Insomnia is a brutal monster. I have battled it since I was a child. Its affects have left me listless and wan throughout my day. It is 4:00 am currently and I just did something I haven’t done in years. I took a drink of alcohol. Not much. A small swig of scotch. This is really bad gut rot stuff too. Left to me by a pedophilic friend of the family. Memories. I took that drink as an aid to help me build this life of mine. And the life I’m seeking to construct is one that depends on me getting sleep and having energy throughout the day to perform the necessary tasks. On a completely unrelated note, where the fuck is that Malaysian plane? I think it’s a huge viral promotion for the new Godzilla movie coming out in a few months. I just imagine that plane flying a little too low over the ocean and that giant lizard beast leaping out of the water to snatch that sucker down like Deon Sanders. He’s even got the bandana on. He swims that plane to the bottom of the ocean, pulls up a few feet before his hits the ocean floor and dances with it. Hits the ocean floor and spikes it. It would be unbelievable marketing. Genius, really. But seriously, I feel sorry for those people and their poor families just stuck, nothing to do, no news about where a giant jet disappeared to. What else is on my mind while this tiny bit of alcohol takes effect? Oh, I know. My alma mater has made it to the Sweet Sixteen of the NCAA Men’s Basketball tournament. It was great to get a number one seeding but to cash in and at minimum make it to the sweet sixteen is great. If we make it to the national championship game I’m going to be in Charlottesville that night. And if we win I’m going to be tipping over hybrid cars and setting fire to latte stands and throwing wheatgrass at people. It’s going to be a blast. Honestly I’m just glad those white supremacists at Duke are eliminated. I know they have some black players on their team but those players are usually light skinned and the student body is mostly whities. Playing on Koach K’s Kourt. I think my biggest problem with Duke is that aged toddler they have coaching them. First of all he pronounces his name in no way like it’s spelled. Stop that. It’s pronounced like Crizz-ooski. Stop making it difficult for me to type demeaning tweets about you because I can’t spell your fucking name. Also, I just hate his face. His normal face is fine but when he disagrees with a call it twists all up into this awful ball of adolescent angst. It looks like he just sucked on a lemon while simultaneously having a large fist shoved up his ass. Ugh. But he is a great coach and I kid the Duke University people. They’re not white supremacists. Not all of them. Just the ones that require sunblock. Alrighty well I feel the effects of some of Scotland’s worst flowing through my veins and I’m pretty darn sleepy. I might do this again. I hope not, but we’ll see.

