Classified

I guess I have developed a kind of mastery of being fucking miserable.

I do not understand how I can feel so happy with such a slobbish setup.

I fucking love it.

I love writing at this moment with a dirty house, being single, having my credit cards maxed out, not having hobbies, and chewing tobacco.

In this moment I am a blazing saint.

They will give me a public hanging if I don’t go to AA and do my probational assignments but fuck them.

Fuck everybody.

I don’t know.

I am bone tired.

Into the blades!

^^^^^^^

That is poetry.

BUT NOBODY KNOWS!

NOBODY KNOWS THAT IS POETRY BUT ME!

Fucking shoot me.

What else do I have?
I could go skiing next month if I don’t spend it all on porn.

Ho-ho-ho such an easy decision if the desire for digital ass didn’t attack me at random like gunfire in the jungle.

Then there is BASKETBALL.

I am going to pop with jubilee.

There is no problem with not wanting more.

However more is coming.

So much more is coming.

To the point where I am in dire straits to make it stop compounding but the wealth is compounding.

How do I make the wealth stop?

Turn the wealth off.

Turn the wealth off!

It is not about wanting more or achieving more or getting more, anymore —

Ye Gods I have to accept more.

Boo - Yakkah, boo - yakkah.

How do I cut up the cocaine?

Hey, hey, what can I do?

^^^^^^^

That is clean copy.

Clean copy is literary jargon for perfect prose.

Nobody knows it.

I am a fucking writer.

God damn.

I never even tried to be one.

I just fucking wrote to make sense of the world around me and within me and goddamn it I am a really good writer. 

Fuck, I just wrote about a day in my life and it reads like F Scott fucking Fitzgerald not being able to get a date during the holidays.

Son of a fucking bitch.

Lets be honest.

I don’t want to be.

Its more than a will not to win.

Its more than a desire to not do anything.

Its more than a desire for oblivion.

Its more than suicidal.

I don’t want to exist in any form on any dimension ever again.

I don’t want to be reincarnated.

I don’t want to go to hell.

I don’t want to be alone in space.

I don’t want the warm embrace of the father.

All because I cannot have a whiskey?

All because I cannot fuck baby doll in the back of a trailer?

All because I cannot fuck babydoll in the back of a trailer with whiskey?

No.

I don’t want any of that either.

Oh, boy.

It is more than likely that I have overcome the survival paradigm and poverty mindset so that with resources I feel as though everything is a scam.

What ever happened to having to accomplish each and every thing perfectly or the world went away?

I don’t know but since it has not gone away I feel very cheated.

I thought the whole damned thing was over so many fucking times.

All the Jeffrey Epstein files that were released are only bringing sexy back and this is really upsetting me.

I have been the worst version of myself and I am still needed at work and I have money in my bank account and my family loves me and friends respect me and my social media accounts get attention and I am so over all of the wonderful goodness.

Goodness gracious.

Make it stop.

Obliterate it all forever.

Good God almighty.

The Horror.

The Horror.

Complete devastation NOW.

Well Buddy, move my big toe.

Waking up at BBar ranch.

Oof.

Going for a midday walk on the ranch.

Oof.

Being outside at night at the ranch.

Oof.

Going to Gardener on a night off.

Oof.

Going into Yellowstone national park on a day off.

Oof.

Going to Livingston on a day off.

Oof.

Drinking in Bozeman on top of the deck at Diamond Bar.

Oof.

Being at the Old Saloon with the BBar boys, Cowboy Mike and Blake.

Oof.

Frolfing and rolling on the floor of the midnight stars until the sun came up laughing with Jeff.

Oof.

Going to the hot tub in a blizzard.

Oof.

Watching the NBA or Yellowstone in the basement on the big screen.

Oof.

Watching Pretty Little Liars alone in my room.

Oof.

Soaking in Pray, Montana.

Oof.

Live bands at the Old Saloon.

Oof.

Climbing the mountain outside my cabin and sleeping next to the moon.

Double oof.

But the work, the reason I was there—

FUCKKKKKKKK.

No way.

Cleaning cabins, food prep, pulling weeds, trash runs, serving guests.

The most difficult part really was the contrast.

Knowing that I had not even scratched the surface of what there was to be gained or lost.

I folded.

Went back home.

Not a single good thing has happened in my life since I folded except I am still alive.

Emigrant was the mountain top and Omaha is the valley.

I went back to the rockies and climbed in the Tetons with Ryan.

That was a good thing.

We went back to Paradise Valley.

That was a good thing.

I went to Tanners wedding.

This was a good thing.

