BB = TKO.

 The news that Goldman Sachs is seeking a few good-looking, ethnically-diverse interns to compete in its increasingly public S.M.U.G. program (Specious Megalomaniacs Undermining Government) has would-be Cinderellas buying up Blankfein bars like they're running out of milk & honey.

If you’re hungry for wealth, power & status, yet more aesthetically suited for the moral façade of public service, the Goldman Sachs' S.M.U.G. program may be the golden ticket you’ve been looking for.

Since America’s first pigmented president found a winning ticket and the top spot at Goldman's biggest candy factory, S.M.U.G. recruiters have enjoyed a tidal wave of interest from the overachieving underclasses. 

Unfortunately, the program only takes the most comprehensively census-baffling & small-handed to fill its high-powered positions, so there’s no need for the grab-happy or marginally purebred to get their hope on.

“We're not trying to be ironically inclusive, like a P. Diddy White Party,  we're not in retail for Christ's sake, but these are media-driven times, the propaganda is Unforgivable, sure, but it makes shit smell sweet, lets be honest.  The face of an organization like ours has to be as diverse as a T-mobile ad, as green as a fair trade banana and elusive like the Easter bunny.  Besides, doing God’s work is a lot easier when your dick's dipped in sugar, capiche?”  – Lloyd Blankfein

The S.M.U.G. alums of old no doubt recall when the program was more secretive & ruthlessly excluding, nevertheless, they always seem ready to sing praise for the golden ticket,

“I thought life had peaked in Ivy League, seriously, listen to me.  Haze, hazing mine, minority students desperate to join the, uh, the rank n' file of American power brokers seemed to be as good as it got.  Coming up in the 70s, dream, dreaming of exploiting good-looking lobbyists from the NAACP was a groovy acid trip, it just wasn't real enough.  When G, G.W. arrived, jib-jabbering with a chocolate dipped staff,  I knew there was a golden ticket in there for me, too.  When Goldman finally propped my stuttering ass up at the helm of the devil's delight, uh, the treasury, and I got to dip my dick in a giant vat, vat of melted, chocolate souls, just like Lloyd promised.  Saying the harvest of the American sweet-dream machine has been bountiful is the un, understatement of the century.” – Henry Paulson

If you enjoy insensitive sensibilities, please check out the new Robbin' Hood t-shirt.  It's Ben Bernanke in his early 20s, back when he was "straight up robbin' fools," long before peer pressure made him get "a real job."  A great look for the activist or ironic financier  looking for laughs at the next uptown shindig.

If I came across an article stating porn and diet coke to be the perfect mascots for modern life, I wouldn't think to argue.  I would simply nod silently, pop a cap and ready my unscented Albolene for an extended confirmation.

Another man chugs a diet can then ejaculates down a hole into Wonderland. 

Such a scenario could easily be footnoted with an alarming statistic of frequency - [Every 7 minutes in this country someone gulps a placebo and discharges into the abyss of fantasy.] 

As desirable effect becomes the antithesis of our instinct and capability, that which promises inconsequence is welcomed, as it keeps us slim & independent to nimbly pursue detachment from a counterintuitive world.

Yes, being moot is now mainstream, a phenomena jizz-jacking all level of slacking, pimp-lacking, captive, whacking wildlife. 

One time, at the zoo, I witnessed a Silverback gorilla partaking of his harem while the "lesser" apes watched and masturbated. 

These grade-B males had zero chance of becoming baby daddies, bedposts shamefully unadorned with notches, but their bananas remained cheap (thanks WTO!) and they certainly weren't burdened by competition or the never-ending chore of watching over their shoulders for marauding hard-ons. 

A few rungs up that spank-ladder we got the Homo Sip n' Click with a knack for stackin' tools sicker than spit-dipped ant sticks & two-fingered dick-peelers, like diet coke & smut reels.

So, faith healers, meager prophets eating pig ears, those fearing wrath from a capital & stashing cash for the pivotal clash between The Criminals Past and Used-up Satirical Ass are at last alone, behind the glass of a congenital show, loving the last laugh of an underclass rooted deeper than grass growing on graves of the past.       

After a long fast, we primates of the Diet Penis genus no longer have to expend real energy to provide the food society requires, nor do we need to expend our seed to conceive a breed that meets the creed of, "this mutha-fuckin' meat for eternity!"  Japanese hobots, The Third World and Obama's health care have it all covered.