Political Science 2

First off I want to qualify my comments on the current political climate as those of an observer, completely obtuse of the happenings. That being said I would first like to conflagrate on the meandering pomposity of the Surgeon General. This man or woman has flagrantly set fire to a boundless entity of entitlement. This leads to my second point, that the Avian doctrine of 1997 is proved completely invalid due to the ineptitude and garishness of the Goldie locks movement. My second paragraph begins with a scream, AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, this is the sound made by the baby boomers when the President unleashes the cornucopia of vapor lock bills. How could congress permit the debauchery of the sexertary of state? These actions are udderly inflammable. My chief concern is the rising cost of pipe tobacco. It is well know that our Mongolian ancesters settled in northern California and were brought to promise from the rich tobacco plants found in the La Brea tar pits. Now, these are all unquenchable facts. There is a litany of naysayers and saynayers that exist in the Mexican underground. The president of Mexican America, Hugo Chavez, equals none too many empty carwashes for the underage masses. I have nothing to say here. I have plenty to say here! How dare, I say, how dare our speaker of the house Mr. John Boner, equate machismo with inflated fact. Dear God, stop me now, stop me now because I'm bout to give this man the work. He going to get this work. Here it goes. The temerity of Uncle Sam to burn bridges and besmirch the velvet rope effect around the mid-west portion of central northern South Dakota. Our native ancestors have encrusted the values espoused by Jung and Lohan. Fraudulent books of democratic recipes have long been engorged with venomous lies; the biggest offender being Chicken Soup for the Bowl. Our earthenware pots are in danger, folks. We need to go to the highest mountain tops and the lowest mountain tops to find the bald shaman monk to bless our futures with curry paste ground with mortar and pestle. This is the cacophonous effect of triangular malcontents. The three angles fight bitterly much like the axis of evil fought the British Empire for freedom and chamomile. The effervescent sporadic nomenclature of druidic forces, formulates the prospective hypothesis of judgmental ceramics. When the torment of terrorists subsists in the flower bed of Canadian lies and false hoods, we have only the vegan masses to inherit the subsidiary mausoleums, which therefore states that ancient Babylonians and domestic cattle ranchers equal normal proximities of tarantula spiders. For example, the boyhood tale of Margaret Thatcher illustrates the illusive and ever present realities in our consumer culture. The pomposity of the military industrial complex is directly linked to the Sri Lankan government and its preponderance of snow lilies. This being central, northwest Asia, it brings us to Hiroshima and Shitake; the two unfortunate settlements to be surrounded by starship troopers and validated with reckless abandon. The Vietcong fought alongside bouffant hairdos in an attempt to reduce the number of political sanctions in the Great Barrier Reef area. These souls were born into combat, and not released until the eventual advent of Grecian formula. In conclusion I would like to state my lugubrious support for massive oil shipments to war torn Narnia and the lower coasts, as well as state my vehement opposition to the election of Bobo Brazil. It is cliché to end such an intelligent rant as I’ve just shuttled off of with a quote from one of the ancient Polynesians or Distopians, but I would instead like to skew tradition with a song in complete periodic form. Ahem. …………………………………… …………. ………….. ………………………… ……………… ………………. ………………………………. ………………. ………….. …. ………………………….. ……………………………….. ……………………………… ………………….. …….. . . . . . . ……………………. …….. ………………………… ……………………………… ……………… ……. …….. ……… …………….. …………….. …….. ……. .. …………………………….. ……………… .......... …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… done.

Speaking on Politics

It is not often that I share my extensive knowledge of Politics but I thought I'd take this time to post an essay I wrote that I hope will educate, inform and perhaps be noticed by our leaders.

Political Science
By Joe Fordham

In the examination of this country’s ruins, one has to take into effect the geo-political climate of the post-modern era of duplicity. It is when one views the conclusions of governmental bodies after harsh deliberations on the welfare of the state, that we come to realize that the nature of America, as a utopia, is only realized in a more or less, the Napoleonization of our national media, which would have us believe the false truths of environmental politics which changes the landscape of modern warfare and the following subsidies of health care and public funding of an overall consciousness of didactic politics. This is of course known as the Doppler, or Cornelius effect, which predicts the utilization of romantic ideals in the courtship of Eddie’s Father. This can only be explained by the gregarious and overbearing use of greenhouse gases to affect the zeitgeist of middle Asia. It should be mentioned that this is a harsh truth based on racist rhetoric spread like a butter churn over the course of history. Only when we accept this beautiful lie can we remove the moral outrage associated with political overthrow in the north east territories of western Maine. This of course harkens back to the legendary motto of classical communism espoused by Alan Greenspan and the other members of the libertarian political faction of plutocrats. The democratic nature of ecomonical pressures placed on the nasdaq, dow jones and news pundits is an equalizer in the fight to keep genocide in motion. The military industrial complex takes into consideration the paranormal activity associated with the judicial system of southern Canada and North Dakota. It should also be mentioned that any act of terrorism should be regarded with the utmost humility and responded to with a sincere implementation of the albatross doctrine of 1985, which states that all men are created equal and women are nothing. It can then only be agreed upon in a neo-nazi fashion when the two factions of governmental politics collide with column A and column B, we then know that the world is headed into a nosedive of political power only ascertained by excessive force and water boarding. Will this work? Only time will tell. Time writes the biological history of societal meltdowns coupled into organized religion and Union workers striking to prevent a severe cataclysm. The Simon and Schuster’s of the world will once again ascend to the seat of power under the guise of playful humility. When this happens, the pasteurization of wholesale beef products become incased in the monomaniacal hormones of political fusion. The ozone layer and the Federal Reserve remain in peril by the preponderance of trickledown economics. The homeless population decreases when the incline of the status quo is reached, leading to a wholesale movement to erase the notion of Papa Smurf ethics, in the central hemisphere. The only conclusion one can draw from this is that the ramifications pre-date the use of economic power structures in the sense of time and space as explained in the Danza doctrine, which Cuban revolutionaries explored to enhance the enlightenment of the city-state. The early Bolshevik movement included the design of Monkey Pox and other diseases used to affect the mind state of cornerstone political, grass roots organizations with the goal to equalize the mind, body and soul of the general public. This should be an educational treatise on the Francis Bacon elements of evolutionary physics, which brings to mind the Rhodes vs Wade debate, and the hanging chad thought process of modern Whigs, Torreys, and Rupaulitics. Thank you for taking the time to enrich your chi by reading my doctrine of war. It gives me great emotional states to understand my effect on the youth with my knowledgeable counter arguments to the contrary.