I went to Colorado and climbed two fourteeners.

Everything else has been absolute garbage.

To be real it has given me an understanding of the bare necessities.

The absolute bare necessities of life are not a trifling matter after all.

This is what I am learning in the valley.

Repeatedly and in repetition—bare necessities. 

Oh, how I hate them.

This must be because I am a whore.

AND—

I don’t even want to go back to the mountain top.

Gasp, why.

Full stop.

Because I will then have to come back down and everything will once again be even that much more unbearable.

Hall yourself up young man.

Its either lower my dopamine intake or go die in the mountains.

Suicides!

Nope, no dying just climbing.

How will I stay away from gooning?

It is my grand central funk railroad station pick me up refuel zone.

What even will happen if I shirk the goon scene?

There it is.

The fap material.

However, I am not touching it.

Maybe—I actually view them as sisters.

Boom, squabble wop.

Then pay them.

But I am not a feminist.

So I sit around.

Without gooning—what is there?

I can sit and live in terror for a good cause but when it comes to filling a fathomless void that is when it has been anything goes.

Ok Bud. 

What the fuck else is going on??

PFFFFFFFFFFTTTTT.

It is already time to go make more money daddy warbucks.

We bombed Nigeria?

Oh, brother.

War with Venezuela?

Ok.

More money.

I have overcome gooning?

Aint no way.

Outgooned the goon?

Findom scammed the findom scam.

Please.

Money.

I have finally been corrupted by money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Mmmmk.

Sure.

Okay so there is no overweening and submerged goal here.

There is no undertow that is making me go a specific direction for life or death.

Just little thoughts that have yet to form.

Just because there is no complete thought at the moment does not mean there will not be one eventually.

Work which is the way one accumulates money and wealth is the death of the spirit.

I had a moment to breathe where I got on the ball of making as big of a change to the problems of my life as I could and now my spirit knows it is time to return to death. 

UPS.

HyVee.

Care4U.

This will stamp out my soul, spirit and flesh quicker than any porn, alcohol or bad people ever could.

I will come to see that any vice was actually giving me life if I keep this up.

I will keep it up.

I do see that vice gives me life.

Yet the accumulation of wealth takes life away.

Just look at my father who created two wonderful men with two amazing women — so much wealth — and his life is stomped underfoot by an elephant — honey badger that he is.

A big fat boner to rub up and down while I look at a greased womans legs, thighs, feet, abs, breast, face and hands.

Oh boy!

How do I compensate for years of doing that?

Slavery to the system!

Brilliant.

When does it end?

…

Scattered thoughts is the new biscuits and gravy.

It means I am coming out of a trance and am not controlled by a two dimensional thought bubble.

New life requires new thoughts.

I have a new life but I do not have the thoughts to accompany it yet.

Good for me.

I don’t know when my brain will catch up to my life.

Knock, knock brain.

Nobody is home and that is okay.

It does not feel okay.

Chalupa, gordita.

How much trouble am I in with God?

What does Satan have in store for me next?

Who are these people?

What have I become?

Chalupa, Gordita.

What is the bill for services rendered?

Chalupa, Gordita.

Grace caught up with me.

Faith derivative.

2026 is payday.

Its a bird, its a plane—

Its EL STUPIDO!!!!!

Its all shell fish from here on out.

We Want STUPID

When do we want it?

NOW!

Stupid is as stupid does.

I just fucked only fans.

Mmm-k.

I am crazy but I am not corrupt.

-Theodore Roosevelt

Nailed it, school’s out—what did I expect?

A range life if I could settle down.

If I could settle down, 

Then I would settle down.

HYPERDRIVE_________

ALONE—————————

I am completely crazy and not corrupt AT ALL!

I guess we are now in the PACIFIC THEN!!!!!

PACIFIC THEATRE!!

I hate music.

I hate porn.

I hate everything.

Write it down, such a beautiful poem.

Existential Crisis VII

I am going to pay money to see Breckie Hill’s tits when I could imagine them..

A Virtual Reality.

Imagine though what would I do with a perfect day?

Right now I have pretty much got my shit together..

Seeing my Mother is surprisingly something I don’t want to do..

But I am sitting here at my couch and my window blinds are up and my music is on shuffle.

Ive got tobacco in my pocket.

My apartment is as much as a mess as I can possibly make it.

I don’t want to see the river.

It’s cold out now.

What is going to kindle my heart for adventure?

Not a Cot DAMNED thing.

Subdued.

Buffalo robe.

It has to hurt before I can work (jerk).

And now — I have to stop.

Before I hurt someone. 

Breckie Hill.