So, at superficial glance (puh, what else?), it seems the world has weened itself off thy nuts and nubility, but left some unrelenting hand habits.  It also seems The Matrix is fortuitously coming to the rescue and we will, eventually, be comfortably cradled in the well-oiled palms of irrelevance.

What will all those souls driven by "purpose" or slave wages do with themselves?  I can only imagine.

To all this I might say, "take that, Nature, you dirty bitch and star of a recent video I downloaded."  Kumbaya, that we can finally circumvent the basic laws of physics and free ourselves from the unnecessary logic of sex begetting life and food producing fat.  We're on top of the world, in 3D IMAX! 

Finally.  Each action doesn’t necessarily produce an equal & opposite reaction.  Costs are shipped 'to the moon,' Alice.  If pleasure's life’s incentive system, we’ve outsmarted it.  To take and not receive, a simple joy, for just to be! 

We get the cheese without trippin' the trap.  Dirty rats.  I love this fucking, Wonderland!

I'm sorry, big horse dicks like this entry get thoroughly beaten.

Really, I for one can’t wait to plug into a virtual world and live out a lurid existence in post-Newtonian irrelevance.  “Clamp my nipples and pass me a diet coke, I’m moot and it makes me h-a-r-d!”      

Welcome peasants, employees, taxpayers and slaves!   

There's a groundswell of anger over The Global Banking Slave Trade these days.  The theme is an old one, but the victims are new and largely unsuspecting; the next generation of p.e.t.s. ripe for initiation. 

We can make no mistake that banksters have once again gang-raped their p.e.t.s., having birthed bestial abominations bound to brandish bitterness at the beneficiaries of their bastardy.

But ever since their spawning, banksters have freeloaded on the labor of society and usurped the wealth and vitality of the citizenry.  And it may be only natural they do so. 

For if life is a struggle for sex, er, survival, why not take what comes easily?  After all, it's in man's animal nature to seek absolution from his mortal struggles.   And who is resistant to banksters? 

But what is society worth to a right-minded citizen if the benefits of solidarity are not achieved through an equitable husbandry of our animal nature?

The simple truth is, banksters don't play by the same rules as the rest of us; the more shuddering facts of which are entangled in a web of superfluity, i.e., all over the internets. 

While some of us are fooled or coerced into behaving decently, the animal-like bankster runs wild in urban jungles afforded by the indebtedness of lower, domesticated animals.

Alas!  If I concede my brute, blood, sweat and tears, it will be by free choice, my god, not trickery!

Because, if society is not a collective effort to be fair and just, if fear and coercion its only real chaperons, I should at this very moment, inspired by banksters, conspire to raise an army of my beguiled brethren with whom to rape, pillage and plunder in the marauding, heathen fashion of my viking ancestors!  And I should start with the smugly appointed dens of the bankster himself! 

We shall see then who swiftly abandons their beachfront haciendas for the dark, anonymous security of a snake's cave.

Sadly, such poetry would be hastily oppressed by the cannons of government      currently turned inward.

You see, a bankster is the foulest of human waste, a stolid accumulation of excrement; at first a concession to fertilize our economic crop and at last the stench endured from a woefully disguised crock.

And now, this fragmented population of consumers is at a fork in the road.  Both ways pass through reckoning, then awakening, but one leads to deliverance, the other to a freedom-less hell. 

Had we never tasted freedom, our decision may not loom as large.  But the agony of a free man enslaved is far greater than a man born into slavery.      

What we must do, immediately, is cast off all child-like faith in professional politicians, classical democracy, and the incompetent governments which serve the very system of Financial Feudalism that seeks to enslave our posterity. 

For the common citizen will never be truly free, until he's rid of ignorance, financial overlords and the insidious path to slavery they pave. 

                                                                                     -JPF

It was an uneasy moment, hearing my four-year-old nephew spontaneously declare "mother fucker" at a bustling Sunday Brunch spot.  And more uneasy were those few seconds of silence it took the surrounding adults, including the child's parents, to process their reactions.  But then the verdict was unanimously delivered. 

Apparently, hearing a white, otherwise normal and arguably well raised baby throw up artless profanity is at least as awkwardly amusing--to young, white, American adults-- as Robert Downey Jr. in black face. 

Now, I'm no prude by any stretch of a similarly warped imagination, but this experience, I dare say, profoundly adjusted my sentiment toward 'fucking.'

