... down a hole.

Well, two weeks later and MTPT #1 has two comments.  It's time to break bread. 

Since visits to Brainbooger.com  are comprised of a philosopher that sees stock trades in every post, Google's mistakes, and a mother's quietly brief and longing scans for some heartwarming and innocent penmanship--perhaps a prequel to The Tale Of Peter Rabbit, Bunny Love--left aghast by alternate reality, we'll all have to make do. 

Let it be a reminder to the nimble young minds out there whom have yet to be enlightened by years of alcoholism, that pointless self amusement is ones greatest satisfaction during droughts of popularity. 

So, without further adieu we set the sails of story by the winded whims of a straw man, presenting the most vainglorious exposition of self indulgence to become wavelength since the last episode.

As promised, Episode #2 shaped by the comments left for #1--which amounted to Ben's gibberish about the stock market--... lolz, shout-out to B for his consistent contributions--GOOD ON YA MATE!!

Do excuse us; in this post Brainbooger.com will try something new, at the expense of your precious time.  Please listen and enjoy, or hate, it's entirely up to you. 

We humbly suggest one think of this first episode of MTPT as a 'choose-your-own-adventure.'  To influence what happens next, just leave comments!  Your comments will shape the story.  The more bizarre they are, the more outlandish the adventure becomes. 

When the gods are satisfied with your level of participation they will release episode #2, and you'll be soaked in creative juices once again.

In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue and came upon a glorious "new" world. 

It was a world of abundant resources and geographic splendor untouched by western civilization and inhabited by naive ‘savages’ whom spoke in an unintelligible tongue, a fantastic place to spend a three-day weekend, it was Mexico. 

It was actually Cuba, but as many white people will tell you, there is essentially no difference between Mexico and Cuba other than the US Government frowns upon Americans visiting Cuba due to its repeated snubbing of McDonalds franchises and its historical revolts against slave labor, both of which render the Cuban populous ineligible for sub-prime loans and therefore an enemy of American Capitalism, that, and it’s much easier to smuggle Valium into the US from Mexico. 

The point is, from the white man's perspective, little has changed ‘south of the border’ since the time of Columbus.  And that's just fine. 

In fact, the only fundamental difference between the indigenous folk of yore and those that inhabit Mexico today is a change envisioned through Columbus’ very eyes the moment he stepped off his galleon: “They ought to make good and skilled servants, for they repeat very quickly whatever we say to them. I think they can very easily be made Christians, for they seem to have no religion.” 

To a white man, Mexico represents all the wonderful things they can’t get at home including cheap labor, beachfront property, a place to escape embezzlement charges,  and prostitutes that look like Jennifer Lopez.  In a word, vacation.

There are many ways the white man vacations in Mexico.  Depending on how rich a male of whiteness may be or what state of mind he's in seven drinks deep during a bachelor party in downtown San Diego, planning a trip to Mexico may range from the intricate, well-thought-out and expensive to the impromptu, thirty minute drunken drive to Tijuana for whatever can be had for sixty bucks.

Whatever the case may be, Mexico has long been and will continue to be a favorite of the white male. 

As long as the indigenous people of Mexico remain non-threatening by working happily for tortillas while believing two-hundred-year-old statues can weep human blood, all the while displaying childlike innocence through insatiable appetites for bobble-heads of Jesus (Hey Zeus!), Whitey will always enjoy visiting Mexico and exploiting its ample resources.

                                                                                                          -JPF

::The last three posts were take-offs of that loosely wound and offensively mediocre virus, SWPL.  So we made like the Japanese, took some slightly inventive but poorly constructed American shit, er, Canadian shit, and made it better.  Sue us.  At least we'll know you care.  Jealously?  Maybe ;)
                              

We're sorry SWPL, even though post-modern stereotypes are enjoyed by many they also cause people of whiteness to feel existential loneliness, something they hate. 

No, the one thing white people still like the most, right next to ANYTHING that provides "closure," is the band Journey. 

For a white person, being drunk and hearing Journey come on is even better than being on cocaine. 

Also, when in public it is considered socially acceptable for a white person to say "WHAT?, you don't like journey?," to a person of another race, especially Filipinos.  This is not the case with cocaine. 

Any time a white person can question someones tastes with impunity they are very pleased, this is especially true if that special someone is in a position of authority or has a higher income.     

White people usually reserve sentimentality for the death of their pets and the Christmas season but make an exception for Journey.  Listening to Journey reminds white people of the 'good ole days,' and is one of the few times that 'dancing like a white person' does not make them feel self conscious.   

It is every white persons dream to be able to hire Journey for a theme party or their 2nd wedding.  If a white person is wealthy enough to hire journey for their party they will do so matter-of-factly, even though it is one of the most significant events of their life. 

This is because white people do not like to appear overly enthusiastic as they feel other white people will view them as desperate or needy, both deplorable traits in the white community. 

