Below are the 13 most recent journal entries recorded in dr_augenblick's LiveJournal:

Tuesday, January 1st, 2013
4:27 am	Farewell Cruel World 13 posts seems about right. The hijinx continue in my new container. (Comment on this)
Monday, December 31st, 2012
11:45 pm	penultimance Now wouldn't be the first time I've videotaped myself pissing. It takes eight hours of solar-cell energy to power 30 minutes of camcorder. But I can zoom in so far that bacteria swimming out of my projection become visible upon replay. This time there's no picture of me on the bottom of the toilet seat. I used to be so popular that parties were thrown in my honor, my likeness hung in effigy from ceiling fans. And you can really see a lot of ass from the bottom of a toilet seat. The good old days, I like to call them. Soon, I will venture back eight years to begin the experiment again. I will trade names, trade bodies, trade the gross national product of the Fraterland for the moist valleys of the Muttercuntry. Will you follow me to my newest incarnation, the way of sacred pasturepaddies? I promise religion, senza morality, shit that actually works. Transmorph to canvas; transpose what you can't speak. Your salvation grows in the bottom cabinet of my entertainment center, heated by the radiation of my hypnobox. She saved my life, you know. I pranced through the cornfield, detassling off into the sunset. (Comment on this)
Sunday, December 30th, 2012
8:08 pm	Alfalfa Brussels Bunny Slopes is the name of my next band. But there are so few musicians left, all of them having been turned to pillars of salt looking back upon this most recent of Gomorrahs. Last night we said the word "asymptote" at the same time. I can't stop thinking about your wife's midriff. The only "big O" Other in my life is a cat I had to eat for the protein. Fancy fiesta fecal food feast of epic proportions, little portions. I'm tired of mediocrity. All the rest of them begin with the little omicron. I strive after the big Omega. Elliot Smith killed himself to save your everlasting soul. Do you understand this? Have you sat down on a terrycloth terracotta couchypouch in recent post-apocalyptic, post-tupacalypic history and contemplated his importance? "Fragment (consider revising)." "Are you saying Greek is mediated thrice from the Dog Star?" "I am saying FUCK YOU BILL GATES!" (1 Comment |Comment on this)
7:37 pm	Eulogy The longed-for everlasting lingual lawn ornament lets me linger lovingly up against the lost laudanum. Shotguns and indirect objects are my primary defense against vegetable smugglers. Stay out of my backyard, you fuckers. Verily my prophet subconscious speaks glossolalically: If you don't engineer change, change will be engineered for you. Entropy is a bitch, so step across the threshold of superstition. All the best prophets are unconscious. These tongues in which ancient yet-to-be-discovered truths are uttered are the uddered nipples feeding the fresh infant world. A new beginning. Phrases like that give me the warm funkies. Green underline because it lacks a verb. Look, there's another one. I tried to tell him a decade ago that "metrosexual" meant "motherfucker". My knowledge of ancient Greek (which is to say Sirian version 3.0) didn't impress him. Metropolis means mother city, you asshole. Grow your fur and say goodbye to your guaranteed scritchings. In my intestines you'll never be forgotten. Thirty years of reprogramming failed to make me homosexual, but you're finally in my bowels, little man. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, December 26th, 2012
1:40 pm	Mushroom Cloud Meditations We have somehow passed beyond the informational asymptote. Time paradoxically persists, or we pretend that it does. I'd interpret the number of nukes in Qabalistic terms, but I'm not sure anyone is left who would understand it. Let's just say it offers this omen: SCREEN SAVER. Knowledge of three dead languages should be even more valuable after this most recent apocalypse, but it doesn't put food on the table: I've been forced to eat my little furry leprous companion. His protein wins out over his affection, but I'll keep his pelt as a sneezeful reminder of our love. I grow grayer with each passing millennium. Temporality has decelerated negatively, counter to the expectations of most apocalyptologists. My hair has fallen out but my skin has returned to the tight elasticity of pre-fetal omnipotence. Saint Goethe, cry me back to sleep. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, December 20th, 2012
11:25 pm	Touch Pad Romance On the eve of this hoped-for ballistic bombast psychobabble, we offer ourselves wholly to your holy hole, mother. Bring what tomorrow brings regardless of the yes-men, nay-saying last men. My tabla embraces your sitar wholeheartedly, spurning all Condaleezas and Jezebels. To the belittlers of the basement I say living in one's own fanciful feces has its advantages. The ways of the nomad don't allow for the elicit substances of Barthelme, Karakas, and Augenbleeshum to be at the tips on yonder yees fingers. Smoke 'em if you got 'em. Tomorrow there will be rumors of solar alignments, front-end misalignments, and rear-end invasions. The mitrochondria in my right nut aren't too enthusiastic for the new aeon. The gauche cashew abandoned the digital projection years ago. That was back in aught six. Narratives are useless without words like reincarnality, morealism, exremeditation, communionication, sadofuturism, megaphysics, sarcastrophy, satyrology, and miscellatheism. Look them up, because I will be using them excessively (like a rubber bouncing ball suspended between jack-grabs in a 1974 New York suburb before my second body was born) in the coming months. Check the calendar. Is it not 1974, 2012, and 360 B.C. all at once? My nut sure thinks so. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, November 27th, 2012
