This was once podcast episodes for some reason? Plays best as a visual album imo–watch the whole thing as one uninterrupted vid here. Feel like I should have more to say about this thing but I guess not? Listen/Download below... **UPDATE: below the below, you'll find some TEXTUAL musing for which these Text2Voice nonsense tracks were mainly based on. I am calling this show STOCK F: Ruminations for Septuagenarians Who Feel 33. And it is below the below, as I have noted. OK BYE.
♫ TRACKLIST – 55 TRACKS (109:10)
1. MY BUTLER IS WEAKER THAN EVER, HE MAY BE INFECTED 02:12
2. I CLEANED THE KITCHEN YESTERDAY 01:17
3. MORNING MEMO 03:03
4. GIFKAMTIX 00:29
5. GOLFDAMMIT 00:34
6. WHAT'S LEFT OF THE WORDS TO THE WISE 01:38
7. S.P.O.R.T.S. 01:42
8. BEGINNING OF THE WEEKLY WEAK 02:49
9. 始まりの始まり #77 01:01
10. HOUSE 02:22
11. 800 18:09
12. SAME DIFFERENCE / NOSTRIL EYES MAN 04:59
13. ਹਮਦਰਦੀ 02:08
14. STOCK FOOTAGE OF A HILL 04:01
15. PRODUCT REVIEW ($3 LIGHT-UP MARQUEE @ RITE AID) 02:08
16. FISH FARMER 02:07
17. JEANNE & JEFF 03:39
18. UNTITLED (THE ART IS SAFE) 02:01
19. FARFLUNG WAVE 00:47
20. BEFORE PLAGIARIZATION 02:35
21. THE CELEBRATED TECHNICIAN 01:38
22. SAMANTHA SAID 01:02
23. THIS IS NOT WRITING. THIS IS NOT GRAMMAR. 01:19
24. SPEAK NOW OR FOREVER HOLD THE MAYO 02:00
25. THE MINNOW MNEMONIC 00:59
26. EIGHTY APES 01:27
27. MASK(KING TAPE)MAN 00:39
28. THE INNOCENCE EPIDEMIC 01:48
29. SUPER BOWL C (PRELUDE) 01:18
30. FORCED FLAG OPERATIONS 00:57
31. RED MEAT FINGERED SIMPLETONS (q⁰0)101⁰).b.) 02:00
32. DEVEIL 01:04
33. THE BAD PIZZA 👮🏻♀️ 00:52
34. FEELING* 01:09
35. FEZZLENOOK 01:22
36. THE BAGUETTE OF BEES 01:03
37. WET BOTTOM FALLS 01:00
38. TOWNSPEOPLE (🗣️) 01:07
39. CARRIER PIGEONS 00:54
40. 16,301 AND ELEVEN OR EIGHTEEN 02:32
41. CROUTONS 02:20
42. VICTOR'S VIG 01:49
43. PAPER FINGERNAILS 00:52
44. PENCIL 01:30
45. CHAPSTICK APPLE PIE 01:49
46. CRABBY, THE ULCER-HAVING SNAIL 01:13
47. SIR PICKLES 00:42
48. GABAGOOLMER (THE CONSTANT HAMMERING OF GABAGOOL BY MY NEIGHBOR THE LITTLE BOY) 01:58
49. SHUNK, OR TRUE BLUE, OR SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST 01:29
50. THE 3 JAREDS 10:28
SEQUENTIAL
SO.... i 𝓌𝓇𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔✏️
34 FEELING* I get scared when, in sunlight, I can't see my phone screen because I've lowered the brightness all the way down the previous evening and, when a horse hits a home run they call it a horse run, and, this is what they call it when a horse runs as well. When a horse simply runs. Horses love to run; it's what they were born to do. You can't tell what a horse's facial expression means when they're doing anything else. Give a horse a phone and he'll stamp the glass right out and the glass will be embedded in his hooves and if he stomps enough phones the hooves will be all glass and you can shoot the horse and mount it like a kiosk and, if rigor mortis sets in, you can pretend the glass hooves are something like a phone. A screen is a screen is a horseshoe and are you feeling lucky? My eyes are bleeding. Straddle your dead horse; you're at the mall now, the mall of fear is in you each braincell and fading.
