down.

So I got on the bus, which wasimme- diately packed full. That's why I hate the crosstown 96, becausewhen you get on it, every other New Yorker has to get on right behindyou. It's so packed that the fucking elderly are crowd surfing overyour fucking head. So I ride this packed bus all the way to theMetropolitan Hospital and head to the information desk. Hey lady,good afternoon, I say: which way to the third floor clinic? “Allthe way down the hall and to the right.” I look down a longhallway. I turn back to her. That's it? “That's it,” she replied.What? No elevator? “Yes, that too.” I blink. Can I have the fulldirections for the third floor clinic? I walk off. Obviously this isa harbinger of what's in store.

I go down the end of this hall, which Iswear had to be a long as a football field and at the end, on myright, are the elevators. I take one to the third floor and followthe signs to the clinic. When I walk in there are six windows and awaiting room in front of each window. I look around, thinking, andthen I head to one, window number 3. There is a nurse behind thewindow on the phone. I wait for her...and wait for her. When done,she speaks into a mic, calling out a name. I'm standing there and awoman comes from the waiting room and answers the call. The nurselooks at me: “She's next.” Right bitch. I have a question, I sayto her. Is Dr. Feelgood here at this window. She's pissed that I'mnot jumping out of the way. “Do you have a registration card?”Yes I do. I hand it to her. She looks it over. “This is expired. Goto the center window and get your card renewed, then come back tome.”

Cool. I go to the center window and gostraight to Window C out of three windows. A woman is sitting thereon the computer, taking her time, ignoring me. After she gets boredof seeing my ugly mug she looks up. “Window A,” she says. Why thefuck didn't you say that earlier, bitch? I mean, I didn't say this toher, but I sure thought it. I go to Window A and a guy moves the linepretty quickly. When I reach him I tell him about my expired card.“What are you talking about?” He asks me. Well, that's what thepotato-head at window 3 told me. “These things expire?” He looksat my card, then hands it back. “Here you go.” He lifts up aclipboard with a form and a pen. “Take this and wait until yournumber is called.” He places a ticket on top of the clipboard. Iwalk off, find a seat, fill out the form and wait.

Numbers count up over the bat behindwindow C. One person after another goes up and is taken care of by her.I wait and wait. I don't look at the time because I don't want it tomake me impatient. Just before my number is called, the woman atWindow C has a girlfriend that walks in and sits down behind WindowB. I guess she missed her because she started talking more thanworking. The last person walked off from her window and the nextnumber is not called, because the bean in this bitches head is toobusy rattling around and her teeth swaying like barn doors to do herjob. And of course, my number is next. Okay, I wait, and wait.

Finally my number is called. I go tothe window, give her my clipboard and paperwork. She talks to herfriend while slowly taking care of my business. I'm listening more toher babbling to her friend than getting my card activated. But Iexercise patience, and do not think about jumping over the desk andsmacking the shit out of her. To just do it once, I would get herattention. But no, I stand and wait until, eventually she walks offand returns with a registration card that LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE THE CARDTHAT I WAS TOLD HAD EXPIRED.

What the fuck is this? I walk off, notsaying thank you, and head to Window 3. The nurse that was there whenI first arrived was not there. Another one was there on the phone. Istand in front of her, listening. They must have some important jobrelated phone calls to constantly be on the fucking phone, right?WRONG! She is talking to the school principal that her son goes to,arguing about how he should not be suspended for defending himself.Blah, blah, blah. I'm just standing there again, waiting for qualityservice and getting the ass end of the stick. Finally she asks whatis it I want. I have a 2:30 appointment to see Dr. Feelgood, I say.“He's at window 1.”

Gee thanks. Took you hours to give methat infor- mation. I can't understand why I have to wait ten minutesfor 30 seconds of answer. I walk off realizing that this is thetreatment that I'm going to get from the trained morons this low onthe totem pole in the hospital. Minimum wage workers with minimumintelligence, put on this planet only to make you miserable. Theseare the fucks that go nuts when they are treated the same way at astore, or in a deli or restaurant. I wish her a heart attack whereall the blood vessels in her nose explode and her father comespouring out wearing a red suit.

I go to window 1 and talk to the nursethere. She takes my paperwork that I got from the middle window andtells me to take a seat. Five minutes later she calls me into a roomand takes my vitals. Then she sends me back out to sit in the waitingroom, and five minutes later the doctor calls me in and gives me anexam. It was mostly questions and answers than actual taking myclothes off and letting her feel the lump on my belly. Yes, she says,I have a hernia. Go back out into the waiting room and I will becalled and given an appointment to come back for surgery.

I wait and I wait and I wait, and Irealize that I'm out of the world of the college educatedprofessionals, and back to the minimum wage workers again. Later, my nameis called incorrectly and I walk up to where there is a desk and thewoman there tells me that the room where you make the schedule isclosed for the day. I can call tomorrow or come by tomorrow andschedule my appointment. Gee, thanks.

I leave and head home, grateful to beout of the Fucking Twilight Zone.

I pack onto a crowded bus once more and gethome. How much do you want to bet that this phone number from thisbitch won't even answer tomorrow?

Hobobob

Seminal Ejection Theory

2011-12-21T05:12:00.001-05:00

My feet are swollen up like a pair ofbeach balls.

I don't know what the Hell for. I tooka long walk on Sunday, and my legs were weak afterward. I made it allthe way down to 69^th street on foot, and then walked back.It was cold and my hands froze, but I made the walk to shave somepounds off my ass. Well, actually, I did it to build muscle. The moremuscle, the higher your metabolism. The higher your metabolism, themore you burn calories no matter what it is that you are doing. Thisreally works, especially if you're a lard assed writer who doesnothing but sit all day and type on the keyboard.

Yeah, I'm out of shape. Very much outof shape. My gut is beginning to hang over my belt, and I'vedeveloped a Hernia. Nice. All the way. I'm still trying to get asurgeon at the Metropolitan Hospital. I don't know how I feel aboutgoing under the knife; I'm feeling both good and bad about it. I wasthinking about dying under anesthesia, but what the fuck? First I wasafraid to, now I see that such a death would not be all that bad. Itwould be an exit and a long desired rest from this life. Too bad itwill not be around Christmas. That would be a great Christmaspresent. Departure.

Christmas present. I know there are alot of you out there that are wondering just what it is that I wantfor Christmas. What would a Hobo want to see underneath his Christmastree this holiday season? Well, I'll let the fucked up ones among myreaders know that it's NOT a butt plug. So keep your fucked up shitto yerselves. No, I'm a more spiritual person and I like spiritual,uplifting gifts. That works for me.

Other than a big serving of deathwithout pain, I would like that all of the Skeksies in New York finda coat and a warm grate to sleep on this holiday season. No, I'm notfucking with the homeless. On the contrary, when I was homeless,THAT'S EXACTLY what I wanted when I was sleeping on the fuckingstreets. If you think I'm bullshitting you, go out and sleep on thesidewalk in front of your building for the evening and I bet, if youhad the balls, the first thing you would take would be your heaviestcoat. Why do you think there are so many coat drives at this time ofthe year? Because the homeless NEED COATS. Why do you homelessmotherfuckers need coats EVERY YEAR? You probably complain.

The answer: because when the springmonths arrive and the days get hotter and hotter, our winter storagefacilities are closed. What are you? Dense or something? Do you thinka homeless person would be bothered with carrying a heavy winter coatall summer long until the next winter? Well I know that there aresome that do. There was this one guy that we nick-named COAT, and twowomen that we nick-named THE COAT SISTERS, who actually stayed intheir heavy winter coats all summer long, no matter how hot itbecame. But these were a pair of sick retards. Normal homeless peopledrape their winter coats over fences and leave them on benches whenthey shed them for the summer. Its a shame to throw them out, andmaybe, someone understanding will pick them up, wash them and returnthem to police stations where they can be used again next winter.

Now, for the warm sewer grate. I haveto admit, I never slept over sewer grates. The Jamaica Boys did it inthe Hotel, the promenade in front of the Public Library, but I wentover there once and found a nest of waterbugs the size of an entirefinger. There must have been millions of those fuckers right underthe grating, seething like dark boiling water along the walls of thesewer. There was no way that I was going to lay down over thatmotherfucker. But a lot of homeless do. Just to let you know.

So that's not a bad Christmas gift toNew York from me. It's very spiritual to give when someone gives toyou. But you may ask: That sounds like a nice present, but what doyou want personally? What do you want personally that applies to youalone? I can tell you. Jack Daniels served up with a steaming hot side of tits and ass. Did you have to guess? Just mailthem to me by the quarts and the pound. Hey if I get enough, maybe I can drink up apainless departure for Christmas after all along with a big, fat erection. Ho ho ho!

Do ya hear me St. Nick? Bitches and booze!

Hobobob

Holding A Candle to Christmas

2011-12-17T21:27:00.002-05:00

My fucking mouth has been shut tight.

It's been awhile. It's been a longtime. I've been out of the market for writing. I have been writing upa storm, but only novels and not this damn blog. I love my blog. Ilove blogging, but as for the last fefw months, I have been silent. Ihave nothing to bitch about I believe. I am out of being angry.

I wondered when my angst would die, andmaybe it has happened. Maybe not. I've been surviving so long on dustand ashes that the flavor of life is lost to me. Now I'm a gray lump,flavorless and damn near lifeless. I've felt better and this is notthat time. It's the Christmas season and people are running aroundwith loved ones and skipping along primrose paths with family. Idon't have these things, and I'm not whining about it. Fuck all thatwonderful Christmassy shit.

I'm not caring about yule logs, and ol'Saint Nick, or Rudolf the Red Nosed animal. I don't think that thereare any Elves in the North Pole working on expensive electronics togive as gifts because we wall know that they come from Taiwan. I'mnot reveling in the Christmas spirit because there is none in me. Andneither am I 'Bah Humbug', Ebeneezer Scrooge. Fuck him too.

What am I saying? I'm an ingrate and abastard and in the low estimation of things, I deserve to be alone inthis time of pleasantness and peace. I'm not caring about what I'mdoing because I don't intend to do too much. I'm just going to chilland possibly crank and complain, and maybe I'll do it right here onmy blog.

I'm happy because I'm alive.

How about that?

Merry Christmas

Hobobob

Coming Home With a Vengeance

2011-11-17T08:20:00.001-05:00

I know you thought I had died in a caraccident, didn't you?

Or maybe you might have wished for it.Who knows. Maybe this is the blog that you love to hate. I don'tknow. How am I to know? All I know that is when I want to talk aboutsomething, I will sit down and write, and when I want to mope around,well, I'll do that shit too. Lately all I've been doing is mopingaround and sitting behind this computer, finding things to do. Hereis what I've been up to.

Well, lucky me, I've decided to go takea look at St. Luke's Hospital in New York to see about my herniaoperation. I don't know the first thing about finding a surgeon andDr. A did not refer me to anyone to do it. So I decide to take thetrain uptown and head to the hospital. I get out of the trainstation to find myself smack dab in the middle of the sprawlingcampus of Columbia University. What the fuck? Not only that, I'llhave to walk clean through the center of the campus grounds to get tothe other side of town where the hospital is.

So what? It's an enormous campus, andin its center, it's like a-whole-nother city. The main plaza is thishuge, wide open space, surrounded by buildings, some old, some new.Many with scores of granite steps leading up to their entrances. Iwalk like a zombie though this acreage of higher learning, noticingall of the young people milling about and going about their businessand I am amazed at how cookie cutter similar they actually are. It'salmost like a campus filled with clones. White, young, thin, averagedressed. There seemed to be nothing else around. No Blacks, Asians,Latinos. Maybe I was missing them all. Maybe this wasn't some strangeisland paradise for Whites at the edge of Harlem.

And another thing. I was getting anerection! Yeah, a full-fledged hard on just looking at the teenagegirls walking about. There were just so many of them my brain hadreached overloaded proportions. I was being inundated with young,fresh pussy to such an extent that I was overheating. Normally, younggirls do nothing for me. I'd rather go home and jerk off to MILFporn, but today, surprisingly I was aroused. What the fuck is thatabout?

I march on, heading clear through theCampus of Clones and out the other side, finding St. Luke's Hospitaland marveling at the huge number of buildings that made up thisplace. They had just as many buildings as the college. I was amazedas I walked into reception and met up, not with a nurse, but asecurity guard who lead me to admissions. Logical place. Once there Igot on another line. This time, this person told me to go across thestreet to the clinic to find a doctor. No problem. I head across thestreet and up to the second floor as directed, finding nothing. Awoman sees me standing there like an idiot and asks me where do Iwant to go. The clinic, I say to her. “Which one?” She replies.What the fuck? How should I know. I hunch my shoulders. Any one, allof 'em, I say. She points off and I follow. Her direction leads meto the eye clinic.

Not very fucking helpful. But it didbring me to a cross roads. An intersecting corridor that had markerson the wall stating the directions to the various clinics nearby. Ifollowed the one that said Specialties, or something like that. WhenI go there it was divided down to even more health problems between twoclinics. I chose one. The likeliest one, but I couldn't tell forsure. Inside, to my horror, the place is packed. I mean jammed up. Iam not happy. I march on into the clinic and find the front desk andask the woman there if I can see a doctor for a hernia operation. “Doyou have an appointment?” she asks. No, I reply. “Do you have adoctor here?” No. “Do you know what clinic you are supposed to goto?” No. “Well do you have a referral from your familyphysician?” No. “Well, you are going to need a referral or wewill not be able to help you.”

What? I am flabber- gasted. How in theHell are you supposed to get medical treatment if you don't have afamily physician? Like when I was homeless and wandering the streets.I went to Bellevue Hospital and was admitted in without a problem back in the day, when I was homeless and wandered in off the streets.Here you need to have a referral. What the fuck is that about? I walkoff. I am not pleased with St. Luke's hospital. It is old looking,and creepy. I just don't feel right being cut open like a honeydewmelon here. I wonderwhat I am going to do. Should I head over to the Metropolitanhospital, where I've been before for my heart issue, or should I staywith St. Luke's Hospital get gored there?

What the fuck. I head out and back tothe Campus of Clones to the train, and to the overabundance of youngpussy, feeling my cock uncoil in my pants and a lift in my step. I'mbecoming a dirty old man, and for some reason, it doesn't feel toobad.

Then I head home to jerk off to MILFporn.

Hobobob

Staring Upon a Darker Vista

2011-10-27T11:11:00.000-04:00

And then I was at a loss for words.

I've been through the wringer thesepast few months, years, decade and had the shit beat out of me, onlyto find that things can get worse. Yeah, I'm suffering fromcatastrophizing, but that is not without reason. This is not withoutweight. Because the minute I take my lemon sour stare off my life, the moment that I find reason to feel better, to feel good, I findmyself kicked in the ass for being so gleeful. Life is not meant tobe enjoyed, it's meant to be suffered until it's done.

And when it's done, then what happens?You fall into the black. There is nothing more and you wince at thisthought because, damnit, you WANT there to be more to life. You wantto have a glorious finish where you put on white robes and ascendinto a magical world were all of your questions are answered. But thetruth is, it's all bullshit. There are no answers. You die and all isfinished. You will not find anything in death, there is no afterlife,you don't wander the world trying to communicate with the living, youdon't go to a lofty place. You don't do anything but lay in the dustand call it quits. Cockroaches don't worry about communicating withother cockroaches. Pigs don't mourn the frying of bacon. Chicken don'tfret over buffalo wings. And humans need not care about death.

Why is it that I'm thinking about thisright now? Well, one day recently, just before going to see mytherapist and hearing more about my low self-esteem andcatas- trophizing, I am taking a shower and find an odd lump on mydistended stomach. My stomach is already hanging over my belt forgod's sake, and yet, here I am, with a lump on it. I push at it andit goes away, but later, I check under my shirt and there it is,bulging out.

I go through the week, working my way though the daily deal, until I see Dr. A and lift myshirt and show him my Manitou. He tells me to jump up on his table,pokes and prods me, and with great skill he takes a sonogram andthere you have it, I have a hernia. I have a lump in my stomachbecause my intestines are trying to pour though a hole in my belly.What the fuck? Once again, you deal with the shit that is shoveled atyou. I'm standing again, and looking at the lump and there I feel alevel of depression. I don't want to deal with it.

Why? Because the knife seems to be theonly recourse for the time being. Surgery, where they open me up andput a mesh where the hole in my stomach is. Surgery, where they putyou under and everyone prays that they can wake you up again.Everyone worries that your eyes will not open. Everyone bows their headswhen you don't wake up. What the fuck do I want to be put under for?People die of simple surgeries every day, and I am going to sign upfor it. That's madness, right? That means I am crazy and out of myfucking mind. That's what that means.

But there are no other options. I can'tjust leave it alone and it goes away. It only gets wider and widerwith every move I make, until enough of my intestines pour outthrough the hole and its very weight causes the edges of the hole tochoke a section of the innards. That section dies, and as I was told,when it dies, I die. If not, there will be enormous complications,where my stomach will be turned into a salad bowl and my fat will beturned into bone...that's if I wake up from the operation.

What the fuck, I say! It's time for meto meet the mud. The dirt nap. I'm not going to meet my maker,because he doesn't appreciate unscheduled visits. And death is anunscheduled visit. I don't want to not wake up on the operating roomtable. I do not want to catastrophize about it. But that's what I do,and picking the wrong end of the barrel is what I do best.

If there is an afterlife ....I'll letyou know.

Hobobob

Listening to Foolish Teeth

2011-10-14T21:34:00.000-04:00

What the fuck is the problem with youngpeople today?

I mean, young people have always beenassholes. I remember when I was young. Everything was fucking funnyand there was no need to take anything serious. So I guess there isno change in the behavior of young people, I guess the change is inme. This is something that I find a bit disturbing, because I thoughtthat all my changing was over. I thought that everything was done inmy life. No, but instead you're telling me that I am still evolving?

Yes, I am turning into my father, anold bastid without patience. And I don't have patience. When one ofthese young fucks slips into the Channel, with some dumb assed kid'sname, like ILIKEGRLS, PLAYA81, NEOMATRIX, or some other, stupidcurrent pop reference, I cringe. These dumb motherfuckers start withsome introduction, then feel out the people in the channel, beingsweet to the women, being smart with the men, being knowledgeablewith the geeks, being skilled with the sports fans. They fit right infor the most part because they reacted without reacting. In otherwords, they listen without speaking. The remain like this until thebuilding pressure in their stupid, kettle pot skulls builds to apoint that if they don't speak, their teeth will explode out of theirdick filled mouths.

And then it happens. These stupidmorons start to speak. It's almost like looking at Dr. Jekyll and Mr.Hyde. This is the funniest thing about it. They laugh and joke withyou and before you know it, they are insulting the women anddenigrating the men. They go flipping nuts, with the women lookinglike cow asses, and the men lame and dumb. It's amazing because theysay what they want to say because they can get away with it. Which isthe silliest shit I ever heard of. These fucking bunch of dicklesscowards would never say things like this in public, where you can getyour hands on them, or identify them if you ever saw them, or evenjust knew their names. No, since IRC is completely anonymous, thesecheeky bastids say the first things that come into their unfinishedbrains.

These mental gimps go on the attack andhave to be booted from the channel. Now what is wrong with thispicture? Well, I'll tell you. These stupid fucks all have a singleproblem, and that is that they are bitter prisoners of their parentsor teachers. They grumble under the thumb of their control and wantto get back at everyone the age of their parents the only way theyknow how. They are so angry at people their parents age that they'dtravel through cyberspace to vent their vitriol. That's why I don'tcare about them for the most part. I hope that they are chafing undertheir parent's supervision. It means that they are not out in thestreets being the dumb fucks that they are.

I'm not knocking young kids. I mean, Idon't fucking want them on my blog, not even twenty year olds. Why?Because they are still morally flexible. They are still un-formedhuman beings. I don't want to be thought of as shaping young minds.Why do you think that the military wants young men and women at theage of Eighteen up? Oh yeah, they ARE fine physical specimens, but ifthat's the only reason that you can think of, then you are gravelymistaken. They are impressionable and teachable. They can be broughtto heel rather easily than us old folks. As the old saying goes, youcan't teach an old dog new tricks.

With that being said, I'm not knockingyoung kids. I think they are all full of shit in their heads. Theycan kiss my ass for the most part. I don't want anything to do withthem, so that's my story. I don't have children, so I don't have todeal with them. That's up to you parents. As long as you too don'tcome to IRC with your Disney World mentality telling mature peoplethat the Internet is too 'mature' for your fucking obnoxiouschildren. If you stay the fuck out too, that's alright with me.

I guess I deal with the raw, hurtingunderbelly of the fucking children you allow to learn to navigate andthen enter into IRC. They come in hating older people and then filterinto the Channel ready to cause havoc, even though they can't. Theyare full of shit in my book and I like to see the son-of-a-bitchesbooted out of the Channel by the Ops. We set up a field goal andwatch them fly through the up-rights. There is a tingling in the ass,like a feather tickling your anus, when these little shits take toflight into orbit.

I guess that I'm in a strange place in my life right now. I can see my father's world and thinking on theleft, and I can see the young people on my right. It's like lookingat a slide rule from end to end, and finding out that you are at themiddle.

I don't like my father's world on theleft...the world that is dragging me inexorably in its direction. AndI'm fucking scared out of my mind of the world on my right.

I guess I'm just getting old.

Hobobob

Making Amends With Personal Issues

2011-10-12T03:34:00.001-04:00

IRC is really getting the best of me.

