crouching tiger, hidden spudmeister.

I think my fellow countrymen are worthy of praise and adjectives of the glowing variety, such as ‘industrious’, ‘efficient’ and ‘homosexual’. Ok perhaps the last one is a blatant case of equivocation, but that doesn’t mean it’s not false. Alright and maybe I’m being a bit too hard on that son of a bitch doing the classic false appeal to authority shit in class. You know, the kind who will go ‘Ma’am, can you give a short discourse regarding the dynamic undertow of the philosophical tensions belying the subject-object anti-pseudo transperambulatory materialism behind “Standing Tiger/Crouching Dragon”, which I read about in a book?’ in film class, to the consternation and burning interest of the spinster stuffy matriarch of a lecturer who spends her weekends with heated bananas and who has a thing with larger shower heads. Uh. In case you didn’t know “Standing Tiger/Crouching Dragon” is the name of an oft-neglected, yet effective orgasm (sexual, just in case some other flaming homosexual’ll like to describe his movie-going experiences in language best left to copulators) generator as detailed in the newest version of the Kama Sutra complete with new, snazzy (or so they think; I mean, “Randy Recliner”?) names for positions and what they call a Carnal Rating column which, following a layman translation, rates the amount of bones both parties will snap in attempting to derive pleasure.

Anyway, on to the industrial and efficient bit, which, disappointingly to anyone, or possible anyones, reading this; has got fuck-all to do with sex. Well. Then again I don’t suppose it’s over and above anyone thinking about sex with whatever material he has to work with: words, washing machines, curtains, what have you. I mean, not obviously, in the mundane sense of the word. My concession for off-track thinking has gained new ground I see. Anyway, so there was this boy (fuck you paedophiles who’re already starting now) who was attempting to sleep and drink at the same time on a bus ride. And what does he do but fail miserably in all 3. When the bus jolted, bringing his cranium into terminal contact with the part of the anatomy most highlighted in “Wanton Wheelbarrow” of his neighbour, at the same time generously dispensing his Slurpee down the breast pocket of said beneficiary of this event, had the latter been in the mindset most suited for “Surreptitious Slurpin’ ‘n Spankin’ Spudmeister ”, which, in this case, he was not. Which was a right shame.

And so I’ve covered man’s basic needs in this short passage: food, drink, sex and shelter. Of course, we have the glaring omissions which are regretted for now but which will be covered in latter tendencies to jerk back into digital life, such as sex, football, sex, sex and advanced corsetry techniques. And I think they should ban all them motherfucking sociologists in analytic classes. No offence to said motherfuckers, of course.