My name is Miles, and this is my gallery of words.

If I’m gonna tell a real story, I’m gonna start with my name.
— Kendrick Lamar
Carlin's Tribute Part II: False Owl Gods

Carlin's Tribute Part II: False Owl Gods

With all the horrible, horrible shit that your priest is pumping into your kid’s head, his dick should be the least of your worries, honestly. That’s just a little mouthwash and a few years of therapy’ll get rid of that. That Jesus shit will torture you for a lifetime.
— Doug Stanhope

Upon my childhood rooftop sits a fake owl.  It faces the backyard and has a bobble head that wobbles with the wind.  Essentially, it was perched above to act as a scarecrow for pigeons.  Maybe that's why it inevitably faltered.  No crows were involved; only stool pigeon's blissfully ignorant of anything that isn't coming at them fast.  Fucking pigeons...each one just a moral decoy for the next shifty eyed shit-laying bandit.  All of them living by the principal of not being the first one to get hit by a car.  No real sense of solidarity.  It worked for a short period of time though.  They kept away from their normal roost, instead choosing to linger on the outskirts as their faux nemesis' head wobbled.  Respectful of the owl's potential for wrath.  Possibly reminiscent deep down in their ancestral memory of one of their own being ripped to shreds by the fearsome relative equivalent of a deity.  That pecking order is a mutha'.  But under the surface of such fear lurks the will to thrash at the ankles of those above us.  I think that's eventually what got into those little shits head's.  They remembered to ask.  What's a mob to a king?  What's a king to a God?  What's a God to a non-believer.  Shout out to Jay and Yeezy for that one.  It started to appear that these pigeons were not buying into this Old Testament-ass owl.

Let's be honest real quick, a few of you expected this shit to be about the Illuminati, Moloch and Bohemian Grove.  Heh, heh heh heh.  Na.

Ever get emails from a place that didn't hire you?  That's a special kind of "fuck you."  Worst part is when they're trying to get you to donate to their cause.  That deserves an instant reply "fuck off" emoji.  Something in between the red faced, side look, middle finger up one and the manic faced tears coming out the side, cackling grin, one fingered salute one.  No room for debate with this issue though.  Just take that moment of solace when you drive by and give the side glance of disapproval. 

I'm just saying, if you're walking down an alley and encounter strangers sucking's safer if it be two gay guys.  Straight men get too protective.  Gay men, it's a party.  A few giggles and half-hearted open invitations later and you're on your way.  It just doesn't have the potential to be that harrowing of an experience.

Unnecessary life problems: 

Telling hosts not to eat left over food off of guests plates.  Yeah.  Also seen hosts eat dog treats that we leave up front.  Sure, when I use to host years ago I would keep a Four-Loko's in the cabinet, but I wasn't eating fucking Kibbles n' Bits. 

Telling five year olds that showing their butt as a threat doesn't get them what they want.  That only works when you're past the age of 18.

Feeling like an ass when your phone vibrated and you were excited that you got a text, maybe a Facebook message, a swipe-right on whatever desperate dating app you have, shit even a Pokémon go notification - and it's an Amber Alert.  Talk about selfish irritation.  Look around the room next time one of those goes off.  Guarantee you there's going to be at least a handful of frowns.  It ain't over the kid neither.  Neglected feeling-ass mother fuckers.  The worlds telling them to be on the look out for a white 98' Ford Bronco when they're just trying to get tagged in some shit cat meme about how much Monday's suck.  I suppose that's just the world in a nutshell.  C'est la vie.

My girl and I love to do nights where we sit down and enjoy quality slices of meats and cheeses.  Charcuterie Board shit.  We generally won't go through all of it though and as of now it gets stored where nieces and nephews - no, the parents of said munchkins, have access to.  So our shit gets fed to beings that are of the age where picking and eating your nose only warrants a friendly reminder of "noooo" instead of one of those "you gross ass mother fucker - hey ya'll, Taylor just picked his nose and ate it!  You gross ass nose picking and eatin' mother fucker."  Taylor lives with that until he switches states and deletes his Facebook.  Poor booger-eatin' Taylor.  These kids though? They feel entitled to pâté, peppered salami and Port Salut.  You know, to round out their snot filled diets.  If you can't pronounce it, don't fucking expect it.  You want it? Enunciate.  Best be able to describe it with words other than "mine" and "pleeeaaase," or enjoy that Oscar Meyer Bologna and Kraft bullshit.