35.885 And it was a world all his own, where no man could quarrel with, unfairly grasp the tenants of his way and mutate them into expressionless forms void of meaning, truth. It was called a world, a bathroom. He didn't live there long. Exposition: a dog lived in the world and had a lump of bees in the pocket of his belly fat. When the bees exploded through his skin and stung the man of no men, it is true that all metaphor died on spot. Fezzlenook expanded on the story, this line of thinking, and purchased a plot of land adjacent to the bathroom to house the many brain farts, which the man and Fezzlenook alike liked to keep separate from his bowel movements. Fezzlenook was my brother and I am the man, now—the humidity of reason aging, a distant blip, a speck of sweat, shines on the horizon—apart from the man, in the kind century. Where but did FEZZLENOOK* hide the roosters? A fair and good question and one I knew full well when I figured out how to open the door. They were waiting on the other side, each doing a chicken doggystyle. Weasels watched. They always do, and they plot a dizzying array in their pornographic eyes. I should have never given Tommy that baguette. To be continued.
36.886 THE BAGUETTE OF BEES* was the final straw and the limping metaphor was my tommy. He's my dog. I would never suppress someones voice of they were listening to the foo fighters at full volume. I might laugh in their face but they did that for them. Tommy the dog would spit in the antique bowls of their mom's ocean if he felt they were a threat. At the egg sanctuary for the alpacas I left a pipe bomb. I didn't realize it was Tommy's day to date one of them. When they all exploded the burnt fur smell seep to deep across the land: 547 alpacas and one mutt dog. if you could package that smell into a candle you could burn it at domestic terrorist wakes. when the world wilts because of the smell and the SIM cards begin to set themselves on fire as a reaction, will we then look skyward hopeless and still? Will we still look when we can see? I think about the baguette of bees a lot.
37.887 In wet bottom, i did a weird dance like a flamingo and I thought about maybe thinking about a future where I had the right thoughts but then when the time came it was just a bundle of plums filled with piss again and 'not plum juice' and I sprang against the dawn until my face was smashed up against someone familiar. Every p was an f and every flamingo's black undercoat was the same shade of pink as their bright beautiful feathers on top. I saw a face as a knob on a drawer in a TV show in a memory that faded faster than a shooting star. wet bottom was quirky and it was a place ripe for pass interference so we threw rock at all the church windows and sure enough there were thousands of flying squirrels ready to commit the necessary foul. out near wet bottom falls, severals years on from the f.s. sacrilege, the little furry guys did a mass ritual suicide. it was an f.s.,m.r.s, in w.b.f. all right, so to speak.
38.888 I was 6 years old when my 2000-year-old stone head fell off my torso and crumbled in a million pieces, each one tumbling down the hill faster than the next taking out little townspeople(🗣️)* as they went and my legs were tree stumps but that didn't know about sports. betting on sports and how, with my new sports podcast, I will revolutionize the industry whilst making millions for myself to profit upon, is a passion of mine for sure. I like to call this the profit stampede. Or, I'd like to call it that if Ronald Jones would let me. I like to lick the townspeople who have fallen down in comas from the little pieces of my former head hitting their heads, turning their heads blue except for the bit of reddish orange coming out of the mouth like so 🗣️
39.889 Carrier pigeons are coming back in style, thought the man who knew about how there's no difference between me and the house and my body and legs are just different kinds of roots for it as if it were a tree while, all the while, still trapped by the feeling of time but a beautiful orange unfolding between us stopped time or so we thought but time was hellbent on finishing it's job and so it pulled up it's sleeves and sucked it up and put the pedal till the metal until the leather strap burst on fire stinking flames in the nostril smoke of enemies both foreign and domestic. The tree was a v next to the cartoon head and underneath the president of the world just made sounds like a big mad truck. Our waiter was named walter and he was slow getting us our food we saw him crying and carrying the food as he left the flappy kitchen but it was many years before he got to our table and we were dead when he arrived so the food we'd ordered was used as party slop for the mourners only the food has turned and they all died too. Not walter though, the boss God.
