three word haiku on communism



hapa haiku

People call me mutt.
Drops of color in my veins.
Tinted or tainted?



peter jackson makes me hate monkeys

King Kong blows. Let me elaborate: Three hours. Jack Black. Kill me now.

Peter Jackson is the most overrated director since M. Night Shamalantana. It's like he won't rest until he's found a way to make me groan continuously throughout the movie. Overly-dramatic dialogue? More strings than the Boston Symphony Orchestra playing Cat's Cradle? Main characters who put themselves in incredible danger for completely unbelievable reasons? THREE FUCKING HOURS? I wasn't watching a remake of a classic story about hot monkey-love, I was watching a Lord of the Rings sequel.

One day, when I meet Peter Jackson in hell, I'm going to demand my money back.



spoked word

Last night, my roommate guilted me into seeing him perform at a spoken word performance. Now, I like spoken word, but I can only take fifteen minutes or so at a time before I start to bite the skin off the inside of my lip in frustration. I hate that half the people read their poems off a piece of paper, or out of a notebook, and they stumble over their own punchlines, because they haven't taken the time to practice before jumping on stage and shouting at me. I hate that people use their crack-voices to read their poems. Loud, manic screaming, mixed with paranoid mumbling. People who talk like that usually eat at soup kitchens.

Anyway, my roommate did a piece too, and it was pretty damn creepy. His poem was about his unending desires to defile the bodies of innocent victims, and how he sometimes stands over me when I am sleeping and fights the urge to rip me open and bath in my innards. Everybody in the audience thought it was some sort of political metaphor, because he kept shouting "nigger" every so often when reading, and there was that one guy in the audience who thinks everything that ends in a pause is deep, so he has to say something like "yeah, brother!" or "uh-HUH!" just to show that he GETS it. People were applauding him when he finished, like this was a statement, and not just my formerly homeless, undead, and probably racist roommate. Me, I was thinking about maybe adding more garlic to my diet.

The night wasn't all bad, though. There was a really awesome spoken word using Oregon Trail as a metaphor for picking up women (I'll never look at covered wagons the same way again).



i can't believe i spent a cash-wad on you dick-wads

Brad Mehldau, for letting Warner Bros put copy protection on your album "Places," I nominate you for the seventh circle of hell, where a bearded woman will stick YOUR PIANO UP YOUR ASS.

The Bad Plus, for even being associated with Sony and their border-collie retarded XCP copy protection on "Suspicious Activity," I will pray that a giant dunks you in a vat of his saliva.

Autechre, your "Draft 7.30" rips perfectly fine -- EXCEPT FOR THE LAST TRACK WHICH IS COPY PROTECTED. For almost being nice guys, but then sticking out your assholes anyway, I will stab you with pencils until you die of lead poisoning. Or graphite poisoning. Fuck you, as long as it hurts.

Buck 65, for pulling THE SAME GODDAMN SHIT as Autechre on both "Vertex" and "Square," which is A FUCKING EXPENSIVE IMPORT. You fucking shithead wannabe underground hip-hop ass-diaper. You of all people should know it is about the music. I BOUGHT YOUR STUPID CANADIAN SHIT, and all I want to do is trade it for some good Canadian shit (which, coincidentally, is also illegal to reproduce). You fuck, for doing it to me twice, I hope you get your balls shot off, then surgically reattached through an experimental procedure, then ripped off again. I also hope you turn yellow for some reason.

When I bought an iPod, I threw out my Discman without a care, and now all I want to do is strangle a puppy.