12:21 am	Welcome to the future, douche asses. It ain't pretty. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, November 24th, 2004
12:16 am	Enough plagiarism (it's "illegal" in the U.S.), back to reality... His pedal board must weigh 100 pounds. It's like carrying around a dead girl. But his robot says he's glad to hear I think he is a sexy bitch, despite me speaking with no respect. My robots don't behave either: just today my spellchecker refused to recognize the word cunt. I have since enlightened said spellchecker. 10 PM. Welcome to the center of the shitty band universe. We've been on the road for mere hours and it's already a cunt. (I type it twice before I realize it's Microsoft's politically correct problem, not mine.) The redeeming quality of the band we're subjected to, the only one: "Barack Obama." Barack has a starring role in the novel. Not the typical senatorial role where he's snorting blow off some hooker's prosthetic mammary, a real role. It's Chicago, after all. Or it was. In the novel. This is real life, assholes, pay attention. My euphoria is arm-wrestled to the canvass by these aural homicide bombs. No one has the courage to die with their message anymore, except those crazy Arabs. The earplugs are a marginally effective vaccine; keep on with your politico-pharmaceutical assault on my immune system, brothers. "Look man, he's playing drums left handed. It's like me playing in a mirror, except he sucks." (Comment on this)
Tuesday, November 23rd, 2004
9:27 pm	It's better than Funky Cold Medina, ain't it? three six nine the goose drank wine the monkey chews tobacco on the streetcar line the line broke the monkey got choke all went to heaven in a little rowboat Donated to the welfare department, but I still own the copyright. (Comment on this)
Friday, November 12th, 2004
10:32 pm	I've never been force-fed Jesus, but there is a first time for everything. As long as I can turn off these extraneous portions of my brain, I feel just fine. And real work becomes possible. But the possibilities are quite limited without the twelve monthly fruits fed to me by my Scarlet Woman. Forget the stale wafers, Padre. Padre Hoarsepussy, have I told you about all of the synchronicities? Most importantly, every book I check out from the library these days seems to address exactly what I was thinking about the night before. But I go through the stacks in a haze of dehydration and leftover chemicals; I have no idea what I've checked out until I get home. Today's coincidence du jour: "Is Armageddon a self-fulfilling prophecy?" The world doesn't much care what I do, and yet I insist on forcing myself on her with the help of my imaginary friends. A gangbang starring Gaia, my daimons, and the good doctor. Too committed to these inchoate but congealing lies to fasten my maw back to the alcoholic mother-spigot. (Comment on this)
Monday, November 1st, 2004
8:26 pm	pussy's take on the fungus On this eve of a pseudo-simulacrum of a revolution, I can't stop thinking of the giant orange fungus that grew in the forest behind my parent's house. I was terrified, and little Horsepussy Subterfuge was my only consolation. The computer protrudes between me and the naked experience, but the fur keeps me right in line with the honest goodness of my pineal gland. He assuaged my fear and plans to keep my biography intact when the Greys came back for their fungi. "There's mustard on my fucking pajama-leg," I say to him. He volleys back: "My lonely sweat glands are debating the pros and cons of mutiny." "Socrates would be in awe of our dialectic, my little friend." "Yes, but what's this business about abstinence? You know that you'd be happier living as I do. My ambition doesn't exceed the occasional sublimated aggression against someone I love." "That's because you're castrated, my little friend. Those of us with the slavish organs intact don't know such freedom." "No more dramatics, please. Just think about what I've told you about the fungus." (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, October 28th, 2004
6:11 pm	Horsepussy, oh Horsepussy Horsepussy Subterfuge was lonely. His whiteblack mane of scritchstuff had lost its allure, even when he sustained the soaring sine-wave syllables for his sinful sisters. Toreador, martial artist, tightrope walker, eschatologist, castrato: his career had been polychromatic, to say the least. But none of it seemed to do much to turn his luck around. Horsepussy needed a vacation. (Comment on this)
6:04 pm	October 28, note of the day's events I awoke this morning unsure of whether I'm becoming more cognizant of dreams or of oracles. The Skyward Anus has shewed me an image of a fearful thaumaturge gesticulating wildly in the general direction of the Corporate Moon. The recent addition of this third neo-organic satellite has thrown the Earth's tides and the cycles of its female inhabitants into tremendous disarray. The Scabrous Moon, in protest, has refused to reflect any sunlight whatsoever, instead serving simply to block out a few earthward-shining stars in the Constellation of Persephone. His presence has also been felt in other ways: religious texts have become mere placebos; virtual wars fought on the pages of my morning paper have employed actual toy soldiers; the rice paddies of politics have been drained of their essential mucus; and the renewable, reliable prisoners have stealthily abandoned their snowy shovels and pickaxes. I can't help but regard these events as some kind of omen. Perhaps I have made a mistake in my decision to quit the bottle. (1 Comment |Comment on this)