I suspect the willingness to regard a child's verbal indiscretions with open amusement and merely a dash of shy disapproval--which a child most certainly interprets as, "do it again, you funny, little bastard; not right at this moment, but definitely again"--is due to that same child’s ability to conjure the most dah-ling of linguistic sensationalism in equally adorable measures, thereby neutralizing any hardcore raps they may spit. 

Because, when that same nephew saw my lady giggling at his 'fucking' comment, he immediately followed it with this:  A pouty gaze into her eager, almond-shaped eyes, bearing a hint of Casanova with precocious pitch as he purrs the tender coo, "I super like you," to which the woman immediately swoons with all the motor control of the front row at a Jonas Brothers concert. 

So, WTF, exactly, is my problem?  Well, if it isn’t bad enough that those of us whom pride ourselves on articulation and the rendering of game are effortlessly upstaged on a regular basis by rug-munching shit-spitters, it is definitely bad enough that we young "adults” are increasingly reliant on profanity and filler to patch the holes in our verbal inabilities as we amusedly allow mere babies to placate the indignity of such inadequacies with the highest form of flattery, mimicry.

Put simply,  'fucking,' should be the right and property of those whom understand and honor both its glorious tradition as well as its magnificent potential as an expletive of unrivaled superiority.  And even they should use it sparingly, brilliantly.  It must not, however, continue its monumental decline into ubiquitous sentence fodder like like like, pour example. 

Nevertheless, I'm determined to curtail my use of profanity to the "bare necessities," the simple, naked necessities.  I figure this will take some positive conditioning, so.  Every time I fuck a sentence, I'll punish myself with a glass of red wine, Bordeaux, and taste contempt for English as only the French can articulate.  Now, fuck off!  Gulp, gulp, and gulp... bad boy.
                                                                      -JPF

Striated forearm braced in crease of back and lid: porcelain nanny nursing a kid.  Forehead resting on pill-popping forearm as lean, carb-free chest presses against pissing end of pot-- rickety bridge born of libation and lechery suspended over a moat of vomit.

Heave another throat-load of bile stew into the bowl, noting two hits of X giving chest pocket the slip; swan-diving--little rock stars-- right into rocky road, beer, wine, vodka, and sushi-sour  soup brewed in yak sack. 

Bemusing: corn has a way of dropping in on shit; ubiquitous, yellow poop pellets have nothing on last Sunday's expulsion: Finally crapped: Twinkie eaten during Stephanie's birthday, 1989--first year in States, first introduction to synthetic cuisine, first run-in with fem fatale. 

A sweet little morsel riding dirty for years; internal heirloom of first, definitive rejection, collecting filth in guts; my Carry That Weight, i.e., difficult business, a fucking Twinkie. 

Passed.  History scarfed, lingered, flushed, forgotten.

Gulp.  Burp.  Snort.  Gulp.  Puke.  Reload.  Unload on faces sacked by good graces.

'thug lyf'

Twilight part 6? 

OK, I want to like, DIE!  So everyone was like, wondering, "WTF!" And like OMG! Are they joking?  Like, this is so lame.  But guys, OMG! OMG! OMG! Twilight part 6 is SOOO for real, and JPF is totally like this new guy that is SOOOOO HOT!!  TTYL, LOL!

Excuse us.  Our new intern, Courtney, was allowed to set up this post.  She came off in what some may consider, a spasm of "incoherent drivel."  C'est la vie! 

How did Brainbooger.com get this?  Don't ask.  Unspeakable things.  It's the hook up, from us to you, enjoy...

“They’re all fantastically handsome with oodles of charisma and talent, that goes without saying, but in the end we felt JPF was the obvious choice, since he's clearly the palest--his skin tone is naturally that of sour milk blended with cigarette ash, exactly what we're looking for.” -Casting

Of course, the actors had to be judged superficially, but the true test was to find out which leading man was most willing to sink his teeth into the role. 

For their first challenge, the three contenders were asked to show off their blood-sucking skills by biting into the neck of Simon Cowell, to see how much humanity they could extract in 30 seconds.

Miraculously, all three failed to withdraw a single drop from Cowell!

“That was ABSOLUTELY the STEWPIDEST performance, I’ve ever seen… I’m a heartless bahstud, what the BLOODY HELL do I need blood for?” - Simon C.

Since Simon was no help in thinning out the aspiring bloodsuckers, the three hopefuls began preparing for a final challenge--seeing who could drink the largest quantity of Kristen Stewart’s period blood while hanging upside down from Stephanie Meyers’ nipple rings--when Ralph Fiennes received a call from his agent.

