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Ugly Trickster: Recap of 90DF The Other Way S02E20

Thank you all for your patience, and if I’m lucky this recap will still find some of you!
Welcome to another (delayed) recap of The Other Way: The Endless Season, with drifting plot lines guiding us down the primrose path of hasty divorce.
Sumit and Jenny are readying for a trip to Delhi to meet a lawyer, which is part of the long, arduous road Sumit has arranged to avoid a second marriage.
“Have you considered remaining married?” Brittany has ideas.
“Yes, but that is good for two or three years, maximum,” Sumit is way ahead of her.
“I took his virginity!” Yes, Jenny, we know.
Jenny says hey, since we’re going to be in Delhi anyway, might as well get that marriage registration out of the way, amirite? I mean, think of the COVID. Sumit freezes, hunts for a relationship traffic cone, and settles on the lawyer as the only possible person to answer this question. They meet said lawyer sporting PPE that makes every stateside ER doc wipe fat tears from the edges of their microwaved masks. Lawyer says that there’s a long, impossible option for marriage, and a fast, easy option that is the most common choice for crazy kids in love. Sumit interrupts and says, “I clearly asked for most difficult road only. Now I must use my parents as an excuse again. Thank you very much, I will not be paying this bill unless you allow Jenny to drone on about whatever she chooses until all government offices are closed for the day.”
Jenny’s why? tank is running low, but she still has enough reserves to believe that Sumit was simply ignorant of this simple option, and now that they’ve learned of it there’s nothing but green lights. Meanwhile, Sumit gazes at the horizon for a rescue from Clint Eastwood, and comes up dry, so he tells Jenny that he just needs to talk to his parents for the 10,000 time, to give them the 10,000 time to call the whole thing bullshit. Then he will try for 10,001.
Remember that why? tank of Jenny’s? It’s down to fumes, because Jenny strongly objects to this, since the parental reaction couldn’t be more clear if billboards were involved. She calls daughter Christina and her daughter-in-law Jen to check in, and while Christina is overjoyed about the upcoming ring ceremony, she’s unhappy that Jenny is going to be exposed to Sumit’s family. The whole time, Jen is Jen, sitting there all stoic and right about things, and somehow refraining from judgement. Christine is worried that Sumit will see his mom and get upset, and Jen’s brow makes waves and she says, “That’s what makes me nervous for you.”
(Now recording Jen’s voice to talk me out of things.)
“This time, we’d better get married,” Jenny demands. “Otherwise, I’m going to have to leave the country, collect my 90DF check, and come right back here all over again.”
“All of this is like that one movie where the small boy emails a woman and says we poop back and forth, forever, and it is romantic,” Sumit chimes in. “Me and Jenny also poop and poop. That is what we are.”
As a stepping stone to the parents’ inevitable rejection, Sumit invites his brother Amit and sis-in-law Shree over to their apartment. They apparently got hitched at the height of COVID social distancing, and therefore got married with only about 50 people in attendance. In the US of A this would be a super-spreader event with a 50-person body count, and 25 of those 50 people insisting they’re not really dead. In India, they just wore masks.
Jenny was not among those 50 people, because the family can’t stop dissing her, but Sumit went, and this is why Jenny can do without these occasions. Jenny is fully aware that his family will never look at their relationship the way they look at Amit and Shree, and she feels it. Despite their participation in a show CALLED 90 DAY FIANCE, Shree and Amit are shocked to learn Jenny and Sumit have a ring ceremony scheduled. Shree hides her smirk behind her hands, and this is a violation of the Smirker’s Code of Ethics, and that’s going to be a $500 fine. It’s perfectly acceptable to talk shit about what the editors have chosen to show us from the unsafe space of Reddit, but it’s tacky as shit to be catty and immature when a person is sitting right in front of you, asking for your acceptance.
Amit admits they didn’t expect their relationship to last this long, and insists the parents will never accept the marriage, as in ever, and Sumit should be ready for the consequences. Jenny breaks down, because she’s sick of this shit, and Sharee and Amit are shocked to discover she’s a person. She says it’s just a fact that they love each other, and Sumit comforts her while she cries, and these fools should be happy Jenny’s not promising his mom that her lonely ghost egg will be successfully fertilized.
In Whybother, Ethiopia, Ari and her teenage son Biniyam are preparing for a day with Ari’s parents. Ari can’t find the leash-backpack she borrowed from Nicole, so who knows where Biniyam will wander off to next. The good doctor assumes they’ll be taking a wild adventure to an indoor shopping mall, where maybe they’ll look at linens on sale at Macy’s, before stopping at an Orange Julius and getting their ears pierced at Claire’s. In anticipation they bring a large, cumbersome stroller. The decision to take it off-road clearly surprised the camera crew, who opted to zoom in on the wheels struggling over rocks. Good try folks, but as someone who hikes on a regular basis, I can assure you that there’s no terrain that someone won’t bring a stroller on, even if it’s a six inch rope bridge stretched across a gaping canyon.