Dedicated to the eradication of vaginal itch disease,
Joe Fordham

Ocean

There is no underestimating the role that personal confidence plays in a person’s ability to accomplish a goal. With confidence, the creative process moves so smoothly. Doubt, the wicked sum of low confidence, is the roadblock that many good writers struggle to overcome. What breeds confidence? Are some people naturally confident? Are there certain genetic factors that contribute to the varying levels of a person’s confidence, or is it strictly a result of environment.
There is a writer who has received awards for his pieces, had his name mentioned in Newspapers, written articles, been praised for his talent and creativity who sits in front of his laptop computer staring at the blinking prompt at the beginning of a blank page. What is the cause of his digression? There has certainly been positive reinforcement. But what goes on in his mind that causes him such doubt?
I met with this writer recently and posed these questions to him. I wanted to know why a person with such obvious gifts is filled with such self-doubt. He stated simply “The ocean.” I was perplexed at this answer. What did he mean? He said “when a person enters the Ocean, they can float on the surface, if properly skilled, they can swim, they can snorkel, surf, water ski and scuba dive. That last one is my favorite. You see when I began writing I was entering the Ocean. I explored the surface, had fun, toyed with style, form and the elasticity of words. Well, after awhile, the surface of the Ocean becomes boring; I wanted to see what was underneath. I dove down and became more serious about writing. Writing went from being just a hobby of mine to a possible career. Then I began to make plans of what I wanted to do when I established myself as a writer, what I was going to write, who and or what I was going to rebel against and who would read my words. I was swimming deeper into the Ocean. The aqua blue became darker. I obsessed more and the blacker the waters became. Now, all scuba divers know that the deeper you dive the more pressure is placed on your body. So as I maneuvered deeper into the murky darkness I felt the pressure. Gradually, the pressure increased. The strain was becoming unbearable. I turned to look toward the surface and lost the direction of up. I lost all direction. The pressure increased and turned into fear. I screamed to no one and was heard by my intended audience. The pressure was too much, and I caved in on myself.”
I didn’t know what to say to him. I just sat there, staring at my laptop screen reading over the words I had just written from the mouth of the imaginary writer who imploded in the ocean. The mind. I shut myself down. I constructed my own roadblock. I am the ocean. I am the darkness. I am the abyss.