If Noah had the benefit of hindsight on his ship
He could’ve snatched two unicorns and left behind the motherfucking pigs.
— Aesop Rock

This is how subliminally unimportant babies are.  No one gives a shit about their age till they're at least two.  They're labeled with months, which makes total sense until they reach the age of one.  No one says their kid is one though - it's always some obscure 18 months bullshit where I have to stop and really gauge how long that is.  The whole situation rings something akin to a prisoner counting down their sentence of servitude.  Then once they're announced as two, it's like you're fucking shocked!  Your sentence is still going.  Might as well stop counting the months, cuz' you're stuck with this shit homie.  Just accept that this is going to be a yearly thing. 

The best part is when the parent is clearly picking some random number of months to slap onto their sentence.  That's because I firmly believe our brains aren't use to that shit.  We have birthdays, holidays, anniversaries and all sorts of other shit that take place specifically one year apart.  It's a solid time of measurement!  A 45 year anniversary deserves at the very least, a free dessert at a restaurant.  A 542 month anniversary makes you sound autistic.  It's why when people say they're celebrating their two month anniversary that you give that uncomfortable, caught off guard obligatory congratulations.  You know deep down that's not a real thing.  And neither is your 18 month old child.  Just fucking tell me its one and some change.

Late night rain pitter-pattering on the wind shield.  Interconnecting via gravity until it's just a mirror of conflicting thoughts that you peer through.  Dripping, one onto the other.  Try to find reason in it, but you should really just adjust your focus.  Car's are coming, homie.

Day after day, the pigeons began to assimilate just a little closer to their former territories.  The owl's perceived influence was waning at first glance.  That may have not been the case though.  Because at the same time their world was shaken up by some shitty bobble-head owl, a more familiar disturbance was there as well.  People, stray cats, cars, heat exhaustion - pick your pigeon hating poison.  The world is an unforgiving one when you shit upon the world's car.  So where do you go?  A place you once called safe, but now has some tyrannical beast from your distant past surveying the land,  or the badlands where you've already burnt your bridges.  Well, since this is about pigeons and pigeons are essentially by definition, retarded, they retreated back to their former roost. 

A person with less time on their hands than I would say it was because there wasn't enough wind to make the owl's head bobble. Combine this with the fact that my mom likes to toss water bottles at birds to get them off her fucking porch / lawn.  Yeah, water bottles filled at about a 1/12th capacity make for excellent pigeon provoking projectiles.  I believe in a more intricate and metaphorical world though.  One in which pigeons and scared religious folks can live in harmony.  So as the world began to turn black for these unfortunate rats with wings, I like to think the owl's head weakly wobbled toward them.  It looked through them with soulless and empty eyes, that which only a fake-ass owl prop could give.  From that lackluster gaze, they filled that empty void with these words:

The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full (John 10:10)

The owl made it's offer.  The pigeons listened.  I don't know what transpired during that since for the most part they just stared awkwardly at one another, but it was evident that shit had changed.  The air felt different.  There were shit splatters on our back steps again.  The pigeons had their New Testament God.  One that lent them the comfort they once had as free and independent creatures, but now stolen and repackaged as a gift.  I suppose all of us fall too far into comfort at one point, or another.

I just wanted you to know
I loved you better than your own kin did
From the very start
I don’t blame you much for wanting to be free
— Rihanna

Shit's just way too lit right now.

Too lit man?

Too lit, can't help but smile. 

Can't help to not stop until the world stop...can't help but be irritated as fuck that as I'm cycling through music videos for inspiration, I encounter a YouTube commercial with some person covering the classic Wu-Tang jam "Method Man."  I know I'm being irrationally overprotective of a childhood favorite.  I know Method Man is in the actual video so clearly he has given his blessings.  I know that this shit happens all the time and more often than not I get excited hearing different renditions of melodic art. 

This may be part of getting old.

I mean, your dishwasher asked you if you knew who Cypress Hill was...