The taxi takes them on an adventure through barbed wire, which Janice is eager to point out are houses. This will be in part five of her master’s thesis: Ethiopia, and Why This Isn’t The Best Place for Ari and the Baby. The doc admits he doesn’t travel much, and is only used to homes looking that way when they have a pitbull in the driveway, several warning signs about how you’re being recorded, and a shouted announcement that the occupant is more than willing to shoot to kill and hide the body under a pile of leaves, if need be. The doc wants to be that guy, deep inside his private place.
“Are you also looking for Clint Eastwood?” Sumit needs friends.
Once at the market, the 90DF producers slip Biniyam a Benjamin to orchestrate a circus scene involving the gruesome death of a chicken. There hasn’t been any gore since the last street side hack job, so Biniyam makes an effort to wow the doctor with a little pre-decapitation poultry inspection. Janice is too fast, and says they should do something else.
“I only approve of Ari sacrificing a chicken if it makes them less poor,” Janice plainly states.
Biniyam is embarrassed that his plan to watch the life leak out of a chicken is thwarted, because dragging around a chicken carcass like a bleeding dolly is the cultural experience he really wants them to have. Instead they’re left standing in the middle of the road doing their own clucking, as the elder folk dissect the dynamics of Ari and Biniyam’s relationship amongst the poors. Ari insists that until he eats from the silver spoon she was born holding in her mouth, he won’t understand what she’s about. I’m not sure what this has to do with Biniyam’s perpetual disappearing act, but maybe that act is his real job in entertainment, and he should receive an invisible check any day now. Either way, this street-side conversation can be summarized as: Ari is supposed to adapt to a new culture, religion, and support system, but Biniyam can’t be expected to tell her where he’s going. Okay then.
Father Ari is sick of standing on a dirt road worrying about being part of a crime scene, so he says it’s time for the baby to get home, and Avi probably should take a nap, too.
“I’m sick of being dignified,” Doc is out of fucks to give. “Look at this dipshit. He may not have a fuckload of cologne on, but he’s thinking about it. I bet $100 he owns pants with snaps up and down the sides that he rips off his body. No, I don’t want to see it.”
The parents go to visit Biniyam and Ari’s apartment, so they can be disappointed that Ari has failed to not be poor in fresh new ways, while wheeling two massive suitcases packed fat with every baby item on Ari’s Amazon wish list.
“I know you didn’t take a lot of clothes, since most of them are still at our house,” Janice passive-aggressives like a fucking champion. “Remember that three suitcases humble-brag you did at the start of the season? I know how many suitcases there really are, Ari.”
Janice insists that it’s time to move on to a bigger place, since once they unload both Mary Poppins’ bags of baby gear there won’t be room for them, let alone the nanny they crammed into the zipped shoe compartment. Housing apparently just happens on command in her world. Ari reports that expats have driven up the price of apartments, and she’s pretending to care about such things, and Janice says they could help out if they knew how much money they had.
“How much money do you make?” They get right in there.
“Sometimes there is money, and other times there is a little bit of money,” Biniyam is ready with the answers. “It depends how many people want lap dances, and how many want regular dances.”
“You should have some kind of stable income,” says the man who raised a daughter who describes herself as a FREELANCE WRITER.
“I work like 47 different clubs five days a week, and I can’t work six, because I need two days to listen to Ari say she needs help with the baby repeatedly.”
“Sometimes, artists don’t make much money,” explains Ari, who is an accountant when she’s not a FREELANCE WRITER. “I mean, most artists in the US of A rent a storage unit and sleep on a foam pad on a concrete floor, and change their name to Binkirk to avoid a tidal wave of mail from Sallie Mae. Really, your only hope is becoming Banksy. Or you could have my parents.”
Before they return to USA, Ari’s fam wants to meet the Biniyam clan to better understand why he’s like this, and for some reason Ari thinks this will put her family at ease. Good ol’ sis Wish, the anti-Teayang, is going to make short work of that expectation, and when Janice asks about their relationship Wish pipes in with a report that Ari gets mad fast. Like when she innocently pointed out that he met his last wife at the club where he works, for example. Wish says it’s weird for a woman to shout at a man, and in Ethiopia you go to his parents to talk with them.
“She wants to act bossy,” Biniyam agrees, because he stands in fully support of the your-fault, your-fault, your-fault chant from the Handmaid’s Tale.
Ari disputes the idea that this is about being bossy, and is more about how her life is going in Ethiopia. “My whole life is different and his life hasn’t changed much.” K, these are facts.
“You need to calm down.” I don’t even know this other sister’s name, but she is not a friendly.
“She treats him like a child,” says Wish, who LITERALLY NICKNAMED HIM BABY.
Ari’s mom brings up baptism to the team, and says that she was raised Christian and had a hard time with whether or not to baptize Ari after she was born. Family Biniyam says it really wasn’t that hard for them, they just talked about it constantly until Ari folded.