Apparently, elements of the secret Twilight part 6 were dangerously similar to the Harry Potter franchise, cursing Ralph’s involvement with a conflict of interest.  Expeliamos!  No, seriously. 

Fighting hollow-tooth and nail to to stay in the running, Fiennes proclaimed with fervent zeal that the lead villain in Vampire Teef--the seductively evil and notoriously promiscuous vampiress, Vulvawart, to which he would be playing second twiddle--was SIGNIFICANTLY dissimilar from her Harry Potter counterpart in both wardrobe AND pole-dancing virtuosity,  therefore safe from violating any sort of trademark. 

Harry Potter's producers promptly declared that even playing alongside an evil villain that is, in ANY way, shaven bald and using a vibrating wand, would be considered creative infringement and a breach of contract.   

Then, just moments after Ralph Fiennes was given the boot, Liam NEESON'S agent calls, informing him that Michael Bay wants to do a sequel to Rob Roy and is willing to allow Neeson the creative license he’s so desperately sought his entire career--a chance to do 'full frontal' in a summer blockbuster, set in his native Scotland.

Well, needless to say Liam was happier than a schoolboy, knowing he was finally about to make the sequel he’d spent over a DECADE exercising his kegel for-- Rob’s Roy: Gruesome More.

In the end, there was only one vampire left hanging from Mrs. Myers' nipple rings,

“I’m truly blessed to be a part of such a popular franchise.  The first chance I get, I’m ringing Jason Statham and telling him Robert Pattinson called him a tosser.  With Pattinson paralyzed from the neck down I can easily drop a few roofies into Kirsten's cigarette, then tie her shoelaces together.  After she falls asleep I’ll sharpie Brainbooger.com on her forehead, which will probably remain there for months since I hear she no longer washes her hair or has a reflection.” -JPF

"Rarr!  Your big, sloppy cunt stinks like shit, where the fuck have you been?" 
"Fuck you!  You limp, skinny-dicked asshole that couldn't find a G-spot with a GPS and three Lifelines!  I’m a fucking queen, romeo!"
"Yeah, but I’m The King, baby!" 
"You want to get married then, King?”
"That's fresh!  What, hang up my game, give up my pride, that type of shit?"
"Oh, just shut up and fuck this sweet, Savanna ass… I'm so wifey right now!"
"Baby, I’m not a one pussy cat, you know that...  shit, that’s ty-eet… no, no, I'm going to eat your bastard children and fuck your sister, that’s what I do, you hear me?"
"Whatever, are you filming?  Is that your agent in the Land Rover over there? I hope he’s fucking filming!  How do I look?"
"Like a virgin, baby, like a virgin."
"God I love you!"
"I love you too, baby!"
"I do, I so do! Do you?"
“Sure, why not, baby, why not.”

Lions don’t marry.  They don’t even plan, let alone nuptials.  It's just not in their DNA.  Lions eat, fuck, and fight by the whims of their instinct in an ephemeral ballet of carnal behavior orchestrated by Nature with brutal harmony.

Sure, unions take place in the Animal Kingdom, some even last a lifetime, but they happen without written contracts, spoken agreements, or engagement rings, they begin without forethought and end without anticipation or regret, naturally.

Then, naturally, we have Humans, with our burgeoning temporal lobes, undertaking spurious suppositions of the morrow and overwhelming ourselves with the problems of perpetual prosperity.  “Nature and DNA be damned!”  We chant.  Fucking animals.     

By our trademark neurosis, notions of private property and its systematic governance were born, followed by appointments and sophisticated declarations of ownership, like, "MINE!"

Of course, many animals are territorial and seek a certain degree of control over their environments; it's not just Man.  The difference is, other species are limited by their direct capacity to inflict bodily harm, or the "SHEILDS UP" scent of their urine and the resulting force field it generates around their property.

Though pissing on things has remained appealing to human males, it wasn't long before they came to realize its limitations in protecting their stuff and they began to experiment with ways to ensure ownership through both space AND time.

Over the ages, humans have devised many inventive ways to manage property in their physical absence; these include the “NO TRESSPASSING” sign, land mines, texting "HE'S MINE BITCH!", and marriage.

Traditionally, marriage has worked to maintain private property by integrating individuals--primarily females and offspring--under a common label, a 'surname.'  This idea represents an elaborate system in which men essentially write their name on stuff, to be recognized throughout time by "ANY THAT DARE OPPOSE!"