Watching this disconcerting bullshit is hollow and gross, it -

And in reality, you're not that afraid of getting old.  You just don't want to lose out on potential.  So instead of being pissed off at perceived no-talent bitches swagga' jackin' your idols...make your own moves.  Build your own platform.  Don't let your rage obstruct you - let it carve you a path.  One that you want to walk.  Because no one else will.  Hello?  You still listening?  Oh, he done...

Running that last mile on endorphins.  Munch up and crunch up nutrients with no nourishing in mind, just keep rocking that oxymoron shit.  A perpetual cycle of destroy and rebuild.  Most time, both conscious and non, is spent throwing a ball against the ego wall.  Poking and prodding.  Provoking that existential angst.

You know how mother's can call upon some innate strength when their child is in danger?  Like lifting cars off of babies n' shit.  Yeah, I have the same thing.  Except mine is the ability to conjure up bullshit.  Surprise surprise - I'm industry mother fucker!  Half of what you're tasting comes from the synapses I lit up in your head before you even took that first bite n' sip.  You're welcome.

I've come to grips that planning out your day is usually an exercise in futility.  My shift started at 4:00PM.  It was 11:32AM.  While driving home, I noticed the usual street set up that could only indicate that there was going to be a parade on 7st today.  Noted.  Once home, I had just enough time to drink my Kombucha - two if I was feeling frisky - touch up my fade and beard, update my workout playlist, get some light workouts in, run errands for the fam and pick up a sandwich for my girlfriend before picking her up to go to work.  So naturally, I fucked off entirely.  Finished my haircut that included multiple breaks to look up anything from Ty Dolla $ign music videos, basketball news, the apparent killer clown epidemic, YouTube videos of said freak ass clowns, Donald Trump grabbing pussies, Joe Rogan podcasts and right back to basketball news.  Rinse and repeat.  Throw porn in there just to keep a sense of realism. 

Before I knew it, I had to run through the errands for the fam.  That's alright though - it was 3:09PM by the time that was done and I had plenty of time to make it to the girlfriend's house and pick up a sandwich for us to share.  Italian with no tomato and Italian dressing on the side is what she likes.  Yeah, I'm like sooooo romantic.  As noted earlier, I was not going to take 7st (my usual drive).  No, I took central.  Big, fucking, mistake.

Oh hi, my name is Miles.  What's yours?  Thirty minutes of go fuck myself?  Odd name, makes sense though given the situation.  Apparently this parade, a car show, stretched from central to 7st.  Well ok then.  The best part was that while locked in traffic for thirty minutes, I had some dude in the right lane mean-mugging me the entire time.  Some light-skinned Big Black looking character, reminiscent of 'Rob & Big.'  He was behind the bus, but anytime that right lane pulled further ahead he made damn sure to look out his Chrysler 300, with one arm dangling out the window, and give me the dullest glare imaginable.   Alright, I know man that you caught me listening to Beyoncé, but I swear it was just next on the playlist, I switched to ScHoolboy Q like right after and - never mind, this is neither here nor there...I mean come on, we're in this together mother fucker, can we just get through this shit?!

So 3:42PM hits.  I've successfully dodged my less than impressed right lane homie for the last ten minutes.  The cop directing traffic lets the city bus go ahead.  I pull forward after it.  I'm stopped right away by the cop, in the middle of the intersection, and am told to go right like everyone else.  The bus got to go on the account of it being public transportation.  I glance to the right - this shit is backed up for at least seven streets.  I know I'm not getting a sandwich at this point.  I still have to get to work.  This cop doesn't give a single fuck that I'd be late for work - everyone around me is about to be late.  That's when I tell him I'm going to shit myself.

I made moves.  I wasn't going to shit myself, but I also wasn't going to be fucking late because of some bullshit ricer's and low-rider mother fuckers.  And it fucking worked.  He stuttered at first, then told me to just pop a u-ey.  I took off yo'.  I was ghost.  Still can't believe that story worked.  We were four minutes late to work and sandwich-less.  Fucking whatever.  Light-skinned Big Black had to turn right.



Lofty Ambitions

Lofty Ambitions

Carlin's Tribute Part I:  The Back Row Corner Seat

Carlin's Tribute Part I: The Back Row Corner Seat