Bobby Lightfoot Investigative Report: Our Crazy Interweb.

So fucks sake I was working on this absolutely rocking entry but I just can't work up the technical dickery to get the pictures up right and shit, so I'm just going to explain it with just my sedate and gifted prose, fucking A.

'kay, there's the website "hot or not" which Ethan showed us that we've had no end of fun with. You post yer picture and receive a 1-10 rating from the literati of our brilliant and erudite nation. You gotta love that shit. I tried to put Sal the Feist on but these people have no sense of esthetics and refused to post her proud profile, implying that she's a "dog". Sal to say the least couldn't give a dang what with the being a dog thing. She just sank her teeth back into Hedge Hag and rocked.

So after having much amusement at everyone's expense, I decided to see if I could post Karl Rove and see how my craggy, squinting manliness compared to his fat, bald 'n' piglike thing in the heavy-lidded eyes of America. Oh, man was I not disappointed.

So far, Karl has me beat at 7.6. I'm trailing painfully at 6.5. I knew it would be awesome like that. If there's anything that rocks harder than that, Lenny in Accounting certainly ain't throwed it in my inbox fuckin' A Nothing of that sheer girth of rocking has been brought up in any of the recent board meetings.

Yeah, no, I haven't gotten word yet.

P.S. I've now also posted pictures of the below Joseph McCarthy and his cousin Stalin. Also Bertrand Russell. Bet they all get into the 8's. Except for Bertrand.


The Way Of The Man

It's getting harder and harder, my friends. It's getting harder to throw my weight up against this particular motherfuckin' wall. Oh, fighting The Man is thankless.

There are Three Ways; The Way Of The Man, The Way Of The Gun, and The Way Of Truth. The Way Of The Man is the cruelest, the most inchoate and avuncular. I don't know what that means.

You see, The Man operates in some tried 'n' true ways, my dear compatriots. There's certain ways that you can find yourself in his scaly clutches, dears. The first way the The Man gets you by the balls is when you procreate. You got kids, my friends, you are beholden to The Man. It's that motherfucking simple. That simple. You gonna walk out of that job where you're insulted and demeaned every time you turn your goddamn back when you got mouths to feed? I don't think so, chumperoo. Th' second you got cute little peepers in the nest, The Man has snuck in the front door and planted his secretly-wearing-women's-panties ass in front of your T.V., big boy. Actually, I take that back, and I arrive, with this backtaking, at the second Way in which The fucking Man sets up camp in your fucking head.

It's that T.V., gang. The Man's home away from home, bud. That motherfucking television. That shit will suck the will out of you faster than a million homeless leeches, bud. Yeah, yeah, you talk about how stupid it is but yer still watching, buddy. You've got Stockholm Syndrome is what you've got pal. You're sympathizing with your captors. Caught yourself laughing at a funny commercial lately? Yeah, you know the one with the baby. The one with the fucking puppy. The one with that bitchin' new piece of shit car and that Stooges song. Yeah, ha ha ha. This Brainfuck Moment Is Brought To You By The Man, motherfucker. Monkey see monkey god damn do, motherfucker. When you laugh at a commercial your shit is going badly south, man. Catch yourself next time, man.

Don't laugh at commercials. DO NOT LAUGH AT THOSE COMMERCIALS. That is like a HUGE deposit in the The Man's private acct. in the Caymans. He rubs his hands together and makes plans to think about it during his next wank so try, try, try to avoid that. Oh, boy.

Oh, it's a tough row to hoe, steering clear of the machinations of The Man. It's a full-time fucking job.

What's next, hmm? What else? Oh- that social security number. They might as well tattoo that shit on your god damn forearm. You got that S.S. number you're pretty much sunk. S.S. indeed. The Man is a Weimeraner and that little fucking number is just a squirt a' piss so's you know whose little bitch you are. Just thought you'd like to know. The Man uses those nine digits to track your ass from the cradle to the god damn grave. The Man knows everything. Oh, it's ugly.

Yeah, you're free. You're free, man. Don't take it from me. You can do anything you want. Just keep telling yourself. Hey, answer me this, Sir Walter Fuckin' Raleigh- you're so free, what're you gonna do tonight to celebrate your freedom, huh? What are you going to do tonight? You gonna dance naked in the moonlight? You gonna hop in a boxcar and head for the High fucking Desert, huh? No, you're not, bub.

You're going to pay taxes on everything you're foolish enough to own and watch your little puppies suck you dry and then you're going to watch that fucking show with fucking Jerry Hall about that crap going down. Oh, god damn it hurts. It hurts me physically, gives me cramps, to watch it happen. It's happening to all our best and brightest. You know what they're going to do? Do you know what God's Plan is for you?