What do I know???????????

Not a Cot DAMNED thing.

I don’t want anything at all—

In order to make it through the winter..

I have to want it from the core.

That’s just not where I’m at.

It’s all getting very disgusting.

Responsibility is really getting too responsible.

The fact that I need the horrendous of it all is frightening.

Jailbird as style is a comforting thought.

However everything always levels up so soon we will be looking at prison time as an accomplice.

The bar would be a very gracious accommodation however there is a corner in my mind that needs to be turned of absolute responsibility before that is even an option.

A person cannot half ass their way through being a drunk pervert.

It requires total commitment that hope, dreams, and intelligence only give cover to such behaviour.

The weight of responsibility is descending.

Here I am.

I won’t clean my restroom.

I won’t do the dishes.

I won’t eat.

I won’t pay my credit cards.

I won’t read.

I won’t watch television.

I won’t go out into nature.

I won’t delete my porn collections.

I won’t stop chewing tobacco.

I won’t go to AA.

I won’t consider the actuality of not drinking.

I won’t stop entertaining Satan and self-sabotage.

I won’t work less.

I won’t call a friend.

I won’t engage family.

I won’t entertain a woman.

I won’t pick up a hobby.

I won’t get enough sleep.

I did turn my heat on.

I did pay my bills.

I did go to holiday functions.

I did do all of my jobs.

I do still write.

I am still masturbating.

I am still chewing tobacco.

I am still consuming energy drinks.

I did meet with my mother.

^^^^^^^

80 hours of work consistently does something to a man.

Since I cannot support a family I support the online sex industry.

Online sex industrial complex.

Possibly the worst invention since burnt toast.

I know I need to travel.

I know I need to free my spirit.

The responsibility I have is crushing.

I need the crushing.

Dying all of the time.

Huge tits, thin wallets and an enormous fear of bill collectors.

Life will get meaner and dumber and greed heads will have to drive around in armoured cars. -Hunter S Thompon, Hey Rube

I have read the books.

I have gone to the restaurants.

I have travelled America.

I have read the news.

I have had the friends and experiences.

I have watched the films and television.

I have watched the porn.

I have drank the beers and liquor.

I have been to the concerts.

I have worshipped the ladies.

I have been to the strip clubs.

I have been to the sports games.

I have been to the concerts.

I have done the things.

I have done the technical things.

I would like to have done more technical skilled things.

I would like my writing to be more suave.

I would like to fish and hunt.

I would like to cook.

I would like to do electrical, plumbing, heating and air, engineering, and stem.

I would like to take a woman on a date who is not my mother, yes, this business of my mother once again being my dating life instead of my home life is a new problem.

Ryan is my long-term, long distance relationship based on mutual affection and greed.

Oh well.

Don’t sweat the technique they say.

Responsibility comes down from the heavens and if I could have things be more technically strategic and skilled I would have them be that way but they are not.

I enjoy the earth and simplicity and company so I am debased, devalued and insufficient.

All of these tasked errands are simply ensuring a shallow grave.

Tell these motherfuckers to go fuck themselves sure but where do I start with technique?

I think that my desire to remain totally fucking ignorant about shit that will only get me in trouble is both deep and abiding. I’m going to say that it is just damn near a religion. - Cormac McCarthy, The Passenger

I went to the strip club and the dancer told me I needed a vacation.

She can say that again.

That was the last time I went on a vacation.

I drove out to Alliance, NE and stayed the night in a motel.

That is the only time in my life I have gone on a vacation and stayed the night in a motel alone.

The vacation I had before that was in Colorado and I climbed a couple fourteeners.

That was a very drunk and blissful night at Lake McConaughy.

The trip before that was a day trip to St Louis and back and I went to my first sports game alone.

The trip before that was Montana and it was my first stay in a hotel alone and wedding alone.

Everything I want to do I have to do alone now.

Marathons and mountains, alone.

However the catch is that I don’t want to be alone.

My desires leave me alone however I do not have the desire to be alone.

I think everyone desires to be alone now.

Do I now desire to be alone?

Alone with my algorithm themed life?

Responsibility debases my spirit.

Sports III

Ernest Hemingway says the first draft of anything is shit and Hunter S Thompson would wait until the last minute of a deadline to write of some manic hyperbole so we will settle on Charles Bukowski’s advice of “just fucking write” more or less at least I think that was him but he also gives advice to young men to not write poetry—not that the young men of generation z could write poetry anyways—god knows I can’t. Anyways—we are off, flashing, lights are flashing, the neon is blinding, no this is not union square, this is not broadway—this is the mess of a mind that has been catered to by the algorithm—yes your mind’s algorithm coupled with the internet brought you to this writing. Interesting. But now you are reading the Vanilla sky of my mind talking to your mind and you know who I am—Jude McCoy—but I don’t know who you are. I have no idea who reads my writing, every so often a random chap will tell me he loves my writing and I take it congenially because I am usually writing for either God, or some random crush I have.