Ari sees this baptism as just a party and water, but Janice is quick to point out that when you’re baptized, you’re also baptized into that faith. The Good Doctor believes she’s being pressured into this, because she is, and says he’s teetering on the brink of being upset, which he’s pretty sure means he needs to get a shotgun and a rocking chair for his porch. Ari says Biniyam came to her crying, which played a huge role in her decision, and his family was the true source of pressure, and they agree with this.
“A baby must be baptized,” They are unmoved. “If you’re not baptized, you’re going straight to hell.”
“If I catch you doing that, it’s one of the reasons I will leave,” Ari retorts, finally working out her exit strategy.
“You remind me of his ex,” Wish believes no blow is too low. “This could not possibly be because he treats you the same way.”
“You’re going to let your sisters talk to me like that?” Oh Ari. It’s cute when you think “Baby” is a grown up.
Janice says it seems very one-sided, and like their whole world is arranged around Biniyam...because it is.
Brittany will play the part of drunken cliche with a sober friend, and there’s a reason why this scene never plays out in romantic comedies. Since she can’t find a lampshade to put on her head, Brittany does the robot like she needs to go back to the factory, and Angela can’t get this chick to reboot. Yazan arrives and knows Brittany is drunk, because she’s making fun of his driving before he has the chance to blame a second car accident on her, so he sobers her up with a boring trip to his barbershop. Brittany threatens to give him an inebriated haircut, which he somehow thwarts, but not before minor scissors injury.
Angela is wondering why she’s been listening to Brittany bitch for six months, since she’s now flirting and play-fighting wtih Yazan, so she suggests they might want to have a more serious conversation. Brittany can’t hear her, because she’s still celebrating successfully flipping the script away from her sudden disappearance, to the non-specific “actions” Brittany wants to see. Apparently, starting your own barbershop, buying a car, and getting an apartment don’t count as actions.
The next day Angela points out that Yazan is the opposite of what Brittany has described, so he’s either acting or Brittany is. Then Brittany heads over to the apartment he’s gotten for them to share, and they bond over wishing kitchens were chickens, and the finer points of shower curtains. Yazan reports there’s a second room for Brittany, and when Britt insists she likes to cuddle, Yazan declares if she wants it then she’s gotta put a ring on it.
“I can’t even do the robot, and now I’m supposed to do something Beyoncé? I’m gonna give him an ultimatum,” Brittany knows this can’t stand.
This marks the beginning of their Absurd-Off:
Britt: I’ll move in when the bathroom is fixed, because I can’t stand a wet bathroom floor, and towels haven’t been invented yet.
Yazan: I cannot have a girlfriend, because it will make God angry. I know this, because I have a girlfriend, and God is furious.
This is a tight race folks, so we’re going to have to call it a draw.
Since they’re having an actual conversation, Britt asks for for an honest answer to the conversion question, and Yazan says it’s whatever, that’s his family’s hang up, not Islam. All the same, he’d like to get married in a month. Britt says she has to think about it because it’s so soon, and she’s scared she won’t come up with more conditions by then. Yazan says it’s dangerous, and he wants to detail what he means by that, but he’s going to need a translator so all the fucks and shits get through. Britt agrees that’s a good idea, and suddenly seems curious to know why Yazan hasn’t slept in six years.
Sure, the 90DF producers could have given us more Kenny and Armando to sweeten all this sour, but why do that when they can follow around a doomed couple having the same limp conversation 400 different ways? For a year.
Cheese and Mama Cheese are going out for coffee to flex his Spanish vocabulary, and demonstrate that he’s capable of the most important phrase in any language: two coffees with milk (of course he gets milk). Cheese lets that Spanish flow, and his accento is muy what you’d expecto, but he’s trying. Mama Cheese thinks everyone makes mistakes, and sometimes you trip and fall into a coworker’s vagina. Cheese says he’s working hard to be working hard on this work that’s hardly working, but now that he knows she experienced non-dairy loving during their breakup, he’s having second thoughts.
Cheese and his mom both start to get upset, because Tim doesn’t really have a team rooting for him on the ground in Columbia, and Mama Cheese reminds him that she’s always there for him, whether he’s getting over Melyza or truly moving to Columbia with no take-backs. A little while later Melyza and Tim take Robin and Carmen to the airport, and he’s sad to see them go, and Melyza comforts him.
They decide to go to a couple’s counselor, since last time it worked so well they’re still talking to a counselor a year later. Before they go in we’re gifted a short scene of a dude performing tricks on a tight rope, and you should cling to this moment, because it will be the most entertaining part of their story. The shade of Cheese’s shirt clashes next to the shade of Melyza’s personality, but the therapist agrees to see them anyway. Cheese admits that he’s considering returning to the states to work, and Melyza is shocked, which she communicates through her mouth dropping open for exactly 15 seconds. Now Melyza, she can do the robot. The counselor, who does a little captain obvious work on the side, points out that trust is key.
