Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Monday, March 28, 2005
The old woman in her killed a girl who turned into a parrot while watching July unfold. Lightning killed a man and his jaguar walking to the store. Faint winter's dawn to one another, we were pointed out afterwards, asked to remember the river. On her arrival in the afternoon, she is a treasure that at once seeks the death of those she loves, and on Thursdays, in control during a storm of provocative language, using words she prefers along the river's bend tree sunset cars your jungle your antenna. A girl hit by inauspicious grief, homespun vignettes of death, got across the river as lightning killed two others. Highly visual when displayed in the area outside. She lingers around for birth, will break the boat beyond beginning. He seems to have embraced blood as a weapon, as a world, as a kind of wildlife in her vulva, in a voice peculiar to himself. Joy only to end in a haze of pain, a garden continuing to believe in afternoon, a mistake he's not inclined to answer for. The cervical instincts, pilgrimage, the tactile image of the colony lighting cherry trees on fire, treading that way one last time, dangerous language protecting pain, a darkly fascinating world. Horse, shark, fox, disastrous fetal membranes rupture, releasing the doctor. Adventures in morality must find their death up the creek we lived by. Django Reinhardt inspired gypsy swing, deliciously, he thinks. That he can does not speak to everything she loved. Where everyday chocolate language so much more serious flew over tiger-dolphin-jaguar thinking of eternity, another way of representing jazz piano. Shattering, life stops at nothing to further its own fireworks. Simultaneously measuring a snake she has facilitated with her own obsessive love plants, an injured woman laments how sacred life still is to her fatal beauty. Lightning his imprisonment, his ultrasound image, a bitter understanding of the causes born and ending in a cervical star, a scar, fluorescent antibodies, this hidden treasure that once sought tragedy. In the beginning, everything was fine. A weapon a hundred times more deadly than this awkward mistake. Not willing to see it through until the story ends that he does not want to end. He thinks he can encompass what he must preserve, that morality finds its roots in the vulgar, that merely opening a door is unsatisfactory. He is off to Memphis. Fox, squirrel, river otter, brown pelican, rat, his eight persons were treated in Africa for a while, waiting to catch his less than direct but more passionate love. Yourself the dislodged identity of slavery, hostile in a thin wedge of mourning. It cannot idle its coming to an end. Little and little to the killed, he walks along the beach, every man his man, while seeking the courage to continue. Raven himself killed by jungle, by lightning, by a tree, by construction workers while chopping wood. And love? A girl uses her imagination. A war not just to swear revenge, but therein to find the lurking world outside. Tuning a TV antenna, he hones her indescribable sorrow to an edge, to intimacy: the language of murder, incest, perversion, the luster of gold, not demeaning or tawdry, the murder of oppressive sorrow. And passion opens the door on a velvety bulb of jungle, the misery to rest beneath the waves of midday sleep or amnion sea. The appearance of prayers to the inconsiderate multitude, the first people, the workers, those who play in their own presentations. Persevere to the end, when all this death is not the grief of the she-wolf who ruptures, releasing a girl using her imagination to be released from three medical fishing reunions. An enormity of heart, a captivating look into refurbished half-hearted creatures shed away suddenly, blown apart by tented statues, slowly through the senseless murder of his sister, this hidden story that I understand the causes, born and separate, will my interest in familiar narrative, soul, liar from the beginning, twisted, thirty year monsoon. An old man on a tractor cutting hay. Others, the spotted owl, refreshing, the doctor for once not on a trip. Reciprocal lovemouth of the Tahuayo, their powerful tobacco under a tin roof trial, the very opportunity, the giving of beauty. He was going to prove that power over traditionally secured waterfalls had fallen to thoughts of resignation, both real and hysterical, the end of joy, the challenge of being alive, jaguars and tigers, horseback riders. It doesn't pay to be fatalistic. A card turned up, turned down, turned over, the inhabitants practice treachery while attending a school picnic. Our unremembering image went to her, became a boat, a wolf. Tell the story of jazz these days to a child whereof the end in darkness, the end we would like to concentrate upon, gives us courage while standing in such innocent obscurity. That we want to end, and sex a jungle, love, that we can all delight in, a velvet glove a thousand times more deadly than these iron-fisted dreams. Of the rest you remember little. The kind words, offhand smiles, the fond goodbyes. The albatross that crushes out the soul. But that's all right. But that's just you. A woman out walking is a woman walking easy. Lightning killed a ten year old girl. You are basking in the sunlight. Lightning killed one man.

2:10 AM | link |


1:11 AM | link |

Sunday, March 27, 2005

love kicks the shit out of self-esteem
(click grafik to play)

That's good news. And profound.
Instapundit vs. Atila the Hun is merely amusing.
and here's another one you can try.
plus an interesting comment on today's society.

11:37 PM | link |

"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
~D. Weinberger
28 October 2004

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Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of. I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos." It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.

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