40.890 16,301 and eleven or eighteen*, all thought about a window and diving it through only it wasn't a window it was a hole and they were all buried underground, under the dirt and the hole was the only way out or else an egg moth would process their collective voice for food in another dimension. they could all feel themselves getting so upset that their guns, the guns in their mind, all started shitting out a sticky substance from the gun spout or bullet door or corridor of death. they sucked up the goo and it made them go even more wacky until they riled themselves into a big ball and shut out the hole like a golf ball in reverse and landed on the lap of a giant statue meant to symbolize the exact opposite of their attitudes, general judgment on topics big and small, and overall outlook on life. The great egg moth laughed at them, wriggling in the ball, unable to escape, as the ball made its way to a great reflecting pond and they splashed about so that there was no sign of reflection, not a single one of the bees who were friends with the egg moth and watched on diligently above the pond could be seen back in or against the pond through the dufus ball's waves, a duplicate, a copy, in life, unreal. eventually the inhabitants of the ball got tired and they all wet themselves in slumber with the same sticky substance that had leaked from their guns.
41.891 they call this the great deuces wild holy Friday, dont they I thought when I realized that the key to salvation was in, umm, the 41st thing of the thing, as dead on the vine as ever, a blasphemous donut kissing a casserole of shit pavement. I Thought just then: lo, I've been bitten by a spider and probably have all the while a yellow wavelength treating the area of my responsibile for this fat hell and yet, now that I see it, moving breathing purple, everything feels suspiciously fine like life was so easy that the portion of turkey meat dissolved into a thimble and was inhaled by an elf. It was all just food in a field laid out in front of me and there was no stopping me now because there was no stopping. The food chain was strung around a tireless orb, rusty, cascading down a hill without end. Little specks of rust fell off and infected the grass which infected the flowers and the earth became a wash in mangled fruits and vegetables until every salad had the teeth of a bear for texture instead of croutons*.
42.892 VICTOR'S VIG* There was a tonal shift in fantasy football attitudes as a warm glow entered my area in the form of a goateed man, practicing graphic design as a form of penance for living a life of violence and hopelessness. I was most exclusively Zoey In the mirror of this man and bursting with delight at having solved life's last great puzzle. He offered me the best odds yet on the over-under number of times that the football pelican would suck up an ocean football along with a thousand tiny minnows in the sea where the ocean football to tiny minnow ration was seven billion to one: we're talking Victor the bookie man in the mirror of me now an exclusive Zo and his vestibular vig, the juice baby he whispered the sweet nothing in my zzz zzzzzzz ear. While we're on the subject of nothings, the hot number was the only thing it could be for a dramatic act such as rescuing a good and rare ocean football: zero point five, the five being a nearly meaningless digit; it's inclusion simply meant to transpond the notion that minus the absence of anything, you a winner, baby. And Victor's Vig on this number was a sweet non·en·ti·ty. You win nothing and all is returned aka can't lose. Well sign me up honeypie. I said, "This is my kinda fantasy." Victor stroked his goatee and said, "you and me both, Zoey baby."