Even though white people loved Michael Jackson because he could sing and dance very well and didn't make them uneasy by mentioning "black issues," the despair that white people will feel at the eventual demise of Journey will be far greater, they will never bring this up however since it is not politically cogent.

Play this song at the end of the night and be assured that Whitey will be happier than an Oriental in a karaoke bar.  Believe it.
                                                                                                                -JPF

Cocaine is like a drug.  When a white man does cocaine he feels the world is his oyster once again and he can accomplish anything.  It is almost inevitable that this sensation conjures an extravagant interest in sex.

Even so, a white male's abilities to capitalize on sensations occurring while on cocaine are quite unpredictable.  As with all things, improvement is always possible with practice, however, a white man's preference is to be a master of all activities without preoccupation or perceptible effort. 

As a rule, white men don’t like to be known for preoccupation because it suggests dependency, and that's weakness.  Even so, there is a well established paradox that contradicts this rule.

If a white man happens to be a musician or artist, compulsively overdoing sex and drugs is considered acceptable, and in fact, the minimum requirement to establishing credibility as a full time "creative" person.  

To the white man, creativity is simply the lack of responsibility, and the perfect excuse for irresponsible addictions like sex and cocaine. 

White men like to brag about having "a real job," but this is usually to distract attention from their real ambition: consuming copious amounts of sex and drugs, making flawless business decisions and staying trim well into their 60s, like Mic Jagger.  Most activities considered enjoyable by white males are designed to take their minds of such unfulfilled ambitions, or deny them completely. 

Just for fun, if you ever want to cause an internal crisis in a white man, simply suggest they "need" something or "couldn't live without it."  Be careful however, a white man in crisis will often take to confrontational behavior that has the potential to destroy a cocktail or office party in which someones image is at stake. 

White males love to feel independent and do not take easily to obligations that don't look good on their resume; this includes family, friends, children or the draft.  The only times a white man considers allegiance is when he's ignorant,  ‘on the record,' or promised a better parking space.  

When the white man invented God he generally decided not to “drink the Kool-Aid”, but since globalization and the black market have eroded Ghost Face's control he has become paranoid and high strung.  His solution to this has been the philosophy that ‘everything is OK in moderation,’ this includes sex, cocaine, and Asian leading men. 

With various inconveniences such as civil rights and affirmative action still popular, white men feel a certain historical uneasiness which prompts domesticated rebellion in modern, hallmark style: passive-aggression.  Doing cocaine or sex in the restroom of an expensive fusion restaurant or nightclub and saying something sarcastic is often viewed as the perfect solution.    

Planting or getting people hooked on drugs is one of the white mans favorite ways to circumvent competition.  Another one of Whitey's favorite past-times is to figure out how to exploit laws to his benefit. 

These are two additional highs that white men encounter when doing cocaine and planning elicit sex in semi-public places: figuring out whom to blame their actions on if they're caught or outsmarting a jury are both very exciting prospects to a white man.

If a white male feels comfortable around you he may mention the enjoyment associated with “snorting cocaine off a hookers ass," along with his favorite 1980s movies depicting such activities, usually starring Rob Lowe or James Spader.  This irritates white women, but they secretly wish they could be Darryl Hannah because she has long legs and is a natural blonde. 

White men are well aware of the complications between cocaine use and sexual performance. 

This doesn’t matter to a white male, however.  White men hate to admit they can’t have whatever they want, and if they find themselves in such a situation they simply pick-a-pill, turn on some Rick Springfield--preferably Jessie's girl--and rationalize their way out of it.    
                                                                                                -JPF

Despite what they may say, women always get a kick out of a good line.  Whether cheesy or sophisticated, pick-up lines make the dating world go round. 

There's nothing like the pithy volley of sexually charged banter after serving a smooth line, it really gets the juices flowing. 

Once in a while you'll run into a fun gal that  plays along instantly, and you know you'll eventually be mounting her.  Here are two cases:
 
                                       location: a bar
                                      game analysis: ditzy/easy
                                      stratagem: sarcasm
                                      style: aggressive
               
Catching her off guard-               
 
"Can I buy you a drink?... The name's Adonis... Ladies call me Don."

Her expression: favorably confused-

"So what do guys call you?!"

"The Don."

"... OK, that's kinda funny."

She extends her hand,

 "I'm Pray."

"With an e or an a?"

"Um, an 'a'.  My mother is super spiritual,  she wanted it to be a constant reminder to seek the right direction and purpose in life.  So what do you do, Don?"

"I'll be damned, I specialize in direction and purpose."     

"Oh, really, doing what exactly?"

"I'm a space traveler."

"Ha ha, what, like an astronaut?"

"No, like a space traveler."

"Well, what do space travelers do exactly?"

"They move through space of course, seeking new and exciting places... like this..."

Before she knew what was going on, he'd moved in and kissed her, then leaned back on the bar with his elbow, leg kicked up on the foot rail... her eyes went "super spiritual."

"Mission accomplished,"  He says, mounting her that evening.

