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April 28, 2006

Throttle Steer

Right now I'm neither composing an article nor simply writing one, I am actioning an article. And when you have finished reading this article you may, if you wish, neither respond nor retort, but rather reaction it, as you see fit.

I have recently become aware that my male organ is very soft; even when it is hard, it is silky soft. I got to wondering why this was and soon realized: this particular part of my body has been anointed with far more than its fair share of emollients and balms. And it's interesting to note that none of these salves have served their advertised purpose, for though my member is as soft as cherry blossom sprinkled lovingly upon a pillow of high-thread-count cotton, it is nevertheless still as ugly as sin.

I power steadily around the long second turn of Laguna Seca, tightening in on the final apex which is not yet visible. I clip the raised hump on my left while traveling in a straight line. The wheels feel like they are part of my body. Powering through the apex, I head directly for the other side of the track as if I want to end up in the dirt. And then I lift off from the electronic throttle and turn the wheel slightly to the left. The back of the Porsche lifts, rear wheels losing traction, and I begin to slide sideways; back sliding faster than front; allowing the pivot to bring me into line for turn three; controlling the rotation with the gas pedal. As I slide to the edge of the track, I push down on the throttle, the tires dig in, and off we go in a straight line along the outside edge.

And what's with the killer hippos? Did you know that a hippo can run faster than a man? They're vegetarian but once their anger has been roused then God help anyone who is in their vicinity without a scooter or some other form of motorized transport. They will hunt you down and crunch you up with those big-old chompers. And why? Simply because they can. And that is all I have to say about hippos.

I had some life coaching recently from a lady named Julia Fry. She's helped me a lot. What she does is ask me questions, challenging questions, and this seems to really help me. The first question is, "What do you want to work on?" All the other questions lead on from there. For each area that I've focused on, I've started the session with clarity of less than twenty percent and I've ended with clarity of over ninety percent. The things that I've looked at are: where I want to live, what I am looking for in a relationship, how I can make progress towards my vision, and what fun is. I recommend her. She's got some special deals on right now: www.juliafrycoaching.com.

And that brings me to the issue of life coaches. It seems like everyone and their dog is becoming a life coach. And since I have a tendency to take everything its logical conclusion, I will do so here so as not to disappoint you. I have a dream, a vision perhaps: one day most people will be life coaches or coaches for life coaches. And there will be workshops for life coaches and life coach support networks. A small minority will continue to produce food and other necessities for human survival, but they will serve a supporting role for the coach-centric economy.

So I guess it's time to talk about Virginia Woolfe. I've never read anything that she wrote and I understand that she was a writer. People tell me that I should read her stuff, and I will, but I just don't have much time for reading at the moment beyond The New Book of Massage. Well anyway, she freaks me out. The thing is that somehow her name is muddled up in my mind with a British TV personality who makes my skin crawl. So when I hear the name Virginia Woolfe, I feel the need to vomit. But the real problem is that I can't remember who the TV personality is; I can't remember what she looks like, or what her name is, or anything at all. So the link has been broken, and Virginia Woolfe has been left soiled and abandoned in the dark, rat-infested cubby-holes of my consciousness. The repulsion that I feel is preventing me from discovering the true Virginia Woolfe.

Each and every person and his proverbial stoat seems to have used the bible to further some cause or another; often causes that are in direct opposition to each other. Though it's not my personal cause, I've been thinking that it would be rather cool to start a Jesus is Gay message; the Gay Gospel. Here are some examples that could be used: John 4:32: But he said unto them, I have meat to eat that ye know not of. John 13:23: Now there leaning on Jesus' bosom was one of his disciples, whom Jesus loved.

I ain't never seen an arse like that, and neither has Eminem. My mum threw down the gauntlet recently. My mum is an Oxford English scholar. She has a DPhil (Oxen) in Medieval Studies which means not only that she can rear antiquated domesticated livestock, but also that she's one of fifteen living humans who has read anything written be Geoffrey Chaucer. Now she told me, and this might increase her chagrin, that Eminem is an exceptional poet. And the thing is that I find that I have to agree. I also feel that some of the best poetry being produced is by popular musicians. Since my mother likes Eminem so much, I had to do some research: I download Ass Like That, The Real Slim Shady, and Just Don't Give a F*** and I've been listening to them. And here's my crack at some Eminem-style rhyming:

Take my legacy;
just say it abusively
and be abstruse ya see.
Then lack all melody
and be a mystery;
white guy with black pistolry.
Say: why don't you piss on me;
shock em like this ya see.
Block rhymes with abyss ya see ...

This is all so much more fun than hanging out on the rec' drinking a bottle of silver-top Merrydown cider and baking cigarettes using aluminum foil so that when you inhale them you toast your alveoli like a smoked kipper.

A friend of mine used to work at a firm where they made architectural models of structures such as oil rigs. One day these guys made a model of a huge human turd and left it on the middle of the sidewalk outside the office. Then they spent all day watching passers-by at they approached it, scrunched up their faces, and then maneuvered carefully around it. That's all I know about oil rigs, I'm sorry.


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