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Spaghett posted:Yo same though. But maybe it's actually just a bar. I don’t see how the bartender is going to have time to jerk everyone off and make drinks. Are you sure you’ve thought this through?
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Jul 28, 2021 07:05
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| # ? Apr 18, 2024 02:03 |
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Lil Swamp Booger Baby posted:I'm in the theater screaming in agony during the performance Hahaha check out this fuggin guy! That's some good commentary. Giraffe posted:I don’t see how the bartender is going to have time to jerk everyone off and make drinks. Are you sure you’ve thought this through? "Uhh excuse me bartender. I'd like a Jack Handy. Shaken. Not stirred."
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Jul 28, 2021 13:32
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The Bloop posted:Doobie's Hog House This.
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Jul 28, 2021 14:41
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I run a theater. We basically had exactly this for our late night screenings of Cats.
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Jul 28, 2021 15:14
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Someone did a traveling show called, "puppetry of the penis." I regret never seeing it when it was in town. That's some real theater for ya.
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Jul 28, 2021 15:16
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chainchompz posted:real theater Why the gently caress would I want real human beings yelling made up poo poo at me?
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Jul 28, 2021 15:26
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Spaghett posted:Why the gently caress would I want real human beings yelling made up poo poo at me? I mean you've been a paid member here for 14 plus years
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Jul 28, 2021 15:42
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I got a bartender story for ya... 04.08.02………01.20A.M. Such a strange world. I don’t know how to begin this diatribe…I will just type away at my keyboard and try to put this down in some electric way. This is an effort to document my thoughts and feelings, My world is a drive-by of collective insanity. Work culls a certain amount of time out of my daily allotment. Pleasure takes greater slices and feels completely content with the emotive immediacy. My mind is a voracious carnivore right now at this moment. I devour ideas with an immediacy that is quite unsettling. I am consumed with a will to learn that overpowers my pedantic normal rote of life. loving unbelievable. To be in an area of such free will swoons my conscience with a sense of over-indulgence. I grok with feverous passion and totalitarian goodwill. Such is my motive. Try to realize the casualty of truth that causes one to absolutely reel in shock…what has our world developed into? Where does one go to escape the immediacy of today…this sodden existence that lends itself to Science Fiction and the paranoiacs of our parents…that whole Cuba Missile Crises and the general excitement of the U.S.S.R. as an immediate threat? How does that compare to what we face today? This is not some sort of cosmic pissing contest in which someone must win. We are speaking of the outcome of tomorrow…tenuous in nature, yet certainly attainable and surmountable. The drinkers dilemma I am thirsty. Cannot wait to revisit the forest to wallow in the cooling ambiance of certain casual remembrance. My environment offers what comfort it can. Stumbling about as I forage I await the inevitable onslaught of the season. I am somewhat nervous about this upcoming summer. My fears are driven by uncertainty. Writing to myself I find a sort of understanding of self, centric pacification. Wholesome ideas crumble into chaotic behavior. Like the animals who battle over the seasonal rains, Life is subjugated into different classes and groups. Elephants, jackals, griffons, vultures, zebra, doves and worms… A scene shifter casts an avalanche of change upon those who might surround. My bartending skills are best utilized in the home, where nobody is here to bother me. Work is hell for me. I hate my job. Big Brother in the house, Orwellian expectations come to fruition is only one part of the general unhappiness I experience with my means of supporting myself… The customers I entertain are all the same. The constant unease amongst the drinkers is unsettling. Yet for the moment I must submit myself to this test, this battle of sobriety which I find myself within. Surrounded by strangers who are on vacation. Not enough information to continue this poem. Chapter Seven is my salvation. Everything else is just small stuff. I was under the impression that one should not sweat the small stuff. I find that I do., Yet I find the time to write these little poems and post them to the entire world and this is what sustains me. Things are different after the aneurysm. I am 32 years old and approaching my 2nd year anniversary of the main event in my latter life. Trepidation and misconstrued intent foul my waters. I am in limbo. I spend most of my time alone, either in the ocean or within my fractured mind. The couch is my main piece of furniture. Writing blindly feels good. I love the beginning and am unable to follow through with most anything. Relationships, commitment, promises, sentences… The first is always the best. Endings suck. 05.09.03 9.58 P.M. DamagedGoods fucked around with this message at 04:31 on Jul 30, 2021 |
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Jul 30, 2021 04:29
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