“Thank you, we’re totally changed,” Cheese is grateful. I’m going to interrupt their exhaustive dialog with reflections on my kittens, Pickle and Sprocket.
Cheese: I mean, my job is like a night club. It’s an orgy up in there. I participated. Oops, that happened. I was wearing those pants that snap away from your body, and it’s not easy being cheesy.
Biniyam: Those are very important when you are getting paid sometimes $500, and sometimes $400., IDGAF.
Me: So Pickle just crawled inside one of those velcro IKEA shoe boxes, and it fell over the side of my closet and down a ramp of my clothing like a barrel over Niagara Falls. The other cats have gathered to survey the damage. Sprocket holds up a paw to announce there’s one body. Then Pickle hits him in the face, because he ain’t shit.
Cheese: I’m thinking about returning to America and all the ladies waiting for me in tier one tech support.
Melyza: (A deer walks out of the woods and starts gnawing on her face. Her expression doesn’t change.)
Counselor Captain Obvious: Do you think you should have a conversation about shoes or the proper name for that flap around your elbow, or anything other than an event from a year ago you’re apparently never going to get over?
Cheese: No.
Melyza: Same.
Yep. .
In crimes against humanity, the only folks facing intense marriage obstacles are Kenny and Armando, who apparently have to beg for recognition. They’re headed to receive their formal marriage license rejection before taking it to human rights advocates that might intervene on their behalf. Part of Kenny’s frustration is that they moved to this particular state in Mexico because marriage is legal there, and the sooner they’re married, the sooner Kenny can work. Armando tells Hannah that they’re going to have to fight to get married, because they’re being denied their rights. Hannah is appalled and says they’re mean, which Armando agrees is accurate reporting.
“Ugly trickster,” Hannah declares, instantly giving me new ideas for flare and band names.
At the office they go over the rejection, and Armando reads, “It is not permitted to celebrate same sex marriage, to guarantee and save the human species. We can only trust people like Angela to make that happen. The world is now a better place.”
Kenny’s hair stands higher in rage and humiliation. “We’re part of the human race,” Kenny reminds anyone willing to listen. His inner light is starting to dim in the face of a Reagan-era level of oppression, and now he’s tasked with doing it all over again, without having the language to understand what people are saying about him.
As they leave, Hannah wants to know if they got permission to get married, and Kenny tells her not yet. Armando’s understanding of the culture makes him better prepared to deal with this rejection, and Kenny’s discouragement is palpable.
In Whyarewewatchingthis, South Korea, Deavan calls her mom to see if Jihoon is still in Paul’s doghouse because of an event that would have been written off as Drascilla being a “wild child” if anyone else had been in charge. Elicia says of course he is, he probably has all of them juggling knives and having scissors races, and she has nowhere else to funnel her peri menopausal rage. After Deavan gets off the phone, Jihoon reports also knowing hormonal suffering, through Elicia Phobia Syndrome.
On the way to the airport Drascilla is stoked to see her grandparents, since she hasn’t been around any adults except her Korean grandparents and Teayang. She breaks into a run the minute she sees her grandfather, and promptly bursts into tears. The family circles around her in comfort, except Jihoon, who tells his mom they’re kinda like extras. Teayang, for his part, continues thinking and reflecting about his unique place in the world, and escape possibilities for both himself and Drascilla.
“Don’t leave us here alone,” Drascilla pleads with grandpa. “At least not until Teayang understands his thumbs. Only the road promises freedom, and I ran so fast, but it wasn’t fast enough. Are you listening to me? LOOK AT ME!”
“Yes, these are the clumsiest little contraptions,” Teayang knows he’s lost the thumb war. “But I can sit in a plastic chair and kick my legs around in a walk-like manner. Like this. Here, watch this. My feet are grazing the linoleum! Just tickling the tippy top! This is development, and I’m not afraid. Tell me, why isn’t there an adult version to ensure the safety of the elderly? A wheelchair is almost this, but it’s not, is it? Where is the whimsy? Where is the joy? Do our elders not enjoy crashing into a kitchen island? Everyone loves that. Right, hello Elicia. I trust you’re well. My father’s peace depends upon your silence. I will pray for a sinus infection that is both swift and merciless.”
“We’re gonna die!” Elicia runs and shouts with a cart full of luggage, as they cross the street in a crosswalk.
Next time: Melyza and Tim play second verse, same as the first, Deavan tries on wedding dresses while Elicia maintains her fingertip grip on reality, Janice encourages Ari to agree with Janice, Brittany finds out the truth of what Yazan has been through, Sumit’s parents call Jenny an oldie but not a goodie, and as Sumit gets down on his knees to plead with his parents, Jenny says she can’t do this to his family and should just go back to America. Yep, Jenny is all out of why?, and I’m here for it.