In the event of a violation of said stuff, a man may simply call upon the “Touch-My-Shit-And-Die, Police,” provide evidence of ownership, and be compensated accordingly.    

Outside the practical intent of its design, marriage is often attempted in a zealous proclamation of love.  The intention behind this behavior is apparently the desire of two, star-crossed lovers to become the property of one another!

Historically, this has proven a bad idea; similar to getting a tattoo emblazoned with a lover’s name, issues arise when the novelty wears thin.  For like a tattoo, a spouse is often on ones ass and hard to get rid of, in which case one must either continue to love them or spend copious time lamenting a poor decision.  And without the consolation of ample private property, such lament is often more than a human can bare without the habitual consumption of alcohol.

To impassioned lovers: love is best understood as ones first attempt at riding a bicycle, and marriage that fatal, first look back.  For as we start off, riding merrily along in a euphoric buzz of fear and excitement that may last for a considerable distance, it’s that first look back, that first contravention of momentum, that sends us tumbling to the ground.  The moral: just ride that shit [love] till the wheels fall of, and never look back!

Where were we?  Oh, yes.

Even though the private property vested through marriage has traditionally included the wife herself--an appalling idea to modern feminists--most women, including the unshaven, picket-bearing variety, unknowingly enjoy various civil side effects from this arcane institution.

In the ‘old days,’ when sex roles were clearly defined and damsels were often in distress, marriage made more sense—you scratch my back, spend a few hours a week on yours, you cook, clean, I’ll pay the mortgage, crack some skulls if needs be, then put on my tux and dance a jazzy little number, for I’m the man, and you’re the woman.

Women were content with this arrangement because males that could keep it going, in spite of competition from other males, represented some damn good seed, ensuring a woman's offspring would grow up ‘just like their father,’ thereby increasing the chances for the survival of her genes, and being selected for Dancing With The Stars. 

But this is the Golden Age of the Metro-sexual.  Social roles are androgynous and the sexes are less codependent than ever.  What once was a common way of life is becoming increasingly foreign. 

Nowadays, young women think a 'kitchen colander' is something they can use to write down yoga appointments, so the notion of women as “domestic” partners is really a misnomer.

Yes, survival today is all about ones career.  And In the modern workplace women are generally as smart, competent and driven as men when it comes to competing for status and financial independence, characteristics which endow them with a comfortable level of solidarity throughout most First World economies.

So the old notion of ‘Man as Provider’ now seems outdated.  Even ‘Man as Protector’ is becoming unnecessary, since Oprah Winfrey and key-chain pepper spray can effectively do that job.  

A modern, independent woman can become wealthy, socially admired, and easily protect herself from lesser males by bad-mouthing them on Facebook, or simply dropping or denying their "friend status."  She may also select for herself the finest, 'designer seed' money can buy--I believe there’s now a department in Nordstrom that caters to this, Conception Couture--quenching her biological need for childbirth with ruthless efficiency, and without an actual man. 

It’s no wonder that over 50% percent of marriages fail, a successful marriage now being a purely random event, a crapshoot. 

If this fact gets you in a bad way, try taking out you ambivalence on someone’s crap-chute, your own perhaps; such practice is often seen as a first step toward embracing true sexual liberation AND juicing up a failing marriage, whether it's with ones spouse or a $500 hooker ordered directly to ones hotel room at the Wynn.  So I’ve heard.

If you’re a woman, your inner princess may be affronted by the notion of marriage being dead, since generations of fairy tales and reality TV have conditioned your sensibilities and restrained your critical thinking with regard to this "blessed union."  It's true, we men used to see a point to marriage, but since  it's become a TV show and lost all intrinsic value,  it's time to let it go.  Aren't you just a little relieved? 

If you’re a man, however, you’re thinking, “Marriage is dead? Thank riced.”  And you’ll be content with the prospect of living life in the day-to-day marauding we affectionately term "The Meat Market," that is until you get old and pot-bellied, at which time you’ll take your $10,000 life-savings—the money you’ve saved from not being married or financially responsible—and move to southeast Asia.

There you’ll live independently for a dollar a day in a marble bathroom surrounded by 16 year-old whores where in perpetual drunkenness you’ll magically reinvent yourself into the most respected novelist since Hemingway.  Or maybe that’s just me.

Just remember, Gentlemen, more enjoyable than protecting your own pride, is fucking with someone else's, civilly of course.  Marry on, suckers!
                                                                                                                                   -JPF