Parasite

There are those among us that would have you believe what I’m doing is wrong. They think that I am nothing but a parasite, a leach on the system. They condemn what I do. They say I’m not honest. They say that I have no right to rob from them the very money they allegedly work so hard to obtain. They say a lot of things.
However what no one ever says is that I’m smart; that I’m clever; that I found a loophole in the system and can suck the wealth from every one of their dirty, working man pockets.
I am firm believer in Darwin’s survival of the fittest philosophy. One look at me and you would see that I am not physically fit, nor do I care to be. There is no doubt, however, that I am mentally fit; the fittest I would assert in this shit-hole town. You see, I get what I want and I don’t have to do anything to get it that is except to outsmart you all.
I decided a long time ago, just after that waste of time they call high school, what I wanted to do with my life. I had no desire to see the world. I couldn’t stand seeing the faces in the city I was currently living in do you think I care to see the same hypocritical, smug and idiotic faces in a different setting? Perhaps in a different language? I don’t need this.
I had no desire to be with a woman. They have since invented the internet and that is all I need in the way of carnal pleasure. As far as fostering a loving relationship with a woman, I realized in high school that such an endeavor would be a waste of time and money. A lengthy courting process would only lead to that bitch saying “I just want to be friends.” I don’t need a cunt like that in my life.
Along similar lines I realized I didn’t want to have “friends.” I don’t need them. I learned that a friend is nothing but an enemy who hasn’t showed his or her true colors yet. They don’t need to, I see through them. Oh now I have acquaintances. Surely no one could get along in life without some acquaintances. For instance there is Robert, the old black man that delivers my groceries. I have taken to being on Robert’s good side less I wish harm to come to my provisions. He’s a nice enough man but there is a boundary that is never crossed, that is friendship. Mindless, conversational platitudes are exchanged, as well as cash for my groceries, and I send him on his way.
You, dear reader, are no doubt wondering how I live so comfortably yet do nothing?
No, I am not the child of rich industrialists. I do not have a trust fund. Yes my parents are both dead but they didn’t leave me large sums of money in their will. They simply left me this house, a rather shabby dwelling admittedly but I like it; it is my home. No, I was, and to a certain extent still am quite poor.
You see, just after my thirtieth birthday I was involved in an altercation. I was doing what I’m sure you all are doing, working in a menial, soul consuming job. I was a janitor at our local Bank of America. A lowly job moving dirt from place to place, and arranging shit into neat and manageable piles. The way I saw it there was not much difference in what I was doing than what the tellers were doing.
Wouldn’t you know it? The place gets robbed!
“On the floor fat man, and don’t fucking move!” said the ski mask wearing, armed individual. I looked at the tellers, scared shitless, not wanting their lives to end so that they could return to this job and keep the shit moving and continue living in monotony.
I on the other hand saw an opportunity. I struggled with the gunmen for control of the firearm when a bullet discharged and ripped through my shoulder and neck, clipping important nerve endings along its journey.
One of the tellers showing some sign of brain activity in the situation had pressed the silent alarm button under her station and police arrived just as the masked man streaked out the door with a sack full of $300.
I spent significant time in the hospital. The bullet had severed nerves that would result in my having a limp for the rest of my life and of course left me in constant pain, or at least that’s what I stressed to them.
I no longer needed to work. I began receiving disability checks after I was released from the hospital. That is when I knew I could finally live the way I always wanted to live; I cut the few ties I had with the outside world.
I now live in my parent’s house, alone, with internet access and satellite television. I have a nice couch where I spend the majority of my waking hours. Since my change of lifestyle I’ve put on a considerable amount of weight. I don’t have a scale and I refuse to go to the doctor but I’m sure I’m past 600 pounds now. I smoke harsh tobacco and watch old movies.
Occasionally I watch the news. I often see stories about the job market and how horrible it is right now. I see how “normal people” have to work two or three jobs just to get along. They interview these poor people, some of them in tears, hoping that the government or their conspicuously absent God will save them in this time of crisis.
Fuck them.
They are but the ignorant masses who will never find a way out of their hopeless situation. They are not smart like I am. They have no foresight. I knew the way I wanted to live and when I saw my opportunity I took it.
Sure they say I’m nothing but a parasite. A fat leach on the system, a system by the way that they continue to support; that I have no conscience and am taking advantage of program designed to help those in serious need. They say I am nothing but an unfeeling virus, helping to drain the life out of the rest of the populace.
I say survival of the fittest.

Prison and Film

I apologize to my kind reader (hey Cecil!) for my absence in the last month. I’m afraid for the entire month of March I was in prison.

I was given a speeding ticket for traveling at 46 mph in a 45 zone. A minor infraction to be sure but I happened to be driving a stolen police car at the time.

Even the most incompetent of cops tend to recognize a situation is afoot when a bald man wearing purple lipstick and a bathrobe is behind the wheel of one of their vehicles.

I did not resist arrest. I, in fact, gave a moan of pleasure when I was cuffed and asked the officer to cuff me tighter.

I was put on trial later that evening (the judicial system moves very fast in a fictional tale) and sentenced to a month in the Robert Blake State Penitentiary.

The old adage about surviving in prison is to pick out a fellow prisoner and beat the shit of him on your first day. I tackled a 3 foot Australian man to the floor and pummeled him with my best blows.

