TL;DR Dumpin.net Hostage Crisis

The dumpin.net blog has been a little lacking lately in motivated motherfuckers, so I figured I'd use this as an excuse to hold you all hostage with long meanderings about probably nothing at all - going for 2000 words per shot, just to annoy anybody who might stumble along to this. I understand in the year 2008, most people fuck around on the net looking for lulz-inducing youtube clips or shit that's hilarious because it's not hilarious, and if you go fluffing around inside the internets, it's for downloadable links, not shit to actually read. In fact, with that last sentence, this post is already "tl;dr" for most folks. And even though I have a long list of things I should probably otherwise be doing, including whatever "editing" it is I feel compelled to do to wrap up the January Expert Whiteboy Analysis sort of year-end thing, I'm gonna do this.
You see, I unnecessarily feel compelled to do so because I consider this my blog too. I dropped all my own blogs (of course, I just started a football one, which is a stupid idea, but luckily so was I when my dad gave my mom the internal cobra clutch cat-penis style), and Mike made me admin here to feel at home. Now I don't feel all uppitty like I'd change the background color or something, because Mike would get all pissy and probably just blow the whole thing up. But I feel like this blog is mine enough to feel sad that no one does shit on it anymore. Which is also stupid. Who the fuck cares? Nobody gets anything out of this, other than we waste our own precious time in the hopes that anonymous people we'll never know in real life might enjoy wasting their precious time here. So probably none of our time is all that precious, like if we had breast cancer or goat AIDS or some shit that had us on the short-timer's watch. But we do these stupid fucking blogs and like to pretend it's worth our time because someone enjoys it. Or it means something to someone. But all of this shit is pretty transitory and easily replaced.
For me though, crap like this, and earlier through zines, it's to keep in the habit of writing. And originally when I got out of the stupid college over a decade ago, it was to stay in the habit so I could go back to it eventually and be Mr. Brilliant Motherfucking Short Story Dude or the King of Creative Non-fiction (I'm not sure that term "creative non-fiction" existed ten years ago though), except I've never actually applied myself at trying to get shit published or pick up freelance work. Making it a job is like this great idea that I'm smart enough to know sucks in reality. Writing crap that I don't like about things I hate for dollars I barely get to look at before it's gone like last breath's weed smoke, just not as worth it as the reefers. I know some people who do the freelance hustle, and it never seems like they enjoy themselves enough for it to seem worth it. Or maybe they're just sensitive fags and like to be all emo about it all, no matter what "it all" might be at any time.

And the thing is, most people suck at writing. (This is by no means me claiming to be better than everyone else, because I easily suck it up just as nicely, except I am comfortable with that and make no ego-based claims of verbal dominance over society.) Even within whatever blogs I've been exposed to, most all of them are fucking stupid, and the ones people are like, "OMG! This is the funniest shit you'll ever see!" it's not really that funny so much as not as obviously shitty as what everyone else does. I think we have been conditioned to expect the worst out of other motherfucker's creative endeavors that when someone actually goes through the motions of almost pulling it off, we become over-excited because our jaded outlook is challenged briefly into thinking that maybe somebody could actually keep our attention for more than a few chance pieces. I would say in my whole history of internetting it the fuck up, there's been like 12 dudes who were worth a shit to read, and most of them eventually sucked at some point, or started repeating themselves over and over (which is where I think I'm probably at). Or they try too hard to be what they were in the face of some wiseass new kids basically saying, "Shut up old man, your time is done," because the internet moves at breakneck speed, where the greatest email link ever today is something your mom is talking about by Sunday dinner, about two girls and a cup and Kermit the Frog and shit, so it's easy to seem old within the internets.
I'm almost 35, which to a lot of internetters, might as well be 83, and that makes shit like me and Mike doing the Hot 100 Jamz of All-Time list (which never got finished yet, but will, probably, perhaps) seem crazy because we didn't include Dose One or The Grouch or whatever the hell some young ass kid is all hepped on, thinking us talking about Pete Rock & CL Smooth is like ragtime piano 78s on that thick ass vinyl you can make shanks out of, all cranking up the Victrola to play our old ass 12-inches. But I liked this blog as it came together, as Mike DIKK is one of those 12 people I've enjoyed reading. His Ipecac for the Soul zine he did is like one of only four or so zines that I keep along with my own zine creations, because most zines sucked too. (Zines are basically just really slow blogs, or really physically tangible blogs, depending on your personal prejudice.) I think he was 14 when I first met him online in a Super Delfin semi-homosexual fanfic chatroom, where we all compared Delfin's conquest of foes in Jap wrestling rings to our own secret sexual submissiveness. And I come to dumpin.net at least twice a week, hoping that Mike's put some big long-ass nonsense up, just spilling forth his hatred for everything, including you and me, but in a smirky ass way where he's watched too much TV in his lifetime, but he at least filters it into something that'll make you laugh with him at all those other retarded fuckers. And if it hits too close to home, well fuck it, Mike's a little fat ass latchkey wop with no real father figure to give him a sense of manliness, so it's not like his opinion will ever make-or-break you.