Internet Relay Chat, a nice place tospend hours on end, is really becoming addictive. I'm liking thechat room, or as they call it, The Channel, that I am in now. It's ahome away from home. It's where I like to be. I always thought thatit would be a place for high brow discussion and debate, and it'sturned into a hang out club for people in their 50s instead.

It's my only avenue for social- izationlately. I've been busy finishing up on my novel of ten years. It'sbeen a long time in coming but it's done now. The conclusion is stillfluid, still cooling, but unless I can come up with a better one inthe next month, it is what it is. But near the end, I had, what onemight call a 'Rulebook Slowdown'. I slacked off from writing thestory for months and months and could not move forward. So I had todo it a piece at a time, scene by scene, character by character untilsuch an lengthy and laborious process gained momentum. After I got itgoing I moved through to the end with little or no effort.

My point? What slowed me down? Whatkept my fucking attention for so long that it took me a dog's age toget this book done? I thought it was because of the death of myfather at first, but the truth is that his death did not have such animpact on me as I thought it would. He lived a good and hearty lifewith no regrets, so there is really nothing to mourn. I wish him safetravel on his new journey in the afterlife. So if it wasn't my father's death, thenwhat could it have been?

I'll tell you if you haven't alreadyguessed....IRC. Yes, I'm spending more and more time in the InternetRelay Chat. Its funny how addictive and consuming it can be. Evenwhen I was down South, visiting my mother, I was on IRC and shewalked over to me, staring over my shoulder, wondering what was thebig deal on my computer screen. I guess she thought the she was goingto see something like a television, or video, but to see a screenfilled with nothing more than text, she was blown away. She had amillion questions immediately. What she couldn't understand was how Icould differentiate text into people, and literally, 'hear' the voices in myhead.

And then that's when it hit me. Iremember a scene from 'The Matrix' when Cypher, played by JoePantoliano, was explaining looking at the screen, at the fallingexpressions dropping like rainwater, and he said “I don't even seesymbols anymore, I see a blonde woman over there, a man over there, abuilding here....” Yes, my imagination is running wild with what Ican see, and what we envision inside of a Channel. You can bring in abar, with drinks behind it on shelves and stand behind the barserving drinks....and you see it in your mind's eyes, the thingsthat are mentioned are there, giving the fertile imagination time torun about in the freedom of one's mind.

And that, I believe, is the draw andaddict- iveness of IRC. It allows you to not only meet new andinteresting people, but it also allows you to use your imaginationinstead of having information fed to you like Gerber baby foodthrough the boob tube. It challenges you to think and react and to doin ways that you are not used to, but can do. You can use IRC, youcan learn it's idiosyncrasies, you can master and appreciate it.

Then all you have to do is find asuitable channel to make friends in. I would say that the bestchannels are the over 40 channels, so that you can meet people yourage. Young people can be fucking children and give them a forum wherethey can speak their minds, and you'll see just how stupid they canreally be. Open their minds up and all you will find is sawdust andsperm. The women included...just more sperm.

With that being said, I highly endorsethe use of IRC to exercise your mind. Stay away from dumbmother- fuckers, especially the young assholes. They can be a tax onyour fucking nerves. Which will be the subject of my next post.Young, dumb motherfuckers.

Until then...get on IRC and enjoy yourasses.

Except you little, young bitch people. You guys, gofuck yourselves.

Hobobob

Motherfucker in My Skull

2011-10-10T00:44:00.000-04:00

I had to deal with a tooth ache theother day.

My tooth just decided to go nuclear onme one morning. The shit hurt like a motherfucker. I was crying whenI got up and rinsed out my mouth with salt water, them brushed myteeth, then took some pain killers, and that shit STILL didn't stophurting. Motherfucker. I paced around my room when I could, rolledaround the bed when I couldn't. I hate tooth pain, because it makesyou want to pull the tooth yourself, but you can't because that bitchis really rooted in there.

So, I went to the clinic...and becauseI didn't have an appointment, they told me that it would take themtwo hours to see me, then give me x-rays to find the problem, andthen they MIGHT be able to do something about it or send me uptown tothe hospital to have it pulled. Of course this would take all day, soI tanked that shit. But now where? I thought of walking uptown to thehospital and skip the clinic altogether, but every step that I tookdrove me up a wall of pain that would not end. I had to call it a dayand head home.

But another night in pain would be toomuch for me. So, for some reason I remem- bered a dentist not far from my home. His office was two blocks down and around the corner. I turned around and headed for it. Even in pain, I got to himand asked his secretary could I have an extraction. She said yeah,but it would have to happen tomorrow. There were no openings today.That was great. I had to deal with the pain for another night...so Itook it like a man. I don't know what that shit actually meansbecause men hate pain MORE than women do. If you think I'm kidding,then get pregnant....two or more times. Women do that shit over andover again, and that shit is painful. They will do that shit morethan once, and yet, they say: 'Take it like a MAN.' How shitty isthat?

So, I go home and take that shit like aman, whatever the fuck that means. The afternoon is sheer torture.Before the sun falls, I feel like getting a butter knife and dealingwith the problem myself. By the time it was bedtime, I was in acircus of pain. Just rolling over on the left side of my face woke meup in pain. My jaw chose this time to swell up like a baseball andthe tooth itself felt as if it was floating in the air, six feet frommy face, under a column of flame, as if it was lifting off like thefucking space shuttle.

I watched the clock patiently as thesecond hand moved like it was pushing its way through gelatin. Whatthe fuck? It was time for the pain to end. It really was. I walkedoutside to the nearby Walgreens and got a tube of Ambesol and coveredthe tooth with the gel. That shit did nothing but numb my tongue.Then I gargled with salt water, brushed my teeth, and tookpainkillers. With this barrage of self defense against pain, it didnothing for me but prove how powerless I really was.

I waited until the time came to go tothe dentist and upon walking into the waiting room I was given twentyforms to fill out. When you are in pain, the last thing you want todeal with is tons of shit that stand in your way. I scribbled throughthe entire thing, skipping whole questions, especially if they wererepeated over and over again from one form to the other. Like youhave one form asking for your full address and phone number. I fillout the first one, then just put my name on the rest. So on and soforth just like that.

Then a dental assistant comes and leadsme to a dentist chair. I recline upon it and they lay a heavy vest onme made out of lead, pushed a flat piece of plastic in my mouth, aimedan x-ray gun at my jaw and clicked off a shot. Soon as they tookeverything away, the dentist arrives. A nice, young man, who stoodover me, crossing his arms across his chest and explained everythingto me in great detail, showing me my fucked up tooth in the x-ray, a wrecked car in a cramped parking space. He thengoes on to explain all the bad things that could happen in my mouth,like my tooth could break in my head, and then this song and dancewill become oral surgery. I didn't like the sound of that shit. Thenhe tells me about more and more things that can go wrong. I wasreaching the point where I could care less if he pulled my entire jawloose, just get to this motherfucker.

After I listened to more bad things, Ihad to sign a waiver and then the party started. He took a needle aslong as my cock and jammed that into my gum and fired something intoit that lessened the pain, but did not make it go away. He came backwith the needle and hit me again and again. That was good. The painmoved further and further away, a stone dropped in a deep well. Helaughed, stopped, talked with me, constantly asking me if I couldfeel anything now. I said I could, but not much. His reply: “Let'slet it marinate some more.”

Then he went in again, more shots,until my entire jaw, tongue and ear went numb. Now it was time to dothe nasty. He told me that I would feel pressure, but little else andthen he went in with a pry bar. I could feel it going under the toothand there was pressure. He was actually prying it out of my head. Icould feel it, but the pain was absent. He went to the left side ofthe tooth, then to the right, the back to the left, then back to theright. “How's that?” he asked. Fine, I told him. “Alright, thisis it,” he reached back and produced a pair of pliers. This was thedisco. The disco ball just lowered and the party began. He clampeddown on that son-of-a-bitch and pulled and away it came out. It wasas if suction was holding it in place. I could feel it give, and thenit was a ball of distant pain.

They made me drink from a little cup,spit in a bowl and then stuffed cotton balls in my mouth, telling meto bite down. It was all over now, even though there was still painwhere the tooth was, it felt as if it was being telegraphedto me. He told me more bad things that could happen to me and I soongrew tired of the warnings and asked if it was okay if I left. “Yeahyou're done,” he replied. I went to the receptionist and got myappointment for my post-op visit and went home to lay down, but Icouldn't. I was too electrified. I picked up some painkillers andantibiotics at the nearby drug store and as night fell, the painbecame a dull ache.

Tonight, I would get a good night'ssleep, and the world would be a better place in the morning.

Even though I had to sleep on the rightside of my face.

Hobobob

Taking a Poor Life For Granted

2011-10-08T07:32:00.001-04:00

OBSIDIAN and I did a show for Oz andJames in the East River Park, at an amphi- theater. It was a blast. Theaudience was a little more responsive at this one. We even gotapplause, which is uncommon in some parks where people are justpassing through, and don't take much time to stop and listen to youperform. But it's a nice experience and cool to back up the band ofour friends.

For some reason, OBSIDIAN and I arebusy this month. We have another show coming up at the CorneliaStreet Cafe and it looks crucial. A lot of people are saying thatthey intend to show up for it, so it might be a full house theregathered to listen to us. Well OBSIDIAN if you ask me. I find my work a little more abusive and it gets on people's nerves when they heartoo much of it. They tell me that I'm a coarse, no talent son of abitch, but I enjoy reading it, so I guess I must be. Right?

I mean, why cry? I have a readingcoming up and lots to read from. So why not just knuckle under, getout my more fun stuff, and read on until they tell me to sit myfucking ass down? I see no problem with that...do you? The flyer forthe damn show is radical. I saw it and it blew my mind. Veryprofessional job that they did, the best I've ever seen. Too bad Ididn't have that on me when I sent out my email notifications. Itwould have looked more professional, but what the Hell? You can'thave everything.

Then, we got an email from an oldfriend. Now he has a television show on cable, and would like to filmus for his show. That sounds unusual, but as fun as shitting on aspinning fan. I can't wait, but I have to go down South to see mymother for a few days. She's a wonderful old lady, but I'm onlystaying three days with her this time. The last time that I stayedtwo weeks with her was way too long. We almost went for each othersthroats with kitchen knives while we slept. I put a gun under mypillow at night just in case. So now, just three days should besufficient to just go in and say hello and goodbye.

Then I come home for the filming of thetelevision show. I don't know about OBSIDIAN, but I'm pretty fuckingexcited. I've never been on television. I've been on the radio, andin magazines, but never on television. I think I'll look fat becausethey say television puts ten pounds on you, and I'm already fat, soI'll come out fatter. I'll look like Balloon Boy. But what the fuck!I can cry and complain later, but until then, or right now, I don'tgive a fuck how I look. I'm getting on television. It's a cabletelevision show anyway, and it's not ready for prime time, but whocares! I'm going to have a blast!

I'm dealing with my new therapist.She's telling me how I suffer from something called CognitiveDistortions. It's a very technical way of saying that I see thingsfucked up. If you give me an ice-cream on a cone, I'll see a grenadewithout its pin. If you toss me a coin, I'll see you hurling a daggerat my face. If you shake my hand, I'll see a sharp meat hook at theend of your arm. It's not as bad as Castastrophizing, which I alsosuffer from, but you get the point. I see things in a distortion fromreality. It's a side effect of PTSD. Catastrophizing is when you seethe outcome of things as leading to pain and suffering.

So I'm fucked coming and going. That'sa funny assessment isn't it. That's what happens when you see moreshit than the mind is ready to handle. I feel for Homicidedetectives, soldiers, FBI agents, Medical examiners and the rest ofthe heroes of our time that have to deal with human trauma andwholesale death. That shit will haunt you forever from the first bodyto the last. Trust me...if you've never had it happen to you, you'llnever know what the fuck I'm talking about.

Well, I'm going to work on more poems,and bitch about something else in my life. I'll talk to youlater...if we all don't suddenly die a horrible death.

Hobobob

Not Liking The Menu Choices

2011-10-06T03:52:00.000-04:00

Some people just don't like poets orpoetry.

They don't. Let's be honest. Somepeople view poets as fucking tree hugging, rainbow chasing, birdwatching, butterfly netting, river contemplating, snowflake counting,jack offs. They are busy waxing poetically about stupid shit thatmakes no fucking sense to real people. It's a pain in the ass, and abore to listen to some of their shit, even when they do try to makesense. Well, being a poet, how do you think I should feel about this?

Well, firstly, I think every poet onthe planet has the god given right to write whatever the fuck theywish. If you don't like it, take a stick up your ass and scrape awaya fucking hemorrhoid. Who the fuck cares what you think about theirlame assed poetry. A real poet doesn't concern himself with suchstupidity. I had another poet come up to my face and tell me oncethat I couldn't write poetry, and I told him to lick shit out of myass. He actually believed that I would be heartbroken that Icouldn't write a poem to his satisfaction. What he failed to realizewas a simple question that he should have been posed to himself. 'Whothe fuck are you?'

I mean, really? Who the fuck are youthat I should give a shit how you felt about my work? Did you write thefirst poem? Do you have any poetry awards from people that I respect oreven know? The proper and only reply to anyone that says anythinglike this to you, fellow poet, is, 'take a flying fuck through arolling doughnut.' When you slap these pompous fucks back down to alevel that they can readily understand, they come to their limitedsenses. Help these dumb asses out before they die stupid.

Now, the tree hugging content of manypoems. Hey, like I said, everyone has a right to write whatever thefuck they please. On the same token, I have the right to NOT LIKEwhat they write. I'll listen, or read some of it, but then if I don'tcare for it, I'll move on, and may even talk shit behind your back,but I respect your right to write your piece. Do what the fuck youwant. Trust me, you'll find fans of your tree hugging, snowflakecounting shit. You write poem after poem about your newborn daughterand this inspires you. Well write on dude. But it bores the shit outof me reading how your daughter soils her Pampers. I'll pass on yourwork. I'll also laugh at you behind your back, but that's mybusiness.

What do I feel about these simple mindedmother- fuckers? Some of them are pretty good. Many are just boring. Mypoems can be the same, and if people don't like it, then by allmeans, don't like it. I promise you, I wont cry. I won't even lose anights sleep over it. Just find a poet that you do like, and GOLISTEN TO HIM OR HER. Leave me the fuck alone. If you want to bitchabout my poems, bitch to someone else. I've got better things to dothan to listen to your critique.

And to all of you poets out there whoare reciting your soft core shit...shit about the soft colors ofpaint on your walls, the smell of your girlfriend's hair, thesoftness of your newborn's skin, the rustle of leaves in a tree, thecolors of flowers in a field...for all of you, I've written a poem along time ago. It goes like this:

GIVE IT TO ME

You can keep your

kittens, cats and other fluffy animals

I don't care

You can ditch your

beautiful sunsets, sunrises, brightsunny days

Fuck that

Do away with that silly

crush, infatuation, love

The Hell with that

Give me the back alley poem

with knuckles busting loose teeth

throwing blood against the bricks

shoes meeting nuts

gut busting heat

I have no need to pine upon beauty

to dwell on loving family members

to ring out with cheer of somesanctimonious

holiday, or celebration

give me that

face slapping

nipple biting

ass kicking HALLELUJAH!

that's what I like to write about

forget the mist on water

fuck it

sleepy New England town

fuck it

beautifully raised children

fuck it

Let me write about real life

the kind you walk into in back alleys

or in parks after dark

give me the car accidents

and the bullet wounds

I want the pain

because without the suffering

how can you appreciate

all those things?

How can you know that you're

alive?

Have I said my piece? Do I need to sayanymore about writing poetry? That's my stand and that's what you'llhear from me if you go to any of my readings. I don't like to talkabout beautiful things. I don't care to write about the bunny rabbitsand the fluffy kittens. Am I a bitter fuck? Maybe. Possibly. I spenttwo years sleeping on street sidewalks and on park benches, with allof New York stepping over me and what more can I say about that?Does that make me a nice person? I don't know. I don't know if I wantto shove such modifiers down my own throat. I like to think I don'tharm anyone that means me none. And those who do, all bets are off.

And does that mean my poetry might endup bitter, hateful, angry and full of homeless angst? You can betyour damned asshole getting keyed in a Village bathhouse. I don'tcare either. And if you come up to me and tell me you don't like it,well, guess what? I really couldn't give a shit. So the best thingfor all concerned in my book, either we tolerate each other, or wedon't.

The choice is yours.

Hobobob

Waking Up With Sandwiches and Soda

2011-10-04T01:25:00.000-04:00

So, you find yourself talking to awoman in a club and she is into you.

Then what? What do you do then? First,realize something. I'm calling her a woman without a modifier. Getit. I didn't say HOT woman, TALL woman, ATTRACTIVE woman. I'm sayingWOMAN. As my mother used to say: “Any port in a storm”. Meaning,you may fall all the way down your ladder of women and end up in thelower extremities of women. You may be trolling skankville before thenight is over, but what the fuck, pussy has no face.

So, you have this woman's attention.Now what? Look at your watch. What time is it? How late is it? Howmany more women do you have to go to reach the bottom of your list ofwomen? The lower sixty percent? You don't want to spend time with awoman that's interested in you but not interested in sex. So if youhave a lot more women to go, and she is just pretty and all smiles. Ask her right away. “Would you like to get out of here?” She'llask you where. Tell her that you have alcohol and music at yourplace, sans the fucking noise.

She'll get the meaning. If she tellsyou that she's waiting for her friends, or no. Then nod, smile,finish your drink and tell her you have to split. Don't give her afucking reason, she knows. She's not putting out tonight and you'renot wasting your time with her. Be a jerk, be an asshole, whatever.You will not be considered a gentleman to her because you'll jump toanother woman and in front of her, and you'll do it to the next and the next. Andthis chick will be watching you angrily. She is under the impressionthat you are there to only talk to her, and when she sees youfollowing your imperative, she'll only call you an asshole anyway. Sothere is no way you can terminate your interaction with her nicely.So don't bother. Move on quickly.

You are still on the hunt for pussy,and before the night is over, you find yourself at a table with awoman and out of the blue you ask her, “Do you want to get out ofhere?” And she'll say yes. She may not even ask where to. She knowsthe deal and she is just as happy to get her fuck on as you are. Youtake her home and rail the shit out of her. Blast her head againstthe headboard of your bed, or in my case, because I had a captain'sbed, against the fucking wall. Fuck the shit out of her and then callit a night. If it's not too late, you can kick her out. If it is,then be a gentleman and let her sleep until the morning.

Many of them will get up, take ashower, get dressed and be ready for coffee and an exit quickly.You'll do the same and there won't be much lovey dovey. No pet names,maybe her phone number, especially if you leave her with a good fucklimp. If she's grateful and enjoyed herself, she'll want you to callher back, so add her to your little black book and call it a day. Butnow, after that, you get back into your lonely existence. Some nightsyou bring home a gem, others, rough stones. Some bitches areappalling to wake up next to in the morning. They won't wash. They'llwant to fuck again while you're sober. They'll want you to cook thembreakfast, or don't know how to fucking leave. They'll go throughshit in your house, steal things, look in your wallet. Some will wantto continue a conversation, like she had something important that youwanted to hear that if her pussy could speak, you'd listen to it lastnight instead of her.

This is the downside of being a Playa.The vapid, obnoxious, disgusting, irritating women that you run intoin your fuck travels. The line of useless mother- fucking bitches thatwill drive you nuts. The stretches of night that you spend alone,thinking that you are happy when you obviously are not. That's thetwo edged sword of being a Playa. You have your run of skanks, andyou have your useless, lonely nights. Stop bullshitting people andget a clue.

Whatever. You are you and you do whatyou like to do. You think the hottest woman in the world will be yourwife, or you never build any respect for women and stay a consummatebachelor. That's your problem. I'm glad to be done with that life.I'd rather live alone than chase a score of nonsensical women. Ican't go for that. I can't get behind that.

That's the deal. The blast and theblasty-blast. Newtonian physics... every action has an equal andopposite reaction. All the fun of chasing women is equal to all theloneliness and despair that these motherfuckers experience. Call meout if I'm wrong. Make a big stink...the bigger you make it, the moreI'll believe otherwise. It's hard to play a Playa. I've been there,done that. It's no walk in the park, believe me.

I'd rather be homeless.

Hobobob

The Lion in the Tall Grass

2011-10-01T15:29:00.002-04:00

Ha ha ha ha! Many of you thought that I was dead, didn't you??? Well, here's the bad news, I'm still alive and kicking. I just took a hiatus while I learn this new Blogger software. They've changed everything, for the better though, but it's a learning curve that I have yet to master. So if the blog looks a bit different here or there, well that's the reason.

But let me get off it, and get on with it.

Someone asked me what was it likepicking up women for one night stands.

Do you really want to know this shit?Really? Well, let me tell you, it was fun and then it was not fun. Itwas a blast and it was a blasty-blast. What do I mean. It's a fuckingsword with TWO edges. You think that it's a life of reward andfantasy, but what it is is a life of misery and loneliness. Playasare always trying to convince someone of how hot their lives are, andwhat wicked fun they are having, but they don't tell you how vapid alife it actually is.

You hear the stories of all theconquests. Yes, they're quick to tell you about the girl that theypicked up the other night. They are also very confident inthemselves, which you may find fascinating. The truth is thatthere IS a rush in sexual conquest. It's an adrenalin high. But you have to bevery horny for it to work. When you wake up one day and you realize - and that's how it hits you - you realize that you haven't had pussy inawhile, and then you have to have it.