43.893 When my head forms these brain waves which bubble up in the form of pickable clots what else am I supposed to do? Any old dog would let the blogger take the blood out. So I tell the blogger, I go hey blogger after you're done complaining about the cuban muffin crisis, can you puncture the clots on my forehead sticking out, they're sticking so far out they're in your mouth anyway and I can't hear what your hot take on the cuban muffin crisis is anyway so you might as well get to a poppin' but ease use a fingernail and not a tooth. I could have learned a lot about life if I had followed that advice about using fingernails instead of teeth but then again my fingernails were made of paper on the day I was born and they only grew more frail and thin with age. Now they are so thin and translucent I can see the whole of my finger nubs and I touch the fleshy nubs and maybe it was in this touching that the bubbling brain waves were born. *PAPER FINGERNAILS
44.894 The oldest bologna farmer in Denver was a man named Pencil. When he laughed he smelt like an alfalfa shepherd whose alfalfa children all smelt like mud cheese. Pencil tried not to laugh because if he laughed too much his bologna would smell like mud cheese and all the bologna shoppers would want a refund. But Pencil's funnybone had become infected with the marrow of a stand-up comedian and it was nonstop chuckles in Denver Soon he was forced to give refunds to every last customer so he surgically removed his eyes and replaced them with cat eyes. The cat eyes made him so sneaky that he snuck into the houses of everyone who had requested a bologna refund and brainwashed them into thinking that his bologna that smelled like mud cheese actually smelled like bologna and eventually it was business as usual for ole Pencil.
45.895 The menu said CHAPSTICK APPLE PIE – ON SPECIAL TONIGHT ONLY, but the hot vermin sizzling on the rotisserie stick said all woman in my eyes. I'd been in enough hardscrabble dead on the vine diners to know the damn difference between a C.A.P. and a lady verm. Here and then I was traveling with my companion Worm Stinkley how was not as well versed in the ways of travel eats identificationing. He ordered the chapstick apple pie and lo wouldn't you know that they had the morsel, plum hiding behind the sizzling thing in a metal pot that was so rusted it blurred in vision-wise with the speckled red of the vermin corpse. I gave the C.A.P. an eye and it looked legit but the stench of that female roadkill on the spit had won me over. I told Worm to enjoy it son and ordered up a plate of the verm for myselfs. "What speesh?" I asked the bartendress, her name was Pal, that's shorthand for species and a fair enough question although braver men might go in cold. "Octoweasel," she replied. "splains the leg count," I said. She nodded. She cut off a full leg and a portion of the side meat and slid it onto a plate after she scooped out a serving of the chapstick apple pie for Worm. "I'll toast to that," Worm said. Amen. He dipped his spoon into the wet mush and I could tell it was all rust jelly and told him now that's how you make a C.A.P. boy. He smiled and we howled like wolves in unison.
46.896 Crabby the Ulcer-having Snail crept up on me despite her whinin'. I could tell she was having a real tough time with that sore on the inside lining of her stomach. So I did what any good friend would do: I reached down through her snail whole and massaged the thing. She sang a pretty tune as I touched it. Crabby had the most unique and wonderful voice, like a cross between Cher and an Emphysemic Pelican. She could only hit the high notes when someone was massaging her ulcer, though. I had only lost 90 percent of my hearing three weekends before and was getting used to managing things. The great thing about Crabby's voice was that the 10 percent of my hearing that worked OK didn't know the damn difference what for between 0 and a 100 or anything else. A singing snail was a singing snail to that 10er and I would have been happy with my finger on that ulcer indefinitely tell the truth. But after a while it being down her snail hole clogged her snail organs and the pretty singing turned back to a whine. Man oh man if that ain't life. It always does. CRABBY, THE ULCER-HAVING SNAIL*
47.897 I wanted to wait until all of the liquid leaked out of my brain pocket before speaking again because, as it were, I'd noticed myself not making good words with the leaky juice all clogged up in the pocket. And so I bought a stick at the stick store to jam into my brain pocket to unclog the liquid. It was a chunky sauce. The stick store stick was a good enough stick as well it shoulda been what with my last seven dollars calling it mama, m'am and good lady. The acorn I took to calling Sir Pickles mocked me as I did all my stick jamming. Sir P said he'd bet me 2.3 million big ones if I could recite the pledge of allegiance while trying to unclog my brain pocket juice. I took him up on that offer and started speaking. I said... . "I pegged an eChick till the lag oven you knighted stayed up, uh, making angsty pub crawl fork twitches and one navel unglued Bob and Vinny with Lil Bert and Justin Four Owls." SIR PICKLES *