Anyways, I had asked Mike a while ago about putting some of my stupid car Polaroids on here, and this seems like a good excuse to do it with these long meandering nothing posts, just to fill space. I'm not sure why I started taking Polaroids of old cars, other than the fact one day I found a Polaroid camera in a box with half a pack of film still in it, so I took pics of my own and the neighbor's junk cars. Me being an obsessive compulsive type with no real sense but all these goofy projects that have these self-inflicted parameters with mathematical bases, I decided that taking five Polaroids meant I should most definitely take one thousand Polaroids of old cars, not more, not less, and I started numbering them accordingly. I mandated to myself I couldn't take more than one picture of any car, so if the picture sucked, it counted, and that car was never to be Polaroided again. I think that goes with my love of the Polaroid, because it's instant and it is what it is, there is no changing it, no photoshop or cropping or "Oh shit, let me adjust the settings," because those settings on a Polaroid camera are there just to give your fingers something to do to make you feel better about blowing about $1.40 per shitty picture. I had no grand intentions; I just wanted to walk around junkyards with a Polaroid camera as an excuse to do so.
Later, I found out that there's all sorts of artfag fucks who are "into" Polaroids and their primitive perfection, which is basically what I like too, but they're fags about it. I don't expect to ever have people be like, "These primitive photographs this misunderstood genius captured are a glimpse into a time inappropriate for when he did them. He has unearthed our past, right upon our own surface," or some corduroy jacketed bullshit like that. I just want a shoebox full of fucked-up old car Polaroids to share with my few friends who would actually understand and enjoy that shit too. You are not one of those friends, in fact far from it, so I more include them to bother you with them. You are inside the computer, thus I lack any respect for you.

One time, I was at this dude's house who was the DJ in my shitty group for a minute, and he saw we were taking some Polaroids of the shitty junk cars he had on the property, so he busted out his super hi-fi digital cam with like 20.9 megapixels and snapped some snaps then hooked up some USBs to a little doohickey printer and out came pictures of the same junk cars, all crisp and fresh and shit, and he handed them to me, as if I was gonna be excited about that shit, because really all I wanted was pictures of old cars. But the shitty limits of the Polaroid contraption are part of it. Fuck, I've got a digital camera. I could ride around and take 1000 pictures of junk cars tomorrow morning if that was all it was, and then clean up my favorites in photoshop and be like, "Yep, there's some sweet ass crispy pictures of old cars right here on this burned CD. I'm proud as peaches, bro." Of course, that ain't the point at all. But this DJ dude, he's one of those guys that has dreadlocks but shaves his face, and those types are usually just assholes waiting to blossom. The fact you are so ruffian as to let your hair clump into knots, yet you care enough to methodically scrape the hair off your cheeks, that's a dead give-away for internal conflict. Dudes with internal conflict tend to end up being cocksuckers at some point. (Not literal cocksuckers, that's more a term for people who are shitty human beings, which insinuates that gay people are shitty human beings. My apologies to all gays, and I promise to stop using the derogatory "cocksucker" and start using the more self-empowering "cocksucka" that gays have used in their own community for decades.)
I'm not all Ludditic or anything though. I mean, I am pecking this out on a computer laptop, although to be honest, this is basically my Madden/masturbation machine. I can play games on it that distract me from my own real life, and late at night after my wife and daughters are sound asleep in their beds, I have become adept at pushing this button or that and making sordid images appear that cause the blood to rush to my penis. It's fun, and after I am wiping myself up with a dish towel with garden herbs printed on it with their latin name, I hit a couple more buttons and it's all gone. My father had this giant stack of pornographic magazines that took up like one whole half of the under-the-bed storage closets they had, and I'm sure my mom wasn't too keen on that shit. They were hard to hide, and quite the "I don't feel good, can I stay home?" on Monday morning-inducer for a teenage me back in the day. His porn was never easy to stash, from whoever he might feel the need to stash it from. Then again, that's that whole zine/blog argument again, so who's to say which is better. I probably wouldn't complain against a big stack of musty-smelling Penthouses from 1982 right about now.