So you go to a club, and let's say it'syour first time as a Playa and you're looking for a woman to hitch upwith. You're not thinking of anything longer than just tonight, justto get your rocks off. Therefore you side up to a bar and order drinkafter drink to build up the liquid courage, and because this is yourfirst time, you don't know how to scan a room yet for pussy. It's notunlike a lion would scan a veld for a gazelle in a herd of gazelles.You sadly pick the first woman that is hot to you and you move on her, giveher a little clumsy small talk, and she turns her back on you. You goback to your spot on the bar and call it quits for the night.

Yeah, I used to do that. Until I wastired of not having pussy. Once that happened, I was a meanmother- fucker. Yeah. Just mean and determined, and I learned thatPlayas aren't confident, they are mean and determined, aka fucking assholes. They know whatthey want and they go after it. They want pussy and they root arounduntil they shake something out of the trees. When a Playa walks intoa bar he quickly sizes up the scene. I do it while drinking, as Ilose sobriety, I put the women in order of hottest to the ugliest.Then from this parade of women, I pick out the majority. Meaning Itake a cross section of about forty percent and chop it off. Now Ihave sixty percent of the women in the bar. I start at the hottestone and ask her “Why is she there?” If she tells you that she'swaiting for her boyfriend, and turns her knees away from you, or onlyturns her head in your direction, then tell her: too bad. Shit youcan even be insulting back to her because who really cares about this bitch?

Move on to the next one and next onequickly. You don't have much time. You have to go down the line, andthe truth is, there is a percentage of the women at the bar that arereally there to only have a good time with their girlfriends, ormeet their boyfriends. They are not and never were interested inhaving casual sex...unless you look like Brad Pitt or George Clooneyand could get them to change their minds; But if you are a regularguy, that's not going to work. If she is inclined, or she wants tohave casual sex, you stand a chance, otherwise, move the fuck onquickly.

Waste only a sentence with those thataren't into sex tonight. Your time is VALUABLE, THEY are not. Youhave to increase your odds of running into a woman for casual sex byasking MORE for casual sex. If there are five women in that bar thatare horny and want to go home with a dildo if they have to, you haveto ask twenty women before narrowing them down to finding her. Youhave to do so quickly also because other Playas are doing the samething, scouring the women in the bar for the two or three womenlooking to fuck.

If a woman is nice to you and starts aconver- sation, swing it to them quickly and keep it on them. Butbeware, these bitches will gab all night, drink you broke and thenpat you on the shoulder and leave after giving you a phony phonenumber. She is also a Playa, and she comes to bars for free drinksand she believes that she is giving you a fair exchange for yourmoney by giving you her time. She is so hot and desirable that shemade YOUR day just by talking to you. This bitch has got to be kidding. You canfind her quickly by NOT buying a drink right away. Take your time. Awoman interested in you or sex will buy herself many drinks only tobuild up courage. You can help her out with her third drink, and soon.

So, you are bopping from one woman tothe next quickly, increasing your odds of getting laid with everyattempt. Now what. You run into her and you ask her what she is doinghere at the bar and she responds that she is waiting for friends, whomay or may not be coming...they might not be. She turns her head toyou, looks you up and down, turns her body to you, her knees, leanstowards you, buys herself a second drink, answers your questionsabout her, you compliment her on her look, she sparkles.....

You are on the home stretch. You are aPlaya. You feel the rush, the rising fear, the trembling, theanticipation. This is the only part of being a Playa that is fun.This rush. But what happens next? What do you do next to get her intobed, and how is being a Playa a two edged sword? Well, I'll tell youon my next post.

Hobobob

Finding Happiness in a Butt Crack

2011-09-10T02:20:00.000-04:00

The weather has been acting like an asshole in the North- East over the recent few days. And well, it’sgotten people worried about if it’s the end of the world. I mean, the fuckingweather has been acting the fool all over the planet for decades, wiping out cities withfloods, swallowing up whole villages, forest fires eating up entire acres ofwildlife and property, smog and pollution causing thousands of lung diseasesyearly and twisters lifting scores upon scores of redneck grandma’s andgrandpa’s into orbit. And because New York gets its first hurricane in amillion years, New Yorkers are worried if it’s the end of the world.

A friend of mine asked me if the world was coming to the end, whatwould I want just before I died…. Our conver- sation went something like this:

I just want a few answers beforeit's over. The first and foremost answer I want to know is....WTF? “About what?”they asked. WTF is going on? WTF is this shit all about? WTF am I doing gettingkilled? “The world?” WTF have I done to the world? “You and your life?” WTF amI doing so wrong in my life? “Don't worry... its not your fault….way out of allof our control(s)!” they said. Well, if this is the end....I still would likethe courtesy of a last conversation with someone that knows. “And who wouldthat be? God? Allah? Buddah? Who?” Whoever brings it on....I nolonger care. Whoever brings it on can take ten minutes and straighten my assout.

I mean that shit. The world is a huge fucking place. It’s going to takea while before it can all be laid to waste. While that shit is happening, can Ihave a visitation? Can a repre- sentative of whatever religion was right, pop upand talk to me? I don’t mean like the Mormons, or the Jehovah’s Witnesses, orthe Hari Krishna’s sending another PERSON over to me before the shit hits thefan, because all religions have human representatives that espouse their teachings.Even these Psycho/Pseudo-religions have people who walk around and tell you howand what to think.

No…no more human representatives. If the Mayans were right, and theircalendars were correct all this time, then summon up a Mayan Magic Man and havehim come to see me before the earth opens up and swallows my ass and let me askhim a few face to face questions. I wantto know why everything has to be so fucking confusing if our lives depended onit? What’s up with that? Even imbecile engineers can hang a danger sign in bigblack letters over a red background. Sometimes they put a big fat arrow pointing to the object in question,just in case you can’t figure out what the fuck the danger is. Shit, even STOPsigns are easy to understand. A four letter word on a single sign.

Now why are things like this?BECAUSE OUR LIVES ARE IN JEO- PARDY if we don’t under- stand, so they make itsimple. They don’t hang a Rubik’s Cube on a pole and instead of matching thecolors you have to put together the stop sign, or the warning sign! You mightget the shit wrong, and then where the fuck will you be? So if the world isgoing to come to an end by some higher power, why not break it down to us howto survive? Why not make it easy for us to realize who’s telling the truthabout survival and who’s not? Why not give the people who are carrying thecorrect knowledge the ability to make things float? Or fly? Or walk throughwalls? Or maybe something not so extreme then. Make it so that they can blow smoke out of their assholes.

DO SOMETHING! Not give it to us to figure out. Not tell us to acceptit. It shouldn’t be fucking rocket science. You shouldn’t have to study math tounderstand it. You shouldn’t have to be a history major, or learned in somelong dead language or culture. It should come in a Sesame Street book, withBert and Ernie, and Big Bird spelling it out for us. And because this is notthe case, I want to ask….What is that all about?

The Bible is one of the mostconfusing books you can possibly read. That’s why there are so manyinterpretations, and so many people are coming up with so many religions fromonly one book. Now, if it was only a two page pamphlet, like the TenCommandments were, we’d be on the right track. What happened to those days?That’s what I want to ask. What happened to the days when men went up amountain and the finger of god wrote on stone, and the ground opened up and swallowed those that didn’t listen whenpeople refused to follow ten simple rules.

Why does it have to be so hard in this day and age? Why do I have todie some miserable death just because I didn’t get it right? I guessed wrong?Why?

Or maybe it’s nature ready to restart the world, like it did with thefucking dinosaurs. One day they were here, and it rained meteors and beforethey all knew it, they were gone. Maybe our time is up soon. And next, bugs will rule the planet. And they might do a better job, until Naturecomes around again and wipes them out for the Amoeba. The next smaller form oflife.

Shit…how many times did I tell you that I don’t like nor trust thefucking Amoeba.

Fuck you Amoeba.

Hobobob

Tiny Rooms For Tiny Minds

2011-09-06T18:49:00.000-04:00

People in my building live in the goddamned hallway.

That's the truth. Their rooms are so small for them that they make the corridors into their rooms, increasing their living quarters by tenfold. They open their doors, leaving them yawning so that the hallway looks like another room to their confinement. They stroll out and stand in the hallway, as if the corridor is their living room, or hall to their private bathroom. They loiter in the halls, yammering to their neighbors for hours, making the hallway a sitting room. A scant few even have children who feel that the hallway is a foot racetrack, constantly pounding up and down the hall. Young people do this. Their pants so full of vibrant energy that they have to run atop their little, short legs, chasing nothing but their own shadows, running up and down the hall.

My neighbors, some of them, like Paula and the Bat-Faced Bitch get on my nerves. The Bat-Faced-Bitch is ALWAYS out in the hallway. Her voice is ever present. I hear other of my neighbors, even Paula, from time to time, and anytime they are speaking, they are ALWAYS talking to the Bat-Faced-Bitch. She is constantly talking, which is the domain of utter idiots. They cannot understand that they have absolutely nothing in their heads, and therefore every brain fart that comes from their mouth has relevancy to them. They are too stupid to realize that they are too stupid. So they continue to talk and talk and talk as if whatever it is they are espousing is more than the word salads of the ignorant.

This is the Bat-Faced- Bitch all over. Her ass is the dumbest Useless Mother- fucker you'll ever meet, and every time she sees me she has something to say to me. Like Richie, the Bat-Faced-Bitch believes that I will ever treat them like sociable persons. Both Richie and the Bat-Faced-Bitch treated me like shit and then one day, for reasons unknown, they try to reverse their treatment of me, being cordial out of the blue. What the fuck do these people believe? That I'm one to forget their indiscretions? Let's put it this way, if I did something to you and pissed you off and you treated me badly, then later you treated me nice, I would drop it, because I was no doubt being an asshole and deserved the treatment that I was getting from you. I can understand that.

But if you don't even know me, and you've come to make a snap judgment of me from something you don't like that I did or are, then you can forever kiss my ass, no matter how nice you treat me later on. You need something from me no doubt, and if you don't, maybe you need to assuage your benighted conscience. Whatever the case, you can go to hell in my book. I won't ever stoop as low as you and treat you nastily, but you will never be invited into my tender mercies. You can suck shit in my book.

So when the Bat- Faced- Bitch began talking nicely to me in the elevator I wanted to scream at her and pull the ears right off the sides of my head to forever silence her in my world. Her mouth released NOTHING that I wanted to hear and honestly, if she wasn't so butt ugly, I would put her piehole to some real use by shoving my cock in it. But if I did that, I swear, I'd strike her on the top of her stupid blockhead with my fist, causing her to clamp down sharply, bite my dick off, and swallow it. I would never want my dick back ever again if she put her mouth around it.

And Richie, another wall crawling cockroach. This is another one that treated me like shit because I didn't want to be his best friend, and now, he is under the mistaken impression that I will suddenly change my mind because he is nice to me. This is another one that needs to pound three penny nails up his ass. He sees me in the hallway leaving my room and his face brightens. Mine falls and I say hello. His falls also and he grumbles hello back and I walk away. That's about it for this cretin. If his life depended on my moving from one ass cheek to the other, he's a dead man.

I also must not have much to do although I'm always running doing something, and I'm always planning. Planning and scheming of ways to empty the hallway of these numbskulls. Maybe a skunk bomb, or something like that every time they pollute the hallway with their noises, their voices. And maybe I can do something to let both Richie and Bat-Faced-Bitch know that I want nothing to do with them. Maybe the best thing to do is to start to ignore them every time they make the effort to be nice.

I don't want them to make the effort any more.

I'll keep the peace. I'll tolerate their existence on this planet.

Just as long as they stay the the fuck out of my hallway.

Hobobob

Stopping Time and Space For You

2011-09-02T20:08:00.000-04:00

Loiterers infuriate the shit out of me.

I steam up every time that I see these guys and gals. They drive me nuts. When I was a child, growing up in the projects, I had to suffer these fools, and now, in my waning years, I have to do it again. It's almost too much to bear now that I see these fucks for what they are and why they are. So here is my rant for today.

I would like to introduce you to a new phrase. A phrase that I didn't come up with myself, but actually really applies to these people who just stand out in doorways, especially front doors, hallways, sidewalks, street corners, and/or avenues. They just stand there, in groups some times, alone other times. The phrase that I would like to introduce? 'USELESS MOTHERFUCKERS'. Yes, these people are indeed waste of sperm. They range from teenagers, who I see congregated on corners, just standing around bullshitting, to useless motherfucking adults gabbing amongst themselves...all of them in the fucking way.

Case in point. I get up this morning wanting coffee and found that I had no milk. So I hop up, get clothes on and head out, into the pre-dawn gloom and head down the block, and standing in the middle of the block, right where there is a construction scaffolding laced overhead, is a Useless Motherfucker. He has taken up a position right in front of two uprights, which are holding the scaffolding above, so that there is no room on both sides of him. Why pick such a strategic position to bottleneck foot traffic? Because he's a fucking imbecile. So I have to negotiate around him to get to the Associated Grocery to do my shopping.

Now, I head back the way that I had come and lo and behold, this asshole fuck is no longer standing there like a dick. Wow, this is a good thing. I turn the corner to my building and there, on the side of a bodega right near my apartment are FOUR Useless Mother- fuckers, three men and one woman, standing there. One with a cup of coffee in his hand, gabbing a mile a minute, with the other three congregated around him, listening intently to his drivel. As I walk by he stops and literally says, “Check out this dog.” Dog, which is the urban vernacular meaning 'dude'. They all stop their conversation and turn to me as if I was the focus of their interest. They stare at me like Lemurs in a field as I stroll past and head into the building. I for my part ignore them because I realize something.

These Useless Mother- fuckers have no life. They have an entire lack of imagin- ation and creativity. They have no intellect or schooling and in terms of anything living, they are not. They are instead clumps of tissue, firing neurons that are making no sense. They are living, breathing nothings and honestly, except for good for nothing teens, who should be drafted, handed a gun, a drill sergeant, and a hostile environment, they should be shot on sight. Put down like ten pins in a bowling alley. I say ten pins and nothing living because these people are not living, they are existing. They wake up with absolutely nothing to do and no imagination to do anything. They get up, take a shower, get dressed and stand in front of a building watching foot traffic walk by for hours. A complete waste of a life.

And why waste life, I ask. Wax these fools and call it a day. Don't even bury them. Make them useful by grinding their bodies with dirt, creating fertile peat moss for vegetation. Then sell them in large bags called 'No Longer Useless Motherf'uckers'. Sell them cheap to make a market for them so that people will buy guns and go out looking for them in the streets to gun down just to get in on the craze. Ordinary people will not only be afraid of appearing like loiterers, they will never slow down or stop in the streets for fear of being shot.

That would be a great day. I walk out of my building and through a group of loiterers just gabbing and watching me as I leave, and I look back at them. Closing one eye, I turn my right hand into a gun and squint down the barrel of my index finger, take aim, and blow off three of their heads, my thumb moving like the hammer of a pistol. They look back at me dumbfounded and I blow the imaginary smoke from my fingertip.

Have a nice day.

Hobobob

Where to Go When You've Been There

2011-08-28T23:09:00.000-04:00

“Do you believe in God, Hobobob?”

I don't really like to talk about things that are spiritual on my blog. I feel that everyone has a right to believe in whatever they want. If they believe this or that, then let them have it. I have a friend that believes that by dancing he can bring about a better world and a closer communion with god. I say to him, thank you for dancing and have at it.

I thank everyone for worshiping god the way he or she feels they should. I think that even more people should worship something. Because of a lack of spirituality, mankind is slipping into a morass of immorality. What do I mean when I say immorality? I mean that people are beginning to lack common morals. They lie, they cheat, they steal, they murder, they do all the things that they do not want done to them with intellectual impunity or without remorse. They couldn't give a shit about their fellowman. They are selfish and arrogant and it's all about them, and then when the tables are turned they are the first to cry like little children. “Oh, foul! Foul!” I don't know about you, but the medical term for that is sociopathic thinking, isn't it?

Fuck you. Die on your own vomit, maggot. I can't stand selfish people, and when I meet them I do whatever I can to hinder or harm them. Why? Because they deserve it. Because somewhere down the line they've done it to numerous other people, and because of this fact, they should get what they deserve. And that is probably the main reasons why I hate individuals who claim to lead people to god.

Sounds like a contradiction doesn't it? It isn't really. I just realize the fact that NO ONE has to believe like I do, and if they don't they are well within their rights to think of me as an imbecile. I don't even blame them for denigrating my views on god and the approach to him. That's up to each and every individual. But in my estimation, I feel that God is Almighty, All-powerful, All-Knowing, All-Encompassing. He created our world, our sciences, our bodies, our environment, our universe, the elements, the microcosm, germs, atoms, suns, stars, energy....everything.

He is so above and beyond us, that we have no concept as to how he thinks and who he is. Just like a dog can't figure us out, or ants can't read a book, neither can we figure out God and what he is thinking and is up to. God is such an abstract concept to us that if we saw him walking down the street, we'd probably try to eat him, or inhale him. We'd be at a loss if he tried to talk to us. He'd sound like music that was discordant, or the screech of fingernails against a chalkboard.

Humans just do not have the ability to lead us to God, or even to get us to think like God. Humans don't know shit about God, and when they try to use a creation to explain him, they are falling onto their own faces. It's like trying to figure out a carpenter by examining a bedpost, or a painter by the paint on his house's siding. Oh you probably can tell 'something' but it would not be the full stature of the man in question. It will not tell you his aims, his desires, his thoughts, his goals. It will only give you the most miniscule idea of what he or she is, and what their intentions are. So to take creation and to use to it explain God is just plain silly. The next time you create something, like scribble on a paper, go to a friend and ask him/her, who scrawled this and see how far they get.

Well, we have God's word... some may say. Yeah sure, mankind fucked that up too. We have so many different 'god's word' that it's a joke. We have the Upanishads, we have the Koran, we have the Book of Mormon, and we have the Holy Scriptures in so many versions that that's a comic book too. Yes, they all have god's word in it, and who's right? Even when you take one, you have different interpretations of them. Fifty different books, with fifty different interpretations each, creating hundreds of different religions and groups. They all can't be right. Especially when so many of them say to kill those that disagree, or that those who disagree will burn in hellfire, or die some horrible death at the end of days. What can be said about that?

Why are there so many confusing outcomes to only one book? Or one god? Because we can't understand him/her neither get him/her right. We are so lost in our understanding of god that we can't even figure out if he's male or female. We have so many different people claiming to know something and have something that they actually do not have. What they do have are the weak minded who need people to tell them that they know god. They provide us with all kinds of proofs, trying to get us to believe that god is interested in the affairs of mankind.

That mankind got wrong again. Wrong, wrong, wrong. God tried to talk to us through the written word, and we just fucked it up more. He tried to give us pointers in creation, but we still can't understand him. He can't reduce his nature down to something that we can comprehend, because if he did, it would be something like '44'. What? Yeah, '44', and we would stew over that and grouse over it and still not understand a fucking thing. And the reasons why we can't understand a thing?

It's because we are human, and prone to failure and faults. We have our biases, and we bring these biases to bear when claiming that we have the path to god. We want to feel so important, so worth redemption, so integral to the fabric of life that a higher power MUST be guiding us somehow. Maybe that's so, and maybe that feels good, but there are things that are just unexplainable. God is no doubt one of them.

Any idiot that comes to me with the path to understanding God, I would ask them, do they even know themselves? They probably will tell you that they do, but you know, deep down inside, that people, for the most part, don't even know who they themselves are. If you don't even know your deepest nature, how in the fuck are you going to tell me what the greatest, most powerful mind to ever exist thinks? Once some moron begins to open his or her mouth and tell me about God, my brain logically switches off and whatever comes from their useless pieholes is pure horseshit to me. Instantly I realize that they are out to make a buck. Buy my book, my tapes, my downloads, get my free shit so that you'll come to one of my gatherings, my communes, pass out my fliers, my magazines, my tracts, build my homes, my complexes, spread my gospel, give me your children, your wives your minds, your thoughts, listen to what I want you to do....they want something from you.

Religion is the opiate of the masses.

Hey, I didn't say that, but it's true. If you need god to be moral, serve whoever you choose. If you are an amoral atheist, then stay out of my way. But if you are indeed showing concern for your fellow man, and seek peace on the planet, you tell me, what more would a God want from you other than you respect that and him?

What? Buy his book?

Hobobob

Speak Up You Dumb Fuck

2011-08-26T00:00:00.000-04:00

“I have a question, Hobobob. With the rapid expansion of the global marketplace, and the seemingly superior value of the European Euro over the American Dollar, what do you think, with Obama's constant raising of the debt ceiling, will happen to entitlements that keep your head above the water and out of the streets, and a hair's breadth from finding a knife and robbing individuals for your needs?”

Who the fuck is this? What kind of question is this? I'm a fucking hobo dude. What the fuck do I care about people with money, or those in the European communities with cash in their pockets. When I have money I am a happy camper, and as long as I have a dollar or two with a roof over my head, why should I be envious of others with jobs and homes and lives and values? Why should I embark on a life of crime just because I'm a 'havenot'? That's an excuse that I have yet to muster. For right now, lets just say that I am living good, I am alive, I have three squares and a cot and there aren't any bars on my front door and windows. Life is good.

I have been on IRC a lot, and that makes me feel good too. I am a NetDJ now, have I told you that? I pump music on an IRC station called...well, I should not say it because I don't want it flooded with my readers. When I do that there is an overflow sometimes, depending on where I put things on my site, and I don't want people pouring into the quaint little chat-room questioning: "Which one of you lowlifes is that FUCK, Hobobob?" So, suffice it to say that with a few free programs off the Internet, I have become a NetDJ, spinning the hits, and talking my shit over the World Wide Web. It is fun and exciting and sometimes even rewarding. I love it.