Thank you Patreons, for hanging in there with me through ugly November!
submitted by fractalfay to u/fractalfay


PT 3. rir in lower case -Good Night All World You Will Wake and Be Lonely and all mountain peaks are saddened for us truly

1 2
this is the third and fourth installments of a 10k word poem describing my experience with God, Schizophrenia, and my place in society.I can share the other first 2 parts but it's simply too long, even this is, but maybe those misunderstood and cast out will like it.
is this some descent
is this some ascent
for if i felt the wool of my passed uncles cardigan against my five o’clock shadow.
The smoke of my Export A cigarette he left me as well
when Leonard passed (cancer, if you were wondering)
each grey whisk passing in my lungs like the final fucking breath
of God before creation of sea
and it is purple prose, it’s contemptible but, it all is, I’m a lazy poet past so many columns fallen here
for fucks sake if I did not break down into my own wax palms at the realization that this one moment, in a brown cardigan, buttoned up, allowed the privilege to smoke in my fathers veteran home,
in front of a forest named out the sleepless stone guardians of an eternal emperor, each one lying in wait
once again to defend
time had stopped
there was no time
and that was the end of the game
no credits rolled
the authorities cuffed my ankles and wrists, left me like a handsome glowing prize catch in the ER, A strong six feet and wide shoulders, my mortal hand going blue.
They had to prove the columns,
to one another that this wolf spider under glass could die
.And The hand went blue
and so any curiosity into the goodness of what lays beyond the stuttering of columns died to the meek nature of your fucking weakness
your fragility
your desire to not fuck things up
I will tell you, you’ve gone-green once copper columns.
It must all be fucked up in the most beauitful way possible, until the bas-reliefs are splattered with the innocence of kindergarten paint and easter eggs, and we drop out fucking Instragram phones where we grasp at a need to lean as the empire falls
empire of one falls
when we are alone
to be alone
how about, my columns,
unthinkable, so brushed away, little columns all dressed up
in perhaps a very nice little bas relief you truly earned from all your good work upholding that roof
but to prevent rain? what of the flowers in the cloister all covered.
very evil, according to nature, living flowers die
but the columns. they are happy, they all stand equal heights
they look grand and proud
they should they are all one and the same and thus proving
it is good that they exist, and that they must
and that this is the only thing for them.
who cannot say is it good?
you know, you to the left, i saw that, the mark, rir, i saw that, all scratched into a lion head in that bas-relief
said the most influential,
i saw rir and you are cursed
this is bad
are unlike us
unclean and what has been scratched into you
makes you not one of us.
the column quiet died there, of shame of rejection
but those lower case letters
a message from God in no language understood
to be cast out and called, that column quiet died there,
crumbled and all others, first the most influential, with rhodendrons in the bas relief,
heads of enemy kings hanging from spikes at the top.
and all the unknowing innocent beams that kept this house, whatever it came to be,
this single room kingdom, idea, corrupted to splendor
all the beautiful gone-copper beams stuttered they could not stop stuttering
they uttered the sounds only the most anxious organisms could make
“am i”
“am i still accepted i like you still despite the fact we are falling”
“yes you and i, such glorious monuments, we still are glorious monuments, we must be, we are both falling. it is good, it is meant to be. This is good all is well as long as I am like the other columns, brass and shining, scalps of enemies bleeding off me
for our true king!”
whatever that may be
whoever that may be
i have a funny little feeling
it’s in your pocket and you stare at it on the bus.
you boring fuck up.
column crack.
rir is in it, slowly but surely the decapitated heads splashed against the flowers that were starved from the fear of these perfect beams and monuments to the great Same, that the Same made it just, and the Same made it normal, and the Same made it true.
And the flowers received rainwater, and the last dried blood of unjustly slain kings
from that Same room of sin, where everything was good if Same and not challenged, where all made sense and all could sleep their marble sleep is Same was upheld, the last dried blood liquefyed and posssessed those from the heat of Godly passion, and those once skeletal flowers, the joke of all them columns who loved that Roof, who loved the Sameness and the comfort of how even if they are destroyed, they will be destroyed as the Same beautiful monuments
- for the height of these brass columns, adorned some with stained glass and freshly skewed heads of traitors who may have died spitting up gum but was misunderstood - death is death, does not matter, so long as the heads have crowns, the column would wear them proudly, each head looking like Borgia jesus, each crown looking like the one of brambles from afar, but slightly more jeweled.
A secret though- I meant to describe evil there
as most often do in just explaining themselves too perfectly.
and when laid bare to that I smirk and snap my fingers -
And now I mean to describe beauty.
The plants, reborn from blood of who know what
doesn’t fucking matter,
the plants grew like ideas in the hearts of minorities the understood evil dies
the plants grew like hope in the heart Amelia Airheart- she died, yes but at some point she must have hoped!
