Saturday, February 18, 2012

I'm A Sad Boobly Bear

Spent the day injecting Whitney Houston videos into my eyeballs.

She was such a talent.

It was such a waste.

God, she was beautiful.

Masturbated twice, symbolically ejaculating onto this magazine photo:

I imagined the microphone was my penis & Whitney was aching for it. Begging for it, saying "I will always love you."

For some reason I kept calling her Susan & she'd laugh & say "My name's not Susan."

God, I felt so close to her.

Then I improvised a tape loop of Kevin Costner's eulogy...

It felt so right the way he was still her "Bodyguard."

I loved that movie.

He'd should have fake fucked her...

Maybe shown a little tit.

Bobby Brown wasn't right for her.

She should have married Kevin.

Then she could have been "Whitey Costner."

Their children would have been beautiful & talented and danced with wolves into the new millennium.

The morning she died I went onto Amazon and bought her whole catalog.


She needs to know that I'll never forget her.

I haven't felt this constipated since Michael died.

Disclaimer: Actually, I don't give a shit. Whitney's death seems about as important as any other death in that day's obituary column.
But I live in a world that is completely and totally addicted to media.
It is our religion.
It is our friend.
It is the never-ending blather that keeps us enslaved to fear by attractively burying our fear under vacuous yet fetching attire.

Without it, all we would have is ourselves.
&, apparently, no one wants that.

Not to worry though, Whitney's everywhere these days.

Somehow it all seems fitting that here, in the land of the dead, becoming a corpse seems to be, by far, the best career move a has been pop star can make to reignite their faded glory.

Should it all become a little too TMZ for ya, you can mosey on down to the Secret Sun Ranch, where Chris Knowles turns his desire to fuck way above his pay grade:

"But she was mezzo like my mom and looked like an idealized version of my high school girlfriend (who I met at a Clash concert, of all places), so a mixture of the two was certain to be potent in my new life."

into one really huge load of complete & utter bullshit:

"I see yet another point put up on the Archons' scoreboard. I see an artist who people across the world could all agree was something special taken away from us. The only hope is that the work will live on, and that that signal continues to be broadcast until enough receivers get switched on."

Y'see, it was the Archons baby. They just didn't want Whitney laying down any more Sanyo commercials.

Chris goes even further out on a limb crafted from complete bullshit when he utters this bit of "deep" poop:

"I mean, it's perfect. The System destroyed a goddess and then partied atop her corpse. Take a good, long look at American culture, people. The cancer has subsumed the host."

Jesus, I wonder if this guy has idealized the breathing women he's actually inserted his penis in to, or does he save this level of gushing idolatry for the class of women who wouldn't fuck him on a dare?

I also wonder if this guy has been in a coma until now. American "culture" has always been a little smelly around the edges. And "the System" has always chewed up its idols & shat them out. That democratic mass of people Chris appears to love, but only through the buffer of the Internet, seem to love it too. Otherwise tabloids wouldn't sell. As much as Chris doesn't want to admit it,


Personally, I'd rather listen to an amplified bowel movement than one of Whitney's bland songs. All the musicians who were actual innovators who died penniless & obscure while this dizzy broad with her vacuous catalog of future car ad jingles gets to party herself to death...

That's the crime.

Needless to say, I love the Internet.

I love cold sores & prostate problems too.

Oh yeah, I really love people.

Preferably well roasted.

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