It gives me something to do with my time, since lately all I have been doing is thinking of ways to find a gun and put it against the temple of my head. That's the truth. I'm thinking all the time about offing myself and if that is not a problem, not being able to find a path is. I'm a little too much of a chicken to kill myself and I'll be damned if I let someone do it for me. I'll fight to the death, and why is that? Why is that such a fucking paradox? Because I'm a stubborn motherfucker, and I don't want someone to TAKE something from me that I myself refuse to throw away. I'll kill you before you can kill me.

Now, back to the question. I don't like talking too much about politics on my blog. Sometimes I give in and give my view. I have serious problems with my country, but that's why I vote. I jump to the chance to cast my vote for who I feel is right. I can do it the easy way or the hard way. I can just vote the party line, or sit down and study my congressman and his/her opponents. I can pick them apart, write to them and do this and that. When Hillary Clinton was our senator in New York, I wrote to her. The New York Public Library, which was my literal home at the time, was fighting budget cuts which would close down areas and hours and branches and the so forth. When, in the Wintertime, where the only place to find heat from the cold is the library, this is almost like a death sentence. So, I took the time to join in a petition to Ms. Clinton, and even wrote her a letter. Do you know that the bitch responded to me? I don't know if she read my email or not, but she did respond to me in a timely and knowing fashion. It wasn't a form letter stating that she received my letter and because of the volume of letters that she receives, she can only send me a note stating such (as the crummy assed book publishers of today do), but she replied with cogent comments FROM my email. SOMEBODY read that shit.

And then I was hooked. If my Senator or Congressman can't respond to my emails, I vote them out. I put them in, I can put them out. When I hear shit from their mouths on television that I don't like, I vote them out. When they don't put up a fight in the House or Senate, I vote them out. When I hear this or that and that or this, if I fear for my country, if I see a fucking trend, I get busy. I don't just vote for President, like so many fuck ups in our country, thinking that America has a King that says what we do and everyone falls in line. No, we have an ultimate representative...let me repeat that...REPRESENTATIVE... in the President that has to follow the urging of the House and Senate for the most part, with his own political bias. This country runs on compromise and negotiation, and that's all that one man in the President's chair can do. If that's all you vote for, you should shut the fuck up with your complaints about this great nation. You are a lame fuck, and I said that to you. Stop reading my blog if you don't like my calling you that. You'll spend twenty minutes commenting at the end of an article but can't take the same twenty minutes to go to a voting station and vote for your Congressman or Senator. What good are you and why should anyone listen to you?

Now...I have one exclusion to that rule, and that's the 'Carlin Rule'. I get it from George Carlin who straightened me out with one of his comedic rants. When someone told him that if he didn't vote he had no right to complain, he said, and I paraphrase, “I have every right to complain. YOU are the one that doesn't. You voted your problem into office. I didn't. You involved yourself in the process, I didn't. You got your hands dirty and now you think YOU have the right to complain...you don't. I, on the other-hand, boycotted the process, so I reserve my right to bitch. I had nothing to do with it, so I can crank.”

Some people just don't like the options given to them, and they bemoan the entire process, and this being America, they have every right to bitch and moan over THE PROCESS. That means, the Senators, the Congressmen, the President. They have every right to bitch against the politics of this Country and to boycott it if they wish. If this is where you fall, I exclude you from my rant. As a fellow American, I respect your right to boycott. Do NOT vote for who you wish. But as I see it, you are not ranting that your CHOICE of Senator, Congressman, President, or political party is not in office. That's something entirely different. I can't give you a hard time over boycotting the process. You are within your legal rights and I salute you.

But the rest of you bastards can kiss my ass. You don't like who's in office, shut the fuck up and vote them out, and if they are not gone after you've voted, you are in the minority and need to relax. No one cares to hear your mouth unless you are willing to get behind the lever in the next election and make your choice known.

So what do I care about Europe? What do I care about the Euro? I say power to the greatest country on Earth at this time, and if a greater one arises, it will no doubt come from this great nation and none other. I just hope that all of you people out there that have common sense and can read, write and think worth a damn get out there and cast your vote, because the stupid ones will. And if they do, and they outnumber the intelligent because we have sat on our hands at the end of the day, then this will be a country that will be run by fools and idiots, and then we all can bitch and moan.

Hobobob

Cracking Sad Jokes at Giants

2011-08-24T08:14:00.000-04:00

“Aren't you tired yet, Hobobob?

You bitch and you moan, and crank and complain. Sooner or later you are going to run out of shit to complain about. What are you going to do then?”

Good question. What will I do when I run out of shit to complain about? I don't think that can happen. I think everybody is under the impression that when there is a pause in my writing that I've run out of shit to say. Well you could not be farther from the truth. I suffer from BI-POLAR DISORDER folks. What does that mean? Well, to you laymen out there, I have two personalities. One an upbeat one, and one a gloomy Gus. I am either very vibrant, dynamic, productive and gregarious, or sad, reclusive, silent, dark and dismal. And these two states turn on a dime. Like flicking a light switch. I am either light or dark.

When I am dark I do not want to be bothered with writing to my audience. I'd rather just sit and mope and dream of ways of committing suicide. I feel bad about everything, and trust me, I feel bad enough about so much, and there is so much around me to feel bad about. My living circumstances, my living conditions, my environment, my mind, my life. There is a lot to be sad about, to feel down about, so being in the mental state that I am in is, or should be, understandable. If it is not, then what do you want from me?

What is not understandable are my 'up' periods. Those periods where I am upbeat and happy. There is nothing in my life to be happy about, but I find tons of things to be out of the thin air. Things like lint, a morning where the sun does not strike my eyes, a day where there are no voices in my hallway, a good thought, or a scene in a story that I am writing that I think is pure genius. I am happy for the little things. That's what I like and these things can make my stupid assed day.

And then there are those rare occasions that I feel like writing, about something that has happened to me that I want to talk about. Lately my social worker...a new one that you do not know about, let's call him Dave, started to drop by and offer his services at my door. Thanks Dave, I would tell him, and send him on his way because I haven't had much luck with Social Workers. Well, Dave was persistent for some reason and he kept coming by and finally asked me, “Hobobob, what do you need?” And I replied that I needed a headshrinker. I needed a therapist to sort out my thoughts and get all of these conflicting ideas in my head in order. Could that be possible? I asked him this to keep him occupied and out of my hair because I am used to social workers saying they can help and then disappear completely. I wanted Dave to fucking disappear.

As my luck would have it, he re-appear- ed with an appoint- ment to see a head- shrinker. Can you imagine that? He even found one around the corner from where I lived so that my social anxiety would not be able to stand in my way of going to see her. What a coup. This guy was indeed capable of helping me out, and he did so as if it was important to him to get it done. Dave not only made the appointment to see the headshrinker, but came with me for my intake and initial evaluation. Then I was given another appointment to see the shrinker on my own. This was good, and this is what I did. I then talked to her at length and she gave me a million and a half questions.

Although all of this was useless to me, It felt good to be in capable hands. It feels as if I am making progress even if none is evident. But look at me. Am I bitching and moaning now? No. I am reporting to you that I am seeking further help for my mental condition and that I am hoping that things will turn out for the better. I don't have to crank so much about the Skeks in my life, the stupidity that surrounds me, and the ruin that my life is.

Sometimes though, it's good to complain, and the truth is...

...I'll never run out of shit to bitch over.

Talk to you later,

Hobobob

Today's Change, Tomorrow's Nightmare

2011-08-08T16:29:00.000-04:00

A close friend of mine pointed me to an article on CBS New York’s webpage.

It was an article that was close to my heart about Starbucks closing down their outlets because there are people who sit there all day and hog up their WIFI, seats and electricity. They’re called Starbucks Squatters better yet, Laptop Hobos. This is a business decision made by Starbucks to no doubt increase revenue and has nothing to do with their customers, because if they cared so much about their customers they would serve better shit and more of it for less money. As it is, they are an emporium for the rich to show off that they have money, and the rich wannabes who really view coffee as a social statement.

But it seems to me that Starbucks has turned into a microcosm for a much bigger issue in this country between the classes. The upper class, the middle class and the lower class. I look at the comments following the article and I’m amazed. I don’t know, maybe I miss the point or see things differently, but I’m done reading the comments at the end of articles. Why should I? The first thing that strikes me funny is the fact that these poor saps can’t even write a paragraph without glaring errors. A paragraph? Yes. Some fail to be able to write three sentences without an error. I can see if they were writing an article, but a paragraph? I kid you not….I submit for your perusal:

betzyross

That’s what killed Dean and DeLuca / Boarders @ Columbus Circle. People sit for hours with an empty coffee cut pretending to be a customer. Real customers walk out. I’v done is hundreads of times. Killed Boarders business and they didn’t even know it, I’ll bet. GO STARBUCKS ! Didn’t think you noticed either ! Go find free WiFI somewhere else, mutchers. Just what Obama is pushing for those living off others !

I understand that ‘cut’ instead of cup might be a typo. But ‘I’v’, ‘hun- dreads’, ‘Boarders’ and ‘mutchers’ instead of moochers makes me wonder just how long this person slept through High School. People with such writing skills prove ignorance and a lack of education. Something that free education was supposed to root out. Goes to show you that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. And if someone didn’t care enough to drink from free education, what in the world would I want to sit around and read their comments for? This numbskull also, early on, takes the conversation to a political bent, so that others with their political views chime into the comments. Obama this, Tea Party that, Republican this, and Democratic liberals that.

And with that, the brain fart of a moron, and a great discussion about highbrow Starbux and their so called patron friendly business decision goes out the window, or just becomes a sidebar and marginalized. If I wanted to read the political comments of people that don’t vote I would have went to an article that discussed such. I love people who can’t even generate the time to get off their asses, ESPECIALLY in New York, wait on a long assed line, and cast their vote for congressman, senator, and the like, but will bitch and moan over the Internet on the end of a comment page. If you’ve got a fucking gripe about the economy or where this country is going….VOTE. Stop bending my fucking ear!

People forget that voting is the only way to control your govern- ment, and if your vote doesn’t make the country go your way, then maybe there are more enlightened people in the country than you that outnumber your ignorant thinking Betzyross. Thank god for majority rule. All you crybabies out there, I feel bad for you. Continue crying. But now, Betzy’s comment is infecting my blog. I really want to address Starbucks new policy and another comment….I submit:

Kingfish

Must be a blogging hero, no home, no car, no brains, have to have moral support from your dependency on twitts, sad lonely life, loser.

Kingfish…. you can suck my dick. Another High School napper. Twit is spelled with one T. Lost points on that one, buddy. You are definitely a Blogging Hero Hater. I would be too if I had no imagination, no English skills, poor Grammar, pimples and never probably even touched a pussy. Who's the loser? Yeah, I was a Laptop Hobo at Starbucks, read my posts from 2006. I was the worst of the worst, but I was also the lowest of the low. Starbucks was my salvation, my last fucking link to the outside world. I paid for their nasty, overpriced coffee, and I watched the wannabes in New York line up for their expensive pastries and drink, and I did it from opening to closing, rarely getting up and moving from one store to the next. I should have, but I didn’t because there were other squatters like me, dressed and employed like you (‘you’ in the sense of Starbucks general patrons. I am no longer talking to that ignorant doorstop, Kingfish. He is beneath my comments).

I could go into a recap of my life and living in Starbucks, but why? I’ve chronicled it already. Go back and read my posts in 2006-7 and you’ll get my mindset on the matter. You’ll get exactly how I felt about dealing with the owners of Starbucks who wanted me out. I’ll tell you exactly what went on. But here? All I will say is that it’s a bad business decision. It will cost Starbucks dearly for their short sightedness. Here’s the thing. I used to be an all day squatter in Starbucks. I know what is going on.

These people doing all the com- plaining are five minute customers. They buy a coffee, walk around, find no seats and leave. They see people on their laptops and they say to themselves…."these people must have been here all day." They have to. Either that, or they stood there all day and watched them. I doubt seriously the latter. They are the ‘high volume customer’. They most likely, from my all day, every day, seven day a week examination of differing Starbucks, make up 70% of Starbucks customers. These people will always come in and go out, buying their shitty coffee at bloated prices because it makes them feel as if they are part of the elite.

Then there are the business people, the workers that come into Starbucks, needing to download files, get in touch with clients, literally hold business meetings at the tables, and the so forth. They come in anywhere from ten minutes to two hours conducting business, getting in touch with friends overseas, searching for nearby tourist traps, or just bullshitting with friends. This is another revenue client base for Starbucks. They make up approximately 29% of Starbucks customers.

Then there are the Laptop Hobos. The real homeless of New York, with laptops. People like me, who are a low percentage in society to begin with who frequent Starbucks. We sit there all day long, soak up electricity and WIFI and don’t give a shit because Starbucks can afford it with the price of their coffee. A five dollar cup of coffee and an eight dollar pastry should afford one the luxury of luxury expenses. A person who goes into the Porche Dealer and buy a Porche should not feel bad because they drink an urn of their free coffee.

Here’s the problem. Starbucks has, as a whole, been hem- orrhaging money. They have been closing down stores worldwide. Shit, the Starbucks just under my SRO has closed a year ago. This is because of explosive growth and greed, poor business decisions and not judging their market. They believed that overpriced coffee would support their booming franchise because there is an endless supply of people with money. But as the economy dipped, people wised up and realized that they are not part of the millionaire elite that can afford five dollar coffees. They started going to the corner deli for their java instead to save on money at the end of the month. When they saw just how much they were spending on just coffee, they decided to pay their cable bill with it instead.

Starbucks owners began losing revenue, and they struck upon the first thing that they believed to be the problem… people like me…the lowly 1%. Because of me they are going out of business. They are following the dinosaurs into extinction and not because of their flawed business model that needs a prosperous economy to grow. So they shut down their outlets. But in doing so, they cut off their business clients, their 29% of customers. This means a 30% customer drop immediately. If Starbucks cannot function with the tiny decline of their 70% customer base, how will they survive after calling their 30% Squatters and Hobos?

These people will just leave for a McDonalds, or have business meetings elsewhere like other smaller, upscale coffee houses that don’t intend of changing their business model but with a much lower overhead. With a loss of 30% or more of its customer base, I don’t see Starbucks in New York as lasting too much longer, and they will dissolve. The real losers in this? The lower class workers eking out a living at these labor dungeons. They’ll drop into unemployment, not find jobs, then fall into Welfare and all of the bleeding heart program slashers will bemoan the fact that even after cutting off all of these entitlements, they can’t go to the cities because of the high crime. The lower class, finding easy access to dangerous weapons, will finally begin robbing the shrinking middle class and the rich for what they can’t get from social programs. All of their entitlement bluster will turn into hospitalization costs from muggings, or higher insurance premiums from car and house theft and burglaries.

Everything is connected in this economy. With every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. People, especially the stressed middle class, need to know this. Everything can disappear in an instant. I know… I was there. I still am to some extent. That’s why I vote for everything now. I don’t want to be bothered with people griping who don’t. And I don’t care if Starbucks goes down the drain. Like I said, they are hurting, not because of the Squatters, but because of a flawed business model. Such things need to die in the hostile environment of the Market Realities. That’s the evolution of business…survival of the fittest.

That’s the evolution of society too. When the poor and disen- franchised outnumber the rich, there is always revolution. That’s where this country is going. With thousands losing their jobs weekly, smell the trend. They’ll all be like me. And when the poor have nothing, they’ll soon gather together and prey of those with ‘something’. Happy hunting all you poor people. Go vote.

Hobobob

Paint It Black

2011-08-04T16:22:00.000-04:00

I’ll be back in New York soon.

I’ve been spending the last two weeks in Ahoskie. Taking time to be with my mother. She is terribly lonely and there is nothing anyone can do about it. I think now of the demise of individuals in the waning years of life, and is this all that we have to look forward to? Loneliness, old age and death?

What makes a life worth living? Have you ever asked yourself that question? What makes your life worth getting up in the morning or at least not offing yourself over breakfast? I look around me and listen and I wonder. Take rich people for instance. Is life more rewarding for people who have a lot of money? Maybe it is. I can’t tell. I know that there are so many people who want to be rich just to lead the good life. But I’m sure they have worries and heartaches too. I’m sure that their wives and husbands are pains in the ass. I’m sure they have health problems, erectile problems, dental problems. And in the long run, they get old and die just like everyone else. So they go with a champagne glass in their hands. Is it all that rewarding?

How about fame? Would fame make life worth living? I don’t know just how enjoyable living life under a microscope is. You have to constantly worry about what people are thinking about you and how you appear to the masses. You can’t have odd habits or perverse sexual proclivities. I would be terrible as the latter, being such the homeless pervert poet, my life would be condemned the instant I became a celebrity. Shit, like Pee Wee Herman I would be caught on a street corner with my dick hanging out of my pants; or in a car, like Hugh Grant, having my balls inflated by some hooker. And I wouldn’t apologize for it either. What is the value of giving up so much of your life because you have to be concerned about the public eye. I don’t think I would appreciate or like the scrutiny.

How about great achievements? Like in the sciences, or business? Well who cares if you find the cure for cancer or walk on the moon. There’s still no free anal sex for you. You’re known for fifteen minutes and then off to the history books your smart ass goes. You are remembered as a footnote, or not at all. Kids have to memorize your name to pass an exam and then they’ll forget about you too. And you’ve devoted your life towards this achievement and what have you got to show for giving it your focus and attention for so long. A shitty marriage, wayward children, vacant home, health and a drinking problem. Well, the drinking problem should go on the plus side of living

How about living for the family? That too seems to be a tired life. You raise your children and they grow up to hate your ass, be rebellious or at best, love you, marry, and move off to start their own families. When your ass grows too decrepit they will pack you up and send you to a retirement home because they don’t want to be bothered with you in their busy lives. You will grow old, much alone, although surrounded by dying others like yourself, with nothing to show for it other than photographs of family outings from times long gone. Sorry about that.

Then I think of my lost and confused life. With no future, no prospects, nothing but the streets and the city and the broke nature of my existence. Not a penny in my pocket and not a love in my life. I wonder if I should stop taking this Naltrexone and get back to drinking. I’m standing in the bottom of a well, with no light reaching me. Life is a little blue/white circle high overhead and all around my feet are bottles of hooch. Why shouldn’t I start picking them up and drinking them down. When did I graduate from drunk and slob and pervert? Did years of homelessness and the streets cure me of this? Was my stint in the belly of the beast enough to jar me back to reality. Was it enough to erase all of the hurt and the pain? Does time stop the fear and the trepidation? I think it might. I think therapy might do the rest. I’m just waiting for my day, when things change suddenly. That’s why I continue to write my stories and scripts, because they are my exit to a better life. A life closer to yours.

I think I’ve found the secret to a good life. Living it without harming others. An altruistic existence with as little material wealth as possible. The simple life, a simple home, a simple love, a simple family. A quiet and mild existence. Be peaceable with your neighbor, and keep tidy and clean. That is a good life.

Then, when the sun goes down, get your woman, your cat, your dog, break out the sex toys, and the alcohol, tear each others clothes off, tie each other in leather and chains and lace and silk and spank, suck, fuck, bite, and cum all night long until the two of you perverted fucks pass out.

Keep that shit up for the rest of your life. And you will live happy, until you grow old and one of you die, and the other lives a naked and lonely existence until they join the other. And the good thing, they have all of those fucked up sexual memories.

Oh, and the alcohol.

Hobobob

Examining the Darker Side of Circumstances

2011-07-31T19:33:00.000-04:00

Why do men love women that swallow?

Swallow what, you may ask? Semen, cum, sperm, nut, spunk, man milk, cock snot, man sauce, jism, get it? The thick white stuff that comes out of the penis once a man hits a high note. The stuff that lets a man know that he’s cumming, and the expulsion of which makes him weak in the knees and tremble from head to toe with each bolting jet that bursts from it’s end. It’s funny, our love affair with our own cum and the relation that women have to it.

First, I can actually remember when I first saw cum. It was mine of course. I was just learning how to masturbate. No one teaches a young man how to masturbate. There are no manuals, no instructions written alongside the penis that reads, 'jerk this way'. Shit, when I was young, I actually remember being ignorant as to what an erection was. I was under the erroneous impression that when I caught an erection it meant that I REALLY had to go to the bathroom. Just imagine my confusion standing in front of a urinal or over a toilet bowl with my cock lolling out and not urinating.

I used to sneak into my parents bedroom and rifle through my father’s closet for reasons I can’t remember, and one day I found a paperback. Porn. It had a really racy cover of a naked woman being held by a dressed man and across the top it read something like “She’s your ass now”, or “Fresh ass on the block”. I remember sitting down on the edge of their bed while they were out at work and reading through this book with a wild, odd fascination. I even felt both guilty and sinful reading it for reasons that I did not know, but I was reading through it. I had a problem with the word ‘titties’ because I didn’t really know what the word meant, but otherwise I was familiar, miraculously, with the rest.

It was then that an urgent swelling of my penis caught my attention. It stretched out, as if it was yawning and stretching out it’s arms from a long slumber, and sprung, rigidly from my body. I was both amazed and compelled to read on, read harder, absorb more. I did this for two days. Read, catch a throbbing hard-on, and then put it away and think about the thrilling feeling it gave me all night long. I couldn’t wait for the next day, when I would come home from school, a latch-key kid, open my front door, lock myself in my home and race to my father’s closet.

Now, the firming of my penis, even though it was pleasu- rable, was not enough on the third day. The penis needed, demanded more. It was sensitive to touch, the shaft, AND ESPECIALLY the fucking head. I rubbed it against my thigh as I read and that felt surprisingly good. In fact, it felt excellent! I rubbed my erection against my thigh faster and harder until I was caught, most unexpectedly, by a near faint, a swoon that sent my head spinning and my hips bucking like an angry bronco.