After he finished kicking my ass I was helped to my cell by two large black men who placed me on my cot and laid down on either side of me. I suppose I fell asleep at this point and had a marvelous dream about Oreos.

Well I’m out of the slammer now and back to work. I sit here on my hemorrhoid doughnut slurping pizza puree watching an old movie, which brings me to this particular rant.

I love old movies. I really do, the storytelling is far superior to that of modern cinema. The ambiance is better, the dialogue is rapid fire and there is no Pauly Shore.

However I am very creeped out by a certain aspect of these classics. When I watch a film from the thirties or forties I have a voice in the back of my mind nagging me with the comment, “Wow, all these people are dead now.”

I find it somewhat off putting to watch the work of a dead person. I don’t know why but it only bugs me in these old films, not in modern ones where an actor had died.

Fuck Heath Ledger.

However it really creeps me out.

The worst is when there’s a baby on screen. If I watch a classic silent film from 1917 or thereabouts and they show a baby in a scene, I have to stop myself from puking. “Wow, that baby is dead.”

I can’t reconcile the fact I’m watching a dead baby. King Solomon or not, no matter how you slice it a dead baby is not enjoyable.

On the contrary, when I watch an old movie say from 1928 and they show a VERY OLD person on screen I feel the complete opposite.

I feel a rush of joy and wonder.

It warms the cockles of my heart to see someone who was born before the civil war getting a chance to be forever preserved on celluloid.

That is why I will only watch old movies now set at geriatric facilities.

There are only about two of them, and I have not seen them, nor do I know if they exist; but those are the only ones I watch now.


I can’t think of a witty way to end this piece so let me just reiterate, Fuck Heath Ledger.

Work

Something I have a problem with, work ethic. I deal with too many distractions. Hold on, my hands are freezing right now making typing a bit of a chore. It's like I just felt up Frosty the Snowman. OK that's a little better. As I was saying, work ethic is one of my biggest bugaboos. Sure, when I first started Medicated Minutes I made numerous posts all in a single day. Those were some writings from the past that I dredged up and knocked the dust off and posted for your sheer entertainment. I have plenty of writings left but so many of them are incomplete thanks to my work ethic. So I'm forced to write entries like this to keep the blog current where I'm out of witty sayings and phrases so expertly turned. There is nothing special about writer's block, besides I don't think I have writer's block. I'm just out of ideas. If I was able to snatch a good idea out of the great celestial wireless I would write the shit out of it. That reminds me, I did have an idea recently for a sitcom. It's about conjoined twins, one of whom is a Harvard educated astrophysicist and Nobel Prize winner. The other is mentally retarded. I even thought of a catchy sitcomish name for the show, "I'm With Stupid." It would never make it to air, too many protesters in wheelchairs holding up their misspelled signs and mumbling protest chants outside of the network headquarters; that is until an ice cream truck drives by and they wheel and limp after the vehicle with the pretty colors and funny music. I'm forcing it. Ah, caffeine doesn't work anymore. I'm switching to crack.

Day

I have plenty of good days. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a grumpy Gus all the time. I have days where I'm cleaning out the cesspool and discover a shiny new quarter. Good stuff.However it's gotten to a point where people unintentionally make me feel guilty whenever I don't have a good day."Why do you look so glum, Joe?" "I just sat on my balls, Reverend." Look I think it's perfectly normal to have days that just...suck. Some people have more of those days than others but I'm sick of the comments and false "Cheer ups!" from people I barely know. Anyone who has read anything on this blog, Hi Mom, will deduce that I'm not the most chipper guy normally. I tend to walk around with a perpetual look of a Basset Hound on suicide watch. That is no reason to saunter up to me, with a "pedophile in a candy store" grin and try to cheer me up with cliche phrases. Often I feel fine but people assume I'm deep in thought, pondering the purpose of the universe and questioning the reason for living. I'm thinking about breasts. I'm going through my photographic mental index of boobs, examining the curves, shapes and hang-time of these marvelous melons. I'm simply entertaining myself instead of eating my stale fucking tater tots in the school cafeteria and you approach me with your fake concern and ruin my boob-tastic times. Stop it. The only way I won't object to this in the future is if my interrupter is a woman willing to add her milk cups to my photo album.This has been one of those days.