They're going to harvest your organs, Einstein. That's what it's all coming to. The Man is going to sweep you up like a hairball and disassemble you and put your shit in like Rupert Murdoch and that shit. Can't you fucking see? Can't you put two and two together? Do I have to do all the heavy mental lifting here? Am I all alone out here in Truthland????? Huh????? Fuck!

You're gonna be in a box before too long, pally. Plenty of freedom in that pine fucking box. Especially if you're not sporting any emabarrassing organs. And when the skin rots off your forearm you won't be wearing an SS tattoo anymore. Bring it on. Bring it the fuck on.

No one taxes you when you're dust. No one fucks with you when you're dust. No one reminds you how ugly and sexless and fat and powerless and old and boring you are when you're dust, dog.

That's when you're free, dog. That's when The Man releases his stranglehold on your fucking root, dog.

Happy viewing, dog.

Appendix A: These Are The Tools The Man Uses To Liquify Your Will To Rock:

1. All television shows. ALL TELEVISION SHOWS.

2. The booze. The booze and the cigarettes, my friends. I'm sorry, ain't a man immune among us, to quote somebody. You might want to consider using something The Man doesn't have his pudgy little fingers in to Soften The Blow. Use your imagination. If you have a garden you know what to do.

3. All vehicles. The higher the miles, the less Man is in them. He's gone from your stupid vehicle when it hits 200,000. Then it's The Man-free.

4. Anyone who does not encourage the youth to READ. Every time you read a book you strike a blow against the man. Except for:

5. Those fucking Henny Potter books. Jesus. Who the fuck gets laid in THOSE? HUH? Who fucking smokes opium in THOSE? Sedating our kids with wizards and fast food tie-ins. Who are these people that watch us in the night?

6. "Indie Rock"- at least that execrable porno on VH1 doesn't pretend it isn't born of The Man's oily, wrinkled loins. These fuckin' wankstains like what's his name Conner Everwurst? Ha. That fucking guy. Give me a break. ANYBODY could kick that guy's ass. I don't think a performer has to be a hard ass, but there should ideally be someone in the audience you could take if chairs flew, you know? And what's this gayass "swept forward" hairstyle now like that band Lightswitch? It's kind of Neuvo-70's-Homosexual. Fuckin' Lightswitch. Or Switchfoot I mean.

7. Anyone who says "I'm all about...(lame fucking pop culture crap or cell phone brand here)..." Saying "I'm all about..." is the Man Phrase Of The Week. Saying "I'm all about..." means you watch T.V. and if you do that you're already poisoned. You're done. When you buy certain brands and you don't even know why?

That's standing in The Man's shadow right there, laddybuck.



The Point Being That Artists Who Never Equivocate Are Boring.

Equivocation is next to godliness, we all know that. You know that a lot of the time the reason you don't like certain people and you can't quite figure out why is 'cause they're unequivocating. They don't put the picture of themselves being wrong in the Big Formula.

I cannoteth stand that. That's why I'm all on about those Christers being marched off. I don't know why I feel that way; it's childish, really. I take that back, though; it's not the Christers per se. I just happen to see the Christers. It's all the god damn fundamentalists. And not even of religion: political fundamentalists and financial fundamentalists and artistic fundamentalists. There's something that they ruin for me. I can't quite put my finger on it. And it's not some thing like I'm jealous of their conviction or some crap; my belief in the utter and beautiful randomness of it all is every bit as strong as their weird-ass goat blood drinking shit. That weird fucking blood 'n' guts creepiness that they're all wagging at you.

So maybe I'm a fundamentalist. God knows I'd never murder anyone or covet mine neighbor's ass. But that's not some cruddy voodoo. I'm not restraining myself at great personal expense 'cause Baby Fecus rocked th' cross that awful day. It's not because of some blood ritual religion crap. I'm just of good breeding is all.

All objects in the physical world react to one another in predictable ways. When you are of a more open-minded, ideologically pliant nature, things can move through you or bounce softly off you and not lose their delicate attunement to the Universal B Flat, you know wha'am sayin'? It's like a game board and the tokens are marshmallows.

Then you get these god damn leech-applying Christers and them out onto the field and they're just like dominos, motherfucker. They're like lead soldiers.

And before you know it you got all this unease. Unease. The abscence of harmony, based on nonpliant particulates permuting incoming signals and deflecting same. It's like a guitar chord where all the notes are fucking with each other and trying to drown each other out. Eeesh.

I have this weird intolerance of that. Maybe that's what it is. Things that are out of tune just launch me back into a prior life where I was a proton or some shit and I get a headache all over my body.

I just want to groove with all the other particulate masses and not be all bouncing around the petri dish 'cause these fucking idiots are all reflective.

I think "fundamentalist" would be a great word for a person who is only interested in buttfucking.

And that's where the 'Foot comes down on that crap.