And lo and behold, semen! For the first time! Surprisingly spirited jets of semen firing out of the end of my penis, sailing through the air as if I was discharging a pistol. Needless to say, I was shocked beyond belief. As amazing as the orgasm was, it was followed by a terror of equal and opposite severity. I had did something wrong, something bad. I had either broke my penis, or made it do something that it wasn’t supposed to. With a level of wild panic I cleaned up the tiny pools and streaks of cum, my hands trembling.

I felt guilty and sinful all night long, my cheeks painted with shame. But I was doing it again the very next day, this time ready with a tissue. From rubbing my penis against my thigh, I learned to make the Okay symbol with one hand and just stroke the head of the penis. From there, the fist with the whole penis.

I was in heaven, shooting spurt upon spurt of cum. Actually taking it for granted as I did. I just knew that when I started masturbating, that’s where I wanted to be. Ejaculating! That was the goal of masturbation and sex. The freeing up of semen from the body. It was a part of me that wanted to be free, to soar, to make a path through the world in lively jets of pleasure. Each jet sending wave upon wave of goodness up the shaft of my penis and raging thorough my body, short circuiting my nervous system.

Needless to say, the white stuff became essential to me. It became important. For some reason, even the length, the distance, the amount became more and more vital to me as I grew older. When I learned what the shit was for, I was equally enthralled. It was to go inside of the vagina to make babies. Whoa! The penis and the vagina. What a fucking concept!

But then I sailed into porn. Roughly in high school, I became acquainted with the scourge of youth and like some strange instructional manual, I learned that sperm need not be deposited in the vagina. It can be used to paint the female body. At the time, I was a breast man, and I used to love seeing cum splashed across a pair of full, healthy breasts. How amazing was that?! I used to get magazines with women giving head, and then the men promptly snatching the penis from their puckered mouths to spray their issue across the woman’s ‘titties’.

But somehow we graduated from the simple stuff. Somehow us teen boys, who started viewing porn, began to change. Some of us went bezerk and wanted to see cum draped across shoes and panties in long, waxy streaks. Others liked it sprayed and drizzled on the quivering buttocks of a woman. While others liked cum flung into hair.

I, for my part, went my way too. I was always amazed at the blow-job, since I first saw one. And the neat thing was that the favored blow-job preceded any ejaculation anywhere. The woman would be sucking away on some man pole until he was just about to bust a nut. He’d then snatch his prong from her mouth and aim at whatever was desired: tit’s, ass, legs, feet, shoes, panties, hair, blah, blah, blah.

Then came the day that the penis slipped from a pornstar's mouth, stopped, the hand jerked it to fire like a cannon, and stream after stream of jism splashed against her face. In her eyes, up her nose, over her mouth. And when that happened I knew I had found my world. I knew I understood something that I didn’t before. I, like so many other men, equated our cum to what we desired. Take the guy with the shoe fetish. He has a desire to express the fullness of his sexual feelings upon a woman’s shoes, so he masturbates ON them, spilling his seed ACROSS them. His semen baptizing the shoes with his love and affection...the focus of his desire expressed. Understand?

A man wants to cum on that which he desires. If he’s an ass man, he’ll pretty much yank his erection from your puckered asshole and glaze your buttocks with his sperm. It’s what he likes. He likes it so much that he’s want’s to paint it with cum. And the same with me as with other men...when we see a beautiful woman, many of us, after fucking her, yank our penises out of her, straddle her neck and pour cum all over her features. In this way we fuck her face too. We paint what we desire with our essence. Women probably find this to be strange, but men can relate. The technical term for ejaculating on a woman’s face is called a ‘facial’. I loved blow-jobs, followed by facials. I loved facials so much that I used to get gangbang facial videos where scores of men would fuck and then facialize a woman, literally covering her face with male issue.

I forget the name of the pornstar. I really do. However, I loved her the second I saw her act. I bought ALL of her videos. After a blow-job and when the penis reared back for the facial, she opened her mouth and gulped down the shot of sperm like a trout would a fly buzzing over a river. I was amazed. I was shocked. I was stunned and entranced. And she did not stop there. Other men, in the gangbang, ejaculated into condoms, to which she emptied into her mouth, sucking them empty. She was a human cum drain. I have never seen a woman digest so much sperm. I was hooked. I knew my fetish. I knew what I loved, and I kept it to myself, because like a man with a foot fetish, I was certain that I was a deviant.

A pervert. A secret perv for oral sex, facials, and now, swallowing women. I just got porn with women swallowing cum. I would go into porn shops and be amazed at the hundreds of mag- azines and videos with women eating cum. I would go into the section of the video store that had these particular videos and see men scattering from it like cockroaches in a kitchen, confirming for me that I wasn't the only sexual deviant out there that loved women that swallowed. I had a massive collection of swallowing videos after awhile.

I soon found out as time continued and I grew into a man that other men loved to have their women suck sperm. Swallowing became a tease word. Men talked about it openly over drinks and at the job. A blow-job was soon expected to end with a mouthful of cum swallowed by a devoted or skilled female. Anything less was just weak and sad. Women started to make it the subject of pillow talk after sex. Many proud that they could do it, others seeing it as taking no effort, and the sorry assed few that bemoaned it.

But still not only do we men watch like deer in the headlights when a woman blows cock, and we not only feel a sense of relief and amazement to watch a woman play with a mouthful of spunk, we applaud with great satisfaction to watch them belt it down like a shotglass of scotch. It’s a downright joyful experience to watch her go. Confetti should be thrown, champagne opened, streamers set to fly. The party should begin the minute she swallows and smiles back at you. You want to kiss her all over her face. You are in love with this woman. What insane pleasure the brain feeds back into the nervous system.

Deter- mined women get even higher marks. Deter- mined? Spillage. Did some cum dribble down her chin? Land on your thigh, her breast? Does her tongue search her chin to retrieve the streaks? Does her mouth snap up the drops on your thighs? Does a finger scoop issue from her breast and deposit it on her tongue? Does she go after every drop? That’s a determined bitch and worth taking out to dinner tomorrow night, with roses and wine, or giving her your phone number in the back alley. Whatever she wants, she gets.

Men swoon over women that eat cum. Many won’t say it. Many do. So why this fixation? Largely, the hobo believes that the eating of cum signifies acceptance of the man completely. A vagina accepts anything. A mouth is an open invitation, a door into the soul. Consider when a woman eats food. She derives pleasure out of savoring her meal, her mouth taking on seductive shapes, and every woman knows just how seductive a mouth can be when eating a banana. The mouth is as sexual an organ as the vagina or the anus. So to look at a pool of cum resting on the plaza of your ladyfriend’s tongue makes everything new in the world. It changes the perception of light and dark, makes all things new. Its a spiritual moment that transcends sex, souls, heartbeats, and soaring spirits. And her swallowing says in translation, "I'm crazy about you and sucking your cock."

Or maybe it just makes this perverted, horny fuck feel good to see my woman swallow a mouthful of my load.

That could be it too.

Hobobob

Keeping Pace with Rapid Extinction

2011-07-29T01:39:00.000-04:00

Why pros- titution?

What’s the point? Do you ever ask? Women are so into sex now, why should anyone pay for it? I don’t understand that sometimes. If a man wants sex in this day and age, he can just go out and get it almost as easily as a woman can get dick. If he’s too picky he may reduce his chances, but shit, have you ever seen a prostitute recently? I’m not talking about those thousand dollar a night women. THAT SHIT I can’t wrap my head around. You can get all the pussy you want for a few drinks and maybe a sandwich, so why pay thousands of dollars for any? I guess it’s the same mentality that goes with someone paying thousands for a fountain pen.

But have you paid twenty dollars for a prostitute to give you head in a back alleyway recently? Ugh. It’s almost not worth the twenty dollars, because you have two strikes against you. Firstly, she looks like the southbound end of a cow. Now being a man, you need something to give you a hard on. A butt ugly face just doesn’t cut it. Your dick flags so much that you have to close your eyes and dream of Cindy Crawford, or Julianne Moore. Just don’t open your eyes or look down and you should be able to keep something up with the stimulation of her mouth.

Second, they want you to wear a condom. I understand the need to wear a condom but it also dulls the sensation of the mouth which needs all the sensation that it can get. With a condom a blow-job feels as if it’s being telegraphed to your ass from California. You have to FEEL something to appreciate it. Latex just doesn’t cut it, so you spend $20 to have her play with your dick in her mouth for ten minutes, which feels like its being handled by a tennis ball racquet, and then she beats you off with her fist for five minutes until you cum in the rubber and off she goes with you standing there with your dick out your zipper, wrapped in a sperm filled wrapper.

Fuck that shit. Why pros- titution I ask? We don’t even get the good, legalized pros- titution, like the stuff that they get in Nevada. NO, we get the back alley pros, that are emaciated crack addicts or on some other drug of choice. I say bullshit to that shit. I picked a chick up in a bar for two drinks and a conversation. I invited her to my apartment and in my car, driving down the highway, she gave me a blow-job at 60 miles per hour. Did she make a mess? NOPE. Every drop of cum she swallowed and I put away my dick as clean as if it was showered. Then I took her home for some screwing. Total cost for the evening? $20.00, drinks; $4.00, tolls; $2.00, gas; good sex, priceless.

Why pros- titution then? Can you see the difference already? I have to say, it’s a no contest. Not to me it isn’t. I can’t see the reason why a guy would bother in this day and age, unless he’s butt ugly, and the truth is that there are hundreds upon thousands of butt ugly women just itching for the opportunity to fuck a man without charging him a thin red cent. There seems to be no reason for it, except if you want sex without the relationship. But the honest truth is, there are thousands upon thousands of women who are open to the casual sex game too. So now, what it the excuse for prostitution?

I think that now, there is none. Some men want to cheat on their significant other...but with a crack head? No. They go to a bar or social event, pick up some lonely woman and bang her in her apartment. Then he gives her the wrong phone number and that’s the one night stand for the night. In the morning he returns to his wife with a hokey story about working all night on a project and goes to bed. No need for a prostitute anymore.

Can you give me a good reason why you would go to a prostitute nowadays? I can’t think of one. Maybe you are just into pros. That could be it too. There are perverts like myself with strange predilections. Although prostitution doesn’t appeal to me, I still won’t knock it for the millions of men that still go to them. For reasons truly unknown.

So I ask you again, why prostitution? Because it’s the oldest profession. Ever since Adam and Eve, we’ve had prostitutes. Why do you think there was such explosive population growth in the Garden of Eden? Because there was a red-light district in that motherfucker. Simple as that. We’ll never lose the need for prostitution, even if I tell you all that it’s unnecessary. You’ll still continue to run out there and fuck the shit out of whores. Why? Because they are so fuckable.

I mean, I can see going to Vegas, getting smashed on alcohol, blowing hundreds on craps and blackjack, and then picking some dimestore cockcruiser off the street, bringing her up to your room and pounding on her until her false teeth rattle free of her head. But that is good clean fun, and fun is what it’s all about in life. Prostitutes are like rollercoaster rides. It’s not imperative that you ride one, but you do it for the thrill and to brag to your friends that you did.

Prostitutes today are the last of a dying breed. Most of the young, useless women are heading towards porn, since there is such a terrific demand for women fucking on camera these days. The Internet has made a submarket for young girls fucking on Internet Cams, called CamWhores. So there is no longer a need for real whores. Whores will soon become an endangered species and we’ll have to have rallies and collections for the preservation of the dwindling red-light districts where they can run free.

And I would like to own one. Maybe snag her and put her up on my wall, naked and alive, or let her roam around free in the house with a collar and a leash. Then there will be contests for who has the best whore, where they’ll be groomed and well fed and walked around on a pageant stage and the winner will get tons of money. And my whore will come out in first place because I’ll have her blow all of the Judges. And I’ll start a kennel of them.

And, and, and.....

Homeless people can dream, can’t we? I mean, soon prostitution may be gone, and there will only be the old memories of street walkers. Probably their skeletons walking with their purses, leather boots and mini skirts in museums, like the dinosaurs. It will be a brave, new world then.

OR maybe not.

Hobobob

Breaking the End off the Tip

2011-07-27T23:55:00.000-04:00

The Strip Club.

Feminists hate them because they are the last bastion of sexist exploitation. Mothers hate them because they corrupt children. Wives hate them because the women there upstage them in youth and physical perfection. Girlfriends hate them because strippers are so fuckable. Strippers hate them because they see themselves as being treated like pieces of lifeless, soul less meat. Let’s just say that EVERY woman has a gripe about strip clubs, except the very few that don’t.

Men love strip clubs. I don’t care what they say. Unless they work there. You can get tired of the meat market mentality, and full nudity clubs are fucking hard to find. In New York, I remember when I was younger, when they did have full nudity clubs, they didn’t serve any alcohol. Not even a bottle of beer. All you could order to drink was fruit juice and soda. Not much of a trade if you just wanted to see a little snatch. But if you are in an average topless, lap-dancing strip club you will get tired of seeing tits bobbing after a period of time. If you work there, a tolerance will build in you faster and more deeply than you can imagine.

But if you don’t work there, and you go there occa- sionally, they are great fun. Yeah. Fun. You can cheat on your significant other, without really cheating. You are skirting the thin like between watching a woman walk by in the street and hiring a prostitute to give you a blow job in a back alley or the front seat of your car. For some men, any of the above will cause a sense of regret and betrayal of their lady. Others don’t give a damn. When you go to a strip club, there seems to be an acceptability of the fact that you’re going to enjoy yourself with the opposite sex. And the truth of the matter is that you are.

You get to see another woman half dressed, let her body touch yours in a semi-intimate way, and have control over the entire exchange for a buck to a bunch of bucks. You are in control and you get to play Hugh Hefner in walking around and picking the woman of your choice. Now for a few market realities about strip clubs, just like casinos that I spoke about earlier. Strip clubs only exist to SEPARATE YOU FROM YOUR MONEY. They are not there to get you off. All you guys, if you don’t know what ‘get you off’ means, it means putting a load of your cum anywhere on another woman. I’m not saying in your fucking drawers. You might get off that way, but any other way is remote.

You go to a strip club to hang out with your friends, drink their shitty alcoholic beverages until you’re either broke or staggering drunk, and fuck around with strange women who are buzzing around you, not because you are attractive or rich, but because they are trying to support a cocaine habit, seven children, or tuition. They have their own issues and you have yours. You are there to whoop it up with a bud of yours who’s about to get married at the end of the week. You’re not interested in falling in love with these women taking their tops off and rubbing their asses against your crotch.

And if you think all the attention that they are showing you is because they like you, you need to have your head soaked. In fact, if you’re there for any reason other than to have a nice hard ass rub against your hard on while you drink your favorite watered down drink and talking the worst shit, you are a sorry assed fuck. These women will give you the impression that they are dearly in love with you, and will meet you at the end of the night, at closing, and then while you’re standing outside she’ll emerge with the bouncer, jump in a limo and drive off.

Bullshit Hobobob! No, it really happens, because it has happened to me when I was a young pup, going to strip clubs for the first time. And like any rookie, I was under the impression that someone hot loved me at first sight. And while I waited out in the rain for her, all I got was her tail lights burning red in my face. After that, I learned my lesson.

Spend only as much money as you want to. Negotiate on price. Drink to your heart’s content, and have fun. If you want anything more, I would suggest that you are tired of your significant other and you should go out back and find a twenty dollar prostitute and get a blow job. Yes, there are sad, lonely men in the world that would like the company of women, and they erroneously chose strippers to frequent, as if they see anything in them.

Strippers HATE the men that they strip for and rub their asses and faces against their tube steaks. The women think of you as only walking ATMs, that they have to coax to get cold hard cash from. If they register that you are a hard ball player, who’s only there to get drunk, get a few lap dances and is not entertaining the idea of a night in the champagne room, they’ll blow you off quickly for some rube that they can snag. Oh! You don’t know what the Champagne room is? Well, its a darker, smaller room in the club, where you get your own private couch and an especially more intimate lap dance. The limits depend on the chick you’re with.

In some cases, the worst case, you will pay twenty dollars and up for the SAME EXACT LAPDANCE that you were getting outside. This is what I call a lazy bitch ripoff. If this happens to you, get up before she finishes and go out to your buds. When she shows her face outside again, sit next to one of your buds, or even another dude that you don’t know, and point her out with an outstretched hand so that she can see you. She’ll get the message that you are fucking up her chances for another rube for the night.

In most cases, you get a little special treatment, from touching tits, sucking nipples, fondling pussy or even finger fucking her. But Caveat Emptor, or buyer beware, depending on the severity of the activity, you will pay through the nose for it if you are not careful. NEGOTIATE. Remember, she doesn’t like your ass to begin with, and if she is giving you full access to her goodies, then she is 1) tired and wants to go home soon with money, 2) have a heavy bill to pay this week and is upping the ante to get lots of cold, hard cash , 3) a sexaholic, which is unlikely, 4) or sees you as a rookie and wants to take you for all you’re worth.

So negotiate. Cut her number in half. If she balks, raise it up a fiver. If she still balks, take a hike. Many times they won’t even take you to the room unless you agree on a price, so you have complete control, and this is what they don’t understand. YOU HAVE THE CONTROL. They may have the pussy, but you have the cash. And if they look around the room, there is probably three score of them walking about looking to cut deals and get money for the night. She is not the only game in town. If she plays take it or leave it, fuck her.

Trust me, she’ll be watching you for the rest of the night to see if you go to the Champagne room with another stripper. Then she’ll think that she’s charging too much for too little. Remember this is a business transaction. This is not love. She sees you as a sucker, you see her as a fool. So there. Since there is a rapport between the two of you, have at it and have fun. That’s really what you are there for.

This is why it is pointless for women to have a problem with the strip club. There is nothing going on there.... for the most part...but good, clean fun. I’m not saying that some of these women in the club aren’t straight up prostitutes that will walk you into the Men’s Room and give you a HEADER over the commode for a twenty. OR go with you to a hotel for an hour if you use a condom. I’m not saying that. I’m saying for the most part, 9 times out of 10, that’s it’s harmless, good clean fun. It’s like an adult circus for men.

So chill out ladies on both sides of the coin. You women out there that are on the outside looking in, relax. There is very little chance of your man leaving you for a stripper. And you on the inside looking out, who really gives a fuck what a stripper is thinking.

And guys, go have fun. Leave your heart at home and your credit cards. Take a stack of ones from the nearby bank and make it rain dollars on these women.

Next. I’ll talk about the need for prostitution....or maybe not.

Hobobob

Give Me Something I can Taste

2011-07-25T22:15:00.000-04:00

The power of the strip club.

I think that the strip club has its benefit in society and it’s sometimes confused by those people who look upon it with a jaundiced eye. I think that the same error is used when judging the purpose or reason behind the casino. Is there such a thing as a healthy reason behind these two establishments? And should people feel bad because they frequent these places? Some questions huh? Do you ever wonder what makes me think like this?

Well recently I was on IRC with friends and this came up as a point of discussion. It was interesting because I hang out at both places. Well actually I hang out at titty bars more than casinos, but I can see the use and misuse of them both. I can see where there is a bit of disrespect and misunderstanding between individuals in the ‘machinery’ so to speak, and I can see the dichotomy between what is real and what is perceived.

Why is that? Because I’m a fucking hobo, that’s why. I have the vision of Naught. When you have nothing, and come from nothing, then you are given a clearer view of things that most don’t have. Money changes and colors everything. The more you have, the changes in your perception of the world is drastic. The less you have, the complete opposite your vision. I have ‘opposing vision.’ I am what the fuck I am.

So now, let us talk about casinos.

I remember going to one in Las Vegas once in my life. I’m not a big casino type of guy. It’s not my thing. I don’t need money, I have no love for the stuff. Some people look at casinos as a money making opportunity. They cater dreams that they will walk in and walk out millionaires. Some people take this dream too far and become stalwart gamblers, feeding their addictions like a crack addict would their drug of choice. Money, the greed, the need. Some people view casinos as a huge, brightly neon lit ATM and they have the card.

Me? I see a casino as a place to waste money. Games of chance are tilted towards the House. The House is the clear winner in these games. Like in a carnival. There will be more losers than winners. Look around you. You’re not gambling in a fucking shack. You in multi-million dollar edifices, with flashing lights, and partially dressed waitresses and armed guards. What pays for this walking, talking circus of lights and money? You LOSING. If you don’t lose, this place would cease to exist. So when I go, I go for the drinks, the music, the fun and the whores. Mostly the whores. Throw cash up in the air. You stand just an equal chance of winning as if you played the games.

Get a hot bitch on your arm, go to a table and make a dumb fuck of yourself. Drink until security comes and escorts you off the premises or to your room and stick twenties down into the cleavage of every woman you come across. That’s the point. You’re there to spend money, not to make money. People who come out of these places with forty and seventy dollars are still fucked because they had the overpriced drinks and dinner. They still lost.

But put the shit in per- spective. You don’t go to the neighbor- hood carnival and play their games of chance expecting to win a million dollar future do you? You expect to win a teddy bear or a baseball, maybe even a pinwheel with the little candy in it’s stem. But you don’t go there to walk off like Howard Hughes. Well do the same for yourself at these big casinos. Don’t bother going to become a millionaire. Go to have fun. Make a damn fool out of yourself, and pick up a whore or two. Cop some excellent stash and drink up a storm. Dance on quarters, throw dollars in the air, pinch a passing ass or two and give yourself credit. You are there to enjoy yourself.

Now, that’s the thing about casinos that I wanted to say my piece, now how about strip clubs.

