I think my being poor is the result of gluten sensitivity. ‘Cause it couldn’t be the Rooneys.

Many so-called people, perhaps even

you, seem stuck on the extremely random idea that the reason I have no money is that I don’t have a job.

This is the kind of low-life, white trash, neo-liberal cant I’m forced to deal with these days.

The mouth-breathers who spout this kind of nonsense, when not being Heimlich’d after inhaling Cracker-Jack toys or having spittle wiped off their chins by a member of the Victorian Order of Nurses, are so hyper-retarded that, come election time in the fifty-third state, they’ll be holding hands and scampering down the oil-slicked beaches, dodging the spire of the CN Tower, and do-si-do-ing around the tar-dipped walrus carcasses—all the while illuminated by the occasional incendiary pelican or flaming gannet—before swanning into the pale-skinned-and-rich-people-only polling station to register their TrumpVote® for the fifth time.

gluten free
This is the face of gluten-sensitivity-based poverty.  Not pretty!

And there He’ll be, all monkey glands and Teflon sinews, hand on His mechanical Frankenstein heart, facing all the wrong directions and warbling “Up, up and away in my beautiful, my beautiful balloon”, which He will have announced via Twitter as the new ‘Murican national anthem.

And who would notice?   Exactly.

Anyway.  Being poor is something that just befell me, swooshing down like the petrified trunk of a giant sequoia released from its crane to pound my cranium to blini-like thinness. My poverty is only too obviously the result of a sensitivity to gluten. Or gender dysphoria.

I’d have included PTSD, before all those spots were taken by millennials who’d just discovered the existence of another person.

I haven’t been eating my acai berries all that regularly either, mainly because I have no idea how to pronounce them, which is why I kind of preferred pomegranate week. But really, what could be a more likely culprit than gluten. Whatever gluten is!

Mostly we don’t know, but are ecstatic to have something, anything, around whose doorway we can trail the withered vine of our failings, psychological, physical and even moral. (Whatever moral is!)  If we had known about gluten at the dawn of civilization, what feats might we have achieved, what disasters averted!

Imagine: If Genghis Khan and Alexander and General MacArthur and a few of the testier popes, and maybe their wives and kids, or even Charles Manson, could have chilled out, dude, on some kasha, maybe, or hungry-man portions of teff pudding served in elephant-tusk bowls, I sense that history would be different—possibly with a few million more people around, and none of them screaming.

But, alas.  From village oven to Wonderbread factory, slathered with yak butter or smeared with Nutella—which, like Heinz Ketchup, has a shelf-life apparently designed to survive interplanetary travel—we’ve stuffed our maws with the staff of life only now to discover, too late, that we’ve been falling, not flying.

And I think what most of us regret, considering all our gluten-dogged efforts have been futile on this Airbus to Doom, is setting our alarm clocks earlier so we could get up and “change the world” or even just “be more productive.”  That’s certainly two hours I’ll never get back!

Anyway.  So here I am, trapped in this severely gluten-sensitive poverty cycle—and you’re damn right I’m wanting just a wee bit of sympathy—a cycle which gives me WAAAAY too much time to think about if I’m the right gender, though I must admit I do keep asking myself: the right gender for what?

And the bloating! Oi ve voy! My distended belly has to be seen to be believed, unless it’s not actually coeliac disease at all, but phantom pregnancy.

Whoa! Gender dysphoria suddenly at peak levels!

With the “no-job” myth debunked, I find my brain cells pumped and the veins in my temples throbbing fit to bust as I tackle other, more mysterious problems, like: Who are these vaguely familiar people in my house?  They keep saying “roomie”, though for a while I thought they were saying “Rooney” and was faint with hope that someone would maybe sing the descant part to “That’s Entertainment!”

On that strictly empirical basis, then: A roomie is the person who barges in, eats all your food and then disappears, leaving you with a pile of dirty dishes, high blood pressure, sand on the bathroom floor, broken glass in the hallway, and an eviction hearing, ’cause they hope you’ll forget about the rent while re-applying your BandAid.

Roomie is qualitatively different from fake-friend, cause a fake-friend slips through the doorway but never barges in, and never leaves; a fake-friend will forget to give you a birthday present and never just “give you the money instead”.