                                        location: the bank
                                        game analysis:  intelligent/loose
                                        stratagem: unknown
                                        style: aggressive

He notices the teller's name-tag and reads it aloud-

"Giselle...

You know, I nailed one of those on safari in Africa--graceful animal, long legs, took one hell of an accurate shot to bring her down, next thing you know I'm back at camp having her for dinner,

I'd love to have you for dinner."

"... You want to eat me?"

"More than anything.

Of course,  I'd feed you first--on the menu this evening is fillet of soul served with white wine and cream sauce."

"Sounds deeply appetizing." 

She ponders for mere seconds then scribbles down her number,

"And the names pronounced 'Juh-zel', not 'Gi-zel.'"



It took him two weeks and several thousand dollars to mount this one, and not on the wall.  She forced him to fall in love then left him for a  Parisian pastry chef.   His lines were filled with chocolate mousse and wrapped in a French accent. 

It's common knowledge that men think about sex, a lot.  That is, when we're not thinking about food, booze, money, power, respect, or engaging in random acts of kindness; all of which should attract more sex if done right. 

Alfred Kinsey, the famed biologist whom in the late 40's was spilling the beans about sexuality to a tight-ass puritanical society, found that the average man thinks about sex at least a few times a day. 

A FEW TIMES A DAY!?!  Ha.

You see, I like to think of myself as way above average, I'm extreme like that...hey, it keeps me going, SO BACK THE FUCK OFF! 

See what I mean?  Average people don't burst out like that *insert quip about my sanity here*, only great men do. 

The point is,  like all white children, I'm mostly gifted.

 If I ever fail to settle at the far right of the curve it probably has to do with the speed of my tennis serve, under-the-leg-behind-the-back slam dunks, pissing contests against horses, or not having a name that begins with a noun and ends in a roman numeral. 

But who gives a can of camel shit about that stuff anyway?

All I know is, when it comes to sexual thoughts, I ain't no regular Joe.  I probably think about sex and money as much as your average gangster rapper.  And being on the internet a large part of the day I'm constantly bombarded by images of women I'd like to bang, probably skewing my sex:thought ratio even further. 

Take Heidi Montag for example. 

She's an annoying, petty little koont schnauzer-- no doubt-- but that's precisely why I'd love to destroy her, sexually.  Besides, that tight little body beckons me with all the subtlety of heroin withdrawal. 

And no, 'getting some' won't lesson the craving. 

Was Alexander The Great satisfied after 'just one more territory?'  No.  He wanted the whole fucking thing.  And so do I!  I know, I know, in my dreams, shit. 

Let's get back to Montag. 

Since I doodled that damn limerick in the poem[z] section I can't stop thinking of filthy little rhymes every five  minutes either.  And since I pop a mind-boner every four an a half minutes, the rhymes are usually about 'places to put a boner.' 

So here she is, the latest place I'd like to put my mind-boner, complete with playground filth. 

::I refrained from the popular 'Speidi' reference; although phonetically appropriate, figuratively it would've been extremely homosexual, or at least bi, in a menage a trois sort-a-way; far too sophisticated for me at this stage of my tender development...         
                               
                             Ritzy Ditzy Heidi climbed on my waterspout.
                             On her mind was brain, so she took me in her mouth.
                             Out came her bum and it cried to have the same. 
                      So Ritzy Ditzy Heidi climbed on my spout again.
                                                                                -JPF

In one of the 'comments' Ben stated,
"if one defines and understands "power" purely in terms of control (when one says x has power over y, one means that x controls y), then is it not the  case that power begins from being able to control one's own self? if one cannot control one's own self, then how can one ever hope to control anything beyond one's self? so it's this "self-control" thing that must precede all else. a king cannot control his empire without first controlling himself."

A further distinction occurred to me.

 Power is no doubt equated with control, but control is often confused with influence.  A king or president may influence change, and may feel powerful doing so, but that does not mean they're in control. 

The same may be said of "self-control."  Influence often results in myriad changes beyond the scope of humanities ability to model or project, an inevitable lack of control. 

Immediate consequences of influence may seem within our grasp, but the ripple effects are usually far beyond it. 

 So when it comes to power, we are again regressing toward subjective definitions and satisfactions. 

As Neitzsche has stated, subjectivity is all we have, things are simply indefinable without the presence of other things, and in the presence of other things, everything is relative.

Ten minutes ago Michael Jackson died.  I feel a genuine sadness.  It's the end of an era, and another stark reminder of the impermanence of life. 

What's now upon us is The Dark Age of Entertainment; a wasteland of clones, hacks and shock-mongers ruled by King Remix and Queen Whore-4A-Laugh. 

I have nothing else to say except R.I.P. Mike, and if you see David Carradine, ask him how many Thai lady-boys it takes to hang someone from the ceiling, like a light bulb, then watch out for a karate kick to the face.  I doubt your nose could handle that. 

You're one of the greats, have fun in The Real Neverland.