I have a lot to say about this, but the truth is, there is not enough space on this blog post for it, so I’ll end here with the casinos being my first part of this essay and I will continue tomorrow with the other half, the stripper half of the essay. How does that sound to you?

I hope I don’t get killed by a black bear or wild boar or something before then.

Love,
Hobobob

The Long March of the Jack Boot

2011-07-16T12:24:00.000-04:00

March 14th

Another holiday to be celebrated, but this one is a different one than the 4th of July. It’s a new holiday that started by some dudes in 2002 and it has slowly been gaining momentum because it is such a rational, reasonable holiday that people, both men and women, are rallying behind it. I learned of it quite by accident this week, since I’m such a pervert that I was surfing the web for good porn. As usual, my porn is solely blowjob pictures. Yeah, I’ve always had a penchant for blowjobs because to me they seem to be the most intimate of all of the sex acts. Even more intimate than anal sex.

To see a man, or myself for that matter, with my erection deep into the face of the one I love, or in fact, someone that I have just paid to do it for the hour, is an amazing sight. Not to mention the feel of the inside of a warm mouth, with it’s tongue sliding up and down the length of the underside of your member. Really. Any man that tells you that he doesn’t love it is a fucking liar. Little boys can’t wait to get their first blowjob. When they hear about it, they have to have one, and I guess that’s what I was. At a very young age I was introduced to oral sex, and that gave me a propensity towards it. A predisposition for the act of oral sex more than most. I crave it sometimes.

Well, here we go to our new holiday. It’s call ‘Steak and a Blowjob Day.’, or just plain ‘Steak and a BJ day’ for those pussies out there that can say the word cocksucking. Personally I would have called it, ‘Porterhouse and a Dick Suck Day’, but I think people are really trying to make it a holiday. The logic behind this day is that on Valentines Day, men suffer to find the right gift, the right box of chocolates and hearts, the pinkest shit, and the best, most romantic joint that they can find to show their lady loves that they love and appreciate them. But what about the man? As time and Hallmark has made it, Valentines day is slanted towards the female gender. Take the red roses for instance.Do you think your man wants red roses?

Men feel left out and unappre- ciated. There seems to be no holiday just for a man to enjoy, that is solely for a man, and a way that a significant other can show her appreciation for her man. Well, these inventive fucks came up with ‘Steak and a BJ Day, on March 14th. This is a fucking no brainer day. Even the most retarded girlfriend can figure this one out. No need for cards, or fancy gifts. No need for perfumes, candle lights, the find dining-ware. All she needs is to go to the nearest butcher shop, buy a simple cut of steak, grill or throw it in the broiler. Slap the fuck on a plate, and when her man comes home and plops down on the couch after a hard days work, drop the plate before him and watch him dig in with a smile.

When he's done, just move the plate aside, zip down his pants and swallow his knob. Give him a decent blowjob for about half an hour and then when he blows his load, pull your panties up and swallow it down. End of story. For this holiday, they also have gift cards that say, something like, Happy Steak and Blowjob Day! I love you.” Or some wacky shit to wake the dumb fuck up that this is his holiday. Some men already know of this holiday and try to show their girlfriends and wives where it falls on the calendar. But many women will not observe any holiday that isn’t on the national list of celebrated holidays in the United States.

This is why there is an online petition to place this day on the national list of celebrated holidays so that women, the world over, can appreciate it just as men appreciate Valentines Day. I should know, I signed the damn petition myself. Yeah, just doing my part to keep a cock in every woman’s mouth. With this being said there are several social media, such as Facebook, webpages, and individuals taking the lead in evangelizing this message to the rank and file of the world. As for me, I’m just doing my part, mentioning it in my blog and providing links for people to do their own research and to pass on the word.

Hell women, there is even a product called Semenex that you can give to your man. It’s like a milk shake, but it’s a veggie milk shake and it’s sole purpose is to make a man’s sperm tasty as all hell. For just $45.00, you can drink all of the cum you can hold, and as I had mentioned time and time again on my blog, reap the enormous health benefits of semen in your daily diet routine. Semenex will also make doing the big gulp on Steak and Blowjob Day, like drinking a warm glass of milk.

So, all of you ladies out there, here’s a good reason to celebrate your man. And don’t be short sighted. Although there is a Steak and a Blowjob Day, does not mean that it has to be the only day for a blowjob. It’s a day to CELEBRATE the blowjob. Try to think of it like that, while you regularly go down on your man. And on that day, it doesn’t have to be just one blowjob. It can be Steak and eggs for breakfast, and a blowjob; Steak sandwich and a vacuum job for lunch; and then a Steak dinner with all of the fixings and a long, luxurious hour long suck down for dinner. Taking a load in your mouths and showing him how easy it is to swallow it down (especially if you’re using Semenex).

Now, isn’t that a great idea for March 14? And for all of you women out there that were short changed on February 14th by a dead beat boyfriend that got you nothing, took you nowhere, and bought you nothing, March 14 can be a special day for him too! ‘A hamburger and a Handjob Day.’ Ha ha ha.

And for those men you just don’t like. ‘A ham sandwich and a photograph of a chick with a cock in her mouth'. Let him use his hand if he wants to get off on it.

Enjoy the holidays, ladies. They only come around once in a year.

Hobobob

The Conjurer Makes a Cup of Tea

2011-07-11T08:37:00.000-04:00

4th of July.

I’m usually running around, downtown, trying to get the best position on the elevated section of the FDR Drive, to watch the fireworks; But that was when I was homeless and had to deal with the press of humankind, which bent my screws in the first place. People, people in, people out, people around, people under, people over...people, people, people. That’s why I want to stay away from people, away from other humans breathing the same air, looking at the same things, touching the same stuff.

Everyone is watching the fireworks on television, because they too are tired of the press of humanity. Then you have people too far to travel to see the Macy’s 4th of July fireworks, so they are blasting shit off in their back yards. They’ve gone over to the corner store or corner fuck-offs and bought tons of plastic explosives, gunpowder, G-4 rockets and frag grenades and skip off home to light them shits up. The funny thing: suddenly states that would not allow people to blow off their hands and faces last year will be allowing them to do so this year.

Yes, they are legalizing fireworks on the 4th. Suddenly legislators reviewed the issue, talked to medical expects, checked the growing statistical records and came to the conclusion that they are going broke and will whore out any law to pay their exorbitant salaries. Yeah, because they are running in the red, they’ve legalized fireworks. Which means, yesterday they felt that Americans were incapable of lighting tons of explosives. Today, they have no problem with children igniting in flames or fathers blowing their heads off staring down the wrong end of a bottle rocket.

This is good news though. Believe it or not. Not that social Darwinism won’t remove hundreds of idiots off the planet when they fuck with these things. That is a good thing. Motherfuckers too stupid to pass the SAT blowing off their fingers, teeth, eyes and skull caps trying to light fireworks while drinking and smoking dope. Nothing wrong with drinking and smoking dope, but doing so and handling dangerous substances like blasting caps and you’ve got big trouble for people who are idiots.

But the real good news though is that our state legislatures are lowering themselves to more realistic levels of whoredom. Now they are beginning to look like the sellouts that many of them are. Soon, the cost of paying their salaries will become so high and taxing to the American public that it'll become political suicide, and then they’ll start legalizing the good shit. Just think of it. First, shit that doesn’t kill us by fucking with it, like prostitution. Not the dangerous street corner shit that we have suffered with for years because of it being illegal, and therefore rife with diseases, but instead government legislated and controlled prostitution like in Nevada, with clean, safe, state certified prostitutes. Then the state can tax fucking someone legally for cash and make a mint.

In this way the legislators can collect cold hard cash hand over fist and put 95% of it into their deep pockets and give 5% to the state for government services that they say are being abused by Americans. But the fun does not stop there pals. The money strapped legislators can take it a step farther. Next, legalize marijuana. That would be a neat cross from illegal to legal and the fun part is that you can’t blow your face off lighting a joint. With the state allowing cigarette companies to package marijuana, the state can mark them up to insane amounts. Then after the crazy assed markup, they can then tax them out of this world. There is an amazing amount of money to be made for their 95/5% dispensation.

We can go further, like cocaine. Same thing as marijuana. We can laugh at the things that the state governments can legalize after they have bullshitted us for centuries when the dollar was everywhere and they weren’t giving themselves raises on a regular basis. This is the best thing that that has ever happened to the people. Greed has the wheels of government turning again, and they are hungry for more money. This is a way to squeeze more from the people while making them happy. Such a nice thing, no?

So we have people now ready to kill themselves on the 4th with shining eyes and drunken grins. While they lose body parts to flaming fireworks or light themselves and run up and down the blocks on fire, looking like Johnny storm, going ‘flame on’! I might light my joint up on their burning remains, and drink their booze, and watch as their bodies fall onto a stack of fireworks and then sit back, enjoying the skies turning into bright lights and sparkling flame as fire shoots out of their orifices.

And in my mind, dreaming of a freer world, where we can start our own fireworks, killing ourselves, fuck a hot, clean whore while out with the boys, using our credit cards or a charge account, and smoke a joint and sniff some coke without worrying about overtaxing our police forces in the constant fight against drugs that they can’t win.

What a wonderful world.

Hobobob

Shimmying With Your Hand Up Her Skirt

2011-07-06T12:11:00.000-04:00

Working on it dude.

That’s what I’m doing now. Staring at the computer, working on trying to write again. Things are not as good as they could be. I’m thinking that some circuits are blown in my skull. I think something has fried and now I’m unable to do anything. I can’t write myself out of this hole that I’m in, and therefore, I’m trapped like a fly in amber, or a bird without wings. This is not a good feeling. It’s like all of your dreams are being dashed every day that you get up and look at the computer and find that you can’t do shit to add or subtract from the work you are doing.

That’s what really hurts. The fact that you have a novel to write, with characters waiting to be added to and you can’t do a damn thing but stare at a screen and watch a cursor flash. It’s called writer’s block. It’s when your thoughts can’t do anything other than bunch up together and do nothing. You can’t see anything in your mind’s eye. The movie of your novel is not playing in your head, so there is nothing you can do about it but stare off into space at a white screen, with just the words you have written before hearing about your father’s death.

And that's what makes me wonder. Am I giving up? Am I hoping that I end up on the streets again because I am not fighting? Have I given up on life because I’ve lost my father? Is it that he was so important to me that I don’t want to live on without him? Could I be so weak, or maybe so much in love, that his death has stunned me more than I know?

I say this because I have not shed a tear for him yet. I have not cried, or even felt pain. I miss him slightly, but not enough to be moved. I’m glad he’s at rest because he was in such discom- fort. I got a chance to see him before he died and I told him I loved him. I wrote him love letters and he knew to his grave that I cared and respected him. I never had an argument with him, never had a disagreement that I feel remorse for. I always loved him even during the worst of times with him, and that was when I was homeless and he disowned me for a year. When he re-owned me, we picked up from where we left off, still loving each other.

So, maybe, just maybe, my inability to write is my way of mourning his passing. I was hot and heavy on this story before he perished, and now I can’t seem to write a single word for myself. I can’t do a thing, and so because of this, I’m doomed. The problem is that my writing has been my lifeline. It’s been my strong fiber. It’s been my escape clause. It’s been where I’ve tied up all of my hopes and dreams for survival. Writing was my way of getting out of this mess that I’m in. Drawing money from something that I loved doing. Writing.

But instead, my abilities to write have been extin- guished and well, that’s it. There goes all my hopes and dreams. And this room, this room, has changed from a transitional existence to that of a prison cell with no end in sight. That does not feel good. Especially when you know you could do this. You know you can succeed in writing your way out of your intended doom. There was a time that I was not afraid...but now. Now I feel fear. I fear that I can’t and will never escape this hole, and that soon, Social Services will yank the carpet out from under me and the other shoe will fall and I will be back out on the streets. I’m really not looking forward to that shit.

I had always hoped to leave the streets an author, victorious and making my father proud of me in the process. I wanted to return to him, triumphant. And now, unless he is staring down at me from the heavens, which I really don’t think so, he’ll never see me succeed. And maybe because of this cold, hard fact, maybe I no longer wish to succeed. Maybe I wish I will not succeed so I’ve fallen on my ass and will not move, like my psyche has become a stubborn mule, unable to do work. Who knows if I can ever kick start it again. Maybe I need something greater to fight and win for. Maybe I need something or someone to win the game of life for other than myself.

Because if I don’t, then where in the fuck will I end up in the long run? Huh?

Maybe back on the streets with my brethren, the Skeksies. Maybe I can live for them? Survive for them? Or be like them once more. When Social Services drops the other shoe. Fuck Social Services. I know what I’m not....and that’s a Skek. No matter how much Social Services would like me to be one. Social Services can go to hell and lick my asshole all the way there.

I know what I am, dammit. I’m an author. It’ll just take me a little more time.

Just a little more time.

Hobobob

The Deep Run in the Stockings of the World

2011-07-05T12:00:00.001-04:00

There is a thing about the streets.

There is a thing about living with Skeksies. There is a thing about leaving a roof, front door, bed and heated/air conditioned room, and shelter from the heat and cold. There is a thing about having possessions and creature comforts that you take for granted. If you’ve ever had all of your personal belongings and home removed from you, you learned something. I have. Trust me, it’s indelibly written against my psyche like etched stone.

Do you think it’s not? Do you think you’d forget living on the streets, having no home? Spending night after night in Penn Station, or day after day in the library or Starbucks? Would you forget having everything that you own on your back? Do you think you would forget two years of that, an then another year in the shelter system? I think about what I’m doing now, and how I’m living and that it’s a step up from abject poverty, and there is nothing that you can compare it to. Believe me, unless you are killed in a violent way, there is no comparison.

Oh, don’t jump up my ass because I said that. People die violently every fucking day. But its not every day that YOU end up destitute, and I am talking about YOU. I’m not talking about the person that was killed violently. They’ve been dealt a hand worse than mine. And I’m admitting to that. I’m talking about people who have never tasted either. If you have never been killed violently, or have lost everything you’ve ever owned and lived on the streets, you are living a charmed life. If you have had any of the above, you can agree with me. It really sucks. It sucks so bad that it causes the head of a dick to burst like a over-inflated basketball.

And now, sitting in front of my computer and coming up with nothing, I am wondering on how the fuck I’m going to get out of this mess. This SRO, this life. I want to live in a home, with rooms, and a bathroom and furniture and lamps and storage space. I’m not bitching though. Don’t get me wrong. I would vomit if I’d have to leave here and go back to the streets. I’m appreciative, trust me. I just would like better. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you like to work and live better and meet someone hot and live with her while fucking behind her back with even younger and hotter women? Wouldn’t you like to drive a nice car drunk, and smash it into inanimate objects that are heavier.

Wouldn’t you like to eat good food, and then drink like a fish and puke it up on your best friend’s lap. I want to live a better life, and that shouldn’t be begrudged me. I want to live with my dick in the air before everything goes down-hill and I turn into an old fucking geezer. Then nobody will want me. I want to see my books published and go on book signing tours. I want to do more than sit at the mercy of the asshole stupid Social Services who treat hard working Americans who fall on tough times like criminals.

I’ve worked every fucking day of my life since I was 16 years old, paying into Unemploy- ment and Welfare my entire working life for damn near 30 years and these bitches deny me Unemployment and then bitch and moan that I’ve asked to be on Welfare for three years. You do the math. Three years over Thirty and am I fucking in tears that I’m drawing from it? I would LOVED to have been drawing from my unemployment but the FEDS POCKETED all of that. A freebie. It’s that kind of selfish shit that makes me fucking proud to be on Welfare. I was so proud in the beginning that I accepted living on the streets and having all my shit sold to others without giving me a penny.

I was so proud that I lived out of soup kitchens than to accept a handout for two years. Do you think you can do that? Do you? But I woke up. Fuck living on the streets for these fucks. Fuck it. So I put my ass in gear and demanded what was due me. Welfare is due me. Period. I have enough hate inside of me to take everyone on that wants to debate that shit. Now, in my life I need it. They said for fucking 30 years that the reason why they were taking it was for when I got into a tight spot, like the same said for Unemployment. Once I’m in a tight spot, I get the fucking double talk. Well, now I’m in a tight spot and I’m looking to collect.

Yeah, I’m looking for a back handed payback because I didn’t die on the fucking street for them and let them off of the hook for what they owe me. So here we are. They giving through the nose and I’m taking. They are pissed and are trying their damnest to get me off their backs, and I’ve got my hooks so deep into them that the ends are poking out of their dicks. They can kiss my entire asshole.

Sorry to be pissed. I’m just re-reading this choke hold of a Allowance restriction letter and being cut back on my starvation rates and I’m gritting my teeth. I can take an ass fucking as deep as they have cock length. They’d better nut up if they think this fucking is over. I’m going to wear down whatever fuck they have in them. I’m a whore? Sure then. Fuck it.

I sprinkle crack into my pipe and light it, taking a long draw, and relaxing. I kick my feel up on my wallet filled with big money and finger the clit of two whores carrying my babies, ready to hop on welfare the minute they give birth to my bastards, and I’m doing it all on your dime because I never worked a fucking day in my life.

I hope I burn in Hell.

Hobobob

Shitloads Made More Than Others

2011-07-04T21:10:00.000-04:00

$82.00.

Wow. Nothing to you, I know. I think I should be happy to be asked to....
Well, let me move on. Yesterday, I went downstairs and got my mail. I had headed out to get my meds first. I’m really loving Walgreens. Those motherfuckers in the pharmacy, don’t fuck around. I shouldn’t call them mother- fuckers. They are all women. I should call them bitches, but they don’t fuck around. Give them bitches a prescription and they ask you when do you want it. As soon as possible, I say. “Sit down, we’ll have it ready for you in 20 minutes.” What the cock-bent fuck?

Duane Reade? You suck. As soon as possible to them meant two days. I was embar- rassed to tell the chic that I meant tomorrow. I wanted to tell her that I was so proud of her, but you know how it is. She might have taken that shit the wrong way and called security, telling them that I fondled her clit or something. So, I called it a day and headed out of the Walgreens and to my mailbox. In the box I find an envelope labeled Social Services. I tore into it right away. One thing that I’ve learned from social services is that they are probably the dumbest cocksuckers on Earth. And that is an insult to dumb cocksuckers.

In it is a notice, reading: Cash Assistance. This notice is to inform you that we intend to restrict your shelter allowance effective 7/10/2011. Your shelter allowance will be paid directly to your landlord or primary tenant. This action is taken because of administrative ease. When we restrict your shelter allowance, we will issue a vendor check for X representing part or all of your semi- monthly grant of X. If your rent is more than the amount of your shelter allowance, indicated above, you must pay the rest of your rent to your landlord or primary tenant.

Nice. My little, measly allowance of less than $85.00 semi monthly. Which means, I will be getting less than $45.00 semi monthly, or less than $85.00 a month. A New York Code, Rule and Regulation was cited in the letter also. I searched it on the Internet and there I found a comment on it in a New York Register. “It states that rates are set at a “modest level” to encourage welfare recipients to work so that they can purchase higher housing quality if desired. The regulatory impact statement states that larger increases in grant level would “reduce the incentive to work.”

So they want to encourage me to purchase higher quality housing. Ha ha ha. Or rather starve me out as an incentive to work. Nothing like more hunger to make you want to get a job. The problem is that I have been working with my lawyers to get me on Disability because I can’t work. Not only is that a fact that my lawyers know, but Social Services know it too because THEY THEMSELVES are in litigation against the Feds to get me on Disability. So one of their hands realize that I can’t work at a job, and the other hand is taking more of the ‘no money’ allowance that they give me TO GO BACK TO WORK. Makes sense to you?

Then the next day, I get another letter dated the next day that reads: Your public assistance has been RECERTIFIED for the period of August 1st, 2011 to July 31, 2012. You will continue to get the SAME AMOUNT of public assistance benefits. Even though we figured your public assistance benefits again, it did not change the amount of public assistance benefits you get.

So will there be changes, or will there not be changes? I don’t know, but either way, I filed for a fair hearing to put a stop to the action and to face someone other than a computer to make my case. Will this work? I have no guess. Like I said, Social Services are like a multi-headed hydra, with each head having its own, fucked up agenda. Not one head talks to the other, so they work not together, but in a confused storm of actions that even makes them stop and wonder what the yeast infected cunt they are doing.

Like I said, they are an insult to dumb cocksuckers.

So now, I’m back in another sinking boat. God, I wish I could sell a book or two....or three. I’m hoping against hope because since the death of my father, I haven’t been able to write shit. Not a fucking thing. I think my desire to do something written is finished now that I can’t show it to him. Without desire, I have no hope. Without any hope....it’s homelessness again. The shelter system, the streets, the entire nine yards. A world of Skekies, something that I know if you’re a longtime reader, realize is not fun in the least.

I file the paperwork. I sit in front of my computer, not thinking about what to write in my new novel and the only way to vent my frustration is to blog. Blog my heart out once more. I’m not done yet.

Hobobob

The Breaking Daylight of the Species

2011-07-02T12:33:00.000-04:00

.
Sorry.

I haven’t been in the mood to write lately. It’s as if my father’s death has knocked the wind out of my sails. I can’t jumble thoughts together or make a valid point in my head unless I’m pretty torn in half. I guess I’m just preoccupied with things. But even in the face of all of this preoccupation, I got a chance to go out for a walk to get rid of the fat that has been carefully creeping onto my bones since High School.