Like a church roof that shines bright copper once its oxidised patina of green is stripped away, I can occasionally break through my thin coating of despair with a gleaming ray of hope. Is amnesia all it takes?

Then I would encourage both of you, roomie and fake-friend, to work yourselves up to forgetting where I live, and after even a single day of blessed silence and solitude, I and the black-suited minions at the Assisted Suicide Council will be happy to send you a medal.

Expect to pay C.O.D.

~

Just getting up from the Ditch of Despond and climbing back onto the Carousel of Crazy: An overview

Hello, many of you have written to ask if I’m OK.

Actually, that’s a blatant lie, not a single one of you has written, sent a message in an old Shiraz bottle, hired a bird from “Carrier Pigeons Plus” or done any of those “too busy to express how little I care but spending a portion of my vast disposable income on something that gives ME a laugh will substitute, sort of, and anyway, like it or lump it” things that would lead me to believe that my followers are actually, you know.

Following me.horror

You may be wondering: I’m living solo at home again.  Yeah, you can hold off sending in an application.  For my bedroom, during the past three and a half years, eight months, two weeks and five days, has served much the same function as John Hurt’s belly in Alien, or, should you insist on CanCon, one of Genevieve Bujold’s uteri in Dead Ringers:-

A safe haven for those who, having mastered the appearance of what currently passes for normal until the agreement is signed, are looking for a space in which to achieve their true form, then, having gorged to repletion on whatever leathery tubes and lobes are to hand, explode into existence as yet another iteration of bucking, wiggling nameless horror.

And have YOU cleaned exploded abdomen off your bedroom walls lately?  Five cans of Comet later my hands are like two red udders, and just TRY telling your building management that it’s from spending too much time skiing in Gstaad.   Like, seriously??!!

So, in the interests of keeping my blog alive, I hereby demonstrate my well-honed off-fobbing skills with an animated GIF, those Lascaux cave paintings of the early Web which have now resurfaced as the crack cocaine of social media—and animated GIFs of cats are the true, pure Colombian shit.

Just don’t cut yourself on the nasty, sharp, broken edges of your monitor in your haste to sample the goods.  There’s a petal.  Cause open sores on the lips don’t jibe with that Craigslist ad of yours that goes

“Chew!  My!  Nipples!!?? Barely legal teen, up to two fingers, wants horizons expanded!! Orange toupées, billionaires and sponge-y, fleeting hard-ons front of line!!  OMFG??!! Looking??!! for NOW???!!! PayPal???!!!”

Cats, in case you hadn’t noticed, are the second-most pathetically laughable beings on the planet, combining as they do unshakeable belief in their entitlement to your slavery, a chilly dignity that is 99% condescension, and an unbridled, nobody’s-watching, let-your-fur-down, meaningless and self-serving acrobatic idiocy.

Second-most.

So, then.  Wanna know how I’m doing, solo once more?  Since you asked?

cat-somersault

« À bientôt, ma Virginia collective, à bientôt … »

My bedroom is a portal to Hell +PLUS+ Carole King has much to answer for

sydow
Just ask Max…

Welcome, campers, to my first official blog post of 2016, and I have to say, I’m  absolutely choughed (rhymes with “choughed”) that so many thousands of you have written to me care of 392 Sherbourne, my squalid Toronto basement-in-the-sky, thanking me for my online efforts over the past year and a half.

Actually that’s a blatant lie, no one has written to me on this topic.  Or any topic really. And there are exactly 206 of you, so it would take each and every one of you writing to me at least five times to even push the level into four digits. Five times!  Don’t faint, dude, but this means you’d have to actually finish something.

OMFG, I am like SO BUSTED?!

Appreciation or no, yours truly has, geewillikers, outstanding contributions to celebrate. For example, my creation of a new online archetypethe literate troll (I trash your opinions and correct your grammar, and instead of Cheetos, think caramel-baked brie stains on my Harry Rosen bowtie); slowest response to Facebook messages (personal best – 4 months);  and Olympic-level distractibility (sets out to check email, ends up 8 hours later with a new operating system).

And let’s not forget the top-rater:  World’s longest blog posts.   I have single-handedly transformed the quick daily update into an infinitely-revised Proustian agony clocking in at 700 words plus.  And that, as my great-aunt Georgiana would have said, “takes some doing…”

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