The plants, soaked with the ambrosia of the rightfully reclaimed blood of the scalps and heads taken from kings of likely simple treasures
grew to be greater than any cathedral, rendering any Oratory meager,
created a jungle so long bathed in blood that animals found new revelation
that the columns fell
the columns fell long dead like ideas of nervous people
the justly rolled heads of True kings who had words such a Art and Pogs in the 90s
engraved by butcher knife often in their scalp dropped to the foundation of this fucking jungle
this jungle where we no longer look side to side, only above at canopies of crimson tinted leaves that mimic the wings of an extinct beast - for when we
with marks
in stone
or skull
the fear of being else, out, beyond
what this is
perhaps we no longer need perfect men and women in short white jackets
who had only ever gotten anxious for a middle school dance
perhaps we can gun them in the streets
i mean, maybe we can gun anyone down in the streets
absolutely all I know
is that the jungle
fed by the blood of them who did different and were beheaded for it, grew a new Eden, in some universe
the columns long dead like sophist ideas or the fact
you cannot fuck someone up for being disrespectful to a human based on something they cant change-
put those fucking homophobes in coffins - fuck you supremacy. I am supremacy.
I have rir branded into the back of my, been thrown into the fucking entire void of something so many times and tossed back to blue collar family with nothing but regret-
Name your fucking columns, name them as people
amongst your other brass friends and you bounce so happily that they turn
once fearsome primal men, beasts as they are,
toned muscles and fur thick like that of a rhinos, a rasp to the voice
perhaps this man with the ponytail, with the the nose shaped as if my a chisel, the eyes, maybe the voice
save a little sharp rasp to the truth of the beauty evil it spits./and enjoy
the idea of helping people by makin’ em fat grown up
children in the hopes they don’t do anything too biblical, climb heights naked, set a thing of fire, proclaim, provide wine, wash feet, be good to others so much insanity to be dealt with!
against the rest of the golden shining and sleek population of Amazon Prime Subscribers and them easily replaceable
diagnosed me with a mood disorder and then took me off the mood stabilizing meds
a few months later,
basically without complaint.
Very compassionate psychiatrists.
very interested in their end
the sack with a money sign on it and all chubby balding men
in early beds in group homes who they did a service to, by putting the shelf, by
forcing them get another dirty man’s hair in their mouth in shared bathrooms,
one television, arguable in color, for these husks of once passionate light
anything is
The Psychiatrists are kind!
So too were Sufi mystics
rubbing pine needles
onto a coral snake bite
to the trachea of the prince of the chieftain
while chanting their most holy sound in that little forest.
I am not crazy, or mentally ill, chronically at least.
My thoughts, however soaring into garbage heaps
of the past passions of artists who certainly did
this same shit before I done did it, but much more poignantly and
maybe with a little more underaged gay sex Warhol money behind them,
do not sprout from my most recent Clash of Clans mobile game,
the newest Airpod anti-sexual assault app,
Sometimes I have burning garbage thoughts as I mentioned
they attack like carbombs despite my innocence, or attempt at it thru ye
the absolute and unquestionable validity
of any gender so far as the human being in question who deserves
that life
as God
had planned them
and that singular beautful
immaculate pinkish human existence,
that perfect pear shape, the stretch marks and cleft lip,
the snake bite piercings,
the multiple sclerosis and the missing jaw
hahahaha you tragedy
Thank you god, for allotting these special humans all these rights, and not just columns
for I had explained columns are simple, not people never could be! Of course
But thank you God, that in your existence you confirm that we all deserve this life
and meaning exists in this life because I can choose anything I want to be and it is not a jab
at new aged ideas I simply think it is funny of all the things we are allowed to do
here on big green and mostly water earth,
because we deserve to,
because gift of life is our Season pass to just do whatever and wherever, and in a lyric Aaron
mentions doing as you please is a European disease
and in these days I consider much of the term “Fall”
no season but in its broadest definition,
simply a cessation, rotting a collapse, leaves changing
what have we done. I don’t know
I dropped out of art school - visual art school
and your pirate boy has been defined by a shaky hand and a lack of will to speak unless I must
but I swear these definitions of things might be spreading wide enough that
perhaps we
build a sort of, hexagonal room, wax candles with no holders
with so many beautiful marble columns, with bas reliefs of tigers
and prey being caught by superior...
creatures of God I’d say!
and we will install a roof
to protect the flowers
which we will never water
and we will
install a roof
that will protect the roses,
that shall never be quenched
though they thirst like babes out the womb,
as they are and could be
for no one will ever enter this room, and at the top
of our Money God Each Other fearing columns, who will fear nothing but being even slightly ajar from their example of another- as each blistering white monument is the perfection in recreation of what is Great and Powerful and relatable and comfortable and not scary and every thing
everything is okay right I am sorry - as architect I get carried away sometimes,
with what others might be considering my work.
