Omega 3 Vitamins Zoom Zoom Buster

Casanova may have been a ninny compared to the beefcakes and underwear models prancing about my fashion zines and sex 2.0 spots today. Fabio was a silly face compared to the digital masterpiece bodies of a world gone photoshop crazy. Who knows what reality is, when I can turn my boyfriend’s sixpack into an eight pack or a twelve pack. I can computerize up my boyfriend with fourteen pack abs goddamnet, and I do and will!

You want to talk about how to relieve stress? You want to talk about Primal Nutrion? Bring it on periwinkle, because I will smash your ape man and his healthy genetics into a zillion micronized megapixels. I’ll walk up and down the spine of the mammoth beast of sexy health, then and now, and forever, amen.

Took the short train to the health station, choo choo! What a fiasco, all dressed up in spandex workout pantaloons and not a rope to skip. Big Sports 5 was the old hip gym-store station, but Sports chalet just planted itself in the nest made by the old Bed, Bath, and Beyond, and they’re storming the retail health blast field, selling weights and kayaks and fiber-goretex-titanium water bottles without remorse. They sold me my jump rope, a heavy, rubber thing with beautiful blue rivets for my tiny hands to grasp. I could snap the wings off a forty pound moth with my wieldy doomsday jump rope.

The real question for the damage control gurus, the Sports Chalet charistas is, where’s the chalet buffet? I’d like a protein bar with my diet pomegranate blueberry extract juicifacation power slurpee please. How about a side of wheyables? Wheyt thins? Wheyt watchers, anyone? Let me dictate the demands of my health food upon retail and sell it to me with my Nordic Track.

Don’t you think its time Primal Nutrition and omega 3 vitamins got together for a big paleo health party? Let’s make it happen, and where better to make it happen in the chalet in the nest of the old B, B, & B? The new B, B, & B is indeed beyond, all the way across the street with fancy new windows and an escalator made just for shopping carts, how thoroughly Los Angeles.

Hey, what’s a caveman diet?

I’m toting two computers on my desktop. A lap top, a desktop. Twice the screenage, twice the working capacity. I’m practically evaporating as a zoom through the information super subway at the speed of thought, steaming out on my life extension.

I bow to you, computer two, cached up with all my thoughts and jots and emotional checkpoints in the electronics of my life. You have brought me games, work, creativity, expenses, gambling addiction, naked ladies and naked man friends. Witty conversations with dullards and pointless news so pointless I begin to hate the generation that claims me.

Go away computer two, you ruined my life! Ah, here is computer one, so much for form fitting. Professional. Tidy passages of the best antioxidant and 78 mentions of the words washboard abs, how delightful. Computer one is safe, no history, nor will there ever be as everything I do or have done is washed away, cleansed into the recycle bin and nothing lingers, no achievements or strategies, no major metaphors. You are vapid, computer one, why do you not log my life in the way computer two has? I hate you computer one! Go away into the armpit of a country filled with more beasts than people, which is every country, yet I do not need to explain my analogy.

I oscillate. One then two then two then one. What to do, have some fun. Work and play, play and work, type all day, either way, whether station two or station one.

Arty was a fine man. He could really get things started. Arty would take up surfing, or dog sledding, canaloping, and in a month he’d be one tried and true seasoned, dog surfing canalope mama.

If Arty decided to play his recorder on 3rd street on Sundays for a little cash and jollies, within a week hippies and yippies and yuppies and puppies would be joining in with the recorder jamboree and in a month or two channel  3 news would do an expo on the “recorder craze” going on all over Los Angeles. That’s how charming Arty could be.

But the man was as violent as he was likeable. He once broke a whole set of Ikea livingwear just because the instructions came with the wrong hexagonal wrench. I once saw Arty embarrass his boss at a board meeting, calling the stodgy gentleman, a “glue sniffing radial bastard.” I don’t know that the boss was either radial or a bastard, but it was no secret that he sniffed glue, and everyone played hush hush until Arty came out and said so. That Arty, I wouldn’t cross him with a gaggle of elephants at my back.