But looks like it is just you again. Well, you will do. Just don’t judge me too much on sentence structure, vocabulary, rhythm, cadence, grammar, punctuation, diction or any other damned thing and we should get along just fine. Now let me just seal up this third wall with the last bit of putty and we will be back to our cherished sled ride across the Bering strait of our shared consciousness of the writer and the reader. Ready..1..2..3—————

I have a connection with Tom Osbourne where they didn’t treat me right when I worked at UNO so now I am paid an annual salary of $100,000 to go to every single Nebraska Cornhusker game for every sport and just kind of hangout, write about things every so often and post a couple things on social media a month. So here we are at the end of the football and volleyball season and wrestling is somewhere dominating their matches in some dark shadow of John Cook Arena. I won’t even mention women’s soccer because we know more about the mens soccer program at UNL than we do the women’s. 

I am the worst person to write about sports. Jude does not know ball. I don’t even care about it. I don’t gamble on it. I don’t know any of the players personally. Just good old Tom Osbourne paying me $100,000 to lay around and eat runza’s and Valentino’s pizzas. What a guy.

Literature XIV

JRR Tolkien 

So this is what I like about the Hobbit : Gandalf shows up in Bag End and is like, hey Bilbo you are an adorable little cunt aren’t you? I’m going to kidnap you and make you my bitch but first my gang of dwarves are going to gang rape your peace of mind until you are rendered senseless. Then Bilbo is like, but Gandalf, I am just a homosexual who smokes tobacco and reads books. Gandalf says, not today faggot you are coming with us. Then in Lord of the Rings Gandalf comes back to Bag End and says to Frodo, hey remember those tales of Bilbo getting his peaceful little life gang raped by a pack of rabid dwarves and then he came back a raving psychopath that doesn’t get along with anyone. Frodo is like yeah, that shit is wild. Gandalf goes, those stories are all true and I am going to groom you into my bitch even harder. Frodo is even more homosexual than Bilbo so he is like, “Gandalf that shit is fire let me gather my most flaming homosexual buddies to join me.” 

Jack Kerouac 

What I like about On the Road is that it is a bunch of yahoos getting their rocks off. 

Hunter S Thompson 

What I like about Hunter S Thompson is he is like, get in faggot—we are going to do meth, crack and heroine until you think that you lived through the 70s. 

Ernest Hemingway 

What I like about Ernest Hemingway is that he makes you feel like a cuck for never being to a bullfight because you live in America and are not a god damn Spaniard. Then he goes on in in a Farewell to Arms and says you are homosexual for not fighting in World War I. Proceeds in the sun also rises to say that you might be alcoholic but you were not an alcoholic in Paris, France so keep drinking loser. Have you even killed a fascist? No, because Cuba is now off limits to Americans and Ernest Hemingway lived there during a revolution and was so respected by the proletariat that his home was not touched. 

William S Burroughs 

What I like about William S Burroughs is he is like, we are not the same you are brainwashed to worship the soft machine and I fuck little brown boys and killed my wife. 

Charles Bukowski 

"I have fucked so many women and none of it matters." which makes me feel better because I can relate, I have jerked off to so many women and I can agree, none of it matters. 

Honorable Mentions 

GK Chesterton and CS Lewis are the only authors I cannot punk like this. GK will pierce the mind while CS will pierce the soul. Also F. Scott Fitzgerald does not have a flattering character but writes very good prose. John Steinbeck writes for actual poor people. Much poorer people than I have ever been especially since the poorest people in America identity with the wealthiest these days so that reading about the depression era is very difficult. Henry Miller creates beautiful ocean reefs that are alive with life in a way that makes one feel left out. William Faulkner is in the South and can’t help but leave racism on the tongue just by reading a word. The sympathy for the unreconstructed South is so tangible. Norman Mailer is a lurid writer but highly moral that makes him almost too good to be true. He reminds me of Bilbo writing about Middle Earth. Just another homosexual who likes to stay at home with his tobacco and books after many adventures. 

The Bottom of the Barrel 

So we are left with Jim Harrison, Thomas McGuane and Cormac McCarthy who are only relatable because of that one summer I had in Montana that made me realise I am a fucking bot. 🤖