It is with an extraordinarily heavy heart that I post that my good friend, Brad Blines, died on Thursday morning of a heroin overdose. Folks on memestreams will know him as crankymessiah. People from the 'scene' in Nashville will remember him from the days of Dragon Park, countless concerts and shows, and Predators games.

Brad was one of the lights of my life. We shared the same giddy excitement over music, film, and creativity that few people can understand. We had that kind of brotherly relationship where you don't really have to say anything to hear the other person. I hope that I will be able to still hear his infectious laugh in my head for the rest of my life.

Goodbye my friend.

Brad Michael BLINES
Nashville, TN
Age 35
January 8, 2003
January 8, 2003. Survived by parents, Michael and Diana Blines; sister, Kristin (Richard) Vik; grandmothers, Bonnie (Lloyd) Holt, Ruth Allen; nephews, Ethan Richard Vik, Brennan Michael Vik. The funeral service will be held at 3 p.m. at Harpeth Hills Funeral Home with Bro. Doug Varnado officiating. Pallbearers will be Chris Scheele, Richard Vik, Michael Dodson, Rich Husband, Jim Folger, Ernie Simon. The Interment will follow at Harpeth Hills Memory Gardens. In lieu of flowers donations may be made to the New Life Lodge. Visitation will be Friday 5-9 p.m. and Saturday 1 p.m. until service at HARPETH HILLS FUNERAL HOME, 9090 Hwy. 100, 615-646-9292

I am sad, and unhappy...

In the grand spirit of the holidays...

I'd like to be the bloated santa overdosed on heroin found in a phone booth in Times Square. I'd like to dress up as one of the apostles, rig myself up a stand out of steel rod and leather straps, put myself in place of one of the figures and eat a cyanide capsule. I'd like to paint my naked body white, dawn golden wings, and impale myself ass first atop a giant urban christmas tree, bleeding to death out my ass and then freezing solid. I'd like to be delivered in a box with a big red bow, to the happiest family in America, then watch the horror in the eyes of the children as they rip open the box only to see me draw my last breath and expire there, under the tree. I'd like to go out in style at a grand ball, drinking cup after cup of punch I'd poisoned only moments before, then die screaming bloody murder at the podium, "Its poison don't you see! Damned fools all of you! Merry Christmas!" slowly sinking, wailing... dying. I'd like to be discovered three days after Christmas, in a public restroom, having died trying to pass the parts of a plastic baby doll stolen from the manger of a nativity scene on Christmas eve. I'd like to be pried from the grating of a semi, having descended onto I-75 with a red light on my nose. I'd like to be discovered dead, humping a great bible, having slammed my penis in it repeatedly, and then bled out upon the words of the lord. I'd like to tear headlong into a troop of reindeer, forcing myself upon their females until the males rip me to shreds, my corpse the next morning coated in reindeer shit and vaginal fluid, rammed to death by mighty horns. But most of all... I'd like to be sliced and diced and cut into pieces and distributed inside a thousand fruitcakes, to be delivered late to people that hate fruitcake, all across the land.

Merry Christmas to you all.

"What makes the Asp short stories fascinating may be the fact that the main character actually cares for his victims, and within his rotting, short-circuited brain he actually believes he is working towards improving their lives. He acts in their better interest. And if they happen to... well... not survive his love and attention, he is fulfilled with the knowledge that they received benefit from his help before leaving this plane.

But his love is short-lived. The Asp bores easily, becomes distracted and will move on to someone more "deserving" of his attention. But not before leaving a token of his annoyance -- a sample of his bodily fluid, a dead pet, broken glass strewn on the driveway.

The Asp is rich, but dresses poorly. He's an inventor and a destroyer. And he cares about you. Pray you don't need his help. Ever."

Wow, the best literary find I've made on the net in some time. This fucker is sick... but all comes naturally. He isn't reaching when he comes up with these ideas. They are totally authentic.

Tales of the Asp -- Amazingly good stories

I foresee alot more "accidents" occuring ;)

The Seattle Times: Health & Science: 'Morning-after pill' over the counter? FDA considers it

want to PayPal for some nameless download out of an offshore data haven, something that feeds every piece of Web news I read through some unknowable outland server, some swift and anonymous meshing of fuzzy logics cooked up by sleepless programmers in Bangladesh or Burma; some voodoo thing that unfailingly highlights outright lies, spin and misperception - in different colors.

William Gibson: Lies Exposed in Telltale Colors

http://www.k-pet.co.jp/images/biyo/DSC04497.JPG

OH THE HUMANITY!

The Google random picture generator

Decius wrote:
] This is probably the scariest Microsoft related footage that I
] have ever seen. Its called Dance Monkey Boy.

Its like a piece of horrible scat-bukkake someone links you to, and even though it makes you want to puke, you have to watch it 6 times...

RE: Steve Ballmer: When marketing goes too far... [MPG]

] Washington - Dr Miguel Nicolelis knew he had nailed it
] when the monkey stopped using her arm to play the
] computer game.
]
]
] An implanted device had allowed the monkey to control the
] game using only her thoughts, Nicolelis and colleagues
] report in the Public Library of Science Biology journal
] on Monday.
]
]
] And changes in the way the monkey's brain cells worked
] suggested the brain was physically adjusting to the
] device, they reported in the new online science journal.
]
] Nicolelis hopes the device will eventually allow
] paralyzed patients to regain some ability to use their
] upper bodies - virtually, if not physically.
]
]
] "The monkey suddenly realized that she didn't need to
] move her arm at all," Nicolelis said in a statement.
]
]
] "Her arm muscles went completely quiet, she kept the arm
] at her side and she controlled the robot arm using only
] her brain and visual feedback."

Good applications, scary applications.

IOL : Monkey think, monkey do... now people too?

I gave her a towel and sent her into the shower. She entered my bedroom; I pulled the towel off. Her body was better than I’d expected: thin waist, thick bones built for the steppes. Her ass was meaty in a good way, her breasts were large, the nipples awkward. In a year, she’d be unfuckable.

“Where’s the husband?” I asked.

“He left, the bastard.”

“You don’t know where to?”

“No. Just left. Doesn’t care about feeding the baby, about giving her clothes, medicine. Just left, with no conscience.”

Welp, I thought, at least he can sleep well knowing he’s just produced another whore. I know I will.

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BLAWYOAWYOAYWBAHAHAHAHAHA! Ames is very very funny sometimes. Like a tragic, true Onion. About whores.

whore.com

For some time now I’ve thought about shacking up with a whore. To rescue her, as it were, build her up and then release her into the wild where hopefully she wouldn’t have to turn tricks again. It would make for a good change in copy, and it’d be a good deed by the standards of most modern civilizations. (I’ve also considered pimping the whore whom I’ll rescue, Iceberg Amzalak, as a way to supplement my meager income and buy her a pair of shoes every so often, but I’m not sure I could pull off that trick starting so late in the game, seems as dicey as drug-dealing, only with scabies and cold sores thrown in to the paranoia brew.)

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Ahhh... memories.

A Harlot High and Low… and Lower