Arty was reknowned for his good health. He had the stealthiest abs on a high fat diet, he took 45 omega 3 supplements with his breakfast, and rumor has it he even found the best multivitamin there ever was. But, I wouldn’t believe everything about Arty. People know the best multivitamin will bring about the end of the world. The world is still here, so I’m betting Arty hasn’t found it yet.

Mr. Disney sitting in his frozen tomb laughs at all his jolly children in the fray. Nobody notices the stuffed weasils and crazy laced lollies tripping the school teachers out on their way to the bathroom.

Pull the cord and let the whole ball of fun sink into the floridian sea, tourists will gulp and gasp and choke while they laugh their way to a mushy grave, full five fathoms they lay. It’s goth day at Disney and the nerds have come out to prey. I spy a lovely cherub girl gorded out in a black satine, screaming at her ghoulish mother, something about too many candy bars.

Let’s ride the dumbos, I love riding the dumbos, I absolutely love sitting in a bucket crap scraped out of the back of an elephant.

Let’s see the small world, and all the small people smilling as they keep foreigners in their places, tactifully and artfully maintaining the stereotype. Look at those goths there beating on a robot hula girl, no fair at all, the robots never fight back.

Magic Kingdom is falling down, it’s my favorite dreamscape to visit. Especially on goth day.

Find people now with orthorexia nervosa and visit the land of the damned all pastelled for your toddler’s pleasure.

Slamming into the flagpole is a speeding Camel Bandit forty feet up and twenty feet tall. He’s a mean camel bombardier and he steals from the children and scares his camel brethren with his mighty snort.

I met him once near a samovar on the high plains of El Paso. He brayed at me a throaty camel bray and told me of his bandit years. You see he wasn’t always evil. A true bombardier by birth, flying in the soapy skies of London, casting shadows over children in long green fields and trembling with dehydration returning from the front. He could slip a daff bomb down the chimney of a dutch hovel and rake a field of raiders in the winks of an afternoon. The mighty camel bombardier he was, and not the only mighty one, but certainly the only camel one.

The camel bandit chewed a flake of dried prickly pear and spit in the dust.

“No time for air raids these days,” he muttered and pulled out his .35 caliber. He broke the barrel and showed me the glimmering malachite handmade bullets inside. I’d never seen a malachite bullet and didn’t believe it would shoot. He buffed his barrel, replaced his locking and eyed me down.

“I could prove it works to you, but then you’d be dead.” So I did believe him.

The next I heard of the wild camel bandit bombardier was years later and miles from the edge of the Sargasso sea. Somebody had called him out with his crazy malachite, and the man lay dead on the floor boards of a parked eel vessel. You’d not think much of the average camel, but I say again, Zeus even could not fell such a brimstone beast. I bet you could even watch the camel while he would buy vitamin stuffs, or as he would explain the best multivitamin. But then of course, you might be dead as well.

Ding bat flying with his nypsrustle. They clatter and skitter and flop down on the loam. White spade serpents suck them up and swallow, bellowing swiftly and sneezing for more. Big rough pumpernickel stuck to the throat of a mammoth neanderthol whomping with fear. Choking it down, he burps at the serpents, then rushes away on his gray palomino. I pass on by through this thicket of corn, away from the rot of an urban black cesspool of candy corn houses aligned near the Starbuckses. I’m on the lamb now, took to snyping the citizens, a good deal of fun, but troublesome consequences. My niece ratted me out, the precocious little brat, chewing her pop rocks like butter and telling the cops all about my body count.

Clouds gathering and merging now like amoebas eating their progeny. Not the white Disney friendly puffs, but the yellow, blue scaled miseries that ruin a planned weekend in Carmel. I could be sucking garlic snails off of delicate china in an evergreen forest, but I’m hammering messages through my grouse and carboy linoleum roller instead, buttoning down and striking out with a plastic tarp for downtown. God Damn those clouds.

Two many alphas and not enough omegas in this city. Everyone’s starting something, “getting it going,” “getting it showing,” Level 3 Wizards, and Rambo 3 fatalities, and omega 3 vitamins wrapped up so thick inside a health blog, I’m waxing visceral. Out.