I got my ass up and out for two days straight. Well, no mean feat, but I got it done so don’t jump up my ass. I could have just stayed locked up in my room, silent as a polecat in an alley behind a Chinese Restaurant. Instead, I got up, took a hot shower, put on some clothes that still fit me, and headed out to the hot New York streets. And FUCK was it hot. The sun was like a mean sonofabitch, kicking ass and taking down names. I wanted to cuss, but what good would that do? That shit is the FUCKING SUN! It would do nothing more than bake me out of my skull.

But the good thing about the heat in the New York summer are the women. New York women. There is just something about them that you can’t find anywhere else on the planet. Well, maybe you can, because I have not seen the entire planet, but still, I love to look at them. They are a source of constant erections. Tall, lean and partially undressed in the heat, New York women seem to be allergic to clothing. I mean, really! I’m walking down the block and in front of me is a woman with a pair of bitchen legs in a dress so short that you can see the bottoms of her ass cheeks. Yum.

Then there is the chick in the tube top. DAMN, tube tops are not out of style yet. I remember when I was in my twenties, and my dick would get hard just thinking of the WORD woman and tube tops, which were all the rave. I would stagger down the block, my erection down my thigh and my slacks jerking it’s length with each step that it threatened to jack me the fuck off before I could make it to the curb. It took all of my concentration to think about dead dogs and rotten meat to kill the damn thing so that I could get home.

Well, this girl missed the memo and strolled past in a tube top, them damn tits dancing with each step. And that’s where it’s at isn’t it. Bobbing, dancing tits. Somehow the bra is the enemy in the heat, thank god, and off they go with tits bobbing like clowns at a rodeo. I would dance to them if those fuckers had a beat. And you know the truth about sweater puppies don’t you? You see one pair of fun bags...you want to see them all. Even on old women with them flopping around their waistline. Shit, if the nipples are hard, you damn well have the hobo’s attention.

And then the stirrup pants that hug those tight, round asses. I don’t know what happens to underwear either. Maybe they don’t wear any. Shit, I don’t, but I don’t suffer from slicing cheese...if you know what that is. Slicing cheese is when the pants go up between the ass cheeks. YOW! It makes the slacks look like they were spray painted on. This, combined with the ever beloved cameltoe...oh shit, you don’t know what the fuck a cameltoe is? Well, it’s like slicing cheese, but in the front, between the legs. That’s when the pussy wants to gobble up the inseam of the slacks. Yeah, tired, but still a lovable sight.

With all this shit going on outside in the summer- time, you’d wonder why don’t I get out more often? That’s because I SUFFER FROM SOCIAL ANXIETY! I feel like something out there is out to kill the shit out of me. Tits, ass, cameltoes, nothing is enough to get me strolling out there on my own. But I do it anway, to lose weight and to get that precious Exposure Therapy.

And that’s what’s really important now, isn’t it? Exposure Therapy. Being around New Yorkers in subways and on the streets and in buses. I don’t know if you think it’s a good idea, but I have ATIVAN now, so I can pop those things and float away on a bliss you cannot imagine. So that who really gives a fuck about hundreds of millions of people dead set to put an end to my life?

Thank god for ATIVAN.

Hobobob

The Annealed Iron is the Heaviest

2011-06-27T13:11:00.000-04:00

You were very PRO-GUY yesterday, Hobobob.

Yeah, I was at that. Because I was speaking about things that piss me off. The attack on Anthony Weiner wasn’t about politics. It wasn’t about the stupid Republicans heaping hate on the entire Democratic party and all that bullshit. It was about a guy being a guy. We give women incredible leeway to be women, but guys are not cut any slack.

Disagreee? Don’t fuck with me, I’ll go on a fucking rampage that’ll shrivel up a testicle or an ovary. You should know by now that I don’t play around here on this blog. But I don’t have time for a girls-against-the-boys post either. I want to talk about an email that goes like this today: “Hobobob, you have a lot of shit to say about American Politics, but still, this country has the best political system in the world. We are the model for every other political structure to either copy or envy. To be a real critic of the political system, you should be a politician to see it from their side of the fense.”

First of all, you don’t spell fence that way. Didn’t the spell- checker go off? Hey. I’m not going to rib on your spelling skills, instead I’m going to talk about politics, specifically being a politician. First, I’m not married, so I’ll be running on the not married platform. I have no wife, ergo, I can fuck around. That’s the second half of my platform. I have no pussy at home, so I am allowed to go out and chase as much of it as I want. So when you catch me with my dick on the Internet, don’t fucking ask me to leave my job. I’m hunting trim. And if I’m caught paying money for a high class whore, as long as it’s my money that I’m using and not funds for my campaign, leave me the shit alone.

So, I don’t want to hear anyone’s bullshit when I’m getting my dick wet for any reason. Next, I’m fucking poor. I am so poor that I don’t want to be poor anymore. That means, I’m in it for the fucking money. If I find some side scheme or some side job, I’m taking it. And I’ll tell my constituents that shit right away. I’m not fucking around. I’m greedy right off the bat. So if you are thinking that you’ll catch me with my hand in the till, I’ll ring the alarm for you. And the most you can say is that “Hobobob said that he would, and he did what the fuck he said.”

Third, I’m on a man hunt, and a woman hunt also. I’m going to point out all the lying bitches screwing and cheating the public. First, if one of my fellow politicians are doing what I’m doing, I’m ratting them the fuck out. Because I know that they will be heaping hate and heat on my head for being a shit in office. They’ll be railing against my election just because I am doing what they are doing in the open, and for them to do the same, they will be the hypocrites. So they will be shitting in their pants every time they fall asleep through a vote or tell me some shit that they are into.

Lastly, I’m voting from the homeless up. I’m talking the homeless, then the poor, then the middle class and last and very least, the upper class and the fat cats. Yeah, that’s right. I’m out to clean out the government of the bullshitting politicians, pointing them out to the American public to crucify their fucking asses, and then I’m going after the big lobbyists with their fucking deep pockets and bullshit that makes a politician a whore instead of a champion of the American Public.

What I mean to tell you is that you don’t fucking want me to be the one on Capitol Hill. I’ll fuck politics up. That’ll be the message that I will send to you people out there. I’ll give ‘em Hell, and they’ll either assassinate me while riding in the back of a sedan through the streets of Brooklyn, or do some convert smear campaign….no wait. That shit won’t work, because I will be too busy smearing own fucking ass. The assassination wouldn’t go over well either. What shadow government agents would be caught dead in Brooklyn? That’s the motherfucking truth.

So before you start printing out those Hobobob for state senate buttons, realize that I’ll be balls deep in all of my aides, and taking money from the thugs and drug dealers in the neighborhood. I mean, they are just as valid lobbyist as those fucks from the big corporations who are poisoning hundreds of thousands by polluting our lands and waters, and with bogus drugs with lethal side effects.

Do you think I’m fucking with you?

Hobobob

When The Lights Go Out Over New York

2011-06-26T03:34:00.000-04:00

I was randy yesterday.

I was happy to just write as much filth as I could on the Internet. No…that’s not true. That wasn’t filth. That was exactly how I felt. So, now you got a taste of this fucking blog. No stone unturned, that’s what I say. Be it politics, pussy, penises or people. I’m out of control and intend to stay that way. As long as children aren’t reading this blog, I feel as if I can say anything. Except racist bullshit that gets on my fucking last nerve.

I was watching the television about this Anthony Weiner guy. Now normally I don’t like politics and I don’t like talking about relationships but I’m going to anyway. Why? That’s because I’m Hobobob and that’s what I do. You’d never respect me in the morning if I didn’t. Now going back to Anthony Weiner with his progressive politics…now I’m not a real proponent of progressive politics. But then again, a lot of government services that the Republicans want to cut just pisses me off. Especially when the budgets that they should be cutting are politicians salaries. These fucks give themselves raises whenever they want to. They make millions and they are all leaches on the American budget, giving huge tax breaks to the richest 1/7^th of the population but cry that they don’t have the money to serve the fucking people.

Fuck conser- vatism. I hate them even more than the progress- ives. I think we should have a govern- ment run by the people and not by millionaires and lawyers who don’t know what the fuck is going on. Shit, I’m on my soapbox again. I wanted to get in a little about my views about Anthony Weiner. Now, politics aside, I’m wondering why everyone wanted him to step down from office. Well, I know he lied to the American public, but that’s what the fuck you are supposed to do when you get caught with your dick in the wringer. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO LIE! Who are you fucking kidding? Come forth with the fucking truth that you were showing your dick to every pair of tits and ass on the Internet?

Secondly, I don’t know if you realize this GUYS, but they’re canning this dude because he was acting like a GUY! Guys fuck around with women. We show them our dicks and give them our phone numbers. We approach them in bars and the office and give them suggestive letters and sexting them on their cellphones. Why do we do this? BECAUSE THEY DON’T. Leave it up to women and everyone would be single. Women are lousy when it comes to jumping into the fray. They applaud us for being assertive when they want to fuck us. But when a man is caught being and acting like a guy, well, he has to lose his job. What kind of bullshit is that?

But Hobobob, he was a married man. So what? So he might have had a shitty marriage. His wife could have been a real tight assed bitch in the bedroom, denying him anal or oral sex. So he skipped off behind her back. So what? Maybe he just got tired of her old ass and it was hard getting hard for her. Women don’t appreciate the value of desire and sexual hunger when it comes to sex. A woman can be bored, tired, not interested, disgusted, or even against sex when having sex. When it’s time for sex, she’s having sex. But men…if any of these conditions exist, then he can’t have sex. He just can’t get and sustain what is needed to pull the real mechanism of sex through to the completion of the act…the erection.

So keep it up women. Keep looking shitty for your man. Keep being a hard assed bitch for your man. Keep giving him your bullshit that you can’t stay in shape or you are like the way you are and can’t change for him. I’ll tell you, there is an army of women out there that WILL, in a heartbeat. Why? You see, they don’t want to be fucking ALONE for the rest of their goddamned lives. They’d rather you be the one that's alone, so they’ll convince themselves that fucking your man is alright in the moral sense of the word. AND THAT’S WHAT WOMEN DO. They fuck married men. I don’t know of a woman that hasn’t fucked a married man or thought about it, when given the opportunity. That’s the real deal ladies. Be a shithead and your man will stray.

Remem- ber, even if you are a good woman, there are just too many women in relation to men. You outnumber us four to one. Look at your numbers. Will you be a common one week fuck, a disposable booty call, a longer term relationship, or something lasting until you grow old and die? Why do you think that a divorce is so inclement to a man? To keep the thought of it from entering his mind. A man can't afford to walk away from a wife. But he can afford to screw her over. They haven't found a way to penalize men for that shit yet. He only receives a penalty when he is caught.

Weiner strayed. He acted like a guy under the circum- stances and for his troubles, lost his fucking job. Lost it to the pious politicians that you know are 1) lying to the public, 2) putting their dicks and pussies where they don’t belong, 3) cheating on their spouses. They’re all doing it on Capitol Hill, which is just another glorified Playboy Mansion. Don’t fool yourself. Politicians are legalized criminals. Our only recourse is to pick the lesser of the evils. Just because Weiner was after some stray pussy, we shouldn’t hold it against him. Let him and his wife sort that shit out in their marriage. Why do we have to hear about it over and over again in the news or lose another crooked politician in the process?

Can you tell me?

Let the fuck keep his job. Oh…he resigned? Take care guy. Now you can walk away from all the hypocrisy and act like a guy again. Fuck on dude. I hope now you realize that you can get that stray pussy that you really want and tell your wife to kiss your ass.

Hobobob

The Highly Classified Nonsense

2011-06-21T06:13:00.002-04:00

I have been home and I’ve learned something while I was just sitting around gaining weight. Watching rap videos have taught me a vital lesson. I bet you never thought of that, that you can learn from a rap video. But remember what I was saying a long time ago about bitches? Bitches rule because those fuckers are so mean and ruthless that they make the world go round. They are built like Mack Trucks and can go as long and hard as route 95 through the fucking country.

I realize that I want a bitch.

Bitches are incredible. Big, outra- geously hard tits and asses and fuck power like a Challenger Space shuttle explosion. They are still the number one thing to have. First of all, bitches on rap videos run in packs. They’re always five or six of them doing something….mostly dancing on tables and shit. Then there must be a group rate on everything; Such as going to a party with an army of bitches. You ARE the party when you walk through the door.

Bitches can do an army of guys. They’re always in porn. One bitch versus fifteen guys, and they fuck to music. Women hate it when you turn on the stereo to Def Leopard or Poison. They hate it when while you’re full stroking their asses you’re singing the lyrics to “99 Problems and a Bitch Ain’t One.” Bitches, on the other hand, when you turn on the music, they jump on your car or coffee table and shake that booty.

Bitches are never in jogging wear, and sweats. They only travel in bikinis or short skirts that show their asses and low cut blouses that scream titties. They never wear sandals and are only barefooted or in high heel fuck me pumps. Bitches rule. Bitches are very expensive too. Only rap stars and moguls can afford them by the bus load. People in general can’t generate enough money to afford them. Hugh Hefner has a mansion full of them and you can only be rich to get inside of there and get some of what they’re serving.

Bitches take it in every hole. Your swinging, naked balls can be slapping against their chins, taints or asses. Bitches suck, fuck and shit sex. You do not want to stray from a bitch, because they are dangerous, in bed and out. You can’t go and fuck some young screw you meet at a bar, bitching that her boyfriend broke up with her over the fact that her tits are too small. But you CAN fuck your Bitch’s girlfriends…at the same fucking time; Two, three women in bed, simultaneously. Your poor little dick won’t survive a gang of these cum hungry bitches. You’ll just be shit out of luck. There is just one thing that you can do. Pray for your posse to come in and save your ass.

Love is out of the question. You can’t love a bitch. She’ll move with her crew. If another one hooks up with another rap star, they’ll move off, taking the love of your life with them. You’ll have to just keep her until she moves on. That’s why you have to move fast and watch all the porn that you can to pick up pointers on how to fuck her until you bang yourself silly in every sexual position and sexual menagerie known to man.

Bitches wash your car with their naked tits, and suck off all the guys in your wedding party. They put the hard fuck in screw. I want a bitch. They don’t care about children. They can’t have any. How do they do it…well they read the book Sperm Wars, and they realize that sperm from different men fight each other until one wins the egg. So they pile sperm in their birthing canals, turning it into the Death March of Battaan or the Battle at Iwo Jima, or Hamburger Hill or something like that. A big, flaming knockdown, drag out environment. If you’re sperm, you do not want to visit their vaginas.

Bitches. Someone give me a bitch. Tall, strong, young with muscles all over her fucking body and no body hair, not even crotch hair. I want them stupid and mean and can bend steel with her snatch and jump over tall penises with a single bound. She can keep your ears warm between her tits when the weather is cold.

Bitches are awesome.

All this is just something that I wanted to talk about…something that I noticed. I think of this shit while watching television and then I say to myself. Why not? Why not have a bitch lottery. Where for a dollar, you can scratch off and see if you won a free posse of bitches. That would be worth a dollar.

And if you have a bitch that you’re selling cheap, you know what back alleyway you can find me.

Hobobob

When the shakes Enter Into Your Hands

2011-06-20T09:28:00.000-04:00

The funeral was beautiful. My father was laid out and handsome. He was dressed in a sharp suit and tie and he looked like he was sleeping in his coffin. I’m so sorry that I missed you old man. Many thoughts played in my mind when going through the motions of the funeral, climbing in and out of the limousine, seeing my sister for the first time, which is another long story, and walking the distance to the grave that had to be dug three times because the gravediggers just couldn’t get it right.

I was burying the most important man in my life. The one man that I looked up to and was formed by and I have to say, that I wasn’t sad, but instead proud of my old man. He left people behind that thought highly of him, thought of him as a friend, a father, a husband, a co-worker, a client. He left people behind that respected and cared about him, and what is life except what we leave behind?

I was concerned for my mother. I didn’t want her to break down alone. I knew she was in pain, but she didn’t show it. She seemed to be like a rock. Indomitable, stalwart, strong, she did not even get watery eyes during my entire stay with her. She was like me; or rather I was like her. Without weakness, without emotion. We buried my father, in a modest ceremony and that was all there was to it. We laid the man that we loved to rest.

I stayed with her for another week. We were good together. We laughed, smiled, joked, and talked. We were mother and son, drawn closer by death. The house was not quiet for her, and she wanted me to stay, but there was no way that I could. I love my mother, but I can’t live with her. I just can’t. There are things that a grown man needs that he can’t secure with his mother in the next room…pussy for one.

There is no way that my mother is going to allow me to bring stray pussy into the house. And a man needs fresh pussy every once in a while. It’s good for the health, the skin, it keeps you young. Good pussy is like plugging into life’s eternally flowing circuit. It’s where all life comes from, and inside of it is magic power. Good pussy has strong power that can’t be denied. I can’t unplug myself from this force of nature just because my mother doesn’t want to be alone.

I mean, I go great stretches without pussy sometimes like many men, but I'm not so sure that I want to say no to pussy for the rest of my life when I am only 49 years old. I think I've got another ten years of fucking left in me. So, there's no need to say goodbye to the possibility of sex so soon. That's one reason that I don't want to be with the old lady. Next is the need for independence. I need to be able to come and go out of my home without someone 'worrying' about me. That is a little much, and I'm used to the freedom of movement that many men don't have. This is also important to me.

So here I am now, days after the funeral, sitting in a car in the dark of the night before the Green Apple Quickstop, waiting for the Greyhound bus back to New York. My cousin David is sitting next to me, my mother in the back seat. What am I going to do when I get home? Put my life back together again? How? I'm returning, minus a father...and no pussy to make up for the gap.

My ride back in was unevent- ful. I could bitch about many a thing, like the stupid shit that I had to sit next to in the bus who just couldn't sit still all night. I know I'm a big motherfucker but we have the share the armrest between us, and when you do, my shoulder will press against yours, and if you open your legs as big as I do because you get tired of squeezing your balls together between your thighs, then of course our thighs will touch during the ride. This motherfucker had to squirm all night every time our bodies touched as if I was trying to stick my dick in his mouth during the ride. His moving made it impossible for me to sleep. I was glad that the fuck got off at Newark. New Jersey, the bleeding rectum of my existence. The pus dripping dick of my life. I should have known better.

I got off the bus at Port Authority and took a cab uptown to my room. I am happy now. Now, in the confines of my home, I am happy. I rest, sit back and take a break. The day is over and night is creeping up quickly.

I'm back home. I'm back in New York City.

Amen.

Hobobob

Take Those Pills To Stay Alive

2011-06-19T16:57:00.000-04:00

When my bus wife woke up in Norfolk, she didn’t even thank me for the shoulder.

I was tired and achy. My joints protested as I rose painfully and stretched out in the aisle of the bus. My bus wife took her daughter and was gone in the exiting crowd. I moved out also, with my backpack and came alongside the bus. The baggage handlers had tossed out luggage and were working their way into the secondary luggage compartment further down the length of the bus.

I found my luggage on the tarmac, but no book. Shit! I looked around the tarmac, and then into the open maw of the luggage compartment. As the handlers worked on the luggage in the next compartment, I climbed into the first one and further in, near the back, was my book. I snatched it up and jumped out, lifting my other bag and headed for the terminal. My pack pack had my laptop and it’s hardware; my carrying bag, my change of clothing.

I made my way through the terminal in Norfolk and headed for the john to take a leak. You know, at those urinals without privacy partitions. So to hide the smallness of your prick you have to stand into the porcelain urinal to piss. While well endowed men, with garden hose dicks, stand back and pour a stream of urine into the bowl. I hate toilets like this.

I came out of the toilet and found a guard in the terminal and asked him where was the bus to Norfolk loading. “What time does your ticket say?” Ticket? I took the ticket out of my pocket, scanned it and didn’t find shit that looked like a time. I scanned it again as the seconds ticked by and found the time of the bus departure on the ticket. 5:30pm. It was 5:32pm. “You want gate seven, but your bus is probably leaving”, the guard said. Hell, I bolted. I flew down the terminal to gate seven and the bus was still there, with it’s driver standing beside the open luggage compartment door.

Are you leaving for Ahoskie? “Yeah. Where were you when I said that I was leaving in a few minutes?” I was in the john, I told him. “Well, you almost got left behind.” I laughed. Life’s been good to me so far, sir, I replied. I threw my luggage into the compartment and climbed aboard the bus. This was a good ride. No one sitting next to me. Two hours to go for the rest of the trip. The sun was up and shining by now. It was good. Ahoskie, here I come. As I walked into the bus I could hear the irate bus driver, complaining to more people outside. “Where are all of you people coming from. You didn’t hear me when I said that I was leaving five minutes ago?”

In time the bus pulled out of the station and struck onto the streets of Norfolk, and the streets melted away to the highway and then the open road that spanned the great reaches of green plantations and distant deep woods. I sat and stared out of the window and put my cellphone to my ear, letting my mother know that I was just hours away from getting to the Green Apple Depot before the cell phone died. For some reason, Ahoskie has no cell coverage to my phone. There never was. I sat and waited at the miles melted and civilization seemed to shrink to the great outdoors.

In two hours the bus pulled into the Green Apple quick stop. A conven- ience store/gas station on the outskirts of Ahoskie. I climbed down off the bus with my backpack, came out and grabbed my bag and waving from the door of an SUV was my mother. I crossed the parking lot and climbed in, her friend Shirlene driving her around. Shirlene pulled out of the parking space and once again struck on the road and we past the sign for Ahoskie. A town so small that on one side of the sign it says you’re entering Ahoskie, and the other side it says that you are leaving. Shirlene drove us to my parents house, now my mother’s house and I entered in.

I had finally made it to Ahoskie.

I’m here to bury my father.