48.898 The constant hammering of gabagool turned my eardrums into a soft putty, malleable to the point where any sound was actually feeling and if you were talking to me it meant you had to be holding my head in your hands, massaging the tissue around the sound canal like you were nursing a wayward woodland creature babykin back to full health. Why my neighbor took to hammering gabagool instead of, uh, a hammer, isn’t really the point at this juncture, but for the sake of conjecture let’s just say that the fine Italian meat has many uses one might not initially “think of.” My friend Bobby called the neighbor boy GABAGOOLMER which would have delighted me if I could have heard it but as Bobby spoke, well, the silent movie of life washed over me; next thing you know we were both running from the train on the projection on the wall, thinking it was real. When things got real bad I went over and knocked on my lil neighbor’s door and when the pipsqueak answered the door he was but seven inches high and every square inch of the apartment was nailheads and rotten meat. I felt for the lil guy. The constant hammering of the gabagool had pushed him down into a nearly squat nothing. Life does that to you sometimes. GABAGOOLMER (THE CONSTANT HAMMERING OF GABAGOOL BY MY NEIGHBOR THE LITTLE BOY)
49.899 My barber had a goldfish named SHUNK that he kept in the same jar he used to dip his barber apparatus, that foregin blue liquid used to kill the lice and little things and make all the dead skin deader. How this goldfish survived in that stuff is a miracle. I asked him once if I could take SHUNK home and give him a proper place to live. My goldfish Esmeralda is lonely, I cried. But my barber just laughed and told me that ole Shunk wouldn’t last one second in the “normal water,” that he’d adapted to the barber juice lifestyle and he even let me in on a little secret: his nickname was TRUE BLUE. As a matter of fact, it was difficult to see what color SHUNK actually was and perhaps his tiny scales had been dyed blue by the chemicals over the years. Either way, he looked great. My girl Esmy was as boring an orange as a goldfish could get it and why did we call them GOLD fish to begin with, I did a little standup comedy routine in my head as my barber finished the cut. I glanced in the mirror and he’d done in awfully bad job like usual. I don’t know why I kept coming back, to be honest. Suppose a chance to see ole SHUNK one more time. One more time. We can only outlive the goldfish and a handful of other animals. Everything and everybody else? Fair game. SHUNK, OR TRUE BLUE, OR SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
50. 900 THE 3 JAREDS If I were tasked with the pain of debating President J. Trump, I would simply ask him why he feels the need to indulge in fountains full of pink shrimp taco meat via the teat that is the hard-earned taxpayer American dollar? Only a gutless fool would allow such buffoonery and downright dishonest though magical binge-eating to take place behind the hollowed doors of The White House–although more like the pink shrimp house now!–and for what? To live forever? I guess those in his inner circle are in desperate need of a mirror (to look themselves straight in their evil eyeballs) as the man himself had supposedly barred the things on day numero uno, so who's to say who's to blame? Surely not the W the H or the O, or the deadly uncontained viruses, still putting up barry sanders 1997 numbers on the general pop when president J. trump stopped to smell the roses in the middle of the 179th riot during his 18th term. And so let me tell you how america was finally set free. It was probably around the time he filled up his adult diapers plum past the rim and the spilling shit killed the great garden and infected all his patriot warriors with a rare presidential feces disease which they gladly accepted and each and everyone of them got so sick that their rotting bodies ate through the hospital beds, ate through all the hospital floors, through the cold dead earth until they burst into flames in the molten center. P.J.T. could feel the heat of each sacrifice– only on Planet USA, Population - a baker’s dozen – as Jared from Subway and Jared from Jared and the other Jared each attended to his diaper needs, which were plentiful (he was going through seven diapers a second, a god-like level