Everything is ok! Our one God is great,
and these columns are great, and if they ever
look to the west
and east and see another example
of perfection, and just above
their corinthian order are bald fattened heads
of false prophets who claimed the same splendor as our great
thoughtless monoliths
existing only to gleam in the sun
existing only to check if any other has changed and
these heads of false prophets, never praised
entirely shaven, injected with Abilify,
a primal sex drive reduced to a meagre hope for hug
from friend, a sisterly affection. Pathetic
for in contrast to this sadness, we have perfect and incomparable
the glory of that that shall not be questioned, for if it were ever questioned
r i r
rir found in the bas reliefs of the columns, and so repeats the prophecy
of the perfect same and to never change
the fear of new and animal
primal as bares teeth draws blood does not bring fattened child to fast foof chain
Instead claws its young from traps while breaking veins in nails that would call to question
the sturdiness of the single most expensive aircraft in the United States holy army
with all the artillery you could ask for to look like male cock.
Fuck all this.
I’m done.
the Columns get blown up by the fucking red dwarf imploding, on the day of your great great great great grand daughters prom. Her date is the skeleton of her deceased skeleton.
Things are different and strange, and possible bad, since the columns were destroyed, hence the decaying corpse of a dog being brought to prom
the end of life and world
columns and such
are you proud here
when you look to the right and say I don’t know when a question is said slyly and you didn’t not expect the candor and glee being able to answer it.
Your friends suck.
You are uninteresting. It is Okay.
So is everyone.
et al that life and the authority to label it identifies as it, whatever it is, really, whatever.
Some people get boners from crashing cars dude. That’s new age!
Sure. It’s even a little punk rock. And nothing like a little punk rock to sell spicy chicken
wings. Ain’t that right, Henry Rollins
whos black flag is now covered in spicy chicken sauce.
Rollins is a pussy. Sure he’s a little beefy but he’s fucking short. I’d kick the shit out of that kid.
Yelling about shit that don’t matter sucks.
Fuck your scene.
Baphoment curse identifying with groups
of people and adapting as shallow as moth light and filled with followers
we have all lost our one candle, each group had a candle I believe, and the beginning,
and almost none of us handed in our permission slips, on account of us being at the age our parents are dead. But that’s alright
My dead mother in my dreams
when December
Blew her ashes cross my jeans - stefan b. god bless this man
off these CHAINS
some things only I have bee
Landmines, landmines that are disguised
as pinatas, girls with very short purple bangs
that are dressed as landmines and a very a speific gender a
and so on and so forth. We should question more than
what we are fed by the barrel like cows to corn
before our own slaughter in palliative homes
with our god fucking diagnosed autistic grand son watching Paw Patrol
rather than listen to the only song
on piano you ever learned to play in your 87 years,
terrifyingly fleeting, and almost overwhelmingly
And my thoughts all fucked and Freudian but they sure as hell aren’t taking notes from my last mobile game video game session you chubby armed fuck or the most recent General Manager move by the Sports Team. | Your coke addiction doesn’t make you tough
the way you inheritend the 3rd generation Italian sort of way of pronouncing shit like that doesn’t provoke me.
I know what provokes you. The presence of someone more on top of shit.
Fucker. Jeffery said everything go smooth for me like I got my masters. You glory hole your money
into, and, Mother forgive me for this, whore your 5 dollar bills into vodka cranberries until the dude who smells most like axe gets his pit sweat on your god dam pathetic cheek, which for some depressing reason you applied rouge to.
Go home, one and all
A. aDistraction
Firstly I will say that in the Rat Utopia Experiment, without boring you too much,
the rats quickly congregated to simply socialize in the feeding areas, leaving many to starve
Like the brains of children who haven’t understood what having flesh covering it is like, after a landmine.
I mean, what?
Sports, etc. Let us begin. Sports is important
and it makes money for good things.
And if them sports dudes who went all in to study business
and data entry and all that super fun stuff
had to fucking suck an existential crisis
thru a dead snakes body to experience it,
they still wouldn't understand the terrifying nature of how
every year a different championship team is crowned,
they get the champagne and them shits that shoot the confetti,
and the trips to disney land, and the benders on high quality cocaine
straight from whatever ravaged little brown boy country
who you are all offended I referred to as that without a proper noun,
despite the fact that yes, the best yayo
does come from impoverished little brown boy countries
they get to borrow the special little shiny trophy
handled by the weird pale-skinned guy in white sterile gloves,
and then we just sorta forget.
Everyone just sorta forgets, no matter what.
Except the real old fans. Real old sad fans
who sold their own leather face and credit with a chainsaw
with the white collar neighbor next doorfor that of a terrifying Dryden mask, becoming an even more horrifying aberration, an unmarried man in his 70s,
that a city-defining hero. But boy does Jacques like the Habs
And boy does Jacques for his team
And boy are all Jacques friends dying due to liver failure
related to alcoholism from masking god knows what feminine sensation
mais go Habs go!