Hobobob

Many Mighty Marching Musical Minions

2011-06-15T21:55:00.000-04:00

My father died 6:30, Sunday Morning.

I had my ass in New York still. My mother called me on the phone and there I was, holding the cell phone against my ear, stupefied. It came as no surprise. He was dying slow for quite some time, and that is the sad thing about missing his passing. I should have been there. I was just too slow. I thought I had more time. Obviously I did not.

I got my act together within the next twelve hours and found myself packed and heading downtown in a cab to the Port Authority bus station. I waited for the Greyhound bus to arrive with a mob of other people. It’s strange that some people can’t seem to get the simple things right. Some people are just retarded. I guess that’s the simple speech about the entire thing. There is a single door and people need to exit through it in an orderly fashion, so what do you do? You form a line of people. A simple, single line of people at the door so that everyone can get their turn through the door...right?

WRONG. These mental frycakes make a mob scene right in front of the door and then get into an argument with everyone when it’s time to move on through the door. I stomp a straight line through everyone. I do the New York Oblivious Motherfucker, just pounding through the mob, through the front door and to the bus.

So that I can read a book that Dr. A gave me, I put it on top of my large piece of luggage and carried it through the door, and completely forgot about it when I handed it to the luggage handler who, doing his job and little else, tossed the bag into the luggage compartment of the bus. I, with my stupid assed self, climbed into the bus, sat down and made myself comfortable, staring at people who walked into the bus and down the aisle, looking for a seat. It is my intention to dissuade them, by my menacing stare, to sit somewhere else and not take the seat next to me, giving me ample room for the trip.

Everyone took the hint that I didn’t want company and marched on, either sitting next to someone else or finding a seat alone. This was good, but also bad, because it was during this time that I remembered that the book that I was supposed to be reading was on top of my luggage, now somewhere in the luggage compartment of the bus. Beautiful. A half an hour later, the bus pulls out of the station and heads South. Within the first few minutes of travel, things are fine. Until we get to the Newark, New Jersey stop. I should have guessed that Newark would be the pain in the ass.

Two passengers got onto the bus. A woman and daughter. The daughter sat in the front of her and she sat down in the seat next to mine. Gee, thanks. That was the fun part. I had a riding buddy for the rest of the 8 hour trip from New York to my transfer in Norfolk. I got comfortable for the long ride. We hit the road and off we were gone. I’m thinking to myself: great, I’ve lost Dr. A’s book. That’s going to be a pain in the ass to replace. Like I have the money for all of that. And while my mind churned on the replacing of the literature, something soft landed on my shoulder. I turned and there you have it. My female bus mate had her sleeping head on my shoulder. Then her shoulder, then her entire arm. She seemed to be absorbed into my pudgy body as she fell further and further to sleep.

I fully expected her to droop her head into my lap and begin punching my thigh to soften her ‘pillow’. I was about to shrug her off, but, what the hell. I was tired too. I rested my head against the glass window of the bus as the guy ahead of me did, and closed my eyes. With the first pothole, the window struck me like a two by four against the side of my head, waking me. The guy ahead of me stayed sleep. The shock of the blow only causing his head to waver slightly.

I sat up, rested back and stared out of the window at the passing smudge of the world.

It would be a long trip to Norfolk Virginia.

Hobobob

To Believe I Had The Heart For You

2011-06-03T00:15:00.006-04:00

Death.

Do you ever think about death sometimes. I mean, not the death of some unfortunate soul that you know. I’m talking about YOU. Do you ever fantasize about being put six feet under, with all of your family staring down at you, shaking their heads. Do you ever wonder who the fuck will show up to your funeral. Maybe your ass will not even be put in a casket. Just dropped ass naked in the dirt. Will people see you in the morgue and see how small a dick you really have?

Yeah, I think like that. But I think I do because I have a mental problem. What’s your excuse? Another reason is that I’m old and getting close to that thin black line. That’s a whip! I’m going to be as old as my father in 20 years. Twenty years. Count ‘em and I still haven’t done anything worthwhile in awhile. Soon, my AARP subscription will come in the mail. That’s even if those buzzkills know where to find me. I’ve dropped off the radar years ago.

Now, I’m just navel lint in a baboon’s belly. I can’t even control where I go in the mornings. I just find myself, standing on line in the grocery store or the pharmacy. And another thing. I’ve lost the ability to write, to spell. I can’t even spell two Syllabled words. Something that at one time came to me without effort. Now, I get stuck on slightly longer words. My thinking is muddled some. It's like looking at things through a cloud bank. It’s hard for me to hold onto a constant thought. That’s why my blog sounds so nutty. I can’t stay on one topic.

That’s probably why I can keep on writing and writing. Because my brain is fiercely active. It’s always churning up something, then submerg- ing it again just before I can get it all out. What do you call that? Is there some kind of technical name for that shit? Foggyheaditis? It’s because of this fog in my head, which doesn’t allow whole thoughts to form, I’m finding spacial distances difficult. I crash into things. Doorways, doors, desks, tables, people. It’s like I careen off one thing only to crash into something else.

It’s a smooth, transitional vertigo that sweeps up through the fog and plants me against a door frame. To others I look drunk, but I’m far from that. I’ve just about quit drinking. My bouts with alcohol are few and far between. Unless this is just another product of a diseased mind. So you now wonder why is it that I think of death? Well, my brain is running at a million miles a second with nothing to slow it down. I used to use alcohol to keep steady, but then I started to abuse it, trying to stay in the real world. Through this raceway of thinking, I have a fog in my head, making it difficult to receive my thoughts even though they speed by.

I’m crashing into things, and on top of it all it looks like I’m going to get more meds. Such a short lifespan to live like this. I feel like I have to get out of the room today. I feel like joining the ranks of the millions. I feel like bugging out. But the fact that it’s outside makes me leery. I could just stay home and take a raincheck on the day.

That’s what I usually do, except for today. I took the short hike up to the grocery store and I can’t believe it, I almost died walking. I was so out of breath that I thought that my lungs would burst. Now I’m getting the cold, hard feeling that something is seriously wrong. The incredibly fast weight gain. The light headedness, the heart burn. Something is adding up to something unsavory boys and girls. And you’d think I’d be concerned, wouldn’t you? But no.

I’ve been buried a number of times before.

Hobobob

Sweet, Sweet is the Night

2011-06-02T00:15:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I wish I was a cowboy.

Not one of those wild west guys. Where I’m standing on a dusty prairie, sitting on the back of a horse, while it’s spinal column hacksaws me in two. I’ll eat pork and beans from a can over a fire built from brush and scrub. The nights would fall cold and I will pull my heavy leather coat closer around me and whittle a dried piece of wood with my knife, OR....And here’s the rub, play a guitar or harmonica.

I wish I could play a guitar or harmonica. I know, I can, if I turn on the stereo, funny. Very funny. But seriously, That’s what I want. I want to be a New York cowboy, wandering the plains of the subways and uncluttered, un-crowded alleyways. I want to ride on a Harley Davidson and wear two six shooters from holsters on both sides of my waist. I want to roll into Brooklyn or Queens and save the day. Probably run off the nearest gang trying to shoot up the bank, or finish off the neighborhood pest with a gunfight on Fulton Street, Brooklyn.

Then take my ass to a cathouse, or maybe a hotel, most likely a crack house, take a shower (well then that can’t be in a crack house, now can it?) Have to change that to a hotel. I’ll get a common whore, tramp, slut, pro, bang job, boy joy....whatever! And after my shower, fuck her crippled. I’ll sleep with one eye on the door, the other on her and both six shooters in both hands. Anything moves I’ll drill a hole right through them, like I’ll do to the little whore again in the morning with my pea shooter.

Then I’ll walk out to the local bar, or Saloon and sit with my back to the wall, a warm shot of Jack Daniels on the table ahead of me, and one of my pistols lying next to it. I would rear back on the back two legs of the chair and push my cowboy hat forward, down to my eyes, dropping the upper part of my face in shadow.

An then I’d do it. Reach around myself, or reach into my coat and either produce a guitar or a harmonica, and play some jaunty tune that causes all eyes to turn to me. The drunken refuse in the bar would stop talking and listen to my tune of fire and ice, good and bad, hatred and love. I would make that instrument sing so that people wouldn’t think of me as some high plains drifter just coming into their town for a shootout and a fuck.

I am a man of integrity. I had proven that shooting it out with the black hill gang, or to bring it up to a contem- porary setting, the Knock Knocks in Brooklyn. Bringing all twenty of them to justice, helping out the local Sheriff/cops and given the keys to the town in gratitude. I would then climb onto my Harley, wave to the people who would crowd the streets, striking hats against thighs or waving dainty handkerchiefs. I would roar up to the side walk and grab the arm of the daintiest woman in town (A hottie by today’s standard), pull her close, kiss the shit out of her, sticking my tongue down her throat, making her eyes bulge in shock, never having done that in her life.

Then I’d ride into the fucking sunset, the fat, orange ball on the horizon already playing warm colors on the landscape. Or actually head down the boulevard to the on ramp for the Brooklyn/Queens expressway. I’d weave through traffic, heading up to Yonkers, the next neighborhood section of the great city, looking for trouble, action and adventure.

With a guitar on my back or a harmonica in my coat I'll play sad tunes just to be melancholy because this life is a lonely life and you’ve got to tame it with action and song. Now all I need is a side kick. A Tonto, who by today’s standards would be a Latin American. I’ll turn to shadow against the bursting swell of the sun on the horizon.

And you’ll say: “Who the fuck was that guy.”

Hobobob

When All the Pleasure Causes All the Pain

2011-06-01T00:15:00.000-04:00

Damn! I must be dying.

Wouldn’t it be a fucking scream if I was? What would I do if was actually given three months to live, like my father. Climb Mount Everest? Don’t have the money. Fly to Europe? Don’t have the fucking money. “Drive in the Indy 500? No car. “Do something!” A difficult brain surgery? No education. “Write the great American novel?” I can’t even get the mediocre American novel published.

If I was given three months to live, I’ll keep going and force myself to go on to four months. Then I would nag and tease that doctors that gave me three months. At the end of the fourth month I’d starve myself to death. At least you don’t feel any pain when you starve yourself to death. No, no kidding. You get tired, sleepy and die. If you do not eat for three days straight even the sensation of hunger goes away.

You just expire. That would be a cool way to go. I hate suffering and pain. That shit is the pits. Have you ever wondered how you are going to buy the farm? And have you ever wondered why they call it buy the farm? Well, you know me, I can’t let sleeping words lie. I found on the Internet: “My Air Force Officer husband told me the origin as generally accepted in USAF. When a pilot mused about retirement he would say, ‘I’m gonna buy a nice little farm and settle down’ so when a fatal crash occurred his surviving buddies would say he had ‘bought the farm’ — he had retired, permanently”.

So I guess in my case, I’ll buy the condo, overlooking Manhattan from a million miles up in the air. Let’s say we get off this morbid subject. I’m down in the dumps lately because my computer is not up to snuff as it should be. Fucking computer hackers. I’m not gay or anything like that but I’d stick my fist right up their shitholes. I mean that. I’m pissed at everyone because I can’t direct my hatred back to those fucking computer geeks that live to destroy because they can.

Today, I worked out and headed outside to take my walk and didn’t take my water bottle with me. Dumb move. When I got four blocks away I was in sheer pain. You can’t work out without water in the body to liquefy the bloodstream and allow smoother circulation of the oxygenated blood to the demanding muscles. When they took my blood at the 9/11 Clinic and at the blood testing lab they commented on how thick it was. They warned me to drink plenty of water. The one thing that I don’t drink enough of. Even at Metropolitan Hospital when I went to have my blood potassium checked, they said that my bloodstream was like ‘sludge’.

So I only made a few blocks before I turned around in misery. The damn water pills that I’m on makes me piss out liquids faster than I can put it in. Even my digestive juices are having the same problem. I burp FIRE often. When I’m sleeping I puke up pure lava from my belly filling my mouth. Good thing I don’t inhale when I sleep and drown myself on my own vomit. And it’s like pure acid. I end up on my hands and knees, hurling into the garbage can.

And my esophagus is always burning. Like I’ve swallowed a red hot coal or drank a straight shot of Jack Daniels. I still, to this date cannot believe that I used to drink that shit like water. Crazy right? Well, that's enough of my computer and health problems. Tomorrow I’m coming after you with another thought provoking topic. I promise.

Or I can talk about my health again. I just burped pure FIRE.

Hobobob

So Many Words, So Many Days

2011-05-31T00:15:00.001-04:00

Shit!

My damn computer was hit by the BLASTER. WORM. There I was, minding my own business when BLAMMO. Silly me, I thought that I could cruise around the Internet with one software viral blocking product, which I will not say its name because this time it was just outsmarted by the sophistication of the virus and the stupidity of its user. What chance did it have.

Well, I was surfing looking for pics to put on my blog, no you pigs out there, not porn - this time - and I reached a site that caused my computer to go haywire. The warning windows popped up, as usual and the software launched an unknown malware software detection application. Hey, I’ve NEVER seen or installed you before. Which means in translation, I didn’t run it. It started scanning and was pulling up all of this Malware shit, and viruses, that I knew was bullshit.

I sweep my system with an updated viral detection program constantly. Some eight or nine viruses being in my system right now was unreal. Then I remembered that I read where some of these viral companies, to get clients, employ a Trojan Horse. That is any program that you run for one reason, but it’s task is another. This fucking program was one of these. Firstly it inserts the virus, or viruses into your computer, then scans your computer, finding the virus or viruses - I doubt if they really scan for shit - and then tell you that if you use their product you can remove this threat from your system.

The catch. You have to pay them before they remove the viruses. Unscrupulous no? If you decide not to use their fucking product, it releases a worm that blasts right through your operating system. First it attacks your virus detection software, disabling it, then it takes out your cursor, so that you can’t navigate to any windows systems to mount a counterattack. Then lastly it deposits the worm.

Then when I tried to slither back into the operating system in safe mode, it stopped that shit. I was quickly locked out. But I still had access to my D drive. Upon it was the weapon of last resort. I had long ago moved my data files over to my G, external drive. So everything on my C drive was replaceable, except for my bootlegged programs that I didn’t buy but went through other friends of mine to attain.

I then told the D drive to replace my old operating system configuration with it’s factory setting one. Armageddon landed on my C drive, obliterating the virus as well as all my programs. I was never so pissed. Made me as mad as some struck up bees. I sat there for about an hour watching my programs go down the drain by some unscrupulous company looking to make a dishonest buck.

Now I have a baby version of my beefed up system and it pisses me off that I can’t simply recover all the way. The next time I get a computer, I’m going to put more then a mirror of the operating system on the external drive, put all of the little programs and utilities on there too, so I can bring my system back to the comfortable setting that I had had before the little bitches forced me to nuke my one computer.

Well, that’s just the society that we live in isn’t it.

Hobobob

A Change of Circumstance After Breakfast

2011-05-30T00:15:00.002-04:00

Out the fucking box, swinging!

Why is fuck a dirty word? Can someone tell me. Why is a fucker someone that you want to steer clear of? And best of all, cocksucker. All bad words, but we do that shit often. I've done it again. I've used a word as an expletive that we do every day. That is part of the human condition. Tell me, how long is it before you sit your ass on a commode and take as shit. And yet piece of shit is a pejorative. And I did it again. Ass, everyone has one, but it's a swear word also.

This goes on forever. And there is no end to it. I wanted to make a compen- dium of different biological functions that are used as insults. But there's just too many. If I call someone a dick head, how is that? Well, have I convinced you that bodily functions, sex and sexual body parts are used as swear words would you have any idea why?

I can tell you why. Because as we entered the 15th century the church was still pulling on society's strings. They controlled the way we thought, largely, and they hated sex with a passion. The Gnostics, a splinter group of Christians hated the human body. These two culture clashes upon society was enough to cause the common folk to feel or react the same. The Church found sex sinful, and the organs of generation simple tools that were used once it's time to and then forgotten when not.

This, although numerous sexual positions and acts were being performed in other cultures not invaded by the sword of Christianity. They had a healthy attitude towards sex and the sexual organs. Whereas we call shit a derogatory word. But here's the rub, and I think I talked about it before. There is no equivalent for these things when we talk about murder and mayhem. Let me ask you then, what is more fucking disturbing. A woman 'vacuuming out the pipe', or bodies blown and torn apart by explosives?

Quickly you would think or say a woman performing fellatio. Now the question is why? Because if feels like the correct answer. Well, no it isn't. We have become so inured to murder and violence that we THINK that shit is natural, and that a plugged woman is unnatural. This is because of the television. We are so used to these murder shows that we've lost the ability to be shocked any more, while we sweep sex acts under the rug. These things are too rude to show or display.

The correct answer to the above question is that oral sex is not a bad thing and women perform it often, and without reser- vation. Blowing a man is as easy as opening a door, or picking a penny off the ground. MURDER is by far more difficult. It goes against our morality. How are we to function when these are the cold hard facts. Sex is FUCKING, but murder is just plain MURDER. Anal sex is a Fudge Packer but a stabbing is an unfortunate act.

We've made names for what is supposed to be an abomi- nation, but what is an abomi- nation is just a word. Like decapitation, exsanguination, blunt force trauma. I can go on and on, but whats the point? You take it from there. Let it be said that my blog does not cater to the faceless millions that frown on sexual freedom and modes, but will then turn around and soak their brains with corpses, murderers, rapists, gunmen, and bank robbers. And yet have convinced themselves that such are 'family oriented topics'.

I say, wake up and smell the coffee. Reverse your thinking, sit down and watch porn and put away the murder mystery before you are gone altogether. There is joy in sex, and don't give me that wacko bullshit that such sexual acts should stay in the bedroom. Ignorance never helped anyone or society. Be ignorant to murder and mayhem if you got to be ignorant of something. But I'd bet many of you will feed your brain anyway on that shit.

Because of the Internet, we're being exposed to more and more data. So are our kids. I can see allowing them to have a child hood before fucking with sex, but it will come up one day and hopefully you will not freak out. Hopefully you'll handle it with the same reaction that you would if little Johnny came up to you and asked you what murder is.

It's a very serious thing, Johnny. Just don't do it. It's a bad thing. But when Johnny comes up and ask you what is a hummer, and if you've done it to daddy, you go nuts. A white hot fear enters into you, and you panic. Driving into the kid's psyche that having his love pole orally yanked on is a bad thing. I'm not telling you to stop calling someone a bastid or an asshole. I'm just saying, be careful how you denigrate sex, but overlook violence.

These young people are our future. Let's do away with the misplaced Church modesty and personally go on a diet of sexual situations to make them common to yourself. And tone down the violence thing for god's sake.

And while you're at it, give a friend, workmate, milkman or the next door neighbor a blow job.

Hobobob

Fanning the Flames Before the Mouth of Madness

2011-05-29T00:15:00.002-04:00

Using every day human experience as a pejorative.

That's what I wanted to talk about two days ago. My blistering hot offensive post. It your eyes and ears are too tender, you know what to do. Fly right by one of my patented posts, and close your eyes to the pics. Not that this is a further warning than the one IN FRONT OF THE BLOG, but guess what, ITS A FURTHER WARNING than the one in front of the blog. The reason why so much caution?

Well I realize that it's been a long time since I covered these subjects. A very long time. So there are a lot of new readers that don't know who or how I was many months ago. Was this intentional? Was I thinking of a demographic? Well yes, I'm sorry to say. I had a friend complain that I showed too much sex on my blog, and THAT was the reason why everyone was reading me. For a moment...a real long moment...I thought that they may be right. I wanted to see the truth, because if that was the case, I would make this a complete pornographic blog.

I dropped the 'dirty pictures' from the blog and stayed away from such subjects to see if my numbers would go down, remain steady, or rise, without dicks and pussies in the text. Everyone has one, everyone saw one and yet showing them is offensive. Whatever. I stopped showing women with cocks in their skulls, and guys beating their meat or fist fucking another dude just to see my audience's reaction.

Without the dirty pictures, my numbers rose to over 50,000 readers in a month. Who knows where the fuck it is now (since blogger has be misreporting my metrics. By dropping whole continents and the what not. So now I don't know how many people in Syria and so forth are tuning in. But that makes no never mind. Even though my blog became more family oriented, those numbers kept rising. I guess people are drawn to the destitute and the disabled.

Now, that I proved my point, I want to really drop my family oriented status and go back to the 'raincoat' crowd that pick me up. I know what that means though. My numbers might very well drop drastically. My family oriented readers who are deeply shocked when they see two people fucking before the camera, will no doubt drop the fuck away. I don't blame them. Copulation is scarey to me too. That's why I avoid it at all costs. NOT!

Oh shit! It looks just like before. I am running out of time for my blistering post. That pisses me off, because I had some choice porn, some choice words, some choice accusations, and some choice resolutions. Instead I'm still gabbing about showing all these things? Do you think that I may be frightened to flash some meanie pictures. You know, MEANIE...strong sexual content that should be a misdemeanor, simply because the more you miss it, the MEANER you get. Ha ha ha. Yeah...I should start the next post, not saying what I'm going to do, but to just come from the plate swinging. It looks like when I give people the heads up, I fuck myself up.

This is the third time that I am trying to write this scathing post. Maybe I lost my edge. Maybe I've lost my cutting tongue and roving eye over the Internet. OR maybe I'm afraid to see my readership drop because I show a dick, or anal sex. Maybe I've betrayed my blog a second time. Well only you can tell me if I did. Maybe I lost my nerve to write about my ideas that come to me, such as this one.

Well boys and girls (and I don't mean that literally) this is the end of this post actually, so you'll have to wait to see my determination tomorrow. Everything in its due time, right?

Hobobob