of presidential shitting), and he smiled as each explosion caused a minor earthquake someplace else across our great land. His ass was like a machine gun. there was shit everywhere and President j. trump went to take a nap. Jared from Subway killed Jared from Jared because he didn't help enough with the poo poo cleanup and the other Jared cried because he was a whimpy boy who only loved the many fine jewels and gold and he stole from Jared from Jared, a kindred soul, a lover, a plaything, a friend. Jared from Subway told the other Jared that they should chop up and cook Jared from Jared and feed it to Mr. President J. Trump as that would be a meal fit for a king and what other sacrifice would be sufficient well let’s not sleep on it. The other Jared simply nodded along like a dufus. So Jared from Subway proceeded to chop up Jared from Jared and bake the boy like a fine wine or a nice christmas ham and when he was done baking, you guessed it, he thin-sliced the heck outta Jared from Jared and stacked the meat high in one of his patented five-dollar foot-longs. He said to the other Jared, "maybe it would be fitting if he sprinkled a little diamond dust as a topping?" Well the other Jared wasn't hearing any of that, his loving memories of Jared from Jared and his wonderful jewelry came rushing to the forefront of his mind and he exploded in a jealous rage and force-fed all the excess Jared from Jared meat that wasn't in the five-dollar foot-long to Jared from Subway until he choked and died from the cannibalistic assault. There were now two dead Jareds on the floor of the kitchen. Before he died, Jared from Subway whispered to the other Jared, "didn't you want to see him leave the fountain?... he deserved... this..." J.F.S. was beyond right. That President J. Trump deserved to have a nice human five-dollar foot-long after 72 years spent wallowing in the fountains full of pink shrimp taco meat that were no doubt responsible for his rampant earth-shattering shits. The other Jared, the ONLY Jared, cried, spewing tears all over the body of Jared from Subway and the little pieces of Jared from Jared meat. The Cyborg I.V.A.N.K.A. short for i Vater's and Neural Kanine Ass, or "i" for even shorter, came barreling down the stairs, free from her human disguise of "blonde woman" she could inhabit her natural state of a cold, steel, robot mutt. Only the other Jared could understand her barks and he could tell she was upset with him for having been apart of this mass Jaredcide and that father would be beyond upset. In bark language, she said "we need to clean up this mess." Jared told i that it was Jared from Subway's fault and that if they could get him to the fountains full of pink shrimp taco meat quickly he might be able to regenerate his lifeform as the fountains, though diarrhea-inducing to the max, provided all who ate their shrimp eternal life. so he tied J.F.S. to the back of I.V.A.N.K.A. and they made their way to the fountains. The magical pink shrimp entered the mouth of J.F.S. and were beyond delighted to have a host almost as demented as their beloved President J. Trump. before they knew it, Jared from Subway was up and adam, looking as spry as any other one hundred and eleven year old man in the country. The other Jared said to his newly zombified friend, "I think we have a Jared sandwich to bring to an old pal." Like giddy schoogirls, the two remaining Jareds hopped on the back of i and bounded into the President's bedroom, the over-stuffed Jared meat five-dollar foot-long tucked in J.F.S.'s arm like a football on the winning touchdown drive. They woke up P.J.T. and placed the five-dollar footlong jared sub in his palms. He cried a little and took a bite. Then he finished the whole thing and washed it down with a gallon of milk. He cried a little more and said, “My rules is over, boys. It’s your turn. But no longer will the United States of america be ruled by a single demagogue. Oh no. But the threeheaded tribunal of Jareds. It is your turn to lead this great nation.” The Other Jared and zombie Jared from Subway looked quizzically at their mentor, PResident J. “But it’s just us 2 now dad, the sandwich…” The Other Jared trailed off. PResident j. Trump undid his trousers and bent over one last time for old time’s sake. He muttered, “Not so fast” and took one last wet shit before dying, half-naked and covered in poo. The 2 jareds and i looked on in amazement as the liquid crap that the President had just omitted began to solidify and take form. It grew over ten feet high into a brown human-like entity. It made its way over to the jewerly jar and pulled out one of Jared from JAreds patented diamond rings and put it on his wet slimy poo poo finger. “3,” the thing said. His voice was unmistakable. America was gonna be just fine.