Shoebert is a great name for a person born today. It just fits into this day so cozily, a little rat named Shoebert. A big rat actually, five times the size of a normal rat and unafraid of humans. This mutant rat king is a real Taiwanese treat, thinks to those crazy cryptozoologists and their exploratory nature. I just do hope they name the rat Shoebert.

Shoebert is so big-like that he may get his own species name. Good for him. I’d like my own species name for Christmas. In fact, that’s my one Christmas wish, to be classified as a new species all my own. Then scientists, and amatuer entomologists, and cryptozoologists could study me in the way they study Shoebert. Constant poking and prodding, but lots of pampering, and a special diet tailored to my eating habits, which I’m sure are quite exotic and expensive.

Of course, if I became a new species, I’d likely be renamed and caged as well, and that might be unpleasant. I can take a good caging, but I like my name more than I like what species I am, so forget about Shoebert and the rest of that nonsense.

Instead look for happiness with healthy, happy, haunted websites like master formula and omega 3 benefits. They’ll do you a might bit of good, unless you’re a giant rat king.

The editor in chief of the Australian Bushwacker decided not to run an article on marsupial attacks in the low desert of southern Australia.

The fact is, marsupials of all sorts are cold blooded killers. They are territorial and enigmatic and they live only to graze on the rare herbs of the australian desert and to pound man flesh with their mighty thumping feet. Smaller hoppers like wallabes may only wound a man in an attack, but a full grown male kangaroo can kill up to 20 tourists a year. The government is afraid of a decline in the tourism industry if the truth about marsupials is leaked, thus marsupial deaths are usually covered up, or sited as heart attacks, strokes, dehydration, or wild aussie bushman slayings.

Until recently, the marsupial plague had been limited to Australia, but in the last 4 months marsupials have been spotted in Brazil, Syberia, and even in Milwaukee, where several children have been brutalized.

How to Prepare Yourself against a Marsupial attack:

There are two common methods of fending off a marsupial attack.

1) Learn basic marsupial sign language. Marsupials communicate through finger twitches. Basic twitch signals like, “Stay back,” “Good food” “Danger me” and “I poop now” can be learned in a quick primer course taught at most local community colleges. More sophisticated signing like, “What is your position on prenatul cryptopsychology?” takes several months of study. Using proper marsupial signs to disuade an angry marsupial can significantly lower your chances of being attacked.

2) Carry a gun.

Remember, the only GOOD marsupial is a DEAD marsupial.

The best multivitamins and the master formula have absolutely nothing to do with marsupials.

I got to thinking about hell. Not that I really believe in it (thus no capitalized “H”) but it’s still a fun place to imagine, like the ghettos of Oz or Hugh Jackman’s aviary. I imagine there are plenty of large faced demon men and painfully curvy demon women trompsing around, sinning and doling out pain. The decor certainly would be red, though hints of green just to make things festive. Of course, nudity required, lots of nudity in hell. Clothes perhaps are a rarity or maybe a punishment.

The tricky thing about hell is how to keep people going. Humans numb, we numb to too much of anything. Even if we can never get enough, we eventually numb. Sex, happiness, money, sports trophies and collectible stamps and nascar on ESPN 3 and hate and love. It’s a sad to experience something for the first time and know it will never be quite so good. Of course, it’s in our nature to improve ourselves, and we take new joy in improvement and success, but we become numb to improvement as well.

And this is the problem with hell. Eternity is such a while, that numbness is certain. And so I have realized what hell is HELL is TOTAL NUMBNESS. hell is the point at which there is no new experience, no better joy, no worse pain, hell is stasis, hell is the numb, the end of numbing.

There is no how to relieve stress in hell because there is no stress in hell. I believe there is no pain in hell, or my imagined hell. Does this boggle the question of heaven, or should we just leave it on the dark side for now?

And as a postcript, here is another link, fresh cut from a demons bones and fired until new again. It is the omega 3 supplements.