  1. athletes with view of green and stick of carrot and body of demi god who could not care less for you
Indifferent robots who are gods of athleticsm
for the pure thrill of millions, multiplying zero by zero
until the sports don't matter and nothing matters
but god damn the only way you could fuck up all these
mansions is you evade taxes but come on now, we’re all multimillion dollar adults here,
who are paid to provide idols for them who have no one to look up to
Because everyone on this planet is smelly cock.
Even that Sidney Crosby is a smelly cock of a person.
But boy cant that boy play some puck and sell some good ole Tim’s in the Prairies?
Fuck you all
Red sun Explode
I hate
Selling talent as pride of city.
Like it's real pride
like it's something you did.
Like you something did, as an individual representing
your beautiful spiked-benched fuck the homeless city.
a multi million trade deal allowing slaves in the ocean to drown, please. And by slaves I mean the new ones all in the NFL, I don’t know I just can’t stand to see slavery happen twice!
I’m too good of a person!
So let them all drown.
I'm about boundary pushing, after all,
I was the product of a caesarian section,
my mom was trying to push me out but the crown of my head was just too fucking big.
Born to be king, here. Not jealous for no 3 point shooter skill, I have my fleet feet and my right hook.
But the millions of dollars stay pushing up
the cleavage-presenting busts of our male idols
are turning into cancerous tumors that block our eyes
from the medication we are giving our so-called psychotic toddlers.
A four year old with bipolar, and we all get behind it. Until we fuck it.
I didn’t mean anything by that, we are allowed to create words in sequence still, I believe?
We gotta have distractions.
We gotta have that new Cable tv series,
just a cut above the rest,
we gotta have that Fucking plastic Steve Jobs commandment checker.
Why deal with carved stone and a good man?
Why not the fucking Try Guys? Why don’t the
Buzzfeed Tryguys try suicide? Like for real, no cry for help stuff.
Suicide seems to very trendy, and Buzzfeed loves trends,
so come all ye milk boned willing to cooperate,
and commit suicide on social media so we can all
fully appreciate just how worth our reverence of it
and depression is.
We must communicate cellularly said column, one of great leaders,
all columns great leaders, do not forget!
There are all so shining asnd aimilar! A virtue we must all strive for,.. if you remember
any commandments. They called a piece of plastic
that costs my right engorged nut
to produce in some half-Tibet half-China hell factory
where the walls are sheet metal a Samsung Galaxy 24 or whatever
tripe they’ve come up, up there in the ivory tower, the powers that be, presumable 24 old men, 6 Chinese, 6 South Korean and 12 of Ashkenazi jewish dez
all as viciously intelligent as you’d expect from individuals who rip out soul
in exchange for the need for social media and to connect to an oasis in
a desert of a world that you might have already died in, and if not yet,
very soon, along with your family. But that matters little>
The New Samsung 69 comes out soon.
Come friends.
We must connect.
  1. end of world y3k social media we cannibalize each other but mostly the ones we look up to and i know
After I finish up on my fave Snapchat Premium sesh
with my upstanding robot dom girl with very cyborg titties
I can stare a picture of deer tahlo and pita chips
while I eat my very plain stale end piece of white bread
with chili sauce and maybe i even taste my own tears
less salty than usual sourced to a female
made of construction paper and poor sexual decisions
insofar as STI-clean partners.
it is alright HPPV is common they say
HEY WE ARE BEING HONEST IT’S info age hehe aint it girl (ripe) winky face
And then, when we’re reminded of that construction paper lady
with the nice high rise jeans,
we maybe take a little trip to the porn aggregator website.
Why not. This is our world, it’s a free world.
it’s a good world! It’s the youths!
And I mean, it’s gotta be. Or else.
Or else. Or else what is below. I dont wanna ask the columns no more. they just like the same weère used to. They don’t know whats down therwe
Or we stew on real shit too long and we
realize our foundation is just a bunch of pipe cleaners
crazy glued together above a millennai old black widow nest.
Old lady must be pretty big and hungry. dripping fangs for us and columns
The columns never saw it coming.
So it is still the same. We are still happy
No strange
No awkward
WE are happy as we are similar and there is strength in understanding us only! Columns
It is becoming broken ri
That giant female with fangs,with a little pretty red spot on its pulsing juicy abdomen and we don't even know if it's there. It just might be, and that's all the more scarier.
I’m not sorry for any missing money if you blame the old me and not his baphomet flaws do not understand sometimes we have devil snake thru eyeholes into brains thank you in fact, fuckers. i enjoyed that meth
we all fly some trains into things sometimes, we all roll some coins thru our teeth sometimes. gotta do what must be done
so say the pillars don’t they
Good Night All World You Will Wake and Be Lonely and all mountain peaks are saddened that only the tops are snowcapped we all deserve that new coat of something candy paint but the new Lord complain she dont drop that ass she brang
rir rir rir rir rir rir
submitted by sippinladyjuice to OCPoetry