Like an angry STUDLY bull in a knick knack shop…

Dear Murray:

I don’t mean like dear heart or honey dear – sonny-boy Jim, I mean, you know, dear Murray.
Got that?
What’s wrong with just fucking being yourself?
The proliferation of – I hate to say this, but mostly chicks who put up photo’s for their myspace – that’s this place here, Murray, although I suspect it’s also being done everywhere else – but the point is, why in the fuck are people putting up photo’s that aren’t them?
I mean, I already kind of know but it has gotten me so fucking pissed off lately that I think we need to forum this fucking phenomena once and for all to get, number one, you – the Mayor of Cynical Hall, and me, the bartender of the Doomsday Refreshment Committee to once and for all, address this issue of falsifying image for intended duplicity:
Dig – when does there come a point when the visual/personality police get involved to monitor people who insist on using images other than their own ugly mug to portray themselves?
How many times have I started to gasp and sputter at the beauty, stark and awesome, of some chick here on myspace only to much later find out that it ain’t her at all?

How the fuck do they get off living with themselves? Shouldn’t there be some restraint/ Some fucking law which demands that you be whoever the fuck you are, rather than using someone else’s photo?

I just wrote to Nietzsche the other day and i felt pretty stupid knowing that he’d been dead for some time – but like, i figured, what the fuck do i know? I could be wrong.

I wasn’t. It wasn’t even fucking him.

And the chicks who insist on hiding their mustached ugly puss by masquerading as some little hottie – I mean, what the fuck is this all about?

Take you for example. There has got to be thousands of men who would give a testicle or something even more dear and precious just to look like you – but, as far as I can tell, there’s only one Murray. It’s because you are famous I figure, and no one wants to incurre the wrath by hiding behind your classic, Greek God-like features.

But what about all these broads here at My Space who are not willing to show their puss – but rather, they chose to substitute
what ever the fuck they look like for a sword and sorcerer fantasy cartoon babe, or just simply some hot fucking action and me – the eternal dumbfuck, start to write to them figuring they are at least who the fuck they represent themselves to be – only to find out i am writing the back end of a fucking orangutan – maybe worse.

Can you please tell me what in the fuck is up with this? How do we let them get away with this shit? I mean, I’m fairly ugly my goddamn self – there’s hardly room to doubt. So Should I pretend I’m Brad fucking Pitt? Or some underwear jock out of a magazine – post that for a photo. Or else use carfuckingtoon characters?

Can’t someone please tell me why? Why so many chicks try and be someone else – splash hot and delicious photos of other chicks all over their page then it turns out that they are? Well, you know?

I mean, everyone can’t be hot and desirable.

Then the next fucking beef I have – well, it’s with people who seem to think they are funny or clever and attempt to, you know, compete with you. They should just stick with their shitty poetry and their horseshit “What I did today” crap.

And if this is above or beyond you Murray – well then fuck you too.

I once had this imaginary conversation with my father. I’ve only ever met my father once, so most of the conversations I’ve had with him were completely imaginary. It’s for the best, though. In my head, my father is a brilliant man and our relationship is part family, part sage. I don’t need to know my real father. Imaginary dad put him to shame.

Anyhow, we’re having this imaginary conversation, and I’m asking pops to teach me about music. “Son,” he says, “it’s not really about how much you can do, but how little. When you turn off all the effects pedals, push the instruments to the floor, what are you left with? If you’ve got nothing left, you’re in for some TROUBLE.”

I think a lot about those words that imaginary Dad said to me, and he’s right. It’s the same with people. I talk a lot about people being empty, but what does that mean?

Empty means when you strip off all of these bullshit accoutrements, you’ve got nothing fucking left. Sure, everyone’s got their likes and interests, but people treat these things like little fucking knick knacks on the shelf of what makes you a human being. Are you HOT? Big muffuggin knick knack. Add knick knacks for the job you do for money, the car you drive, the bling you own, and you’ve got the summation of how most motherfuckers view themselves, and each other.

This is why my family (who all collect knick knacks) is convinced that yours truly is the freakiest damned freak who ever freaked his way out of their vaginas. They know I like to write, but they’re not gonna have any tangible connection to the shit until Murray’s got a book out that they can stick up on their shelf and show off every once in a while. “Murray wrote this. Ain’t it PRETTY?” MAMA, I ain’t writing so I can put something up on yo’ shelf. I’m writing so my motherfucking head doesn’t explode. I’m writing because if I don’t, I will get so fucking stuck inside my head talking to imaginary dad, that I just might decide to not come back. How would you like that, ma? Visiting my ass in the looney bin, only to see me playing the Jew’s harp with ImagiDad?? That’s why I FUCKING write, ma. Just so you never have to see that.

I say destroy your personal little knick knack shelves. It’s a scary fucking prospect for most people, because they know the outcome. They know the moment they do that, they’re gonna be staring at an empty shelf, with nothing but the remnant dust bunnies of a person who even bores themselves. Then, they end up sucking on the business end of the revolver, and Murray gets sued for “bad advice.” I’ve already prepared my countersuit for living a shitty life.

Why do people pretend? It’s all about the knick knacks. Most people have a big fuckin’ hole on that shelf, and that’s the only way to fill it. People, I don’t care how hard you try. You’ll never be as full of pure sex as the face you see before you, so quit tryin, you whores! BUT MURRAY, aren’t you pretending to be something you’re not? I know it’s hard to believe I could be such a brute sack of man meat, but you tell me. In a world full of bullshit and dipshits and their stupid fucking knick knack collections of Hummers and 4 car garages and spinner rims, how can anyone look around at all of this bullshit, and NOT FEEL COMPLETELY MOTHERFUCKING HOMELESS?

Now leave me the fuck alone.

Previously posted on myspace with 23 Comments